Has Lara met her match? Or is this only a major case of the
Stockholm Syndrome
Chapter One: A dreamer of Dreams
Lara lay sprawled out on her leopard-skin davenport. She squinted her eyes in rapt
contemplation as she pored over the map. The Dagger must be concealed in this corridor, she
thought, caressingly running her fingers over the spot. She popped the lid off her lipstick tube
and circled the facet in hot pink. The map was very old and nearly illegible, but since Lara lived
for antiquity, she payed no mind to its faded and frayed condition. The diagram clearly showed
the east facade of the Great Wall of China. According to legend, the Dagger of Xian, reputed to
possess the power of the mighty dragon, was hidden here, locked away for all time. Lara coveted
any artefact within her reach and would stop at nothing to get her way. She lazily stretched,
showing off her long, muscular thighs and sexy legs. Lara always made a show of everything
regardless of the fact that there was no one to show off to. She yawned and slowly sat up on her
luxurious berth. She was in the habit of taking everything at leisure; it was her time or no time.
She smiled to herself as she heard the familiar clinking of china and the soft, sure tread of her
servant, Winston, entering the room, bearing a heavily laden tea tray.
"Your Earl Grey, Miss Croft," he said in a comforting drone.
"Thank you, Winston," she said in as dignified an air as she could muster. She picked up
the teacup with the grace of a princess and poured herself some tea. Then, she helped herself to
several watercress sandwiches. Delineating charts, tables, and maps never ceased to make her
ravenous. As she swallowed, she surveyed Winston carefully for the first time since her youth.
His appearance hadn't altered much since then; true, he was twenty years older and his hair was
twenty years whiter, but other than that, he was the same old Winston she had always known and
loved. His weathered cheeks still reminded her of a comfortable old shoe, too dear to ever part
with. His creased jowl that crinkled each time he smiled made him even more lovable.
But back to the subject at hand . . . Lara finished her repast and looked back at the atlas.
She picked up her phone and dialed her travel agent. "Hello, Griggs? I wish to charter a plane to
Beijing tomorrow morning and an autogiro from Beijing to the far north end of the Great Wall at
11:00 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time." She tapped her long fingernails in annoyance and
impatience. "Yes, I would like to leave immediately if at all possible. Yes, I'll hold . . ." Lara
clamped the receiver between her shoulder and her ear and casually began filing her nails.
Winston gave her a withering look. "Traveling abroad again, Miss Croft?"
Lara gazed at him in disbelief. "You should know me by now, Winston," she said with
that nefariously wry smile that she always flashed when she thought she was being adroit. "I get
restless if I reside in my domicile for more than a week." She folded up the map crisply for
emphasis.
"Don't neglect to tell Dr. Kell about your plans," Winston chided as he removed the tray
from the room.
Lara hugged her heart-shaped satin pillow to her chest and scowled. Several weeks ago
she had been idly conversing with Winston about a strange recurring dream she was having.
She'd dreamt she was lounging on her couch, when suddenly, a shadowy figure entered her
room. Startled, she jumped to her feet to see who was there.
She could hear the man's deep rhythmic breathing as he crept up behind her. "You must
come with me," he whispered with a thick accent. "You are the Key."
"The key to what?" she wondered as for some strange reason she slipped into
unconsciousness. When she came to, she was in a dark chamber lit by candlelight. She silently
rose and sneaked toward a narrow door in the corner of the room. Then, as if by magic, two large
hands were gagging her. "Let me go!" she cried, struggling to free herself from the deadly grip.
"You must stay!" demanded a hoarse, feeble voice. "I need you!" Then, she woke up. When she
had finished her tale, Winston had insisted she see a psychiatrist about it and she reluctantly had.
Of course, the shrink, Dr. Kell, could tell her nothing besides which she already knew that a man
was very desperate and sooner or later, Lara would fall into his grips. Lara protested at the
incredulity of the interpretation and attested to her invincibility all to no avail. Kell was
determined to keep her in suspense about her dream and keep the cash flowing steadily from her.
"Kell is a darn nuisance," she muttered to her self. If Winston had not been within
earshot, she would've forgone the euphemism.
"Miss Croft," crackled a voice in her ear.
Startled, she bolted upward from her chair. "Oh, it's you, Griggs," she said, remembering
the phone call.
"Yes, Miss Croft," prattled Griggs. "Your flight is set to depart from Heathrow
tomorrow. Your helicopter in Beijing is booked as well"
"Than you, Griggs," Lara muttered in exhaustion. How she yearned to get away from
these arrogant, stuffy British aristocrats. She cringed every time someone prefixed her name with
"Miss." Except when Winston said it. He said it in an affectionate tone that she couldn't help
smiling at, especially after hours of being addressed as "Miss," so coldly and methodically. It
meant something when Winston said it. It was merely a common courtesy from her stuffed-shirt
associates and "friends." Lara sighed wistfully and let the phone slide into the cradle. How she
longed to be called "Lara, darling" by some love-struck man who'd worship the ground she
walked upon and would abnegate anything for her, a man she would adore and die for as well.
Don't think that way, she lectured herself. You've already had your day as far as love is
concerned. The Fates just determined that it would be a short one. Bleary-eyed, she recalled the
warm caress of a man who she once believed to be made of iron, firm and steadfast as the rock of
Gibralter. He turned out to be just like any narrow-minded foppish member of the gentry in the
end. He wouldn't support her decision to become an archaeologist and didn't care about what she
knew to be her calling . . . After surviving that cataclysmic plane crash in the Himalayas, she
knew she was destined to be a recluse, a trouper, a survivor . . . a woman who could stand on her
own two feet and make something of herself, even at the cost of her family's fortune and respect.
But he who had been her fortress and strength, who was to become one flesh with her, didn't
understand her at all! He would abandon her like all the rest.
"Well you got what you longed for anyhow, she grumbled. "You wanted to be a loner
and here you are. You have no friends, no relations; all you've got is you. You looked for a hero
and found it- in yourself. Could anyone in their right mind ask for more?" But there was so much
more she needed, more than she could ever admit or fathom. She lacked the one thing needful in
life, namely love.
Dully, she glanced at the newspaper, which was headed by an article about some
religious cult going berserk about a shipwreck. Her eye carelessly scanned a picture of an
imposing mysterious Italian man wearing a black fedora and opaque shades. She did a double
take. There was something strangely- even hauntingly- familiar about that photograph, but she
couldn't put her finger on it. She shuddered, as if with cold, and cast it aside.
Stockholm Syndrome
Chapter One: A dreamer of Dreams
Lara lay sprawled out on her leopard-skin davenport. She squinted her eyes in rapt
contemplation as she pored over the map. The Dagger must be concealed in this corridor, she
thought, caressingly running her fingers over the spot. She popped the lid off her lipstick tube
and circled the facet in hot pink. The map was very old and nearly illegible, but since Lara lived
for antiquity, she payed no mind to its faded and frayed condition. The diagram clearly showed
the east facade of the Great Wall of China. According to legend, the Dagger of Xian, reputed to
possess the power of the mighty dragon, was hidden here, locked away for all time. Lara coveted
any artefact within her reach and would stop at nothing to get her way. She lazily stretched,
showing off her long, muscular thighs and sexy legs. Lara always made a show of everything
regardless of the fact that there was no one to show off to. She yawned and slowly sat up on her
luxurious berth. She was in the habit of taking everything at leisure; it was her time or no time.
She smiled to herself as she heard the familiar clinking of china and the soft, sure tread of her
servant, Winston, entering the room, bearing a heavily laden tea tray.
"Your Earl Grey, Miss Croft," he said in a comforting drone.
"Thank you, Winston," she said in as dignified an air as she could muster. She picked up
the teacup with the grace of a princess and poured herself some tea. Then, she helped herself to
several watercress sandwiches. Delineating charts, tables, and maps never ceased to make her
ravenous. As she swallowed, she surveyed Winston carefully for the first time since her youth.
His appearance hadn't altered much since then; true, he was twenty years older and his hair was
twenty years whiter, but other than that, he was the same old Winston she had always known and
loved. His weathered cheeks still reminded her of a comfortable old shoe, too dear to ever part
with. His creased jowl that crinkled each time he smiled made him even more lovable.
But back to the subject at hand . . . Lara finished her repast and looked back at the atlas.
She picked up her phone and dialed her travel agent. "Hello, Griggs? I wish to charter a plane to
Beijing tomorrow morning and an autogiro from Beijing to the far north end of the Great Wall at
11:00 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time." She tapped her long fingernails in annoyance and
impatience. "Yes, I would like to leave immediately if at all possible. Yes, I'll hold . . ." Lara
clamped the receiver between her shoulder and her ear and casually began filing her nails.
Winston gave her a withering look. "Traveling abroad again, Miss Croft?"
Lara gazed at him in disbelief. "You should know me by now, Winston," she said with
that nefariously wry smile that she always flashed when she thought she was being adroit. "I get
restless if I reside in my domicile for more than a week." She folded up the map crisply for
emphasis.
"Don't neglect to tell Dr. Kell about your plans," Winston chided as he removed the tray
from the room.
Lara hugged her heart-shaped satin pillow to her chest and scowled. Several weeks ago
she had been idly conversing with Winston about a strange recurring dream she was having.
She'd dreamt she was lounging on her couch, when suddenly, a shadowy figure entered her
room. Startled, she jumped to her feet to see who was there.
She could hear the man's deep rhythmic breathing as he crept up behind her. "You must
come with me," he whispered with a thick accent. "You are the Key."
"The key to what?" she wondered as for some strange reason she slipped into
unconsciousness. When she came to, she was in a dark chamber lit by candlelight. She silently
rose and sneaked toward a narrow door in the corner of the room. Then, as if by magic, two large
hands were gagging her. "Let me go!" she cried, struggling to free herself from the deadly grip.
"You must stay!" demanded a hoarse, feeble voice. "I need you!" Then, she woke up. When she
had finished her tale, Winston had insisted she see a psychiatrist about it and she reluctantly had.
Of course, the shrink, Dr. Kell, could tell her nothing besides which she already knew that a man
was very desperate and sooner or later, Lara would fall into his grips. Lara protested at the
incredulity of the interpretation and attested to her invincibility all to no avail. Kell was
determined to keep her in suspense about her dream and keep the cash flowing steadily from her.
"Kell is a darn nuisance," she muttered to her self. If Winston had not been within
earshot, she would've forgone the euphemism.
"Miss Croft," crackled a voice in her ear.
Startled, she bolted upward from her chair. "Oh, it's you, Griggs," she said, remembering
the phone call.
"Yes, Miss Croft," prattled Griggs. "Your flight is set to depart from Heathrow
tomorrow. Your helicopter in Beijing is booked as well"
"Than you, Griggs," Lara muttered in exhaustion. How she yearned to get away from
these arrogant, stuffy British aristocrats. She cringed every time someone prefixed her name with
"Miss." Except when Winston said it. He said it in an affectionate tone that she couldn't help
smiling at, especially after hours of being addressed as "Miss," so coldly and methodically. It
meant something when Winston said it. It was merely a common courtesy from her stuffed-shirt
associates and "friends." Lara sighed wistfully and let the phone slide into the cradle. How she
longed to be called "Lara, darling" by some love-struck man who'd worship the ground she
walked upon and would abnegate anything for her, a man she would adore and die for as well.
Don't think that way, she lectured herself. You've already had your day as far as love is
concerned. The Fates just determined that it would be a short one. Bleary-eyed, she recalled the
warm caress of a man who she once believed to be made of iron, firm and steadfast as the rock of
Gibralter. He turned out to be just like any narrow-minded foppish member of the gentry in the
end. He wouldn't support her decision to become an archaeologist and didn't care about what she
knew to be her calling . . . After surviving that cataclysmic plane crash in the Himalayas, she
knew she was destined to be a recluse, a trouper, a survivor . . . a woman who could stand on her
own two feet and make something of herself, even at the cost of her family's fortune and respect.
But he who had been her fortress and strength, who was to become one flesh with her, didn't
understand her at all! He would abandon her like all the rest.
"Well you got what you longed for anyhow, she grumbled. "You wanted to be a loner
and here you are. You have no friends, no relations; all you've got is you. You looked for a hero
and found it- in yourself. Could anyone in their right mind ask for more?" But there was so much
more she needed, more than she could ever admit or fathom. She lacked the one thing needful in
life, namely love.
Dully, she glanced at the newspaper, which was headed by an article about some
religious cult going berserk about a shipwreck. Her eye carelessly scanned a picture of an
imposing mysterious Italian man wearing a black fedora and opaque shades. She did a double
take. There was something strangely- even hauntingly- familiar about that photograph, but she
couldn't put her finger on it. She shuddered, as if with cold, and cast it aside.