Tempestuous Eden (17 page)

“Don’t be absurd,” he stated contemptuously. “There’s not an inch of your body I’m not more familiar with than you are yourself.”

Then he turned and left her, picked up a cigarette from the table, and moved away with indifference.

C
RAIG LIT HIS CIGARETTE,
wincing as he heard the head door slam in his wake. He reached into the small icebox, delved through the packets, and secured himself a beer. Kicking the door closed with an abrupt movement of his foot, he wrenched off the tab and dryly thanked Brad Shearer for the thought of packing him a supply of American beer. Taking a deep swig, he hoped to settle the jumbled chemistry that boiled inside him.

Both beer and cigarette in hand, he crawled up the ladder topside and walked to the bow to sit, casting his long legs over the edge of the boat. He had long ago moved toward shore to cast anchor and furl in the sails for a respite. He had come far enough. He wanted a little more time with his captive before moving any closer to inhabited areas. Later, in the night, he would move again and cover a little distance in the darkness.

Glancing at the anchor line as it bobbed in the water, he cursed himself miserably. He was a top man, known to be able to coerce people to his way of thinking with a minimum of pressure. He had to bear down on Blair; he had to make her realize that things would go his way. But his professionalism, long taken for granted, seemed to have deserted him. He couldn’t stifle the taunts he continued to hurl at her.

And then he found himself thinking of her skin, of its satiny texture. The thought of skin led to that of curves, to breasts that came alive to his touch, to the way he could make her sigh with need when he stroked those luscious breasts with his tongue, circling the rose-hued nipples.

He groaned aloud with a sharp curse.
Taylor, man, what the hell has happened to you?
He always had a great gift for accepting reality, no matter how harsh. This should have been the chief’s piece of cake. Reasons for the orders given him were classified, but it didn’t take a terribly astute mind to know that a fear of guerrilla action was behind them. He could assume only that Blair couldn’t be told anything, including his role in this fiasco, just in case something did go wrong, just in case she were to be captured by someone seeking information who was not averse to the usual methods used to assure its extraction.

Something was happening. If he had been told to move, there was a reason. And yet he was sure his slow crawl through the jungle to the coast was precautionary. He had been warned of guerrillas; he knew that guerrillas would still exist in a country still toddling like an infant to stand.

The chief had always been so sure that once they had moved out they would be doing nothing but playing for time. Obviously the chief did not know his old friend Huntington’s daughter as well as he thought.

Damned princess out on this tub, he thought furiously. But the charge was completely out of line and he knew it. Blair was equipped with resources that went above and beyond the average woman. She would always be regal, aware of the pea beneath a hundred mattresses, but she would never complain.

His mind turned back to thoughts of facing her water-slicked, naked body and he cast his cigarette butt, burned low without his notice, out on the water with a vicious throw. He was getting to her, he knew it, but he was striking out, and she was tearing apart his very core simply by existing. One look at her and his body tensed with memory, his blood racing madly, his breath growing short and heavy.

Forget it,
he warned himself.
She thinks you’re a full-fledged demon.
The dregs of the earth, actually, had been her description. And it wouldn’t be much better when she did know the truth. He wondered vaguely if she would begin to understand. Then he stood, impatient with himself, impatient with her. The sun was turning into a gleaming red sphere in the western sky. Dinner, another charming meal with his reluctant companion, seemed in order if he planned to hoist anchor later. It would be nice if she slept soundly for long hours.

Returning below, he found sound evidence that Blair had thoroughly ransacked the place looking for her own clothing in his absence. He allowed himself a grim smile. Obviously she had found nothing and frustrated herself to a satisfying fatigue. Clad in the native clothing, she rested on the bed, her jaw locked, seething as she stared at the planks above her.

Craig ignored her and turned his attention to the food. He was ravenous. It had been a long night and day for him, with the brunch he had prepared their only meal. He set a generous helping of rice on to boil and selected several of the thin native steaks, grimacing all the while. He wasn’t much of a cook. He could think of a million restaurants he would like to be at right then.

His eyes turned covertly to Blair. She was obviously aware of his presence, but she had chosen to continue ignoring him. He clenched his jaw with tension. At the moment he was quite able to think of her as a pampered socialite. He would love to rip her out of the bed, give her a good boot in the rump, and insist that she help. She didn’t have to be a Julia Child, she simply had to make their bland meals a bit more palatable. Nor was it a chauvinistic thought—merely a hungry one.

No, Taylor,
he warned himself. He had long ago learned that patience was a virtue and that there were many more ways than one to skin a cat.

He watched the rice boil and set the meat on.

A few minutes later he had the meal, such as it was, prepared. He piled two plates with the food in the galley, collected flatware, and dumped the lot on the table with a loud clattering. “Dinner,” he announced coolly, “is served.” He turned from the table, went back into the galley, and began rummaging through compartments, happily discovering they had been stocked with a few wooden casks of wine. A local vintage, bitter and gritty, but anything would do. Removing the cork with more than necessary vengeance, he placed the cask and two cups on the table, then lit hungrily into his own food.

Blair was desperately wishing she could ignore his invitation, but she couldn’t. The way out of this situation was not starvation. She had tossed away her food this morning, and was therefore ravenous now. It had been twenty-four hours since she had eaten.

He didn’t glance up as she joined him at the table. Evidently he had decided that overtures toward her were a waste of time. She glanced at her plate. The rice was in starchy globs, but the meat was rare and appetizing looking. She cut off a square and bit into it, savoring the taste. Craig remained silent as she began to eat, his concentration on his own food. It was she who finally found the silence between them unbearable.

“I assume I’m to be sent back well fed and healthy,” she said with a dry bravado she wasn’t feeling. “My, my,” she mused cattily, fingering the rough wooden cask of burgundy. “This outfit must really be on the financial rise.”

“Sorry,” he retorted, finishing his meal and pushing his plate to the side. “We didn’t happen to have any Dom Pérignon on hand. But yes, you are to be returned in good condition.” He lit a cigarette but made no move to pour the burgundy, nor did he offer her any. She reached, across the table, asking with sweet sarcasm, “May I?”

“Please, help yourself. That is, if you’re sure it won’t offend your discriminating palate.”

Blair smiled coolly, maintaining her saccharine demeanor. “Shall I pour you some?”

He shook his head slightly in mocking disbelief. “Please do. Will wonders never cease? You’re actually offering to do something for me.” He watched her as she poured the wine, his expression relaxed but assessive.

“Well,” Blair murmured dryly, “I am supposed to trust you.”

“That’s right,” he agreed, not batting an eye at her broad sarcasm.

“You’re really just a nice guy.”

“You got it.”

“Well, then, Mr. Nice Guy,” Blair said tartly, sipping the wine and grimacing at its acidic taste, “I hope you realize that the Hunger Crew is short people, and they’re going to be in trouble.”

“The Hunger Crew will not be in trouble,” Craig informed her. “They’ll shortly be receiving large quantities of something I’m afraid can be deemed far more important than even your precious presence—money.”

Blair tried to hide her surprise with more sarcasm. “That’s certainly big of you. You seem to cover all bases, don’t you?”

A curious expression rippled almost instantly across his features and then was gone. “Yes,” he said softly. “We are at the very least thorough. But I hate to disappoint you, Mrs. Teile. The donation was a personal gift from yours truly.”

Blair wasn’t quite able to stifle a gasp. Then he was wealthy, and certainly not out for a ransom. Unless, of course, he was lying. But she didn’t think so; his education and experience seemed too vast. The information he gave her wasn’t, however, particularly reassuring. If he wasn’t after a ransom, the implications were grave. They could only be political.

“Then you are some type of a left-wing fanatic,” she murmured.

He changed position with one of his lightning movements and leaned toward her, both elbows on the table, his head lowered conspiratorially. “No, Mrs. Teile,” he said gravely. “I already told you—I practice black magic in the forest at night. With my forest friends. Some of us just happen to have money.” He leaned back again with his expression tired rather than amused, quelling any biting comment she might have made in return. He picked up his cup of wine and rose with a curt “Excuse me,” then strode to the ladder and climbed up the hatch, pausing on deck, his legs staunchly spread to counter the slight roll of the boat.

Blair finished eating quickly, glad that Craig’s intent gaze wasn’t still upon her as she voraciously cleaned her plate. Black magic! Pity that it wasn’t the seventeenth century. She couldn’t think of a scene she could possibly enjoy more than Craig Taylor tied to a stake with burning timber at his feet.

She glanced with rancor at the dishes left on the table and the pots and pans in the kitchen. So, he had just walked away, assuming that as of the morning he had acquired a dishwasher. Un-unh. Not on your life, buddy.

Blair stood and stretched, further irritated by the scratchy cloth that flowed around her body. Why the extra jeans if he was forcing her to wear this?

Everything was a question.

Feeling the confines of the cabin, she too climbed up to the deck. He didn’t turn, but though she had risen silently, he had heard her. “What are you doing?” he demanded sharply.

“Seeking out a little fresh air at the bow,” she responded tartly, adding with a feigned, very humble servility, “May I.”

“Go.”

She did, unaware that he did turn then as she picked up her skirt and moved lithely across the deck, pausing to balance by the mainmast before searching out privacy far aft and taking the same spot he had earlier to gaze out on the water.

Where the hell were they? she wondered listlessly, staring out into the darkness. A half moon provided a very faint glimmer of light, but it did little to illuminate the shoreline because the lights from the cabin were brighter, casting a haze upon all else. What would she see anyway? More jungle. She knew she was no longer near the Hunger Crew; she also knew she was still somewhere in Central America. But where? Would they ever come across a village where she might find help? It was unlikely. Craig was too thorough a person to afford her any such opportunity.

What would happen, she wondered idly, if she were to swim ashore? She was familiar with jungle, familiar enough to know it was dangerous. If she were to reach the land, which was a sound possibility from this proximity, could she make it to a small city or village? Her Spanish was excellent. Surely she could make herself understood.

But the darkness out there was overwhelming; it harbored all sorts of deadly night creatures. If she had light …
Wonderful,
she thought with an inner laugh.
I can just scamper back to the bow and politely request that Craig supply me with a flashlight for my flight.

She gasped a scream, startled as his hand came down on her shoulder. “No ideas, Blair,” he cautioned softly, as if reading her mind. “If you did swim in to shore, I’d be right after you, and as I told you earlier, I swim like a fish. If you reach land, I can run like a deer. I can also make it through the trees with the best of the chimps.”

“I’m impressed,” Blair murmured, caustic but quiet as she shook his hand from her shoulder with a shrug. She glanced back at him to demand balefully, “Tell me, Mr. Taylor, do you have any other talents on a par with the animal kingdom?”

There had been no cruelty on his face, no mockery, only a certain sadness that seemed to match her own. But now he suddenly laughed, his brows rising, and his tone taking on a strange tenderness, a tenderness she had known very well.

“I don’t mean to brag,” he said as he crouched beside her, his twinkling eyes reminding her how innuendos had once passed between them with comfortable ease, “but”—his voice lowered to a husky level—“there are certain things I can do just like a rabbit.”

Blair sucked in air but didn’t allow herself to move. She stared at him with all the disdain she could muster. She would have liked to hit him, but that would be foolish, and, dismayingly, that was only half of her reaction. Worse than that foolish urge, she would have liked to laugh. He stood as she stared, towering over her, reminding her of his vast length and how absurdly it fit against her smaller frame with aching perfection. Her temptation was to cling to his strength, to burrow into the protection of his broad chest, to hear him reassure her, tell her it was all a joke, a dream, to run to him for security.

Now, that was a laugh. He wasn’t security; he was the enemy. And if she were ever to run anywhere, it would be away.

She rose with straight-backed grace. “Good night, Mr. Taylor,” she told him flatly, brushing past him and returning to the bow to crawl back down to the cabin.

Craig watched her go, the proud tilt of her chin, the square line of her slender shoulders. Even in the dim light her hair flamed down her back with rich, dark, lustrous fire.