Tempestuous Eden (25 page)

“Taylor!”

“But that’s all right,” he murmured hastily, his eyes still full of teasing amusement. “We can share.” He took a swig from the cask and handed it to her.

Blair glanced at it distastefully for a second and then accepted it. But as soon as she brought the cask to her lips, the sea heaved again and the wine spilled over her face, down her neck, and disappeared in trickles down the valley of her breasts, just barely visible over her clutch on the blanket.

Groaning with exasperation, Blair started to hand the wine back to Craig, only to pause with dismay as she saw his eyes. All mocking amusement was gone; they were very dark, very intent. His entire expression was tense.

She knew that look, and just the look sent little shivers racing down her spine, shivers that turned to heat, back to shivers.

She was unaware of the anguished panic that appeared in her own wide eyes at the mere cast of his—until he blinked, and a slow, easy smile once more filtered across his jaw.

“Sorry, darling,” he teased, “not tonight—I’ve got a headache.”

“Oh, will you shut up!” Blair snapped, furious to find that she was blushing from the roots of her hair to her toes.

“Ouch!” he winced. “Yes, yes, I’ll hush up! Just don’t shout.” He took the wine from her and swallowed a long drink, still wincing. He handed it back to her. Adjusting himself so that the pillow and his head upon it were propped against the planking, he reached an arm around her and pulled her head against his shoulder, silencing her protests before they could begin. “Don’t go getting panicky there on me again, princess. When I say headache, honey, I do mean headache. I’m just trying to get into a position so that we can get some rest. Sip some of that stuff and try to sleep.”

She would never sleep. The boat was still heaving too violently. But as they passed the wine back and forth, she did find herself growing drowsy. “You’re lucky I don’t get seasick,” she muttered as the minutes passed and the rocking continued at a constant level along with the howls and the shrieks of the wind.

“Yes,” he returned dryly. “I’m lucky. So lucky,” he added with a sad bitterness. “I must have tripped into a whole field of four-leaf clovers.”

Blair fell silent. The patter of the rain was actually becoming lulling. Within the warm cocoon of blanket and supporting shoulder, she did fall asleep.

Very early in the morning it was over. The almost dead stillness of the boat woke Blair. Glancing around quickly, she saw that Craig was gone,” already up and out on the deck. Scrambling out of her blanket, she reached into the cabinet that had become hers and withdrew her dry set of jeans and shirt. Hurrying into her clothing, she raced into the head, splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, then hastened up the ladder.

Craig was standing by the mainmast, one hand against it, one on his hip. Sinewed legs steady and staunch, he stared out on a horizon that was vastly beautiful in the wake of the storm. The not too distant beach shimmered as if composed of a million white crystals; the mountains rose in the background in a brilliant panorama of green. The sea itself was calm and clear, barely rippling, the sky an artist’s blush of radiant pinks and golds. Watching Craig in the proud, indomitable stance that was part of the man—the lion surveying his domain, for, clearly, the entire world was his domain—Blair felt a pain stab her chest as if her heart had truly constricted. It was impossible to believe that evil lurked beneath such a courageous façade. If only …

“Good morning, Mrs. Teile,” he called, flashing her an engaging smile. His voice was deep, low velvet. “It is a beautiful morning, you know.”

Blair lifted a skeptical brow, but couldn’t resist a return smile—and a measure of concern. He looked as fit as an Olympic trainee, but surely even he couldn’t be totally immune to that type of blow to the head. “Yes, it is a beautiful morning,” she agreed, watching him quizzically. “And you look rather spry yourself. How do you feel?”

He grimaced. “Rotten. I have a headache that won’t quit.” But that was all the admission she was going to get from him. He chuckled softly. “Our ‘tub’ did ride out the storm quite nicely, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” she agreed again ruefully. “The tub did manage quite nicely.” She paused for a second with a frown. “What is this boat’s real name anyway? Or doesn’t it have one.”

“Yeah,” Craig replied, going silent for a few seconds afterward with his lips twisting ironically. “This tub is
La Princesa.”

“Oh,” Blair murmured, fully aware that “the princess” was also his term for her. “Well,” she said briskly, “in a storm I guess she is a princess.”

“Ummmm … yes, she is,” Craig murmured cryptically. He hopped down from the main to stand beside her. “How about some coffee? And some breakfast? We did miss dinner.”

“Yes, we did,” Blair returned dryly. “But you do seem mobile. You could have had breakfast started.”

“I got caught up looking at the sunrise,” he admitted with a grin. “And I want to check the sheet lines and sails before we get under way. We’re getting closer to your ten days you know.”

“Okay.” Blair involuntarily took a step back from him, aware that her heart began to pound harder with his mere proximity. “I’ll get breakfast started.”

“Hey,” he called after her retreating form. “When the coffee is brewed, run me up a couple of those pills, would you? My head is still pounding like all hell.”

Blair barely nodded as she disappeared into the cabin. Her mind was in a quandary. With each passing day, it became more impossible to believe that—if Craig stuck to his word—whatever he was after would be granted him and she would return home. He would escape, of that she was sure, and she would never see him again. Perhaps she would read in the paper one day that his group of political fanatics had been rounded up and he had been captured. Or killed …

And she would never be the same. She would have lost part of herself, a part she had given him that she could never retrieve.

The coffee finished brewing as she tortured herself with her thoughts. Sighing, she poured a cup for Craig and walked aft to the cabinet to procure the pills he wanted for his headache.

Once again her fingers brushed against the panel that was the false rear of the cabinet.

And her eyes fell upon the gun.

For a few seconds she felt herself shake. She closed her eyes tightly and swallowed convulsively.

She had long ago accepted Ray’s death, but she would never forget his assassination as long as she lived. A firearm, any firearm could conjure up the picture of that day—the sharp report, the beautiful, caring smile fading from Ray’s face, the bright red blood that seeped from his navy suit in clashing contrast, spattering to fleck his golden hair, her own scream, echoing and echoing endlessly as a secret service man cast his body over hers, saving her from other bullets, from herself as she hysterically tried to get to her husband, dead before she even became fully aware he had been hit.

Tears welled into her eyes, but she willed them away. Convulsively she reached for the gun. She knew guns. Her father had taught her to shoot in ranges starting from her tenth birthday. She could aim at a fly a hundred yards away and hit it. Hunched on the balls of her feet in a squat, she felt the cold metal of the butt, slipping her fingers around it.

And then she sensed Craig’s presence.

It was her chance; a chance to demand to know where they were going, why she was being held, who he was. A chance to reverse roles, to take
him
hostage, to turn him over to the authorities before he went further in his life of violence.

He stood ten feet away from her, hands on hips, yellow eyes gleaming without a hint of fear. Slowly she pointed the muzzle in his direction.

“That is loaded, you know, Blair,” he said flatly.

She nodded, her throat suddenly gone thick, her tongue too heavy to voice all her questions.

He started walking toward her. She finally managed to speak.

“Taylor, I can shoot this thing,” she warned. “I’m an expert marksman.”

“I know,” he said calmly, pausing right before her. “I also know that you’re not going to shoot me.”

Blair clicked off the safety. “Don’t count on it, Taylor,” she rasped. Her hand was steady, her aim sure. He moved toward her. “Don’t,” she warned, and for an instant his eyes flickered with a strange light and utter disbelief. He’d come as close as she could ever imagine this man coming to showing shock. Then, just as suddenly, his eyes, his entire expression, showed nothing.

A silence stretched between them; neither one moved, neither even breathed. There was only the slight rocking of the boat, the sound of the waves lapping against the hull, the call of birds flying above the open sea. Flying free, Blair thought. The gun weighed heavy in her hand, the yellow glow of Craig’s eyes, luminous in the cabin’s darkness, boring relentlessly into her.

And then she was shaking like a leaf. And Craig was reaching down to take the gun from fingers that had gone cold and limp. With the safety back on, he returned the gun to its niche and reached for Blair, who was now hunched over, head bowed in despair and defeat.

He pulled her into his arms and she didn’t protest. The tears she had tried to hold on to fell freely, silently, in torrents down her cheeks.

Lifting her like a child, he carried her to the bed and soothed her, lifting tendrils of hair from her face and smoothing them back as he cradled her in his lap. Then suddenly she gathered strength again, and feverishly pummeled his chest. “Damn you, Taylor,” she cried in a scream and wail, aware that she was pitting such feeble force against him that he wasn’t even protesting. “You’re a goddamn criminal and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it….” Her voice trailed away with her energy and her hands fell limply against his chest.

“Blair,” he murmured consolingly, “you couldn’t do it because you know I’m no danger to you. You know that I would never hurt you. You couldn’t do it because you know that I love you, because you love me.”

She couldn’t still her shaking; she could only dimly accept his words. She knew why she couldn’t ever have shot him; it would be a horrendous replay of the past, seeing this man that she loved with all her heart, blood gushing from him, washing away his life. And then she was voicing her thoughts out loud, burrowing to him for the strength he had given her from the start.

“Oh, Craig, it was so awful”, so awful, he was standing one moment, laughing, waving, so vital, so alive. And then he was down, the life leaving his eyes, the blood, oh, God, there was so much blood….”

Craig let her talk on and on, feeling her pain, desperately wishing he could absorb it for her. He had seen the results of war and terrorism, and his only comfort was that in some instances he had been able to prevent possible carnage. But as he loved her, he could never imagine the pain of losing her. He could well imagine what the devastation had been for her to view the demise of the man she had adored.

And so he continued to hold her, uttering soothing words, cradling her with tenderness rather than passion, until she had it all out. Until the sun rose high in the sky, until he could feel her exhausted body relax against his.

Still they sat silent. Finally her eyes rose to meet his. Emerald and brilliant with the liquid glaze of her tears, they also carried a touching concern.

“Your head, Craig. I’m sorry, I forgot all about it.”

He smiled softly. “That’s okay, so did I. It’s all right now.”

“Really?”

“Really.” It was true. Somewhere along the line the nagging pain had subdued to a slight throb, and now he felt only the slightest soreness at the base of his head. He twisted his head to prove that all was well to both her and himself. “Really,” he repeated. “Much better.”

She sighed suddenly, a jagged sigh, her emerald eyes still upon him, beseeching him with a weary depth. “Craig …” she began weakly, raising a slender, trembling finger to brush his stubble-rough cheek. “Please, Craig, turn yourself in. Don’t you see? I don’t … I can’t … You’re so good! Turn yourself in. I won’t press charges. Whatever you’ve done, we can straighten it out. I’ll help you.”

Craig was staring down at her, a very soft, very tender smile curling the edges of the lips set in the square steel jaw. The hazel of his eyes was neither cold nor yellow. But deep, a dark golden color—poignant, wistful.

He forgot—or if he didn’t completely forget, he pushed aside—the sure notion that she would one day charge him like a proud eagle for stringing her along, for allowing her to make such a plea. All he saw at the moment was the depth of her caring, and the moment was precious to him. He would sell his soul to allow it to continue. He wanted to stretch it out; he craved to hear the words spoken from her lips that she would never say again.

“Why, Blair?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why would you do this for me?”

“Because I—I—” She was floundering, her voice was catching, choking. And then she became certain. “Because I do love you.” The words slipped out with a simple dignity—a sweet yearning whisper on the air.

Craig’s arms tightened around her. “I love you, Blair,” he murmured huskily, his lips trembling against her hair.

“Please—” she protested, pulling from him and finding the strength to stand and move away from him.

“I love you, Craig, but I’m not about to become a partner to this, whatever it is.”

“I told you I would return you to Washington to your father,” Craig said, his eyes narrowing and hardening, his tone becoming guarded. “Do you doubt my word?”

“No,” she said softly. “I believe you intend to keep your word.”

He laughed suddenly, a dry, bitter chuckle. “You want me to turn myself in?”

“Yes,” Blair whispered.

“But you don’t know all that I’ve done,” he reminded her.

Blair fixed her gaze on the coffeepot, now grown ice cold.

“I can’t believe that anything you’ve done can be that bad. They say that a hypnotized man will not obey an order, even in a trance, if that order is against his moral instincts. I believe you’re like that, Craig. Misguided, but moral beneath it. If you turn now, you can go back. Maybe you’ll never be able to do so again, maybe the time will come when it will be too late.”