A Perilous Eden

by Heather Graham

There was a swarthy older man there, cloaked in a burnoose from head to toe. He gave Michael his full attention, as did the five younger men—subordinates, or so it seemed.

  Michael was leaning against the rail. When Amber appeared, barefoot and indignant, her chin high while her heart trembled, he allowed his gaze to sweep over her, but his attention remained on the older man. He spoke slowly in Spanish—switching into another language on occasion to press a point.

  The man behind Amber exploded in fury. Then Michael spoke a sentence in English, insistently.

  “She is my concern. Mine.”

  A spate of Spanish broke out again.

  Michael interrupted sharply, speaking briefly before he gave a harsh laugh, which all the men shared.

  “What the hell is going on?” Amber demanded, narrowing her eyes. Maybe they were trying to decide whether to just throw her overboard or slit her throat and then throw her overboard. She was certain that at least half of these men wanted her dead. “None of you has any rights where I’m concerned! You’re criminals! You let me go—and the senator—this instant or I swear I shall—”

  Michael interrupted her, turning from her as he spoke to the older man as if nothing she said mattered, as if she hadn’t even spoken. He kept speaking to the older man—the only other man whose opinion seemed to count.

  “Where is the senator?” Amber demanded.

  They all stopped then, staring at her.

  “Shut up,” Michael Adams told her flatly.

  She couldn’t let him turn away again. They were probably going to kill her one way or the other, so it really didn’t matter what she said anymore.

  “They’ll hang you, Michael Adams. They’ll get you, you bastard, one way or the other. Maybe they’ll shoot you for treason. It’s a pity they don’t draw and quarter men anymore. It would be a fitting way for you to go.”

  His ice-blue eyes fell on her with complete disdain. “Shut up, Amber.”

  “The hell I will—” she began.

  Three quick strides brought him to her before she could even attempt to back away. He struck her again, open-handed, his palm cracking loudly against her cheek. Tears rose instantly to her eyes, and she tasted blood where her teeth had caught the vulnerable flesh of her inner lip. She swore silently that she would not go down without a fight, that she would not be a pathetic victim, refusing to battle. She struck him with swift venom, startling him when her fingers connected with his face.

  A roar of laughter went up.

  Someone shouted out to Michael, and the sentence contained a word she understood. Puta. Whore. They were calling her Michael’s whore, she realized, and laughing because the man who held sway over all of them didn’t seem to be able to handle his whore. They all wanted to have something on him, she realized. They were afraid of him.

  At the moment she was afraid of him herself. She forgot that his intervention had saved her life. That it was still the only thing standing between her and death.

  “No!” she shrilled furiously. “I am nothing to this man! Listen to me—”

  “Shut up!” Michael ground out savagely. He grabbed her, wrenching her off her feet, and tossed her over his shoulder. His voice rose with rage, and he snapped out something in Spanish.

  There was laughter again. They weren’t laughing at Michael anymore; they were laughing at her.

  Michael kicked open the door and started down the steps that had brought her to the deck. Gasping, Amber saw that they were passing through the galley and the salon where she had so recently lain.

  She had been afraid of death; she had never even thought about rape. Now the echo of coarse male laughter reached her, and a new terror was born within her soul.

  They slammed through a hallway, then into a tiny hot cabin where the only illumination came from a pale ray of moonlight.

  Amber was cast like refuse upon a narrow bunk. For a moment she lay stunned; then she twisted in panic, her heart racing. She started to rise, but she was caught and thrown back.

  She couldn’t really see Michael in the humid darkness. All she could see was a silhouette, dark and menacing.

  Then she heard a rustle in the darkness, and the silhouette of the man began to glow. He had shed the black turtleneck, and the rippling muscles of his chest were gleaming in the pale light.

  She stared at him, able to see his eyes at last, the fathomless blue-ice eyes that had once so fascinated her.

  “Let me go, you son of a bitch!” she grated, her voice shaking with vehemence.

  He looked at her without emotion, without deigning to reply. He unbuckled his belt, and it slipped from the loops of his jeans with a curious slithering sound. Amber’s eyes widened as she saw him wrap the leather around his hand and wield the length of it like a whip. Dear God, he meant to beat her into silence.

  She let out a long scream of horrified anticipation. The leather made a snakelike hissing sound as it rent the air and struck … the bedding, not her flesh.

  Perhaps she was in shock. Amber couldn’t grasp what was happening. Half gasping, half laughing and very near tears, she stared at him. “Dear God. Oh God …”

  He took a step toward the bunk so that he could whisper in the night. She saw the white flash of his teeth and the deadly warning in his eyes. “Scream again.”

  “What?”

  “Scream again.”

  “Michael, I don’t—”

  “You idiot. I said scream!”

  His eyes met hers for a second, then fell to the white bodice of her gown. He released her shoulders and bluntly reached for the fabric between her breasts, then wrenched it apart.

  Amber clawed at his hands, screaming. “Don’t! Don’t!” Hysteria was rising within her. Not this. Not this, not from him …

  He smiled, his teeth flashing again. There seemed to be a touch of humor in his eyes. “Good scream,” he told her, and then he proceeded to rip the bodice of her white cocktail gown until it was split to her navel.

  He wanted screams, she gave him a barrage of them, clawing at his hands, his face, his throat, pummeling anything she could reach.

  “Good,” he murmured to her, releasing her suddenly. Amber fell against the wall, struggling to hold her clothing together, gasping for breath and completely dazed.

  Michael Adams sat at the foot of the bed, untied his black sneakers and tossed them across the cabin.

  “I’ll kill you myself!” Amber swore, close to tears, fighting them wildly.

  He reached behind him to his waistband and produced a smooth steel weapon, then set it on a bureau by the bed. Amber caught her breath, gazing at the gun longingly.

  Then her eyes darted back to him. He was standing again, sliding out of the black jeans, and moonlight was dancing over the whole of his body.

  He had worn nothing beneath the jeans.

  “No!”

  This time he replied, chuckling softly. “Amber, my love, there’s nothing new here.…”

  The deep husky tone of his voice nearly demolished the last of her sanity. How dare he remind her of how familiar they were to one another?

  He let out a very explicit oath, then fell on top of her. She felt his flesh against her body. Her white gown fell open, and the rough hair on his chest brushed over her breasts. A scream rose in her throat again, but she didn’t let it loose. His eyes were on her, piercing into her own. He brought his hand up and softly stroked her cheek. “You fool. For God’s sake, give yourself a chance.”

  He was going to kill her now, she thought. She could fight, but she couldn’t win.

  She moistened her lips. “Don’t …” she whispered. She kept her eyes on his. Maybe there was mercy somewhere within him.

  “Listen to me. And listen good. I am trying to keep you alive.”

  She nodded. Sure. Sure he was.

  He moved away, sitting at the foot of the bunk, running his fingers through his hair. He seemed to have forgotten her, but then she must have moved, or breathed, or something, and she drew his attention ag
ain.

  He looked at her torn bodice and her breasts and her skirt bunched up beneath her hips. “Take that off,” he told her.

  “No, Michael. No, I—”

  He rose, leaning over her. “Now. You can do it, or I can. If I do it, it’s going to be worse.”

  “If they don’t shoot you, I swear that I will!” Amber vowed, desperately fighting against hands that moved with a steely will. The grim line of his mouth tightened, but other than that he gave no indication that he had even heard her.

  Then she tried to grab the gun, and he could no longer ignore her. Calmly, forcefully, coldly, with grim determination, he stripped away her clothing.

  Any struggle was useless. Her once glorious gown was shredded, and he didn’t stop there. Without any finesse he stripped off her stockings and slip, then unsnapped her bra. He leaned closer to her, whispering in her ear. “Damn it, I am not trying to hurt you! But if you keep trying to hurt me, so help me, I’ll—”

  He stopped speaking abruptly and walked to the door, naked in the darkness. His head was cocked, and he seemed to be listening.

  She dissolved into silent tears when he lowered himself to the bed again. When he spoke, his voice was a soft whisper that was curiously tender, almost a caress.

  “Get under the blanket and move over. Quickly.”

  “No—”

  “Before God, Miss Larkspur, do it!”

  Miss Larkspur. As if there was still something formal left in their relationship.

  He grabbed the blanket, tossing it over her. Then he crawled in beside her, lacing his fingers behind his head and staring up at the ceiling of the small cabin.

  Amber didn’t dare breathe. He seemed to be listening again. She listened, too. She could hear men talking, occasionally laughing.

  Michael turned to her suddenly, fiercely, in the darkness. “One warning, Miss Larkspur, don’t play me for a fool. You’re supposed to be an intelligent woman. Prove it. Whatever I say, do. Whatever game I play, you play along. Understand?”

  Her tears were subsiding, but her breath still came in ragged gasps. She nodded.

  He stared into her eyes, compassion touching his, filling them with a curious warmth. “I’m trying to help you. Do you understand?”

  “Of course,” Amber managed to whisper coolly. Help her. Sure. Strip her, humiliate her.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you got involved.”

  “You’re a traitor, you bastard!” she hissed, trembling.

  She felt him stiffen; then his hand wound around her wrist, and she nearly winced from the pain. “What I am doesn’t matter, Amber. Not if you want to survive this.”

  She lay silent, aching. She didn’t want him to be a bad guy. She didn’t want to believe that he would kill her, that he would kill others. And his touch upon her was too forceful for her to speak against him again. Courage had its limits. He was lying too close to her, his body nearly touching hers. She could feel his warmth, and she was painfully aware of the length of him nearly touching her from head to toe.

  “Listen to me, Amber. You must.”

  She was silent, staring at him.

  “Get some sleep,” he told her, then turned away, offering her his back.

  Get some sleep, he had told her. As if she could. A sob escaped her, a sob she quickly swallowed. Then she bit the back of her hand to keep from crying all over again.

  From somewhere, from the bureau perhaps, she heard the ticking of a clock. Then he whispered to her again. “It’s going to be all right. I promise you, it will be all right.”

  He touched her cheek. She shoved his hand away, biting her lower lip for courage. “Fine. So you say. Just—just don’t touch me.”

  “I’ll do my best … Miss Larkspur.”

  She felt him watching her, and she thought how absurd the situation was. They were lying naked together, under the same blanket. He had just kidnapped her and a United States senator right off a cruise ship.

  He turned his back on her again, but it was a small bunk and when his body brushed hers, she trembled. She couldn’t help feeling that it should be all right, that she was secure beside him again, something archaic and pagan, as if he was the mate who could look after her through the darkness of the night.

  She heard the clock again, ticking out the night.

  Amber felt the man beside her, and she prayed for morning to come.

  She hated him, but he had saved her. This man was all that stood between her and the others, she realized.

  And then she stopped praying so fervently for morning’s light. She hoped that the night would go on forever.

  Washington, D.C.

  June 16, 8:30 a.m.

  It was morning before the news reached the White House. And it was Ben Hurley who first received word, rather than Ted Larkspur. It was about to hit the media, so Ben hurriedly went to the president, who summoned Ted.

  “It went off as expected. They got Ian. Adams was there, and he disappeared, too.”

  Ted swallowed and nodded. Now they had to wait.

  Ben cleared his throat. “Uh, Ted …”

  Surprised, Ted Larkspur looked at Hurley, who cleared his throat again.

  “Amber has disappeared, too.”

  Ted Larkspur blanched. “What? What do you mean, disappeared? She’s in Palm Beach with friends—”

  Ben shook his head unhappily. “We just heard it from the ship’s captain. Amber was aboard the Alexandria. She boarded the ship in Miami.”

  “Knowing Amber,” the president said softly, “she probably wrote to tell you—”

  Ted groaned. He hadn’t been home. She’d tried to call him at work. He’d meant to get back to her. He’d been so busy and so worried and now …

  Now, because of his involvement, Amber was involved, too. The Alexandria! He could have warned her. He could have told her not to go. He could have done something, even if he had lied and said that he was ill, and that she had to come right home.…

  He gripped the desk and he tried to stand, but he started to fall anyway.

  The president leaped to his feet. Together, he and Hurley got Ted into the presidential chair.

  “Oh, my God!” Ted breathed. He was going to start crying. He was an old army man, and he was going to start crying.

  Ben Hurley cleared his throat yet again. The president began to talk. He was a good soother; he’d had practice.

  “It’s bad, Ted. Yes, it’s bad. But Tchartoff is there. Tchartoff isn’t the type to let anything happen to her.”

  “What can he do?” Ted asked dully. His only child. His beautiful daughter, his little girl, had been taken.

  “He’ll do something. I know it. Tchartoff will do something.”

  Ted didn’t want to hear the name.

  This was his own fault. It was all his own fault. He should have buried the dossier.

  He leaned back in the chair. Was it only a month ago that he had first brought Adam Tchartoff—alias Michael Adams—to Washington? One short month ago.…

  1

  Washington, D.C.

  May 15

  “Sir?”

  Ted Larkspur stood just inside the French doors, the dossier he carried held behind his back, his legs spread at ease. He was quite comfortable with the position; he was a retired military man who’d somehow found himself working on Capitol Hill. He was still a young man—at least, far younger than the chief executive.

  The president was down on the floor, giving his attention to a jigsaw puzzle. From what Ted could make out, the picture was a Western scene.

  The president looked up with a slightly absent smile, greeted Ted cordially, then looked at the puzzle again. Ted wasn’t deceived; he knew he had the man’s attention.

  “You’ve got something for me?”

  “Yes, sir. I think I’ve got exactly what you want.”

  The president reached out, and Ted stepped forward to hand him the folder, taking care not to tramp on the puzzle.

  Still on the floor, the pre
sident opened the file. Dark eyes surrounded by the creases of many decades quickly scanned the report. He stared for a long time at the eight-by-ten glossy of a man he found in the file.

  The face was an interesting one. Full of contradictions. Close-cropped light hair, light eyes—the color was impossible to tell from the black-and-white photo. Broad cheekbones, yet the face was still somehow slim. The nose had been broken somewhere along the line. The mouth was full, but held tightly. The standard glossy caught something of the man behind the face. Something of a sharp stare. Something keen, alert. Wary. Not so much as if he was always watching, but as if he was always … prepared.

  “Fascinating,” the president said.

  He set the dossier by his feet and picked up a piece of the puzzle.

  Ted Larkspur cleared his throat. “I believe, sir, the piece you’re holding goes up higher. It’s not grass—it’s sky, where the sun’s rays start.”

  “I believe you’re right, Larkspur.”

  He sighed with satisfaction as the piece fell into position. Then his gaze met Larkspur’s again, and Ted shivered a little; there hadn’t been a second during the interchange when the president had really forgotten his purpose.

  “We have to do something, Ted.”

  Ted didn’t reply. The president didn’t really want an answer.

  Once again the president gave his attention to the puzzle. “This man—this Adam Tchartoff—his citizenship is Israeli now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But he was an American?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s all in the dossier there—”

  “I got what I wanted from the dossier. The rest I want from you. You’ve seen him.”

  “Briefly. We weren’t introduced.”

  “But you’ve seen him, Ted.” The president tapped the dossier at his feet with a puzzle piece. “Don’t ever let anyone fool you, Ted. This paper—pulp—with some neat facts and figures in ink. You never know a man until you’ve seen him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ted agreed.

  “So.” The president started to rise. Ted moved forward to help him, but the older man waved him away. “I can still rise on my own power, boy.” He walked behind his desk and sat, folding his hands prayer fashion and leaning his head against the back of the chair as he stared at the ceiling.