Eyes of Fire

by Heather Graham

  No excuses on his part.

  No matter how much sensuality radiated from the woman at his side.

  He smiled suddenly, glad of the honesty they had shared today. He’d been itching to touch her. Burning to feel her, taste her. He’d fought off his own climax so he could have more and more of her. He could see her in the darkness, every part of her, could see her with his eyes closed, recall her scent, her taste. He knew the texture of her flesh, the size and shape of her breasts, the color of her nipples, the feel of the red thatch at the top of her thighs. Knew the misty look of her eyes, the curve of her lips, the taste of her mouth. He knew those things in his dreams, waking, sleeping. At the strangest times in his life, he would recall something about her, the slope of a shoulder, the beautiful curve of her back, the pureness of her flesh. In the midst of a business dinner, beneath the currents of a river, he’d recalled Sam.

  And now…

  Now, for the moment, she had given up the fight. After the last explosive session of lovemaking between them, he’d had the God-given sense to keep his mouth shut. So she’d curled up beside him.

  And slept.

  Her hair was drying. Deep, dark tendrils of fire, it swept over the pastel-hued sheets. Her body was gloriously tan against that pale background, as well, except for the strips of more intimate flesh that hadn’t been bared to the sun. She was naturally toned and perfect, an athlete with the most feminine curves. He smiled, remembering what she’d once said about breasts.

  “Yours are perfect, darling,” he whispered, kissing the classical sculpture of her cheek lightly. “Perfect. Not too much, not too little. Perfect.”

  He was tempted to test that perfection again with the cup of his hand, but he rather liked the idea that she was sleeping. He needed to make a phone call.

  He rose, pulled the covers over her and found his swim trunks. They were damp. Oh, well. He had no choice. He slipped into them, wincing as the cold hit personal places that had so recently been so warm.

  He padded out to the kitchen and put coffee on, hoping that would ease some of the clammy feeling assailing him. When the coffee perked, he poured himself a cup and sat down at the desk in Sam’s small sunken office area.

  He reached into the small inner front pocket of his bathing trunks and pulled out the encrusted article he had found caught in the step just at the cliffside nearly sixty feet below the surface of the water.

  Sea growth was so attached to it that it was almost impossible to realize what the article was. He rubbed at the green and earth-toned growth. Gold appeared. He turned the article over in his hands. Studied it. Felt a plummeting of his heart. Pain. Squeezing.

  He pocketed the article and sat thoughtfully for several seconds.

  He picked up her private line. Unless the phones were tapped, he was safe.

  It took him about sixty seconds to put his call through. He reached Sergeant James Estefan of the Mainland Metro Station dive squad at his desk.

  “It would be you—I’m just about to go home,” James said.

  Adam could picture him. James was thirty-three, blue-eyed, dark-haired. Dark, eternally touslehaired. James spent half his days in the water and the other half running his fingers through his drying hair. He was a good man and a good cop, an intuitive one.

  “I’ve got your home number anyway,” Adam told him. “What have you got for me?”

  “Well, I checked the death records, like you asked, and you were right on the money.”

  “Yeah?” Adam leaned forward.

  “A Marcus Shapiro was washed up around Daytona Beach exactly one week after the reported disappearance of Justin Carlyle.”

  “Shapiro.” Tension seized Adam. “He was one of the main divers with SeaLink, right?”

  “Had been,” James corrected.

  Adam frowned. “So who was he working for when he was found dead?”

  “Private concerns.”

  “Oh, shit,” Adam muttered.

  “Annoying, ain’t it? By the way, have you shared your own private concerns with your hostess yet?”

  “No. Help me here, give me more. What was Shapiro’s cause of death? Drowning?”

  “Stabbed to death.”

  “Stabbed!”

  “Right.”

  “Carlyle’s disappearance and Shapiro’s death may have no connection whatsoever.”

  “True. Maybe not even likely. You asked me to find whatever I could. I found Shapiro’s corpse.”

  “Do you know anything about what Shapiro was doing?”

  “No. His wife had reported him missing. She’d known he planned on going out diving, but she hadn’t known with whom or for whom. He could have been working for Robert Santino. Santino made no bones about the fact that he was sending divers out to scrounge around for the Beldona.”

  “Anything else? Have you found backgrounds on any of the people I asked you to check up on?”

  “I have.”

  “Well, damn it, James—”

  “You know, if this gets solved, I want one hell of a nice vacation out there on that island of yours.”

  “Done.” Adam looked toward Sam’s bedroom and shrugged. “Sure. Now, talk to me.”

  “You’ve got two people on the island who’ve changed their names a time or two.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, Mr. Joseph Emerson, for one.”

  “Joseph Emerson? The honeymooner? Come on, James. Spit it out for me.”

  “All right. Emerson was born Shapiro.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “I do. His father’s body was the one washed up on the Daytona shore.”

  “Go on,” Adam said.

  “This one may hurt someone more than a bit,” James warned.

  “Well?” Adam demanded.

  “Might be better if I don’t tell you.”

  “James, you’d damned well better tell me now,” Adam insisted. Then he listened. “What?”

  James repeated what he had learned. Slowly.

  And Adam sat back, stunned, staring toward the bedroom.

  “Adam, you there?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. I, uh, thanks, James. You’ve gone above and beyond. I’ll keep in touch.”

  He hung up and walked into the kitchen. He stared at his freshly brewed coffee. Then he dug around in the cabinets until he found a bottle of booze. Rum. He hated rum.

  He swigged it right down.

  Oh, God.

  He looked toward the bedroom again. Leaned against the counter. Groaned.

  He was going to have to hold out on her about this one. Until…

  Until…

  Oh, hell.

  Sam awoke, vaguely aware of voices in some other room.

  She started to jump out of bed in a disoriented panic, then remembered why she was in bed and that she had fallen asleep.

  Asleep!

  She looked around for her clothing, then remembered that she had dropped her bathing suit in the hall. Shaking her head in disgust at what had surely been a complete mental breakdown, she reached into her closet for a robe. By the time she had belted it on, she had traced the voices to the kitchen. She hurried down the hallway, only to discover that Jem was in her cottage, along with Adam. She must have slept a good while, because both men were showered, shaved and dressed in casual dinner attire.

  They had drinks in their hands. And they both stared at her strangely as she joined them.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah,” Adam said. “Well, other than the fact that something’s going on. Actually, nothing’s right, but then, you know that already.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Seven!” she exclaimed. She looked at them both accusingly.

  “I just got back here myself,” Adam said. “I had to change,” he explained awkwardly.

  “Dinner will be on. Yancy should have come for me. I can’t just ignore this entire business.”

  “It’s not going to make any difference if you miss the cocktail hour a
nd show up late for one evening meal,” Jem assured her.

  “I’ve still got to shower,” she began, looking at Adam. She felt color filling her cheeks. “And dress.”

  “We’ll wait,” Adam said.

  She nodded. “I don’t believe I fell asleep like that. I don’t believe that…” Her voice trailed away. “I…excuse me.”

  Sam showered in the hottest water she could find, then dressed quickly in a calf-length, teal silk off-the-shoulder dress.

  She didn’t allow herself to think the entire while.

  When she walked into the living room, she still felt that Adam was watching her peculiarly.

  The strange thing was that he looked away when he caught her staring at him in return.

  Was he feeling guilty again? she wondered. No, he’d never behaved so strangely before. Not now, not in the past.

  “Are you sure nothing else has happened?” she demanded, walking toward the door and waiting for the men to follow.

  “Nothing,” Jem said.

  “At all,” Adam added.

  They were lying.

  Well, it didn’t matter. They weren’t going to tell her anything.

  “Let’s go to dinner then, shall we?” Dinner. A meal. Everything felt different. She’d been with Adam again. She was different.

  No control, she mocked herself.

  Yet…

  Had the past been her own fault? Could things be different now that she was older and wiser?

  Sure, she told herself. She could just go for the good sex now.

  Like hell. She cared about him, she was entwined with him. She wanted more than what she’d had.

  And her business, her island and her life were falling apart.

  “Dinner, guys,” she persisted, since they seemed to be moving slowly. “That meal that everyone else will be eating or getting ready to eat by the time we get there. I’ve already missed cocktail hour. You two have had yours while you were waiting, I see.”

  She spun around, leaving the two of them. The hell with them if they weren’t ready to come. This place was her business. Her livelihood. Jem’s, too.

  They were right behind her, then beside her, Jem to her left, Adam to her right.

  Handsome guys, she thought. Both so tall, well-built, immaculately dressed, Jem ebony dark, Adam so bronze, with his clear gray eyes. Flanked to protect her.

  She was lucky.

  Jem would stay. Her friend for a lifetime.

  While Adam…

  He would always be a main force in her heart and mind, whether he stayed or sailed away tomorrow. She couldn’t change him, but one way or another, he would be with her for a lifetime. She felt a tightness beginning to burn within her chest.

  Stay, Adam. This time, stay.

  She had to remember, she had sent him away herself.

  Adam cleared his throat, suddenly stopping, pulling back on her arm so that she stopped in front of him. Jem stood silently, waiting for him to speak. “I told Jem that Yancy thought someone had been in the house. He’s going to take the room next to hers until…”

  “Until?” Sam stared at him.

  Adam shrugged. “Until we know who was in the house with her.”

  “Then I’ll be alone?” she queried, knowing his answer.

  “No.”

  “Because you’re going to stay in my cottage?” Sam asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But you haven’t stayed there before?” she asked. “Jem hasn’t just been letting you in? Or did you arrive early this morning so you could come sit by my bedside? Is that it?”

  Jem choked.

  Adam didn’t reply, just stared at her evenly. “Do you have an objection to my being there this evening?”

  “Would it matter if I did?”

  He looked at her, smiling slightly. “In a way.”

  “Yes?”

  “It would affect where I actually slept,” he said, his voice low.

  No secrets here. Jem was too close. Jem knew. Jem had known.

  Jem had probably been expecting this ever since Adam O’Connor had set foot on the island.

  The hell with them both.

  She managed to meet Adam’s eyes for several seconds, staring hard. But then her eyes dropped. She looked ahead and kept walking. “I don’t have an objection to you staying so that Jem can keep guard on Yancy.”

  Jem made a choking sound.

  Or outright laughed.

  Sam wasn’t at all sure which.

  Adam stepped closer to her. “Would you have an objection if Jem wasn’t going to guard Yancy?” he asked politely.

  “Only regarding where you sleep,” she replied sweetly, and hurried by him, anxious to reach the main house.

  Or to have the last word—at least this once.

  11

  D inner seemed so normal.

  By the time they reached the main house, Yancy was lighting the flame under one of the buffet dishes. “Fiesta night,” she said, making no note of the fact that they had arrived so late. “Fajitas, burritos, quesadillas. Just a touch of Cajun to the salsa. It’s all absolutely delicious. Dig in.”

  “Looks wonderful,” Sam commented. Adam and Jem were already making up plates of food. When she finished with her own, she discovered that the seat next to Jim Santino was open. He smiled when she joined him, tossing his hair back.

  She smiled in return. Once upon a time, Jim had seemed cute. Sweet. Now she felt her skin crawling—just a little bit. Did she believe that the sins of the fathers were visited upon the sons? No.

  But then again, she didn’t completely trust him anymore, either.

  “You look lovely, Sam,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Different, somehow.”

  “Oh?”

  “Flushed, vibrant,” Jim said.

  “Well-served,” Sukee drawled from across the table.

  Sam’s eyes flew to the other woman, who smiled with all the cunning grace of a feline. Sam willed herself not to flush. Sukee had just been waiting for her to give herself away.

  And now, everyone was staring at Sukee—and at her.

  Jerry North stared at Sam with thoughtful, light blue eyes. She lowered them when Sam glanced her way.

  It might have gone on forever, but Sam found herself with reason to be grateful to Jim Santino. He stood up, excusing himself. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. O’Connor. Very lucky. Sam, the food is delicious tonight. Everything on this island just gets better and better. Can I bring anyone anything?”

  “Why is Mr. O’Connor a lucky man, Mom?” Brad asked Judy Walker.

  “Lucky to be here,” Adam said matter-of-factly. “Is that a water pitcher? Could someone pass it to me, please?”

  Jim delivered the water pitcher as he started to the buffet table. “Amazing, though,” Jim said, smiling as he filled his plate from the buffet. He started to the table. “I think you’ve both been holding out on us. Tell me, O’Connor. You already knew Miss Carlyle when you got here, didn’t you? From some kind of previous life?”

  Adam set down his water.

  “I can answer that,” Avery Smith said quietly. “Yes, Mr. Santino. They’d met before. Mr. O’Connor used to be a policeman. He was here undercover. I imagine that’s why neither one of them acknowledged the previous relationship. Miss Carlyle is the most discreet hostess. She’d keep her guests’ secrets right to her dying day, if necessary. Right, Miss Carlyle?”

  Sam stared at Avery Smith, alias James Jay Astin. Was he threatening her? Warning her to keep quiet about his identity?

  “I’ve always imagined that if people want others to know something about them, they’ll share it themselves in their own good time,” she said pleasantly.

  Smith smiled. At one time he must have been a very handsome man. He still had quite a look about him. Completely distinguished. Confident.

  Evil?

  “You know what?” Brad said, ignoring the grown-ups and addressing Sam. “I started reading about sharks today. Sam, th
ey can be bad, really bad.”

  Sam frowned, hesitating. “Brad, I never said that sharks never harmed people. What I said was that they hardly ever harm divers. And I don’t think they’re evil—they’re just eternally hungry, and sometimes they bite the wrong food.”

  “There was this really awful thing that happened during World War Two,” Brad said. “A ship sank—”

  “The Indianapolis,” Adam volunteered.

  “You know the story!” Brad said, pleased.

  “The ship had delivered one of the components of the atom bomb to Tianian Island, in the Marianas, when it was spotted by a Japanese submarine. The Indianapolis was torpedoed right after midnight, and it sank within twelve minutes. I’m not sure how many men had originally been on board—”

  “One thousand one hundred and ninety-nine,” Smith supplied. “Eight hundred and fifty escaped into the sea—the others were killed in the explosions or trapped inside the ship as it sank.”

  “What happened to the men in the water?” Sukee asked.

  Adam shrugged, his eyes meeting Sam’s. “During the first night, perhaps another hundred men drowned or perished from their injuries. The next morning they began to worry about sharks. They saw a little four-footer who had adopted them, or so it seemed. The men were mostly wearing life jackets and clinging to what they call floater nets. They knew they’d be best off to stay in large groups, so they did. They came up with a nickname for the shark that kept hovering around them. They called him Whitey. But Whitey was just a hint of the trouble to come. The men were in the water for four days and five nights, praying for rescue. Then the sharks really began to come. They picked off the men who had strayed from their groups. They went for the sick and the injured. There were all different kinds. Makos, whites, tigers—all attacking from below. When they were finally rescued, there were only three hundred and sixteen men remaining alive.”

  “Oh, man, you’ve got to read about it!” Brad said. “One guy thought his friend was sleeping and went to wake him up, only to find that the whole bottom half of the guy’s body was gone. And they said that the more blood that was in the water, the more sharks that came—”

  He was interrupted as Jerry North suddenly knocked over a dish of salsa.

  The red sauce spread quickly across the table.

  “Really, Brad, you’re a great storyteller,” Jerry murmured, “but perhaps this isn’t the best time.”