Celia whirled away from him and covered her face with her hands, desperate to hide her face from him because she’d somehow lost the ability to control it. Lost the ability to keep all the powerful and confusing things she was feeling from showing there. Joy. Something overwhelming that felt like grief.
He loved her. And she loved him. What a lovely fantasy it was…a beautiful story! It would make a terrific movie, wouldn’t it? It would have a happy ending, of course-a “happily ever after” ending, as all good love stories do.
Except this wasn’t a story, it was life. Her life. And nobody knew better than she did that things didn’t always work out that way in life. This…whatever it was she and Roy were involved in together…would end. He’d go on to his next undercover operation, she’d go on to her next role, and no doubt fall in love with her next leading man.
But I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to move on! I want this…just this. I want him…Roy…forever.
She wanted very much to cry, but since she wouldn’t do that-she’d die, first-she whirled back to Doc and said snappishly, “That’s no excuse. All the more reason he should understand how I feel.”
“Yes, he should,” Doc said softly, “but as I said, love is blind.” He smiled his ironic smile and lit another cigarette.
All things considered, during the next few days Roy decided it was just as well Celia wasn’t speaking to him. Solved the problem of his wanting to take her to bed every time he got near her-or anyway, it prevented the taking. Definitely not the wanting.
At least, it made it a whole lot easier to keep his mind on what lay ahead of them.
And a whole lot harder to sleep at night.
During the day, he spent most of his time with Max, going over diagrams and blueprints, familiarizing himself with every inch of the yacht Bibi Lilith. Committing photos of known terrorists to memory, in case any of them turned up as members of the Bibi Lilith’s crew. Learning how to operate the various instruments they’d be taking on board the yacht with them.
“Speaking of which,” he said to Max during one of their joint briefings, “how are we getting this stuff on board? I can’t imagine they’ll be searching everybody’s luggage, but I’d hate to stake my life on it.”
“Won’t have to. We’re having some special luggage put together for you-complete with secret compartments, well shielded…should stand up to all but the most sophisticated sweepers. That’ll hold the laptop and other big stuff.”
“Weapons?” Max looked at him. He could feel Celia’s eyes on him, too, and he knew she’d be remembering what he’d said to her. We don’t kill people. He rubbed absently at his healing ribs and felt a chill go through him. “Just in case.”
“Sure,” Max said. “By all means. Okay. So, the small stuff, things you’re gonna want to keep with you at all times-bugs, GPS tracking devices, chemical, biological and radiation sensors, things like that-they’ll go in this.” He held up a woman’s leather handbag. “Celia, I’m assuming this’ll be your responsibility…” He held it out to her with a smile.
Roy shook his head and held up a hand. “Uh-uh. She doesn’t carry a pocketbook.”
“I do now,” Celia said as she took the purse, giving him an offended look before she began to inspect it inside and out with avid curiosity.
And a funny thing happened to Roy as he watched her, listening with somber attention to Max as he explained the various hidden compartments and bells and whistles in the custom-made bag. He felt most of his anger, and at least part of his fear, evaporate, and a more than grudging admiration for her come to take its place.
She means it, he thought. This isn’t a game to her, any more than it is to me. And she’s good at it. Damn good.
He was still afraid for her safety, of course. He was always gonna be that. Terrified. But at least he didn’t have to be afraid of having her as his backup. Fact was, she was good. She’d be okay.
He just hoped he’d be able to say the same for himself.
Evidently, Max had the same doubts, because after the briefing, when Roy walked with him out to his car, he dragged off his sunglasses, gave him a piercing look and asked, with a little motion of his head back toward the house, “How you doing? You gonna be okay with this?”
Roy dug his hands into his pockets and dragged in a breath. “Oh, sure. Hell, yes.”
Not looking much reassured by that response, Max said, “She’s gonna be fine, you know. She’ll do okay.”
“I know.” But he couldn’t keep some of the worry he felt from showing; Max knew him too well.
With his car door open, Max hesitated, squinting against the lowering sun. “Look-all you need to do is find us something-you know that. Anything that’ll give us a reason to move in. That’s all. No unnecessary chances, nobody needs to get hurt.”
“I know.”
Max nodded, got into his car and slammed the door. Roy stood where he was, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and watched him drive away.
Celia was on the upper starboard deck of the yacht Bibi Lilith, stretched out on one of the Balinese sunning beds-though “sunning” was hardly the right term, given that she was wearing slacks and a sweater, with a scarf wrapped around her head, a cashmere jacket buttoned to her chin and a lap robe covering her bottom half, from waist to ankles, against a biting December wind.
She was pretending to read, although a considerable amount of time had passed since she’d last turned a page of the book in her lap. Behind the cover of sunglasses, her eyes kept darting nervously toward the boat’s stern. It was from there that Roy, according to their arrangement, was to come to join her, once Abby had finished showing him around the “backstairs” part of the yacht.
He and Celia had both been given a grand tour of the yacht’s guest amenities shortly after boarding, of course. Then, using the pretext Celia had already planted for him-that he was planning to buy such a yacht for himself-Roy had asked to see the engine and control rooms, kitchens, crew’s quarters, storage holds and the like. Abby had seemed delighted to show off his new toy. Even better, several of the other guests-all male-had asked to be included, as well, which nicely diverted any undue attention from Roy.
There was absolutely no reason for Celia to feel nervous and apprehensive because he was fifteen minutes late joining her. But she did. Tension skated over her skin, crawled through her scalp and gripped the back of her neck like teeth. She told herself he was in no danger-how could he be? It was broad daylight, they were on board the sleek and beautiful yacht Bibi Lilith, cruising toward Mexico on a sparkling sunny sea, and on board with them were fifty or so other people, nearly all of them world-famous for one reason or another. What could happen to them here?
But she felt the danger. Felt it all around her.
I’m afraid. I wish I weren’t, but I am.
It was her damned imagination, she supposed. It insisted on showing her not a sunny December afternoon, but the dead of a moonless night and the yacht ploughing purposefully through a dark and lonely sea. And on board, one man, unarmed and all but naked, fighting to stay alive against impossible odds…
A powerful sense of awe and pride and love thumped her in the chest, and she thought: I must not let him see I’m afraid. I can’t…won’t let him down…
It was then, with those thoughts in her mind and awash in the attendant devastating emotions, that she looked up and saw their cause coming toward her…slim and elegant in blazer and slacks…sun glancing like sparks off the silver in his hair. Her breathing grew shallow and quick with desire…as it always did when she saw him dressed up in beautifully cut clothes. She thought: He should have been a movie star. In Hollywood’s golden age…my parents’ time. He’d have been a natural.
Oh, how she wished she could let him know how she felt. Wished she could let her desire for him show in her eyes…say flattering, seductive things to him with a smile on her lips and the promise of sex in her voice. If Doc was right about him being in love with her… Oh, but how
could he be, when he only looked at her with coldness? With such an impassive expression and unreadable eyes?
And even if Doc was right…this wasn’t the time or the place for it-for love or sex. Or promises.
“You’re late,” she said and casually turned a page.
“Some of the other members of the tour had questions,” Roy said. Still mad, he thought as he gazed down at tiny twin images of himself reflected in her sunglasses. Just as well.
And if it was just as well, why was it beginning to irritate him so much? What had he done that was so awful? Just tried to keep her out of a situation that could get her killed, was all, and this was the thanks he got? Well, hell.
A white-jacketed waiter came by, offering glasses of champagne on a tray. Roy shook his head, and Celia waved the waiter away with her most charming smile.
Roy waited until both the waiter and Celia’s smile had gone, then said in an icy undertone, “You think you could try a little harder to pretend to be nice to me? I thought we’re supposed to be this…loving couple. What the hell are these people gonna think?”
“They’ll think we’re having a lovers’ quarrel, of course,” Celia said without looking up from the book she was reading. “I suspect next week’s tabloids will be full of the news of our impending breakup.” She flashed the twin mirrors at him again. “The timing should be just about perfect, shouldn’t it? Assuming this cruise goes the way we hope.”
She closed the book, keeping her finger between the pages to mark her place. “Speaking of which…did you turn up anything?”
He let out a breath as he sat on the couch…or bed, or chaise longue, or whatever…next to hers. “Nothing. Far as I can tell with these things, the damn boat’s clean.”
He leaned over and opened the handbag that was sitting on the deck beside her bed, carefully unfastened the strap that had held the palm-size instrument in place above his wrist, hidden under the sleeve of his jacket, and returned it to its concealed compartment in the handbag. Then, for the benefit of anyone who might have been watching, he took out a tube of sunscreen.
“What’s that for?” Celia asked, watching warily as he squeezed a small dollop of cream into the palm of his hand.
“Just in case we’re being monitored. Take off your glasses.” He waited, silent and dispassionate, for her to comply with his order, then dipped the tip of his index finger into the cream, leaned over and, ignoring her startled flinch, smeared it in a line down the ridge of her nose.
What the hell. He could deliver the cold shoulder as well as the next guy, if that was the way she wanted it.
Only trouble was, there wasn’t any part of him, including his shoulders, feeling cold just then. His heart was an engine bent on pumping heat into the farthest reaches of his body; sweat beaded on his forehead, pooled under his arms and trickled down his ribs. His skin felt feverish, as if he were the one who’d been too long in the sun.
He kept his eyes focused on what his fingers were doing and tried not to let himself think about what her eyes might be telling him. He couldn’t think of anything that could possibly be written in those incredible baby blues of hers that wasn’t going to make him feel worse than he already did.
Slowly, he wiped the slippery sunscreen all over her nose, then smeared some onto her cheeks…smoothed out the watermark frown in the middle of her forehead…massaged what was left in his palm over her chin and throat. And while he was doing all that he was remembering the way he’d felt when she’d done almost the same thing to him, that day in her kitchen with Max looking on. He wondered whether she felt the same way he had then-angry, helpless, half-suffocated with arousal.
He could only hope so, dammit. Serve her right.
“Don’t get burned,” he said as he rose, rubbing his hands together.
She calmly lifted her sunglasses, slipped them on and opened her book. “I don’t intend to,” she replied softly.
Had to have the last word, did she? After the briefest of hesitations, he decided to let her have it.
As the day wore on and the Bibi Lilith churned steadily toward Mexican waters, Roy resigned himself to a return to the role he’d grown accustomed to playing during the past weeks: that of R. J. Cassidy, Canadian billionaire and consort of Hollywood royal, Celia Cross. Whether in the lounge, the dining salon, or gathered around the hot tub on the yacht’s stern deck, his place was on the fringes of the crowd, where he lounged casually, sipped Mexican beer and watched Celia charm and entrance…keeping his own expression indulgent, perhaps just a bit sardonic.
Always when he did that, while he watched her and marveled at her beauty, her charm, her grace, he felt a sadness come over him and heaviness settle around his heart. How perfectly she fits that world, he thought. How easily she blends into it, how comfortable she is with all those wealthy, talented, famous and beautiful people.
And why not? They were her people. It was her world; she was born into it, had never known any other. She belonged to it.
He didn’t. And never would. It was that simple.
At that moment, as if she’d felt his eyes, or maybe the intensity of his thoughts, in the midst of a laughing conversation, Celia happened to look up and lock eyes with him across the crowded, noisy lounge. As her smile slowly faded, Roy lifted his beer bottle toward her in an ironic little salute.
He would have drained the rest of it then, but his throat ached too much to swallow.
Chapter 16
The next time Celia looked up, Roy had gone.
Disappointment slammed into her, and for the first time she understood what it meant to feel “crushed.” She felt flat and deflated, like a beach ball run over by a truck, all the air and bounce and joy gone out of her.
As soon as she reasonably could, she excused herself and, carrying her champagne glass and remembering at the last moment to take her new and unfamiliar handbag with her, slipped out of the lounge and went to look for him. Music followed her as she went from deck to deck, all brightly lit and party-festive, and she raised her glass and smiled at the people she met, standing, strolling or sitting in pairs or small groups, murmuring and laughing together.
She’d never felt so isolated…so alienated. So lonely.
Roy, where are you? I miss you. I need you.
Unable to bear the thought of rejoining the noisy crowd in the lounge, she decided to go back to her stateroom. Then her stomach clenched, and she thought, No, not mine. Ours. And how, she wondered, are we going to share a room tonight? A bed?
Pain caught at her throat and shuddered through her chest. Pain and regret and longing. This could have been so different…so wonderful. It should be wonderful, shouldn’t it? Love? Why does it have to hurt so much?
She inserted her card key into its slot and opened the door-and checked, cold and tingling, as if she’d touched live electric wires. Roy was standing in front of the dressing table, struggling with his ascot. His eyes, blue and glaring, glanced off the mirror and collided with hers.
For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then Celia was floating toward him, unaware of heartbeat or breath, the carpeted floor unfelt beneath her feet.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Here, let me help you with that,” she said. Her voice sounded sharp and bright in her ears, like the tinkle of wind chimes. She lifted her hands to the front of his shirt.
He made a sharp hissing sound, and his hands closed around her wrists. He stared down at her and his eyes seemed to smolder behind the blue contacts. “Don’t need your help.”
She stared back, unflinching. “Yes, you do.”
It was a standoff that could only end one way, given the circumstances. The moment and the tension stretched until they couldn’t anymore, until, with a harsh sound that was either anguish or anger-perhaps both-Roy lowered his mouth to hers.
There was violence and frustration, hunger and despair in the way he kissed her…in the way he crushed her to him…in the way she kissed him back-her hands clawed at his shoulders and clung to t
he back of his neck. Mouths opened…devoured. Teeth nipped and clashed…tongues dueled rather than mated. Breaths came in pants and whimpers, a primitive combat in which no words were spoken.
Undressing was a battle fought without regard for collateral damage, either to flesh or fabric. Fingers raked, buttons popped, seams ripped and in the end, the tattered remnants of the evening’s costumes lay strewn across the field of conflict like so many casualties of war. And even when they were both naked, the struggle continued. Hair was gathered and clutched in greedy handfuls. Teeth bruised and nails raked in ways that would leave marks for days to come but in those frantic moments went unnoticed.
He pushed her or she pulled him-impossible to tell-so that she tumbled backward onto the bed and he followed her down, and they wound up as one, already intertwined and straining to somehow get closer to each other yet, to crawl inside each other’s skin, if that were only possible. Panting, she made a place for him and her legs wrapped around him. She cried out as he plunged into her; her body arched and opened to him, urging him deeper…deeper. Clutching his shoulders with all her strength, she lifted herself to meet his mouth with a mindless, demanding hunger.
She had no awareness, no thought in her mind; she existed in a black void of need, of instinct that predated thought and overrode awareness. Wars could have raged all around her and she wouldn’t have cared; she cared only for the war within.
And war it was, although she couldn’t have defined the causes or combatants if her life had depended on it. She knew only that it was violent and devastating and terrible; when the explosions had ceased, she lay for a time, as survivors of wars do, in dazed stillness, before realization finally hit her and she covered her face with her hands and wept.
As she sobbed, she felt Roy’s arms folding warmly and gently around her, a hand stroking her hair, lips brushing wordless whispers across her forehead. She turned her face into the warm darkness below his ear and, shuddering, curled herself toward his hard, sinewy body, wishing she could somehow melt into it and simply…vanish. Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable…so utterly and completely exposed.
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