by Cerys du Lys
Since I hadn’t been permitted to look at his face for some time, it had been easy to forget how attractive he was. It seemed wrong to me that such a beautiful face could mask such a cruel heart. His eyes were an unusual pale green, with thick lashes. His mouth was sinfully tempting. Unlike his pants, his shirt was tight, and I could see the ridges of his chest and shoulder muscles beneath it, and even a hint of abs.
“You have a beautiful body,” he said. I’d been thinking the same about him. “Is it really repulsive to show it to me?”
The question startled me. I’d never thought of my body as beautiful. For about two seconds I was pleased by the compliment. Then I remembered that this was all acting, lies and manipulation.
“It’s repulsive to be forced to strip and to parade around in front of you naked, yes. Plus, you let Metin in. You let him look at me.”
“He didn’t see much. But where we’re going tomorrow, there will be lots of unpleasant men looking at you, so get used to the idea.”
My mouth went dry. “You’re not going to drag me around naked on a leash in front of them, are you?”
“Not if you behave yourself. But I want you to keep that image in your mind. Act as if I were dragging you around naked on a leash. I want you to respond instantly to any commands I give you. Basically, I need you remain in a very submissive state of mind.” He added wryly, “If that’s possible.”
“It’s not my fault that the word ‘submission’ is alien to my personality.”
He stroked his thumb over my lips and a flash of heat shot through me. I hadn’t felt much of that today, for which I was grateful. Some women might be turned on by being humiliated and roughly treated by dominant males, but I didn’t think I was one of them. I had felt more pulses of attraction for this man before he’d started ruthlessly training me.
“Look,” he said. “Most of the men we’ll meet tomorrow haven’t seen a woman for weeks. You’re young, pretty, desirable. You’re a stranger, an outsider, a woman they can’t trust. What we are trying to do is reduce the threat factor associated with you. You get that, right?”
“Can’t I just stay on the boat? Hide? Can’t you make sure nobody sees me?” Even as I suggested this, though, I shivered a little. What if he locked me up alone here for hours? I would go mad in such a small, enclosed space.
“We’re going to be there for at least a week, and the boat won’t be secure. Metin and I will have to go ashore. Anyone could investigate the boat, find you, and…” he allowed his voice to trail off.
“Who are these people?”
“Art thieves and antiquities smugglers.” His beautiful mouth twisted. “Unless it’s plain that I can control you, they’re going to demand your blood.” He paused. “Only you and I will know that you’re a free human spirit.”
I bristled, but there was no mockery in his repetition of the words I’d used yesterday. “I don’t want to break you. That’s really not my style.”
“You could have fooled me.”
He said nothing. His expression had closed down again, and his hand had fallen away from my face.
“Tell me about this island we’re going to. Is it your headquarters, your smugglers’ den?”
He moved away from me, and began pacing back and forth across the small cabin. “It’s a barren Aegean island. The Turks claim it as part of Turkey, but there are no settlements there currently. Except for my family, it’s uninhabited.”
“Your family? You mean your cousin?”
“My cousin and my grandfather.” His tone had stiffened. “Granddad’s old now and not in good health, but he’s the despot of Altinyunush Adasi—Golden Dolphin Island. He owns some land there and an old villa that was once a vacation spot for some 20th century tycoon. After an earthquake decimated the island, the place went unoccupied until Granddad turned it into his compound.”
“Your grandfather is a smuggler?” I pictured an aging Bluebeard in a cave full of booty, grinning diabolically as he defied society by raising his sons and grandsons to follow in his piratical footsteps.
“He’s an archaeologist. Have you heard of Sir Avery Lindstrom?”
“Sure. He was one of the great archaeologists of the last century. You don’t meanthat he’s your grandfather?”
“Yeah.”
Holy shit. “Didn’t he die a couple of years ago? I thought he’d been killed in an accident trying to excavate some tombs in South America. There was a cave-in, wasn’t there?” I didn’t follow the careers of all archeologists, but Lindstrom’s story had stuck in my mind because it called up my own terror of being trapped in a dark, airless place.
“He was injured, but he didn’t die. Granddad’s legs are crippled now, but he’s still alive. How much do you know about his work?”
“My mother would know more than I. She’s probably met him. What I remember is that he was interested in the Mycenaean Greeks and the Minoan culture of Crete. Didn’t he write about the excavations at the royal palace of Knossos?”
“Yes.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m surprised you know that. How much archaeology did you study?”
I shrugged. “I’m interested in the history of archaeology. And I learned a lot from hanging out with my mom.”
“Well, like your mother, Granddad is fascinated by the Trojan War. He believes there are still some undiscovered artifacts from the destruction of Troy.”
“Wasn’t the site of Troy fully excavated in the 19th century?”
“It’s not that site he’s interested in. You’ve read Homer, right?”
I nodded.
“Remember the legend of the great storm after the fall of Troy? It resulted in the dispersal of the Greek armada.”
“It took Odysseus another ten years to get home.”
“Right. Our local legend is that one of these ships, complete with its plunder, ran aground on a small Aegean island. No one knew which island, and no one’s ever found the site.” He paused. “Until now.”
“Oh, please. You’re not suggesting—”
“Yes. At least, my grandfather thinks so. He believes that Golden Dolphin is the island.”
“But the legends of Troy are just that—legends. I mean, we know the city existed and all that, but archaeology has never proved that its destruction occurred on the massive scale suggested by Homeric epic. In fact—”
“I know the historical problems involved,” he interrupted. “It’s a dream, of course. But many of the greatest discoveries of archaeology have been inspired by people’s dreams. If Schliemann hadn’t pursued the legends of Troy so ardently, we’d still be thinking it was a fictional city.”
His face had become unusually animated. I blinked at him, recognizing that I was catching a glimpse of the human side of Nicholas Gabriel at last. It made me all the more curious about him. “Are you an archaeologist, too?”
His eyes looked full into mine for a long moment before those golden lashes came down and curtained them off. “I’m a vagabond.”
“Do you own this yacht?”
“No. My friend Max owns it. But I live onboard. I sail around, smuggling art objects, ripping people off, kidnapping women and generally wreaking havoc wherever I go.”
“A vagabond and a pirate.”
“Right,” he said, and sat down on the bed, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning his back against the wall.
“Has your grandfather actually recovered any Trojan artifacts?”
“I don’t think so. But he’s still looking. He closes down the dig for the summer, though. Too many tourist boats sailing around as the weather gets warmer.”
“Why does that matter?”
He just looked at me.
“The dig is illegal? The Turkish government doesn’t know about your grandfather’s theories?”
He nodded. “They would lay claim to the site if they had any idea what we were seeking.”
“If this island is part of Turkey, the excavations belong to the Turkish people.”
> “My grandfather doesn’t see it that way.”
“They intend to suppress the discoveries if they find anything?”
Nick inclined his bronze head.
Wow. Sir Avery was a crooked archaeologist. Who would have thought it?
Schooled by my mother in the ethics of modern archaeology, I had nothing but contempt for the avaricious few who viewed the science as nothing more than a means of unearthing coins, plate, pottery and precious stones. That Sir Avery Lindstrom should be one of these thieves appalled me. “You’re keeping the stolen objects on this island?”
“A few, yes. Until we find buyers. The world is full of wealthy private collectors who are prepared to pay lavishly for genuine antiquities. Nigel takes care of that end of things.”
“And you do the actual stealing. What did Sir Avery give you the book for—robbing your first tomb?”
He looked blank.
“‘Good show! Love, Granddad,’“ I quoted.
He looked over at the bookshelves, and then smiled grimly. “You’ve been busy, I see.”
“I invaded your privacy, yes.” I was angry. For some reason I’d been cherishing the faint hope that despite everything that had happened between us, Nicholas Gabriel wouldn’t turn out to be greedy, immoral and rotten. It was an affront to nature that his beautiful body was so corrupt. “I poked through everything—books, drawers, the lot. Before you locked them all.”
He rolled his eyes, unimpressed with my initiative.
“Why aren’t you angry? I would be if someone searched my room.”
He shrugged. “If I were you, I’d have done the same.”
I turned away, hating him as much for his patience and his tolerance as for his ability to scare me. Nothing about him fit. He was a devil with the face of an angel. He was a pirate with a classical education. It made no sense.
It struck me that for once we had actually had a normal conversation. He had answered my questions and spoken directly, maybe even honestly, about what was going on. He hadn’t snapped at me or ordered me to call him Master even once.
“Why don’t you just let me go?”
“You know too much.”
“You didn’t have to tell me about your grandfather’s criminal excavations.”
“You knew too much as soon as you saw me collecting that statue.” He touched my hair, running a long strand through his fingers. His face was set, his eyes weary. “You could try trusting me.”
“Why the hell would I trust you, after everything you’ve done to me?”
For an instant, I thought he was going to give me a reason, then something altered in the green depths of his eyes and the chance was lost. “We haven’t even done the hard part yet,” he said.
There was something about the way he said it that warned me. Uh oh. Now what?
“I know this sucks for you, but we need to have sex.”
My stomach sank. “Wow. That’s the most romantic proposition I’ve ever gotten. Can I have my cell phone back so I can text about it to my friends?”
“I’m glad I haven’t shattered your sense of humor.” He looked me over—me in my naked glory—more appraisingly than usual. “If we had met in normal circumstances, this might have been different. You’re a bit young for me, but you’re smart and you’re gutsy.”
“I thought you hated gutsy. Obedient and passive seems to be your thing.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’m not having sex with you. Not willingly. If you starve me, strangle me, whip me or tie me to the bed, it’ll be rape, which you said you wouldn’t do. I draw the line at fucking a psycho kidnapping dickwad who makes me strip, kneel, crawl and call him Master.”
I seriously expected retribution for that crack. Instead, he leaned forward until his mouth was poised just over mine. I could feel his warm breath dampening my lips. Heating them. “Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Yes, Ellie. I think you are.” He slipped his fingers into the hair at my nape and held my head still. His eyes gazed into mine, then closed, those thick golden lashes a pale contrast to his suntanned skin. He tilted my head back so my mouth came against his. And then he kissed me.
Chapter 10
Ellie
I struggled. I pushed at his shoulders; I tried to hold him off. He persisted. He held me, let his strength sink into me. Then he deepened the kiss, and I got the feeling I was doomed. His lips crushed mine. For some absurd reason, I yielded. He wasn’t really forcing me, but I stopped fighting him.
I know. There’s no excuse for me. I’m pathetic.
Our mouths melded. They seemed to fit together perfectly. Warm, fragrant, sweet. No, not warm—hot.
I was shivering, but not with fear, when he raised his head and whispered, “You have the sexiest mouth.” He ran his tongue over the moist surface of my lips. The muscles in the pit of my belly convulsed. “This time open it for me.” Holding my head still with both hands in my hair, he took me like the pirate he was, with confidence, authority and passion.
I parted my lips as his sinuous tongue invaded and explored. I met it with mine, shifting as the tips of our tongues touched and rubbed gently against each other. Desire exploded in me, making my nipples swell and my pussy slicken. Fuck! I’d felt an attraction from the moment I had first seen this golden god on the deck of his sailboat. All I could think of now was how much I wanted to tear off his clothes and offer myself to him.
He hadn’t been touching any other part of my body, but now he slid his arms around my waist and pulled me astride him, trapping my hands against his chest while his mouth nuzzled my ear. I was no longer protesting. Not one peep. My body was pressed to his from shoulder to thigh. He rubbed himself to my belly, hard as steel, and proving that there was nothing cold-blooded about this, after all.
I hadn’t been able to tell before if he was aroused by all the kinky shit, but there was absolutely no doubt about it now. His cock felt huge. Magnificent. Tempting. But, dammit, was this the way it was going to happen? Was I going to cave in for a criminal? I hadn’t even put up much of a fight.
“Wait. I really don’t think—”
He stroked his hands down along my sides, then up, pausing with his splayed thumbs just under my breasts. He didn’t touch them, not quite. But his restraint increased my need. Fuck! Between my legs, I was sopping wet for him.
“Ssh,” he said. “Don’t think.”
Unlike some, this was an easy command to obey. In his arms, feeling his blood beating steadily beneath his supple skin, the last thing I wanted to do was think. He kissed me again, demanding and hot, his tongue plunging deep. I responded. While our mouths eagerly assaulted each other, I dipped my fingers into the tangle of gold at his nape; it felt both soft and rough against my fingertips. I pressed rhythmically, like a cat, until he made a low sound of pleasure.
There was something between us. Something relentless, something powerful. Something I’d fantasized about and yearned for, but never actually experienced. Something a little bit cruel.
His fingers closed over my breasts. He rolled one of my nipples between his thumb and his forefinger. He tugged on it. He squeezed. He was being rough now, but I didn’t mind. His face was flushed, his skin damp. I could feel the wild thunder of his heartbeat as my fingers caressed his throat. No cold Greek god now, Nick Gabriel was warm flesh, hot blood. I wanted him.
He pushed me off his lap and laid me down across the bed. Then he knelt over me, straddling my body. The sight of him looming over me excited me so much I had to close my eyes. He touched my breasts again. Gently now. Carefully. With skill. Strong, callused fingers whispering over my soft, sensitive flesh, giving too little, making me arch and seek and strain for more. I flexed my knees, unconsciously parting my legs. Blindly I reached for his shoulders, trying to pull him down atop me.
“Just a second,” he said. “I’ll undress.”
His statement was really a question, I knew. The subtle question sophisticated men ask sophisticated w
omen, expecting to be answered with an eager nod.
But I wasn’t that girl. I wasn’t subtle or sophisticated, and he was my captor. Passion or no passion, he wanted this because it was convenient for him to be fucking his slave. No doubt it would make him look manly in front of his criminal friends.
Why should I subject myself to that? He didn’t know me or care about me. He wouldn’t be tender or kind. He was a smuggler!
“No,” I said, letting my hands fall away from his body. “I can’t.”
He slid down a little and lowered his mouth to my breast. He tongued my nipple. He sucked and nipped the tender flesh there until I writhed and cried out.
He raised his head. “Let me, Ellie.” His voice was low and lazy. “No acting necessary—it’s better this way.”
“No.” I twisted vainly, trying to escape him. “This is all wrong. You’re my captor, my enemy. I shouldn’t be feeling this for you.”
“Ellie—”
“I mean it. This can’t be real. It’s Stockholm syndrome.”
“I don’t give a fuck how you define it.” His voice was rougher now. He slipped one hand between my legs. “You’re wet for me. That’s all the reality I need.”
“Please don’t. I’m saying no.”
His eyes turned very green, and for a moment I thought he was going to insist. I tensed, waiting for him to cross the fragile line between civility and savagery, seduction and rape. It happened all the time, I knew. On lonely roads, in dark hallways, on soft couches after a pleasant first date. It could be a man you knew well and trusted. How much more likely was it to be a pirate who had taken you prisoner at gunpoint.
Nick shifted, pushing up on his strong arms and gazing down at me. He seemed to be trying to figure me out. Then his expression altered, becoming the same cold one with which I was so familiar. There was a cruel twist to his lips. “I promised no rape. But I haven’t forgotten the “psycho kidnapping dickwad’ crack. That was disrespectful and deserves punishment.”
