by Cherry Adair
The rain poured down in a torrent, and she licked her lips. The water was sweet and fresh, washing away the crust of salt. Looking up to the black sky, she let the water sluice over her face and tripped over a large dead tree limb. Marc used her own momentum to keep hauling her on. She glanced around curiously. It was pretty hard to see anything in the dark. The ocean gave off a faint phosphorescence and all she could see was gray beach stretching out in front of them. Up ahead was the solid outline of a cliff.
She tugged on his hand and he stopped. Tory could just make out a feral gleam in his eyes. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to climb that cliff. Because I’ve got to tell you—”
Afraid that he’d yell that she was slowing him down, but terrified of heights, Tory was a little relieved when she caught the faint flicker of his smile. “We’re checking into the Hotel Grotta Zaffiro.”
“Oh, please,” Tory said fervently to his turned back, “don’t be joking.” He tugged her hand, leading her to the base of the cliffs. It was rockier here and her bare feet came into contact with hard stone instead of hard-packed sand.
“In twenty minutes you’ll be up to your pretty neck in hot water,” he promised.
Tory grinned. It sounded like heaven and gave her a new burst of energy as she scrabbled over a big boulder.
They seemed to be climbing, but it wasn’t straight up. Piles of large rocks, some worn smooth by the waves, others harsh and porous, littered the base of the cliffs and they had to pick their way carefully in the dark. That hot bath was her sole focus.
Surely they would have to find a road soon? The rain had stopped and the sky had lightened to pewter as they climbed. Marc hadn’t said a word for ages. He turned to help her up.
She was out of breath and panting as she dropped her hand to her knee and hung her head, gulping for air. Her hair pooled on the rocky ground in wet, curling skeins. When she straightened, Marc was grinning.
“What?”
“You look like Medusa.” He laughed softly as she gave a horrified gasp, her fingers going to her snarled and tangled hair. Taking her hand he pulled her after him. “Actually, all things considered, you look damn good. Come on, princess, your bath is waiting.”
“I hope this hotel is at least a two-star—Oh, Marc, no.” Disappointment rocked her back on her heels as she realized what he’d done. “Please, tell me we aren’t going into a cave.”
“We aren’t going into a cave,” he said agreeably, his fingers tightening on hers as he pulled her toward a small hole in the face of the cliff.
She saw the narrow beam of light pool at his bare feet as he turned on a flashlight, angling it so that she could find her footing behind him. It took a moment for Tory’s eyes to adjust.
“You rat, you said I’d have a hot bath.” She followed behind him closely, looking anxiously about the narrow cavern. “And room service. There’d better not be any bats in here.”
“No bats.”
The cave smelled damp and unpleasant, but that was par for this course, Tory thought crossly. Trust him to promise a hot bath just to get her moving. They walked straight ahead for a while, then turned a corner and went straight again. They continued down a slope, walking for what felt like at least another mile.
She stumbled over a protruding rock, stubbing her toe, and then had to scurry behind him as he forged ahead. “Marc,” she called, taking his hand gratefully when he stopped to wait for her.
“Okay?” His voice bounced off the narrow walls, his fingers warm as they closed more tightly over hers and he moved forward again.
“Oh, I’m just peachy.” Tory lowered her voice as she heard how nervous she sounded in the echo. “Considering that the man I’ve trusted with my life is leading me through a cave, after lying to me about a hotel. What happens if this path runs out and there’s nothing up ahead?”
“If I fall down a black hole, just let go of my hand. Someone’s sure to rescue you if you go back down to the beach.”
Tory’s footsteps slowed at the thought that they might end up at the bottom of some deep dark hole, never to be heard from again. She shivered in her wet clothes, holding on to his hand like a lifeline. Could she let go, as he’d instructed?
Probably not, she thought, moving close enough to his back to feel the heat of his body.
The thin beam of the flashlight illuminated only a few feet in front of him. The cramped walls of the cave closed in around her, the rough surface of the rock snagging on her sweater.
After a minute or two Marc said into the silence, “I’ve been here before. There are no holes to fall into, I was joking. Don’t worry.”
Easy for him to say. Tory stuck as close as she could without tripping them both. Her bare feet hurt, as did a hundred other spots on her poor, unheroic body.
She bit her lip as they were suddenly plunged into darkness when Marc clicked off the light and stopped. “Close your eyes.”
Tory was only too glad to comply. The darkness was oppressive. “Now what?”
“Trust me.”
An inner voice laughed at that. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.” She could hear the smile in his voice as he urged her on. “Keep ’em shut. You’re going to like this.”
Tory kept her eyes closed but she muttered grimly under her breath, “If it’s going to be another scenario where you’re the hero and I’m the shivering coward—”
“Open your eyes, princess.”
Slowly Tory slitted her eyes open, then stared with eyes and mouth wide. “Marc…”
They were standing in an enormous cavern. The ceiling was a hundred feet or more above their heads. The entire area was filled with a shimmering iridescent turquoise light that made everything look somewhat unreal. In the center of the giant natural auditorium lay a placid lake. Mist floated above its surface and draped over the lush emerald ground cover and ferns at the water’s edge. “Oh, Marc.” She was utterly speechless. She’d never seen anything quite so beautiful in her life.
“Grotta Zaffiro,” he murmured reverently. “The Sapphire Grotto.”
He got just as much enjoyment from watching her expressive face as he did from the grotto and the thought of…Tory shivered and he cursed under his breath. She was exhausted, and her broken arm must hurt like hell. He’d dragged her halfway around the world and tossed her into a stormy sea. She needed food, warmth and rest.
“You can take in the sights later.” Marc propelled her toward the back of the cavern. “Let’s find a relatively safe place to bed down and then you can take that hot bath.”
“I thought you were just joking about that too, an inducement to get me here.”
Marc heard the exhausted slur of her words and kept a steadying hand on her arm. “There’s a hot mineral-spring pool about three hundred yards from here.” His own body felt heavy from exertion, and he was in good shape. But it had been almost three years since he’d been on an op or done anything quite this physical. For all her protestations of being a coward, she’d done amazingly well. But now her face was colorless and her lips tinged with blue.
Stopping abruptly, Marc let her sink to the sandy floor. “Rest here for a moment while I go and check out our room.”
She immediately curled into a ball and closed her eyes. “’K. Call me when room service gets here….”
CHAPTER FOUR
MARC SCOUTED the enormous cave for a safe place to bed down. Marezzo hadn’t had many tourists since becoming the playground of terrorists four or five years ago. Still, he didn’t want to take unnecessary risks in case some adventurous resident decided to bring guests to see the natural springs and grandeur of the grotto.
In his job, not taking the extra minute or two could be life or death—and if there was gonna be any dying, Marc thought it wasn’t going to be him.
There was only one entrance—the one facing the sea in the limestone cliffs. The faint odor of sulfur assaulted his nose as he came across the small pool of steaming water. The underground spring that
fed it was several hundred feet away, so the water was pleasantly hot and the smell of sulfur not too overpowering.
That hot water was going to do them both a world of good, once he’d found somewhere to stash their things.
The small space he was looking for was well hidden by a sixty-foot wall of solid limestone—a natural room of about a hundred square feet, tucked away and undetectable. Dropping his supplies on the sandy floor, he began making a rough camp. Setting up a small propane stove, he poured bottled water into a tin pot and set it to boil before going back for his reluctant partner.
She was exactly as he’d left her—curled into a small ball, wet hair trailing in the sand.
“Room service.”
She was out like a light. Briefly he debated waking her so that she could take a hot bath and change into dry clothes. But she needed sleep now more than creature comforts. Picking her up, Marc made his way back to their “room.” She didn’t move so much as an eyelash.
Stripping naked out of his soaked clothes, Marc turned down the flame on the stove and then dried off with the clean T-shirt he retrieved from his pack.
Digging a depression in the sand, he laid down a foil survival blanket and turned to Victoria. Her mouth was slightly open. She’d be pissed if she knew she snored. Gathering her hair in both hands, he squeezed out as much saltwater as he could. Pausing with his fingers in her hair, he took stock of what the hell he was doing. Suddenly he was coldly furious with himself, realizing that somehow she’d managed to bring out a new and unfamiliar tenderness in him. In his line of work it was dangerous to be distracted.
She was trouble with a capital T. He didn’t need to know her to realize that the very correct Miss Victoria Jones was going to be a pain in the butt. That almost kiss on Angelo’s fishing tub was a surefire indication that he was slipping.
She wasn’t his type. She was the kind of woman who wore her blouse buttoned to the throat, using her clothing as armor. He liked to see a woman look like a woman. Slinky clothes and FM heels. He’d always preferred women who knew the score and accepted a one-night stand. Quick, satisfying sex with no commitment. That used to be his style.
Perhaps the fact that he’d been celibate for more than three years had something to do with this newfound touchy-feely shit. Impatient with the way his thoughts were going, he pulled off her wet jeans. Her flesh was cool to the touch. And bruised. Very bruised.
Marc leaned back on his heels, frowning. What in the hell was this? His eyes quickly cataloged the dark splotches on her smooth skin. The marks were purple and ugly. He swore viciously under his breath. The bruising was not random. It was precise and systematic. And had probably occurred less than a month ago.
A mugging at the airport? And he’d almost believed that story? Jesus. He really had been away from the business for too fucking long.
Stripping off the waterlogged sweater, he checked out the rest of her body. Most of the marks were contained between her shoulders and knees. But there was no doubt that Victoria’s injuries had been inflicted by a professional. A brutal expert who’d hit all the right places—ribs, kidneys, spleen—little chance of death, maximum infliction of pain. Spider?
Didn’t make a whole helluva lot of sense. Spider didn’t dick around. If they wanted to hurt her, she’d be dead. But if not Spider, who? He couldn’t imagine this woman had many enemies. Unless it was the fashion police.
He frowned as he used a T-shirt to dry her face. The bruise on her forehead had already started to fade to a sickly yellow.
The fact that she slept through his touching her indicated just how exhausted she was. If she woke up now, she would probably bring the roof down. He trailed the warm cloth over her damp skin and couldn’t tear his eyes away from her small, full, perfect breasts.
Her pale nipples peeked through the soft fabric of her bra, and he immediately decided that she was dry enough. Marc carried her to the makeshift bed several hundred yards away. She was so deeply asleep she didn’t stir when he pulled a clean, dry T-shirt over her head. Covering her with another blanket, Marc first checked that the plastic had kept the cast dry and was relieved to see only a little moisture had seeped in the top. When he was sure she was as comfortable as he could make her, he grabbed a small bar of soap from the pack and went to the hot spring, where he sank up to his neck in the steaming water.
TORY AWOKE FROM A DREAM with a start, her heart pounding with terror as she sat up. But not her dream. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Alex, oh, Alex, where are you? We’re here. We’ll find you. Just tell me where you are.
The only sound in her head was that of her pounding heart. She tried to open her mind and concentrate, but thoughts kept crowding in and she was aware of nothing but her own fear.
Frustrated, she opened her eyes to an eerie blue glow, then inhaled the mouthwatering smell of stew. Her stomach growled. At least there was one body part that was in working order.
She felt a violent surge of panic when she realized she was alone. She glanced at the gently simmering pot at the entrance to the room. Marc couldn’t have gone far if he’d left something cooking. Scrambling out of the warm cocoon of blankets, Tory realized she was wearing a knee-length black T-shirt. Her entire body blushed at the thought of Marc undressing her. Finding his backpack, she took out clean underwear and dry jeans. Normal activities took twice as long because of her sore ribs and the blasted cast.
With some contortions, she managed to pull on the jeans under the shirt. More comfortable now that she was decently covered, Tory prowled around the camp. She saw signs that Marc had dug himself in for the long haul. A large inflatable water bottle was filled and propped against the back wall next to what looked like a radio. He’d used a ledge in the rock face as a shelf for other supplies. Absently, she folded the wet clothes he’d tossed in the sand, making a mental note to rinse them somehow. The bed he’d fashioned was for two. If he’d slept there with her she didn’t remember it. The last rational thought she’d had was how incredibly lovely the cavern was.
She was dying to venture out and have another good look at the beautiful expanse of freshwater, and maybe, definitely, bathe. Her hair was stiff with salt and sand.
The savory smell of the reconstituted stew drew her to the pot. It looked as good as it smelled, activating her salivary glands and making her stomach rumble. Tory couldn’t wait. For all she knew, Marc would be gone for hours. She picked up one of the forks and stabbed it into a piece of the meat.
She made herself stop eating when she realized she’d finished half the stew while crouching down beside the little propane stove. She hadn’t even bothered to ladle it onto a plate. Obviously, adventure was turning her into a savage.
There wasn’t much to do other than fold the top thermal blanket. After that was done, Tory laid it with perfect precision on the end of the “bed.” She didn’t want to think of lying there with Marc Savin for who-knew-how-many hours, wearing nothing but his shirt. She settled herself against the cool rock to wait for him. Glancing at the time, she saw without surprise that her watch had stopped. Ruined due to the long swim.
When she heard something on the other side of the rock wall she froze, then quickly scooted on her bottom into the back where the shadows were deeper.
Fool. The first thing she should have done when she woke was find some kind of weapon in that black bag of his. There was another scraping sound from the other side of the rock. Her eyes darted to the pack sitting uselessly next to the water bottle five feet away.
Someone was out there, and the smell of food would bring them right to her. Her hands started to sweat as she heard the sound of a heavy tread dragging across the sand-strewn rocks out of sight. There was a pause, then the footsteps came closer.
Tory inched against the wall toward Marc’s black pack. It was probably full of all sorts of violent things. It didn’t matter that she would have no idea how to use whatever she found. Hopefully, it was something big and dangerous looking. Keeping her eyes firmly fixe
d into the light, she reached out, her fingers touching the thin plastic skin of the pack. Holding her breath, she felt for the catch and flipped open the top. The metal ring clinked against stone. Her blood froze as the footsteps beyond her vision paused and then kept coming.
She felt something soft and pushed it impatiently aside as her hand rummaged again. Her fingers encountered something hard this time. Hard and cold and mercifully heavy.
She knew it was some sort of gun. But since she had no idea where to even begin to fire it, she figured it would make a better club. Almost suffocating on her own fear, she forced herself to take nice deep breaths as she hefted the weight in her left hand and raised it over her head.
“I hope to hell you know what to do with that thing.” Marc Savin’s words cut into her terror and her arm dropped. “Usually you shoot with it, but I suppose an exception can be made in your case.” He looked like a modern-day pirate in his dark pants and shirt, his black hair loose and skimming his broad shoulders. He also looked annoyingly clean and alert, while she felt rumpled, out of sorts and limp as the surge of adrenaline left her system.
Tory glanced down at the nasty-looking gun still clutched in her hand. She was holding it by the barrel. She jerked her hand away, dropping the weapon, and rose to her feet. “You scared me to death! Why didn’t you call out or something?”
Marc poured what was left of the stew onto his plate. “I thought you’d still be sleeping.” He sat down and dug into his meal. “Put the Uzi away and find the coffeepot.” She gaped at him and he added, “Please.”
Digging out the battered pot, she filled it from the water bottle and turned up the flame on the stove. He told her where to find the coffee, then leaned his elbows on his knees.
“How are you feeling?” he asked her.
“Better than I should,” Tory admitted, pouring the ground coffee into the container. When it was ready, she filled the two cups he held, then settled down to sip the hot fragrant brew. “What time is it, anyway?”
