Tempestuous Eden

by Heather Graham

  She did, realizing as she perched on a hard, fold-up chair just how tired she was. “What’s up?”

  He scratched his head and vaguely grinned. She saw that he was unusually puzzled and serious. “Kate told you about the reporter?”

  “Yes. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no, the usual stuff. I really wanted to talk to you about something else.”

  “Oh?”

  “Were you thinking of going home, Blair?”

  Blair frowned, now puzzled herself. “Well, yes, but not now. I signed up for two years. That’s some months off. Why?”

  “We’re being sent two new recruits,” the doctor said, shaking his head slightly.

  “That’s wonderful!” Blair exclaimed. “You’ve been requesting extra help—”

  “Yes, but never expecting to get it.” He rose from his seat on his bunk and began to pace the hard earth floor. “I was just wondering …” He shrugged and looked directly at her. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  Blair shook her head. Tom Hardy never mentioned the family connections she wished to keep hidden, so she felt she owed him an honest answer. “I’m sure nothing big is up,” she answered truthfully. “I just got a letter the other day.” She smiled ruefully. “And I guarantee you, Dad would have given me dire warnings if there was a possibility of danger. No”—she shook her head again—“the elected government is now firmly in power. There hasn’t been a report of guerrilla action in almost a month.”

  “Ah, well.” He sat again, scratching his brow. “Maybe they’ve just begun to appreciate us a little!”

  “That’s probably it,” Blair agreed, rising with a sheepish grin. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

  He waved a hand to her, picking up his book. “Get on out, Blair. Enjoy your swim.”

  She did. The stream was beautiful. Sheltered by a riot of multicolored foliage, it was a natural haven, running from the slope of a cliff with a bubbling noise that sounded delightfully like laughter. There was even a little place beneath sculpted rocks where the stream flowed off to form a small waterfall.

  Kate was briskly drying herself when Blair appeared with soap in hand. “You won’t believe this,” she warned Blair, “but that water is actually cold.”

  “Good!” Blair laughed. She couldn’t really remember what cold was, but the sensation, when her warm flesh hit the water, was marvelous. Goose bumps now rose on her skin, but she happily ignored them and swam leisurely to the waterfall, twisting her face to receive the cascade. She barely acknowledged Kate’s wave and call of “I’m going back.”

  Nor did she notice that the foliage to the left of the foaming pool fluttered slightly without benefit of a breeze.

  It would have never occurred to her on that late Sunday afternoon that she was being watched.

  He stood in the bushes, motionlessly, his breath a whisper that joined the air, vital yellow eyes the only sign of life within him.

  It was her. She didn’t resemble the picture much at the moment, with her hair a sleek wet mane down her back, but her fine features were unmistakable. And, of course, she had been clothed in the picture. A muscle twitched in his jaw; he didn’t like the role of voyeur. Yet he couldn’t suppress a purely male, purely human appreciation. The photograph had given him no clue that her form was as fine as her face—healthy, tanned, with a wiry strength apparent in long slender arms, longer, shapely legs. Her breasts were high and firm; the narrow expanse of her waist and rounded curve of her hips inviting, just right for a man’s hand.

  Heat suffused through him that had nothing to do with the humid day, and he had to call on reserves of training to keep himself from wiping a new layer of sweat from his jaw. Princess, he reminded himself, efficiently quenching the ache in his loins with the reminder that he despised being where he was, and that it was the fault of her and her little tilted-nose defiance….

  Still, she did create a scene of surrealistic beauty, her form exquisite as she lingered in the cool, clear water, laughing with a melodious sound harmonious to the rush of the stream. Her legs were folded beneath her as she perched upon a boulder beneath the fall and lifted her arms high as if in supplication, stretching with an intoxicating arch of her supple back.

  Damn. It was pathetic to be wishing himself back in the Middle East. This assignment could just be the trigger to an early retirement….

  Eventually she left the stream and he was able to backtrack to his own small encampment. He ate a desultory meal without tasting it, and tried without success to make his lean body comfortable in a sleeping bag.

  Despite the insect nets, he was eaten alive by mosquitos. When he finally slept, he had forgotten all haunting images of the woman in the stream.

  He was too busy cursing her.

  Craig Taylor drove his jeep into the complex of the Hunger Crew unit just as the pink streaks of dawn began to take on a yellow hue. Already there was a bustle of activity; scores of natives were lined up to receive portions of gruel from a massive iron pot.

  His eyes quickly scanned the scene, but he didn’t see Blair Morgan. A slim redhead was spooning up the sticky stuff that looked to be some type of porridge; a young man barely out of his teens was doling out milk to children; a middle-aged woman seemed to be dispensing fruit.

  As the ignition of his jeep sputtered out, Craig saw a frazzled bearded fellow rushing out to meet him with an eager smile upon his face. And once again he silently railed against the powers that be for putting him in this position. The man was ecstatic over the extra help he thought he was receiving.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” The bearded man extended a hand. “I’m Tom Hardy, in charge of this chaos.”

  “Craig. Craig Taylor,” Craig returned, responding to the surprisingly strong and enthusiastic handshake. He grabbed his duffel bag and leaped agilely over the side of the jeep, twisting his features into a facsimile of a light-hearted grin. “Where do I start?”

  “I like that exuberance.” The doctor laughed, assessing the new man. Odd, he didn’t look the type to be here. In spite of his shaggy haircut and casual attire, something about his striking yellow eyes denoted authority. And he was built like steel piping. This was no young idealist out to save the known world. Oh, well, he decided philosophically, people all had their reasons for joining the outlands. He didn’t ask a lot of questions; in his area he could judge a man or woman for themselves and for the fruits of their labor.

  And as he thought of “fruits of labor” his smile increased to a degree that split his shaggy beard. It was going to be nice to have an intelligent and brawny man around. Especially with the supply wagon due in.

  “For now,” the doctor said, not at all ashamed to hide his elation, “you can meet the others. Later … well, I’ll have some heavy work for you. Unloading. Hope you won’t mind being put into action.”

  “Not at all,” Craig said, issuing his lie with remorse. “That’s what I’m here for.” Hell, he’d be happy as a lark to get anything done for the trusting doctor. The man was just as much a pawn as he. More so. Hardy didn’t have the benefit of knowing.

  “Come on along and meet the crew,” Tom invited. “And I’ll get you moved in.”

  Blair heard the arrival of the jeep and assumed that the reporter was arriving. It was time to make herself scarce.

  Pulling her sunhat low over her forehead, she quietly disappeared into a trail behind the tents, becoming immediately swallowed up by the brush. She didn’t need to push far into the jungle, nor did she care to. A little clearing within hearing distance of the compound afforded her shade from the heat and a smooth flat rock to call a chair. She settled down with a handbook to edible jungle foliage, determined to wait it out.

  Blair quickly set aside her book, however, when she heard the arrival of a second jeep. Curiosity overrode caution and she tiptoed back through the sheltering trees.

  The second jeep had brought the reporter—she knew it instantly. The man alighting did not belong in the tropics. He was dressed in
jeans all right, but designer jeans. She could see a multitude of labels even from her distance. He wore a tailored shirt, the long sleeves rolled to his elbow. A pencil was perched behind his ear; his stance was a swagger.

  A budding Cronkite, Blair thought dryly. Her life hadn’t left her overly fond of reporters. Some were responsible professionals, but she had also met those devoid of sensitivity or a sense of responsibility about getting the facts straight.

  Blair listened idly while Dr. Hardy droned on in bored, clipped tones, bluntly refusing to give an opinion on anything that involved the politics of this remote, ravaged country, no matter how the young Cronkite persisted. The interview didn’t last long; Dr. Hardy knew his place in life; he knew what he wanted, what he was doing. No reporter was going to twist anything out of him except the mundane truth—the Hunger Crew had one purpose, and one purpose only: to bring relief to the civil victims of disaster.

  The young reporter was obviously discouraged. Dr. Hardy turned away even before the man had climbed into the jeep. Ready to take the short walk back, Blair suddenly froze instead. Apparently the man had spotted her hair through the trees. Instinct was pulling him out of the jeep again, and in her direction.

  Blinding, bitter memories of the press kept her feet still when she should have been moving. The reporter didn’t know who she was yet, but if he came any closer …

  Her feet had almost begun to move when immobility assailed her again, this time from surprise.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” A deep voice leaped out at the reporter, spinning him in his tracks.

  Blair glanced swiftly from the reporter to the unknown man issuing the curt demand. He was another stranger, a man to fit the voice, so tall that his tawny head would brush the peak of their tents. He wasn’t looking at her, but at the bothersome visitor, his yellow stare a tangible thing that fixed the reporter where he stood. There was a definitive aura of danger to the tall, tawny man, an essence of quiet power that seemed to radiate throughout the compound. Blair could well understand the reporter’s hesitance to take another step.

  Suddenly the stranger looked her way and she met his eyes. A slight smile of understanding twitched the corners of his lips and then he turned his attention back to the reporter, who was saying he’d like to interview a few more members of the crew, particularly the woman disappearing into the jungle.

  Blair listened while the stranger stated firmly that the woman had no desire to be interviewed. There had been something in those topaz eyes that had met her briefly, an empathy that went beyond the timely protection he offered. He was a man she knew instantly that she was going to like, and yet also … fear. His entire bearing was too openly masculine, assured, imposing. His eyes were too knowing.

  She wasn’t sure what was being said anymore, but the stranger gave the reporter a wicked grin, one that didn’t touch his piercing eyes. Blair held back a chuckle as she saw the cool, swaggering reporter—not so cool or swaggering anymore—duck by his brawny adversary and hightail it back to his jeep. The vehicle roared into quick action, coughing and sputtering, ripped into gear, and skidded off into the direction from, whence it had come.

  Yellow eyes flicked at her briefly through the trees and once more met hers. Bemused and compelled, Blair smiled back and began to make her short return trip through the foliage.

  She came to him in the compound and for a moment they both stared at each other, smiling over the reporter’s hasty exit.

  “Ms. Morgan,” the man said with an easy grin.

  For some reason, they both broke into laughter at the same time. Blair offered her hand to him, surprised at the little constriction that circled her heart.

  He wasn’t the handsomest man she had ever come across—his features were far too severe—but he was certainly the most striking. His unusual eyes seemed to exude a fiery power; she was sure no one who had seen his gaze could have ever forgotten it.

  “I’m at the disadvantage,” Blair told him, wryly feeling the unintended double entendre. She was a medium five foot five; the man stood a good head above her. “You know who I am, but”—she grinned bluntly—“but who are you?”

  “Craig Taylor.” He smiled in return. “I was to introduce myself, but I stumbled into your little predicament. I’m one of the new recruits.”

  “Oh,” Blair murmured, shielding puzzled eyes with thick lashes that matched the dark flame of her hair. Like Dr. Hardy, she was thinking that the man simply didn’t fit, although, unlike the reporter, he did know how to dress for a mucky jungle. His jeans were worn, but made of heavy duty, work-weight denim. His shirt was breathable cotton, a standard blue work shirt. Peeking at the ragged hem of his jeans, she saw a commendable pair of sturdy boots.

  “Do I fit the bill?” he asked dryly.

  Blair flushed, and her eyes flew back to his, which were flashing a golden amusement. She had definitely been caught in the act of assessment. “Yes,” she mumbled hastily, then grimaced. “No. Actually,” she told him bluntly, “you look like a cross between Tom Selleck and a leftover from the Haight-Ashbury days.”

  He laughed easily. “I think I’m supposed to thank you for the first, and as to the second—leftover—huh!”

  “Craig!”

  The call came from the doctor’s med tent before Blair could respond.

  “I think I’m being paged. I’ll see you later and you can give me proper thanks.” He grinned with a devastating charm that made his devilish features beguiling. “I did save you from the one fate worse than death—a reporter!”

  Suddenly feeling a little on the defensive, and abruptly aware that the man could be dangerous in a way she hadn’t previously suspected, Blair crossed her arms over her chest and unconsciously adjusted her casual stance to a straighter, more dignified one. “I appreciated your timely arrival.” She frowned. “But I was fully capable of handling the situation myself.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Did she detect a subtle shadowing in those yellow eyes? A dry bitterness in his tone? No, he was still smiling easily.

  “Okay,” he joked, “I exaggerated. Will I see you at dinner?”

  “Around here,” she replied ruefully, “there really isn’t a tremendous choice.”

  “We all eat together, huh?”

  “More or less.”

  Craig rubbed a firm chin hinting of stubble as if he were in deep contemplation. “Save me a seat—or ground space—beside you.”

  Blair smiled, relaxing her guard slightly at the earnestness of his appeal. And admittedly he was intriguingly attractive. She couldn’t deny that her heart fluttered more quickly in his imposing presence, or that her breathing quickened by more than a pace. It had been a long time since she had been so touched by a man, if she had ever experienced such an instant reaction. If she were as smart as she felt herself to be, she would steer clear of him immediately. If this little encounter was stirring long-dormant senses …

  But it would be impossible to really steer clear of anyone in the unit, or so she argued. And despite her fairy-tale marriage and the shattering tragedy, she didn’t consider herself an emotional cripple. He was a fascinating man. She would like to get to know him.

  “Sure,” she murmured, the nonchalance of her comment marred slightly by the warm tint that rose to her cheeks again. “I’ll save you a place.”

  “Thanks,” he grinned, pausing in a lithe movement to add, “and if you tell me what Blair Morgan is doing in this godforsaken place, I’ll tell you why Craig Taylor is here.”

  “Well,” Blair hedged, “we’ll see.”

  “Yes, we will, won’t we?”

  Searing yellow eyes held hers an instant longer, then he waved nonchalantly and his tawny-headed height and breadth strolled away with leisurely assurance.

  Blair stared after him for a moment, pondering her unease. She was terribly attracted to him, alarmingly so. But despite his easy banter, she sensed a tension in him, a powerful energy that simply didn’t jell.

&
nbsp; He was clearly an intelligent man; his eyes absorbed everything they pierced. But he was also starkly physical, a man of action.

  What was he doing in the jungle? Would the stories she received tonight be any more honest than the ones she would tell?

  It was obvious he knew she was Ray Teile’s widow. Why else shield her from a reporter? But he didn’t look like a reporter looking for a scoop himself. Was he showing her a special interest?

  Perhaps he knew of her father?

  The night should, at least, she decided, prove interesting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THAT NIGHT, THOUGH BLAIR did make good on her promise, Craig did not join the group for dinner until most everyone had finished. Odd, Blair thought, for his first night with the crew. But perhaps his work during the day had tired him out. Then there was the change in climate to contend with; the steamy rain forest heat was capable of sapping the strength from even the fittest specimen. Even from Craig Taylor, she thought, smiling to herself. How many nights had she returned to her tent after a long hot day, too exhausted to eat or even talk? Too bone weary to do anything but sleep.

  Though he did sit down beside her, favoring her with a special smile in greeting, Craig talked and joked easily with everyone. He seemed totally relaxed in their company, as if he had been with the crew for months instead of merely hours. He was charming them, Blair noted, just as he had charmed her earlier in the day.

  Instead of joining the others at the fireside after the meal was cleared, Craig was the first to say good night and return to his tent. Blair had expected … Well, what had she really expected? She stretched out wearily on her cot and stared up at the low canvas ceiling of her tent, her eyes just becoming adjusted to the dark. Had she expected to be singled out by this man? To be joined at the fireside and maneuvered into a private conversation? Yes, she had to admit that she’d expected the evening to go that way. Now that it hadn’t happened at all like that, she didn’t know whether she felt relieved or disappointed.