Tempestuous Eden

by Heather Graham

  “Who are you?”

  He shrugged with a brief inclination of broad shoulders. “My name is Craig Taylor. I have only one name, I don’t need an alias, which is more than can be said for you.”

  Blair swallowed, but didn’t flinch. She realized now that he knew who her father was.

  “You can understand why I don’t use my real surname,” she said coldly. “It keeps me away from creatures like you.”

  Did he flinch? She wasn’t sure.

  “I really am sorry, Blair. I wish you hadn’t woken up.”

  “Why?” she charged, straining to fight hysteria. “You are evidently planning to abduct me.” With acid sarcasm she added, “I’m sure I would have noticed at the time.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be this way.”

  “Oh? What way could it have been? Were you going to ask me nicely if you could kidnap me?” Her voice was rising shrilly. That was it. She needed to scream. Could anyone hear her this far?

  “I would have taken you away trusting me—”

  “Trusting you?” The words were a scream. Trust him!

  The yellow eyes held hers. Steady, firm, still ruthless, but still holding that sad regret. “Blair, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She started to laugh. Oh, God! If only he had hurt her. If only he could do something to make this betrayal easier.

  “Who in the hell are you?” she shrieked. “Who are you working for? What government? Are you a torch-waving fanatic? Or a simple mercenary?”

  He took a step toward her. “No, Blair. I—”

  “Don’t!” She put up a hand as if it could ward him off. “Don’t come near me, you despicable creature. You bastard.” She clipped off her expletives like chips of ice.

  Craig’s forbidding jawline took on a hardened twist. “I’m asking you to trust me, Blair.”

  Her answer was quick. “You have to be kidding.”

  “This isn’t what you think.”

  “Then who the hell are you.”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  She smiled, slowly, bitterly, the action never reaching her eyes. “You and your kind are the dregs of society, and you’re asking me to trust you?”

  Something snapped inside Craig, an explosive fury at everyone involved, including himself. He inwardly railed at the old man for having gotten him into this fiasco, himself for having broken the first rule and become personally involved, and her for her blatant condemnation. Christ, she wasn’t giving him an inch. Princess. He had to start thinking of her as that spoiled little bitch who had created this mess in the first place, a do-gooder socialite who needed a good kick in the—

  Who was labeling him everything she could think of in her certainly expansive vocabulary.

  She was speaking, her voice full of loathing, but he blocked out the words. She thought he was some kind of terrorist.

  Damn it! Let her think it! After all they had shared, she couldn’t offer him an iota of trust.

  He leaped forward, the lion pouncing, his fingers digging into her shoulders. “Stop it!” He shook her, quelling her to silence, but drawing no fear. “You can stop right now, Mrs. Teile. You’re right, madam, I’m the goddamned dregs of society, but you’re coming with me, and you’re stuck with me.”

  “The hell I am!” Blair hissed, wondering immediately after if she was a complete fool. He towered over her, his eyes impaled her, biceps strained against the fabric of his shirt and his grip an iron vise. And God, even now, even when she knew she was used, her blood began to race at the nearness of him. No! She tilted back her head and gathered breath for a scream.

  “Don’t!” His word ripped the air. “You little idiot, I don’t want to hurt you!”

  Her mouth opened, but no sound came. She was never really sure what happened; his knuckles connected with her jaw, but she felt no pain. All she had was a memory of his voice, strangely tender again.

  “I’m sorry, Blair. God, babe, you really don’t know how sorry.”

  The entire world was equally as strange as she slipped into a blackness ridiculously laced with tranquility.

  INTERLUDE

  IN THE SMALL CLEARING, Craig Taylor caught the woman’s slender body as it crumpled in his arms. He laid her gently in the grass, then tenderly touched the spot where his fist had connected with flesh.

  A breeze suddenly sprung up; the foliage around them rustled and whispered in the darkness. The sound of the crickets could be heard—in the distance if one listened, the pleasant trickle that was the sound of the stream.

  Anger sliced through Craig with a jolt. Sometimes he was absolutely sure that the high brass sat on their brains. They had better have a damn good explanation for this one, he thought grimly. He had been right in the first place. Bombs in the Middle East would have been easier than the task of dragging an unwilling prisoner through the jungle.

  Your own fault, old boy, he chastised himself harshly. Rule number one: Never fall in love with gorgeous, brave women about to be abducted and smuggled out of the country. Never, never, never make love to them. Never become the victim of the victim even when she is an enchantress.

  Tense with anger, furious with himself, he jerked to his feet.

  There was another flash of heat lightning disturbing the lush environ of the jungle—a final communication from Craig.

  ON OUR WAY … STOP

  The darkness of the night descended.

  Craig hefted the inert bundle into his arms. He became a wraith of that darkness, moving in to move out.

  In his tent he set Blair down, careful not to look at her face. He had to get moving and he didn’t remember how just hours ago they had shared the cot.

  His hands trembled for an instant and he made them stop. He had to give her a sedative; he needed clear sailing for the hours to come. A great distance needed to be covered.

  Almost impervious to pain himself, he winced as the needle pressed into her flesh. She released a soft whimper. No sound on earth had ever reached his ears with such reproach. He glanced quickly at her face, and then away. The soft skin, the waves of auburn hair that curled in luscious mounds of disarray around the fine, proud profile—for now he just couldn’t look at her. In drugged sleep her beauty was wistful, ethereal. It reminded him achingly of the trust she had given him, the trust that he, like a fool, had encouraged.

  Tomorrow, he thought wryly, he would be facing more than wistful beauty; he would be in for one of the definite dangers the chief had guaranteed him—this woman’s wrath.

  Though his thoughts plagued him, he moved mechanically, gathering the essentials. Seconds later he had her secured over his shoulder. Moving with all senses keenly alert, he sought out the jeep in the rear of the compound. A fifth sense warned him that someone was near; he tensed and stood perfectly still, trying to pinpoint the source of disturbance.

  A soft whistle sounded and he breathed again, relaxing and proceeding.

  Brad Shearer, almost invisible in black jeans and black T-shirt, awaited him at the jeep.

  “I had a feeling you’d be moving out,” Brad said softly. “In a hurry. I stashed you a few extra provisions in the back of the jeep.”

  “Thanks,” Craig returned briefly, depositing Blair in the passenger seat. She slumped instantly to the side. Brad responded automatically, adjusting her fallen head to a position of comfort. The gesture caused a constriction that clamped Craig’s throat.

  “She’s a stunning woman,” Brad commented idly, pushing back a tendril of drooping auburn hair.

  “Yeah,” Craig returned abruptly, hopping into the driver’s seat. “I’m popping it out of gear,” he told Brad. “Give me a push, will you? I don’t want to run the engine yet.”

  “Sure.” Shearer pitched his weight against the vehicle. The jeep began to roll; both men heaved it along, Craig half in the vehicle, half out.

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  The distance between the rolling vehicle and the compound increased quickly. O
ut of earshot at last, Craig spurred the engine into action.

  They were on the road.

  Back at the compound Brad Shearer slipped into his tent. He smiled wryly. Craig Taylor—he had always been a little in awe of the man; he wasn’t considered quite human within the ranks of the special forces, a cat with nine lives and the ability to always land feet first. Just the power in the man’s damned golden gaze could quell trouble before it began.

  But now he seemed to be in a slightly different predicament. If guerrillas were at large—which Brad could only assume to be the case although everything about this one was classified info—he had no doubt that Craig Taylor would make every right move. But that would be the least of Craig Taylor’s problems.

  Brad had watched his comrade that night. It was normal to befriend the woman since he was guarding her, but there was more there than friendship. And Washington was full of rumors of Huntington’s daughter. Charming, pleasant, lovely, intelligent—but a demon caught by the tail if crossed.

  Shearer was glad he wasn’t going to be around when that one blew. He chuckled softly as he stretched his length into his cot. There was some kind of saying, wasn’t there?

  ’Twas beauty killed the beast.

  Craig’s thoughts were running along similar lines as he moved the jeep through jungle trails. He was alert to anything out of the norm in the landscape he traversed, but his instincts were such that his scanning of the terrain was an automatic thing, as much a part of his being as breathing. He was, unfortunately, quite able to think.

  Theoretically tonight would be the worst. He would have to take constant care. Once they cleared land, he should be on easy street, maintaining direction, waiting for the allotted time to pass and the final destination to be reached.

  Tonight he was flirting with the possibility of guerrilla snipers. But then again, tonight just might be the best of it. At least his hostage was out of it. Tomorrow she was sure to be pitching fits that would strain both man and professional training to the nth degree.

  Blair’s drooping form suddenly moved again; her head careened to his lap, spilling a wealth of auburn silk over his knees. She moaned slightly, and shifted, casting a slender hand limply against his thigh and beneath her cheek.

  Clenching his teeth so tightly that his jaw ached, Craig drove on. So trusting …

  Despite better judgment, she had always come to him. He was painfully aware that she had said things to him that she had shared with no one, things she had kept inside, things which in giving spoke eloquently of her heart.

  He should have stopped it, never have allowed it to grow. No, he couldn’t have stopped it, he had been an addict of a drug more potent than any other.

  But now it was time to pay the piper. He would never forget her eyes when she saw him in the clearing—the scorn, the horror, the contempt, the scathing rage that altered their gleaming brilliance to glacial emeralds. She thought he was a terrorist, of course. But if she cared for him, she should have had some faith.

  He was wounded, and so he reverted to anger again. He also doubted that she was going to feel much better in the eventuality that safety was reached and that she was told the truth of her abduction and his true vocation. Because a certain truth would still be there to her—he had sought her out with a specific plan.

  He quirked his lips in a grim, mirthless smile. Why was he worrying about eventualities now anyway? He was going to have to deal with the coming days. And he might as well determine to harden right now; it was going to be a battle of wills from here on and no matter what the hell he was thinking, he had to be the consistent victor. A mask must be worn that couldn’t be allowed to slip.

  The hum of the wheels, the grind of the engine, and the ceaseless reiteration of his own thoughts followed Craig through the jungle. Hours passed. Still Blair slept on. And then the first lap of the journey was accomplished without incident; a rendezvous point was reached. But there was no one to meet them as Craig drove the jeep into the foliage that banked the river. Steeling himself, he shifted his leg and rested Blair’s head against the empty seat. Moving just a few feet, he found what he sought.

  A boat. Of sorts.

  Barco de vela—a sailboat to the natives. One that would blend right in with any other native vessel traveling the river—chipped, cracked, peeling—the furled sails a dingy, tattered gray.

  The vessel rested against a dilapidated dock. Catching the lead line, Craig hopped aboard, senses once more alert. He wasn’t expecting trouble at this point, but …

  It looked like, an old wooden crate, Craig judged, but it would move. It was fixed with a motor, one of the best available he was sure. “Well, this is it,” he murmured to himself. “A castle to house my princess.”

  He didn’t take time to check supplies or the galley that adjoined the sleeping quarters in the one-room cabin. He wanted to get away under cover of darkness.

  He returned to the jeep, collected Blair, and lifted her onto his shoulder, desperately trying to raise a clinical barrier. With his free hand he stooped for his duffel bag and the “CARE” package that Brad had supplied.

  In the morning, he knew, the jeep would be gone, as if it had never been. Someone else, who had no knowledge of its recent passengers, would simply be assigned to pick it up.

  Activity in the jungle would be unchanged. The crickets would keep chirping, snakes would slither along the branches of the trees, birds would call. Life would go on.

  Craig carried Blair down to the cabin and laid her on the wide single bed that fit against the starboard side. He kept his eyes from her face, but quickly removed her boots to offer her a modicum of comfort. The sun should be high in the sky before she awakened, he thought. Time enough for him to start their water journey, hopefully time for him to catch a little sleep.

  Craig released the lines. Like a ghost ship, the dilapidated barco de vela moved into the river current under power of the motor that was designed to wheeze like a sick sea serpent despite its technical wizardry.

  Road to river; river to coast. Their journey had begun.

  In time Craig felt he had gone sufficient distance to cast anchor near the shoreline and catch a little sleep. Securing the boat, he slipped down the splintering ladder to the cabin.

  His princess slept on, her face sweetly at peace.

  Sighing, Craig laid his length beside her, noticing gratefully that the Agency had decided clean sheets would not be a giveaway. He pulled a blanket of rough native wool over the woman, folded his hands behind his head, and tried to sleep.

  The effort was ludicrous. He would be better off on the planks than here beside her, when all natural instincts decreed that he should reach out and touch her, curl her soft frame into his ….

  But he couldn’t do that. Not when he knew she would loathe the touch she had once surrendered all to, not when she was unaware, a victim of his sedative.

  And so he stared up at a new ceiling—one of ragged, peeling planking. He listened to the soft sound of her even breathing, felt her slightest stir, her warmth so close to his.

  Time ticked by. In her sleep she shifted. She inched closer to him, her body naturally gravitating to his heat—following a natural urge against which her mind would rebel.

  Craig tensed every muscle. Then with a long exhalation of breath he cast an arm around her and hugged her to his chest. She adjusted again accordingly, fitting snugly into his muscled length.

  He would be up long before she, Craig knew. He couldn’t deny himself this night. And yet, as he finally dozed, he knew his hostage would deplore the intimate scene if she knew of its existence.

  But he also knew that he was far more her hostage than she was his.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WAKING FOR BLAIR WAS a slow process. She became aware of things little by little—a dullness in her head, the sensation of floating in space, no, not floating, rocking. There was something soft beneath her …

  Still swirling in a nether world, she felt the foggy return of memory
grow stronger.

  Craig Taylor. He had struck her, taken her … where? Her eyes flew open as she automatically tested her jaw. It worked just fine, and she didn’t feel a hint of pain.

  Wonderful. She had been knocked out by an expert!

  Her eyes refused to focus at first, and then she realized she was staring up at rough planking—knotted boards, with very little left of a one-time coat of varnish.

  The rocking sensation continued as she desperately tried to collect her scattered thoughts and raging anxiety. Don’t panic! she warned herself fervently, forcing herself to remain still and shadow her eyes as she surveyed her surroundings. Her fingers quietly clutched the softness beneath her. Sheets, a mattress. She was lying on a bed. A monotonous, light slapping sound registered in her ears. A boat. She was lying on a mattress in some kind of a boat.

  No other sounds came, just that of the continuous slapping. Slowly, carefully, she lifted her head.

  “Some kind” of a boat had been right. She had seen a great deal of the rustic while in Central America, but even for rustic the cabin was a masterpiece of squalor. The single room was galley and sleeping quarters, comprised of the bed she lay in, a round table that obligingly peeled along with the wall it was bolted to, a drab cloth-covered booth that was attached to the port side and encircled it, and a set of tarnished metal workings that were sink, stove, and galley storage.

  A single door was aft. A head? she wondered, asking herself disdainfully why she was worrying about bathroom facilities under the circumstances.

  The light of day was streaming through to her from a porthole beside the bed and also from a square piece of hatch that sat forward above a rickety wooden ladder. Blair stared at the opening, at the blue sky she could see through it, for quite some time, her mind working anxiously away.

  She would not panic. She would face facts, even though the facts were rising like another blow in the face to cripple her with physical pain. Traitor! Craig Taylor was a traitor. He had come to her, beguiled her, won her trust …