Tempestuous Eden

by Heather Graham

  “You wouldn’t!” Blair gasped.

  “I’d rather not,” Craig admitted, “but then again, I leave you the choice. Try me. I am dead on my feet and not particularly in the mood for a scuffle, but …”

  He allowed his sentence to trail away with chilling warning. Blair hesitated, bewildered and dismayed for this stupidly unexpected turn of events. She wasn’t particularly in a mood for a scuffle herself, especially one she knew she would lose.

  She hesitated a moment too long. He took a first, menacing step toward her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “WAIT A MINUTE!” BLAIR snapped haughtily, hands before her as if she could ward him off. “I’m crawling in on my own side—agreeably.” She stretched out with far more cool than she was feeling and turned her back to him.

  “Thank you,” Craig clipped curtly.

  “It’s evident you know of my father,” Blair murmured caustically. “Surely you can’t imagine him to be a man to raise a complete fool!”

  He didn’t answer her, and of course she didn’t see him wince. Craig thought his own position bad enough; he didn’t envy Andrew Huntington trying to explain this mess to his firebrand daughter. But that would be Huntington’s problem. At the moment, he had his own.

  Craig padded across the cabin to a cabinet and withdrew an extra sheet. He ripped the one she was clutching from her and tossed her the fresh one before she could protest. “His and hers,” he murmured briefly, then crawled into the bed himself and pulled his sheet high over his shoulders, wondering if he was shielding himself from the breeze filtering through the porthole or trying to contain his own demanding urges.

  Minutes that were an eternity passed. Neither dared move; they were both acutely aware of the other, every breath, every nuance, every slight twitch of limb. The jungle seemed ridiculously still that night; not a rustle sounded from the shore. Even the lap of the water against the hull of the boat was soft. Two nights ago, Craig thought, just two nights ago he had held her, first in passion, then again, hours and a lifetime later, when she didn’t know she had slipped into his arms.

  But this was different. It was hell, and it was a hell he had sentenced them both to. But he couldn’t do it differently. If and when he finally slept, it would be a sound sleep. If they slept apart … He didn’t think her in the least stupid, or a fool. She knew the dangers of her environs, but she was also desperate. He just couldn’t take a chance, no matter how slim, that she might try to escape him, preferring a venomous predator to him.

  Damn her!

  She didn’t find it in the least conceivable that he deserved her blind trust. Not that he had done much to warrant it, but he would never forget the hatred in her eyes when she had caught him flashing the communication in the clearing.

  He sat up in the bed, disgusted with his inability to sleep. In forty-eight hours he had had less than three hours rest. He should be dead to the world.

  He had slept in khakis on the hard ground, in the midst of shelling, catastrophe, and disaster. But for the life of him he couldn’t sleep in this bed beside Blair. He had procured himself a sheet, but now he kicked it aside. It was hot, so damned hot. He was wearing only his cutoffs, but those cutoffs seemed to be strangling him, constricting him, pinching into his flesh.

  He stood with something that sounded like a low growl and impatiently began to shed the offending pants. In the privacy of his own home, or tent, for that matter, he usually slept in the buff. He didn’t have to go that far, but he’d be damned if he was going to spend the upcoming nights in stifled misery because of her.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded stiffly from the darkness as his zipper rasped its way down.

  “I’m taking my pants off,” Craig snapped, surprised at the heat in his answer. “And if you don’t like it, I’m sorry, but it’s too damned bad.” He had intended to leave his briefs on, but his misery sparked a flare of vengeance and they too dropped to the floor. His eyes were accustomed to the dim light, and although she was turned away from him, he knew she heard the sound and that she also knew what it was by the slight but telltale flinch that rippled through her form. Damn her! he thought for the zillionth time. Crawling back into bed, he leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry, Blair. If you roll over in the night, you aren’t going to see anything you haven’t seen before.”

  Blair didn’t turn around. “That’s true,” she replied with a bland boredom, adding the final insult with a deep yawn.

  More than ever he wanted to break her neck. He hadn’t intended it, but the charged tension of the night had turned to a battle for control. And she was winning, or so Craig thought with his jaw clenching piano-wire tight.

  Blair was not feeling any sense of triumph. He had been right—the facts might have changed overnight, but the body hadn’t. All the animal magnetism was still blatantly there. Her flesh tingled with actual pain, as if the nerve endings had been cut and torn and left bleeding. He was at least a foot away, but she could feel him. Her body cried out for his. A heat rose from an involuntary core, a fire creeping into a system that knew delight and the epitome of pleasure lurked nearby. She could tell herself that she hated him, but her thoughts raged on, out of control with memory. Taut, bronzed skin, a rippling power-play of musculature. The sweet carnal ecstasy of the flesh his body had truly and thoroughly taught hers …

  It had all been meaningless! she shouted silently to herself, drawing on that irrevocable fact for strength. From the beginning he had sought her out for who she was; he had befriended her to come close; he had made love to her to deceive her.

  He had kidnapped her for his own secretive gain. She could not, would not, fall into his arms. She could not, would not, allow her imagination to stray to the magnificent, naked, male beauty so close beside her. Yet she couldn’t help but spend the same hours of misery as he while they both lay motionless upon the bed. It was dawn, the pink streaks of morning casting their shadows through the cabin before she slept. And in sleep her mind had little control over her body As she unknowingly had before, she slowly but surely gravitated to his warm length.

  That ended the sleep Craig had finally found. He hadn’t moved, but she was fitted against him like a glove to a hand. Her hair, its fragrance soft and enticing, teased his nostrils as her head rested half next to and half on his shoulder. Her back was curved along his chest, her hips level with his. She too had discarded her sheet, and all that lay between them was the flimsy cotton barrier of the peasant cloth, no barrier at all against his feeling the satin feminine softness of her skin.

  Craig lifted a hand almost helplessly in the near-dark stillness. It moved to the silken tangle of her hair. She shifted, and she fit to him even more smoothly as her body made a natural sensual adjustment. She would waken this time, he warned himself. But he was innocent. She had edged over to him. He took a deep breath and gave up the battle. His arms came around her and he held her as he gave in to the comfort, drifting in a no-man’s-land between sleep and daydreams, exotic images spurred by scent and touch racing like a consuming blaze through his blood.

  Blair didn’t awake immediately. She was comfortable, and in a deep sleep. She began a slow, lazy stretch, and then halted. The limbs that moved with delicious leisure suddenly became aware that they moved upon something hard but yielding, warm … breathing.

  Her eyes flew open and met a penetrating yellow stare. She leaned up to find her hands planted in the tawny hair of his chest, her body more than half reclined on his, a knee bent, a slender leg cast over his. And as she became aware of her body she also became aware of his, and a flash of crimson flushed over her, beginning at the roots of her hair. His arousal was against her like a burning brand.

  “Take your hands off me!” Blair snapped in panic.

  Craig lifted hands that were in no way touching her. He smiled slowly with innocence and amusement, truly the helpless victim.

  “Damn!” Blair’s outburst as she realized the inadvertent aggressor was half seething growl and h
alf wail. She leaped from the bed, sputtering a stream of expletives that would have done any seaman proud, leaving nothing aside in her efforts to convince Craig of just what she did think of him.

  “You left out a few,” Craig reminded her calmly. Actually he wasn’t so calm. He was frustrated, and therefore irate, and-not nearly as blasé about his physical condition as he pretended. “I think you forgot to tell me that I’m the dregs of the earth.”

  Blair stared at him for a single second of confusion, snapping her mouth shut. Then she whirled about, stalking for the nearby head where she could slam him out for a few moments of privacy to regain her dignity and cool.

  But she wasn’t to make the door.

  “Un-unh,” Craig had bounded from the bed and his hand firmly clamped her arm, spinning her about, evidently not in the least concerned by his nudity. “I’d like to be a gentleman and allow you in first, but—” He pushed her aside and brushed on past her, pausing before closing the head door behind him. “I think you’ll agree that I’m the one in need of the shower. That is, unless you have something else in mind to remedy my situation?”

  Blair finally did pick up part of the broken crockery. She did so to send a piece flying after him. He was far too quick. The door closed and the piece of plate hit the wooden door and fell harmlessly to the floor. Staring after it, Blair stamped a foot wrathfully, only to cut her bare sole upon another piece. Certain she would surely disintegrate with rage, she turned hobbling to the ladder and crawled topside to nurse her wounded foot—and pride.

  It would have been common sense, she thought dryly as her temper cooled but her foot continued to smart, to pick up the broken glass last night. She had simply been too tired and discouraged and confused. The broken pottery had sliced a gash from her heel to the ball of her foot, and though she was sure the cut wasn’t terribly deep, it continued to bleed despite her attempts to stop the flow. Great, she thought morosely. Now if I do get some heaven-sent way to escape, I’ll probably be limping with gangrene! Cursing her own stupidity, she didn’t notice as Craig joined her on the bow,

  “What did you do?” he demanded sharply.

  “Nothing,” Blair snapped, glancing up at him from her Indianstyle perch. He was decently if not thoroughly clad in another pair of cutoffs. She noticed absently that the deep bronze of his skin showed no reaction yet to the blazing heat of the sun, even though he continually sailed nearly naked. She hadn’t been out on deck nearly as much as he, yet she could feel her own nose beginning to redden and turn sore.

  “Let me see your foot,” he commanded, coming toward her.

  “I don’t want you touch—” Blair began, but her words caught in a gasp as he grasped her ankle despite her protests, leaving her scrambling for balance.

  “You idiot!” he hissed, releasing her ankle and disappearing back down the hatch. She stared after him blankly, but he returned almost immediately, carrying a first-aid box. She stretched out a hand to take it from him, murmuring a grudging “Thank you,” but he ignored her, once more clutching her ankle and seating himself beside her.

  “What is that?” she protested warily, wincing as he produced a bottle of clear liquid she assumed to be alcohol.

  His eyes met hers momentarily, surprisingly filled with a sudden light of teasing amusement. “Chicken?” he inquired. “Come on now, Blair, take it like a man. If you do stupid things, you have to pay the price.”

  She didn’t respond as he started to swab her foot; she proudly bit into her lip against the pain. But none was forthcoming. His cleanser wasn’t alcohol.

  “Peroxide,” he explained as he saw her eyes fill with relief and confusion.

  “Oh,” she murmured, accepting his ministrations momentarily. Then her eyes began to blaze with a new growth of temper. “It wasn’t my fault!” she hissed. “It was there, and I stepped on it.”

  “It wouldn’t have been there if someone had thought to clean up the cabin while someone else was busy sailing this tub.”

  Blair smiled grimly. “Must have been the maid’s day off.”

  “I see,” Craig replied, nodding gravely as he took gauze out of the kit and a plastic bottle of nasty-looking red liquid.

  “Merthiolate,” he explained as he poured the red liquid on a piece of cotton. “And it will hurt.”

  Blair jerked involuntarily. He was right; it hurt like hell. She blinked back the stinging sensation in her eyes and her fingers dug into the planking.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice brisk but soothing. “I’ll just wrap it up. Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”

  “Of course,” Blair replied absently, fascinated by his gentle bandaging of her foot. He released it finally. “You’re going to be hobbling around for a while,” he mused, “but I suppose worse things could have happened.” He stood then, all previous anger vanished. His eyes were light as they gazed down into hers, seemingly from an incredible height. “I don’t suppose you would make coffee?”

  Blair lowered her head. She was sorely attempted to say, “Of course.” But she couldn’t. Even though it was easy to feel that he was truly concerned, that friendship and camaraderie could return between them with a simple word from her, she couldn’t allow herself to forget that she had been taken here by force. But I’m in love with him! The painful thought flashed through her mind and she was unable to hide from that truth. But she had to hide it from him. She wasn’t a naive fool to be brainwashed by her captor.

  “No,” she murmured. “You’re right. I won’t make coffee.”

  Did a shadow of disappointment flicker through the leonine eyes? If so, it was gone immediately. He shrugged indifferently. “Then do without.”

  Craig disappeared down the hatch and moments later she could smell coffee brewing—and she could also smell the tantalizing aroma of bacon. Curious, she hobbled back down the ladder. The cabin had been neatly rearranged; the broken stoneware was gone. Craig stood in the galley transferring food from the skillet to his plate.

  Blair ignored him and moved back to the head. She closed the door behind her and brushed her teeth and hair and washed her face. When she returned to the cabin Craig was sitting comfortably eating; he acknowledged her presence with a slight nod, but said nothing. He finished his meal with apparent gusto, then pushed his plate aside and reached for a cigarette to smoke with his second cup of coffee.

  The hell with him, she thought. He wasn’t going to break her by refusing to cook for her. She didn’t mind cooking for herself; she would simply wait until he went topside, then she would enjoy her meal leisurely. She passed through the cabin, determined to go topside herself until he left the cabin. Then she would change places. No problem.

  But there was a problem. Not thinking, she paused to help herself to a cigarette from his pack before climbing the ladder. The pack was pulled away just as her hand descended.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Teile,” Craig murmured politely. “My cigarettes.”

  Blair froze momentarily, then forced herself to shrug. “I’ll live longer,” she said dismissively before leaving him.

  On deck she seethed.

  She would have really loved a cigarette, and the denial was increasing the craving. She wasn’t even much of a smoker, just a few cigarettes a day, but the one that was the most dear to her was that enjoyed with a second cup of coffee in the morning.

  “So I’ll quit,” she grated aloud to herself.

  Amazing how trivia could irritate beyond reason. But it did, and suddenly it was all-out war.

  A cold war, a silent war, but a determined war. For three days Blair didn’t speak a word to Craig. When he would finish in the galley, she would make her own meals. To prepare her own food she was forced to pick up after him, but she left the galley in a shambles so that he would have to do the same. On their third day out, he had offered her a change of clothes, telling her she could rot in her clothing or switch and wash. She didn’t reply. She would do her own washing, but she would be damned if she would do his.

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nbsp; It was on their fourth morning out on the River Tub, as Blair had labeled the boat, not knowing its real name, if it did have one, when Blair heard voices from above. She had been wondering earlier why they hadn’t been moving. Leaving her eggs sizzling in the frying pan, she limped on her still sore foot to the hatchway to listen.

  Craig’s voice sounded to her. Calling out in Spanish, he was hailing another vessel. “Necesito un favor, amigo!”

  Blair couldn’t see him, but she could well imagine his easy grin. The passing captain called back to Craig, and as Blair listened to the ensuing conversation, she was torn between laughter and a need to gather her wits. They had run aground! The indomitable Craig Taylor had actually managed to run aground! There had been high winds last night, therefore it hadn’t been Craig’s lack of sailing ability that had beached them, but still she loved it. Mr. Perfect making a mistake, falling prey to the laws of nature.

  Now Blair realized that calling out when they had passed the village was a mistake. It had been ridiculous to imagine that she would have been heard or that the fishermen would have had the authority to do anything.

  But the vessel Craig was asking for a tow had to be manned by a captain—a man of some prestige, a man who would be close enough to hear her fervent pleas, a man who could tell her where she was and steer her in the course of a fair-sized city.

  They were already connecting tow lines; she could hear Craig moving about. Listening until his footsteps passed overhead, Blair scrambled to the ladder, forgetting about her foot and almost staggering as a bolt of pain shot through her. Taking a deep breath, she regained her balance and gingerly stuck her head out of the hatch.

  She almost smiled. The boat towing them out of their suction was a large one, and several pot-bellied and mustachioed men were milling about the captain. Craig was busy at the helm, holding the tiller and guiding a line.

  Blair crawled on out of the hatch and bolted past him as best she could limping. She scooted as far up on the bow as possible, attracting the captain’s attention with a gasped, “Ayudame! Ay, por favor! Help me!”