Tempestuous Eden

by Heather Graham

  “No,” she said coolly. She looked at Craig, her face as hard and as implacable as his. “There isn’t a single thing on the boat I ever want to see again.” She swept past her father and Craig and accepted the proffered hand of assistance from a young marine with a dazzling smile. Her father caught Blair’s hand right before she could hop from boat to boat. “I’ll be just a second. I owe Taylor a quick briefing. He didn’t want any part of this.”

  Blair noticed then that Craig had already disappeared back down to the cabin. Andrew Huntington, surprisingly agile for a man his age, turned to follow.

  Blair halted on the deck of La Princesa, standing ramrod straight as she waited in a silent rage. She was the one who deserved the explanation, and her father was worrying about Craig! She wondered sickly just what type of “orders” her father had given, and what part Craig’s “orders” had played in his ardent lovemaking.

  Huntington reappeared. “Let’s go, daughter,” he murmured, about to slip an arm around her shoulder.

  “Wait a minute, Dad,” Blair said. “I have something to tell Taylor myself.”

  She turned from her father and crawled down the ladder to the cabin, walking directly to the devil-eyed man who stood as straight as she, arms crossed over his chest, a faint light of wariness in his expression as he waited for her to speak.

  “So you’re a diplomat—” she hissed scathingly.

  “Blair,” he interrupted, and for the slightest fraction of a second she thought he might try to plead with her, to tell her he had reasons for not trusting her when he begged trust for himself. To tell her that his love was real, not an amusement to pass the time.

  No, that wasn’t going to happen, and she wasn’t going to play the little naive fool any longer. There had been something between them, yes, and he was capable of kindness, yes, but when she thought of all the things he had told her …

  Before he could speak her hand careened across his face with anger-driven vehemence, creating a sharp, resounding slap in the tense air between them. “Take that to jail with you, my poor, dear Mr. Taylor,” she said sweetly, spinning on her heels to leave him. He wouldn’t dare retaliate now; her father was just on the deck.

  He didn’t retaliate, but he didn’t let her go. His arm snaked out, his fingers biting into her wrist, spinning her back around. She was fully aware from the expression he wore that if he had chosen to retaliate, he wouldn’t give a damn who was just deckside.

  “Listen, princess, I’m beginning to understand what this whole thing was about,” he said harshly. “Why it was all necessary to begin with—everything. But you can’t listen. You make a judgment in that warped little mind of yours, and that’s it. You still don’t know—”

  “I know,” Blair interrupted furiously, “that you could have given me some hint as to the truth, but oh, no, we had to talk about radical cults and criminals willing to turn themselves in.”

  “I couldn’t have told you anything, Blair. Everything was classified. I didn’t even know why—”

  “You knew damned well you worked for my father. You let me sit there like an idiot, trying to save you, reform you, making love to you … oh, Lord! You must have almost choked to death on the laughter!”

  “Damn it, Blair, I had to—”

  “Go to hell, Taylor,” Blair snapped. God, she was close to tears. She had to get out. She wrenched her arm from his grasp. “If you’ll excuse me,” she drawled with the last iota of cool dignity she knew she would be able to summon, “I’d like to go find out why I was knocked out, dragged around, and imprisoned—on orders from my own father.”

  Blair eluded the hand that rose to stop her a second time and scrambled up the ladder. She was breathless when she rejoined her father, and shaking like a leaf. “Let’s go,” she begged quickly, closing her eyes for a second of steadying balance. But she couldn’t close out her last image of Craig—welts from her fingers stark against the bronze planes of his lean face, his eyes aflame with that golden yellow as he vised fingers around her arm and spoke with such intensity.

  Again she accepted the arm of a marine and stepped aboard the cruiser to stay. Huntington wearily followed.

  “Don’t take it out on Taylor,” Huntington told her, beseechingly holding his only child’s hand as the cruiser cut its lines. He could only pray that she would eventually understand. “Taylor didn’t want any part of the job. I demanded him. He’s the best we’ve got. He’s spent years with the worst, in the Middle East, Londonderry …”

  “Dad,” Blair murmured, fighting her tears and just barely managing to hold them in. She was furious with her father, but he was her father. She adored him; she wouldn’t hurt him for the world. He was going to give her an explanation, and it had best be a good one. She couldn’t help but think—but, no matter what, he would still be her father, a good man, a gentle man, a man devoting his life to the concerns of others. “Dad,” she repeated, swallowing her last vestiges of outward emotion, “I’d rather not talk here.” She inclined her head to the friendly marines on board, and the captain coming toward them.

  Huntington’s hand squeezed his daughter’s. He loved her; he was proud of her. Despite the hell her past weeks must have been, she was determined to maintain a mask of calm before the others.

  Blair managed to muster up a smile even as Craig’s scent lingered on her skin. And her seeming indifference masked the bleeding misery and humiliation inside her.

  They were a long, long way from home and privacy. The Caribbean to Belize, Belize to Texas. And Texas to D.C.

  Damn, did she need that mask.

  INTERLUDE

  CRAIG TAYLOR SAT BELOWDECKS as the hum of the larger boat roared, then dimmed, finally fading to stillness. His fingers reached automatically for his cigarette pack; he lit one, and exhaled shakily.

  Blair had had a few surprises that day, but she would never guess that the crudest surprise had been his.

  Never, never in his wildest imagination had he thought Huntington might search them out along the coastline.

  At least, he thought wryly, he now knew why he had been ordered to kidnap his “princess.” The fact that it all made perfect sense, however, was doing little to ease the turmoil in his mind.

  And then there was the question of the woman herself. Was she ever going to understand that it all made sense? If so, it might take a long, long time. She wasn’t the type of woman who tolerated being duped.

  Perhaps she would eventually comprehend why he couldn’t possibly break his word of silence. With the “classified” rigmarole lifted, Huntington could make her understand how very precarious the situation had been.

  Yes, the situation could be explained. Huntington would be in the clear. He was her father. She would forgive the father she loved. But what about me? Craig wondered with a wince. Admittedly he had looped his own noose; he had even known what he was doing every step of the way. He had simply wanted her so badly at times, he had been unable to prevent himself from playing along with anything that she wanted to think.

  And then he had certainly gotten a little carried away with the bit about his being incarcerated for a substantial time. But he had truly cherished every minute that she had lovingly tried to reform him; he just hadn’t been able to stop.

  Her slap was still stinging his cheek; he was fully and ruefully aware of just exactly what she thought of him.

  Craig wondered vaguely how much of what happened Huntington would hear about. Probably very little, but he didn’t really care. He was in love with Blair, and if Huntington were to ask him, he would tell him so.

  Craig moved desultorily up the ladder and weighed the anchor. It was time to give the boat full throttle with her highspeed motor. No one would be looking for him anymore. The job was over. He wanted to bring La Princesa in; he wanted to get back to Washington. Back to work. The work he did best, right in the heart of things. Walking the fine line between hell and high water.

  Damn! He couldn’t shake the vision of his hostage. His
princess. Her scent still seemed to be all around him, her vibrance just around the corner. She was a ghost of delicate strength, pride, loyalty, and determination. A beautiful ghost, unfading, showing no pity for his loneliness and pain.

  He raced the boat across the water as if he could outrun the wind, outrun the images that spun in his mind. It’s over, Taylor, he repeated endlessly. But he couldn’t accept that.

  He hugged the coastline now as he sped along, no longer concerned with the scattered habitations he would pass. White-tipped foam rose and spewed around him; salt breezes stung his face. But still he couldn’t shut out memory. He couldn’t shut out love.

  Even her voice seemed to haunt him, a melody that rang ceaselessly, that whispered in silk along with the breeze.

  I love you, Craig.

  Suddenly he cut the motor, and La Princesa came to a slow drift over the light waves. Craig was laughing, laughing to the breeze, laughing at himself.

  “You’re supposed to believe that the patient and persistent will persevere, Taylor,” he told himself.

  Dusk was falling. With his high-speed navy motor in use, he was just a few hours from the dock in Belize.

  He could afford the time to take a break.

  Walking with a springing step to the ladder, he crawled to the cabin, rummaged through the icebox, and found himself a beer.

  Flipping the top, he raised it to himself.

  “To you, Taylor,” he saluted himself, “and to patience and persistence winning out!”

  He turned to the bed, stared upon the still rumpled sheets. “And to you, princess,” he whispered. “Okay, let’s face it. I messed up a bit. I led you on. I had to. Think about it, you’ll understand. But honey, they’ve pitted me against some of the most unreasonable fanatics of our time. Do you really think one little slap is going to put an end to the pursuit of C. Taylor, USA?

  “Not on your life, babe.”

  She was going to need time to simmer down. Whoever it was who decreed redheads should have flaming tempers was probably right on the button. But she was hardly the spoiled socialite he had expected. She would reason; she would understand all that Huntington would have to tell her.

  Of course there wasn’t an explanation for his inventing a fear of a long jail term that might keep them apart, just to get her into bed.

  That she would have to forgive.

  But she had forgiven her father on faith already.

  Because she loved her father.

  And she loves me, Craig assured himself grimly.

  He finished his beer.

  That night he turned in La Princesa. He slept soundly in an air-conditioned hotel room in the coastal tourist town.

  The mattress was firm yet plush, the bedding soft and warm. And still his first waking thought was that he would rather be sleeping in the cabin of that rat-trap boat; the only softness and warmth he craved were what belonged to a certain auburn-haired spitfire.

  Two days later he was in D.C., taking the hall that led to the chief’s office in long strides. His mind was made up.

  Lorna Patterson, the chief’s longtime secretary, gave him a welcoming smile at his approach. “Taylor!” she began in enthusiastic greeting. “You’re back!”

  But he was past her desk already. Craig never stood on ceremony, but Lorna was stunned nevertheless. She was not a beautiful woman; she had acknowledged that long ago, But one of the qualities that had endeared Craig to staff and coworkers alike was a simple ability to sense human frailty and sensitively bolster neglected egos. He never passed through without a compliment for Lorna. He would notice a change in her hair, a new dress; without dishonest flattery, he was capable of making her feel like she was beautiful—and she loved him for it.

  But today he was distracted. He barely waved in acknowledgment of her gasped “He is in,” and was able to send her only a ghost of his usual encouraging smile.

  Lorna heard the chief’s “Taylor! I’ve been waiting for you. We’ve got trouble with the new policy in—”

  “Hold it,” was Craig Taylor’s firm reply. “I’ve got to talk to you. I want to request a trans—”

  The door closed firmly. Lorna heard no more.

  Thirty minutes later both Craig and the chief emerged, neither man looking particularly happy.

  “How long do I have?” Craig asked.

  “A week,” the chief replied apologetically.

  Craig contemplated his superior for several moments. “And then that is it,” he said with a quiet force that was indisputable.

  “And then that’s it,” the chief agreed. He still looked unhappy. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it, which surprised Lorna because the chief was never at a loss for words. Nine out of ten times he roared like a bull. She was almost shocked speechless herself when he opened his mouth a second time and voiced a soft “Thank you, Craig.”

  Emotions rippled across Craig’s usually unfathomable features. Tension, pain, regret. Resignation, fortitude. Then he forced a dry smile that didn’t touch the misery in his uniquely compelling eyes.

  “Sure, Chief, compromise, as you say.”

  “It will be set when you return, Taylor. I guarantee it.”

  The chief returned to his office. Craig appeared momentarily lost. Then he became aware of Lorna watching him with an empathy despite her complete lack of understanding of the situation.

  Craig smiled. She knew it was an abstract smile, but she was glad nevertheless. He perched upon her desk corner.

  “So how’s it going, Lorna?”

  “Fine,” she replied. “It’s going just like usual.” She proceeded to fill him in on the latest in the office, but though he kept smiling, she realized he wasn’t listening; he was merely being polite. What a man, she thought, tough as nails but innately gallant. The stuff of legends. A pirate, a modern day Robin Hood, a sinner, a saint. She wasn’t in his league, but she was his friend for life.

  “Taylor,” she continued, then hesitated. He never discussed anything personal, but he seemed so down. “Can I help you in any way? If you’ve a problem, I’ll gladly listen.”

  His smile became real for the first time; he ruffled her hair gently. “Thanks, Lorna, but you can’t help.” Grimacing, he stood and started away from her desk. “Compromise,” he muttered. At the door he suddenly swung back to her. “Maybe you can help, Lorna. Tell me, do women believe in compromise?”

  Lorna frowned, startled. Craig could have his pick of women. He had been seen with some of the great beauties of the world. He had never, to her knowledge, taken an affair seriously. It was impossible to believe he might be having a problem with a woman.

  “Why, ah, of course women believe in compromise!” she assured him.

  “Yes, I guess they might,” he agreed, but he didn’t appear any less down. He smiled again absently and waved as he left. “I wonder if they believe in compromise when they’d rather strangle you in the first place,” she thought she heard him murmur.

  Minutes later Craig stared idly at Capitol Hill.

  First it was classified, now it was compromise.

  He wanted his life back! his mind screamed. If he compromised, everything might be too late.

  And yet he couldn’t just turn his back. Ethics, his own ethics, kept standing in his way.

  He fought a long, hard mental battle as he stood there, oblivious to the fact that it was late spring, and that late spring in Washington was beautiful. Cherry blossoms were in splendid abundance; the sky was a crystal blue. The air carried a delightful nip.

  Just once he wished he could turn his back. Not care.

  But he couldn’t.

  Again, it would be less than himself that he offered to her.

  A week.

  In a week he had to convince her to forgive him. And then to compromise.

  It would never happen. Because he would be gone then … and he knew how she felt. He would never forget how she had broken when holding his gun. In truth, she would rather have him be a convict than se
e him leave for a danger zone.

  His fists clenched tightly by his side. She was his! He had to have her, would have her.

  He had only one choice, and that was to make her realize just how fully she was his before he left. And that was a bit of a sticky problem. If he knocked on Huntington’s door, she would merely slam it in his face. There was a chance. Merrill’s party. Surely she would be there.

  And he would use every trick he knew to make damn sure she knew she belonged to him—body, heart, and soul—before he left.

  Compromise or compromised? he wondered dryly.

  This was one battle of diplomacy he was going to win, even if the means weren’t particularly diplomatic.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Blair said grimly. She was finally home alone with her father in his Washington town house, staring at the rise of Capitol Hill through the picture window. Her fingers were tensely curled around the long stem of a martini glass. “You knew the guerrillas were planning to attack the Hunger Crew, but you just let them stay there in danger because the tip on the attack was classified?” Her question was thick with stunned disbelief.

  “Blair”—Andrew Huntington took a very long sip of his own martini and paced before the window—“we had a man in with the guerrillas undercover. His had been a long and delicate assignment—drawing their trust. If any of the information he discovered leaked, they would have caught him immediately. His life would have been the forfeit—”

  “But the Hunger Crew!” Blair interrupted. “You were willing to let them be killed?” She simply couldn’t believe that her father would allow such a thing, or even be involved with powers that would offer up a sacrifice of such dedicated humanity.

  Huntington winced at his daughter’s tone. “You don’t understand,” he told her softly. “The members of the Hunger Crew were not in danger—just you. The only reason the guerrillas planned to attack was to abduct you. To hold you for ransom—support for their operation, guns, equipment, rations. They didn’t give a damn about the Hunger Crew. I couldn’t just call you home. They would have hit before you walked two steps off the compound, and the repercussions might have been tragic. If, just if, you would have merrily flown on out, they might have tortured our agent to death, and retaliated against us by staging a massacre on either a friendly civilian population, or on the very people you’re worrying about protecting—the Hunger Crew.”