Tempestuous Eden

by Heather Graham

  “Oh? Oh, of course,” she answered her own query. “Brad Shearer is one of your diplomats, too, isn’t he?” She had been foolish not to catch on from the beginning. The Hunger Crew would normally be lucky to attract one such “hulk,” as Kate termed Craig and Brad, in a year. Two in a month? She really had been blind.

  “No,” Andrew Huntington informed her innocently. “Brad isn’t a diplomat.”

  “He isn’t?”

  “No. Brad Shearer is regular army intelligence.”

  “Oh, of course,” Blair murmured. “Just regular army intelligence.”

  She finished her third martini before she reached her hot bath.

  Andrew Huntington sat before his picture window and propped his feet upon his coffee table, sighing happily in his moment of leisure. He could have been angry—wasn’t a father supposed to be angry if he believed his daughter had been compromised? He wasn’t angry. He felt as smug as a Cheshire cat. It appeared as if something good just might come of a bad situation. If only he could believe that more often ….

  Blair spent her days keeping busy. There were old friends to see in Washington, the Smithsonian to prowl endlessly, and the parks and Georgetown shops when she was in the mood for idle walking. She tailored her days around her father’s free hours to be with him as much as possible.

  But everything she did, every place she went was busy. She tried to be moving every minute. Then on Friday morning, the day of Merrill’s party, she forced herself to stop, and make a long assessment of what she was doing. She finally admitted that her breakneck scheduling was all created to douse the terrible feeling of loneliness that held her in its grip.

  She wanted to hate Craig. He had made a grade-A fool of her. The terrorist bit had been bad enough, but the jail sentence was the killer. And he had known that she loved him! Oh, Lord, how she cringed with the memory of telling him so now.

  Directions, she thought bitterly. Orders. Orders had sent him to her in the first place, orders to befriend her, to watch her, to take her away, to hold her.

  He had elaborated on his orders, but then why not? Why not have a little fun with a captive princess. He was definitely a man, with man-sized appetites. Why not appease them with a partner all too willing to capitulate?

  Her face grew scarlet with her thoughts, then a twist of pain jackknifed through her, leaving her short of breath, weak.

  She had fallen so deeply in love with him that she would have waited forever, endured anything. But none of it had been real. From the very beginning Craig Taylor had felt nothing; he had only been following orders.

  She would make sure that she never saw him again. So in a crowd of people she was still lonely, far more lonely than she had ever felt as a captive on a boat with only one other living person to see.

  She had loved that person, and that made all the difference. Friend, lover, stranger, betrayer, she loved him all the same. But somehow she would get over it. She would have to. Mr. Craig Taylor, she was sure, was already off again, back to the work he loved. Released from his baby-sitting duty. Off to risk his foolish hide again.

  Anyway, she told herself morosely, she didn’t need another man to worry about. She didn’t want another man to worry about. Craig Taylor walked into explosive situations with his eyes wide open. No, never again. She had lost Ray, and memory of that pain was enough to convince her she couldn’t bear the thought of living with and loving a man who she knew for a fact put his life on the line every day.

  “What difference does it make?” she asked herself irritably. “The man is done being amused by me. He’s off playing cloak-and-dagger somewhere else.”

  With bittersweet poignancy she knew it was best that he was out of her life.

  She shivered. Thinking about loneliness made her understand her father better, and her empathy became great. He spent his days worrying about a nation, but when it came to his private life, all that he had was her.

  She did love him so much; he was such a good person, such a dedicated, loyal man.

  Like Craig.

  Hah!

  Get Craig out of your mind!

  Think about Dad, she told herself firmly. Tonight she was going with him to the Merrills’. And despite her mood she was going to make him happy and proud. And I am going to slow down! she told herself.

  With that firm resolve in mind, she spent the day at home, catching up on all the luxuries of civilization she had ignored for so long. She manicured and pedicured, conditioned her hair, and even tried a newly advertised mud facial.

  “I could have done this in the damn jungle,” she told her ridiculous-looking reflection. Would Craig think her a little “princess” if he were to see her now?

  She shrugged with a little wince as she washed off the “mud” and started to dress for the night. She was wearing a floor length green velvet dress with long, fitted sleeves, an empire bodice, and a skirt that flowed elegantly with her movements—her father’s favorite. She had to agree that it was probably her most flattering gown—the green complemented her hair and drew out the color of her eyes.

  After all her days in the jungle and then on the boat, it felt odd to dress up. As if her real life had been in the jungle and on that boat and this gown merely a costume for a play.

  She barely recognized herself when she finished. She had piled her hair high on her head and secured it with a small tiara that had belonged to her mother.

  “There you are, Taylor,” she muttered to the mirror. “A real princess.” A laugh started to sound deep in her throat and she closed her eyes tightly against her reflection. You’re growing bitter, Blair, she warned herself. You know you’re not a princess; you know that you are responsible, mature, caring …

  Being happy with yourself is what counts.

  No, her heart raged silently, it counted more when dreams, feelings, and thoughts were shared.

  She opened her eyes and stared blankly at the mirror. Then she coerced her lips into a cheerful smile and went down the stairs to meet her father.

  The capital’s beautiful people were out. The massive ballroom in the Hilton was glittering with chandeliers, crystal, fine vases of exotic flowers, and of course, people.

  It was a mixed crowd. Merrill had been in Washington as long as her father and the guests were a mixture from all walks of political life. Senators, congressmen, cabinet members—even the president was supposed to be in attendance, which meant an additional host of working security.

  Blair knew a good number of people in the crowd—old, hard-core politicians and civil servants like her father. But there were also a lot of new faces. She had been gone for almost two years and elected officials changed with the mercy and whim of the people. A good thing, she thought, thinking of her conversation with her father. The people did have their say.

  Although she was still too involved with her inner battle to be honestly excited about the evening, Blair put her best foot forward for her father’s sake. She greeted old acquaintances while escorted by his proud and protective arm; a bright smile on her face, and graciously accepted new introductions. She gave George Merrill—heavier set but just as worn and dignified as her father—a hug and a kiss and sincere good wishes for many more happy birthdays to come. He kissed her soundly in return, watching her peculiarly, and Blair realized that this was one man who was always in on “classified,” who knew she had just returned from a nerve-racking escapade, who knew …

  Chief! The word shrilled in her mind and she belatedly realized how stupid she had been. Merrill was always referred to as “the Chief.” He could be none other than the chief Craig had mentioned in his far-fetched tale.

  Of course. Why hadn’t she realized? Merrill was Craig’s boss. And since, according to her father, Craig was Merrill’s number-one man, it stood to reason that he would be at the party if he were in the country.

  He was.

  She wasn’t sure what alerted her to his presence. Perhaps she heard his voice, low-timbred, quiet, assured. Maybe it was the ve
ry scent of him, crisp, unique, ingrained upon her senses—a subconscious trigger to a torrent of memories.

  Maybe it was just a sixth sense. Or a combination of everything. But she was suddenly sure beyond a doubt that he was near her, long before Merrill hailed him and summoned him to their group.

  “Craig, glad to see you made it, boy!” George Merrill called enthusiastically. Craig, who had been in conversation with an attractive blonde, excused himself and turned to Blair’s group, addressing his boss, but watching Blair, his yellow-streaked gaze portraying a taunting amusement that belied the gravity of his expression.

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, sir,” Craig said cordially, shaking his superior’s hand and adding, “Many happy returns of the day.” He turned to Andrew Huntington and inclined his head. “Sir, nice to see you.”

  “Good to see you, Taylor,” Huntington said cheerfully, offering a handshake.

  “Blair …” Craig acknowledged her, and before she knew it, he had taken her hand and brought it to his lips, a perfect example of charming protocol.

  “Mr. Taylor,” she said coolly, fighting to keep her tone level and her response equally calm and light for “protocol.” It was difficult. She had seemed to lose control of the natural act of breathing when he had neared, and the flesh on the hand he kissed seemed to burn, as if it had been seared with a brand.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you,” Craig said, refusing to release her hand.

  Even for protocol she couldn’t return that statement. It wasn’t a pleasure, or if it was, it was a pleasure that was mixed cruelly with pure torture. She forced a dry smile that was the working of facial muscles and nothing more. “It’s a surprise to see you, Mr. Taylor,” she said. “I would have thought you off on another diplomatic mission by now.”

  Did a flicker of pain pass through his eyes? No, she must have imagined it. He was quirking a cynical brow toward the chief. “My last mission was hazardous. I needed a little relaxation tonight.”

  Blair flicked her lashes with annoyance but held her composure as her father and Merrill both made attempts to hide their reactions. She had been Craig’s main hazard, as things worked out.

  Blair decided it was time to opt out of the small gathering and find someone else, anyone she knew, and join any conversation that didn’t include Craig. “Excuse me—” she began.

  “Excuse us,” Craig interrupted, securing a steady hold at her waist. “I hear a waltz, Mr. Huntington, and I’d like to steal your date if I may.”

  “You two go right ahead,” Andrew Huntington dismissed them benignly. “The chief here and I can rehash old—let me correct that—ancient times all night.”

  “Dad—” Blair protested, shooting him desperate pleas with her eyes which he appeared not to notice. She didn’t get any further. Craig was leading her to the dance floor, and, short of throwing herself on the floor, she had little choice but to follow, or rather, be dragged along. Even if she were to throw herself on the floor, she thought with fleeting resentment, he would probably pick her up, apologize to the crowd around them with his casual diplomacy, and calmly proceed.

  “You have a hell of a lot of nerve!” Blair hissed as he swirled her into his arms on the dance floor. “I would have thought you would have realized I don’t wish to see you, speak to you, or be anywhere near you ever again!” What a liar I am, she thought, clenching her teeth and shutting her eyes as her cheek grazed the rough texture of his tuxedo. He was already overwhelming her, making her senses swim with his magnetic touch, guiding her in the centuries-old waltz with a strong and firm command. And he’s different tonight, she thought poignantly. In his ragged bush attire he had been shabby yet ruggedly appealing; in a tuxedo he was still every bit the rogue, but, damn, what a dashing renegade. His physique was such that the custom-tailored tuxedo hugged the lean muscles of his tall body, emphasizing broad shoulders and trim hips that surely made every female in the place shiver with a touch of longing. Rather than detracting from the raw masculinity no outfit would ever hide, the ruffles of his rich cream-colored shirt merely stood to complement the swashbuckling look of the adventurer.

  Blair became so immersed in her musings about his appearance that she almost missed his words.

  “I do have a hell of a lot of nerve,” he replied blandly, shifting his hold slightly so that she was forced to lift her eyes and meet his. The yellow-gold stars in them sparkled with amusement. And danger. And determination. Blair’s fingers convulsively clutched into the fabric on his shoulders. “I want to talk to you,” he told her firmly.

  “I don’t want to talk to you!” she responded instantly. Her voice wavered slightly because she did want to talk to him, but she was still furious and confused, and what good could possibly come of it? She knew that he didn’t really care for her; it had all been orders. And if, just if, he did care, it meant only pain.

  A grim smile crept forbiddingly into Craig’s features, drawing his lips to a tight line. “Too bad, princess,” he said with a shrug, “because you are going to talk to me whether you want to or not.”

  Blair had seen the scene in a dozen movies, and she had never expected to be the ingénue caught in the suave, smooth movement, but she was. Craig spun and swirled her cleanly across the floor before she could catch her breath, and then out the terrace doors.

  He kept going until he found a secluded bench and his last guiding pressure on her elbow sent her plopping onto it. He released her and put his hands into his pockets, but he blocked any escape route by planting a polished shoe beside her and enclosing her with his body.

  Blair glanced from his shoe to his eyes, hers blazing an angry, shocking emerald. “Okay, Taylor,” she hissed, having wisely judged her chances of eluding him as nil. “You want to talk, talk.”

  “Nice party, isn’t it?” he drawled with a mockingly raised brow.

  “It was,” she snapped. “Is that it? May I go back?”

  “No, that’s not it,” he growled, fire replacing the amusement in his gaze. “You told me that you loved me, Blair.” He laughed with no mirth. “You even promised to wait out a jail term. What happened? You were willing to reform a terrorist, but you can’t love a government man? What’s the matter? You can’t play philanthropist this way? It’s not self-sacrificing enough?”

  “What?” Blair screeched, astounded by the attack. She started to rise, but his hand fell to her shoulder. She shook it off as she sat again, her fury spouting over like steam from a teakettle, mincing her flow of words.

  “You’re crazy, Taylor. I couldn’t care less that you work for the government; I’m delighted for you. Oh, no, Mr. Taylor, you play James Bond all you like, until you get yourself killed one day, and I’ll even send flowers. What you are isn’t even worth discussing. I’ve known what you are all along—a yes man—it doesn’t matter to whom! I despise, you, Taylor, because you made a fool out of me. You used me; you deceived me—”

  “Just hold on a minute!” Craig roared in interruption, leaning an elbow on a knee and bringing the bold contours of his face to hers, nose to nose. “I couldn’t tell you the truth, Blair, and you damned well know it!”

  “Because you’re a yes man!” she flared, not sure she was reasonable herself but tense with warring emotions and afraid to take the chance, the risky chance, that anything could ever exist between them. “Okay, you were working for my father. But still you could have reassured me, hinted at what you were. Instead you strung me along, let me behave like an idiot! Oh, you must have been vastly amused.”

  “I was never amused, Blair, I was—”

  “Following orders!” she screeched, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. She was wound up like a broken watch unable to stop until she had spun herself out. “Did it ever occur to you that your orders might be wrong! Or are you so mesmerized by reading the damn directions that you don’t exercise judgment anymore, or have an opinion, or the will to act—”

  Craig was like a time bomb that finally went off. “Yes!”
he roared, and the heat of his anger seemed to singe her face. “Yes, Mrs. Teile, I do sometimes disagree with directives. But yes, Mrs. Teile, I work for the government, and yes my superiors do make mistakes. The system is imperfect. But I’ve been around a lot, Mrs. Teile. An awful lot. Enough to know that although imperfect I’ll take what we’ve got. I make my opinions known, Mrs. Teile, and when my subordinates come to me, I listen to their opinions. But I’m in my position because I have the experience to deal with the decisions I have to make. Your father and Merrill are where they are because they learned what they were doing the hard way. And you’ll have to admit, princess, that this time they carried it all off well, damned well. No one was even scratched when an international fiasco could have blown up in our faces.”

  For a moment Blair was silent, aware that he was reasonable, rational, and fiercely right. She couldn’t bring herself to say so. He had called her princess again with that scathing tone; he had decreed that she should love him still while giving no hint of the depth, or even the reality, of his own feelings.

  They were so close, their breaths mingling as they stared at each other, that she wanted nothing more than to forget the deceit of the past and the fear of the future and bring her lips that one inch closer to meet explosively with his. No, she begged herself, please, no, don’t let him take you again.

  “Taylor,” she clipped, “what you did to me wasn’t necessary. You let me think I was in the hands of a terrorist and then—” She choked off, unable to remind him that he had held her willingly in his arms, so in love was she that she would give herself to her captor. “Never mind! Just leave me alone and go on to your next assignment, James Bond. I don’t want to be around when you say yes once too often.”

  Craig continued his close scrutiny of her, but suddenly the anger flashed out of his eyes. They were sparked again by the sizzling gold fire of amusement.

  “You are still in love with me,” he said, and if she didn’t know him better, she would have thought his cynical tone was touched by awe.