Tempestuous Eden

by Heather Graham

  “Blair, wait a minute! You never listen! I have to go tomorrow, but it will be the last time and …”

  “No!” She set her drink upon an end table and sprang to her feet, moving about the room with agitation and a fear she would dissolve into helpless tears. Don’t do this to me, Taylor, she wailed silently. Oh, don’t, please don’t. “Craig, you have to go tomorrow; next time it will be the same. Just one more time, on and on until it’s just all over and—” A vision of Ray, bleeding on the asphalt, compassionate eyes closed to the world forever suddenly blinded her to all else. She was so weak she could barely stand, so furious she couldn’t possibly fall.

  “Blair, damn it! People are killed in traffic accidents every day! You can be mugged walking down the street. There are no goddamn guarantees in life. But I mean what I say. No, I can’t forget all that I’ve been; I can’t just turn my back no matter how much I do love you. There is no one else to fill in for me on this assignment on such short notice. But soon there will be.” He was on his feet, too, trying to force her attention, her understanding. She wouldn’t stand still. She was pacing the fur rug before the fire like an exquisitely beautiful, but caged cat. Craig tried to remain in front of her to read her features, but she just kept moving. Finally he issued a thunderous oath and grabbed her upper arms, shaking her slightly, “Damn it, Blair! I love you, you love me. Doesn’t that count for anything? Doesn’t it mean something? I’m willing to change. Can’t you compromise? Can’t you have a little faith? Love me enough to give me a chance?”

  He shook her for so long that she gave up the effort to fight him and allowed her head to fall back so that she was staring into his eyes. They were touched by the fire; they were alive with seething emotion. They sizzled, they burned, they held her. There was a fierce tension to his grip upon her arms; it was static, it was harsh, but it was charged with an electricity that was impossible to ignore or deny, and suddenly nothing mattered except the moment. “Taylor,” she muttered, her voice a bitter shell that just escaped a sob, “I do love you.” Fear, panic, pain, and anger suddenly erupted into a desire so overwhelming that the past was nonexistent, the future a haze in timelessness. Blair lowered her head and whispered, “And I want you.”

  If possible, his grip upon her tightened even more. She was drawn against him, pressed flat to feel the tremendous pounding of his heart, the wealth of flesh, muscle, and sinew that corded like tensed wire within his frame. She could feel his breath, harsh and raspy, riding across her temple.

  “Now?” he demanded with a curt bluntness that bordered upon cruelty.

  But she couldn’t help herself. She nodded.

  When they had made love previously, whether he had been gently cajoling her or teaching new delights, he had been almost excruciatingly thorough and exquisitely, torturously slow, driving her half mad before making her his.

  But tonight there was something different to him—a hint of violence, a thread of voracious danger. She had never known his own hunger to control him, yet now it did. His fingers threaded through her hair as he clasped her to him, sending the pins flying across the room heedlessly. Blair clamped hard on her jaw with the pain, but said nothing. She met the fever in his eyes, the onslaught of his lips as they devoured hers, the thrust of his tongue that was simultaneous with that of his grinding hips.

  A second later she was sinking to the rug with him. Her clothing was roughly and quickly dismissed. She should have cried out against the strange violence. But she couldn’t because she was meeting it with a wild urgency of her own, an obliviousness to everything but him and the need to be with him this one last time. She never did lose eye contact with him as they sat upon the rug discarding the last of their garments; she reveled in the devil’s fire that blazed in his eyes His hands were upon her shoulders and he was pushing her down, pausing as he hovered over her, his length already pressed hard against her, his need a tantalizing power that pulsed a driving heat, a sweet promise, a strange threat, an intrigue that compelled discovery …

  And still his eyes carried that firelight. They asked a mocking question; they offered an out. They seemed to laugh a bitterness that neither of them would ever accept that out.

  Blair had her answer. She finally closed her eyes; she arched to him and for a single moment of soft tenderness traced the grim curve of his lips with her tongue. And then she was imprisoned, caught, held as his teeth took a grip of her lower lip, forceful, then sensuously light and grazing, holding, controlling all the same. And then he was looking at her again; his voice was rough velvet, it was a whisper, it was thunder, it permeated all that was conscious.

  “You will wait for me.”

  Again she found herself nodding. Anything. She would agree to anything at the moment. “Craig, please …”

  Her slender body reached beneath his in a high arch, his hands coursed her body to his hips. Still he watched her, waiting for her touch. And then he was alive inside her, a tempest, a possession that was total, complete. Something in her understood, but it was a vague understanding, to be truly fathomed at a later date. It was a branding of sorts, he never intended that she forget this night, that she forget just how complete and total his possession was.

  She would never, could never, forget. She would always remember the fire shooting high in the grate, orange flames reflecting the broad, damp shoulders of the man she loved. Fire, always, in his eyes, seeming to ebb only with that in the grate, far into the predawn hours of a mist-hazed morning.

  God, he consisted of incredible energy. In life, in love, he was incredible. Surely more than mortal.

  But he wasn’t more than mortal, Blair finally forced herself to accept. In all those hours of clinging to him, of greedily capitulating to all his demands, hoarding all that she could take in turn, she hadn’t forced herself to think at all. She had known that was the way it would be from the beginning. She had also known the reckoning would have to come.

  The fire was dying, the spring air was cool. She should have been cold, but she wasn’t. Burrowed next to Craig, cushioned by the fur rug, sheltered by a haphazard leg and arm that held her with casual, comfortable intimacy, she was warm. Exhausted, spent, pleasantly aching—but warm.

  She attempted to glance at Craig’s profile, but her hair was caught beneath his shoulder. Still she was sure that he slept. Had she slept at all? She really wasn’t sure. The night had been something like a Roman feast—fabulous, course after course. Such gluttony could only bring exhaustion.

  She finally managed to shift enough to see his face. Yes, he slept. She tasted salt and realized that tears slipped silently from her eyes. He was mortal. The breath that heaved his power-hewn chest could cease; the blood that coursed that vital, relentless energy could spill. The heart that pounded courage, loyalty, and love could stop. Incredible, yes, it was all incredible. All that was warm, living, vital could turn to dust with one bit of metal and explosive powder. A bullet … such a little thing to bring down such an indomitable creation.

  Why am I doing this to myself? she asked. Because she loved him so, because she loved the way his hair fell over his forehead as he slept, the way his limp fingers touched her, possessive even in his sleep.

  She swallowed; she was shaking.

  He did love her; she knew that. He meant all that he promised. But she also knew what happened to responsible, dependable people. The chief would even mean to let him go. But Craig Taylor was his number-one man. A new emergency would always be popping up.

  Knowing that she would leave him, she felt half dead already. And she was either too old, too mature, or too world-weary to believe in forcing choices, especially when they really had so little control.

  She should go now before they could talk again. Before he pushed, and they went round and round in circles. Don’t be an idiot, she chastised herself. One didn’t just slip away with Craig. It was a bear rug, she noted idly. Had she seen that when she came in? It didn’t really matter. What did matter was that she would never make it past
the wide, stone hearth before he awoke and grabbed her back.

  And what would she do then anyway? There sure as hell wasn’t going to be a Yellow Cab waiting just outside the door. She glanced once more at the rugged planes of his face that were so beautiful to her. She still tasted salt upon her lips. How to con a con artist. Her only chance was to get him into a shower. And then she would have to steal his car. He was on assignment, she reminded herself. He had to be somewhere at some time.

  Well, if the damned government wanted him badly enough, they’d just have to come and get him. After all, they were taking him from her, and she had already given them so much. I just can’t give everything, she thought, biting her lip to hold her tears back.

  She closed her eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep, her calculations complete, her mind resigned to all she must do.

  She wasn’t prepared for the intentness of his gaze when she woke again. He was leaning upon an elbow, watching her, and the naked love unguarded in his eyes caused her breath to catch. Dear God, she prayed in fleeting silence, keep him safe, keep him safe …

  “I love you, Blair,” he stated simply. She knew it; it had been said already. But it could never be said too much.

  She tried to smile. The effort wasn’t particularly successful, but it seemed enough for him.

  “Will you wait?”

  “Yes,” she lied baldly, never blinking. She traced his profile with a shaky finger and forced a grin. “Tomorrow has become today. Shouldn’t we get moving?”

  “Blair, we need to talk. I wouldn’t trade the night for anything. I’m sorry, but not really sorry. But we still need to talk—”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Blair interrupted him ruefully, her voice lowering to a husky whisper. “I wouldn’t trade the night—it meant as much to me as it did to you.” She cleared her throat and produced a more believable smile. “We can talk on our way back in. Why don’t you hop in the shower and if you point me toward the kitchen, I’ll make coffee.”

  He was silent for a second, then he kissed her very gently, as it he were tenderly apologetic toward lips still puffed from the bruising they had willfully accepted during the night. “Okay,” he finally agreed, rising and pausing just a second before helping her up. Her hair looked so beautiful tangled and spread over the rug, her hair and her slender form, delightfully curved and soft …

  He reached a hand down to help her up, wincing over her head as he gave in to the temptation to draw her naked form to his once more. God, did he hate to leave.

  “Kitchen is this way,” he mumbled, releasing her with reluctance and indicating the direction. “Coffee will have to be black—I haven’t any milk here. Of course, you could shower with me …”

  “No,” Blair protested, unconscious of her nakedness but poignantly aware of his as she moved swiftly for the kitchen. “It’s your last job. I’m sure they’ll come here if you don’t show up there nice and early.” She didn’t wait for his reaction; she moved into the kitchen.

  Seconds later she heard the water and rushed back into the living room. She paused for a minute by the fire. Perhaps she should wait, hear what he had to say as they drove back together.

  No, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t listen to pipe dreams, begin to believe, make promises. She had already lied in essence.

  Her clothing was scattered all over the floor; she didn’t dare take the time to fool around with dressing. Finding a closet door, she wrenched it open and found just what she needed—a trench coat. It fell almost to her feet, and the arms flapped ludicrously, but that didn’t matter. All she needed was covering.

  Next, the keys. She prayed that they were in his trouser pocket. They were. Simple. Easy. Except that her fingers also clasped a small box, and even in her desperation she couldn’t help but unlatch the box with trembling fingers.

  A diamond solitaire stared up at her, brilliant even in the misty light of early morning. A sob caught in her throat, but she had always known deep inside her that he meant marriage. She closed her eyes, fighting a spasm of shivers. She couldn’t be a widow again.

  Biting down into her lips until she tasted blood, she snapped the velvet box closed and replaced it in the trousers. Actually it was harder to drop the trousers than it had been to shut the box. Cruel to be kind, she told herself bitterly. He would understand when she left that it was over, that there was no future, that he needn’t believe that he could change the color of his stripes.

  The water was still running, but she didn’t have long. Blair opened the front door as silently as possible and headed for the Porsche. Of all things, the upward swinging door once more gave her trouble. Why couldn’t he drive a normal car? she wondered dispiritedly. The best laid plans of mice and men … He wasn’t an average man. She had also known that from the very beginning.

  The door finally gave. The Porsche floored instantly into action. She had no trouble retracing the roads they had traveled the previous night. Within fifteen minutes she was back on the Washington Beltway. It was spring, a beautiful spring. Crisp, clean.

  She had never been colder in her life. More numb.

  Craig heard the whirr of his car’s motor even in the shower. Not bothering to turn off the faucets, he sped from the enclosure, pausing only a fraction of a second to loop the ends of a towel tightly over his hips. He reached the drive just as the car jerked and accelerated into a dust-twirling screech and pelted down the road.

  He knew instantly that she wouldn’t be looking back.

  He stood silently in the chill morning for a moment, watching as the silver car became a tiny speck. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered finally, brooding motionlessly despite the sting of the chill against his bare damp flesh. He was furious, but also touched by a dry admiration. She hadn’t made a single mistake; she had coerced him, manipulated him perfectly. She had lied with the sweetest of smiles.

  And as she had expected, he understood her message.

  Tensing his jaw, he moved back into the house. He picked up the phone and touched a single digit; a pre-set number. “Taylor here,” he said tonelessly. “I need a pickup.”

  He set the phone down and began to dress. He stuffed all necessary papers into the pockets of a short ski jacket, noticing without a blink that his trench coat was gone.

  At least she hadn’t lit out stark naked, he thought with a certain jealous relief. He almost smiled, wondering how Huntington was going to react when Blair walked in like a flasher.

  He had a feeling Huntington wouldn’t even lift a dignified brow. Huntington was on his side. Well, maybe not on his side, but Huntington loved his daughter above all else. If Huntington had his way, Craig believed, he would be gift-wrapped right now. One C. Taylor, tied up in bows.

  He was glad Huntington didn’t have complete control. Blair was right about one thing; he couldn’t handle it that way. He did have to be his own man; he had to make his own choices. It would have been nice if she would have believed in him.

  He had a little time left after packing. He picked up the clothing scattered around his living room, then sat down and stared at the ashes of the fire, unable to stop the memories of how rampantly it had burned through the night.

  He found the small tiara that highlighted the coiled piles of her hair the night before. Twisting it in his hands, he felt his lips curl into a grim lock of determination. He shook his head half tenderly, half fiercely.

  “It’s not over, princess,” he murmured. “Not by a long shot. I will be back.”

  He heard the car coming for him and carefully placed the tiara on the fur before the ashes of the fire. Walking to the door, he glanced back to the room once more.

  “I will be back,” he repeated softly aloud. “And princess, you won’t be able to find a place in heaven or earth to hide.”

  It was with a trace of dry amusement that he closed his door. Little witch. Stole his damned car. She was surely going to pay for that one. Another one for the boys in S.S. if the story ever got out. Taylor b
ested by a slip of a girl.

  Taylor, he decided wryly of himself, had been bested by a slip of a girl.

  A woman.

  His princess.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ANDREW HUNTINGTON WAS EVERY bit as cool about his daughter’s appearance as Craig had expected.

  Blair was a bit ruffled. She had forgotten all about her father until she was unlatching the door and entering his living room.

  But he didn’t say a word. He didn’t even blink. He said a brisk good-morning and mentioned that there was coffee in the kitchen. He brushed her forehead with a kiss and promised to be home early for dinner before leaving in his customary quiet suit and tie, as if she were clad in everyday leisurewear.

  As a father, Blair decided with drained relief and gratification, he was definitely an A-plus with gold stars.

  Alone in the house, Blair poured herself a cup of coffee and climbed the steps to her room, intending to shower. But she didn’t, not right away. Although memory carried the sting of torture, she wanted to remember. She wanted to hoard the night; she couldn’t bear the thought of immediately washing away the scent that was Taylor, which still clung to her skin.

  Blair stayed in the town house for three days straight, functioning, walking, talking, breathing, sitting quietly with her father at night, playing chess, sometimes merely reading with him in his study while he worked.

  She didn’t cry. She was empty. At night she would stare long at her ceiling, and no matter how she tried to convince herself that she had taken the only course possible, she would be unable to prevent herself from plaguing her mind with ifs.

  But Craig was gone. She had firmly slammed a door in his face. It was now really unlikely that she would see him again, at least not for years, and then they would meet as strangers at some casual function; their love would be a distant thing of youth and passion, something they might both smile over with a futile poignancy.