Enemy Mine

by Kay Hooper

  Tyler returned his gaze for a moment, then took the bait mildly. “You men have been using words to that effect for far too long; it’s high time you stopped getting away with it. I would have been ready ages ago, but you got my hair wet.”

  He grinned. “So I did.” He bent and kissed her with slow thoroughness, then said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes, baby,” and left their room, whistling softly.

  She stared at the closed door almost blindly until her breathing steadied. Baby. Caressing, not sardonic or flippant. But he probably called all his women baby, and—

  Damn it, think of the chalice!

  Tyler fixed her gaze on the phone and made herself think safe, painless professional thoughts. The only way to visit a private villa, she mused, was to be a guest. An invited guest. Which was a bit difficult when you were a stranger. Unless, of course, you were able to produce impeccable references and had a good reason for wanting to visit the villa, a reason of which a contessa interested in historical preservation might approve.

  She didn’t hesitate, but immediately picked up the phone.

  “ I WANT YOU.”

  The words were low, barely above a whisper, but the sound of them went through Tyler like an electrical current. Her head tipped back against his arm as she looked at him, and the current was pulsing, beating with hot blood, roaring inside her. Not here, she wanted to say, because the gondolier was so close and they were in an old gondola floating quietly along an older canal, and even though it was dark, they weren’t alone.

  She couldn’t say it, couldn’t make a single protest. It didn’t matter where they were, because the searing force of the current was lashing her. She stared into his eyes, helpless, burning, mindless, his. She wanted to plead with him not to do this to her, not to leave her with nothing, and in the same breath beg him to take her until she was drained, empty, until there was nothing left.

  Kane’s glittering eyes dropped briefly to her trembling lips, then lifted again, trapped her, mesmerized her.

  “Say it,” he whispered.

  She knew what he wanted, knew he wanted her to admit that he could take her here and now, that she wouldn’t be able to stop him. That she couldn’t control this need he had created in her, it was like a drug she couldn’t do without. She was lost and they both knew it, rudderless, adrift. She held on to him, trembling, because there was nothing else.

  “Say it.” The demand again, whispered, raw.

  “Yes.” It was almost a sob, a sound of defeat and triumph, an admission she had to make. And if that admission sent pain piercing through her, it was only because it meant so much more to her than it did to him. To him it was simply an affirmation of his power over her, the sexual prowess that left her totally helpless in his arms; to her it was an acceptance of a truth that freed her from ten years in an emotional prison.

  She had battled fiercely to control her life after what had happened to her, swearing that she would never again be powerless because she wasn’t strong enough or fast enough or brave enough to fight when she had to. She had fought Kane with all she had, layer after layer of herself, with every ounce of strength and will she could command—and she had lost. But in her defeat, she gained something she hadn’t expected. One man had taught her the bitter anguish of defeat, and with that had changed her life; Kane had taught her the proud glory of surrender, and with that had freed her spirit.

  “Yes,” she whispered again, her shaking body pliant against the hardness of his.

  Kane’s lips touched hers with the lightness of a sigh, and then he silently drew her head to his shoulder and just held her. But she could feel the heat of his big body, the faint tremors of something held so tightly it shook with strain. Beneath her hand on his chest, she felt the hammering of his heart, as if he’d run some endless, dreadful race.

  Had it meant that much to him? Could simple desire so powerfully affect an experienced man like Kane? Tyler was blind to the old buildings rearing on either side of the canal, and she didn’t notice the dark, musty scent of a city like no other in the world, a city built on water. She was nourishing a tiny spark of hope, a longing so deep in her heart it was wordless.

  Neither of them said anything, and Kane didn’t let go of her in the gondola or in the motor launch that returned them to their hotel. And as soon as they were in their lamplit room, still without a word, he stripped her clothes off with the single-minded determination of a male animal intent on possession. Tyler was so shaken with desire that she couldn’t help him rid them of the clothing, couldn’t move at all except when he moved her.

  For the first time he was a little rough with her, hasty, almost wild, as if waiting even seconds was more than he could stand. She didn’t care. As always, she was instantly ready for him, desperate for him, clinging to his shoulders as he kneed her legs apart and entered her with a powerful thrust. Tyler arched beneath him with a moan, wrapping her legs around his hard hips, her nails digging into the muscles cording his shoulders.

  Kane dug his fingers into her hair, holding her head still as he kissed her hungrily, taking her mouth with the same primitive urgency with which he took her body. It was a mating, quick, primal, their bodies relentless in the blind drive for satisfaction.

  AN UNEASINESS PRODDED Kane, and he responded to it by raising himself on his elbows and beginning to ease away from Tyler. He was heavy, pinning her, and he was still reluctant to risk any return of her panic in that. Always before, she had made no protest when he left her, but this time her legs tightened around him.

  “No.” Her voice was husky. “Stay with me.”

  He could feel the ebbing tremors of her body, faint aftershocks in her flesh. He lowered his head to kiss her swollen lips, the flushed curve of her cheek. God, she was so beautiful, her face glowing, the eyes that opened slowly holding a luminous amber fire. And secrets. He could rouse her to passion, even to surrender, hurl her into the same frenzy that gripped him, but her thoughts were still a mystery to him.

  “What are you thinking?” he muttered, because he was going crazy trying to find a way across the distance between them.

  “Nothing. I’m not thinking at all.” Her hands moved over his back slowly, her nails scratching lightly in a tickling caress.

  “Think about me,” he ordered, conscious of a wry smile tugging at his lips.

  Her long lashes veiled the amber eyes even more. “I’m feeling you,” she murmured. “Isn’t that enough?”

  No. But he didn’t say it. Instead he began kissing her again, wanting her again with a hunger that grew and grew until it was a living thing inside him, clawing, desperate. It was a long time later when he finally got them both under the covers and reached to turn out the lamp.

  TYLER WAS AWARE of two things when a buzzing disturbed her sleep; that they’d left the balcony doors open last night, and that Kane’s shoulder was wonderfully comfortable. She murmured a complaint when her pillow moved, then worked an elbow beneath her and levered herself up slightly as his voice woke her fully and she realized he had answered the telephone.

  “Just a minute.” He took the receiver away from his ear and looked at her, his mussed, shaggy hair and morning beard making him look unbelievably sexy. “For you. Keith Dutton?”

  Tyler stared at him blankly for a moment, then remembered. “Oh. Right.” She sat up, shivering as the chill of the room struck her naked flesh, and snatched the sheet up to cover her breasts as she took the phone from him. “Keith?”

  “I gather,” he said politely, “that I just woke up Kane Pendleton.”

  She felt herself flushing, which was ridiculous. “I told you he was with me,” she muttered.

  “You didn’t tell me he was in your bed.” Before she could respond, Keith’s tone became plaintive. “And after North Africa—to say nothing of your other encounters these last years—you swore you’d kill the man if he ever crossed your path again. Over and over, you kept swearing that. I distinctly remember you mentioning slow torture or, failing that, b
oth barrels of a shotgun.”

  “Yes, well. Things change,” she offered lamely.

  “Obviously. I guess it was bound to happen, though. When you rub two flints together, you’ve got to expect a fire sooner or later. You picked the right city for it; it can only burn down to the waterline.”

  “Very funny.”

  His voice lost part of the mockery and became at least halfway serious. “Watch out that you don’t get your fingers burned, Tyler. The scars last a long time.”

  “I will.” That warning, she thought, had come far too late. She didn’t look at Kane, but was very conscious of him lying beside her.

  “Sorry, but I feel a certain responsibility, kiddo. After all, I dandled you on my knee.”

  “You did not,” she said indignantly. “Cut it out, will you? Do you have any news for me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do—”

  Kane watched Tyler’s face as the quick flush faded and her expression became absorbed. She was just listening now, giving away no clue to the conversation. Who was Keith Dutton, and how the hell had he known how to contact Tyler? Was he here in Venice, or back in England? How long had he known Tyler?

  Kane knew there had been no other man in her bed, but that certainly did nothing to ease the sudden, fierce stab of pain he felt. That note of easy familiarity in her voice when she had spoken to Dutton told him this man was close to her, perhaps in a way that he himself could never be, a mental or emotional closeness. Did Dutton know the enigmatic part of Tyler, the secrets in her eyes? Had he fought with her? Had he loved her helplessly for years just like—

  Kane looked at her, at the morning light bathing her in gold as she sat in the bed with the sheet held to her breasts, the smooth flesh of her back bare to his gaze. Her glorious hair tumbled around her shoulders in silky curls, a gleaming mass of living fire. He saw the clean, delicate bone structure of her profile, the graceful line of throat, the stubborn chin, the slender, seemingly fragile body. And suddenly he couldn’t breathe, suddenly she was so beautiful it broke his heart.

  He reached out a hand slowly, touching her warm back with just the tips of his fingers because he needed to touch her, tracing the straight, deceptively fragile line of her spine upward. She moved under his touch, a sensuous ripple like a cat being stroked, unthinking, instinctive pleasure.

  He loved her. He had always loved her. Under the stifling sun of Cairo, he had met—no, clashed—with a woman of caged fire. In that ancient, dusty city, she had glared at him, her bright eyes spitting fury, her magnificent body stiff, and he had been lost from that moment.

  Had he sensed then that she was wounded, that she would have clawed and bitten like a cornered animal if he had tried to step closer? He wasn’t sure. Maybe. Or maybe it had been his own unconscious resistance to the emotions she’d roused in him that had made him willingly accept the role of enemy and not look beyond that for so long.

  She was talking, now, to that man on the phone, her voice quick and eager, but Kane didn’t take in the words. She was his physically, a passionate bond of the flesh that she willingly accepted, yet her heart and her thoughts, those secret thoughts, she wouldn’t allow him. He didn’t know how to reach her there, in her solitary places. But he had to find a way, somehow, because if he lost her now it would kill him.

  “Kane—we’re in!” She leaned across him to cradle the receiver, and his arms kept her there. She squirmed a bit, yanking the covers up over her shoulders. “I didn’t know Venice was so cold in October,” she muttered. “Kane—”

  “Who’s Keith Dutton?” he asked, feeling his pulse quicken with instant desire as her hard nipples, chilled and tight, rubbed against his chest.

  She snuggled into his warmth, but her voice was rapid and businesslike. “He’s worked for museums all over the world—the Palazzo Ducale this year—and I thought—”

  “Who is he?” Kane repeated.

  Tyler pursed her lips at him, not quite a pout, clearly impatient. “I’ve known him for years; he worked with my father on several digs. The point is that I thought he might know the contessa, so I called him—”

  “When?”

  “While you were arranging for the gondola ride.” Her voice quavered just a bit when she remembered that electrifying trip along the canal, then steadied. “He does know her, and he’s fixed it up so we’ve been invited to spend a few days at the villa. Isn’t that great?”

  Whatever reaction she’d expected from Kane, it certainly wasn’t the one she got. She could feel his body stiffen, and watched in bewilderment as his eyes narrowed.

  In a grim tone, he said, “In a hurry, Ty?”

  “We’ve learned all we can here,” she pointed out, wondering what in the world was wrong with him. “We have to get inside the villa, and it isn’t open to the public.”

  “What’s the plan?” His voice was still hard.

  Tyler was completely off balance by then, and getting mad about it. “Keith and I decided that the best way”—she broke off as he sort of growled, then went on defiantly—“to get invited by the contessa was to use our own credentials. I can have references telexed from half a dozen museums, and since you have two separate degrees in archaeology—” She interrupted herself this time to say sweetly, “So nice to hear that from Keith, by the way.”

  “You never asked,” Kane muttered.

  She glared at him. “The contessa thinks we’re researching some of the old Venetian families, and the Montegro library is stuffed with family books and papers. Keith says she’s wanted to get somebody in there to catalog everything for years, but her stepson always talked her out of it. Anyway, he’s out of town for a few days, so the timing couldn’t be better.”

  “We aren’t going to catalog her library,” Kane said flatly.

  “Of course we aren’t.” Tyler jerked away from him and sat up. “We’ll try to find some mention of the chalice and we’ll snoop around the villa. What the hell’s wrong with you, Kane?”

  “Nothing.” He flung the covers back and got out of bed. Their clothing was scattered across the room, and he muttered to himself as he found his briefs and jeans, and stepped into them.

  “I get it,” she snapped angrily. “It was my idea, that’s why you’re rumbling like a thundercloud.”

  “You know better than that,” he growled, zipping his jeans.

  “Then, what?” Tyler had forgotten the chill of the room in the heat of her baffled fury. She was kneeling in the middle of the tumbled bed, gloriously naked, and held her hands wide in a gesture of bewilderment. “If you want to fight, that’s great. Glad to oblige. Just tell me what we’re fighting about so I can gather my ammunition!”

  Kane turned to stare at her, and a sudden rueful grin pulled at his lips. “Baby, your ammunition would stop an army in its tracks.”

  Tyler glanced down at herself, then jerked her furious gaze back to his. “Damn you, Kane—”

  “Here.” He tossed her his shirt. “Put that on.”

  She shrugged into the shirt, fastened a couple of the buttons, then looked at him. In a tone of absolute astonishment, she said, “Are you mad about Keith?”

  Kane wondered which would be the safest admission: that the other man’s very name made him grind his teeth together, or that it hurt him to see her so eager to complete the “business” ostensibly keeping them in Venice—and together. After a moment he went to the bed and sat down, eyeing her. “Tell me he’s sixty-five and doddering.”

  Her anger gone, still gazing at him in surprise, Tyler cleared her throat and murmured, “No. Thirty-five or so. Plays tennis.”

  “Damn,” Kane said.

  “You weren’t jealous?” she ventured.

  He looked reflective. “Well, I could be wrong, but I think that’s what it was. Is.”

  “Why?”

  “He knew you before I did,” Kane said simply.

  Tyler didn’t quite know what to make of that. Jealousy didn’t necessarily indicate caring, not in a man as innately poss
essive as Kane seemed to be. But she could hope, even though she wasn’t willing to let him see that wistfulness.

  “Oh.” She cleared her throat again and made her voice cool and dry. “Dog in a manger, Kane? Well, never mind, it isn’t important.”

  “Isn’t it?” His voice was silky. He watched a baffled frown draw her brows together, but it was a fleeting expression and she shrugged.

  “No reason it should be. Look, don’t you agree that we have to get inside the villa? We have to check out the family history and see if there’s mention of the chalice. Because even if we don’t find the second one . . .”

  “We may discover that our chalice legally belongs to the Montegro family,” Kane finished. He would have been wishing both chalices in hell by now except that the first one had brought Tyler and him together, and the possible existence of the second one, he was beginning to believe, was the only thing keeping her with him now. How much time did he have before she left him?

  “We have to make sure,” she said. “The chalices have been split up so many times, only one of them may have been in the family. But which one? Keith says that the Montegro library has family journals at least two or three hundred years old; if we can’t find the answer there, we won’t find it.”

  Kane leaned back on the bed, resting on his elbow. “Agreed. And you got us invited to the villa.”

  “Keith did.”

  If Kane hadn’t known his jealousy had made no impression on her, he would have suspected her of deliberately needling him. But there was no guile in her clear amber eyes, and her tone had been absent.

  “And,” she went on briskly, “we’re expected sometime this afternoon. We have to go shopping, both of us.”

  He knew what she meant, but he wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable about this. “Why? We’re supposed to be researchers; the contessa won’t expect us to show up in designer clothes.”

  Tyler raised her eyebrows at him. “She won’t expect us to show up with backpacks, either. And I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for something other than boots and denim.”