The Right Path

by Nora Roberts

  “I’m sorry, Iona, not tomorrow. Perhaps later in the week.” Nick softened the refusal with the trace of a finger down her hand.

  Iona’s mouth formed a pout. “I might die of boredom by later in the week.”

  Morgan heard Dorian give a quiet sigh. Glancing over, she noted the quick look of exasperation he sent Iona. “Iona tells me she ran into Maria Popagos in Athens last week.” The look of exasperation was gone, and his voice was gentle. “She has what—four children now, Iona?”

  They treat her like a child, Morgan thought with distaste. And she behaves like one—a spoiled, willful, not quite healthy child.

  Through the rest of the meal, and during coffee in the salon, Morgan watched Iona’s moods go from sullen to frantic. Apparently used to it, or too good mannered to notice, Dorian ignored the fluctuations. And though she hated to give him the credit for it, so did Nick. But Morgan noted, with a flutter of sympathy, that Alex grew more distracted as the evening wore on. He spoke to his cousin in undertones as she added more brandy to her glass. Her response was a dramatic toss of her head before she swallowed the liquor and turned her back on him.

  When Nick rose to leave, Iona insisted on walking with him to his car. She cast a look of triumph over her shoulder as they left the salon arm-in-arm. Now who, Morgan mused, was that aimed at? Shrugging, she turned back to Dorian and let the evening wind down naturally. There would be time enough to think things through when she was alone in her room again.

  ***

  Morgan floated with the dream. The wine had brought sleep quickly. Though she had left the balcony doors securely locked, the night breeze drifted through the windows. She sighed, and shifted with its gentle caress on her skin. It was a soft stroking, like a butterfly’s wing. It teased across her lips, then came back to warm them. She stirred with pleasure. Her body was pliant, receptive. As the phantom kiss increased in pressure, she parted her lips. She drew the dream lover closer.

  Excitement was sleepy. The tastes that seeped into her were as sweet and as potent as the wine that still misted her brain. With a sigh of lazy, languid pleasure, she floated with it. In the dream, her arms wrapped around the faceless lover—the pirate, the phantom. He whispered her name and deepened the kiss as his hands drew down the sheet that separated them. Rough fingers, familiar fingers, traced over her skin. A body, too hard, too muscular for a dream, pressed against hers. The lazy images became more tangible, and the phantom took on form. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a mouth that was grimly beautiful and oh, so clever.

  Warmth became heat. With a moan, she let passion take her. The stroking along her body became more insistent at her response. Her mouth grew hungry, demanding. Then she heard the breathy whisper of a Greek endearment against her ear.

  Suddenly, the filmy curtain of sleep lifted. The weight on her body was real, achingly real—and achingly familiar. Morgan began a confused struggle.

  “The goddess awakes. More’s the pity.”

  She saw him in the shaft of moonlight. Her body was alive with needs, her mind baffled with the knowledge that he had induced them. “What are you doing!” she demanded, and found her breathing was quick and ragged. His mouth had been on hers, she knew. She could still taste him. And his hands . . . “This is the limit! If you think for one minute I’m going to sit still for you crawling into my bed while I’m sleeping—”

  “You were very agreeable a moment ago.”

  “Oh! What a despicable thing to do.”

  “You’re very responsive,” Nick murmured, and traced her ear with his fingertip. Beneath his hand he could feel the thunder of her heartbeat. He knew, though he fought to slow it, that his own beat as quickly. “It seemed to please you to be touched. It pleased me to touch you.”

  His voice had lowered again, as she knew it could—dark, seductive. The muscles in her thighs loosened. “Get off of me,” she ordered in quick defense.

  “Sweet Morgan.” He nipped her bottom lip—felt her tremble, felt a swift rush of power. It would be so easy to persuade her . . . and so risky. With an effort, he gave her a friendly smile. “You only postpone the inevitable.”

  She kept her eyes level as she tried to steady her breathing. Something told her that if all else he had said had been lies, his last statement was all too true. “I didn’t promise not to scream this time.”

  He lifted a brow as though the possibility intrigued him. “It might be interesting to explain this . . . situation to Alex and Liz. I could claim I was overcome with your beauty. It has a ring of truth. But you won’t scream in any case.”

  “Just what makes you so sure?”

  “You’d have given me away—or tried to by now—if you were going to.” Nick rolled aside.

  Sitting up, Morgan pushed at her hair. Did he always have to be right? she wondered grimly. “What do you want now? And how the hell did you get in this time? I locked . . .” Her voice trailed off as she saw the balcony doors were wide open.

  “Did you think a lock would keep me out?” With a laugh, Nick ran a finger down her nose. “You have a lot to learn.”

  “Now, you listen to me—”

  “No, save the recriminations for later. They’re understood in any case.” Absently, he rubbed a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. “I came back to make certain you didn’t develop a convenient headache that would keep you from coming to the house tomorrow. There are one or two things I want to discuss with you.”

  “I’ve got a crate full of things to discuss with you,” Morgan hissed furiously. “Just what were you doing that night on the beach? And who—”

  “Later, Aphrodite. I’m distracted at the moment. That scent you wear, for instance. It’s very . . .” He lifted his eyes to hers, “alluring.”

  “Stop it.” She didn’t trust him when his voice dropped to that tone. She didn’t trust him at all, she reminded herself and gave him a level look. “What’s the purpose behind that ridiculous game you were playing tonight?”

  “Game?” His eyes widened effectively. “Morgan, my love, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was quite natural.”

  “Natural be damned.”

  “No need to swear at me,” he said mildly.

  “There’s every need,” she countered. How could he manage to be charming under such ridiculous circumstances? “You were the perfect guest this evening,” Morgan went on, knocking his hand aside as he began to toy with the thin strap of her chemise. “Charming—”

  “Thank you.”

  “And false,” she added, narrowing her eyes.

  “Not false,” Nick disagreed. “Simply suitable, considering the occasion.”

  “I suppose it would have looked a bit odd if you’d pulled a knife out of your pocket.”

  His fingers tightened briefly, then relaxed. She wasn’t going to let him forget that—and he wasn’t having an easy time blanking out that moment she had gone limp with terror beneath him. “Few people have seen me other than I was tonight,” he murmured, and began to give the texture of her hair his attention. “Perhaps it’s your misfortune to count yourself among them.”

  “I don’t want to see you any way, from now on.”

  Humor touched his eyes again as they shifted to hers. “Liar. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at one.”

  Morgan tossed out a phrase commonly heard in the less elite portions of Italy. Nick responded with a pleased laugh.

  “Agapetike, I should warn you, in my business I’ve had occasion to visit some Italian gutters.”

  “Good, then you won’t need a translation.”

  “Just be ready.” He let his gaze sweep down her, then up again. “You might find it easier to deal with me in the daylight—and when you’re more adequately attired.”

  “I have no intention of dealing with you at all,” Morgan began in a furious undertone. “Or of continuing this ridiculous charade by going with you tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I think you will.” Nick’s smile was confident and infuriating. “You’d fin
d yourself having a difficult time explaining to Liz why you won’t come when you’ve already expressed an interest in my home. Tell me, what was it that appealed to you about it?”

  “The insanity of the architecture.”

  He laughed again and took her hand. “More compliments. I adore you, Aphrodite. Come, kiss me good night.”

  Morgan drew back and scowled. “I certainly will not.”

  “You certainly will.” In a swift movement he had her pinned under him again. When she cursed him, he laughed and the insolence was back. “Witch,” he murmured. “What mortal can resist one?”

  His mouth came down quickly, lingering until she had stopped squirming beneath him. Gradually, the force went out of the kiss, but not the power. It seeped into her, so that she couldn’t be sure if it was hers or his. Then it was only passion—clean and hot and senseless. On a moan, Morgan accepted it, and him.

  Feeling the change in her, Nick relaxed a moment and simply let himself enjoy.

  She had a taste that stayed with him long after he left her. Each time he touched her he knew, eventually, he would have to have it all. But not now. Now there was too much at stake. She was a risk, and he had already taken too many chances with her. But that taste . . .

  He gave himself over to the kiss knowing the danger of letting himself become vulnerable, even for a moment, by losing himself in her. If she hadn’t been on the beach that night. If he hadn’t had to reveal himself to her. Would things have been different than they were now? he wondered as desire began to claw at him. Would he have been able to coax her into his arms, into his bed, with a bit of flair and a few clever words? If they had met for the first time tonight, would he have wanted her this badly, this quickly?

  Her hands were in his hair. He found his mouth had roamed to her throat. Her scent seemed to concentrate there, and the taste was wild and dangerous. He lived with danger and enjoyed it—lived by his wits and won. But this woman, this feeling she stirred in him, was a risk he could calculate. Yet it was done. There was no changing the course he had to take. And no changing the fact that she was involved.

  He wanted to touch her, to tear off that swatch of silk she wore and feel her skin warm under his hand. He dared not. He was a man who knew his own limitations, his own weaknesses. Nick didn’t appreciate the fact that Morgan James had become a weakness at a time when he could least afford one.

  Murmuring his name, Morgan slid her hands beneath the loose sweatshirt, to run them over the range of muscle. Nick felt need shoot like a spear, white-tipped, to the pit of his stomach. Using every ounce of will, he banked down on it until it was a dull ache he could control. He lifted his head and waited for those pale, clouded blue eyes to open. Something dug into his palm, and he saw that he had gripped her medal in his hand without realizing it. Nick had to quell the urge to swear, then give himself a moment until he knew he could speak lightly. “Sleep well, Aphrodite,” he told her with a grin. “Until tomorrow.”

  “You—” She broke off, struggling for the breath and the wit to hurl abuse at him.

  “Tomorrow,” Nick repeated as he brought her hand to his lips.

  Morgan watched him stride to the balcony, then lower himself out of sight. Lying perfectly still, she stared at the empty space and wondered what she had gotten herself into.

  Chapter 4

  The house was cool and quiet in the mid-morning hush. Gratefully, Morgan accepted Liz’s order to enjoy the beach. She wanted to avoid Iona’s company, and though she hated to admit it, she didn’t think she could handle Liz’s carefree chatter about the dinner party. Liz would have expected her to make some witty observations about Nick that Morgan just didn’t feel up to. Relieved that Dorian had business with Alex, and wouldn’t feel obliged to keep her company, she set out alone.

  Morgan wanted the solitude—she did her best thinking when she was alone. In the past few days she had accumulated quite a bit to think about. Now she decided to work it through one step at a time.

  What had Nicholas Gregoras been doing that night on the beach? He’d had the scent of the sea on him, so it followed that he had been out on the water. She remembered the sound of a motor. She’d assumed it belonged to a fisherman but Nick was no fisherman. He’d been desperate not to be seen by someone . . . desperate enough to have been carrying a knife. She could still see the look on his face as she had lain beneath him in the shadows of the cypress. He’d been prepared to use the knife.

  Somehow the knowledge that this was true disturbed her more now than it had when he’d been a stranger. Kicking bad-temperedly at a stone, she started down the beach steps.

  And who had been with him? Morgan fretted. Someone had followed his orders without any question. Who had used the beach steps while Nick had held her prisoner in the shadows? Alex? The man who rented Nick’s cottage? Frustrated, Morgan slipped out of her shoes and began to cross the warm sand. Why would Nick be ready to kill either one of them rather than be discovered by them? By anyone, she corrected. It could have been a servant of one of the villas, a villager trespassing.

  One question at a time, Morgan cautioned herself as she kicked idly at the sand. First, was it logical to assume that the footsteps she had heard were from someone who had also come from the sea? Morgan thought it was. And second, she decided that the person must have been headed to one of the villas or a nearby cottage. Why else would they have used that particular strip of beach? Logical, she concluded, walking aimlessly. So why was Nick so violently determined to go unseen?

  Smuggling. It was so obvious. So logical. But she had continued to push the words aside. She didn’t want to think of him involved in such a dirty business. Somewhere, beneath the anger and resentment she felt for him, Morgan had experienced a totally different sensation. There was something about him—something she couldn’t really pinpoint in words. Strength, perhaps. He was the kind of man you could depend on when no one else could—or would—help. She wanted to trust him. There was no logic to it, it simply was.

  But was he a smuggler? Had he thought she’d seen something incriminating? Did the footsteps she’d heard belong to a patrol? Another smuggler? A rival? If he’d believed her to be a threat, why hadn’t he simply used the knife on her? If he were a cold-blooded killer . . . no. Morgan shook her head at the description. While she could almost accept that Nick would kill, she couldn’t agree with the adjective. And that led to hundreds of other problems.

  Questions and answers sped through her mind. Stubborn questions, disturbing answers. Morgan shut her eyes on them. I’m going to get some straight answers from him this afternoon, she promised herself. It was his fault she was involved. Morgan dropped to the sand and brought her knees to her chest. She had been minding her own business when he had literally dragged her into it. All she had wanted was a nice, quiet vacation.

  “Men!”

  “I refuse to take that personally.”

  Morgan spun her head around and found herself staring into a wide, friendly smile.

  “Hello. You seem to be angry with my entire gender.” He rose from a rock and walked to her. He was tall and very slender, with dark gold curls appealingly disarrayed around a tanned face that held both youth and strength. “But I think it’s worth the risk. I’m Andrew Stevenson.” Still smiling, he dropped to the sand beside her.

  “Oh.” Recovering, Morgan returned the smile. “The poet or the painter? Liz wasn’t sure.”

  “Poet,” he said with a grimace. “Or so I tell myself.”

  Glancing down, she saw the pad he held. It was dog-eared and covered with a fine, looping scribble. “I’ve interrupted your work, I’m sorry.”

  “On the contrary, you’ve given me a shot of inspiration. You have a remarkable face.”

  “I think,” Morgan considered, “that’s a compliment.”

  “Dear lady, yours is a face a poet dreams of.” He let his eyes roam it for a moment. “Do you have a name, or are you going to vanish in a mist and leave me bewitched?”

 
“Morgan.” The fussy compliment, delivered with bland sincerity made her laugh. “Morgan James, and are you a good poet, Andrew Stevenson?”

  “I can’t say no.” Andrew continued to study her candidly. “Modesty isn’t one of my virtues. You said Liz. I assume that’s Mrs. Theoharis. You’re staying with them?”

  “Yes, for a few weeks.” A new thought crossed her mind. “You’re renting Nicholas Gregoras’s cottage?”

  “That’s right. Actually, it’s a free ride.” Though he set down the pad, he began to trace patterns in the sand as if he couldn’t keep his hands quite still. “We’re cousins.” Andrew noted the surprise on her face. His smile deepened. “Not the Greek side. Our mothers are related.”

  “Oh, so his mother’s American.” This at least explained his ease with the language.

  “A Norling of San Francisco,” he stated with a grin for the title. “She remarried after Nick’s father died. She’s living in France.”

  “So, you’re visiting Lesbos and your cousin at the same time.”

  “Actually, Nick offered me the retreat when he learned I was working on an epic poem—a bit Homeric, you see.” His eyes were blue, darker than hers, and very direct on her face. Morgan could see nothing in the open, ingenuous look to link him with Nick. “I wanted to stay on Lesbos awhile, so it worked out nicely. The home of Sappho. The poetry and legend have always fascinated me.”

  “Sappho,” Morgan repeated, turning her thoughts from Nick. “Oh, yes, the poetess.”

  “The Tenth Muse. She lived here, in Mitilini.” His gaze, suddenly dreamy, swept down the stretch of beach. “I like to think