by Nora Roberts
Nick’s house is on the cliff where she hurled herself into the sea, desperate for Phaon’s love.”
“An interesting thought.” Morgan looked up to where a portion of a gray stone wall was visible. “And I suppose her spirit floats over the house searching for her love.” Somehow, she liked the idea and smiled. “Lord knows, it’s the perfect house for a poetic haunting.”
“Have you been inside?” Andrew asked her, his tone as dreamy as his eyes now. “It’s fantastic.”
“No, I’m getting a personal tour this afternoon.” Morgan kept her voice light as she swore silently in several languages.
“A personal tour?” Abruptly direct again, Andrew tilted his head, with brows lifted in speculation. “You must have made quite an impression on Nick. But then,” he added with a nod, “you would. He sets great store by beauty.”
Morgan gave him a noncommital smile. He could hardly know that it wasn’t her looks or charm that had secured the invitation. “Do you often write on the beach? I can’t keep away from it myself.” Morgan hesitated briefly, then plunged. “I came down here a couple of nights ago and swam by moonlight.”
There was no shock or anxiety in his eyes at this information. Andrew grinned. “I’m sorry I missed that. You’ll find me all over this part of the island. Here, up on the cliffs, in the olive groves. I go where the mood strikes me.”
“I’m going to do some exploring myself.” She thought wistfully of a carefree hour in the inlets.
“I’m available if you’d like a guide.” His gaze skimmed over her face again, warm and friendly. “By now, I know this part of the island as well as a native. If you find you want company, you can usually find me wandering around or in the cottage. It isn’t far.”
“I’d like that.” A gleam of amusement lit her eyes. “You don’t happen to keep a goat, do you?”
“Ah—no.”
Laughing at his expression, Morgan patted his hand. “Don’t try to understand,” she advised. “And now I’d better go change for my tour.”
Andrew rose with her and captured her hand. “I’ll see you again.” It was a statement, not a question. Morgan responded to the gentle pressure.
“I’m sure you will; the island’s very small.”
Andrew smiled as he released her hand. “I’d rather call it kismet.” He watched Morgan walk away before he settled back on his rock, facing the sea.
***
Nicholas Gregoras was very prompt. By five minutes past one, Morgan found herself being shoved out the door by an enthusiastic Liz. “Have fun, darling, and don’t hurry back. Nick, Morgan will adore your house; all those winding passages and the terrifying view of the sea. She’s very courageous, aren’t you, Morgan?”
“I’m practically stalwart,” she muttered while Nick grinned.
“Well, run along and have fun.” Liz shooed them out the door as if they were two reluctant children being sent to school.
“You should be warned,” Morgan stated as she slid into Nick’s car, “Liz considers you a suitable candidate for my hand. I think she’s getting desperate picturing me as her unborn child’s maiden aunt.”
“Aphrodite.” Nick settled beside her and took her hand. “There isn’t a male alive who could picture you as anyone’s maiden aunt.”
Refusing to be charmed, Morgan removed her hand from his, then studied the view out the side window. “I met your poet in residence this morning on the beach.”
“Andrew? He’s a nice boy. How did you find him?”
“Not like a boy.” Turning back to Nick, Morgan frowned. “He’s a very charming man.”
Nick lifted a brow fractionally. “Yes, I suppose he is. Somehow, I always think of him as a boy, though there’s barely five years between us.” He moved his shoulders. “He does have talent. Did you charm him?”
“ ‘Inspire’ was his word,” she returned, annoyed.
Nick flashed her a quick grin. “Naturally. One romantic should inspire another.”
“I’m not a romantic.” The conversation forced her to give him a great deal more of her attention than she had planned. “I’m very practical.”
“Morgan, you’re an insatiable romantic.” Her annoyance apparently amused him, because a smile continued to hover on his mouth. “A woman who combs her hair on a moonlit beach, wears filmy white, and treasures a valueless memento thrives on romance.”
Uncomfortable with the description, Morgan spoke coolly. “I also clip coupons and watch my cholesterol.”
“Admirable.”
She swallowed what might have been a chuckle. “You, Nicholas Gregoras, are a first-rate bastard.”
“Yes. I hate to be second-rate at anything.”
Morgan flounced back in her seat, but lost all resentment as the house came into full view. “Oh, Lord,” she murmured. “It’s wonderful!”
It looked stark and primitive and invulnerable. The second story lashed out over the sea like an out-stretched arm—not offering payment, but demanding it. None of the power she had felt out at sea was diminished at close range. The flowering shrubs and vines that trailed and tangled were placed to disguise the care of their planting. The result was an illusion of wild abandon. Sleeping Beauty’s castle, she thought, a century after she pricked her finger.
“What a marvelous place.” Morgan turned to him as he stopped the car at the entrance. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“That’s the first time you’ve smiled at me and meant it.” He wasn’t smiling now, but looking at her with a trace of annoyance. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d wanted to see that spontaneous warmth in her eyes—directed at him. And now that he had, he wasn’t certain what to do about it. With a quick mental oath, Nick slid from the car.
Ignoring him, Morgan climbed out and tried to take in the entire structure at once. “You know what it looks like,” she said, half to herself. “It looks like Zeus hurled a lightning bolt into the mountain and the house exploded into existence.”
“An interesting theory.” Nick took her hand and started up the stone steps. “If you’d known my grandfather, you’d realize how close that is to the truth.”
Morgan had primed herself to begin hurling questions and demanding explanations as soon as they had arrived. When she stepped into the entrance hall, she forgot everything.
Wide and speckled in aged white, the hall was sporadically slashed with stark colors from wall hangings and primitive paintings. On one wall, long spears were crossed—weapons for killing, certainly, but with an ancient dignity she had to admire. The staircase leading to the upper floors arched in a half circle with a banister of dark, unvarnished wood. The result was one of earthy magnificence. It was far from elegant, but there was a sense of balance and savage charm.
“Nicholas.” Turning a full circle, Morgan sighed. “It’s really wonderful. I expect a cyclops to come stalking down the stairs. Are there centaurs in the courtyard?”
“I’ll take you through, and we’ll see what we can do.” She was making it difficult for him to stick to his plan. She wasn’t supposed to charm him. That wasn’t in the script. Still, he kept her hand in his as he led her through the house.
Liz’s comparison to Aladdin’s cave was completely apt. Room after room abounded with treasures—Venetian glass, Fabergé boxes, African masks, Native American pottery, Ming vases. All were set together in a hodgepodge of cultures. What might have seemed like a museum was instead a glorious clutter of wonders. As the house twisted and turned, revealing surprise after surprise, Morgan became more fascinated. Elegant Waterford crystal was juxtaposed with a deadly-looking seventeenth-century crossbow. She saw exquisite porcelain and a shrunken head from Ecuador.
Yes, the architect was mad, she decided, noting lintels with wolves’ heads or grinning elves carved into them. Wonderfully mad. The house was a fairy tale—not the tame children’s version, but with all the whispering shadows and hints of gremlins.
A huge curved window on the top floor gave her the
sensation of standing suspended on the edge of the cliff. It jutted out, arrogantly, then fell in a sheer drop into the sea. Morgan stared down, equally exhilarated and terrified.
Nick watched her. There was a need to spin her around and seize, to possess while that look of dazzled courage was still on her face. He was a man accustomed to taking what he wanted without a second thought. She was something he wanted.
Morgan turned to him. Her eyes were still alive with the fascination of the sea and hints of excited fear. “Andrew said he hoped this was the cliff where Sappho hurled herself into the sea. I’m ready to believe it.”
“Andrew’s imaginative.”
“So are you,” she countered. “You live here.”
“Your eyes are like some mythological lake,” he murmured. “Translucent and ethereal. I should call you Circe rather than Aphrodite.” Abruptly, he gripped her hair in his hand, tugging it until her face was lifted to his. “I swear you’re more witch than goddess.”
Morgan stared at him. There was no teasing in his eyes this time, no arrogance. What she saw was longing. And the longing, more than passion, seduced her. “I’m only a woman, Nicholas,” she heard herself say.
His fingers tightened. His expression darkened. Then even as she watched, his mood seemed to shift. This time, he took her arm rather than her hand. “Come, we’ll go down and have a drink.”
As they entered the salon, Morgan reasserted her priorities. She had to get answers—she would get answers. She couldn’t let a few soft words and a pair of dark eyes make her forget why she’d come. Before she could speak, however, a man slipped through the doorway.
He was small, with creased, leather skin. His hair was gray with age, but thick. So were his arms—thick and muscled. He made her think of a small-scaled, very efficient tank. His moustache was a masterpiece. It spread under his nose to drop free along the sides of his mouth, reaching his chin in two flowing arches. He smiled, showing several gaps in lieu of teeth.
“Good afternoon.” He spoke in respectful Greek, but his eyes were dancing.
Intrigued, Morgan gave him an unsmiling stare. “Yiasou.”
“Stephanos, Miss James. Stephanos is my, ah, caretaker.”
The checkerboard grin widened at the term. “Your servant, my lady.” He bowed, but there was nothing deferential in the gesture. “The matter we discussed has been seen to, Mr. Gregoras.” Turning to Nick, the old man spoke with exaggerated respect. “You have messages from Athens.”
“I’ll tend to them later.”
“As you wish.” The small man melted away. Morgan frowned. There had been something in the exchange that wasn’t quite what it should be. Shaking her head, she watched Nick mix drinks. It wasn’t Nick’s relationship with his servants that she was interested in.
Deciding that plunging headfirst was the most direct route, Morgan leaped. “What were you doing on the beach the other night?”
“I rather thought we’d concluded I was assaulting you.” His voice was very mild.
“That was only part of the evening’s entertainment.” She swallowed and took another dive. “Had you been smuggling?”
To his credit, Nick hesitated only briefly. As his back was to her, Morgan didn’t see his expression range from surprise to consideration. A very sharp lady, he mused. Too damn sharp.
“And how did you come by such an astonishing conclusion?” He turned to hand her a delicate glass.
“Don’t start that charade with me,” Morgan fumed, snatching the glass. “I’ve seen you stripped.” She sat down and aimed a level stare.
Nick’s mouth twitched. “What a fascinating way you have of putting things.”
“I asked if you were a smuggler.”
Nick sat across from her, taking a long study of her face as he ticked off possibilities. “First, tell me why you think I might be.”
“You’d been out on the water that night. I could smell the sea on you.”
Nick gazed down into the liquid in his glass, then sipped. “It’s fanciful, to say the least, that my being out on the water equals smuggling.”
Morgan ground her teeth at the cool sarcasm and continued. “If you’d been out on a little fishing trip, you’d hardly have dragged me into the trees waving a knife.”
“One might argue,” he murmured, “that fishing was precisely my occupation.”
“The coast of Turkey is very convenient from this part of the island. Alex told me smuggling was a problem.”
“Alex?” Nick repeated. There was a quick, almost imperceptible change in his expression. “What was Alex’s attitude toward smuggling?”
Morgan hesitated. The question had broken into her well-thought-out interrogation. “He was . . . resigned, like one accepts the weather.”
“I see.” Nick swirled his drink as he leaned back. “And did you and Alex discuss the intricacies of the procedure?”
“Of course not!” she snapped, infuriated that he had cleverly turned the interrogation around on her. “Alex would hardly be intimate with such matters. But,” she continued, “I think you are.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Well?”
He sent her a mildly amused smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well what?”
“Are you going to deny it?” She wanted him to, Morgan realized with something like a jolt. She very, very badly wanted him to deny it.
Nick considered her for a moment. “If I deny it, you won’t believe me. It’s easy to see you’ve already made up your mind.” He tilted his head, and now the amusement crept into his eyes. “What will you do if I admit it?”
“I’ll turn you over to the police.” Morgan took a bold sip of her drink. Nick exploded with laughter.
“Morgan what a sweet, brave child you are.” He leaned over to take her hand before she could retort. “You don’t know my reputation, but I assure you, the police would think you mad.”
“I could prove—”
“What?” he demanded. His eyes were steady on hers, probing. The polished veneer was slowly fading. “You can’t prove what you don’t know.”
“I know that you’re not what you pretend to be.” Morgan tried to pull her hand from his, but he held it firm. “Or maybe it’s more accurate to say you’re something you pretend not to be.”
Nick watched her in silence, torn between annoyance and admiration. “Whatever I am, whatever I’m not, has nothing to do with you.”
“No one wishes more than I that that was the truth.”
Battling a new emotion, he sat back and studied her over the rim of his glass. “So your conclusions that I might be involved in smuggling would prompt you to go to the police. That wouldn’t be wise.”
“It’s a matter of what’s right.” Morgan swallowed, then blurted out what was torturing her mind. “The knife—would you have used it?”
“On you?” he asked, his eyes as expressionless as his voice.
“On anyone.”
“A general question can’t be given a specific answer.”
“Nicholas, for God’s sake—”
Nick set down his drink, then steepled his fingers. His expression changed, and his eyes were suddenly dangerous. “If I were everything you seem to think, you’re incredibly brave or incredibly foolish to be sitting here discussing it with me.”
“I think I’m safe enough,” she countered and straightened her shoulders. “Everyone knows where I am.”
“I could always dispose of you another time if I considered you an obstacle.” Morgan’s eyes flickered with momentary fear, quickly controlled. It was one more thing he could admire her for.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” he murmured, then shrugged as his mood shifted again. “Well, in any case, I have no intention of wasting beauty especially when I intend to enjoy its benefits. Your talents could be useful to me.”
Her chin shot up. “I have no intention of being your tool. Smuggling opium is a filthy way to make money. It’s a
far cry from crossing the English Channel with French silks and brandy.”
“With mists curling and eye-patched buccaneers?” Nick countered with a smile. “Is that how your practical mind sees it, Morgan?”
She opened her mouth to retort, but found herself smiling. “I refuse to like you, Nicholas.”
“You don’t have to like me, Morgan. Like is too tame for my tastes in any case.” Outwardly relaxed, he picked up his glass again. “Don’t you like your drink?”
Without taking her eyes from his, Morgan set it down. “Nicholas, I only want a straight answer—I deserve one. You’re perfectly right that I can’t go to the police, no matter what you tell me. You really have nothing to fear from me.”
Something flashed in his eyes at her final statement, then was
