The Right Path

by Nora Roberts

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. Don’t tell me what I need now.” She kept her teeth clamped and spoke without emotion. “I needed you then.”

  “Damn it, Morgan.” His muttered oath had all the power of a shout. She kept her eyes firmly on Liz’s garden. Some of the roses, she thought dispassionately, were overblown now. The hands in his pockets were fists, straining impotently. “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I—” He cut himself off before he lost control. “I couldn’t give you what you needed—not then. Don’t make this any more impossible for me than it is.”

  She turned to him now, meeting his fury with frost. “I have no intention of doing that.” Her voice was as low as his but with none of his vibrating emotion. “The simple fact is I don’t want anything from you now. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  “Morgan . . .” There was something in his eyes now that threatened to crack her resolve. Apology, regret, a plea for understanding where she’d never expected to see one. “Please, I need—”

  “I don’t care what you need,” she said quickly, before he could weaken her again. “Just stay away from me. Stay completely away from me.”

  “Tonight,” he began, but the cold fury in her eyes stopped him.

  “Stay away,” Morgan repeated.

  She turned her back on him and walked across the room to join Dorian. Nick was left with black thoughts and the inability to carry them out.

  Chapter 6

  Morgan was surprised she’d slept. She hadn’t been tired when Liz and Alex had insisted she lie down, but had obeyed simply because her last words with Nick had sapped all of her resistance. Now as she woke she saw it was past noon. She’d slept for two hours.

  Groggy, heavy-eyed, Morgan walked into the bath to splash cool water on her face. The shock had passed, but the nap had brought her a lingering weariness instead of refreshment. Beneath it all was a deep shame—shame that she had run, terrified, from a dead man. Shame that she had clung helplessly to Nick and been turned away. She could feel even now that sensation of utter dependence—and utter rejection.

  Never again, Morgan promised herself. She should have trusted her head instead of her heart. She should have known better than to ask or expect anything from a man like him. A man like him had nothing to give. You’d always find hell if you looked to a devil. And yet . . .

  And yet it had been Nick she had needed, and trusted—him she had felt safe with the moment his arms had come around her. My mistake, Morgan thought grimly, and studied herself in the mirror over the basin. There were still some lingering signs of shock—the pale cheeks and too wide eyes, but she felt the strength returning.

  “I don’t need him,” she said aloud, wanting to hear the words. “He doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  But he’s hurt you. Someone who doesn’t matter can’t hurt you.

  I won’t let him hurt me again, Morgan promised herself. Because I won’t ever go to him again, I won’t ever ask him again, no matter what.

  She turned away from her reflection and went downstairs.

  Even as she entered the main hall, Morgan heard the sound of a door closing and footsteps. Glancing behind her, she saw Dorian.

  “So, you’ve rested.” He came to her and took her hand. In the gesture was all the comfort and concern she could have asked for.

  “Yes. I feel like a fool.” At his lifted brow, Morgan moved her shoulders restlessly. “Andrew all but carried me back up here.”

  With a low laugh, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and led her into the salon. “You American women—do you always have to be strong and self-reliant?”

  “I always have been.” She remembered weeping in Nick’s arms—clinging, pleading—and straightened her spine. “I have to depend on myself.”

  “I admire you for it. But then, you don’t make a habit of stumbling over dead bodies.” He cast a look at her pale cheeks and gentled his tone. “There, it was foolish of me to remind you. Shall I fix you another drink?”

  “No— No, I’ve enough brandy in me as it is.” Morgan managed a thin smile and moved away from him.

  Why was it she was offered a supporting arm by everyone but the one who mattered? No, Nick couldn’t matter, she reminded herself. She couldn’t let him matter, and she didn’t need a supporting arm from anyone.

  “You seem restless, Morgan. Would you rather be alone?”

  “No.” She shook her head as she looked up. His eyes were calm. She’d never seen them otherwise. There’d be strength in him, she thought, and wished bleakly it had been Dorian she had run to that morning. Going to the piano, she ran a finger over the keys. “I’m glad the captain’s gone. He made me nervous.”

  “Tripolos?” Dorian drew out his cigarette case. “I doubt he’s anything to worry about. I doubt even the killer need worry,” he added with a short laugh. “The Mitilini police force isn’t known for its energy or brilliance.”

  “You sound as if you don’t care if the person who killed that man is caught.”

  “Village quarrels mean nothing to me,” he countered. “I’m concerned more with the people I know. I don’t like to think you’re worried about Tripolos.”

  “He doesn’t worry me,” she corrected, frowning as he lit a cigarette. Something was nagging at the back of her mind, struggling to get through. “He just has a way of looking at you while he sits there, comfortable and not quite tidy.” She watched the column of smoke curl up from the tip of the long, black cigarette. With an effort, Morgan shook off the feeling of something important, half remembered. “Where is everyone?”

  “Liz is with Alex in his office. Iona’s gone on her boat ride.”

  “Oh, yes, with Nicholas.” Morgan looked down at her hands, surprised that they had balled into fists. Deliberately, she opened them. “It must be difficult for you.”

  “She needed to escape. The atmosphere of death is hard on her nerves.”

  “You’re very understanding.” Disturbed and suddenly headachy, Morgan wandered to the window. “I don’t think I would be—if I were in love.”

  “I’m patient, and I know that Nick means less than nothing to her. A means to an end.” He paused for a moment, before he spoke again, thoughtfully. “Some people have no capacity for emotion—love or hate.”

  “How empty that would be,” Morgan murmured.

  “Do you think so?” He gave her an odd smile. “Somehow, I think it would be comfortable.”

  “Yes, comfortable perhaps but . . .” Morgan trailed off as she turned back. Dorian was just lifting the cigarette to his lips. As Morgan’s eyes focused on it, she remembered, with perfect clarity, seeing the stub of one of those expensive brands in the sand, only a few yards from the body. A chill shot through her as she continued to stare.

  “Morgan, is something wrong?” Dorian’s voice broke through so that she blinked and focused on him again.

  “No, I—I suppose I’m not myself yet. Maybe I’ll have that drink after all.”

  She didn’t want it, but needed a moment to pull her thoughts together. The stub of a cigarette didn’t have to mean anything, she told herself as Dorian went to the bar. Anyone from the villa could have wandered through that inlet a dozen times.

  But the stub had been fresh, Morgan remembered—half in, half out of the sand, unweathered. The birds hadn’t picked at it. Surely if someone had been that close to the body, they would have seen. They would have seen, and they would have gone to the police. Unless . . .

  No, that was a ridiculous thought, she told herself as she felt a quick tremor. It was absurd to think that Dorian might have had anything to do with a villager’s murder. Dorian or Alex, she thought as that sweet, foreign smoke drifted over her.

  They were both civilized men—civilized men didn’t stab other men in the back. Both of them had such beautiful, manicured hands and careful manners. Didn’t it take something evil, something cold and hard to kill? She thought of Nick and shook her head. No, she wouldn’t think of h
im now. She’d concentrate on this one small point and work it through to the end.

  It didn’t make any sense to consider Dorian or Alex as killers. They were businessmen, cultured. What possible dealings could they have had with some local fisherman? It was an absurd thought, Morgan told herself, but couldn’t quite shake the unease that was creeping into her. There’d be a logical explanation, she insisted. There was always a logical explanation. She was still upset, that was all. Blowing some minor detail out of proportion.

  Whose footsteps were on the beach steps that first night? a small voice insisted. Who was Nick hiding from? Or waiting for? That man hadn’t been killed in a village quarrel, her thoughts ran on. She hadn’t believed it for a moment, any more than she’d really believed the man had died accidentally. Murder . . . smuggling. Morgan closed her eyes and shuddered.

  Who was coming in from the sea when Nick had held her in the shadow of the cypress? Nick had ordered Stephanos to follow him. Alex? Dorian? The dead man perhaps? She jolted when Dorian offered her the snifter.

  “Morgan, you’re still so pale. You should sit.”

  “No . . . I guess I’m still a little jumpy, that’s all.” Morgan cupped the snifter in both hands but didn’t drink. She would ask him, that was all. She would simply ask him if he’d been to the inlet. But when her eyes met his, so calm, so concerned, she felt an icy tremor of fear. “The inlet—” Morgan hesitated, then continued before her courage failed her. “The inlet was so beautiful. It seemed so undisturbed.” But so many shells had been crushed underfoot, she remembered abruptly. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? “Do you—do a lot of people go there?”

  “I can’t speak for the villagers,” Dorian began, watching as she perched on the arm of a divan. “But I’d think most of them would be too busy with their fishing or in the olive groves to spend much time gathering shells.”

  “Yes.” She moistened dry lips. “But still, it’s a lovely spot, isn’t it?”

  Morgan kept her eyes on his. Was it her imagination, or had his eyes narrowed? A trick of the smoke that wafted between them? Her own nerves?

  “I’ve never been there,” Dorian said lightly. “I suppose it’s a bit like a native New Yorker never going to the top of the Empire State Building.” Morgan’s gaze followed his fingers as he crushed out the cigarette in a cut-glass ashtray. “Is there something else, Morgan?”

  “Something—no.” Hastily, she looked back up to meet his eyes. “No, nothing. I suppose like Iona, the atmosphere’s getting to me, that’s all.”

  “Small wonder.” Sympathetic, he crossed to her. “You’ve been through too much today, Morgan. Too much talk of death. Come out in the garden,” he suggested. “We’ll talk of something else.”

  Refusal was on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t know why, only that she didn’t want to be with him. Not then. Not alone. Even as she cast around for a reasonable excuse, Liz joined them.

  “Morgan, I’d hoped you were resting.”

  Grateful for the interruption, Morgan set down her untouched brandy and rose. “I rested long enough.” A quick scan of Liz’s face showed subtle signs of strain. “You look like you should lie down awhile.”

  “No, but I could use some air.”

  “I was just taking Morgan out to the garden.” Dorian touched a hand to Liz’s shoulder. “You two go out and relax. Alex and I have some business we should clear up.”

  “Yes.” Liz lifted her hand to his. “Thank you, Dorian. I don’t know what Alex or I would have done without you today.”

  “Nonsense.” He brushed her cheek with his lips. “Go, take your mind off this business.”

  “I will. See if you can get Alex to do the same.” The plea was light, but unmistakable before Liz hooked her arm through Morgan’s.

  “Dorian.” Morgan felt a flush of shame. He’d been nothing but kind to her, and she’d let her imagination run wild. “Thank you.”

  He lifted a brow at the gratitude, then smiled and kissed her cheek in turn. He smelt of citrus groves and sunshine. “Sit with the flowers for a while, and enjoy.”

  As he walked into the hall, Liz turned and headed toward the garden doors. “Should I order us some tea?”

  “Not for me. And stop treating me like a guest.”

  “Good Lord, was I doing that?”

  “Yes, ever since—”

  Liz shot Morgan a quick look as she broke off, then grimaced. “This whole business really stinks,” Liz stated inelegantly, and plopped down on a marble bench.

  Surrounded by the colors and scents of the garden, isolated from the house and the outside world by vines, Morgan and Liz frowned at each other.

  “Damn, Morgan, I’m so sorry that you had to be the one. No, don’t shrug and try to look casual,” she ordered as Morgan did just that. “We’ve known each other too long and too well. I know what it must have been like for you this morning. And I know how you must be feeling right now.”

  “I’m all right, Liz.” She chose a small padded glider and curled her legs under her. “Though I’ll admit I won’t be admiring seashells for a while. Please,” she continued as Liz’s frown deepened. “Don’t do this. I can see that you and Alex are blaming yourselves. It was just—just a horrible coincidence that I happened to take a tour of that inlet this morning. A man was killed; someone had to find him.”

  “It didn’t have to be you.”

  “You and Alex aren’t responsible.”

  Liz sighed. “My practical American side knows that, but . . .” She shrugged, then managed to smile. “But I think I’m becoming a bit Greek. You’re staying in my house.” Liz lit a cigarette resignedly as she rose to pace the tiny courtyard.

  A black cigarette, Morgan noticed with a tremor of anxiety—slim and black. She’d forgotten Liz had picked up the habit of occasionally smoking one of Alex’s brand.

  She stared up into Liz’s oval, classic face, then shut her eyes. She must be going mad if she could conceive, even for an instant, that Liz was mixed up in smuggling and back-stabbing. This was a woman she’d known for years—lived with. Certainly if there was one person she knew as well as she knew herself, it was Liz.

  But how far—how far would Liz go to protect the man she loved?

  “And I have to admit,” Liz went on as she continued to pace, “though it sticks me in the same category as Iona, that policeman made me nervous. He was just too”—she searched for an adjective—“respectful,” she decided. “Give me a good old American grilling.”

  “I know what you mean,” Morgan murmured. She had to stop thinking, she told herself. If she could just stop thinking, everything would be all right again.

  “I don’t know what he expected to find out, questioning us that way.” Liz took a quick, jerky puff, making her wedding ring flash with cold, dazzling light.

  “It was just routine, I suppose.” Morgan couldn’t take her eyes from the ring—the light, the stones. Love, honor, and obey—forsaking all others.

  “And creepy,” Liz added. “Besides, none of us even knew this Anthony Stevos.”

  “The captain said he was a fisherman.”

  “So is every second man in the village.”

  Morgan allowed the silence to hang. Carefully, she reconstructed the earlier scene in the salon. What were the reactions? If she hadn’t been so dimmed with brandy and shock, would she have noticed something? There was one more person she’d seen lighting one of the expensive cigarettes. “Liz,” she began slowly, “don’t you think Iona went a little overboard? Didn’t she get a bit melodramatic about a few routine questions?”

  “Iona thrives on melodrama,” Liz returned with grim relish. “Did you see the way she fawned all over Nick? I don’t see how he could bear it.”

  “He didn’t seem to mind,” Morgan muttered. No, not yet, she warned herself. You’re not ready to deal with that yet. “She’s a strange woman,” Morgan continued. “But this morning . . .” And yesterday, she remembered. “Yesterday when I spoke of smuggling
. . . I think she was really afraid.”

  “I don’t think Iona has any genuine feelings,” Liz said stubbornly. “I wish Alex would just cross her off as a bad bet and be done with it. He’s so infuriatingly conscientious.”

  “Strange, Dorian said almost the same thing.” Morgan plucked absently at an overblown rose. It was Iona she should concentrate on. If anyone could do something deadly and vile, it was Iona. “I don’t see her that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Iona.” Morgan stopped plucking at the rose and gave Liz her attention. “I see her as a woman of too many feelings rather than none at all. Not all healthy certainly, perhaps even destructive—but strong, very strong emotions.”

  “I can’t abide her,” Liz said with such unexpected venom, Morgan stared. “She upsets Alex constantly. I can’t tell you how much time and trouble and money he’s put into that woman. And he gets nothing back but ingratitude, rudeness.”

  “Alex has very strong family feelings,” Morgan began. “You can’t protect him from—”

  “I’d protect him from anything,” Liz interrupted passionately. “Anything and anyone.” Whirling, she hurled her cigarette into the