The Right Path

by Nora Roberts

  bushes where it lay smoldering. Morgan found herself staring at it with dread. “Damn,” Liz said in a calmer tone. “I’m letting all this get to me.”

  “We all are.” Morgan shook off the sensation of unease and rose. “It hasn’t been an easy morning.”

  “I’m sorry, Morgan, it’s just that Alex is so upset by all this. And as much as he loves me, he just isn’t the kind of man to share certain areas with me. His trouble—his business. He’s too damn Greek.” With a quick laugh, she shook her head. “Come on, sit down. I’ve vented my spleen.”

  “Liz, if there were something wrong—I mean, something really troubling you, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, don’t start worrying about me now.” Liz nudged Morgan back down on the glider. “It’s just frustrating when you love someone to distraction and they won’t let you help. Sometimes it drives me crazy that Alex insists on trying to keep the less-pleasant aspects of his life away from me.”

  “He loves you,” Morgan murmured and found she was gripping her hands together.

  “And I love him.”

  “Liz . . .” Morgan took a deep breath and plunged. “Do you and Alex walk through the inlet often?”

  “Hmmm?” Obviously distracted, Liz looked back over her shoulder as she walked toward her bench. “Oh, no, actually, we usually walk on the cliffs—if I can drag him away from his office. I can’t think when’s the last time I’ve been near there. I only wish,” she added in a gentler tone, “I’d been with you this morning.”

  Abruptly and acutely ashamed at the direction her thoughts had taken, Morgan looked away. “I’m glad you weren’t. Alex had his hands full enough with one hysterical female.”

  “You weren’t hysterical,” Liz corrected in a quiet voice. “You were almost too calm by the time Andrew brought you in.”

  “I never even thanked him.” Morgan forced herself to push doubts and suspicions aside. They were as ugly as they were ridiculous. “What did you think of Andrew?”

  “He’s a very sweet man.” Sensing Morgan’s changing mood, Liz adjusted her own thoughts. “He appeared to put himself in the role of your champion today.” She smiled, deliberately looking wise and matronly. “I’d say he was in the first stages of infatuation.”

  “How smug one becomes after three years of marriage.”

  “He’d be a nice diversion for you,” Liz mused, unscathed. “But he’s from the genteel-poor side of Nick’s family. I rather fancy seeing you set up in style. Then again,” she continued as Morgan sighed, “he’d be nice company for you . . . for a while.”

  Dead on cue, Andrew strolled into the courtyard. “Hello. I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Why, no!” Liz gave him a delighted smile. “Neighboring poets are always welcome.”

  He grinned, a flash of boyishness. With that, he went up several notches on Liz’s list. “Actually, I was worried about Morgan.” Bending over, he cupped her chin and studied her. “It was such an awful morning, I wanted to see how you were doing. I hope you don’t mind.” His eyes were dark blue, like the water in the bay—and with the same serenity.

  “I don’t.” She touched the back of his hand. “At all. I’m really fine. I was just telling Liz I hadn’t even thanked you for everything you did.”

  “You’re still pale.”

  His concern made her smile. “A New York winter has something to do with that.”

  “Determined to be courageous?” he asked with a tilted smile.

  “Determined to do a better job of it than I did this morning.”

  “I kind of liked the way you held on to me.” He gave her hand a light squeeze. “I want to steal her for an evening,” he told Liz, shifting his gaze from Morgan’s face. “Can you help me convince her a diversion is what she needs?”

  “You have my full support.”

  “Come have dinner with me in the village.” He bent down to Morgan again. “Some local color, a bottle of ouzo, and a witty companion. What more could you ask for?”

  “What a marvelous idea!” Liz warmed to Andrew and the scheme. “It’s just what you need, Morgan.”

  Amused, Morgan wondered if she should just let them pat each other on the back for a while. But it was what she needed—to get away from the house and the doubts. She smiled at Andrew. “What time should I be ready?”

  His grin flashed again. “How about six? I’ll give you a tour of the village. Nick gave me carte blanche with his Fiat while I’m here, so you won’t have to ride on an ass.”

  Because her teeth were tight again, Morgan relaxed her jaw. “I’ll be ready.”

  * * *

  The sun was high over the water when Nick set his boat toward the open sea. He gave it plenty of throttle, wanting the speed and the slap of the wind.

  Damn the woman! he thought on a new surge of frustration. Seething, he tossed the butt of a slender black cigarette into the churning waves. If she’d stay in bed instead of wandering on beaches at ridiculous hours, all of this could have been avoided. The memory of the plea in her voice, the horror in her eyes flashed over him. He could still feel the way she had clung to him, needing him.

  He cursed her savagely and urged more speed from the motor.

  Shifting his thoughts, Nick concentrated on the dead man. Anthony Stevos, he mused, scowling into the sun. He knew the fisherman well enough—what he had occasionally fished for—and the Athens phone number he had found deep inside Stevos’s pants pocket.

  Stevos had been a stupid, greedy man, Nick thought dispassionately. Now he was a dead one. How long would it take Tripolos to rule out the village brawl and hit on the truth? Not long enough, Nick decided. He was going to have to bring matters to a head a bit sooner than he had planned.

  “Nicky, why are you looking so mean?” Iona called to him over the motor’s roar. Automatically, he smoothed his features.

  “I was thinking about that pile of paperwork on my desk.” Nick cut the motor off and let the boat drift in its own wake. “I shouldn’t have let you talk me into taking the afternoon off.”

  Iona moved to where he sat. Her skin glistened, oiled slick, against a very brief bikini. Her bosom spilled over in invitation. She had a ripe body, rounded and full and arousing. Nick felt no stir as she swung her hips moving toward him.

  “Agapetikos, we’ll have to take your mind off business matters.” She wound herself into his lap and pressed against him.

  He kissed her mechanically, knowing that, after the bottle of champagne she’d drunk, she’d never know the difference. But her taste lingered unpleasantly on his lips. He thought of Morgan, and with a silent, furious oath, crushed his mouth against Iona’s.

  “Mmm.” She preened like a stroked cat. “Your mind isn’t on your paperwork now, Nicky. Tell me you want me. I need a man who wants me.”

  “Is there a man alive who wouldn’t want a woman such as you?” He ran a hand down her back as her mouth searched greedily for his.

  “A devil,” she muttered with a slurred laugh. “Only a devil. Take me, Nicky.” Her head fell back, revealing eyes half closed and dulled by wine. “Make love to me here, in the open, in the sun.”

  And he might have to, he thought with a grinding disgust in his stomach. To get what he needed. But first, he would coax what he could from her while she was vulnerable.

  “Tell me, matia mou,” he murmured, tasting the curve of her neck while she busily undid the buttons of his shirt. “What do you know of this smuggling between Lesbos and Turkey?”

  Nick felt her stiffen, but her response—and, he knew, her wits—were dulled by the champagne. In her state of mind, he thought, it wouldn’t take much more to loosen her tongue. She’d been ready to snap for days. Deliberately, he traced his tongue across her skin and felt her sigh.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly and fumbled more desperately at his buttons. “I know nothing of such things.”

  “Come, Iona,” he murmured seductively. She was a completely physical woman, one who ran o
n sensations alone. Between wine and sex and her own nerves, she’d talk to him. “You know a great deal. As a businessman”—he nipped at her earlobe—“I’m interested in greater profit. You won’t deny me a few extra drachmas, will you?”

  “A few million,” she murmured, and put her hand on his to show him what she wanted. “Yes, there’s much I know.”

  “And much you’ll tell me?” he asked. “Come, Iona. You and the thought of millions excite me.”

  “I know the man that stupid woman found this morning was murdered because he was greedy.”

  Nick forced himself not to tense. “But greed is so difficult to resist.” He went with her as she stretched full length on the bench. “Do you know who murdered him, Iona?” She was slipping away from him, losing herself to the excess of champagne. On a silent oath, Nick nipped at her skin to bring her back.

  “I don’t like murder, Nicky,” she mumbled, “and I don’t like talking to the police even more.” She reached for him, but her hands fumbled. “I’m tired of being used,” she said pettishly, then added, “Perhaps it’s time to change allegiance. You’re rich, Nicky. I like money. I need money.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Nick asked dryly.

  “Later, we’ll talk later. I’ll tell you.” Her mouth was greedy on his. Forcing everything from his mind, Nick struggled to find some passion, even the pretense of passion, in return. God, he needed a woman; his body ached for one. And he needed Iona. But as he felt her sliding toward unconsciousness, he did nothing to revive her.

  Later, as Iona slept in the sun, Nick leaned over the opposite rail and lit a cigarette from the butt of another. The clinging distaste both infuriated and depressed him. He knew that he would have to use Iona, be used by her—if not this time, then eventually. He had to tap her knowledge to learn what he wanted to know. It was a matter of his own safety—and his success. The second had always been more important to him than the first.

  If he had to be Iona’s lover to gain his own end, then he’d be her lover. It meant nothing. Swearing, he drew deeply on the cigarette. It meant nothing, he repeated. It was business.

  He found he wanted a shower, a long one, something to cleanse himself of the dirt that wouldn’t wash away. Years of dirt, years of lies. Why had he never felt imprisoned by them until now?

  Morgan’s face slipped into his mind. Her eyes were cold. Flinging the cigarette out to sea, he went back to the wheel and started the engine.

  Chapter 7

  During a leisurely drink after a leisurely tour, Morgan decided the village was perfect. White-washed houses huddled close together, some with pillars, some with arches, still others with tiny wooden balconies. The tidiness, the freshness of white should have lent an air of newness. Instead, the village seemed old and timeless and permanent.

  She sat with Andrew at a waterfront kafenion, watching the fishing boats sway at the docks, and the men who spread their nets to dry.

  The fishermen ranged from young boys to old veterans. All were bronzed, all worked together. There were twelve to each net—twenty-four hands, some wrinkled and gnarled, some smooth with youth. All strong. As they worked they shouted and laughed in routine companionship.

  “Must have been a good catch,” Andrew commented. He watched Morgan’s absorption with the small army of men near the water’s edge.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking.” She ran a finger down the side of her glass. “They all seem so fit and sturdy. Some of those men are well past what we consider retirement age in the States. I suppose they’ll sail until they die. A life on the water must be a very satisfying existence.” Pirates . . . would she ever stop thinking of pirates?

  “I don’t know if any of these people think much about satisfaction. It’s simply what they do. They fish or work in Nick’s olive groves. They’ve been doing one or the other for generations.” Toying with his own drink, Andrew studied them too. “I do think there’s a contentment here. The people know what’s expected of them. If their lives are simple, perhaps it’s an enviable simplicity.”

  “Still, there’s the smuggling,” Morgan murmured.

  Andrew shrugged. “It’s all part of the same mold, isn’t it? They do what’s expected of them and earn a bit of adventure and a few extra drachmas.”

  She shot him a look of annoyed surprise. “I didn’t expect that attitude from you.”

  Andrew looked back at her, both brows raised. “What attitude?”

  “This—this nonchalance over crime.”

  “Oh, come on, Morgan, it’s—”

  “Wrong,” she interrupted. “It should be stopped.” Morgan swallowed the innocently clear but potent ouzo.

  “How do you stop something that’s been going on for centuries in one form or another?”

  “It’s current form is ugly. I should think the men of influence like Alex and . . . Nicholas, with homes on the island, would put pressure on whoever should be pressured.”

  “I don’t know Alex well enough to comment,” Andrew mused, filling her glass again. “But I can’t imagine Nick getting involved in anything that didn’t concern himself or his business.”

  “Can’t you?” Morgan murmured.

  “If that sounds like criticism, it’s not.” He noted he had Morgan’s full attention, but that her eyes were strangely veiled. “Nick’s been very good to me, lending me the cottage and the money for my passage. Lord knows when I’ll be able to pay him back. And it irks quite a bit to have to borrow, but poetry isn’t the most financially secure career.”

  “I think I read somewhere that T.S. Eliot was a bank teller.”

  Andrew returned her understanding smile with a wry grimace. “I could work out of Nick’s California office.” He shrugged and drank. “His offer wasn’t condescending, just absentminded. It’s rough on the ego.” He looked past her, toward the docks. “Maybe my ship will come in.”

  “I’m sure it will, Andrew. Some of us are meant to follow dreams.”

  His gaze came back to her. “And artists are meant to suffer a bit, rise beyond the more base needs of money and power?” His smile was brittle, his eyes cool. “Let’s order.” Morgan watched him shake off the mood and smile with his usual warmth. “I’m starved.”

  The evening sky was muted as they finished their meal. There were soft, dying colors flowing into the western sea. In the east, it was a calm, deep violet waiting for the first stars. Morgan was content with the vague glow brought on by spiced food and Greek ouzo. There was intermittent music from a mandolin. Packets of people shuffled in and out of the café, some of them breaking into song.

  Their waiter cum proprietor was a wide man with a thin moustache and watery eyes. Morgan figured the eyes could be attributed to the spices and cook smoke hanging in the air. American tourists lifted his status. Because he was impressed with Morgan’s easily flowing Greek, he found opportunities to question and gossip as he hovered around their table.

  Morgan toyed with a bit of psomaki and relaxed with the atmosphere and easy company. She’d found nothing but comfort and good will in the Theoharis villa, but this was something different. There was an earthier ambience she had missed in Liz’s elegant home. Here there would be lusty laughter and spilled wine. As strong as Morgan’s feelings were for both Liz and Alex, she would never have been content with the lives they led. She’d have rusted inside the perpetual manners.

  For the first time since that morning, Morgan felt the nagging ache at the base of her skull begin to ease.

  “Oh, Andrew, look! They’re dancing.” Cupping her chin on her hands, Morgan watched the line of men hook arms.

  As he finished up the last of a spicy sausage, Andrew glanced over. “Want to join in?”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “No, I’d spoil it—but you could,” she added with a grin.

  “You have,” Andrew began as he filled her glass again, “a wonderful laugh. It’s rich and unaffected and trails off into something sensuous.”

  “What extraordinary things you
say, Andrew.” Morgan smiled at him, amused. “You’re an easy man to be with. We could be friends.”

  Andrew lifted his brows. Morgan was surprised to find her mouth briefly captured. There was a faint taste of the island on him—spicy and foreign. “For starters.” At her stunned expression, he leaned back and grinned. “That face you’re wearing doesn’t do great things for my ego, either.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, then dug for a match. Morgan stopped staring at him to stare at the thin black box.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” she managed after a moment.

  “Oh, not often.” He found a match. The tiny flame flared, flickering over his face a moment, casting shadows, mysteries, suspicions. “Especially since my taste runs to these. Nick takes pity on me and leaves some at my cottage whenever he happens by. Otherwise, I suppose I’d do without altogether.” When he noticed Morgan’s steady stare, he gave her a puzzled smile. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” She lifted her glass and hoped she sounded casual. “I was just thinking—you’d said you roam all over this part of the island. You must have been in that inlet before.”

  “It’s a beautiful little spot.” He reached over for her hand. “Or it was. I guess I haven’t been there in over a week. It might be quite a while before I go back now.”