The Right Path

by Nora Roberts

  would permit me to speak with you again on this matter. I must confess”—Tripolos’s smile was sheepish, but his eyes remained direct—“it is a great help to discuss my problems with a man like yourself. It allows me to put things in order.”

  “Captain, I’m glad to give you any help I can, of course.” Nick gave him an easy smile.

  For some time after Tripolos left, Nick remained in his chair. He scowled at the Rodin sculpture across the room as he calculated his choices.

  “We move tonight,” he announced as Stephanos entered.

  “It’s too soon. Things are not yet safe.”

  “Tonight,” Nick repeated and shifted his gaze. “Call Athens and let them know about the change in plan. See if they can’t rig something up to keep this Tripolos off my back for a few hours.” He laced his fingers together and frowned. “He’s dangled his bait, and he’s damn well expecting me to bite.”

  “It’s too dangerous tonight,” Stephanos insisted. “There’s another shipment in a few days.”

  “In a few days, Tripolos will be that much closer. We can’t afford to have things complicated with the local police now. And I have to be sure.” Jet eyes narrowed, and his mouth became a grim line. “I haven’t gone through all this to make a mistake at this point. I have to speed things up before Tripolos starts breathing down the wrong necks.”

  Chapter 9

  The cove was blanketed in gloom. Rocks glistened, protecting it from winds—and from view. There was a scent—lush wet leaves, wild blossoms that flourished in the sun and hung heavy at night. But somehow it wasn’t a pleasant fragrance. It smelt of secrets and half-named fears.

  Lovers didn’t hold trysts there. Legend said it was haunted. At times, when a man walked near enough on a dark, still night, the voices of spirits murmured behind the rocks. Most men took another route home and said nothing at all.

  The moon shed a thin, hollow light over the face of the water, adding to rather than detracting from the sense of whispering stillness, of mystic darkness. The water itself sighed gently over the rocks and sand. It was a passive sound, barely stirring the air.

  The men who gathered near the boat were like so many shadows—dark, faceless in the gloom. But they were men, flesh and blood and muscle. They didn’t fear the spirits in the cove.

  They spoke little, and only in undertones. A laugh might be heard from time to time, quick and harsh in a place of secrets, but for the most part they moved silently, competently. They knew what had to be done. The time was nearly right.

  One saw the approach of a new shadow and grunted to his companion. Stealthily, he drew a knife from his belt, gripping its crude handle in a strong, work-worn hand. The blade glittered dangerously through the darkness. Work stopped; men waited.

  As the shadow drew closer, he sheathed the knife and swallowed the salty taste of fear. He wouldn’t have been afraid to murder, but he was afraid of this man.

  The thick, sturdy fingers trembled as they released the knife. “We weren’t expecting you.”

  “I do not like to always do the expected.” The answer was in brisk Greek as a pale finger of moonlight fell over him. He wore black—all black, from lean black slacks to a sweater and leather jacket. Lean and tall, he might have been god or devil.

  A hood concealed both his head and face. Only the gleam of dark eyes remained visible—and deadly.

  “You join us tonight?”

  “I am here,” he returned. He wasn’t a man who answered questions, and no more were asked. He stepped aboard as one used to the life and sway of boats.

  It was a typical fishing vessel. Its lines were simple. The decks were clean but rough, the paint fresh and black. Only the expense and power of its motor separated it from its companions.

  Without a word, he crossed the deck, ignoring the men who fell back to let him pass. They were hefty, muscled men with thick wrists and strong hands. They moved away from the lean man as if he could crush them to bone with one sweep of his narrow hand. Each prayed the slitted eyes would not seek him out.

  He placed himself at the helm, then gazed casually over his shoulder. At the look, the lines were cast off. They would row until they were out to sea and the roar of the motor would go unnoticed.

  The boat moved at an easy pace, a lone speck in a dark sea. The motor purred. There was little talk among the men. They were a silent group in any case, but when the man was with them, no one wanted to speak. To speak was to bring attention to yourself—not many dared to do so.

  He stared out into the water and ignored the wary glances thrown his way. He was remote, a figure of the night. His hood rippled in the salt-sprayed wind—a carefree, almost adventurous movement. But he was still as a stone.

  Time passed; the boat listed with the movement of the sea. He might have been a figurehead. Or a demon.

  “We are short-handed.” The man who had greeted him merged with his shadow. His voice was low and coarse. His stomach trembled. “Do you wish me to find a replacement for Stevos?”

  The hooded head turned—a slow, deliberate motion. The man took an instinctive step in retreat and swallowed the copper taste that had risen to his throat.

  “I will find my own replacement. You would all do well to remember Stevos.” He lifted his voice on the warning as his eyes swept the men on deck. “There is no one who cannot be . . . replaced.” He used a faint emphasis on the final word, watching the dropping of eyes with satisfaction. He needed their fear, and he had it. He could smell it on them. Smiling beneath the hood, he turned back to the sea.

  The journey continued, and no one else spoke to him—or about him. Now and then a sailor might cast his eyes toward the man at the helm. The more superstitious crossed themselves or made the ancient sign against evil. When the devil was with them, they knew the full power of fear. He ignored them, treated them as though he were alone on the boat. They thanked God for it.

  Midway between Lesbos and Turkey, the motor was shut off. The sudden silence resounded like a thunderclap. No one spoke as they would have done if the figure hadn’t been at the helm. There were no crude jokes or games of dice.

  The boat shifted easily in its own wake. They waited, all but one swatting in the cool sea breeze. The moon winked behind a cloud, then was clear again.

  The motor of an approaching boat was heard as a distant cough, but the sound grew steadier, closer. A light signaled twice, then once again before the glow was shut off. The second motor, too, gave way to silence as another fishing vessel drifted alongside the first. The two boats merged into one shadow.

  The night was glorious—almost still and silvered by the moon. Men waited, watching that dark, silent figure at the helm.

  “The catch is good tonight,” a voice called out from the second boat. The sound drifted, disembodied over the water.

  “The fish are easily caught while sleeping.”

  There was a short laugh as two men leaned over the side and hauled a dripping net, pregnant with fish, onto the deck. The vessel swayed with the movement, then steadied.

  The hooded man watched the exchange without word or gesture. His eyes shifted from the second vessel to the pile of fish lying scattered and lifeless on the deck. Both motors roared into life again and separated; one to the east, one to the west. The moon glimmered white. The breeze picked up. The boat was again a lone speck on a dark sea.

  “Cut them open.”

  The men looked up sharply into the slitted eyes. “Now?” one of them dared to ask. “Don’t you want them taken to the usual place?”

  “Cut them open,” he repeated. His voice sent a chill through the quiet night. “I take the cache with me.”

  Three men knelt beside the fish. Their knives worked swiftly and with skill while the scent of blood and sweat and fear prickled the air. A small pile of white packets grew as they were torn from the bellies of fish. The mutilated corpses were tossed back into the sea. No one would bring that catch to their table.

  He moved quickly but wit
hout any sense of hurry, slipping packets into the pockets of his jacket. To a man they scrambled back from him, as if his touch might bring death—or worse. Satisfied, he gave them a brief survey before he resumed his position at the helm.

  Their fear brought him a grim pleasure. And the cache was his for the taking. For the first time, he laughed—a long, cold sound that had nothing to do with humor. No one spoke, in even a whisper, on the journey back.

  Later, a shadow among shadows, he moved away from the cove. He was wary that the trip had gone so easily, exhilarated that it was done. There had been no one to question him, no one with the courage to follow, though he was one man and they were many. Still, as he crossed the strip of beach, he moved with caution, for he wasn’t a fool. He had more than just a few frightened fishermen to consider. And he would have more to deal with before he was done.

  The walk was long, and steep, but he took it at an easy pace. The hollow call of an owl caused him to pause only briefly to scan the trees and rocks through the slits in the mask. From his position, he could see the cool white lines of the Theoharis villa. He stood where he was a moment—watching, thinking. Then he spun away to continue his climb.

  He moved over rocks as easily as a goat—walking with a sure, confident stride in the darkness. He’d covered that route a hundred times without a light. And he kept clear of the path—a path meant men. He stepped around the rock where Morgan had sat that morning, but he didn’t see the flowers. Without pausing, he continued.

  There was a light in the window. He’d left it burning himself before he had set out. Now for the first time he thought of comfort—and a drink to wash the taste of other men’s fear from his throat.

  Entering the house, he strode down the corridor and entered a room. Carelessly, he dumped the contents of his pockets on an elegant Louis XVI table, then removed his hood with a flourish.

  “Well, Stephanos.” Nick’s teeth flashed in a grin. “The fishing was rich tonight.”

  Stephanos acknowledged the packets with a nod. “No trouble?”

  “One has little trouble with men who fear the air you breathe. The trip was as smooth as a whore’s kiss.” Moving away, he poured two drinks and handed one to his companion. The sense of exhilaration was still on him—the power that comes from risking death and winning. He drained his drink in one swallow. “A seedy crew, Stephanos, but they do their job. They’re greedy, and”—he lifted the hood, then let it fall on the cache of opium, black on white—“terrified.”

  “A terrified crew is a cooperative one,” Stephanos commented. He poked a stubby finger at the cache of opium. “Rich fishing indeed. Enough to make a man comfortable for a long time.”

  “Enough to make him want more,” Nick stated with a grin. “And more. Diabolos, the smell of fish clings to me.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Send our cache to Athens, and see they send a report to me of its purity. I’m going to wash off this stink and go to bed.”

  “There’s a matter you might be interested in.”

  “Not tonight.” Nick didn’t bother to turn around. “Save your gossip for tomorrow.”

  “The woman, Nicholas.” Stephanos saw him stiffen and pause. There was no need to tell him which woman. “I learned she doesn’t go back to America. She stays here while Alex is in Athens.”

  “Diabolos!” Nick swore and turned back into the room. “I can’t be worried about a woman.”

  “She stays alone until Alex sends his lady back.”

  “The woman is not my concern,” he said between his teeth.

  As was his habit, Stephanos sniffed the liquor to add to his appreciation. “Athens was interested,” he said mildly. “Perhaps she could still be of use.”

  “No.” Nick took an agitated turn around the room. Nerves that had been cold as ice began to thaw. Damn her, he thought, she’ll make me careless even thinking of her. “That woman is more trouble than use. No,” he repeated as Stephanos lifted his brows. “We’ll keep her out of it.”

  “Difficult, considering—”

  “We’ll keep her out of it,” Nick repeated in a tone that made Stephanos stroke his moustache.

  “As you wish, kyrios.”

  “Go to the devil.” Annoyed with the mock respectful tone, Nick picked up his glass, then set it down again. “She’s no use to us,” he said with more calm. “More of a stumbling block. We’ll hope she keeps her elegant nose inside the villa for a few days.”

  “And if she pokes her elegant nose out?” Stephanos inquired, enjoying his liquor.

  Nick’s mouth was a grim line. “Then I’ll deal with her.”

  “I think perhaps,” he murmured as Nick strode from the room, “she has already dealt with you, old friend.” He laughed and poured himself another drink. “Indeed, the lady’s dealt you a killing blow.”

  After he had bathed, Nick couldn’t settle. He told himself it was the excess energy from the night, and his success. But he found himself standing at his window, staring down at the Theoharis villa.

  So she was alone, he thought, asleep in that big soft bed. It meant nothing to him. He’d climbed that damn wall to her room for the last time. He’d gone there the night before on impulse, something he’d known better than to do. He’d gone to see her, with some mad idea of justifying his actions to her.

  Fool, he called himself as his hands curled tight around the stone railing. Only a fool justifies what he does. He’d gone to her and she’d taunted him, driven him to give up something he had no business giving up. His heart. Damn her, she’d wrenched it out of him.

  His grip tightened as he remembered what it had been like to have her—to taste her and fill himself with her. It had been a mistake, perhaps the most crucial one he’d ever made. It was one matter to risk your life, another to risk your soul.

  He shouldn’t have touched her, Nick thought on yet another wave of anger. He’d known it even as his hands had reached for her. She hadn’t known what she was doing, drunk on the ouzo Andrew had bought her. Andrew—he felt a moment’s rage and banked it. There’d been moments when he hated Andrew, knowing he’d kissed her. Hated Dorian because Morgan had smiled at him. And Alex because he could touch her in friendship.

  And, he knew, Morgan would hate him for what had passed between them that night. Hadn’t he heard it in the icy words she’d flung at him? He’d rather have handed her his own knife than to have the words of a woman slash at him that way. She would hate him for taking her when she was vulnerable—while that damn medal hung around her neck. And she would hate him for what he was.

  On a rising wave of temper, Nick whirled away from the window. Why should it concern him? Morgan James would slip out of his life like a dream in only a few weeks in any case. He’d chosen his path before, long before he’d seen her. It was his way. If she hated him for what he was, then so be it. He wouldn’t allow her to make him feel dirty and soiled.

  If she’d touched his heart, he could deal with it. Sprawling into a chair, Nick scowled into the darkness. He would deal with it, he promised himself. After all he’d done, and all he’d faced, no blue-eyed witch would take him under.

  ***

  Morgan felt completely alone. The solitude and silence she had so prized only a few days before now weighed down on her. The house was full of servants, but that brought her no comfort, no company. Alex and Liz and Dorian were gone. She wandered listlessly through the morning as she had wandered restlessly through the night. The house felt like a prison—clean and white and empty. Trapped inside it, she was too vulnerable to her own thoughts.

  And because her thoughts centered too often on Nick, she found the idea of lying in the bed they had shared too painful. How could she sleep in peace in a place where she could still feel his hands on her, his lips ruthlessly pressing on hers? How could she sleep in a room that seemed to carry that faint sea-smell that so often drifted from him?

  So she couldn’t sleep, and her thoughts—and needs—haunted her. What could have happened to her to cause her
to love such a man? And how long could she fight it? If she surrendered to it, she’d suffer for the rest of her life.

  Knowing she was only adding to her own depression, Morgan changed into a bathing suit and headed for the beach.

  It was ridiculous to be afraid of the beach, afraid of the house, she told herself. She was here to enjoy both for the next three weeks. Locking herself in her room wouldn’t change anything that had happened.

  The sand glistened, white and brilliant. Morgan found that on facing it again, the horror didn’t materialize. Tossing aside her wrap, she ran into the sea. The water would ease the weariness, the tension. And maybe, just maybe, she would sleep tonight.

  Why should she be keeping herself in a constant state of nerves over the death of a man she didn’t even know? Why should she allow the harmless stub of a cigarette to haunt her? It was time to accept the simple explanations and keep her distance. The man had been killed as a result of a village brawl, and that was that. It had nothing to do with her, or anyone she knew. It was tragic, but it wasn’t personal.

  She wouldn’t think about Iona, she told herself. She wouldn’t think about smuggling or murders or—here she hesitated a moment and dived under a wave—Nicholas. For now, she wouldn’t think at all.

  Morgan escaped. In a world of water and sun, she thought only of pleasures. She drifted, letting the tension sink beneath the waves. She’d forgotten, in her own misery, just how clean and alive the water made her feel. For a few moments she would go back to that first day, to that feeling of peace she’d found without even trying.

  Liz was going to need her in the next day or two. And Morgan wouldn’t be any help at all if she were haggard and tense. Yes, tonight she’d sleep—she’d had enough of nightmares.