A Perilous Eden
Heather Graham
Prologue
The Alexandria, International Waters
June 15, 12:45 a.m.
The night was black. The sky, the horizon, the earth—everything was black for as far as the eye could see. Standing by the ship’s railing, feeling the sea breeze pick up her hair and toss it softly around her face, Amber was aware for long moments only of the enormity of the sea by night, of the total blackness that seemed like an aching void, mystical, frightening, and still … enchanting.
Then she began to hear the sounds.
Little sounds. Soft, muffled, furtive. They were so quiet that they took some time to penetrate the fog of her absorption, and when they did, it was their furtive and sinister nature that made her whirl around at last. And then she recognized the sounds, of course. They had been made by a small boat coming to rest beside the ocean liner. By the stealthy climb of men up to the deck. By footsteps.
She hadn’t been alone on deck. Senator Daldrin had come out much as she had, to stare out at the night.
But he was no longer alone.
“Stop!” Amber shouted. “Stop! Help!”
Shouting made no impression. She threw back her head and screamed again, loudly, desperately, with all the strength and will in her being. Her fingers dug into the ship’s railing, and she prayed that her screams would be heard over the beating of the drums from the nearest lounge. The wind caught her scream, lifted it and carried it away. The only ones who seemed to hear her were the dark wraiths now moving so fleetly toward the black-jacketed form of Senator Daldrin.
“Stop!” Amber shouted again, her heart pounding like the muffled drumbeats. She tried to sound indignant and assertive. “Leave him alone! Who are you? What are you doing? Help! Leave that man alone, or you’ll be arrested!”
The swift, furtive wraiths ignored her.
Where had they come from? she wondered with amazement. The Alexandria was out at sea—far from any port. The black-clad figures didn’t seem real. They were creatures from the void of the night, imaginary, illusions. It was easy to imagine things here, for nothing in the world was like the darkness of a night at sea. Not even the cruise ship’s elaborate lighting could dispel that darkness for more than a few feet.
The men were not imaginary. They were real, and there were four of them, large, anonymous in their black sweaters and jeans and ski caps. They didn’t even glance her way, and yet, as she watched them in dismay and astonishment, she felt the icy finger of fear slide down her spine. These men were nothing so soft as illusion. There was a cold-blooded determination and purpose to their movements.
Senator Daldrin had turned. He was a handsome man, tall and silver-haired, dignified. He saw the four figures coming toward him, and his eyes widened, the only sign of alarm that he gave.
“Amber, get the hell out of here!” he roared to her.
Get out? She couldn’t. She was the only chance of help the senator had. She had to stay. Had to do something.
“Stop, damn you, or I’ll—” Amber began, her fingers laced tightly around the railing. Stop or else what? What was she going to do against four men who’d had the ability to board the ship straight out of the night?
She spun around then, looking toward the lights of the aft lounge. Michael, she thought. Michael Adams.
Michael, where the hell are you? she wondered feverishly.
Sometimes it seemed that she had seen no one but him since she had come aboard the Alexandria. Or perhaps it was just that his presence alone was so quietly dominating that she saw no one else when he was near. Or maybe it was because she had been slowly falling in love with him. No, not slowly at all, and maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe it was just the shocking, shattering attraction that pulsed all around them whenever they met.
Curiously, she had first seen him in Washington. They had passed by one another on the path at the Smithsonian, and several minutes later she had found herself remembering the face of a passerby. It was a unique face, and he was a unique man, even if she couldn’t completely comprehend what made him so. Not his features, for they were ordinary enough. His eyes were blue, a light, ice blue against his tanned skin. His hair was a tawny color. There was strength in his face; everything was put together pleasantly enough. He wasn’t overly tall, about six feet even. Nor was he built like a football player. Rather, he seemed to be a creation of lean muscle and lithe sinew.
It was those eyes, she thought. That essence, that magnetism that made him so unique, so unusual, was in the way he looked at life. In the way he looked at a woman.
Amber wasn’t sure why his gaze was so sensual. It was a look that seemed to dismiss a woman even as it assessed her. He could be so many things. Sometimes cordial, courteous, his manner flawless. And then other times, when they were alone, he could touch her, and it wouldn’t matter who they were, or that she knew nothing about him. No, she knew something. She had known it from the beginning. He was dangerous. Everything about him hinted of the dark side.…
Yet she could not deny his appeal. It was stronger than fear, and far stronger than reason.
There was something about Michael Adams.…
Secret Service?
Perhaps. There were a number of politicians aboard. Presidential hopefuls, once the Old Man’s term came to an end. The ship was probably crawling with bodyguards and Secret Service men. It was likely that he was among them.
And she had been glad of him—grateful, even, for such a deadly fascination, she realized. When three champagne cocktails could not stem the tide of her loneliness, she could seek him out and wonder about him. When she told herself that she had made an awful mistake, she would realize that it was possible to be interested in another man. No, not just interested. Much more than that. He wasn’t a man to hold and to keep, not this one. For all his appeal, he was like rocket fuel, volatile, dangerous.
He was a sensual man. From the very first time she had seen him, she had felt his appeal. From the first time he had touched her, she had known it could not be denied. In his arms when they had danced she had felt the swift quickening of her heart. There was something raw and powerful about him. He was living on the edge—dangerous—but still he attracted her. He would attract any woman, she thought.
He was often near her … so where was he now?
Two black wraiths held Senator Ian Daldrin. And they weren’t ignoring her anymore. They were staring at her, daring her to move. And she was frozen against the ship’s railing, staring back at them, wondering how in God’s name she could stop a kidnapping.
“Don’t do it, I’m warning you!” she shouted.
They didn’t release the senator. Instead, as she watched, someone slapped a cloth over his mouth, and Senator Daldrin fell into a man’s waiting arms without a whimper. He was carried to the railing, then handed over.
“You’ll never get away with this!” Amber screamed.
Two men still remained. They glanced at one another, as if making a decision about her, then started toward her. She had to do something. They had kidnapped the senator, and they meant to do something awful to her.
She wasn’t armed in any way. In fact, she was barely dressed, she reflected ruefully. She was in a sheer white silk cocktail gown, her shoulders bare, a gauzy white scarf floating around her. It occurred to her that someone could snuff out her life in a few seconds by winding that scarf around her throat. She carried a tiny evening bag studded with little pearls, and wore sandals with four-inch heels.
Heels. That was it.
She slipped out of her shoes as they approached her, still shouting at them all the while, warning them, but growing more and more incoherent. It didn’t matter what she was saying. She just wanted to be heard. She wan
ted Michael Adams to make an appearance and pull out a gun and save them all.
But it was unlikely that anyone would hear her, she thought, watching as they came closer. They weren’t dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, she realized. They were dressed in wet suits. Wet suits and ski masks.
One of them murmured something to the other. Amber didn’t recognize the language.
Her screams faded as she realized that the men were not empty-handed. They were carrying sharp-bladed knives that caught the slim glow of moonlight and shimmered like silver.
“No!” she whispered.
They intended to kill her, she realized. They weren’t going to kidnap her—they were going to kill her. When the first man reached for her, she began to scream again, however uselessly. She was caught and tossed to the deck, slammed hard against the boards. Desperately, she clawed at her attacker’s face. Her nails caught at the ski mask, stripping it away.
Dark eyes stared at her. Deep set, in a slim swarthy face. Thin-lipped, taut. Amber inhaled desperately, then went limp, waiting for his hold to ease. When it did, she brought her knee up with all her strength. The man snarled and swore violently—in Spanish, she thought fleetingly. He raised his hand high, and again she saw the silver glimmer of his blade.
Her scream pierced the night as she waited for the knife to fall.
It did not.
Her attacker was suddenly wrenched away from her. Amber was so startled that she could barely move, barely breathe.
He was picked up by the scruff of his neck, then tossed roughly to the deck, where he landed with a thump against the ship’s wooden railing.
A sharp spate of foreign oaths rang out, then Amber looked from her attacker to her rescuer, her sea-green eyes growing even larger.
It was Michael. He had been nearby, and he had come to her rescue, just as she had prayed.
He was standing with his feet apart, his hands on his hips, a look of cold blue fury in his eyes. He seemed to tower above the others, or maybe it was simply the force of his fury. He was in command, she thought, as disdainfully, with deadly venom, he chastised the man.
“Michael!” Amber whispered. She came up on her elbows, her hope-filled eyes on him, no hint of the truth registering in her mind yet.
He was in black jeans, black sneakers and a black turtleneck. There was a black knapsack on his back.
And he was speaking to the men who had attacked her, who had tried to kill her. Speaking in Spanish, then switching to another language.
Still, she refused to accept what she was seeing. She struggled to her feet, smoothing her long hair from her face, nervously looking at her rescuer.
“Michael … thank God!”
The second wraith in black started to laugh, moving toward her. Amber let out a frightened shriek and ran the few steps to Michael and threw herself into his arms.
He caught her, holding her shoulders stiffly, pushing her away. His eyes met hers, and she kept staring into them, denying the truth she saw there.
“No, Amber,” he said softly. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not here to help you.”
“You bastard.”
The man in black murmured something, drawing patterns in the night air with his knife. Amber didn’t understand a word of what he was saying, but his intentions were horribly obvious.
“Damn you, Amber, you should have run, you little fool!” Michael whispered to her.
She wrenched away from his touch and started to run as fast as she could.
Then she screamed, wrenched back by an implacable hold on her hair. She was slammed against a hard body and found herself staring up again into Michael’s ice-fire eyes.
The man in black said something she didn’t understand. She understood Michael’s answer, though. It was a definite, razor sharp no.
“Let me go,” Amber began to plead, but tears instantly stung her eyes and she screamed in pain as he tightened his grip on her hair. Then his free hand landed hard over her mouth, and she felt him whisper against her ear.
“Shut up, Miss Larkspur. Shut up. Now. I’m doing my best to save your miserable little interfering life!”
She didn’t keep quiet to obey him; she did so because she was practically suffocating. He spoke harshly in a foreign language again. She thought it might be Arabic, but she wasn’t certain. The man he had dragged off her rose, eyeing Michael warily as he did so. He stood beside the railing, apparently following instructions, and motioned to someone below. He was answered by a beam of light slashing through the darkness.
Every man had a scent. Even freshly showered and shaved and wearing cologne, he had his own unique scent. She knew Michael Adams’s. She knew it very well. She had lain beside him, and she had breathed in that scent again and again.…
Michael Adams pulled Amber close against him again, whispering harshly, “This is my party, Miss Larkspur. You weren’t invited, but you’re here.” His words didn’t really matter, she thought, because any minute she was going to pass out. She couldn’t speak; she could only inhale the scent of him.
Every man had a scent. Even freshly showered and shaved and wearing cologne, he had his own unique scent. She knew Michael Adams’s. She knew it very well. She had lain beside him, and she had breathed in that scent again and again.…
Again the sense of betrayal knifed into her. He had made love to her. He had touched her as no other man had touched her before, in ways that went beyond the senses and reached into the soul.
Now he was touching her again—and threatening her life.
She was probably about to die, she thought. Should her life be flashing before her eyes? She had lived a good life. An army brat, she’d grown up all over the world. And now she was part of the best of Washington society. She’d gone to the best schools, had the most fascinating opportunities. She’d learned what pain was, too. Losing her mother ten years ago had been anguish. And she’d learned about facing reality, because admitting that she could not change Peter had been like admitting she had wasted five years of her life, that dreams could never come true. She was young and privileged and well educated, and she had even been told that she was beautiful, but none of it had meant anything, because she had been unable to help Peter. She had finally let him go it on his own, and she had known that she would be okay when she had met Michael, when she had heard his whisper, felt his hands, his passion. In his arms she had learned how dearly, how sweetly, she loved life.…
She didn’t want to die. She could beg; she could plead. She could ask him to remember what they had shared.
No. He was a traitor. She would never bow before him. She was her father’s child. And if there was anything that Ted Larkspur’s daughter had learned through the years, it was courage.
When Michael Adams began to release his hold on her mouth, Amber inhaled deeply, then screamed again.
“Damn you!” he swore, and for once his confident demeanor was ruffled. His fingers clamped over her mouth again in a punishing vise. “Stop it!” he hissed. “Amber, I’ll give you one warning—”
She bit him. She sank her teeth into his index finger, but he didn’t cry out. Instead, calmly, he hit her. The knuckles of his free hand came up and caught her jaw. It didn’t seem so terribly hard. It didn’t even seem really painful.
But her mind began to spin, and brilliant stars seemed to explode across the heavens. Then the stars faded, and she saw no more.
She awoke with a dull headache. Nothing of what had happened came to her at first; she was aware only of the sound of water lapping against the hull of a ship. She didn’t open her eyes; she just listened to the sound of the water.
Then she became aware of voices. Men were speaking, arguing, in Spanish, she thought.
Her fingers curled into the cushions. These men would kill her without blinking an eye. It wouldn’t matter that she was young, that she was a woman. They had come for the senator, and she had gotten in the way. But she was still alive. For how long, though?
Finally Amber opened her eyes
, quickly closing them against the pain of the sudden light, then slowly opening them again.
She had surmised quickly that she was still at sea. Now she saw that she was on a couch in the salon area of a cabin cruiser.
It was probably about a sixty-footer, she thought, and a nice piece of workmanship at that. She was across from a large table where ten or twelve people could be comfortably seated for a meal. To her right was a galley, complete with a counter, refrigerator, stove, washer and dryer, and endless wood cabinets. There was a door to her right, leading to cabins, she assumed. She thought the vessel might easily sleep twelve or fourteen in comfort.
She slid her legs over the side of the couch. Her shoes were gone, and her stockings were torn and stained. She shivered. Her scarf was gone, too, and it was cold in the cabin. Her jaw was sore. She moved it carefully. Nothing seemed to be broken.
The men were still arguing.
Amber stood up carefully, stretching, gaining her balance. Perhaps she could find a life jacket and jump into the sea. She would rather take her chances with sharks than fanatics.
Where was the senator? she wondered sickly. Had they killed him already? Or had he been taken for ransom?
There was a scurry of noise from above. Amber sat down quickly, determined to pretend that she was asleep. But she was too late. The man whose mask she had stripped away was hurrying down a short flight of stairs into the galley. He met her eyes and smiled.
She realized then that he spoke English, at least one word of it. “Up,” he told her.
He reached to touch her, and she moved quickly. “I’m up.”
She stood up again, but he touched her anyway, pushing her ahead of him. They came to the little flight of steps, and he shoved her forward. She pushed open a half-closed doorway and nearly stumbled over the step that led to the outer deck, still cloaked in night’s darkness.
High above her head was the helm, covered by a canopy. Before her, lounging in an assortment of deck chairs, was an array of men. She hadn’t been unconscious very long, she determined. Several of them were still clad in wet suits.
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