by Linda Barlow
"Fine." I looked into his curious, slightly envious eyes until Metin's gaze dropped.
"Your girl—she is okay?" he asked.
"She will be." I hoped.
"She is afraid. Foolish woman." He seemed less callous than he was trying to sound.
Fuck. Metin had never been too good at disguising his basic decency. He probably had a lot more of that quality than I did.
Metin hesitated. "You aren't—" He paused, probably deciding which question he was brave enough to ask "—hurting her?"
I am fucking hurting her. "Have you ever heard a woman complain after she'd been with me?"
Metin considered. "You haven't been with a woman since I've known you."
Whoa. Was that true? I'd known Metin for six months. Surely... I thought back. Fuck. The kid was right. No wonder I was walking around with a dick too swollen for my jeans.
This whole mess was turning out to be a lot harder than I'd anticipated.
Chapter 12
ELLIE
I awoke with the sun in my face and a low male voice whispering in my ear. "Wake up."
I blinked into Nick's vivid green eyes. He was clean-shaven and his breath smelled faintly of toothpaste. In the full light of day, he was even hotter than he'd looked yesterday. He was dressed in blue-jean cutoffs and a black T-shirt. Tall and tan, he seemed to explode with sexy goodness. His gilt hair shone; his eyes reflected all the mysteries of the sea.
My sex clenched in that unpredictable but delicious way it tended to do when he was around. I glared down at my body as if it were my enemy. My pussy didn't care that he was a smuggler and a thief. My hormones had no shame, no self-respect.
He had left me alone all night. He'd never returned to the cabin after that abortive attempt at sex. Metin had brought me supper and, later, taken away my tray. I'd seen nothing more of either of them after that. I'd finally gone to sleep, leaving the light in the head on and its door fully open.
"I'm leaving it unlocked," Nick said. "You can come out when you're dressed." He nodded at a bundle on the floor. "You'll find your things here."
"My pack?"
"Your camera's there, too. Undamaged, I think, except for a few dents."
I pulled out the camera and examined it as tenderly as I might an injured puppy. "Thank you."
He ignored me and left the cabin. As he closed the door behind him, I took my camera and went to the porthole to look out into the bright iridescence of the new day. I saw no sign of land. We were well out in the Aegean Sea, whose name conjured up visions of the ancient world.
The water sparkled liquid gold under the radiance of the rising sun, and the morning had a hazy, timeless quality to it. For an instant, I felt transported to another century. I seemed to know these waters intimately, as if I had sailed them myself in the Golden Age with the heroes and warriors.
But no. There was nothing heroic about this voyage.
Ten minutes later, dressed in the fresh jeans and dark blue top I'd taken from my pack, I grabbed my camera and left the cabin where I'd been imprisoned. I could hear men's voices out on deck. Passing through the far end of the salon and up several steps, I saw Metin at the helm and Nick in the bow, doing something to one of the sheets that controlled the jib. One blond head and one dark against the bright-blue sky. My captor must have sensed my presence. He beckoned, and I went out, grateful that I wasn't to be locked up below all day.
The fresh air assaulted me, rushing to fill my lungs and wreak havoc with my hair. Spreading my arms out wide, I inhaled deeply. There were worse fates, I decided, than being snatched away on a yacht.
I shaded my eyes to stare across the deck. The sails were puffed full of wind; the sea creamed beneath the prow as the yacht skimmed over the sea with all the grace of a great white bird. I noted the boat's name stenciled on a life preserver. Voyager, she was called. As the sun rose higher in the eastern sky, its radiance bathed the entire vessel, tipping the slender top of the mast with amber. My imagination let loose again. I was on a mythical ship, sailing Homer's wine-dark sea; my fate was in the hands of Poseidon, the fierce god of water, wind and waves.
"Is it okay if I take a few pictures?"
Nick nodded.
I got several fast shots of the wind-filled sails and the glowing mast before the light changed. Then I moved about the boat, shooting from several different angles, losing track of the time, concentrating all my energy on my task.
I whirled to the touch of Nick's hand on my shoulder. "Getting any good shots?"
"A few. The light is excellent. Look." I pointed at the foamy spray that rose before us each time the bowsprit rode the curl of a wave. "Can you see the color refraction as the sun pours through the spray?"
"Yeah. Like hundreds of rainbows. Can you capture that?"
"I can try." I leaned over the rail, focusing on the swirling colors. The rocking of the waves made it difficult for me to hold my camera still. My arms were beginning to ache with the effort. Still I shot, leaning over some more as I shifted the camera to get a new angle.
"Watch it," Nick said sharply as a gust took us and the yacht rocked, nearly sending me off balance. I felt his hands grip my waist. "I don't want you falling over the side."
I turned, feeling his hands tighten on me as I rotated. My stomach muscles flexed and the desire lurking under the surface fluttered. "Thanks." Jeez. Stop thanking him. He didn't deserve any thanks from me.
For several seconds he continued to hold me, not exploring, not caressing, just letting me feel his heat. At last, he allowed his hands to fall back to his side. "You seemed totally absorbed, as if you could see nothing but the images in your lens."
"I get that way. I love taking pictures." I was speaking fast, nervously. "Seeing an image the way no one else sees it. Capturing it."
"I'd like to see your work."
"Sorry, but your associate back on the Turkish coast deleted all the pictures I'd already shot."
"True." He was looking speculative now. "Have you ever shot for your mother? Photos of the artifacts recovered on digs?"
"Now and then. I've never specialized in that kind of work, although I suppose it's what inspired me to take pictures in the first place. As a child, I used to pore over those beautiful color photographs of King Tut's golden mask and the frescoes on the gates of Babylon." I paused. "Why? You want pictures for your smuggler's scrapbook?"
I expected him to take offense at my non-submissive tone, but he just shrugged it off. It wasn't easy to needle him.
My first sight of Golden Dolphin Island came several hours later. It was little more than an arid hunk of rock. Stark and gray, it rose in masses of volcanic rock against the blue sky. Here and there, I saw some olive green or yellowish scrub and a few scrawny trees and bushes, but for the most part, the island was bleak and uninviting. "It looks forbidding," I said.
"It is forbidding," Nick returned with a distinct edge to his voice.
"Have there ever been any significant settlements here?"
"Not recently. Fresh water is sparse, so not much grows."
"Is the island recorded on any ancient charts? How do you know it's been here long enough to have anything to do with the Trojan War? Maybe it was thrown up by volcanic activity in later years."
"No, it's been here for eons. The Greeks of the fifth century B.C. had a name for the island—Worthless Rock."
"But the Turks called it Golden Dolphin Island? Why?"
He shrugged. "I've no idea."
He seemed edgy as we approached the island. He hid his feelings well, but I had little to do to pass the time except observe him. His face became more drawn, his conversation more terse with each passing minute. It did not help my own peace of mind to know that he was ill at ease.
The sails were down as we entered a narrow bay. Metin was at the helm. Nick touched me on the shoulder. "Come with me," he said, waiting for me to stand and follow.
We descended to the stateroom. He closed the door and turned, close to me—too c
lose, as he so often seemed to be. Why did his big body generate such warmth? And why did my own respond with such hunger every time he looked at me?
"Listen." His hands came down on my shoulders. He adjusted the rope collar around my throat. "Your life is in danger here. If you decide to do anything stupid—like try to escape—I'll be hard put to save you."
I didn't say anything. If I saw a chance to escape....
His fingers tightened. "You do want to keep on living?"
"Of course I want to keep on living."
"Then remember your training. Follow my orders. Act submissive. Swallow your protests even if I tell you to do something you hate. This will be tested, you can count on it."
"Do I have to pretend to be some dumb bimbo? Never to have heard of your grandfather's work?"
"We'll stick as close to the truth as possible, but let's not tell him who your mother is. She's pretty famous for her views about returning archaeological discoveries, even those from many decades ago, to their countries of origin."
I was surprised he knew this about my mother. She wasn't that well-known, although I suppose one could say they worked in the same field. "Okay, I won't mention her." I paused. "You're nervous, aren't you? The big, bad, wanted-in-nine-countries thief is afraid of his grandfather?"
He scoffed.
Half an hour later, we climbed into the rowboat and went ashore. Nick rowed the small boat into a narrow, deserted inlet. When we landed, thumping roughly against the rocky shoreline, I would have sworn we were alone. But by the time we scrambled out of the boat, this illusion had been dispelled. We were surrounded by four nasty-looking men, all armed, all dark, all sporting mustaches like Metin's.
"Hosh geldiniz, Nicholas bey," the biggest, meanest-looking thug said in response to Nick's cheerful grin. "Welcome."
"Hosh bulduk, Aslan," he responded, kissing the man on both cheeks in the Turkish manner. He tugged me forward with an unbreakable grip on my wrist. I leaned against him slightly, letting my hair brush his chin. I glanced shyly at the thugs, and then directed my gaze down. They were leering at me.
"This is my girl Ellie," Nick said. He was speaking Turkish. "She's a photographer."
"She works for you?" the man asked, looking at me suspiciously.
"She's a slave," he said casually, as if there were nothing unusual in the notion. "I own her."
Aslan, the ferocious-looking Turk, grinned. He studied me with interest, paying particular attention to the woven rope collar around my neck. He did not greet me as I meekly followed my "master" into the compound.
Chapter 13
ELLIE
Nick's grandfather turned out to be a delightful elderly man. He was charming, courteous and not at all intimidating. The notion that my life might be in danger from him seemed absurd.
Sir Avery Lindstrom had mischievous blue eyes, a lined and weathered face and thick, iron-gray hair. I noted a family resemblance between him and Nick in the bones of his face. He was in a wheelchair when we met in the smugglers' compound. The rambling, two-story building was divided into numerous small rooms and built in the lee of a massive cliff a few hundred yards from the bay where Nick had anchored the yacht. I remembered that Nick had told me it had once been a wealthy man's villa, but that must have been decades ago. It looked old and weather-beaten now.
"Nick has never brought a woman to meet me before," was the first thing Sir Avery said after we were introduced. "You must be special to him."
"I don't know about that, sir," I said meekly, bestowing my best sheep's eyes on the pale-haired man who stood tensely beside me. I spoke clearly because I noticed the old gentleman was wearing a hearing aid.
"How did you meet?"
An imp took my tongue: "It was one of those sudden things. No sooner did he touch me than I fell at his feet. The next thing I knew, he'd carried me off on his yacht like a thief in the night."
Nick got, if possible, stiffer, and Sir Avery shot him a quick, suspicious glance as I added, "It was very romantic."
"Ellie's a photographer." Nick's green eyes were glaring repressively at me. "She came to Turkey to photograph touristic sites for a travel piece. Unfortunately she ran into some minor trouble with the authorities." His hand had slipped into mine and tightened until he was all but crushing my fingers. I got the message: play along with me. "I paid a few bribes and extricated her from her difficulties."
"I see," said his grandfather. I didn't. I wondered what Sir Avery thought he meant by that vague explanation. The only difficulties I had were with Nick himself.
"Nicholas has always been chivalrous to ladies in distress," his grandfather commented.
This nearly made me burst into hysterical laughter. Clearly, Sir Avery was not as well acquainted with his grandson as he thought.
"Do you have an interest in archaeology?" Sir Avery asked me.
I shrugged. "It's really not my thing."
"Her primary interest is keeping me happy," Nick said.
In Turkish, Sir Avery asked Nick if I understood that language. Nick shook his head laconically, looking bored. "Pardon my rudeness," Sir Avery said to me. "You must get Nick to teach you some Turkish. He was a schoolteacher once, you know."
"Really?" I arched a glance in Nick's direction. "He never told me that."
Nick hooked his fingers around my upper arm. "I presume my usual room is ready for us, Granddad? I prefer to conduct lessons in private."
"Certainly," the old man said. "Show your friend to your room and let her freshen up. But return to me so we can have a little chat. Alone, if you don't mind."
"I think you're going to get raked over the coals when he gets you alone," I said to him a few minutes later.
"Looks like it," Nick agreed.
"How'd I do?" We were in the middle of a small, whitewashed room, furnished only with a metal folding chair, a card table, a large packing crate and a bare mattress on the floor. The afternoon sun was pouring in through the square window, making the room seem more cheerful than it really was.
"I could have done without that remark about you falling at my feet."
I shrugged. "Your grandfather was charming."
"He's always charming." He had dumped my things and his own on the card table and now began fishing a couple of blankets out of the packing crate. "Doesn't mean a thing." He threw the blankets on the bed.
His voice was weary, abstracted, and I ordered myself to stop picking at him. But his self-command annoyed me. I'd met few people so disciplined, so untouchable. If I hadn't seen his control briefly dissolve last night in the throes of lust, I'd have thought him beautiful but empty, with all the emotional depth of a robot. Because of those few minutes in his arms, I knew better. And, pathetically, given the circumstances, I was all the more intrigued.
"Were you really a schoolteacher?"
"When I was a grad student, sure."
"What did you teach?"
"You're full of questions, aren't you? Classics."
"Latin and Greek?" That explained the books in his cabin. "I took Latin, but I never did Greek, although I would have loved to be able to read the Iliad in the original."
"Yeah, well, it was a while ago."
"How the hell did a lover of classical literature turn into an antiquities smuggler?"
"Is the study of classical literature supposed to improve one's morals?"
"No, I suppose not, but—"
"Rather the contrary, I'd say. The Trojan War would never have been fought if Helen hadn't been carted off to Troy to be Paris's mistress. And as for piracy and looting, those guys were pros."
Before I could think up a retort, there was a rap on the door. Nick strolled over and opened it. "Well, well. I figured it was you. Eager to check us out? Ellie, my cousin Nigel. Nigel, my submissive, Ellie."
I glanced curiously at the man on the threshold for just a moment before dropping my eyes in approved submissive fashion. Nick's cousin Nigel was not what I had expected. Unlike most field archaeologists whom
I'd encountered on my mother's digs, he was dressed in casual but elegant clothing. No T-shirt and ragged shorts or jeans for Nigel. No work boots or rough-terrain shoes. He wore a pure white button-down shirt and perfectly pressed gray slacks. His shoes looked like expensive Italian loafers. His hair was smartly cut and his grooming was immaculate. He looked more like an international banker than a smuggler.
I could see the family resemblance. Nigel looked a little like Nick, and even more like their grandfather. He had the same strong features and thick, straight hair as the old man. Like Nick's, his hair was blond, but it was a muddier hue, less bright, less golden. He was taller than Nick by two or three inches. And he was brawny—wide shouldered and heavyset, although not overweight.
He greeted me with a broad smile that softened his eyes. He took one of my hands in his and pressed it, touching my arm with the other hand in affable-politician style. Everything about him conveyed kindliness and good will.
"Your submissive? I am astonished." To me he said warmly, "I'm so pleased to meet you. Welcome to our island."
I bowed my head as submissively as I could. "Thank you, sir." It's not your fucking island.
"I hope our grandfather has made you feel at home. Are your accommodations adequate? We're roughing it here, of course, but I think you'll find it comfortable."
He sounded friendly, and I thanked him again. I felt confused. From the little that Nick had told me, these guys were villainous thieves. But now that I had met both Sir Avery and Cousin Nigel, I was wondering if Nick had lied to me. Who was the real villain here?
It didn't take long, though, for the man behind the mask to peek out. "You may call me Master when we are alone, pet," he said, smiling as if he was joking. But I sensed he wasn't.
"Fuck off, Nigel. You're not going to be alone with my slave. And that title is reserved for me."
Nigel laughed, a deep-toned, boisterous sound. "Our Nick is possessive."
"Right." Nick's tone was dry.
"When we were in college I snaked away his girlfriend. He has never forgiven me. It was rather mean of me. Dear Elizabeth."