by Kay Hooper
Spencer realized that he was angry, and it made her a little nervous. “That’s not the worst of it,” she confessed reluctantly. “My itinerary was lying on the desk. I had meant to leave it for Tucker, in case he needed to get in touch with me. The thief didn’t take it, but if he noticed it . . . You figured out where the cross was in just a few hours, you said, because you knew the area was Innsbruck. If he knows that, too, then he could be ahead of us.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner, Spencer?” Drew asked very softly.
“It wouldn’t have mattered if—if you’d studied the notes and told me I was wrong—”
“No, I meant why didn’t you tell me when it happened?” Then an odd laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. “Never mind. It was a stupid question. You wouldn’t have come to me if I was the last hope between you and hell.”
He was angry at himself, she realized in surprise. Because his behavior that first night had made her staunchly determined not to ask him for help? If she had asked him and he’d agreed, they might well have been in Austria by now. It was her limited funds that had brought her to Paris and prevented a more direct route. Was Drew angry because they might have lost the cross partly due to his earlier hostility?
“I’m sorry, Spencer,” he said.
She looked at him, wondering what to say to that. “I probably wouldn’t have asked you for help no matter what your attitude had been,” she said finally, then went on immediately before he could comment on that. “The only thing that makes sense is that some collector or black market dealer somehow found out that I was close—or thought I was—and paid a professional thief to get the papers. We have to assume Dad’s notes are in the hands of someone who knows what they’re looking for, and how to look for it. Even if they aren’t as good or as quick as you, they’ll find the clues, given enough time.”
Drew took a deep breath. “And if they were prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, they may already be in Innsbruck.”
“I wish I knew who they were,” Spencer murmured, “and how they found out. . . .”
Rising abruptly to his feet, Drew went over to the phone and placed a call. He spoke in French, rapidly, and she had no idea who he was talking to or what he was saying. She glanced at her watch, which she’d reset to local time, and was vaguely surprised to see that it was barely noon. Drew’s voice distracted her. He seemed to be arguing, but then his tone turned decisive, and when he hung up he was obviously satisfied.
Looking at Spencer, he said briefly, “Are you ready to leave?”
She nodded. She hadn’t unpacked the night before, so all she had to do was pick up her bags and go.
Drew made another call, a short one this time. After cradling the receiver a second time, he said, “A bellman’s coming up for the bags.”
Spencer nodded again.
“If I read those clues correctly,” he said, “the hiding place for the cross is miles outside Innsbruck in the mountains. Even bypassing Salzburg we won’t have time to get started today, but we might be able to find out who our competition is.”
“Bypassing Salzburg? I thought there were no direct flights available.”
“I’ve chartered a plane,” Drew said.
HE HAD , ACTUALLY, chartered a jet. A Lear jet. Spencer, sitting in the efficiently soundproofed and luxurious cabin, gazed around at plush carpeting and furnishings as they left Paris far behind. Her background was one of wealth and privilege, but she had never before flown in an aircraft like this one. She was less impressed by the luxury than by the convenience, speed and efficiency that were possible when there were no budget considerations.
Drew was still in charge, making arrangements with cool authority so that she hadn’t had to even think, and she hadn’t objected. She kept telling herself that he was doing this because of the cross and because of her father, not because he wanted to help her. To take care of her. It wasn’t personal, she thought. He’d shown no protective impulses all those years ago, had given no sign that accepting a woman’s burdens was something he desired or was even prepared to do.
But, then, she hadn’t needed him in that way at the time. She wondered, now, what would have happened if she had. Would she have seen a less remote side of Drew, as she was seeing now, if she had turned to him with a problem? Were the changes she saw and sensed less his than her own? She needed his help now, and she knew it, needed his intelligence, his expertise and his knowledge. He’d been right in saying he was the best ally she could have.
Because of that, because his inner qualities were far more obvious and more imperative to her now than the elegant surface of him, she didn’t feel so intimidated by his confidence and sophistication. Those traits were only part of him. Since he’d come back into her life, she had begun to understand that he was more complex than she’d known—and certainly not detached. She wasn’t seeing him now as a schoolgirl’s fairy-tale prince, but as a man a woman could count on for far more than handsomeness, courtesy and social composure.
Was that the difference? Ten years older and wiser, a woman instead of a child, she was more comfortable with both herself and him, less inclined to shy away like a frightened child from the terrors of uncertainty. He still had the power to unnerve her, and she still felt vaguely threatened by him sometimes, but there was less fear in that now, and more . . . excitement. As if the woman she was now had some instinctive knowledge that the girl of ten years ago had lacked, some understanding that losing herself in him would be as exhilarating as it would be terrifying.
“You’re very quiet,” he said.
As the jet reached its cruising altitude and leveled off, she loosened her seat belt and looked at him. He was sitting across from her, his face still, the way it had been ever since he’d become angry—at himself?—at the hotel. He hadn’t said very much and, grappling with her own thoughts, she had said very little to him.
Now she said the first thing she could think of. “The customs official at Orly certainly knew you.”
“Most of the customs officials in Europe know me.” He unfastened his seat belt and got up, going over to a wet bar placed toward the front of the plane. “Would you like something to drink? I see a variety of fruit juices here.”
“Orange juice, please.” She watched him, thinking of the laconic response that said a great deal. During the past ten years she had heard or read of dozens of spectacular finds Drew had made, as well as confrontations with black market dealers and transactions with other collectors for various antiquities and art objects. Customs officials all over the world probably knew him by sight and most, judging by the Frenchman’s attitude, no doubt both liked and respected him.
Drew returned to hand her a glass, holding one for himself that also contained fruit juice and sitting down beside her this time. The seats in this jet ran lengthwise, more like plush couches than standard airline seating, so there was no armrest separating them. Very conscious of his closeness, she sipped her juice and then clung to what seemed like a casual topic.
“The official at Orly was very friendly. Are they all like that?”
Drew was half turned toward her, one arm along the back of the couch so that his hand was very close to her shoulder. His tone sounded a little absent when he replied, “No, not all of them. Most of them trust me, though, after all these years. They know they can be pretty sure I’m not carrying contraband, or trying to smuggle anything in or out of a country.”
He couldn’t stop looking at her. She was no longer pale as she’d been last night, her gray eyes clear and steady, and Drew wanted to touch her so badly that it was a constant ache inside him. She seemed to have no awareness of her effect on him and, despite her instant response to him last night, if she felt any urge to cast herself into his arms now she was hiding it well. He wondered again, with an odd blend of wry amusement and acute frustration, if he really was losing his mind. He was having trouble stringing two coherent thoughts together, and she seemed bent on keeping the conversation casual.
“You don’t approve of black-market trading, do you?” she asked.
He forced himself to concentrate. “When it comes to antiquities or art objects, no. But some things sold on the black markets of the world, especially where there’s no free trade, are beneficial.” He smiled suddenly. “I doubt that the invasion of blue jeans and stereos into communist countries had much to do with sparking a few revolutions, but you never know.”
Looking at him curiously, she said, “I’ve heard that you’ve gone into some pretty rough places searching for antiquities. As much as you travel into and out of countries without free trade, have you ever been tempted to . . . ?”
After a moment Drew said, “I have a good reputation with most officials and border guards, and it isn’t wise to abuse something like that. But there have been a few times in the past that I’ve helped to transport supplies into a country. Medical supplies, usually. Never guns, and never anything that a democratic government would consider contraband.”
It didn’t surprise Spencer, though she thought it would surprise some people who knew him. She had a feeling that even those who knew him well actually knew little about him and the things he’d done.
Smiling a little, she said, “No nerves to speak of?”
“Plenty of nerves.” He returned the smile. “But, hell, what’s the fun of trying if you’re sure you’ll win?” That philosophy applied to most things, he acknowledged silently, but he wasn’t sure it applied to them. He felt as if he were walking a high wire without a net, and fun wasn’t the word he would have chosen for that.
“Fun? Risking being thrown into some dark prison for the remainder of your natural life?” Her voice was still casual, and she appeared faintly amused.
“That possibility has given me a few bad moments,” he admitted, still smiling. “But there’s a sense of triumph in beating the odds, and even in just trying to. Think of Allan’s search for the cross. A lifetime’s work and plenty of disappointment—but you know he wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
They were, Spencer realized, slipping out of the casual topic and into something more sensitive, despite her efforts. The cross. Always it came back to the cross. She wondered, had to wonder, if Drew was with her now only because of that.
“I know that,” she said, pushing the question aside. “And I suppose if you have the triumph, it’s worth it. But what if you fail?”
His smile faded a little, and Drew’s eyes were intent on her face. “Failure isn’t an ending, Spencer, it’s just a place to stop for a while and consider your options. You try again, or try something else.”
“Learn from your mistakes, you mean?” she asked lightly, staring at her glass.
“You can do everything right and still fail.” In a deliberate tone, he went on. “Take you and the cross, for instance. You’ve done everything right—more than right, in fact. You found clues that have eluded experts for centuries, and pieced them together to find an answer. It wasn’t your fault that someone stole Allan’s papers, and it won’t be your fault if they get to the cross before you do.”
“It certainly won’t be yours.” She managed to hold on to the light tone. “You’re spending a great deal of time and energy—to say nothing of money—to get us there as quickly as possible.”
“Does that bother you?” Drew asked.
It had bothered her all along, but she’d managed not to think about it. Now she had no choice. “I don’t like being indebted. Even if it’s for Dad, I—”
“Spencer, there’s no debt.” His tone roughened suddenly. “And I won’t claim one later, if that’s what you think.”
She had an almost painful urge to apologize, but couldn’t form the words. Instead, still gazing into her glass as if it contained the secrets of the universe, she said, “Then it is for Dad that you’re doing this?”
Drew took the glass away from her, setting both hers and his on a low snack table at his end of the couch. Then he reached over and made her look at him, his long-fingered hand gentle but firm against her face. “I want Allan to see the cross.” His voice was low, still a little rough; his expression was grave and very intent. “But if you weren’t hell-bent to find it, I wouldn’t be here.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said. I thought you’d fight me if I said I only wanted to help you. Either that or think the worst of my motives. So I said it was for Allan.”
Spencer stared into his eyes, doubtful but conscious of her heart beating rapidly and of all her senses coming alive as a pulse of heat throbbed inside her. Something else, she realized, that it always came back to. This. This potent desire between them was never far away. It was difficult to think at all, but she tried, because she had a curiously certain idea that they were at a turning point of some kind. He was saying this was for her, that he wasn’t with her because of the cross or her father—and she had to decide whether she believed him.
“Then how can I believe there’s no debt?” she whispered. His eyes, she thought, were the color of blue topaz, a shade that wasn’t light or dark but somewhere in between. There was heat in them, blue heat that melted something inside her.
“Because I say there’s no debt. Spencer, I want to be with you. Is that so hard for you to believe? I just want to be with you.”
It was difficult for her to accept, but his insistence and her own silent yearning made it impossible for her to say so. She had to believe him, and if it was a mistake, if she had to pay a price for trust, then she’d pay it.
“I guess I have to believe it,” she murmured. “But . . . you’re very confusing.”
“Am I?” He was smiling again. His hand moved slightly, so that the fingers lay along her neck while his thumb brushed her cheek in a slow, stroking caress.
She’d been very conscious of his hand on her, but that little caress made her want to close her eyes and actually whimper out loud with the pleasure of it. It was increasingly difficult to think, but she tried. “Last night—”
“Last night, you were tired,” he murmured. “And you didn’t trust me. I want you to trust me. I want you to believe we’d be good for each other. This time.”
His low voice was almost hypnotic, as acutely erotic as his touch, and Spencer wondered vaguely if this was what drowning felt like. She was sinking into something velvety soft and warm, and she had absolutely no urge to save herself. When his mouth touched hers, she was incapable of doing anything except sway toward him, an unconscious purr of pure sensual bliss vibrating in her throat. His tongue slid deeply into her mouth, the small possession so hungrily insistent that her response was instantaneous. The now-familiar but still astonishing burst of desire jolted through her body like an electrical shock, and her arms lifted to wreathe around his neck.
His arms were around her now, holding her as close as possible, but even that wasn’t close enough for Spencer. The constriction of her seat belt kept her from turning completely toward him as she wanted to do, and the throbbing emptiness deep inside her was a torment. She could feel his hands burning through her sweater, feel the hardness of his chest flattening her breasts, and his thick hair was like silk under her fingers.
He kissed her as if he were starving for the taste of her, the intensity of his need overwhelming, and that fierce desire ignited an answering passion in her that had never been touched before. Spencer had never even imagined anything like this; the sheer raw power of it was stunning, and if she could have said anything at all she would have said yes, because she wanted him with every throbbing nerve in her body.
He finally pulled back with obvious reluctance, murmuring her name huskily, and she became vaguely aware of a scratchy voice on the jet’s PA system announcing that they were nearing Innsbruck. The information sank into her numb brain, but she could only stare up at Drew’s taut face with helpless longing.
He kissed her again, quickly this time, and gently pulled her arms from around his neck. He held her hands in both of his, darkened, heated eye
s fixed on her face, and his voice was still a little thick when he spoke. “If we weren’t twenty thousand feet up in a jet . . . I wouldn’t have stopped this time. I’ve waited twelve years for you. I don’t think I can wait much longer.”
Twelve years? She was dimly puzzled by that, but it didn’t seem important at the moment. Her entire body was filled with a pulsing ache, and she didn’t even try to hide what she was feeling because that would have been impossible. “I don’t want to wait,” she whispered.
His eyes burned hotter, as if banked embers had suddenly burst into flame. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.” His voice was even thicker, rasping over the words.
Somewhat to her surprise, Spencer was utterly calm and certain about this. Her body was still throbbing, but slowly now, and what she felt most of all was anticipation. She already belonged to him; fighting that was like pitting her strength against a force of nature, a battle she could never win.
“I don’t want to wait,” she repeated steadily.
Drew leaned over to kiss her, the heat inside him banked again but searing her nonetheless, and muttered as he lifted his head, “Dammit, it’ll take hours to find out anything in town, and it has to be done today.”
She smiled slowly, understanding that the digression was made with extreme reluctance and not a little strain. “The cross is our priority. You said that.”
His mouth twisted. “I may have already cost you the damned thing. I don’t want to make another mistake.”
“Drew, it won’t be your fault if somebody gets there ahead of us. I couldn’t have asked you for help—not because of anything you’d said or done, but because of what I’d done. Ten years ago.”
“You know we’re going to have to talk about that,” he said, his hands tightening around hers.
Spencer half nodded, then glanced away as the altered sounds of the jet’s engines indicated that they’d be landing soon. “Yes, but not now.”