by Ann Major
Nicholas heard the splash of water, the husky murmur of a familiar French love song. The very song he had once so lovingly taught her in the shower. He looked up and was electrified when he focused on that cloud of steam sifting from that last half-opened door. A bar of pink-gold light fell across the rugs.
Dear God! She was bathing!
He should go and come back another time.
But he couldn't. There was no other time.
He moved closer to those half-opened doors, closer until he could see the flutter on cranberry tiles of her pink silk robe that lay discarded beside the marble tub. Closer until he could see her arm rise languidly from the soapy bubbles, until he could see the tantalizing curve of her naked back coated with sparkling bubbles, until he could see the damp tangle of red hair spilling in wild disarray from the confines of the towel down her long graceful neck. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses lay on the edge of the tub. She turned slightly, and the profile of a breast rose above a mountain of bubbles. She ran a thick Turkish washrag over it.
His heart began to pound violently. He told himself to move away. Instead his muscles turned to stone, and he stood there rigidly, staring at her with the starved awe of a raw schoolboy seeing his first woman. Her skin was golden and wet from her bath. Her voice was soft and husky as she sang that half-remembered love song, every faltering note cutting like the sharpest blade into the soft tissues of his heart.
Once, long ago, on a drowsy summer afternoon, when she'd hardly been more than a girl, he’d taught her that song of lost love. And afterward he had promised he would never leave her.
But he had.
She was French. And sensuous. And she’d loved him.
No, dear God. She had lied! How she had lied. She had wanted to remake him into some ideal man she could love. After his lonely childhood and lonelier life, he’d been so starved for love and for family, he’d concocted a fantasy about her and hers.
The Martins were proud. For a hundred years they'd occupied positions of power and privilege while his family had bred gamblers and rogues. Even though the Martins had despised him, Raoul had secretly admired them and had longed to be one of them. His need had only made their dislike hurt all the more.
Sweat glazed his brow. He felt a vague nostalgia, a terrible loneliness. And remorse. Why the hell should he feel remorse when she’d been the one to show him she could never really trust or love him?
She was nothing to him! Nothing… Then why couldn't he stand back and let her die? Why was the compelling urgency to save her stronger than his need to destroy Otto?
She lifted her left hand lazily from the tub and blew the bubbles from her fingers. An immense diamond glittered in the soft pink light. She stopped singing and moved her hand so that she could admire the white stone as it flashed.
He went cold in the pit of his stomach.
So, she’d agreed to marry Otto. Because of the money, status and fame. Like everyone else, neither she nor the Martins could see past the image Otto so carefully projected. Her shop was in trouble, so she had to marry well.
How in the hell was Nicholas going to convince Eva to jeopardize Connoisseurs and go into hiding with him? To convince her that Otto was an extremely dangerous villain?
Someone began to pound on the pink door. Nicholas started, jumping clumsily back toward the balcony. So clumsily that his arm bumped against the wing-backed chair. The black box with the gold ribbons went flying toward the bathroom, landing right in front of the bathroom door. Nicholas swallowed hard. There was no way he could get it. And no way she could come out and miss it.
More pounding. "Signorina! It's Paolo!"
Otto's personal bodyguard. Nicholas held a special grudge against him. Half Italian, half Saudi Paolo was the loathsome bastard who'd done Otto's dirty work in Africa.
"Signorina!"
"I'm in the bath."
"I have to check the stateroom. The guards, they hear somebody on your balcony!"
She turned off the faucet. Her voice was impatient. "In a minute."
Nicholas could hear her stepping out of the tub. He heard water gurgling down the drain. There was no time to do anything except react on instinct. He dived toward her closet, squirming behind a dozen hanging dresses. Just as he was about to pull the door closed, he stepped on something soft that yowled and sprang at him viciously. A set of thorny claws raked his bad leg. Needle-sharp teeth bit into his ankle.
A cat! He would have gladly paid the price of a thousand barrels of Nigerian crude to grab the squalling thing by the scruff of its neck and give it a fierce shaking. At the very least he wanted to yowl as indignantly as the cat had. Instead he bit his lip and swallowed blood.
"Victor, darling. Are you into trouble, precious sweetie?"
Nicholas smothered his cry with the back of his hand, pushed the door open a crack and gave the monster a gentle kick. He saw a blur of black fur leap wildly toward the sliver of light.
Then the devil sat down in front of the closet to lick his tail.
"Victor...you look upset." Eva's voice was soft and husky and warm as she came toward the closet.
Through the crack Nicholas could see her. She looked alluringly soft in her pink silk robe, the roundness of her breasts and nipples too apparent against the thin material. Her glasses had fallen down to the tip of her nose. Her hair was a shower of coppery fire. She bent, and the robe gaped open, revealing too much slender leg. Her beautiful smile was radiant and adoring as she scooped the black devil into her arms. "Look what I found, sweetie dearie.''
Sweetie dearie... Nicholas almost strangled.
She held the black-and-gold box up for the cat to inspect. Not that he had the wit to do so. Black paws began poking playfully at the gold ribbon as she carried him toward the door that Paolo was pounding.
Put something else on, Nicholas wanted to yell, something that isn't so transparent and doesn't cling to you like a second skin.
She opened the door and smiled charmingly at the tanned brute with the moody sensual face.
The hateful man was as dangerous as a cobra. Nicholas sucked in his breath and clenched his hands. Skintight suede molded Paolo's lean body. He had the look of a killer, whose opaque, soulless eyes and hard thin lips rarely smiled. Why couldn't she see it?
She’d never been clever about men.
Nicholas remembered the opaque eyes, the way the thin lips had curved again and again when he'd plunged his bayonet into Jones's inert body before kicking him into the ravine.
The enticing charm of Eva's smile toward this monster roused murderous fury in Nicholas.
"Signorina, I need to look—"
When his eyes slid over her lush body with too much predatory interest, Nicholas could have gladly choked him to death with his bare hands.
Paolo broke off, swaggered restlessly to the balcony and looked out, his every movement slow, suggestive, dangerous, as if he were casing the room. He lifted curtains, looked under the bed while she watched him too trustingly.
"There's no one here, Paolo, I can promise you. And the prince is waiting. I need to get dressed."
That was the understatement of the year.
Paolo's eyes went over her. Combing his fingers through his black hair, he shrugged.
When he’d gone, Nicholas sagged against the wall and let out a breath.
Almost immediately he covered his hand with his nose. Hell, he needed to sneeze.
Cats! He was allergic to them!
Chapter Four
Gently, Eva set Victor and the mysterious gold-and-black box down on the bed. Then she switched on the radio. For a second or two it blared before she turned the volume down. Twisting knobs, she found a lovely Chopin nocturne.
Aware Otto would become impatient, she loosened the sash of her robe and began to hurry. She'd stayed too long in her bath because she dreaded facing all of Anya's glamorous guests.
On the bed with the mysterious black box, Victor was snatching and pulling, making a hopeless snarl of
the gold ribbons. Curious, she picked the box up and held it against her ear, shaking it lightly.
Someone had been here. Why hadn't she mentioned the box to Paolo?
She shook the box harder.
Because whoever had come in hadn't bothered the diamond collar or her. Because Paolo’s strange eyes made her feel creepy and she could never have gotten rid of him if she had. He didn't bathe often enough and stank of sweat, leather and stale wine.
As she undid the gold ribbons, she draped the long lengths across Victor who rolled over, winding himself playfully in the glittering streamers.
Holding the box in her bandaged hand, she tore into the black paper, tossing the bits to Victor.
Inside was a gold velvet box.
A tiny vellum envelope fell out. Her name was a swirl of bold black letters. Even her middle name that no one knew. She drew in a breath and stared.
Long ago Raoul had sent her a letter from Africa addressed in the same manner. The handwriting was identical.
A shiver traced down her spine as she tore it open.
Inside was a card and more of the same bold black scrawl. She read aloud the terse message in French.
"Once I promised to return to you on your birthday, chere."
Her lips quivered. Chere. Only one man had ever called her that.
Raoul? Her eyes misted.
But he was dead.
Who would play such a vicious trick?
Who knew today was her birthday?
Her family—but they were in Louisiana, and they would never be so cruel.
Numbly she lifted the lid. Shimmering against black satin was a golden ring with an onyx stone set in its center.
Mon Dieu. For an endless second she couldn’t breathe even as her heart knocked violently.
The ring was the one that Raoul had given to her when they'd been so in love. When he'd left for Africa, she'd given it back to him—along with a gold chain so he could wear the ring around his neck.
She swallowed. Raoul's thick gold chain was looped through the ring, but one link was broken as if the chain had been ripped from his neck.
She thought of Raoul lying helpless, dying. The vision came to her of some brutal hand reaching down for the chain. She wanted to remember all the negative feelings she'd felt for Raoul because he’d betrayed his men. But all she could do was stare at the glittering bits of gold as grief washed her.
The ornate stateroom with its pink marble and Persian carpets and fine oil paintings blurred. Victor and his tangle of gold ribbons were forgotten. The sickening sweetness of the roses nauseated her.
In a trance Eva lifted the ring from black velvet and turned it over. With her fingertip she traced the familiar initials, Raoul's and hers, intertwined—E.M. and R.G.
Clutching it against her heart, she gave a broken cry. Then the stateroom began to swirl and darken as she sank to the floor.
A few seconds later, she regained consciousness.
Only vaguely did she hear the wildly romantic crescendo of piano notes and recognize the piece. Chopin's Minute Waltz.
In the next breath Paolo began banging against the door.
*
Her cry pierced through every cell in Nicholas's body. When she fell, he sprang from the closet, forgetting Paolo and the danger to himself.
Eva was lying on a thick rug—soft breasts, slender waist, long shapely legs—a provocative curl of voluptuous woman in a pink silk wrapper that concealed very little. Her glasses had fallen to the carpet. She was lovely, fragile. And so small and feminine.
If she had been beautiful eight years ago, she was more so now. Her features were gentle and sweet. She had the high cheekbones of a Cherokee princess. Her hair was a scintillatingly golden red.
Her ring was clutched in her fingers, Eva was as still as death; her golden skin as white. With exquisite care Nicholas lifted her. Cradling her tightly, he smoothed the tangled curls back from her forehead. Warm and damp from her bath, she was deliciously perfumed. She had the same sensuous, opulently-lush body he remembered.
He ignored the familiar stirring in his loins. Carrying her to the bed, he laid her down and smoothed her hair out on the pillow. Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at him. Nicholas thought he saw a glimmer of recognition, but she lowered her black lashes before he could be sure. Her whispery voice was so soft he could barely hear her.
"You're a dream. A dream... Why must you haunt me? Why can't I forget you?"
Dear God. Did she have bad dreams, too?
She closed her eyes.
To shut him out.
"This is no dream, Eva. No dream. It’s me. Raoul… I've come back. To protect you. You mustn't be afraid. Not of me, chere, no."
"No…” she murmured.
Nicholas glanced around the lavish stateroom. “I don’t blame you for wanting Otto and all that he can give you. But you don’t know who or what Otto is.”
When Paolo’s pounding grew louder, Nicholas lifted her into his arms. Somehow he had to get her out of here. But as he headed toward the door, he heard the thunder of more footsteps outside in the hall and realized they were trapped.
"Signorina?"
When she didn’t answer, Paolo kicked the door down and then threw himself against it.
"Here's the key you fool,” Otto said. “Then in a softer voice that would sound evil only to Nicholas, he heard Otto whisper, "Liebchen?"
Nicholas barely had time to ease her ring onto her finger, to lay her gently back down onto the bed and cover her completely from neck to ankle with pink silk. He grabbed the velvet box and its wrappings—not so easily done because he had to yank the golden ribbon away from her cat—and slipped outside onto the balcony.
*
They were gone now—Otto, Paolo, the doctor—after having made a lengthy fuss over her.
Eva had lain in her bed like one in a trance, her red hair spread in a tangle of fire against her white pillow, a dazed expression on her face, not answering their questions.
They had pressed her, but she had told them nothing.
Which was damned odd, but Nicholas was thankful, nevertheless, even though he was furious at himself for bungling everything.
The doctor concluded that she was suffering from nerves, that she was overly excited about the sudden engagement and the party. No one thought to search the stateroom or the balcony again.
There were guards everywhere. All Nicholas could do was wait until they left for the party. Even after she was alone in the room again, Nicholas was afraid to show himself.
How could he convince her she had to go into hiding? How could they escape the heavily guarded yacht? What if she screamed again and brought them all back to the stateroom? Nicholas was under no illusions about what would be his fate.
No, better to approach Eva at the party. With the comings and goings of the guests, it would be easier to approach her and escape.
The curtains weren't quite shut. There was a crack. From time to time Eva would walk in front of it, and Nicholas could watch her twisting the black-and-gold ring on her bandaged hand. She looked pale, confused, and distraught.
Once as she studied the ring, her lips trembled and her eyes grew overly bright.
What was she thinking, feeling? Would she hate him now? What would she do when they met?
Slowly, he watched the most tantalizing dress-tease. When she stripped out of her robe, he gasped at the sight of her naked, golden-limbed body. Then she fitted her breasts into lacey black cups and rolled sheer black hose up her long, shapely legs. He watched her pin up the lustrous tendrils of her hair. As he remembered how she'd been—innocent at first and then wild in his bed—he felt a stirring in his groin.
He clenched his shaking hands. In his mind's eye, visions of blood and death in the desert, all the dreadful memories of Otto's treachery rose up to torture him.
The woman who haunted his dreams was sleeping with his enemy. Nicholas didn’t want to care. He wished he saw her as nothing more than
a pawn in the high stakes game he had to play with a dangerous man.
Nicholas would have had Otto where he wanted him if only Eva were somewhere else and safe.
Instead Nicholas was trapped on the balcony while she dressed in Otto’s stateroom. If only he’d looked away or shut his eyes, maybe then he wouldn’t feel this madness to touch her again, to know the warmth of her, to know her softness, to caress her until she burned with the same wildness he felt. In the past when he’d dreamed of having a real life, he’d wanted to share it with her.
He wanted to have her again, just once. And this treacherous need filled him with hatred because she had given herself to Otto.
Nicholas felt his stubborn, intractable will sliding away—the powerful force that had kept his mask in place all these years.
Eva was dangerous to him. She made him forget who he was, how he'd taught himself to live. Just the sight of her brought back the dreams and hopes.
If he weakened and let himself feel, Otto would win.
Nicholas was afraid of her, afraid of even talking to her.
But he had no choice.
If he didn't get her away from Otto, she would die.
Chapter Five
Lightening zig-zagged against a black horizon. The heavy, rain-scented wind that ruffled the harbor sent an early, ominous warning that the night would be a stormy one.
Beneath Eva the immense cigarette boat Otto used as a tender bobbed up and down in the dark, turbulent waves at the stern of La Dolce Vita.
Eva needed to concentrate on climbing down the ladder, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Raoul or forget the onyx ring on her finger. Was he alive? Had he come to her room? Or had someone played a cruel trick?
The horizon burst into white flame and her confused thoughts returned to the tender beneath her.
She’d felt unsure on boats ever since her near-fatal accident. PTSD, she called it. Ever since that foggy afternoon when Raoul had saved her form drowning, she’d tried to avoid boats and anything to do with boats—and that included deep water, rain, electrical storms over water, and the cigarette boat snugged against the stern. The mere thought of jumping down into that wildly gyrating tender filled her with dread even as she descended.