TO HOLD AN EAGLE

by Justine Davis

  She looked down at the table. "I'm glad you succeeded at that part."

  "That," he muttered, almost under his breath, "had its moments, too." Then, in normal tones, "My point is, I've met some people over the years. So has Con. People who can help."

  Chandra reluctantly shook her head. "It won't do any good. Nobody would believe my word against Daniel's."

  "How long have you been married to him?"

  "Centuries." Then, with a sigh, "Eight years. Since I was nineteen."

  "You've lived under his thumb too long, Channie. He's got you convinced he's untouchable."

  "He is," she said despondently. "He's done his work too well. He could come up with all kinds of people to swear I was imagining things."

  The thought of that, of Daniel lining up person after person to dutifully tell their stories of her odd behavior, made her shudder.

  "I truly appreciate your help, Linc." She thought she sensed a sudden tension in him when she said his name, but his expression never changed, so she wasn't certain. "But the best thing for me to do is to just go away. Just disappear. Let Daniel think I drowned."

  "Chandra—"

  "I know you mean well." Her voice was shaking, and she took an unsteady breath. "And I believe that if it was just you, you could pull it off. But I … I'd have to be the accuser, have to face Daniel. I just can't stand up to him. I'm not strong enough."

  She felt humiliated at the admission, at the quaver in her voice. She wrapped her arms around herself as if she could stop her own trembling. She couldn't look at him as she added, "I'll go away. Somewhere far away. Some—" her voice broke this time, and she had to force herself to go on "—somewhere where I can start over. Maybe … maybe I can change, maybe I can learn."

  "Learn what?" Linc asked, his voice low and gentle.

  "To be strong. Competent. Like … like Shiloh."

  A tight little chuckle escaped her at the idea of ever being like Linc's cool, competent sister. Even thinking about being like the woman who had succeeded at skydiving, hang gliding and the like made her want to laugh. And then it made her want to cry. And with a despairing little sigh she knew crying was going to win, and she was going to humiliate herself even further.

  Linc shifted uncomfortably in his seat as her lips began to tremble. Something more was going on here, he thought, something that even eight years of marriage to a man like Daniel Lansing couldn't produce. Her lack of self-respect was too deep, too ingrained in her mind to have been created in such a relatively short time. Had she grown up thinking she was worth so little?

  "That's a laugh, isn't it? Me, like your sister?" She tried to keep it a laugh but, on a hiccuping little breath, the tears began. "I'll never have that kind of courage in my life."

  He moved instantly, instinctively, around the table to slide in beside her and pull her into his arms. He felt her stiffen as if to pull away, but then she sagged against him, the tears coming in earnest now. He held her close, his actions based on the same instincts that had once helped him soothe the tears of his little sister.

  But when Shy had cried as a child, it was usually out of anger, when their mother had once again hurt them or their father, or when she couldn't instantly do whatever task she had set herself to prove she was nothing like the irresolute woman who'd borne her. This woman…

  God, maybe Shy was right. Maybe she was the same kind of woman their mother was, fragile and insubstantial, unable to deal with even the milder blows life dealt out. Was that why he felt so compelled to protect her, to help her? he wondered as, when her sobs deepened, he instinctively pulled her up onto his lap. He'd felt that way about his mother until he realized no one could ever give her the amount of protection she needed. Was Chandra the same way?

  But he couldn't get out of his head the way she'd fought when the sea tried to claim her. Or the way she'd tried to get the drop on him, even knowing nothing about the weapon she was using. Or the way she'd clung ferociously to her silence in the face of his interrogation, refusing to answer his questions until she knew he already knew the other side of the story.

  Not to mention, he thought, that trick of hers in spying on her two captors. That was hardly the act of a coward, although she seemed to think so. What did she think she was supposed to do, overpower them both and throw them overboard? He didn't know, he only knew that her crying was tearing him apart.

  "Shh," he whispered against her hair. "It's all right. We'll do whatever you want, Channie. Just stop, please. If you want to just go away, then I know some people who can help with that, too. You'll be safe, I promise."

  And gone, he thought. She would disappear out of his life, and he would get back to normal. Back to when all he had to wrestle with was that odd emptiness that had overtaken him, instead of fierce urges better left to teenagers.

  Which, he added wryly to himself, she was a lot closer to being than he was. God, she was Shy's age. A sudden memory came to him then, of that look in her eyes when he'd found her cowering in the head, when he'd told her not to get dressed. He knew she'd misinterpreted it the moment he saw the look that came into her eyes, a look that was far too old and world-weary for her face. He understood it now; Daniel Lansing had put that look there, treating her like nothing more than a convenient body. Perhaps she wasn't so very young after all. But no matter how he looked at it, he was fifteen years older.

  Tell it to your hormones, he muttered silently.

  Especially now. Her sobs were lessening, down to shivering hiccups of sound. And Linc was becoming ever more aware of her soft, warm weight in his lap. Of the curve of her buttocks and thighs as they rested intimately against him. Of the full pressure of her unfettered breasts against his chest.

  And in another second, she was going to know exactly how he was reacting to holding her so closely, he thought, trying to fight down his body's response.

  As she gulped back the last of her sobs, she shifted slightly, and Linc nearly groaned aloud. His body, the body that had never betrayed him before, was betraying him now, surging to fierce readiness for the woman who was so unintentionally arousing it.

  He had to get her off of him, before she noticed. He slid his hands down to her slender waist. He would just lift her off, turn away, and she would never know. And then her head came up, sharply. She lifted her eyes to his face. He saw surprise there, surprise and acknowledgment, and something else that looked like resignation. And he knew that it was too late for him to deny or hide his response to her.

  "Sorry," he muttered, not knowing what else to say.

  Embarrassed, he let go of her, figuring she would scramble away hastily. Instead, to his shock, she slid her arms around him, and her hands up to the back of his neck. She shifted once more, stretching herself up toward him, and her thighs rubbed against him so sensuously that he nearly gasped at the sensation. And then, incredibly, she was kissing him.

  Her lips were soft, full and warm on his. The low sound he made was one of surprise, surprise that she had done it, surprise at the fire that went racing through him, completing the job her closeness had begun; his body was at full, aching attention.

  He felt her fingers stroking the back of his head, as if savoring the texture of his short, thick hair. Her lips moved on his, and suddenly all he could think about was the feel of her, the taste of her, and he was kissing her back, fiercely, hungrily, like a sailor back from a long voyage who had feared never to taste a woman's sweetness again.

  Her tongue flicked over his lips, tasting, inviting. Then she drew back. It was an invitation he couldn't refuse, and he drove his own tongue forward into the honeyed depths of her mouth. His blood began to pound in his ears when her tongue met his, stroking, sending out little darts of fire that seemed to rip through his body and settle, hot and pulsing, in that part of him already rigid with pressure.

  His hands slid up her sides, slowly, caressing every indentation of flesh and ribs. When he reached the softness, the full, outer curve of her breasts, he groaned against her mou
th. When she moved slightly, pressing more of the fullness against his hands, his buttocks tightened convulsively in response, pushing his body harder against hers.

  He tore his mouth from hers. Nearly shaking with the sudden fierceness of it, he drew back and stared at her, his breath coming in deep pants. Her lips were wet, her eyes wide and soft with arousal.

  What the hell was going on? Was she reacting now, at this late date, to her near brush with death? He understood the instinct, he'd experienced it himself more than once, that need to verify his own survival in the most life-giving act of all.

  She leaned forward, her mouth searching for his once again.

  "Chandra, stop," he gasped out, while his body was begging her to go ahead.

  She pulled back a little, looking at him with an oddly tight little smile. "It's all right," she whispered. "I don't mind."

  And then she was kissing him again, coaxing that fiery response from him with her lips, shifting her lower body as if she meant to caress swollen male flesh. He groaned again, and it took every ounce of his will to pull away from her once more.

  "It's all right," she said again, looking at him a little dreamily and sounding almost surprised. "It really is. I want to. For the first time, I really…" She sighed, a wondering little sound.

  Take what she's offering, his body screamed at him. Who the hell cares why she's doing it? I do, he answered, trying to hang on to what little bit of his mind was still functioning rationally amidst the heat.

  Chandra was looking a tiny bit doubtful now. "Linc? Don't you…? You said I looked sexy. I thought you … would want this."

  He let out a harsh, short laugh. "It would be tough to deny that right at the moment, wouldn't it?"

  "Then why did you stop? I'd like to … give you something."

  Her words did what his mind had been unable to do; cool the fire she'd lit in him. "Give me something?"

  She shrugged, and lowered her eyes to his shirt buttons. "I owe you so much," she said quietly.

  Linc went utterly still. "And you thought you'd pay me … like this?"

  She gave a little shrug. "It's all I have to give."

  Fury rose in Linc. Fury at whoever had done this to her, whoever had convinced her to think so little of herself. He slid her off of him, and got to his feet. He needed action, movement to fight down his anger; he knew if he let it loose he'd scare her to death.

  It all made sense to him now, her embarrassment at being unable to do things she couldn't have been expected to do, and her cool reaction to her own nudity before him. She had blushed at what she considered her own incompetence, but not at what she thought was the only worth she had.

  "All you have to give?" he grated out.

  "All I can give to you," she amended, not pitifully but as if she were stating an obvious fact. "You don't seem like you need the perfect hostess."

  "And those are the two things you do? The two things that are your sole worth, is that it? Sex and … being decorative?"

  She winced. "You sound like Daniel."

  "Damn Daniel," Linc said fervently, meaning it as much as he'd ever meant anything in his life. "He told you that and you believed him?"

  "It's true. You of all people should know, you've seen what happens when I try anything else."

  Linc was so full of anger at what had been done to her that he didn't trust himself to speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was low and harsh.

  "So you decided you owed me, and you'd pay me back … with sex?"

  She seemed confused by his reaction, and said with forced lightness, "Well, I certainly can't pay you with money."

  "I'd like to know," he said tightly, "what makes you think I wanted to be paid at all?"

  She looked at him blankly. "But … you've done so much for me."

  "So?"

  "So I owe you for … everything."

  "Says who?"

  She looked even more confused now. "Nobody does all that without expecting something."

  "Oh? There's a price for everything and everyone, is that it?" he bit out. "Is that Daniel's wisdom, too?"

  "No," she said, "my father's."

  So, Linc thought grimly, there was another player in her nightmare. Her own father. God, the woman had never had a chance. "And just exactly did your father have to say about that?"

  She shrugged again, this time with a touch of bewilderment. "He always said everything and everyone has a price. If you want something, you pay for it, one way or another."

  "And did he teach you to pay that price with your body?" Linc snapped. "Why didn't he just dump you out on the street and pimp for you?"

  Chandra went waxen pale. He wouldn't have thought she could, but she was as white as the dress uniform in the photograph above her.

  "I never… I didn't…"

  "God, Channie, I'm sorry." Linc swiftly sat beside her, pulling her back into his arms, feeling awful that in his anger he had struck out at the victim, not the cause. "That was out of line. I know it's not your fault." He let out a miserable sigh. "I'm just so damned mad that they did this to you, that your father and your husband have got you convinced that you're not worth anything except as window dressing or in bed. I want to rip them to pieces."

  She made a low, unintelligible sound. It echoed with bewilderment and hurt, and made him tighten his arms around her fiercely.

  "Can't you see it's not true, Channie? You're bright. You're perceptive. And you're stronger than you think."

  "I'm not. Your sister is strong, I'm—"

  "Shut up," he said gently. "My sister is the way she is because she was driven to it by our mother. What she feared about herself is no different, and no more real, than what you fear about yourself. I've spent years risking my life on my judgment of people, Channie, and I'm pretty damned good at it. And I know you're not a coward."

  "I wish … I wish I could believe that."

  "Believe it. You escaped from two hired killers, didn't you? That's not something a coward could pull off."

  "But I didn't escape. I would have drowned if you hadn't pulled me out."

  "And I couldn't have pulled you out if you hadn't gotten away from them in the first place. And," he added firmly, "you don't owe me a damned thing for it, either."

  She bit her lip. "It wasn't like that. Not really. I just wanted to give you something…"

  "In payment? No thanks, Chandra. I can't deny I wanted you—" and still do, he admitted with silent ruefulness "—but I don't take payments like that. For anything."

  Chandra was staring at him once again as if he were some creature she'd never seen before.

  "Not everybody plays by your father's rules," he told her softly. "Or your husband's."

  With a shivering little sigh she sagged against him once more. She was silent for a long time, until he thought she might, after her restless night, have dozed off. Then she said, in a very small, sleepy voice, "It wasn't like that, Linc. It wasn't just because I thought I owed you."

  "It wasn't?"

  She gave a tiny shake of her head against his chest. "It was because I wanted it, too. I never knew it … felt like that. To want it, I mean."

  She snuggled closer, murmured something else he couldn't hear. And then her breathing gradually deepened, and he knew she really was asleep. Leaving him so full of conflicting feelings, so full of anger and tenderness, need and protectiveness, that he felt almost exhausted himself.

  He lowered his head until his cheek rested on the pale silk of her hair. The desire that had seized him hadn't quite released him yet, and his body was still calling him a fool for turning down what she'd offered. His mind was calling him a different kind of fool for letting himself get so emotionally involved in what should have stayed purely an impersonal situation.

  Shiloh was right, he thought with a smothered sigh. That damned "white hat syndrome" had kicked in full bore. He had acquired a bird with a wing down, and he was inherently unable to walk away.

  * * *

  Chapter
8

  « ^ »

  "Where was your mother when your father was pouring all this grog down your throat?"

  Chandra looked up at Linc as he set a plate down in front of her, then sat down across the table.

  "You don't have to cook for me," she said slowly. She'd awakened, after sleeping the afternoon away, to the smell of spaghetti sauce and the sight of Linc in the galley once more.

  "I need the practice," he said. "So where was she?"

  "I … agreeing with him."

  "What?" Linc looked startled.

  "She said he was right, there was a price to be paid for everything. And that marriage was the price women paid for security."

  Linc shook his head, a sour expression on his face. "What a pair," he muttered. "Yours believes everything has to be paid for, mine doesn't want to pay the price for anything."

  Chandra tried to think of some response, anything that would keep him off an even more painful subject. He hadn't said a word about her actions this morning, nor had he come anywhere close to touching her.

  She still couldn't quite accept it. Not the fact that he'd rejected her, that was too achingly real to deny. Ironic, she thought. At last she finds a man who truly makes her feel something, makes her want him, and he's the one who won't take what little she has to offer.

  No, what was so hard to accept was that he seemed to actually be the kind of man she'd once wished was in the world, the kind her father had always told her didn't exist. Her life with Daniel had done nothing to amend that view, and after a life spent in a world where everyone and everything could be bought, she was having trouble believing that there truly was no price that would buy Lincoln Reese.

  He was looking at her, steadily, and she hastily said the first thing that came into her mind.

  "What happened to your hand?"

  He glanced down only briefly at the network of thin white scars that marked the tanned skin all the way up to his wrist.