Tempestuous Eden

by Heather Graham

With this as his intention. Blood flooded her face with fury and humiliation, increasing a nauseated, spinning sensation. Suppressing a moan, she wondered what he had done to her. No permanent damage, she decided quickly. She was certainly in one piece.

  Oh, dear God, no! She had been harmed. The agony of his betrayal was like a thousand wounds. She had been such a fool! She had instinctively suspected him from the beginning, but she had wanted to believe the best; she had wanted him, and so she had capitulated like an easy teenager against all the wisdom of her maturity.

  She had fallen in love with a man who had taken her confidences and done nothing more than used her, amused himself at her expense when all the while he had been planning … what?

  She blinked fiercely, trying to rid herself of the fog that persisted in shadowing her mind like cobwebs. Stop it! she warned herself. She had to forget the last three weeks. Damn! Would God that she could! Mortified anger assailed her as she remembered the way she had instigated intimacies between them, intimacies that went beyond any she had previously known. Her insides crawled as she remembered pressing her body to his, tasting, touching, crying out, beseeching him to make her his.

  Her flesh could remember his touch; her loins seemed to constrict as her mouth went dry and her skin burned.

  Revolted, she told herself, she should be revolted. But the memory of his lips upon her, his seeking hands bestowing pleasure even as they raided every secret of her femininity, was not revolting even in the fierceness of her anger. She could hate him now with the gut-piercing pain of his betrayal, but she still couldn’t force the lie upon herself that he was repulsive to her.

  Stop! she railed to herself again. Stop! Whatever, it was the past. She had been used, mentally and physically seduced by a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Now she had to put it all behind her, all the time that she had learned to truly live again.

  She was Andrew Huntington’s daughter. Her chin rose up, pride winning out. She was a soundly reasoning, intelligent, mature woman. She had to find out what was going on, what Craig Taylor’s plan was. A shiver suddenly riddled her body with the full import of her situation. She was a prisoner, a hostage. For what devious means she didn’t know. She didn’t know what or who Craig Taylor represented. Obviously he knew about her father. Was she a pawn in a play for power? Or merely the victim of greed, her kidnapping nothing more than financial?

  But Craig had money! she reasoned. Or did he? He had told her he came from an affluent family, but was that just another filament in a carefully woven web of deceit?

  Lord, she didn’t even know if she was still being held by Craig. Her eyes once more rested upon the hatch that looked out to the sky. She would have to go up.

  A quaking of fear riddled through her again. What was the game? Was her life to be forfeit if things didn’t go as planned? No, she soothed herself, she hadn’t been physically harmed. Knocked unconscious, yes, but not permanently injured in any way. Her still grieving heart plunged over her emotions. She couldn’t believe that Craig would hurt her. He had lain beside her, taken her, possessed her.

  “Stop!” This time she wailed her fervent plea to herself aloud in a pathetic whisper. This type of thinking was going to get her nowhere and she would need all her courage, all her assumption of cool hauteur to climb up the rickety, splintering steps and face whoever piloted the craft she was upon.

  Sliding her legs over the bunk, Blair moaned softly as she clutched her head, spinning anew with the sudden effort. She sat, clenching her teeth while the motion died down. She stood very slowly, pushing up on the bed for support while her mind ceased its reeling. Between the inexplicable dizziness and the lazy sway of the boat, she had to wait several seconds before assuring herself that blackness was not going to overwhelm her again.

  Finally secure in her growing strength, Blair let go of the bed and carefully approached the steps. You are a hostage, she reminded herself. Make no stupid moves, but keep your eyes and ears alert.

  What was correct hostage etiquette? she wondered, fighting hysteria. Name, rank, and serial number. Keep your dignity, she begged herself, you will get out of this.

  Pride, dignity, and the hate born of betrayal would sustain her, allow her to meet whoever lurked above with aloof and cutting precision. She set foot on the first of the ladder rungs, unaware that within her subconscious she was praying that Craig was still her captor and that he hadn’t turned her over to another, perhaps even more loathsome …

  He had known that she would come up eventually. What other course did she have? From the tiller he watched as she stepped into the sunlight, shielding her eyes from the sudden spurt of brilliance with the involuntary action of casting an arm upward. He was certain that her gaze had rested upon him for a split second and that some unfathomable emotion had skyrocketed through the flashing emerald of her eyes. Was she just a little bit relieved?

  If she was frightened, she didn’t give a single sign. Not a single tremble was visible to the naked eye. With forehead still shielded by a crooked arm, she surveyed their rickety-looking vessel, from grayed sails to worm-gnawed bow to worm-gnawed stern. Her gaze rested upon him once again, disdain and annoyed indifference flicking through her eyes this time. He waited, hands tense upon the tiller.

  But as she remained scathingly silent, trying to sear his flesh with her exuding contempt, his bitterness prompted him to goad her into acknowledgment of his presence.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Teile,” he drawled.

  Her vision was drawn immediately to him, her eyes blazing despite her cool manner. “Taylor,” she returned. He had never heard his name spat with such disgust.

  It was all that Blair had as a defense.

  Craig, as always, seemed at home in his surroundings. Like a chameleon, he easily wore new colors, and wore them well. Negligently lounged against the bow while he held the tiller, he appeared comfortable, too comfortable. He was barefoot, bare-chested, and bare-legged in cutoffs, a striking specimen, the sun wreaking gold havoc with his tawny hair and bronze, superbly toned muscles. A glistening of sweat over his broad, hair-matted chest only enhanced the image of a handsome sportsman out for a leisurely sail. But she knew that his casual stance was as deceptive as his being. No matter how relaxed he appeared, Craig Taylor was a coiled cat, an explosive ready to discharge at any second.

  Blair lowered her lashes to rip her gaze from his. Even now she found herself being hypnotized by his yellow fire eyes. She had seen his features tighten as she grated his name, but only for a fraction of a second. He now appeared as granite—hard, cold, implacable.

  Having freed herself of his gaze, Blair focused on the water and the shoreline—land not too far distant. But the land was dismal looking; heavy foliage crawled all the way to the river’s edge. The type of thick brush continually inhabited by snakes, insects, reptiles, and all creatures imaginable that slithered and crawled.

  They were on a river; that was all she really gained from her perusal. What river or where she didn’t have the faintest idea. She was sure they hadn’t traveled terribly far—the landscape hadn’t changed—the jungle had merely increased in density.

  “Were you thinking of swimming, Mrs. Teile?” Craig inquired, his voice silky and polite and slightly arrogant. “I don’t advise it. I believe I noticed a few crocodiles lounging on shore this morning, and”—he smiled at her dryly, flashing white teeth in an infuriating manner—“if you should avoid all the creatures, there’s me. Among my other dubious talents, I do swim like a fish.”

  Blair glared at him in return, inwardly convincing herself that an attempt to pummel him into little pieces would not be the prudent thing to do. She was wishing with venom that the scorching sun would burn every inch of the skin he so unconsciously bared to it.

  Stay cool, she warned herself. “Taylor,” she said distinctly, “although the last weeks certainly do little to verify my point, I am not stupid.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  His drawling amusement, irritatingly evide
nt in the brilliant light of his yellow eyes, threatened to create a combustion within her. But she didn’t explode: She managed to retain her air of scathing contempt and once more assess her surroundings.

  “Well?” he inquired politely.

  Blair managed a disinterested shrug. “I’ve heard of plans to raise the Titanic,” she said dryly, “but never the African Queen. Are you sure this thing isn’t going to just sink with both of us aboard and ruin your scheme, whatever it is.”

  “Fear not, Mrs. Teile,” he advised gravely, “this boat will not sink.”

  His calm, positive assurance drove the first chink into her armor. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded heatedly.

  He met her angry question with cool indifference. “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  He shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “How—” Don’t let me falter, she prayed. “How long are you planning to keep me?”

  “Since you don’t seem to care for the accommodations,” he responded, his body still at ease but his gaze piercing and alert, “I’ll do my best to see it’s as short a time as possible.”

  “Oh, and when will that be?”

  “We’ll both know when the time comes.”

  “So you are a mercenary!” Blair snapped contemptuously. “Working for someone else.”

  “Actually,” he returned dryly—and Blair curled her lips into a grimly satisfied smile to see that she had struck a nerve of discord—“this particular assignment is in answer to a special request. A favor I wasn’t quite allowed to refuse. But I can guarantee you, Blair, I would damned well rather be really working.”

  “A terrorist,” she scorned quietly.

  “Whatever you wish,” he told her with a tired shrug. “But at any rate, you’re here for the duration. If you want, we can stare at each other out here for as long as you wish. Otherwise you can go back into the cabin and get yourself a cup of coffee. You do look as if you could use one.”

  Once again Blair forced herself to swallow back bile and dig her nails into her own palms to prevent herself from hurtling at him with an insane rage. He was looking exceptionally healthy—bathed, shaved, rested, and refreshed—while she was beginning to feel as if she had been dragged through the mud by a team of horses. Eyeing him with venomous acid, she turned her back on him and approached the hatch.

  “Blair.”

  The uniquely authoritative velvet that was so often his voice stopped her in her tracks. She was too attuned to that voice not to halt. “What?” she demanded icily.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would bring up a cup for me.”

  She started laughing, and then tried to stop the sound with the fear that she would grow hysterical. “You have to be bloody mad!” she charged him. “You’ve kidnapped me, I haven’t the faintest idea of what is going on, and you’re asking for coffee as if we were on a date.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to you,” Craig grated firmly.

  “Oh? And how do I know that? What is this? A political maneuver? A ransom attempt? What happens if no one pays up?” She was unaware of her own motion, but as her charges rose shrilly, she was advancing upon him. He rose to his full height as she approached him, abruptly reminding her as she came within inches of him that he was not only composed of pure steel and banded muscle, but that he towered over her, putting her at the grave disadvantage of straining her neck in her attempt to verbally accost him.

  Panic and hysteria then began to grow despite all the mental assurances she had tried to give herself as she realized he was springing to pounce. Her urge to retreat came too late; he closed the distance between them with a single stride that didn’t for a second deter the hand that propelled the tiller. His single-handed clamp on her shoulder was nonetheless expert and relentless. “I’m telling you,” he snapped, “nothing is going to happen. You have to stay with me for a while, and that’s it. Get used to it, accept it, and the time will pass much more quickly—and pleasantly.”

  “Get used to it?” Her fear was well hidden by incredulous fury. “Pretend we’re out for a nice friendly sail through the jungle.”

  “Yes, if you like.” There was suddenly a gleam in his eyes that she couldn’t possibly misread. She had seen it before. “The company isn’t half bad,” he reminded her with low insinuation. “I know damned well that you don’t think so—”

  His speech was broken off as her hand connected with his cheek. She was a fool, but she didn’t have time to think out her action. He had grossly added insult to injury, and her ravaged pride had struck with no dictation from the mind. She watched the imprint of her fingers with frozen fascination as it reddened across the bronze, painfully aware that his yellow gaze was rapidly changing to a flame gold.

  His face lowered to within an inch of her; his clamp upon her shoulder constricted tightly. “I hit you last night, Blair. I had to,” he rasped. “So I’ll take that to even the score. But for your sake and mine, accept this. I swear that nothing is going to happen to you. Shortly your life will go on as normal. Now, I’m quite aware that you would like to beat me to a pulp with a two-by-four and then toss me overboard to the crocodiles, but you’re not going to be able to do it. You will probably feel the vast temptation to slap me again, but don’t do it. I can only turn the other cheek once.”

  “Let go of me!” Blair hissed, dangerously close to tears and determined not to let him see the weakness. “I don’t want you touching me.”

  Craig slowly relinquished his grip, a bitter grimace filling his features. “All right, princess,” he drawled with insulting intonation on the third word. “I won’t touch you. Unless you make me. So I suggest you try to live in peaceful coexistence.”

  Blair clenched her teeth and lowered her head. “How can I?” she demanded.

  “Try,” Craig replied mockingly. His fingers were suddenly around her wrist, not hurling her, but a vise that clearly announced the foolishness of her even dreaming of pitting her strength against his. “Try.” His repeat of the word was a warning command.

  “Let go of me, please!” Blair hissed. She had to get away from him, if only for a short respite. Pulled against the expanse of his chest, she realized that as friend or foe this enigma of a man was a dynamic force that couldn’t be denied. The energy that pulsed within him was frightening. He was tireless, he was indomitable. He was the overwhelming power of rampant vitality.

  Insatiable. Inhaling the scent of him that taunted her nostrils as she was drawn to him, it was impossible not to remember the night—just last night—the lover who could demand and satiate her into a blissful interlude while still craving more.

  He wasn’t releasing her. She couldn’t see his deadly eyes because the top of her head was beneath his chin. She stared into his corded neck, into the chest below where every individual muscle could be identified.

  “I asked you to trust me, Blair.”

  “I can’t possibly trust you!” It was meant to be a retort but came out pathetically as a plea. “Tell me what’s going on!”

  “I can’t! Get that through your thick skull—I can’t!” His pressure on her wrist increased, and she wondered briefly how he hadn’t once made the mistake of releasing the boat’s tiller. Because he needs only one hand to subdue me, she thought bitterly.

  “Listen to me, Blair.” She was suddenly jerked away from him so that she was forced to see his eyes. “Damn it, Blair! I want to do the best I can to make this easy for you! But we’re in for a bit of roughing it, and damn you, woman, you’re not going to make every minute on this boat a misery! Look around you! And, yes, look at this tub we’re on! So help me God, you are going to put in. You can be agreeable, or I can cast the anchor down now, throw you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and tie you up in the cabin. I don’t want to hurt you. Believe that, and we’ll get along just fine. Get this straight—cause me an overdose of trouble, and you will definitely regret it. Am I understood?”

  Blair worked furiously at her wrist, to no avail. “
Yes!” It was a desperate scream. “Yes, I’ve got it! I’m supposed to be an accomplice to my own kidnapping! Well, all right, Taylor, you’ve got it. You want coffee, I’ll get your damned coffee!”

  He released her abruptly, so quickly that Blair, still unaccustomed to the swaying boat and still faintly dizzy, her head pounding viciously, staggered backward. She regained her balance quickly, her strength derived from pure determination and will power. She was out of his reach, and wisely decided never to make the mistake of coming within it again. She had one advantage—Craig was trying his damnedest to get somewhere; therefore, he had to keep the boat going.

  She paused at the hatchway. “Just don’t ever sleep, Taylor,” she warned menacingly as she lowered herself down the ladder. “Don’t ever make the mistake of sleeping.”

  “That’s my worry, isn’t it?” he queried in her wake.

  By the time she reached the galley she was shaking like a leaf. For some reason she did believe him. He didn’t intend her harm. No one who really wanted to hurt apologized so sincerely while knocking you flat.

  She was shaking because nothing changed her own reactions to the man. Standing so near him, feeling the intensity of his eyes upon her, his breath rustling her hair, for countless moments all she had wanted to do was pretend the whole thing had been a nightmare and curl into his arms, arms that could be shockingly gentle, arms that could demand and swirl her into an abyss where nothing mattered except the erotic delights he created.

  “I hate him,” she whispered sharply, clenching her eyes closed. “I hate him, hate him, hate him….”

  She finally stopped her shaking, opened her eyes, and looked over the stove. Odd, she thought. Although rustic in appearance, the appliance seemed to be adequate and in good working order. It was fueled by gas, and a tiny flame hovered beneath an aluminum coffeepot.

  Chalk one up for Craig Taylor. Among his “dubious” talents, he apparently had the capability of making decent coffee.

  But he really couldn’t be expecting her to run up the steps and cheerfully hand him a cup. They were not out for a pleasure cruise—she was his prisoner. Prisoners simply couldn’t be expected to assist their jailers. Unless, of course, they were being granted a certain amount of freedom in return. Would he carry out his threat? she wondered. If she didn’t toe the line as first mate to his captain, would she find herself bound in the cabin for the voyage?