He cast a glance over his shoulder to the tiller. “Watch the helm, mate,” he commanded briskly. Blair noticed then that he had affixed a sheet line to keep the tiller set at a dead-ahead direction.
“I’m not sailing your damned boat—” she began incredulously, but he cast her a glance with a single raised eyebrow that quelled her speech even before he disappeared into the hatch himself.
Muttering beneath her breath, Blair released the line and took the tiller into her hands. Wasn’t he presuming a lot to be so sure that she knew what she was doing? Not that it took any expertise to follow a straight line at a slow pace on an almost calm river. But what if she took it into her mind to run them aground on the river bank? She glanced at the banks—distant at this wide part of the river. There was nothing welcoming to be seen. Dark foliage and dense underbrush.
With a sigh Blair cast her eyes to the mainsail billowing high and proud in the breeze. There wasn’t much of a breeze at that, but at full sail the canvas, dingy and gray-looking as it was, held a certain mystique that captivated nevertheless. The sky was a clear, a soft blue without a cloud to mar it. If she closed her eyes, then opened them merely to the sail and the sky, she could be anywhere, languorously feeling the gentle touch of the breeze.
“Thanks.” Craig cut into her thoughts briskly, slipping a hand over hers and retrieving the tiller. Blair was leaning against the captain’s seat and immediately jumped up. The brief touch of his broad hand had filled her with an unnerving warmth, thoughts of those fingers coursing her body with tenderness and strength never out of her consciousness.
“Is that it?” she asked briskly.
“No, that’s not it.” He tossed a bundle of clothes into her hands and she saw that he had gone under to retrieve them with a purpose.
Blair stared at the clothing she had caught by reflex. It didn’t take a genius to quickly fathom that the bundle consisted of peasant garb—a rough cotton skirt and blouse.
“I’d like you to wear that,” Craig said blandly.
Blair tossed the clothing to his bare feet. She smiled nicely. “I’d rather not.”
It seemed to be an endless time that they stared at each other, yellow eyes blazing into an emerald that coolly defied them. Beneath her façade Blair felt her nerves unwinding. What was the plan? If she were being held for ransom, surely she had to be returned in sound limb and health.
Craig smiled suddenly, a very engaging grin. “Okay, Blair, you don’t want to wear the outfit? Suit yourself. I just thought you might be feeling a bit grubby. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a shower in the head. I thought you might want to clean up a bit.”
The idea of a shower was tremendously appealing, but she was suddenly sure she had gained a victory. He wanted her in the peasant garb, but she had been correct. His orders must proclaim that he couldn’t touch her, and so he was stuck, wishing he could bodily shove her into the clothing.
“Thank you, Taylor,” she acknowledged with an inclination of her head and lift of her brow. “Perhaps I will shower, but I will keep my own clothes.”
Turning on her heels, she left him and retreated down the hatch. She had noticed the shower earlier, but it was a primitive thing, consisting of a spouted hose that hung on the wall and a curtain that followed a track against the bland tile that flanked the wood. She did feel dirty, and the feeling didn’t help when desperately trying to keep calm. Apparently he planned to sail on awhile before casting anchor again. She would be wise to make use of the time while he was occupied.
Searching around the cupboards that lined the inner walls, Blair found not only a towel and soap, but an extra pair of jeans and a shirt that surely had to have been planted for her use—the jeans would have barely reached Craig’s kneecaps. Chuckling softly, she went into the head with the new set of clothing. Craig had probably assumed she would wear the peasant garb just for a chance to wash what she had been wearing, she reasoned. “No dice, Taylor,” she muttered smugly to herself, then frowned. There was no way to lock the door to the head. Well, she asked herself impatiently, what had she been expecting?
She paused for a second, listening, but heard nothing but the soft slap of water against the boat. With a shrug she decided Craig was definitely busy above board. Slipping behind the curtain, she fumbled for a few moments with the faucets and then managed to get the hose attachment working. The water was cold, but she didn’t mind. It felt remarkably refreshing against the heat and seemed to have a marvelous effect on the spinning sensation that still riddled her head occasionally. How hard had he hit her? she wondered.
Her life had become a frustrating puzzle of heartache, fear, and betrayal. But her mind couldn’t rest upon the few known facts continually. She would become an overloaded circuit and explode. She closed her eyes as the water cascaded over her, relishing the purely physical stimulation of the simple pleasure, a reprieve from the never-ending heat. The scent of the soap was fresh and clean; she began to feel as if she could once more do battle.
With a sigh Blair decided to turn the water off. Surely their tanks couldn’t hold an indefinite amount of water, and she was loathe to lose the pleasure of bathing if they ran short. Taylor didn’t seem concerned, but then maybe he knew for a fact that there were no crocodiles in the river they traveled.
A tiny, indiscernible sound suddenly pierced Blair’s thoughts. Catching her breath as her heart fluttered, Blair held perfectly still, her hand on the curtain as she waited. And waited. But she didn’t hear anything else and finally threw open the curtain with a bold flourish. She released her breath with a sigh of relief. There was no one with her in the tiny head. She reached for the sink where she had deposited her towel but discovered it missing. Her mind began to race double-time with doubt. She was sure she had brought the towel and her clothing in, hadn’t she? Or had she left her things just outside on the tip of the bed, afraid that they would become soaked in the tiny quarters?
She began to chew her lip, deliberating for what seemed to be an eternity. But there wasn’t a sound from the cabin, and she couldn’t stand there all day.
It would be impossible for Craig to be in the cabin. Gingerly she opened the door, only to attempt to slam it back shut with furious dismay.
Craig was not only in the cabin; he was leaning casually and comfortably on the doorframe. A single movement with his arms blocked her attempt to slam the door, his yellow eyes assessing her with insolent indifference. As she stared back at him, her skin acquired the blood red shade of a boiled lobster. He stuffed her towel and the clothes into her hands. “Again, I suggest that you wear these, Blair,” he said flatly. He smiled ever so slightly. “But it’s your choice: these or nothing.”
Twisting her jaw with rage, Blair began to fumble with the towel, dropping it in her attempt to cover herself from his eyes, eyes that fully assured her she was an absolute fool to ever believe a victory would be hers. He politely bent to pick up the towel for her and made matters worse by brushing her breasts with the thick texture of his hair. He saw the alarm in her face as he rose and slowly returned the towel, his head shaking slowly with vast mockery at her attempts to hide from him.
“Don’t be absurd,” he stated contemptuously. “There’s not an inch of your body I’m not more familiar with than you are yourself.”
Then he turned and left her, picked up a cigarette from the table, and moved away with indifference.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CRAIG LIT HIS CIGARETTE, wincing as he heard the head door slam in his wake. He reached into the small icebox, delved through the packets, and secured himself a beer. Kicking the door closed with an abrupt movement of his foot, he wrenched off the tab and dryly thanked Brad Shearer for the thought of packing him a supply of American beer. Taking a deep swig, he hoped to settle the jumbled chemistry that boiled inside him.
Both beer and cigarette in hand, he crawled up the ladder topside and walked to the bow to sit, casting his long legs over the edge of the boat. He had long ago moved toward
shore to cast anchor and furl in the sails for a respite. He had come far enough. He wanted a little more time with his captive before moving any closer to inhabited areas. Later, in the night, he would move again and cover a little distance in the darkness.
Glancing at the anchor line as it bobbed in the water, he cursed himself miserably. He was a top man, known to be able to coerce people to his way of thinking with a minimum of pressure. He had to bear down on Blair; he had to make her realize that things would go his way. But his professionalism, long taken for granted, seemed to have deserted him. He couldn’t stifle the taunts he continued to hurl at her.
And then he found himself thinking of her skin, of its satiny texture. The thought of skin led to that of curves, to breasts that came alive to his touch, to the way he could make her sigh with need when he stroked those luscious breasts with his tongue, circling the rose-hued nipples.
He groaned aloud with a sharp curse. Taylor, man, what the hell has happened to you? He always had a great gift for accepting reality, no matter how harsh. This should have been the chief’s piece of cake. Reasons for the orders given him were classified, but it didn’t take a terribly astute mind to know that a fear of guerrilla action was behind them. He could assume only that Blair couldn’t be told anything, including his role in this fiasco, just in case something did go wrong, just in case she were to be captured by someone seeking information who was not averse to the usual methods used to assure its extraction.
Something was happening. If he had been told to move, there was a reason. And yet he was sure his slow crawl through the jungle to the coast was precautionary. He had been warned of guerrillas; he knew that guerrillas would still exist in a country still toddling like an infant to stand.
The chief had always been so sure that once they had moved out they would be doing nothing but playing for time. Obviously the chief did not know his old friend Huntington’s daughter as well as he thought.
Damned princess out on this tub, he thought furiously. But the charge was completely out of line and he knew it. Blair was equipped with resources that went above and beyond the average woman. She would always be regal, aware of the pea beneath a hundred mattresses, but she would never complain.
His mind turned back to thoughts of facing her water-slicked, naked body and he cast his cigarette butt, burned low without his notice, out on the water with a vicious throw. He was getting to her, he knew it, but he was striking out, and she was tearing apart his very core simply by existing. One look at her and his body tensed with memory, his blood racing madly, his breath growing short and heavy.
Forget it, he warned himself. She thinks you’re a full-fledged demon. The dregs of the earth, actually, had been her description. And it wouldn’t be much better when she did know the truth. He wondered vaguely if she would begin to understand. Then he stood, impatient with himself, impatient with her. The sun was turning into a gleaming red sphere in the western sky. Dinner, another charming meal with his reluctant companion, seemed in order if he planned to hoist anchor later. It would be nice if she slept soundly for long hours.
Returning below, he found sound evidence that Blair had thoroughly ransacked the place looking for her own clothing in his absence. He allowed himself a grim smile. Obviously she had found nothing and frustrated herself to a satisfying fatigue. Clad in the native clothing, she rested on the bed, her jaw locked, seething as she stared at the planks above her.
Craig ignored her and turned his attention to the food. He was ravenous. It had been a long night and day for him, with the brunch he had prepared their only meal. He set a generous helping of rice on to boil and selected several of the thin native steaks, grimacing all the while. He wasn’t much of a cook. He could think of a million restaurants he would like to be at right then.
His eyes turned covertly to Blair. She was obviously aware of his presence, but she had chosen to continue ignoring him. He clenched his jaw with tension. At the moment he was quite able to think of her as a pampered socialite. He would love to rip her out of the bed, give her a good boot in the rump, and insist that she help. She didn’t have to be a Julia Child, she simply had to make their bland meals a bit more palatable. Nor was it a chauvinistic thought—merely a hungry one.
No, Taylor, he warned himself. He had long ago learned that patience was a virtue and that there were many more ways than one to skin a cat.
He watched the rice boil and set the meat on.
A few minutes later he had the meal, such as it was, prepared. He piled two plates with the food in the galley, collected flatware, and dumped the lot on the table with a loud clattering. “Dinner,” he announced coolly, “is served.” He turned from the table, went back into the galley, and began rummaging through compartments, happily discovering they had been stocked with a few wooden casks of wine. A local vintage, bitter and gritty, but anything would do. Removing the cork with more than necessary vengeance, he placed the cask and two cups on the table, then lit hungrily into his own food.
Blair was desperately wishing she could ignore his invitation, but she couldn’t. The way out of this situation was not starvation. She had tossed away her food this morning, and was therefore ravenous now. It had been twenty-four hours since she had eaten.
He didn’t glance up as she joined him at the table. Evidently he had decided that overtures toward her were a waste of time. She glanced at her plate. The rice was in starchy globs, but the meat was rare and appetizing looking. She cut off a square and bit into it, savoring the taste. Craig remained silent as she began to eat, his concentration on his own food. It was she who finally found the silence between them unbearable.
“I assume I’m to be sent back well fed and healthy,” she said with a dry bravado she wasn’t feeling. “My, my,” she mused cattily, fingering the rough wooden cask of burgundy. “This outfit must really be on the financial rise.”
“Sorry,” he retorted, finishing his meal and pushing his plate to the side. “We didn’t happen to have any Dom Pérignon on hand. But yes, you are to be returned in good condition.” He lit a cigarette but made no move to pour the burgundy, nor did he offer her any. She reached, across the table, asking with sweet sarcasm, “May I?”
“Please, help yourself. That is, if you’re sure it won’t offend your discriminating palate.”
Blair smiled coolly, maintaining her saccharine demeanor. “Shall I pour you some?”
He shook his head slightly in mocking disbelief. “Please do. Will wonders never cease? You’re actually offering to do something for me.” He watched her as she poured the wine, his expression relaxed but assessive.
“Well,” Blair murmured dryly, “I am supposed to trust you.”
“That’s right,” he agreed, not batting an eye at her broad sarcasm.
“You’re really just a nice guy.”
“You got it.”
“Well, then, Mr. Nice Guy,” Blair said tartly, sipping the wine and grimacing at its acidic taste, “I hope you realize that the Hunger Crew is short people, and they’re going to be in trouble.”
“The Hunger Crew will not be in trouble,” Craig informed her. “They’ll shortly be receiving large quantities of something I’m afraid can be deemed far more important than even your precious presence—money.”
Blair tried to hide her surprise with more sarcasm. “That’s certainly big of you. You seem to cover all bases, don’t you?”
A curious expression rippled almost instantly across his features and then was gone. “Yes,” he said softly. “We are at the very least thorough. But I hate to disappoint you, Mrs. Teile. The donation was a personal gift from yours truly.”
Blair wasn’t quite able to stifle a gasp. Then he was wealthy, and certainly not out for a ransom. Unless, of course, he was lying. But she didn’t think so; his education and experience seemed too vast. The information he gave her wasn’t, however, particularly reassuring. If he wasn’t after a ransom, the implications were grave. They could only be political.
; “Then you are some type of a left-wing fanatic,” she murmured.
He changed position with one of his lightning movements and leaned toward her, both elbows on the table, his head lowered conspiratorially. “No, Mrs. Teile,” he said gravely. “I already told you—I practice black magic in the forest at night. With my forest friends. Some of us just happen to have money.” He leaned back again with his expression tired rather than amused, quelling any biting comment she might have made in return. He picked up his cup of wine and rose with a curt “Excuse me,” then strode to the ladder and climbed up the hatch, pausing on deck, his legs staunchly spread to counter the slight roll of the boat.
Blair finished eating quickly, glad that Craig’s intent gaze wasn’t still upon her as she voraciously cleaned her plate. Black magic! Pity that it wasn’t the seventeenth century. She couldn’t think of a scene she could possibly enjoy more than Craig Taylor tied to a stake with burning timber at his feet.
She glanced with rancor at the dishes left on the table and the pots and pans in the kitchen. So, he had just walked away, assuming that as of the morning he had acquired a dishwasher. Un-unh. Not on your life, buddy.
Blair stood and stretched, further irritated by the scratchy cloth that flowed around her body. Why the extra jeans if he was forcing her to wear this?
Everything was a question.
Feeling the confines of the cabin, she too climbed up to the deck. He didn’t turn, but though she had risen silently, he had heard her. “What are you doing?” he demanded sharply.
“Seeking out a little fresh air at the bow,” she responded tartly, adding with a feigned, very humble servility, “May I.”
“Go.”
She did, unaware that he did turn then as she picked up her skirt and moved lithely across the deck, pausing to balance by the mainmast before searching out privacy far aft and taking the same spot he had earlier to gaze out on the water.
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