She couldn’t lower him; she would definitely drop him. With tears of perplexity starting to form in her eyes, she knew she had to move fast. Her strength would only hold out so long in the driving rain.
Finally she crawled onto the ladder herself and once again began to drag him. He would still fall; she wouldn’t be able to support his weight once she had pulled the balance of his form in, but she would be prepared and buffer the fall for them both.
Heaving and half sobbing and half grunting, Blair pulled him after her down the ladder. With her feet firmly on the floor, she gathered her forces for a final, drastic tug, bracing herself as best she could. Craig’s weight came through the hatch, sending them both sprawling to the rough planking, sodden heaps piled atop each other. They landed with Blair partially sitting, Craig’s head caught upon her lap.
Struggling up, Blair cupped her hands beneath Craig’s head and began to slip her legs from beneath it. It was then, gasping for every breath, limbs still shaking, with exertion, that she glanced into his face. And saw his eyes. Open. Staring at her. Seeming to pierce her soul with a strange light that was both knowing and curious.
For seconds Blair stared at him incredulously while her shaking and chattering became that of rage. “You bastard!” she hissed, dropping his head like a hot potato and eliciting a wince and an “Ouch!” from him. “You were faking, you son of a—”
“Hold it! Hold it!” Craig protested, lifting a hand in defense, fully aware that she would find a new source of energy with which to tear his hair out if she gathered any more steam. “I wasn’t faking anything! I just opened my eyes this second and saw your face, and if you please wouldn’t yell, I have one hell of a splitting headache.”
Blair clamped her lips tight with uncertainty and pushed a straying tendril of bedraggled hair from her face. She saw him wince again and knew that he was in pain. “Can you move, do you think?” she asked cautiously. “I barely got you down here. I don’t think I can get you to the bed.”
He nodded, skin stretching tight across his features with another wince, and started to rise. Just then, though, another swell hit and lifted the boat, sending him sprawling again. “Wait!” Blair cried as he immediately set forth on a new attempt to rise. Ducking her frame beneath his shoulder, she supported him, managing to sloppily walk him to the bed before the next swell hit, but then losing her balance and falling flatly on top of him. His arms immediately came around her, a protective, reflex action despite his own infirmity.
And for a moment Blair was happy to be there in his arms, against his warmth, cradled by his security as the sea howled around them and the waves played havoc with the boat. She would gladly leave it all to him, trust in him, give herself over to his unwavering strength and shelter out the storm in his arms.
But she couldn’t, not now, she told herself harshly. She had to come up with a little strength of her own. Gently extracting herself, she peered back into his face. “I have to get something for your head,” she murmured, balancing back off the bed and holding on to the wall as she made her way to the galley. Grabbing a sponge, she flooded it with fresh water and swayed back to the bed, willing herself to think. If he has a concussion, he shouldn’t be allowed to sleep.
Maneuvering him into the bed, Blair again met yellow eyes that were staring at her with a curious mixture of humor, affection, and pain. He had to be all right, she thought fleetingly, his eyes were too keen and bright for anything to be seriously wrong, or so she desperately hoped.
Straddling over him, she very gently lifted his head and set the cool wet sponge beneath it. She started when a hand, surprisingly strong, vised around her wrist. Once again she met his eyes.
“I’m all right, Blair,” he said gruffly. With his own fingers he began to test his lower scalp. “Nothing irrevocable,” he said, trying to grin. “Get the first-aid kit,” he instructed her.
Although he had used it on her several times, Blair had no idea where he kept it. “Where is it?”
He pointed weakly in the direction of the cabinets by the table. Staggering, but growing more accustomed to the constant rough motion of the boat, Blair hurried to do as directed.
She found it in the cabinet closest to the floor, but as she reached for the box, her hand brushed a latch in the back. A second door sprang open.
Revealing a gun. A nine millimeter.
Stunned, Blair stared at the lethal metal, her heart pounding. Why was she so surprised? she wondered. She knew him to be a criminal; criminals carried guns. God, how she hated guns.
But she couldn’t relate the weapon to the man. She couldn’t believe that the prone figure behind her had ever meant her any harm. At every stage of the game he had been there to shelter and protect her, to care for her.
She slammed the secret latch and hurried back to the bed with the first-aid kit. Craig pulled himself to an elbow as she returned, and grasped the box from her fingers, lifting the lid himself.
“Would you lie back down?” Blair demanded irritably. “I can get what you want—”
He already had his fingers around a large plastic capsule. It snapped beneath his grasp and a strong scent of ammonia filled the area, making Blair avert her head with a gag. Apparently, though, it just worked the trick for Craig. Whatever faculties he had been lacking were restored. He pulled himself to a full sitting position and burrowed back through the box again. Finding a container of pills, he dropped two into his hand, dry-swallowed them, shrugged, and reached for another two. That completed, he tiredly dropped his head back to the pillow, adjusting the sponge beneath his neck. His eyes lit upon Blair again. “Thank you.”
“For what?” she demanded, disturbed by the stare that seemed to fathom all the secrets of her soul.
“For saving me,” he said briefly.
Turning away, Blair bit her lip. Not really. It had been her fault that the crank had slipped, that the boom had fallen. “You could have left me and tried to escape when the weather cleared.”
Blair shrugged indifferently, determined he not read the depths of her feelings. “I just want to make it through the storm, Taylor. If I’m going to escape—or be returned, as you promise—I’d just as soon be alive at the time.”
He raised a brow, but allowed the subject to drop. His next statement took her completely by surprise.
“Get your clothes off.”
Blair instantly froze to rigidity. “Really, Taylor—”
“At the moment,” he snapped, “I can truthfully promise that I’m not after your delectable body. You’re drenched. You’re drenching the bed. The rational thing to do is warm up. There are blankets in the back—”
“I know where the blankets are,” she interrupted sharply, rising to tread her drunken sea stagger to the far aft once more. By the cabinets she paused hesitantly, then turned her back and shed her clothes, shrugging into a blanket cocoon before returning with a second for Craig.
He stared up at her, his lion’s eyes glimmering a true gold. “I’m drenched myself, you know,” he informed her.
He was clad only in his usual sailing cutoffs, but they certainly were soaked
“So?” Blair murmured awkwardly.
“So,” he said impatiently, “I need some help.”
Exhaling a long sigh of exasperation, Blair shimmied to the foot of the bed, trying desperately to keep her own blanket around herself while the boat pitched and heaved. She tugged at the legs of his pants while also trying to keep her eyes lowered. It was a miserable process. She felt the warmth of his body, each instinctive reaction of his flesh as her fingers brushed it. “You really better have a headache,” she grated harshly as he raised his hips to allow her to pull his pants from beneath him. Despite the circumstances Blair could feel blood rushing hotly to her face. He might have claimed that he wasn’t after her body, but he hadn’t told his body that was the case.
With his cutoffs freed from his body, Blair tossed them to the floor and dumped his blanket over him unceremoniously. His response
was a soft chuckle, which she ignored.
“What now?” she queried briskly.
A half grin which he attempted to squelch slipped onto his features, and he lowered his lids over teasing eyes, holding back an answer to the wide-open but innocent question. “See if you can get one of the casks of wine back here,” he said simply.
“Wine?” Blair protested. “You should have something hot.”
“Granted,” he agreed, “but you can’t even boil water with the boat keeling like this. Just get the wine and we’ll try to get some sleep.”
“Sleep?” Blair echoed unbelievingly. “How could we sleep with this cyclone going on. Besides, you might have a concussion. You shouldn’t sleep.”
“This isn’t a cyclone. It will pass within the hour. And I haven’t got a concussion: Just a terrible headache. Now, would you just do as I say?”
“How do you know you haven’t got a concussion?”
“Because I’ve had one before, and it was much worse than this. Now, please? If I can sleep off the pain and the pills, I’ll be just fine.”
“You shouldn’t drink with pills,” Blair said firmly.
“Oh, Lord, woman!” His voice suddenly thundered impatiently. “I just want a cup of wine. I’m not going out on a beer bust with the boys! I’ve managed pretty damn well the past thirty-eight years without your help, Mrs. Teile. I know what I’m doing!”
“All right!” Blair hissed, this time wavering her way forward. She was able to secure the primitive cask of wine from the galley with no difficulty, but on her return trip the boat took a severe port keel and in grasping for the paneled wall for balance, she succeeded in losing her blanket. Muttering her staunch opinion of the entire situation, Blair grabbed her blanket and secured it around herself, floundering the last few steps back to the bed with irritation and impatience.
Craig had managed to prop up his pillow and he watched her return, unable to hide the amusement in his eyes. She tried so hard to maintain her air of propriety, he thought somewhat wistfully. And yet it was all such a waste on her part. Years from now, with his eyes closed, he would be able to conjure up the image of her naked body, every curve, every plane, every silken inch of tantalizing flesh.
“Laugh at me, Taylor,” she snapped warningly, “and I can promise you won’t get another bit of assistance from me.”
“I’m not laughing!” he protested.
Blair began to fumble with the cork on top of the wooden cask, but she hadn’t the force in her fingers to work it loose quickly. Craig watched her efforts for a second, then grabbed the wine from her. It was Blair’s turn to watch, mentally noting with both unease and a shiver that was nothing less than sexual, the power that lay in his hands. Twisting the cork out only high enough to pinch, Craig grabbed it between two fingers and it gave immediately.
Oblivious to her confused survey, he glanced up and smiled. “You forgot the cups.”
“Taylor!”
“But that’s all right,” he murmured hastily, his eyes still full of teasing amusement. “We can share.” He took a swig from the cask and handed it to her.
Blair glanced at it distastefully for a second and then accepted it. But as soon as she brought the cask to her lips, the sea heaved again and the wine spilled over her face, down her neck, and disappeared in trickles down the valley of her breasts, just barely visible over her clutch on the blanket.
Groaning with exasperation, Blair started to hand the wine back to Craig, only to pause with dismay as she saw his eyes. All mocking amusement was gone; they were very dark, very intent. His entire expression was tense.
She knew that look, and just the look sent little shivers racing down her spine, shivers that turned to heat, back to shivers.
She was unaware of the anguished panic that appeared in her own wide eyes at the mere cast of his—until he blinked, and a slow, easy smile once more filtered across his jaw.
“Sorry, darling,” he teased, “not tonight—I’ve got a headache.”
“Oh, will you shut up!” Blair snapped, furious to find that she was blushing from the roots of her hair to her toes.
“Ouch!” he winced. “Yes, yes, I’ll hush up! Just don’t shout.” He took the wine from her and swallowed a long drink, still wincing. He handed it back to her. Adjusting himself so that the pillow and his head upon it were propped against the planking, he reached an arm around her and pulled her head against his shoulder, silencing her protests before they could begin. “Don’t go getting panicky there on me again, princess. When I say headache, honey, I do mean headache. I’m just trying to get into a position so that we can get some rest. Sip some of that stuff and try to sleep.”
She would never sleep. The boat was still heaving too violently. But as they passed the wine back and forth, she did find herself growing drowsy. “You’re lucky I don’t get seasick,” she muttered as the minutes passed and the rocking continued at a constant level along with the howls and the shrieks of the wind.
“Yes,” he returned dryly. “I’m lucky. So lucky,” he added with a sad bitterness. “I must have tripped into a whole field of four-leaf clovers.”
Blair fell silent. The patter of the rain was actually becoming lulling. Within the warm cocoon of blanket and supporting shoulder, she did fall asleep.
Very early in the morning it was over. The almost dead stillness of the boat woke Blair. Glancing around quickly, she saw that Craig was gone,” already up and out on the deck. Scrambling out of her blanket, she reached into the cabinet that had become hers and withdrew her dry set of jeans and shirt. Hurrying into her clothing, she raced into the head, splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, then hastened up the ladder.
Craig was standing by the mainmast, one hand against it, one on his hip. Sinewed legs steady and staunch, he stared out on a horizon that was vastly beautiful in the wake of the storm. The not too distant beach shimmered as if composed of a million white crystals; the mountains rose in the background in a brilliant panorama of green. The sea itself was calm and clear, barely rippling, the sky an artist’s blush of radiant pinks and golds. Watching Craig in the proud, indomitable stance that was part of the man—the lion surveying his domain, for, clearly, the entire world was his domain—Blair felt a pain stab her chest as if her heart had truly constricted. It was impossible to believe that evil lurked beneath such a courageous façade. If only …
“Good morning, Mrs. Teile,” he called, flashing her an engaging smile. His voice was deep, low velvet. “It is a beautiful morning, you know.”
Blair lifted a skeptical brow, but couldn’t resist a return smile—and a measure of concern. He looked as fit as an Olympic trainee, but surely even he couldn’t be totally immune to that type of blow to the head. “Yes, it is a beautiful morning,” she agreed, watching him quizzically. “And you look rather spry yourself. How do you feel?”
He grimaced. “Rotten. I have a headache that won’t quit.” But that was all the admission she was going to get from him. He chuckled softly. “Our ‘tub’ did ride out the storm quite nicely, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” she agreed again ruefully. “The tub did manage quite nicely.” She paused for a second with a frown. “What is this boat’s real name anyway? Or doesn’t it have one.”
“Yeah,” Craig replied, going silent for a few seconds afterward with his lips twisting ironically. “This tub is La Princesa.”
“Oh,” Blair murmured, fully aware that “the princess” was also his term for her. “Well,” she said briskly, “in a storm I guess she is a princess.”
“Ummmm … yes, she is,” Craig murmured cryptically. He hopped down from the main to stand beside her. “How about some coffee? And some breakfast? We did miss dinner.”
“Yes, we did,” Blair returned dryly. “But you do seem mobile. You could have had breakfast started.”
“I got caught up looking at the sunrise,” he admitted with a grin. “And I want to check the sheet lines and sails before we get under way. We’re g
etting closer to your ten days you know.”
“Okay.” Blair involuntarily took a step back from him, aware that her heart began to pound harder with his mere proximity. “I’ll get breakfast started.”
“Hey,” he called after her retreating form. “When the coffee is brewed, run me up a couple of those pills, would you? My head is still pounding like all hell.”
Blair barely nodded as she disappeared into the cabin. Her mind was in a quandary. With each passing day, it became more impossible to believe that—if Craig stuck to his word—whatever he was after would be granted him and she would return home. He would escape, of that she was sure, and she would never see him again. Perhaps she would read in the paper one day that his group of political fanatics had been rounded up and he had been captured. Or killed …
And she would never be the same. She would have lost part of herself, a part she had given him that she could never retrieve.
The coffee finished brewing as she tortured herself with her thoughts. Sighing, she poured a cup for Craig and walked aft to the cabinet to procure the pills he wanted for his headache.
Once again her fingers brushed against the panel that was the false rear of the cabinet.
And her eyes fell upon the gun.
For a few seconds she felt herself shake. She closed her eyes tightly and swallowed convulsively.
She had long ago accepted Ray’s death, but she would never forget his assassination as long as she lived. A firearm, any firearm could conjure up the picture of that day—the sharp report, the beautiful, caring smile fading from Ray’s face, the bright red blood that seeped from his navy suit in clashing contrast, spattering to fleck his golden hair, her own scream, echoing and echoing endlessly as a secret service man cast his body over hers, saving her from other bullets, from herself as she hysterically tried to get to her husband, dead before she even became fully aware he had been hit.
Tears welled into her eyes, but she willed them away. Convulsively she reached for the gun. She knew guns. Her father had taught her to shoot in ranges starting from her tenth birthday. She could aim at a fly a hundred yards away and hit it. Hunched on the balls of her feet in a squat, she felt the cold metal of the butt, slipping her fingers around it.
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