She shrugged mentally. So what if he had come a little grubby looking. Habits did go with environment. And if he had come from the brush … where had he come from?
“What are you worrying about?”
“What? Oh!” Blair dismissed her ponderings on his personal habits and went silent, wondering how to voice her misgivings. She gave up a roundabout approach and asked bluntly, “Craig, how serious is this going to be? I mean, considering that I’m not going to press kidnapping charges.”
He was as silent as she for several minutes and a feeling of dread slipped back over her. “Backing out already, huh?” he finally asked wiping his mouth with a brush of his napkin and tossing it to his quickly cleaned plate.
“That’s not at all what I said,” she reproached him huskily. “I want to know what we’re going to be going through. I think I have that right.”
“You’re asking me if I’m a petty thief, a murderer, or just your run-of-the-mill terrorist?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m asking,” Blair said, reaching nervously for a cigarette but keeping her eyes on his.
He took a long sip of his coffee, the mask that guarded his emotions and thoughts so well making his face hard and cold. He set his cup back down on the table, cradling it with his massive hands, and sighed. “Petty thief, no. Kidnapper, you answer that one. Murderer, well, I was in a war, so I can’t guarantee it, but as far as I know I’ve never taken a human life. Run-of-the-mill terrorist, not run-of-the-mill I hope, and not a terrorist. My prison term should not be a lengthy one.”
He clicked off his answers as if he were reading an invoice, his tone vaguely resentful. He watched her as he spoke, then rose abruptly and moved toward the ladder, leaving her sitting stunned in his wake. She snapped her mouth shut, seething. Here she was, trying to help the man, and he bit into her like a caged rat when she asked for the particulars. A man who supposedly loved her.
The same thing, but running along a different track, seemed to be on his mind. “I thought you loved me,” he suddenly snapped.
“I do!” Blair exclaimed, feeling her temper bristle at the sound of his voice. “At least I thought I did,” she continued coldly.
“Damn it!” Craig started back for her, visibly annoyed.
“Two and a half days, Blair, and then you will have all your answers. Can’t you give me that much? There must be a million topics of discussion, but your mind is on one track only.”
“That’s understandable, don’t you think?”
He shook his head fervently. “No. We’re heading into trouble, and today we have a calm sea.”
Trembling slightly as she felt him bend beside her, Blair picked up her coffee cup and swallowed a sip of the hot liquid. But his eyes were on her, they seared through her, they commanded that she turn to him.
“What do you want from me?” she whispered nervously.
“I want today,” he stated blandly. He took the coffee cup from her hands and set it on the table, then drew her up into an embrace.
“No—” Blair began, but she didn’t get anywhere. He claimed her with an all-encompassing kiss, crushing her to him, winding his fingers into her hair with a demanding urgency. “Craig—” she protested breathlessly as he broke away, showering the top of her head, her cheeks, her neck, with butterfly kisses. “Craig …” Her voice trailed away. It was senseless to give him vocal denial when she melded to him, her arms sliding around his neck, her fingers light and soft against its nape. She started to talk again, whispering against his cheek, savoring his scent that was clean and natural, that of the air and of the sea. “There’s so much to be worked out yet,” she told him, scrambling desperately for reason as he continued an all-out assault on her senses, finding the hollow of her throat with hot lips even as she spoke. “I mean … I want to see you turn yourself in; I want to know what we’ll be up against.” She was talking all right, but her words were making little sense, not when they were uttered brokenly and interspersed with the soft moans he was eliciting. His tongue had found her earlobe, and along with the effect of the moist warmth of his breath she was reeling under the impact on her flesh, a touch that surely tingled through her like mercury, until she felt like hot wax, waiting to be molded to his form.
“Blair,” he groaned with a hungry need, his fingers spanning the back of her head and neck, holding her near. “I want to make love to you. Now. I need you.”
She was filled with poignant memories of a night when she had been the one with the need, a desperate need; she had come to him and he had fulfilled and forever changed her, reassured her, held her. Buried all the fears and hauntings of her past with tenderness and care. He had treated her so carefully, so selflessly ….
But this was insane; she was still his hostage.
But could she deny him? She was losing the will to fight, her physical responses overwhelming her. She tried to think, but all her reasons to protest were becoming hazy; she couldn’t articulate them.
“God, babe, do I need you,” Craig was murmuring, his voice alone inflaming her. His hands moved along her back, large hands, strong hands, rough hands … tender, gentle hands that commanded and seduced. His fingers molded her spine, curved over her buttocks, arched her ever closer. She felt his need, a special need, just for her, and her reaction was instant, an answer of sensual adjustment that was just as special and timeless, allowing no room for thought. “Craig …” she murmured again, desperately trying to remember her arguments against this offer of loving that was so beautiful.
“Blair;” he whispered huskily in return, “we have now. The future is always so risky. We don’t know what our tomorrows will bring. We could be apart for such a long, long time.”
Damn! he thought with an inward groan. What was he doing? What the hell possessed him to lie like this? The answer was actually easy. She possessed him, totally, irrevocably. And maybe his deceitful appeal would be forgiven. Maybe she would love him enough, need him enough, understand that he had loved her so much he was going crazy with fear, grabbing desperately for what he could take, remember, cherish.
“Craig …” Was she protesting again or calling his name in love? He didn’t know, but she was in his arms, soft, pliant, steaming, sensual. He didn’t wait to hear another protest; he took her lips again and his hands began to course her body urgently, covering the rich swells of her breasts, the slender, shapely indentation of her waist, the seductive curves of her hips. His fingers crept beneath her shirt, touching silken skin and reveling in that touch, feeling the ripple of stirring desire in its quiver. Blair moaned softly, and Craig felt as if he were whirling at fever pitch, his mind spinning with the feminine beauty of her. He heard the strange quaking of a rumbling thunder, and that thunder was him, groaning with wave upon wave of molten yearning.
She broke away from him and an agony ripped through his loins. He stared at her, golden eyes both begging and commanding that she return.
She smiled softly, and he understood. Her hand, so fragile and soft as it touched upon his, was nevertheless firm.
She led him to the bed.
Later Blair would wonder what had possessed her. But the things he had said were so poignantly true. She had learned the sad lesson that you could never count on a tomorrow.
And she had her hands on the present. She had simply lost all desire to try to ignore what couldn’t be denied. With her back to Craig, she slipped out of her clothing.
“Turn to me.”
She heard his husky whisper and obeyed. He, too, had shed his clothes in his quiet, catlike way. For moments they merely watched each other, taking time to appreciate the beauty of the one they loved.
Let my eyes adore this altar where I will worship, Craig thought fleetingly, wondering at his turn of whimsy. He had changed in so many ways, there were simply things in him which she alone could bring to surface. She captured the passion of his soul.
But also of the body. His eyes might be reveling, but his fingers had to touch, slowly assess by
feel all that he saw. He felt his blood begin to steam, his heart pound as he watched her body respond to the provocative strokes of his fingers, her nipples peaking high, her breasts quivering with the rise and fall of her breathing.
Her hands reached out to touch him in return, his muscles constricting beneath them, heat and passion tightening them to coils.
Both trembled as they stood there practicing a restraint, their kisses slow, deep, languorous, growing erotically sensuous as they tasted the salt of each other’s flesh. Then Blair arched into him, her breasts, like pebble-tipped silk, searing his flesh as she lowered herself to plant exotic kisses along his hips.
It was more than he could take. Reverence erupted into raging passion; restraint was lost to the whirlpool that spun within his head. Cradled in his arms, she was his before her back fell upon the downy cushion that was their high-seas bed. In time he would learn temperance, were they to have time. He had lain beside her too many nights, held her too many nights, longed for her for too many hours. Knowing that she was as keenly attuned to him as he was to her was all the invitation he needed. Slender thighs parted to his onslaught and he found a moist feminine heat that passionately welcomed his demand.
“You are wildfire …” he whispered to her, his eyes golden and deeply gleaming as he stared into her eyes, always demanding that nothing be held back, that they boldly enjoy all that they created. His hands moved to cradle the hips that undulated beneath him. “Wildfire,” he whispered in a husk that filled her ear with new sensations as their bodies swept into their own storm. “Wonderful, beautiful, fire.”
Time stood still; life stood still. For Blair no other power on earth could ever so thoroughly sweep her away. There was nothing but him, the feel, the sight, the touch, the scent, the sensation. Being so filled with him, separate but one, intoxicated but astute, rhythmically flying higher and higher, needing, anticipating. They reached together the sweet wonder of ecstasy, then thrilled in that miraculous moment when sweet ecstasy crept up in a thrust of thunder that was nothing less than soul-shattering.
And when the storm had abated and the thunder had dimmed, Blair didn’t turn from him. It was just as sweet, just as beautiful to bask beside him in wondrous contentment, still touching with gentle awe, her hand relaxed upon his chest, her fingers twirling with intimate comfort into the tawny bristle of hair on his damp chest.
His arm was around her, his eyes met hers. They both started to smile.
But just then they heard a new sound of thunder.
Locked in their private, all-exclusive world, it had taken countless moments for either to recognize the sound, but now it was almost upon them. Shifting abruptly, Craig moved the cloth from the porthole and stared rigidly out to the sea.
“Get up,” he told her woodenly.
Blair stared at him in confusion, astounded by his abrupt change of demeanor, vaguely realizing she should be recognizing the sound that had created it, but still too groggy in the lazy aftermath of her love to think with coherent speed.
Craig had stiffened as if he had been frozen solid from the feet up. He was more astounded than Blair, although he knew exactly what was happening. He was still stunned and dismayed.
Blair watched as a gamut of pained twitches flashed across Craig’s features. Then any visible emotion vanished. Even as he spoke to her, repeating a curt “Get up,” he was on his feet, calmly slipping into his shorts and shirt. The hardness was back in the face, the chilling guard that was indomitable when set in place.
Blair jumped from the bed, the sure knowledge that something was wrong ripping apart her recent contentment. The change in Craig’s features struck her like a blow after his endearments.
He was dressed and heading for the ladder while she was still struggling into her jeans. Finally yanking up the zipper, she followed closely behind him.
“What is it?” she began, her perplexity joined by a cold dread. Suddenly she didn’t know Craig Taylor; she didn’t know him at all. It was impossible that the emotionless icicle before her could be the man who had held her with such warmth just moments before.
“Don’t you know?” Gold ice lit upon her momentarily. “Your freedom, Mrs. Teile. That which you so dearly crave.”
And then she did know. Of course. The sound had been that of a boat approaching. A sleek cabin cruiser, she discovered as she followed him up the ladder, sporting the name U.S.S. Wind. Aboard it she could see a handful of marines spread across the forty-foot port.
Rescue. Somehow, someone had come to rescue her.
“Craig,” she said, her tone wavering. “Don’t panic. Things haven’t changed. Don’t try to get away; they’ll kill you. I’ll tell them that you were turning yourself in, we’ll still get to my father—”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupted her tonelessly, “I’m not going to do a thing.”
Blair looked at him, her eyes searching his desperately, seeking, beseeching, begging for an answer that would explain his cold, reserved calm. Again she thought that she didn’t know him. He was a stranger. She had just given herself to a man who was totally indifferent to her, who had left her bed and become a hostile tyrant.
“Ahoy there!”
The cabin cruiser had pulled alongside their boat and cut its motor. The two boats almost bumped, and a rope was thrown to secure them.
For a brief second Blair thought Craig meant to shield himself behind her, to use her as a foil.
But he wasn’t grabbing her—he was brushing by her. He was taking the tossed line, his expression, himself, completely closed to her, as if they were barely acquainted.
And then she realized that one of the marines wasn’t a marine at all. He was her father, and he was hopping from the cruiser to the tub. Smiling.
“Taylor!” Huntington said, pumping Craig’s hand briefly as his eyes searched out his daughter. Then he saw her, and his arms, trembling, reached out to her. “Blair, oh, my dear God, Blair!”
She had frozen. Simply frozen. Her limbs felt like lead, as useless as the mind that fumbled with the message her eyes were giving it. She blinked in her numbness, wondering if she was seeing things.
But she wasn’t seeing things. Her father was standing before her; he had addressed Craig by name.
Her jumbled thoughts suddenly hit upon the point that her father was shaking and reaching for her. “Dad!” she cried, flying across the deck to throw herself into his arms. He held her, touching her hair, molding his fingers around her face, hugging her. Blair felt his age at that moment, the weakness of a loving parent, ravaged by worry and concern.
But he obviously knew Craig.
She stepped back, her eyes narrowing. “What the hell is going on here?” her eyes accused her father, darting from his face to Craig’s impassive one. She tried to control herself, to keep her tone light, to remind herself that her father was old, riddled by the concerns of a nation. Her voice rose anyway. She began to shake with anger, the anger of one who has made an idiot of herself and only slowly, stupidly, begins to realize it, an idiot who believed she should give all to a man about to change his colors for love of her.
“What the hell is going on here?” she repeated in a shrill voice.
Craig stood implacably straight, crossing his arms over his chest as he kept his eyes hard on Huntington. Obviously he didn’t intend to answer any questions. He intended Huntington to have that job; his look portrayed a mildly interested observer, nothing more, as he waited expectantly to see how the old man was going to handle it.
Blair turned her own eyes, snapping with fury, to her father. “Dad?”
“It’s a long story, Blair, classified until this morning at nine A.M. Taylor here works for the government—”
“I see,” Blair interrupted coldly, not seeing anything at all, but knowing that she was going numb all over again with a terrible chill. Her thoughts ran through her mind like quicksilver, jumbled and incoherent. She should be grateful. She had never been with a terrorist; her father was here now, s
he was safe, had been all along. It was all over.
But oddly, she wasn’t grateful. In the bed below, the sheets would still carry the moist warmth of their bodies, and Craig had certainly never needed redemption. Nor was he a terrorist. He was some type of agent, stringing her along, entertaining himself—oh, Lord, how he had strung her along! How gullible she had been. He must have spent half his days doubled over in secret laughter.
“An intelligence agent,” she snapped sarcastically.
“Craig is a diplomat, Blair,” Huntington told his daughter with a frown. “Special Services.”
“A diplomat. My, my,” she drawled, her eyes boring into his. “Is this the newest in U.S. diplomacy? Knocking out innocent victims and kidnapping them on rat-trap boats?”
Tension seemed to permeate the entire cove. Huntington glanced helplessly to Craig, who shrugged, then back to Blair. “Taylor was under my direct orders. None of this could be explained because the entire set-up was classified. Taylor never knew exactly why he was holding you.”
“Your orders!” Blair gasped. Her own father had ordered her abducted.
“Blair,” Huntington sighed sheepishly, “I told you this would be a long and confusing story. We have a long trek home. Hours of flying once we reach Belize. I can explain over a few stiff drinks. If you’re ready, we have half a corps standing by.”
“Oh, I’m ready,” Blair said grimly.
“Taylor?” Huntington queried. “I can have someone else bring in La Princesa—”
“Thank you, sir, no,” Craig said blandly. “You’re early.” Damn! Was he early.
“Things were solved this morning,” Huntington said. “I couldn’t wait, and I knew I could locate you along the coast. You understand … I’m afraid I couldn’t wait.”
“Yes, I understand,” Craig said stiffly. “But I have a few things on the boat and a few things I have to tie up in Belize before flying back.”
“All right,” Huntington agreed. “Blair? Would you like to get anything?”
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