THEY HAD CALLED A strange truce, Craig decided a week later as he stood by the mainsail, watching the rugged coastline. Days ago they had moved into the Caribbean; the water they now sailed was salt. And if all would go as planned, Huntington would be meeting them off the coast of Belize in three days.
A strange truce indeed, he thought. They were getting along like a pair of roommates tossed together by lot, stepping carefully around each other, being so cool and polite it was almost disgusting. But they were surviving together. Even their sleepless nights had eased. They had both accepted the fact that by morning they would gravitate together—and they both ignored the fact that it occurred. That type of touching he was allowed, Craig thought wryly. He wondered if she, like himself, was grateful for those spare moments of comfort when all else was denied.
She was, to an extent, trusting him. They had made a nice split in the duties of day-to-day life; Blair was even proving herself to be the competent sailor he had known her to be from the dossiers he had read about her. Actually, he assumed, she wasn’t out so much to help him as she was to stay busy. She had always been an active woman, full of that vital energy that had made her so invaluable to the Hunger Crew.
A slight beading of perspiration broke out across his forehead despite the cool breeze drifting down from the distant mountains. If something went wrong, if the top brass had been off in their estimations about whatever it was that was going wrong, Huntington would not make the rendezvous on time. Then what was he was going to do, Craig asked himself dryly. He had cornered himself; he had promised Blair.
Craig sighed, thinking how the peaceful scene of the mountains and sea clashed with the turmoil of his thoughts. Blair, who had shouted all those accusations at him completely contrary to the facts, would never know how her words had affected him. In his work he gave orders, harsh orders, strict orders, orders he expected to be carried out.
But he also took orders. One, two, three. Directions followed.
He wasn’t as blind as Blair imagined, not usually, but sometimes, as now, he disagreed with directives. He never feigned subservience; he didn’t give a damn about getting ahead of the other fellow. He did, as he had told Blair, believe in his cause, if not always its means. Years and experience had taught him that his cause, though not perfect, was the best to be found in this far from perfect world.
Except that he was getting tired. He had given fifteen years of his life, and although he didn’t begrudge a day of it he was discovering a need in himself that hadn’t existed in his youth and hadn’t fully formed until he had met Blair. He had sensed it before, standing as he was now, watching the sun’s descent in a splendid, peaceful glow behind mountains in the west.
Face it, buddy, he warned himself with a dry, rueful laugh. You’re getting old. You want a hearth to come home to, children to carry on the ego trip of leaving something behind for perpetuity. No, it was more than that. He needed a wife, and not just any wife, but a woman with a mind, soul, and courage, a certain woman with flame-tipped hair and eyes to rival a valley of evergreens.
“You’re a fool, Taylor.” He was startled to find himself talking aloud. A senile fool, he thought, talking to yourself like that. Senile or whatever, he was a fool. He wanted desperately what he couldn’t have but could have taken. Even now he could barge below and drag her into his arms until he drew from her the eager submission that must surely come.
No, he couldn’t, and he damned well knew it. She had challenged him on a level that was stronger than the physical, stronger than any force.
He turned to glance out seaward and a frown puzzled into his brow. Not minutes ago the sky had been clear, a strange yellow-blue with the setting of the sun. Now it was gray with more than encroaching darkness. A storm was brewing, and from the looks of it, it was going to be one big gale.
He had been going to move on after dinner, not that he was in a big hurry, but night sailing kept him away from Blair during the hours that they both seemed most vulnerable. Yet now he knew he must move toward land and seek whatever shelter the coastline might offer. Even as he moved toward the line to crank in the anchor, he could feel the breeze switch subtly, building in force.
Left at half mast, the mainsail began to fill. Craig watched as the fickle weather changed before his eyes. He was annoyed rather than alarmed. He knew that despite appearances he was on a vessel sounder than most. They would ride out the storm well; it just meant that the next half hour would be a busy one.
“Blair!” he called sharply down the hatch. “Up on deck.”
Apparently she had noticed the abrupt change in weather as he had. She appeared immediately in the hatch, eyes bright and alert, a guard carefully set over the fear that lurked in their depths.
“I need you,” Craig said with an easy tone designed to dispel her nervousness. “Grab the tiller.” Momentarily forgetting his promise, he set a hand upon her shoulder to point out the coastline. A natural harbor of clean white beach lurked ahead beneath the shadow of a long dormant volcanic mountain. “We’re heading in there,” he informed her briefly. “I don’t think we can run aground if we just shelter between those outstretching arms of land.”
Blair nodded with a little swallow and grabbed the tiller. With the anchor weighed, Craig set to trimming the sails. Blair scanned her direction, then allowed her eyes to revert to Craig. It was impossible not to marvel at his coordination. He moved lithely across the deck with a quick, sure step, the strength that belied that lightness apparent as he cranked in sails with biceps bulging. In motion he was such a pleasure to watch, a body and will perfectly attuned.
He caught her eyes upon him and smiled encouragement. Blair quickly turned her eyes back to the coast. The rain was beginning to fall in a mist, a portent of what was to come. Uneasily she cast her eyes back to the east from whence the storm was brewing. She was an adequate sailor, but she had always preferred fair weather to foul. And in this tub … an involuntary shiver riddled through her.
It was raining in earnest by the time she reached the cove, sheltered between the two natural land barriers. She could feel the suction of the waves pulling at the hull, but it was easier to wait out the storm in this harbor. Craig cast anchor, then set to work furling and covering the sails. He glanced at Blair, hunched and miserable at her seat, her hands still upon the tiller.
“Go below!” he shouted. “You’re going to catch pneumonia up here!”
Even above the whistle of the wind that was working its way up to a rage, Craig’s voice was a clear whiplash. A command. But Blair shook her head. She was loathe to go below without him. She was drenched; rain dripped into her eyes, down the neck of her shirt. She couldn’t possibly get any wetter than she was already.
“Go on!” he repeated, exasperated, halting his action with the main crank as he stared at her with hands on his hips.
She shook her head. “I’ll wait for you.”
Cursing beneath his breath, Craig turned his attention back to the crank, only to find that the sheet line had tangled. His expletives growing louder and more annoyed, he glanced back to her. “All right, if you must stay up here, come be helpful. Watch the line.”
Blair scurried to him, careful of her footing as the deck rose and fell beneath her feet as if it had taken on life and the boat itself had become some huge monster that breathed deeply and laboriously in huge swells. She grasped the crank, almost falling upon it, vaguely wondering again that Craig could keep such effortless balance even now.
He held on to the mainmast as he sought out the problem, his sinewed strength a seemingly implacable power against the pelting rain and ravaging wind that hissed and shrieked around him. Huddled miserably by the crank, Blair felt her fingers turning numb, and yet he appeared to find it all no more than irritating.
He shouted something at her that she didn’t hear. Narrowing her eyes against the sodden moisture that was blinding her, she yelled back, “What?”
Then to her horror she realized that the crank was spinning madly, and that she hadn’t the strength to make it stop. Craig pounced back to her side, shoving her away as he caught the crank and line, slowly bringing both under control. Still it was loose. Something knotted somewhere. The boom was reeling starboard and port, out like the massive arm of an inebriated giant. “Get down!” Craig hissed to her, finally finding the tangle and bringing tension back to the crank.
But he was just a fraction too late. Just as the tension caught, the boom took its last swing and caught Craig neatly at the base of his skull.
He went down without a sound.
It had been like a horror picture to Blair, a scene in which slow motion had been used for full effect. She had been powerless to do a thing. Now the boom was steady, but Craig lay immobile, his complexion ashen, the arm he had thrown up to shield her draped limply over her legs.
She sat still in stunned stupefaction for only seconds. Then she secured the crank and knelt beside him, desperately praying that he was alive. She found a pulse. Was it faint or was it just that nothing could feel strong against the fury of the elements?
“Oh, God, Taylor,” she groaned feverishly, blinking against the downpour. She had to get him down to the cabin, but his weight was tremendous. “Taylor!” She sent up the anguished cry, praying that he would open his eyes, that it would be a joke ….
But it wasn’t a joke. His rugged profile was perfectly still beneath the onslaught of drenching rain and screaming wind. His flesh was growing so terribly cold.
What if he had a fracture, a concussion? Blair knew under normal circumstances that she shouldn’t be moving him, but she had to move him. The boards beneath her feet were sodden. The boat was heaving even within the harbor of the cove.
“Help me, God,” she prayed aloud, grabbing Craig’s arms at the shoulders and taking a deep breath. What if he were dead. God, no! He couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t even consider it. He would be all right. She had to get him down below. “Oh, dear God, please help me.” Her prayer was lost to the wind. If there was a deity present, it was Neptune, and the god of the sea was angered. Her pleas seemed to go unheeded.
Then suddenly she was able to budge him. Straining with everything that was in her, Blair found herself able to drag him. It was tedious going. Blair clenched her jaw with the effort, panting and halting every few inches, finally growing immune to the deluge of the rain. Every muscle in her body pained her until she found that the battle of straining against Craig’s dead weight was totally exhausting her. She stopped periodically to wipe rain and plastered hair from her face, but each time she continued again, coming closer and closer to the hatch.
Once there she was faced with a new problem—how to get him down.
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 getting 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.
And then she sensed Craig’s presence.
It was her chance; a chance to demand to know where they were going, why she was being held, who he was. A chance to reverse roles, to take him hostage, to turn him over to the authorities before he went further in his life of violence.
He stood ten feet away from her, hands on hips, yellow eyes gleaming without a hint of fear. Slowly she pointed the muzzle in his direction.
“That is loaded, you know, Blair,” he said flatly.
She nodded, her throat suddenly gone thick, her tongue too heavy to voice all her questions.
He started walking toward her. She finally managed to speak.
“Taylor, I can shoot this thing,” she warned. “I’m an expert marksman.”
“I know,” he said calmly, pausing right before her. “I also know that you’re not going to shoot me.”
Blair clicked off the safety. “Don’t count on it, Taylor,” she rasped. Her hand was steady, her aim sure. He moved toward her. “Don’t,” she warned, and for an instant his eyes flickered with a strange light and utter disbelief. He’d come as close as she could ever imagine this man coming to showing shock. Then, just as suddenly, his eyes, his entire expression, showed nothing.
A silence stretched between them; neither one moved, neither even breathed. There was only the slight rocking of the boat, the sound of the waves lapping against the hull, the call of birds flying above the open sea. Flying free, Blair thought. The gun weighed heavy in her hand, the yellow glow of Craig’s eyes, luminous in the cabin’s darkness, boring relentlessly into her.
And then she was shaking like a leaf. And Craig was reaching down to take the gun from fingers that had gone cold and limp. With the safety back on, he returned the gun to its niche and reached for Blair, who was now hunched over, head bowed in despair and defeat.
He pulled her into his arms and she didn’t protest. The tears she had tried to hold on to fell freely, silently, in torrents down her cheeks.
Lifting her like a child, he carried her to the bed and soothed her, lifting tendrils of hair from her face and smoothing them back as he cradled her in his lap. Then suddenly she gathered strength again, and feverishly pummeled his chest. “Damn you, Taylor,” she cried in a scream and wail, aware that she was pitting such feeble force against him that he wasn’t even protesting. “You’re a goddamn criminal and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it….” Her voice trailed away with her energy and her hands fell limply against his chest.
“Blair,” he murmured consolingly, “you couldn’t do it because you know I’m no danger to you. You know that I would never hurt you. You couldn’t do it because you know that I love you, because you love me.”
She couldn’t still her shaking; she could only dimly accept his words. She knew why she couldn’t ever have shot him; it would be a horrendous replay of the past, seeing this man that she loved with all her heart, blood gushing from him, washing away his life. And then she was voicing her thoughts out loud, burrowing to him for the strength he had given her from the start.
“Oh, Craig, it was so awful”, so awful, he was standing one moment, laughing, waving, so vital, so alive. And then he was down, the life leaving his eyes, the blood, oh, God, there was so much blood….”
Craig let her talk on and on, feeling her pain, desperately wishing he could absorb it for her. He had seen the results of war and terrorism, and his only comfort was that in some instances he had been able to prevent possible carnage. But as he loved her, he could never imagine the pain of losing her. He could well imagine what the devastation had been for her to view the demise of the man she had adored.
And so he continued to hold her, uttering soothing words, cradling her with tenderness rather than passion, until she had it all out. Until the sun rose high in the sky, until he could feel her exhausted body relax against his.
Still they sat silent. Finally her eyes rose to meet his. Emerald and brilliant with the liquid glaze of her tears, they also carried a touching concern.
“Your head, Craig. I’m sorry, I forgot all about it.”
He smiled softly. “That’s okay, so did I. It’s all right now.”
“Really?”
“Really.” It was true. Somewhere along the line the nagging pain had subdued to a slight throb, and now he felt only the slightest soreness at the base of his head. He twisted his head to prove that all was well to both her and himself. “Really,” he repeated. “Much better.”
She sighed suddenly, a jagged sigh, her emerald eyes still upon him, beseeching him with a weary depth. “Craig …” she began weakly, raising a slender, trembling finger to brush his stubble-rough cheek. “Please, Craig, turn yourself in. Don’t you see? I don’t … I can’t … You’re so good! Turn yourself in. I won’t press charges. Whatever you’ve done, we can straighten it out. I’ll help you.”
Craig was staring down at her, a very soft, very tender smile curling the edges of the lips set in the square steel jaw. The hazel of his eyes was neither cold nor yellow. But deep, a dark golden color—poignant, wistful.
He forgot—or if he didn’t completely forget, he pushed aside—the sure notion that she would one day charge him like a proud eagle for stringing her along, for allowing her to make such a plea. All he saw at the moment was the depth of her caring, and the moment was precious to him. He would sell his soul to allow it to continue. He wanted to stretch it out; he craved to hear the words spoken from her lips that she would never say again.
“Why, Blair?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why would you do this for me?”
“Because I—I—” She was floundering, her voice was catching, choking. And then she became certain. “Because I do love you.” The words slipped out with a simple dignity—a sweet yearning whisper on the air.
Craig’s arms tightened around her. “I love you, Blair,” he murmured huskily, his lips trembling against her hair.
“Please—” she protested, pulling from him and finding the strength to stand and move away from him.
“I love you, Craig, but I’m not about to become a partner to this, whatever it is.”
“I told you I would return you to Washington to your father,” Craig said, his eyes narrowing and hardening, his tone becoming guarded. “Do you doubt my word?”
“No,” she said softly. “I believe you intend to keep your word.”
He laughed suddenly, a dry, bitter chuckle. “You want me to turn myself in?”
“Yes,” Blair whispered.
“But you don’t know all that I’ve done,” he reminded her.
Blair fixed her gaze on the coffeepot, now grown ice cold.
“I can’t believe that anything you’ve done can be that bad. They say that a hypnotized man will not obey an order, even in a trance, if that order is against his moral instincts. I believe you’re like that, Craig. Misguided, but moral beneath it. If you turn now, you can go back. Maybe you’ll never be able to do so again, maybe the time will come when it will be too late.”
Craig had to catch himself, catch himself hard.
He heard someone laughing, distant, outside himself. But it was he himself. He was sure Blair must think he was cracking up. Was he hysterical? About to laugh until he cried? That was how he was feeling. It was so ironic. So pathetically, damned ironic.
He squelched the laughter that was bubbling up inside of him. He might as well agree; he was definitely going to see Huntington. And maybe, just maybe, in the few days remaining them, he might store up more sweet memories to take with him and cherish.
“All right, Blair,” he said gravely. “I’ll turn myself in to your father.”
Blair stared into his eyes, fascinated by the brown stars that streaked against the lime, creating the illusions of yellow and gold. She was astounded that he had capitulated so easily. It couldn’t be real.
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes, of course,” he said impatiently. “I don’t think you can accuse me of being a liar.”
No, strangely, she couldn’t accuse him of being a liar. When he made a promise, he stuck to it.
“I have a question for you.” He interrupted her thoughts quietly.
“Yes?” She felt a little numb, as if a trophy had just been thrown onto her lap and she wasn’t quite sure what she had won.
“What happens then?” Craig knew he shouldn’t be pushing the charade. He was twisting a knife wound deeper and deeper before his victim was even aware of the first plunge. But as soon as this ordeal was over she was probably going to hang him anyway. Throwing all caution to the wind, he decided to take it all the way, and the hell with eventual consequences.
“You and I. Us. What happens then?” He was looking at her blandly, demanding an answer.
“W-well,” Blair stuttered. “I—I don’t know exactly. It’s going to depend. I don’t know what you’ve done, who you’ve been involved with. There is a good possibility that you will have to serve some time in prison.”
“Are you going to wait for me?”
There was no hedging around with Craig Taylor; he asked his questions bluntly, questions that left her fumbling for answers, frightened, unsure, praying she had the strength she now tried to convey to him.
“Yes.” She didn’t really need to fumble for an answer. She loved him, and she had borne hard times before for love. Yet even the sweet love of the past was nothing compared to this all-consuming emotion. She could stand up to anything, she believed. He was putting himself in her hands, trusting her, promising her. The least she could do was promise in return to be there, through whatever, when the chips were down and he needed her. “Yes,” she repeated, believing firmly in his love considering the enormous step he was willing to take for her. “Yes, I will wait.”
“What if your father disapproves? He isn’t going to be happy about his daughter and a criminal.” Lord, Craig wondered, what was the matter with him? But he wanted the answers now, and it really didn’t matter if he allowed the devil to niggle him on to have the next few days with Blair. He had, as the saying went, already cooked his goose. Charbroiled, as a matter of fact.
“Andrew Huntington doesn’t control me,” she answered serenely.
Now, that one was really worth a good laugh, Craig thought dryly, but he contained himself. His devil was in complete control. “Think about it, Blair,” he warned, stalking toward her with his cat’s tread. “Think about where you’ve come from, where you’ve been. Your family, your circle of friends. I’ll be an ex-con. Will you be able to handle that?”
“Craig,” she said firmly, and the woman who had broken with the thought of spilling his blood was gone, replaced by the fighter, the assured, cultured Blair who knew her own mind, who had won beyond doubt what he had thought to be a nonexistent heart. “I have never worried about what was. The important thing is that you’re willing to start over. My father is my family; he loves me, he will accept you. He is also a man to judge a person for what he is, not what he was. And my true friends will be your friends. Yes, if you mean what you say, I can handle anything.”
In a way Craig felt like kicking himself; he was humbled by her steady declaration, humbled by the beauty of the inner woman. But then again, he knew he would have changed nothing to hear her words.
He reached for her, large hands, powerful hands, hands that could break wood and brick, trembling. His fingers touched her hair, followed the delicate contours of her face. “Blair …” he whispered.
Then she caught his hand and stopped him.
“No, Craig, please …” she beseeched him, and there was once more a hint of tears in her eyes.
“I thought you loved me.”
“I do love you.” She held the hand that had touched her with such reverence with both her own. “But I’m still afraid of what’s going on. We need to get to a large city fast; I’ll put through a call to Washington.”
Craig pulled his hand away impatiently. “I said I’d turn myself in to your father when I returned you. That’s still a few days away, two and a half to be precise.”
At first Blair was merely puzzled, then she felt the dark cloud of doubt and dread spreading through her. Was this just another clever ploy? A ruse for Craig to entertain himself while time inexorably passed?
“What difference does it make?” she demanded sharply. “If you’ve made the decision to turn yourself in, why not do it now?”
Craig didn’t answer right away. He moved into the galley and dumped the pot of cold coffee down the drain and set about making another. Once it was set upon the flame, he turned back to her, a man with a decision made. Smiling slightly, he traced a calloused finger delicately down her cheek, making no effort to come nearer. “Blair,” he said with a deathly quiet that both pricked her skin and convinced her immediately of his sincerity, “it’s imperative to your safety and perhaps that of others that we not move toward inhabited land until we reach Belize. I swear to you that when we get there I will go to your father with you. You have to accept that for now. There’s nothing else I can tell you, nothing else that I can do.”
Blair stared at him for several seconds, but she knew that was all she was going to get. She knew the closed and determined set of his hard features. Her eyes fell first. “I guess there’s not much I can do myself then, is there?” she asked softly.
“No, not too much,” Craig replied. “But you can keep on trusting me.”
Blair shook her head slightly, as if still considering the notion of trusting at all as sheer lunacy. “I guess I am trusting you.”
“You can do one more thing,” Craig suggested.
“What’s that?”
“Tell me that you love me again.”
“I love you, Craig,” she whispered, then admitted, “but I’m not happy about this, not at all. We should be hurrying in.”
“We can’t.” He reached out to take her into his arms but she went rigid against him. “Craig, please.”
He released her immediately, but not with anger. His eyes held a deep and strange regret. “I think I understand,” he murmured. She trusted him, but she couldn’t control the doubt planted in her mind by the fact that she had been kidnapped by him. She wanted to see him turn himself in, which would be the end. Charade—which hadn’t been his fault at the beginning—all over. But he couldn’t be sorry. He had come to find out what love was, what it entailed, the joy, the pain. He would never regret that the intensity of his emotion had been returned, even if only for a brief, shining moment between them.
“Why don’t you make breakfast, or is it lunch, now,” he suggested, that deep sadness and resignation in his voice coming through despite his smile.
Blair nodded; Craig disappeared up the ladder.
It was a remarkably undramatic end to the very special time when two people had just declared their love.
But it was the way it had to be.
Blair turned her attention to the task of feeding them both. Would everything really turn out all right? she wondered. She wanted so desperately for it to be so. So desperately that she didn’t dare allow her mind to whirl away and question all that happened, all that had been said.
She would stand by him, she would be there, she would wait forever and a day.
But there was something else wrong; she could sense it. At times there had been an almost satanic twinkle to Craig’s eyes, but then, at other times, they had been hard, self-mocking, haunted ….
She bit into her lip as she worked, worried, but feeling a strange jubilation. She was in love, and the man she loved had said that he loved her in return. And she believed him. She didn’t question his sincerity.