CRAIG TAYLOR SAT BELOWDECKS as the hum of the larger boat roared, then dimmed, finally fading to stillness. His fingers reached automatically for his cigarette pack; he lit one, and exhaled shakily.
Blair had had a few surprises that day, but she would never guess that the crudest surprise had been his.
Never, never in his wildest imagination had he thought Huntington might search them out along the coastline.
At least, he thought wryly, he now knew why he had been ordered to kidnap his “princess.” The fact that it all made perfect sense, however, was doing little to ease the turmoil in his mind.
And then there was the question of the woman herself. Was she ever going to understand that it all made sense? If so, it might take a long, long time. She wasn’t the type of woman who tolerated being duped.
Perhaps she would eventually comprehend why he couldn’t possibly break his word of silence. With the “classified” rigmarole lifted, Huntington could make her understand how very precarious the situation had been.
Yes, the situation could be explained. Huntington would be in the clear. He was her father. She would forgive the father she loved. But what about me? Craig wondered with a wince. Admittedly he had looped his own noose; he had even known what he was doing every step of the way. He had simply wanted her so badly at times, he had been unable to prevent himself from playing along with anything that she wanted to think.
And then he had certainly gotten a little carried away with the bit about his being incarcerated for a substantial time. But he had truly cherished every minute that she had lovingly tried to reform him; he just hadn’t been able to stop.
Her slap was still stinging his cheek; he was fully and ruefully aware of just exactly what she thought of him.
Craig wondered vaguely how much of what happened Huntington would hear about. Probably very little, but he didn’t really care. He was in love with Blair, and if Huntington were to ask him, he would tell him so.
Craig moved desultorily up the ladder and weighed the anchor. It was time to give the boat full throttle with her highspeed motor. No one would be looking for him anymore. The job was over. He wanted to bring La Princesa in; he wanted to get back to Washington. Back to work. The work he did best, right in the heart of things. Walking the fine line between hell and high water.
Damn! He couldn’t shake the vision of his hostage. His princess. Her scent still seemed to be all around him, her vibrance just around the corner. She was a ghost of delicate strength, pride, loyalty, and determination. A beautiful ghost, unfading, showing no pity for his loneliness and pain.
He raced the boat across the water as if he could outrun the wind, outrun the images that spun in his mind. It’s over, Taylor, he repeated endlessly. But he couldn’t accept that.
He hugged the coastline now as he sped along, no longer concerned with the scattered habitations he would pass. White-tipped foam rose and spewed around him; salt breezes stung his face. But still he couldn’t shut out memory. He couldn’t shut out love.
Even her voice seemed to haunt him, a melody that rang ceaselessly, that whispered in silk along with the breeze.
I love you, Craig.
Suddenly he cut the motor, and La Princesa came to a slow drift over the light waves. Craig was laughing, laughing to the breeze, laughing at himself.
“You’re supposed to believe that the patient and persistent will persevere, Taylor,” he told himself.
Dusk was falling. With his high-speed navy motor in use, he was just a few hours from the dock in Belize.
He could afford the time to take a break.
Walking with a springing step to the ladder, he crawled to the cabin, rummaged through the icebox, and found himself a beer.
Flipping the top, he raised it to himself.
“To you, Taylor,” he saluted himself, “and to patience and persistence winning out!”
He turned to the bed, stared upon the still rumpled sheets. “And to you, princess,” he whispered. “Okay, let’s face it. I messed up a bit. I led you on. I had to. Think about it, you’ll understand. But honey, they’ve pitted me against some of the most unreasonable fanatics of our time. Do you really think one little slap is going to put an end to the pursuit of C. Taylor, USA?
“Not on your life, babe.”
She was going to need time to simmer down. Whoever it was who decreed redheads should have flaming tempers was probably right on the button. But she was hardly the spoiled socialite he had expected. She would reason; she would understand all that Huntington would have to tell her.
Of course there wasn’t an explanation for his inventing a fear of a long jail term that might keep them apart, just to get her into bed.
That she would have to forgive.
But she had forgiven her father on faith already.
Because she loved her father.
And she loves me, Craig assured himself grimly.
He finished his beer.
That night he turned in La Princesa. He slept soundly in an air-conditioned hotel room in the coastal tourist town.
The mattress was firm yet plush, the bedding soft and warm. And still his first waking thought was that he would rather be sleeping in the cabin of that rat-trap boat; the only softness and warmth he craved were what belonged to a certain auburn-haired spitfire.
Two days later he was in D.C., taking the hall that led to the chief’s office in long strides. His mind was made up.
Lorna Patterson, the chief’s longtime secretary, gave him a welcoming smile at his approach. “Taylor!” she began in enthusiastic greeting. “You’re back!”
But he was past her desk already. Craig never stood on ceremony, but Lorna was stunned nevertheless. She was not a beautiful woman; she had acknowledged that long ago, But one of the qualities that had endeared Craig to staff and coworkers alike was a simple ability to sense human frailty and sensitively bolster neglected egos. He never passed through without a compliment for Lorna. He would notice a change in her hair, a new dress; without dishonest flattery, he was capable of making her feel like she was beautiful—and she loved him for it.
But today he was distracted. He barely waved in acknowledgment of her gasped “He is in,” and was able to send her only a ghost of his usual encouraging smile.
Lorna heard the chief’s “Taylor! I’ve been waiting for you. We’ve got trouble with the new policy in—”
“Hold it,” was Craig Taylor’s firm reply. “I’ve got to talk to you. I want to request a trans—”
The door closed firmly. Lorna heard no more.
Thirty minutes later both Craig and the chief emerged, neither man looking particularly happy.
“How long do I have?” Craig asked.
“A week,” the chief replied apologetically.
Craig contemplated his superior for several moments. “And then that is it,” he said with a quiet force that was indisputable.
“And then that’s it,” the chief agreed. He still looked unhappy. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it, which surprised Lorna because the chief was never at a loss for words. Nine out of ten times he roared like a bull. She was almost shocked speechless herself when he opened his mouth a second time and voiced a soft “Thank you, Craig.”
Emotions rippled across Craig’s usually unfathomable features. Tension, pain, regret. Resignation, fortitude. Then he forced a dry smile that didn’t touch the misery in his uniquely compelling eyes.
“Sure, Chief, compromise, as you say.”
“It will be set when you return, Taylor. I guarantee it.”
The chief returned to his office. Craig appeared momentarily lost. Then he became aware of Lorna watching him with an empathy despite her complete lack of understanding of the situation.
Craig smiled. She knew it was an abstract smile, but she was glad nevertheless. He perched upon her desk corner.
“So how’s it going, Lorna?”
“Fine,” she replied. “It’s going just like usual.” She proceeded to fill him in on the latest in the office, but though he kept smiling, she realized he wasn’t listening; he was merely being polite. What a man, she thought, tough as nails but innately gallant. The stuff of legends. A pirate, a modern day Robin Hood, a sinner, a saint. She wasn’t in his league, but she was his friend for life.
“Taylor,” she continued, then hesitated. He never discussed anything personal, but he seemed so down. “Can I help you in any way? If you’ve a problem, I’ll gladly listen.”
His smile became real for the first time; he ruffled her hair gently. “Thanks, Lorna, but you can’t help.” Grimacing, he stood and started away from her desk. “Compromise,” he muttered. At the door he suddenly swung back to her. “Maybe you can help, Lorna. Tell me, do women believe in compromise?”
Lorna frowned, startled. Craig could have his pick of women. He had been seen with some of the great beauties of the world. He had never, to her knowledge, taken an affair seriously. It was impossible to believe he might be having a problem with a woman.
“Why, ah, of course women believe in compromise!” she assured him.
“Yes, I guess they might,” he agreed, but he didn’t appear any less down. He smiled again absently and waved as he left. “I wonder if they believe in compromise when they’d rather strangle you in the first place,” she thought she heard him murmur.
Minutes later Craig stared idly at Capitol Hill.
First it was classified, now it was compromise.
He wanted his life back! his mind screamed. If he compromised, everything might be too late.
And yet he couldn’t just turn his back. Ethics, his own ethics, kept standing in his way.
He fought a long, hard mental battle as he stood there, oblivious to the fact that it was late spring, and that late spring in Washington was beautiful. Cherry blossoms were in splendid abundance; the sky was a crystal blue. The air carried a delightful nip.
Just once he wished he could turn his back. Not care.
But he couldn’t.
Again, it would be less than himself that he offered to her.
A week.
In a week he had to convince her to forgive him. And then to compromise.
It would never happen. Because he would be gone then … and he knew how she felt. He would never forget how she had broken when holding his gun. In truth, she would rather have him be a convict than see him leave for a danger zone.
His fists clenched tightly by his side. She was his! He had to have her, would have her.
He had only one choice, and that was to make her realize just how fully she was his before he left. And that was a bit of a sticky problem. If he knocked on Huntington’s door, she would merely slam it in his face. There was a chance. Merrill’s party. Surely she would be there.
And he would use every trick he knew to make damn sure she knew she belonged to him—body, heart, and soul—before he left.
Compromise or compromised? he wondered dryly.
This was one battle of diplomacy he was going to win, even if the means weren’t particularly diplomatic.