“I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Blair said grimly. She was finally home alone with her father in his Washington town house, staring at the rise of Capitol Hill through the picture window. Her fingers were tensely curled around the long stem of a martini glass. “You knew the guerrillas were planning to attack the Hunger Crew, but you just let them stay there in danger because the tip on the attack was classified?” Her question was thick with stunned disbelief.
“Blair”—Andrew Huntington took a very long sip of his own martini and paced before the window—“we had a man in with the guerrillas undercover. His had been a long and delicate assignment—drawing their trust. If any of the information he discovered leaked, they would have caught him immediately. His life would have been the forfeit—”
“But the Hunger Crew!” Blair interrupted. “You were willing to let them be killed?” She simply couldn’t believe that her father would allow such a thing, or even be involved with powers that would offer up a sacrifice of such dedicated humanity.
Huntington winced at his daughter’s tone. “You don’t understand,” he told her softly. “The members of the Hunger Crew were not in danger—just you. The only reason the guerrillas planned to attack was to abduct you. To hold you for ransom—support for their operation, guns, equipment, rations. They didn’t give a damn about the Hunger Crew. I couldn’t just call you home. They would have hit before you walked two steps off the compound, and the repercussions might have been tragic. If, just if, you would have merrily flown on out, they might have tortured our agent to death, and retaliated against us by staging a massacre on either a friendly civilian population, or on the very people you’re worrying about protecting—the Hunger Crew.”
“But I would have understood,” Blair interjected softly.
“Would you have?” Her father shook his head with a dry smile. “Blair, if you would have had the slightest inkling of danger, you would have thought that I, as your father, was conning just to save you. And I know you. You would have wanted to stick by your friends.” He waved a hand in the air before she could utter a protest. “But then there would have been the fact that your friends were in no danger. With you out of the picture, they were left in peace. The guerrillas had no point in attacking without their prize for ransom. And that’s one of the main reasons your removal from the picture by us had to look real. The guerrillas had to believe that another terrorist group had beaten them to the punch.”
“Okay, Dad,” Blair said with a sigh, “I understand now why all this information was classified. I understand that your man might have been killed if his tips had leaked. I understand that my disappearance by pseudo-abduction was necessary to prevent catastrophe before it could happen. I understand why you sent … Taylor”—she spat out his name—“to watch me and then get me out when you knew it was definitely crucial. But why all that time on the boat? Why couldn’t he just explain it all to me once we were out.”
“Taylor couldn’t have told you anything because he didn’t know anything,” Huntington said slowly. “And he was under my direct orders not to breathe a word to you about our government being involved.”
“But why?” Blair demanded.
“Several reasons,” Huntington said, rubbing his temple with one hand as he weighed his answer. “Blair, I really wasn’t running this show. My orders came from higher up; no matter what I was thinking or feeling, I had to handle things as I would have with anyone else involved. I couldn’t act as your father. You couldn’t be told anything because”—his voice trembled slightly—“because you weren’t really out of danger until the afternoon we picked you up. That’s why you were on La Princesa. She looks like a dump, but she is, of course, one of our military vessels. We couldn’t send in a plane or a chopper; we couldn’t do anything obvious. You had to get out slow and safe. We knew the first point of clear harbor would be Belize.”
Blair was shaking her head with a rueful smile. “Dad, the time involved is not the point I’m trying to get across. I knew we were following the coast when we left the river behind, although I didn’t really know exactly where I was. What I’m getting at is why keep me in the dark once I was out of the compound? Why didn’t Taylor just tell me he worked for you, and that all he was doing was trying to get me to you?”
Huntington was silent for so long that Blair almost prodded him. But she didn’t. She suddenly realized that his face was contorted with pain, that he trembled as with palsy. “Dad,” she said nervously, “are you all right?”
He nodded and put up a hand when she would have come to him. A second later he spoke, his voice rasping. “I told you, Blair. I could make no allowances for the fact that you were my daughter. My orders were classified. If something had gone wrong, if the guerrillas had gotten hold of you, we couldn’t take the chance that you would tell them anything.”
“But I wouldn’t have told them anything—” Blair began, stopping as she saw her father wince and feeling a chill crawl down her back with a grasp of understanding even before he spoke.
“Blair, the expression is often used as a joke, but it isn’t a joke at all. They have ways to make you talk. If you had been taken, they would have eventually found out everything you knew. As it stood, all you could have said was that you had already been kidnapped. And in the event that you were captured, there was still more at stake. The welfare of the Hunger Crew, our agent, any number of random, innocent villagers.”
It was funny, Blair thought. There had been times when Craig first took her that she had been frightened. But now, with it all over, she felt a cold rising of gut-chilling panic. What might have happened to her under the wing of a true fanatical terrorist suddenly became visible to her mind.
“What about Taylor?” she rasped. “If I were taken, he would have been too.”
“Taylor would have never been made to break,” her father explained softly.
“Oh, come on, Dad! Granted, you sent me the next best thing to James Bond, but even I know they have truth serums—”
“Taylor would have never given them information,” Huntington repeated with soft but firm assurance, refusing to meet his daughter’s eyes.
Blair clamped her lips together. She didn’t need a further explanation. She understood. Within Craig’s ranks certain things were merely accepted. If other lives were at stake, you forfeited your own.
She swallowed the remainder of her martini in one gulp, then walked to the attractive portable bar that stood beside the gray suede sofa and poured herself a second drink, forgetting all about her customary olive. But alcohol couldn’t numb the as yet unaccepted, gut-wrenching agony she was feeling.
“We had to keep everything classified until the guerrilla terrorists could be rounded up, which occurred the day before I came for you. We had arranged to meet at a certain secluded harbor in Belize, but once I was given the all clear, well, I couldn’t wait to see you.” Huntington began pacing the length of the picture window again as Blair silently absorbed his words. “Our man with the guerrillas,” he told her, “led them right into Central American forces when they attempted a sabotage. With the main wing broken, it will only be a matter of time before any scattered dissidents give up.”
Blair was still silent, and her father finally quit his pacing to sit beside her on the sofa. He took her hand until she looked into his eyes.
“Blair, I never wanted you to be harmed in any way by my work. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
“Oh, Dad,” Blair murmured, drawn from her brooding by the sorrow and tension in his worn features. Half-spilling what remained of her drink, she cast her arms around his neck and hugged him to her. “It’s okay, Dad, it’s over.” She felt herself stiffen suddenly. “They were after you, Dad, weren’t they? You were the main target. I was just a means to an end.”
Blair could feel her father’s shrug beneath her arms. “It is all over, Blair,” he replied vaguely. Then he pulled away from her and smiled. “You know, honey, if it had been completely my decision, I would have had Taylor keep you in the dark anyway. You would have figured that out and tried to get me. If you knew he would have never really harmed you, you would have driven him absolutely nuts with escape attempts!”
“Dad! You could have trusted me!” Blair protested.
Huntington shrugged again. “It really doesn’t matter. I don’t make up classified listings.”
“And you wouldn’t break them, even for me, would you?” Blair asked softly.
It took Huntington a long time to answer, but when he did, his eyes didn’t waver from hers. “No, Blair.” He released a sigh, and Blair saw how very tired he was and how much fright and tension he had lived with for her. “I am a servant of the country,” he said with quiet, unassuming dignity, “and though I’ll admit ethics are sometimes confused, I don’t confuse mine. You’re my only child, Blair, and I’d happily die for you. Don’t look at me like that, almost any parent would say the same and I’m still hoping that one day you’ll know that for a fact, but I do not break government seals.”
Blair touched his cheek gently with love and pride. “I understand, Dad, and I love you for all that you are.”
“Everything that was had to be,” he responded gruffly, “but I did bulldoze my way into calling the majority of the shots. I demanded Taylor. I’ve watched him for years, and I know he’s the best.”
Blair lowered her eyes and moved away from her father, taking his place pacing before the picture window. “Taylor,” she mused dryly. “Yes, Taylor. Well, whatever the circumstance, you would have never needed to worry about me managing to get away from that man. I don’t think a Sherman tank could escape him.”
“Blair,” Huntington queried, sounding a little strangled. “Were you ever hurt?”
Yes, Dad, Blair thought fleetingly, you’ll never know how I was hurt. “No,” she said aloud, adding with a reassuring grimace, “not really.” The thought of the blow to her jaw that had sent her to blackness couldn’t be felt as the hint of a memory in the morning. “But I was frightened silly at times. Oh, Dad,” she muttered impatiently, “what are we doing in Central America anyway? Never mind!” She held up a hand before he could speak. “I don’t want to hear ‘classified!’”
Huntington grimaced as he looked into his daughter’s eyes. She was trying to be light for his sake, but there was still anger deep within the emerald green, a frustrated anger. She was handling things as he had known she eventually would—with a dry acceptance. She had grasped all the complications of the situation, and he had also known, she had easily understood his position and how others had been concerned.
And it was over. She was home safe.
He kissed her cheek. “I’m not going to say ‘classified.’ Your question is a debate in itself. I can answer only that I’ve been with the State Department for almost forty years. I’ve seen mistakes; I’ve disagreed with policy many times. But in my job I serve the officials that have been elected by the majority of the people. Those are the rules of the game.” He stopped, grimacing sheepishly. “Am I forgiven?”
Blair kissed her father’s cheek. “There is nothing to forgive, Dad. I’m grateful that I’m alive, well, and here with you.” An unwelcome stab of pain made her wince inadvertently. She was grateful; she was glad to be with this parent she so adored and admired. But she was also lonely. Although it had been less than two months since she had first set eyes on Craig, he had come to be the center of her life, whether in love, passion, hate, or anger. She could no longer go to bed and know that he would crawl in beside her later.
And even when she had decreed that he not touch her, he had been there. She had slept ridiculously soundly. She had crept into his arms, to strength, to security, by morning.
The man made a fool of you, she reminded herself.
As if reading his daughter’s mind, Huntington said softly, “You need to forgive Taylor, too, Blair. He wanted no part of this, you know. He was furious when we sent him out. He felt like he was going on baby-sitting duty.”
Great, Blair thought dryly. Taylor had wanted no part of her … well, he had certainly exacted his revenge. The humiliation of falling for his ridiculous lines was galling, the more so with hindsight. Oh, God, what an idiot I was! A real idiot, because even now she still wanted him, still loved him.
No, she told herself firmly. It was good that she had been nothing more than a “princess” to take down a peg to him. She was relieved that she needn’t worry that he might really love her. Because she couldn’t take it again. She could no longer handle the thought that those she loved were in danger. She was going to have to forget Craig because as it was she would spend her days worrying.
Blair suddenly realized that her father was watching her with both concern and amusement. Loathe to have him perform any more mind reading, she indignantly snapped, “What kind of diplomat is that man anyway? What happened to the staid, cordial types?”
Huntington listened to his daughter’s questions, sure there was more to them than met the eye. She was a responsible woman; she wouldn’t resent a man for having done his duty. He hesitated, answering slowly because of his perception, and also because there was no real explanation or title for Craig Taylor’s expertise. “Taylor is … well, he is a diplomat. He specializes in touchy situations.”
“Danger, you mean.”
Huntington shrugged. “He’s a good man,” he said softly.
Oh, he’s good all right, Blair reflected dryly. “Yeah,” she murmured aloud, dismayed at the pain given away with the tone of her single word. She forced a smile and held her empty glass up to her father. “Pour me another, will you, Dad? I think I deserve to get a little tipsy.”
Tipsy, hah! She wanted to knock herself out. She wanted to forget, if for only the release of a few hours, all that happened. She wanted to make herself stop thinking about Craig. She wanted to ease the agony of wanting him.
“Sure, sweetheart,” Huntington agreed, hopping to his feet and refilling both glasses. He remembered her olive. He handed back her glass and reached into an onyx cigarette box, taking one for himself while offering one to Blair.
“No, thanks, Dad,” she said, adding wryly. “Haven’t you noticed? I quit.”
Huntington’s brows rose. Although she hadn’t smoked much, all her attempts to give up the habit in the past had been futile. “Oh? How did you manage that?”
Blair shrugged, then ordered her lips to curl into a small smile. “Oh, I just took it into my head, I guess.” A wide yawn suddenly escaped her and she glanced at her father apologetically. “I think I’ll take this up with me for a long hot bath,” she murmured, inclining her head toward her drink. “Then bed. Changing time zones has gotten me off kilter!” Impulsively she hugged her father again, smiling her assurance of love and understanding as she released him.
“’Night,” she murmured, striding for the stairs and the upper level and the bedroom her father had always insisted upon keeping ready for her at any time. She paused halfway as he called a soft “Blair!”
“Yes, Dad?”
“Please don’t be angry with Taylor. He is a good man.”
She offered him the ghost of a smile. “I doubt whether he would really care if I was angry or not. We’ll probably never meet again, but you’re right, Dad, he is a good man. Tremendous. You should use him for all your abductions. His title should be changed to Taylor the Hun.”
Huntington sternly held back a chuckle. “A tyrant, huh?” he queried, not expecting or wanting an answer. “Forgive him anyway. Like I told you, he really wanted no part of this.”
No, of course not, Blair thought sourly. Poor Taylor, rugged man of action deprived of the danger he thrived upon to babysit a do-gooding rich man’s widow. No, spoiled little princess. Get his terms correct here, she mocked herself. She had fallen into his hands so easily! What entertainment she must have provided—his due with ironic vengeance for being stuck with the job!
God, he had waltzed her down a primrose path, and she hadn’t balked a single step!
And the pity of it was that now, even now, if he walked into the room with his lies of love on his lips, she would trip down the steps to be in his arms. No. She wanted no part of that deceitful adventure seeker.
But did she want to sleep! To still her rampant thoughts, to stop her heart from tearing to shreds, split between anger and fear, and then relief and then the need that overrode it all—love.
Huntington watched his daughter, knowing something was wrong. Then he lowered his eyelids to hide a discovery he had found in her delicate features. Something was wrong, but it was a good wrong, a right wrong if such a thing existed. She was feeling, really feeling something for a man for the first time since her husband’s death. She would never react so otherwise. Her father had seen her often enough before this escapade—always polite to dates and escorts but always distant. Never really touched.
“Blair?”
“Sorry, Dad, my mind was wandering. What?”
“Please, don’t be bitter.”
“I’m not, Dad.”
“I mean against Taylor. I think he was finally given an assignment he couldn’t quite handle.”
“What difference does it make?” Blair asked, trying to tone down her impatience. “He’ll be flying off somewhere else soon, I imagine.”
“He also spends a lot of time in Washington,”
“I won’t be here that long.”
“What do you mean?” Huntington queried sharply, wincing as he did so. She wasn’t his little girl any longer, hadn’t been for some time.
“Dad,” she said firmly in return, smiling a little at the autocratic tone he had used. She knew it well. A parent never liked to believe a child had really grown up. “I still owe the Hunger Crew three months. I’m going to finish my time.”
Huntington frowned. “Blair, we still haven’t totally cleared this situation. It will be weeks before—”
“Whoa,” Blair laughed. “I’m not heading back tomorrow.” A ghost of mischief lit into her eyes. “I guess I owe you three months too. How’s that for a deal?”
Huntington grinned ruefully. “I guess it’s fair.” She had changed, he thought with a hint of sadness. Somewhere along the line, in the jungle or in the boat, something had changed her. She had always been mature, but now the haunted self-doubt she had carried after Ray Teile’s death was totally erased.
“There’s a shindig for George Merrill this week—you know him, my old crony from S.S. A birthday party. Your old man needs a date. Will you humor the poor guy and come along with him?”
“Humor him?” Blair chuckled affectionately. “Of course I’ll come with you. I’ll have the most dashing escort at the ball.”
Huntington smiled serenely at his daughter. He was manipulating her life again, but what the hell, he was her father and he wasn’t getting any younger. If he didn’t push things along a bit, he might never live to be a grandfather.
The years had made him a profound reader of human nature, and at this particular time, he was sure he was reading between the lines correctly.
Blair continued up the stairs, oblivious to the deviousness of her father’s smile. She halted one more time. “Dad! What about the crew? They must be worried sick by now. Do you have any buttons I could push to get a quick message through? I—”
“They aren’t worried.” her father interrupted. “They know almost everything you do by now.”
“Oh? Oh, of course,” she answered her own query. “Brad Shearer is one of your diplomats, too, isn’t he?” She had been foolish not to catch on from the beginning. The Hunger Crew would normally be lucky to attract one such “hulk,” as Kate termed Craig and Brad, in a year. Two in a month? She really had been blind.
“No,” Andrew Huntington informed her innocently. “Brad isn’t a diplomat.”
“He isn’t?”
“No. Brad Shearer is regular army intelligence.”
“Oh, of course,” Blair murmured. “Just regular army intelligence.”
She finished her third martini before she reached her hot bath.
Andrew Huntington sat before his picture window and propped his feet upon his coffee table, sighing happily in his moment of leisure. He could have been angry—wasn’t a father supposed to be angry if he believed his daughter had been compromised? He wasn’t angry. He felt as smug as a Cheshire cat. It appeared as if something good just might come of a bad situation. If only he could believe that more often ….
Blair spent her days keeping busy. There were old friends to see in Washington, the Smithsonian to prowl endlessly, and the parks and Georgetown shops when she was in the mood for idle walking. She tailored her days around her father’s free hours to be with him as much as possible.
But everything she did, every place she went was busy. She tried to be moving every minute. Then on Friday morning, the day of Merrill’s party, she forced herself to stop, and make a long assessment of what she was doing. She finally admitted that her breakneck scheduling was all created to douse the terrible feeling of loneliness that held her in its grip.
She wanted to hate Craig. He had made a grade-A fool of her. The terrorist bit had been bad enough, but the jail sentence was the killer. And he had known that she loved him! Oh, Lord, how she cringed with the memory of telling him so now.
Directions, she thought bitterly. Orders. Orders had sent him to her in the first place, orders to befriend her, to watch her, to take her away, to hold her.
He had elaborated on his orders, but then why not? Why not have a little fun with a captive princess. He was definitely a man, with man-sized appetites. Why not appease them with a partner all too willing to capitulate?
Her face grew scarlet with her thoughts, then a twist of pain jackknifed through her, leaving her short of breath, weak.
She had fallen so deeply in love with him that she would have waited forever, endured anything. But none of it had been real. From the very beginning Craig Taylor had felt nothing; he had only been following orders.
She would make sure that she never saw him again. So in a crowd of people she was still lonely, far more lonely than she had ever felt as a captive on a boat with only one other living person to see.
She had loved that person, and that made all the difference. Friend, lover, stranger, betrayer, she loved him all the same. But somehow she would get over it. She would have to. Mr. Craig Taylor, she was sure, was already off again, back to the work he loved. Released from his baby-sitting duty. Off to risk his foolish hide again.
Anyway, she told herself morosely, she didn’t need another man to worry about. She didn’t want another man to worry about. Craig Taylor walked into explosive situations with his eyes wide open. No, never again. She had lost Ray, and memory of that pain was enough to convince her she couldn’t bear the thought of living with and loving a man who she knew for a fact put his life on the line every day.
“What difference does it make?” she asked herself irritably. “The man is done being amused by me. He’s off playing cloak-and-dagger somewhere else.”
With bittersweet poignancy she knew it was best that he was out of her life.
She shivered. Thinking about loneliness made her understand her father better, and her empathy became great. He spent his days worrying about a nation, but when it came to his private life, all that he had was her.
She did love him so much; he was such a good person, such a dedicated, loyal man.
Like Craig.
Hah!
Get Craig out of your mind!
Think about Dad, she told herself firmly. Tonight she was going with him to the Merrills’. And despite her mood she was going to make him happy and proud. And I am going to slow down! she told herself.
With that firm resolve in mind, she spent the day at home, catching up on all the luxuries of civilization she had ignored for so long. She manicured and pedicured, conditioned her hair, and even tried a newly advertised mud facial.
“I could have done this in the damn jungle,” she told her ridiculous-looking reflection. Would Craig think her a little “princess” if he were to see her now?
She shrugged with a little wince as she washed off the “mud” and started to dress for the night. She was wearing a floor length green velvet dress with long, fitted sleeves, an empire bodice, and a skirt that flowed elegantly with her movements—her father’s favorite. She had to agree that it was probably her most flattering gown—the green complemented her hair and drew out the color of her eyes.
After all her days in the jungle and then on the boat, it felt odd to dress up. As if her real life had been in the jungle and on that boat and this gown merely a costume for a play.
She barely recognized herself when she finished. She had piled her hair high on her head and secured it with a small tiara that had belonged to her mother.
“There you are, Taylor,” she muttered to the mirror. “A real princess.” A laugh started to sound deep in her throat and she closed her eyes tightly against her reflection. You’re growing bitter, Blair, she warned herself. You know you’re not a princess; you know that you are responsible, mature, caring …
Being happy with yourself is what counts.
No, her heart raged silently, it counted more when dreams, feelings, and thoughts were shared.
She opened her eyes and stared blankly at the mirror. Then she coerced her lips into a cheerful smile and went down the stairs to meet her father.
The capital’s beautiful people were out. The massive ballroom in the Hilton was glittering with chandeliers, crystal, fine vases of exotic flowers, and of course, people.
It was a mixed crowd. Merrill had been in Washington as long as her father and the guests were a mixture from all walks of political life. Senators, congressmen, cabinet members—even the president was supposed to be in attendance, which meant an additional host of working security.
Blair knew a good number of people in the crowd—old, hard-core politicians and civil servants like her father. But there were also a lot of new faces. She had been gone for almost two years and elected officials changed with the mercy and whim of the people. A good thing, she thought, thinking of her conversation with her father. The people did have their say.
Although she was still too involved with her inner battle to be honestly excited about the evening, Blair put her best foot forward for her father’s sake. She greeted old acquaintances while escorted by his proud and protective arm; a bright smile on her face, and graciously accepted new introductions. She gave George Merrill—heavier set but just as worn and dignified as her father—a hug and a kiss and sincere good wishes for many more happy birthdays to come. He kissed her soundly in return, watching her peculiarly, and Blair realized that this was one man who was always in on “classified,” who knew she had just returned from a nerve-racking escapade, who knew …
Chief! The word shrilled in her mind and she belatedly realized how stupid she had been. Merrill was always referred to as “the Chief.” He could be none other than the chief Craig had mentioned in his far-fetched tale.
Of course. Why hadn’t she realized? Merrill was Craig’s boss. And since, according to her father, Craig was Merrill’s number-one man, it stood to reason that he would be at the party if he were in the country.
He was.
She wasn’t sure what alerted her to his presence. Perhaps she heard his voice, low-timbred, quiet, assured. Maybe it was the very scent of him, crisp, unique, ingrained upon her senses—a subconscious trigger to a torrent of memories.
Maybe it was just a sixth sense. Or a combination of everything. But she was suddenly sure beyond a doubt that he was near her, long before Merrill hailed him and summoned him to their group.
“Craig, glad to see you made it, boy!” George Merrill called enthusiastically. Craig, who had been in conversation with an attractive blonde, excused himself and turned to Blair’s group, addressing his boss, but watching Blair, his yellow-streaked gaze portraying a taunting amusement that belied the gravity of his expression.
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, sir,” Craig said cordially, shaking his superior’s hand and adding, “Many happy returns of the day.” He turned to Andrew Huntington and inclined his head. “Sir, nice to see you.”
“Good to see you, Taylor,” Huntington said cheerfully, offering a handshake.
“Blair …” Craig acknowledged her, and before she knew it, he had taken her hand and brought it to his lips, a perfect example of charming protocol.
“Mr. Taylor,” she said coolly, fighting to keep her tone level and her response equally calm and light for “protocol.” It was difficult. She had seemed to lose control of the natural act of breathing when he had neared, and the flesh on the hand he kissed seemed to burn, as if it had been seared with a brand.
“It’s a pleasure to see you,” Craig said, refusing to release her hand.
Even for protocol she couldn’t return that statement. It wasn’t a pleasure, or if it was, it was a pleasure that was mixed cruelly with pure torture. She forced a dry smile that was the working of facial muscles and nothing more. “It’s a surprise to see you, Mr. Taylor,” she said. “I would have thought you off on another diplomatic mission by now.”
Did a flicker of pain pass through his eyes? No, she must have imagined it. He was quirking a cynical brow toward the chief. “My last mission was hazardous. I needed a little relaxation tonight.”
Blair flicked her lashes with annoyance but held her composure as her father and Merrill both made attempts to hide their reactions. She had been Craig’s main hazard, as things worked out.
Blair decided it was time to opt out of the small gathering and find someone else, anyone she knew, and join any conversation that didn’t include Craig. “Excuse me—” she began.
“Excuse us,” Craig interrupted, securing a steady hold at her waist. “I hear a waltz, Mr. Huntington, and I’d like to steal your date if I may.”
“You two go right ahead,” Andrew Huntington dismissed them benignly. “The chief here and I can rehash old—let me correct that—ancient times all night.”
“Dad—” Blair protested, shooting him desperate pleas with her eyes which he appeared not to notice. She didn’t get any further. Craig was leading her to the dance floor, and, short of throwing herself on the floor, she had little choice but to follow, or rather, be dragged along. Even if she were to throw herself on the floor, she thought with fleeting resentment, he would probably pick her up, apologize to the crowd around them with his casual diplomacy, and calmly proceed.
“You have a hell of a lot of nerve!” Blair hissed as he swirled her into his arms on the dance floor. “I would have thought you would have realized I don’t wish to see you, speak to you, or be anywhere near you ever again!” What a liar I am, she thought, clenching her teeth and shutting her eyes as her cheek grazed the rough texture of his tuxedo. He was already overwhelming her, making her senses swim with his magnetic touch, guiding her in the centuries-old waltz with a strong and firm command. And he’s different tonight, she thought poignantly. In his ragged bush attire he had been shabby yet ruggedly appealing; in a tuxedo he was still every bit the rogue, but, damn, what a dashing renegade. His physique was such that the custom-tailored tuxedo hugged the lean muscles of his tall body, emphasizing broad shoulders and trim hips that surely made every female in the place shiver with a touch of longing. Rather than detracting from the raw masculinity no outfit would ever hide, the ruffles of his rich cream-colored shirt merely stood to complement the swashbuckling look of the adventurer.
Blair became so immersed in her musings about his appearance that she almost missed his words.
“I do have a hell of a lot of nerve,” he replied blandly, shifting his hold slightly so that she was forced to lift her eyes and meet his. The yellow-gold stars in them sparkled with amusement. And danger. And determination. Blair’s fingers convulsively clutched into the fabric on his shoulders. “I want to talk to you,” he told her firmly.
“I don’t want to talk to you!” she responded instantly. Her voice wavered slightly because she did want to talk to him, but she was still furious and confused, and what good could possibly come of it? She knew that he didn’t really care for her; it had all been orders. And if, just if, he did care, it meant only pain.
A grim smile crept forbiddingly into Craig’s features, drawing his lips to a tight line. “Too bad, princess,” he said with a shrug, “because you are going to talk to me whether you want to or not.”
Blair had seen the scene in a dozen movies, and she had never expected to be the ingénue caught in the suave, smooth movement, but she was. Craig spun and swirled her cleanly across the floor before she could catch her breath, and then out the terrace doors.
He kept going until he found a secluded bench and his last guiding pressure on her elbow sent her plopping onto it. He released her and put his hands into his pockets, but he blocked any escape route by planting a polished shoe beside her and enclosing her with his body.
Blair glanced from his shoe to his eyes, hers blazing an angry, shocking emerald. “Okay, Taylor,” she hissed, having wisely judged her chances of eluding him as nil. “You want to talk, talk.”
“Nice party, isn’t it?” he drawled with a mockingly raised brow.
“It was,” she snapped. “Is that it? May I go back?”
“No, that’s not it,” he growled, fire replacing the amusement in his gaze. “You told me that you loved me, Blair.” He laughed with no mirth. “You even promised to wait out a jail term. What happened? You were willing to reform a terrorist, but you can’t love a government man? What’s the matter? You can’t play philanthropist this way? It’s not self-sacrificing enough?”
“What?” Blair screeched, astounded by the attack. She started to rise, but his hand fell to her shoulder. She shook it off as she sat again, her fury spouting over like steam from a teakettle, mincing her flow of words.
“You’re crazy, Taylor. I couldn’t care less that you work for the government; I’m delighted for you. Oh, no, Mr. Taylor, you play James Bond all you like, until you get yourself killed one day, and I’ll even send flowers. What you are isn’t even worth discussing. I’ve known what you are all along—a yes man—it doesn’t matter to whom! I despise, you, Taylor, because you made a fool out of me. You used me; you deceived me—”
“Just hold on a minute!” Craig roared in interruption, leaning an elbow on a knee and bringing the bold contours of his face to hers, nose to nose. “I couldn’t tell you the truth, Blair, and you damned well know it!”
“Because you’re a yes man!” she flared, not sure she was reasonable herself but tense with warring emotions and afraid to take the chance, the risky chance, that anything could ever exist between them. “Okay, you were working for my father. But still you could have reassured me, hinted at what you were. Instead you strung me along, let me behave like an idiot! Oh, you must have been vastly amused.”
“I was never amused, Blair, I was—”
“Following orders!” she screeched, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. She was wound up like a broken watch unable to stop until she had spun herself out. “Did it ever occur to you that your orders might be wrong! Or are you so mesmerized by reading the damn directions that you don’t exercise judgment anymore, or have an opinion, or the will to act—”
Craig was like a time bomb that finally went off. “Yes!” he roared, and the heat of his anger seemed to singe her face. “Yes, Mrs. Teile, I do sometimes disagree with directives. But yes, Mrs. Teile, I work for the government, and yes my superiors do make mistakes. The system is imperfect. But I’ve been around a lot, Mrs. Teile. An awful lot. Enough to know that although imperfect I’ll take what we’ve got. I make my opinions known, Mrs. Teile, and when my subordinates come to me, I listen to their opinions. But I’m in my position because I have the experience to deal with the decisions I have to make. Your father and Merrill are where they are because they learned what they were doing the hard way. And you’ll have to admit, princess, that this time they carried it all off well, damned well. No one was even scratched when an international fiasco could have blown up in our faces.”
For a moment Blair was silent, aware that he was reasonable, rational, and fiercely right. She couldn’t bring herself to say so. He had called her princess again with that scathing tone; he had decreed that she should love him still while giving no hint of the depth, or even the reality, of his own feelings.
They were so close, their breaths mingling as they stared at each other, that she wanted nothing more than to forget the deceit of the past and the fear of the future and bring her lips that one inch closer to meet explosively with his. No, she begged herself, please, no, don’t let him take you again.
“Taylor,” she clipped, “what you did to me wasn’t necessary. You let me think I was in the hands of a terrorist and then—” She choked off, unable to remind him that he had held her willingly in his arms, so in love was she that she would give herself to her captor. “Never mind! Just leave me alone and go on to your next assignment, James Bond. I don’t want to be around when you say yes once too often.”
Craig continued his close scrutiny of her, but suddenly the anger flashed out of his eyes. They were sparked again by the sizzling gold fire of amusement.
“You are still in love with me,” he said, and if she didn’t know him better, she would have thought his cynical tone was touched by awe.
“I’m not!”
“You were; you told me so.”
“I was infatuated,” Blair said, protesting as she felt the furious thumping of her heart and praying her denial would be strong enough to keep herself from being read by his searing, leonine eyes. “I fell in and out of love equally quickly, Mr. Taylor. A sexual attraction,” she said coolly, giving him a bitter, dry smile. “I’m sure I was just one of many for you.”
“Really?” Craig no longer seemed angry at all, merely fascinated by the conversation. He drew away from her and rested an elbow on his bent knee. He grinned with a secret mirth. “Go on, Mrs. Teile,” he urged her. “I’ve never had my character analyzed by a psychologist before.”
Unnerved by his sudden turnaround and certain that he mocked her, Blair batted her lashes while she struggled for a suitable reply. “You don’t need a psychologist to tell you your behavior was purposely deceitful, Taylor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Craig said, the dancing fire in his eyes belying his humble tone.
He was mocking her again, Blair thought furiously. “You’re a lying con artist. I don’t care what government you work for!” she charged him.
“Yes, ma’am,” Craig repeated. He grin broadened, a devil-may-care, enticing mask of amusement. He was sure now, sure for both of them, sure about the rest of their lives. And yet he couldn’t make offers yet, no promises. He had to go. Leave tomorrow. All he could do tonight was take and pray and talk. And for the first time in his life, he feared not coming back. He wanted so much, so badly. A shiver hit him. He wanted a life with his princess, the woman who stared at him now, outraged by his behavior. She truly was a princess tonight, an American princess, breathtakingly regal in the empire velvet, her breasts heaving slightly, intoxicatingly, with her agitation. Her fine features were as light and lovely as crystal. But unlike crystal, they were strong and vibrant, characterized by the power of the mind he loved so dearly that lurked behind them. Forget tomorrow, win her tonight, make her wait … take tonight.
“I don’t love you, Taylor. I don’t give a damn about you. I never did. Can’t you get that through your thick, uncrackable skull?” she demanded.
“Oh, yes, ma’am!” Craig rejoined with a start. He had to cajole her from anger before anything else. “Only because you’re right, my love.”
“I’m not your love,” Blair snapped, “and I no longer care to allow you to amuse yourself at my expense. I—”
“Then don’t amuse me,” Craig commanded, his voice growing tense while a wistful, nonmocking smile appeared on his features.
“What?” Blair murmured, riddled with new confusion.
“Don’t amuse me,” Craig repeated softly, his head lowering once more toward hers. “Thrill me,” he directed, “tease me, torment me … kiss me.” His voice was a rasp of velvet caressing her as the warmth of his breath caressed her cheeks. His eyes held hers as if by magnetic power, as if she were drowning in compelling golden suns, pulled by the force of gravity, unable to look away. She seemed paralyzed as his lips descended ever closer to hers; her body was cold, as if frozen to immobility. Then his lips finally touched hers and the cold was dispelled as liquid fire seeped through her. His kiss was a brush of lightness, a slow savoring as his tongue moved to outline her mouth, tasting the nectar as might a wine connoisseur before giving vent to indulging in a fine bouquet.
Blair was startled, stunned, simply too astounded to protest at first, taken as easily as a deer frozen by oncoming lights. Then she had no chance to weigh choice, to raise the objections she knew made so much sense, the denial that would save her so much pain and self-reproach later.
His warmth permeating through her held her to his will as surely as the trembling cold that had besieged her. His touch brought her to that plane where there was no time or space, no need for conscious thought. It was their world, the one she came to only in his arms, the cloud where all that mattered was sweet sensation and nothing could be wrong because it was right to yield to him. The only course was to be with him, to bask in the comfortable and yet wildly erotic, blood-racing, tantalizing security of his possessive presence.
His lips came down harder on hers, moving slowly, sensuously. His hands came to her chin, tilting it to adjust her face to his languorous assault. Blair shivered as his tongue grazed along her teeth, and her lips parted to his, moist and warm, issuing unspoken surrender and invitation. She was barely aware next that she was standing, her arms curling around his neck with urgent need, her body arched to his with exquisite torment as the kiss became deep and driving, electrifying and consuming. Time indeed had no meaning; Blair heard nothing but the rustle of velvet, felt nothing but the rugged play of his muscles beneath her touch, knew no scent on the night air except that of crisp and clean masculine essence.
“They must be out on the terrace.”
The pleasant drawl of her father’s voice drew Blair slowly but surely back to the present time—and space. And back to the humiliating realization that he had done it to her again—seduced her against her common sense.
Her hands fell from his shoulders and she jerked away. “Damn you, Taylor,” she hissed, aware that her father and George Merrill were stepping out onto the terrace. Her words came in a vehemently irate whisper. “Don’t do that again! I told you, I want nothing more to do with you! Go kill yourself and leave me in peace!”
She was quaking, she knew, torn into pieces. Still, within the gamut of emotions that raged inside her, not the least of which was heartache for what could never really be, she fought a fierce battle for momentary composure and won.
“Hi, Dad,” she waved cheerfully, shaking off the arm that Craig brought to her elbow, ignoring the seething anger in his eyes and moving quickly past him before she could hear his sharp reply. Blair rushed straight to Andrew Huntington and hooked her hand through his elbow. “Craig and I just came out for a little air, but you know, it’s getting chilly out here.”
“Good.” Merrill laughed boomingly as Huntington viewed his daughter through narrowed eyes. “They’re about to light my cake—it was rude of them to find so many candles, huh, Andrew?—and I wanted you two there.”
“Wonderful!” Blair enthused, a falsely bright smile in place. “Let’s go in.”
“Yes, let’s,” Craig said sardonically from behind her. He was able to catch her arm and detain her before the group passed into the ballroom.
“I’m not through with you yet,” he hissed quickly into her ear, drawing a new spasm of shivers from her.
She unobtrusively wrenched away and hurried inside, sticking close to Merrill and her father. You are through with me! she thought, pain outweighing anger with the finality of what she must do. Because I won’t be taking any more chances of running into you again.
It was a good resolve. A firm resolve. She felt as if she were amputating a part of her body, but she meant it.
But it was also true that when Craig said he wasn’t through with her, he wasn’t through with her.
Sixty-odd candles on Merrill’s cake had just been blown out when Blair once more felt Craig behind her. He gripped her elbow with a certain nonchalance that clearly indicated he assumed her his private property, but he didn’t address her. He spoke to her father. “Mr. Huntington, the chief wishes to meet with you privately after the festivities have died down.” His voice lowered although his tone remained casual. “The president has arrived, sir, and something crucial has come up. I’ll be more than happy to see Blair home for you.”
“Oh. Fine,” Andrew agreed before Blair could get her mouth open. He smiled at Craig, unaware or not caring that Blair was clearly wishing she could tape her own father’s mouth shut at the moment. What was he doing to her? she wondered desperately. Throwing her straight to the lions? And then she understood. Of course, he was throwing her to this particular jungle cat. He believed that she was in love with him; he would do everything in his power to throw them together. He was her father; he would give her the world if he could.
“Dad,” Blair said, trying to stand her ground without making a scene. “I’ll wait for you. I came with you, I don’t mind if I wander around a bit—”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” her father said dismissively, “but that’s silly. You two go on ahead. Oh”—a little twinkle in his eyes made a fine mesh of the grooves surrounding them—“I won’t wait up for you.”
“Dad—” Blair half-wailed, but he had moved away already; he didn’t understand. He thought her merely angry, and that she and Craig could talk things out. And of course she was angry. But anger wasn’t the problem. It was difficult to retain a hurt anger if that emotion was directed at someone loved. Loving encompassed so many things. Among them, forgiving—and she was already forgiving Craig. With a little bit of humor she could almost admit that Craig had been a clever manipulator and that she really couldn’t blame him for the stories he had woven under the circumstances.
But she couldn’t afford to laugh, just as she couldn’t afford to love. Her father just didn’t understand the deep-rooted fear she lived with.
“Even if he were obliging, Blair, I wouldn’t let you hide behind your father.”
Startled from her thoughts by the very man who spawned them, Blair made a subtle attempt to wrest her elbow from his grip. He wasn’t letting go.
“Taylor,” she enunciated with a low growl. “I can get a cab. I don’t want you to take me home—”
“Fine,” he snapped back, “because I’m not taking you home.”
Her elbow jerked; she was being propelled toward the ballroom doors.
She could have done something. But her options were limited to making some type of scene, and she hated to be conspicuous or create scenes. And then again, there was the possibility that it would have gained her nothing anyway.
She did nothing; she attempted nothing. She clamped her lips together and accepted his assistance into his silver-gray Porsche that the valet produced at the hotel entrance.
All right, Taylor, she thought dispiritedly. We’ll talk tonight. We’ll have tonight. I’ll even admit anything that you want.
But it can’t change the future.