The Right Path Page 11

  “A week,” Morgan murmured.

  “Don’t dwell on it, Morgan.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. They were so clear, so concerned. She was being a fool. None of them—Alex, Dorian, Andrew—none of them was capable of what was burning into her thoughts. How was she to know that some maniac from the village hadn’t had a taste for expensive tobacco and back-stabbing? It made more sense, a great deal more sense than her ugly suspicions.

  “You’re right.” She smiled again and leaned toward him. “Tell me about your epic poem.”

  “Good evening, Miss James, Mr. Stevenson.”

  Morgan twisted her head and felt the sky cloud over. She looked up into Tripolos’s pudgy face. “Hello, Captain.”

  If her greeting lacked enthusiasm, Tripolos seemed unperturbed. “I see you’re enjoying a bit of village life. Do you come often?”

  “This is Morgan’s first trip,” Andrew told him. “I convinced her to come out to dinner. She needed something after this morning’s shock.”

  Tripolos clucked sympathetically. Morgan noted the music and laughter had stilled. The atmosphere in the café was hushed and wary.

  “Very sensible,” the captain decided. “A young lady must not dwell on such matters. I, unfortunately, must think of little else at the moment.” He sighed and looked wistfully at the ouzo. “Enjoy your evening.”

  “Damn, damn, damn!” she muttered when he walked away. “Why does he affect me this way? Every time I see him, I feel like I’ve got the Hope diamond in my pocket.”

  “I know what you mean.” Andrew watched people fall back to create a path for Tripolos. “He almost makes you wish you had something to confess.”

  “Thank God, it’s not just me.” Morgan lifted her glass again, noticed her hands were trembling, and drained it. “Andrew,” she began in calm tones, “unless you have some moral objection, I’m going to get very drunk.”

  Sometime later, after learning Andrew’s views on drinking were flexible, Morgan floated on a numbing cloud of ouzo. The thin light of the moon had replaced the colors of sunset. As the hour grew later, the café crowd grew larger, both in size and volume. Music was all strings and bells. If the interlude held a sheen of unreality, she no longer cared. She’d had enough of reality.

  The waiter materialized with yet another bottle. He set it on the table with the air of distributing a rare wine.

  “Busy night,” Morgan commented, giving him a wide if misty, smile.

  “It is Saturday,” he returned, explaining everything.

  “So, I’ve chosen my night well.” She glanced about, seeing a fuzzy crush of people. “Your customers seem happy.”

  He followed her survey with a smug smile, wiping a hand on his apron. “I feared when the Mitilini captain came, my business would suffer, but all is well.”

  “The police don’t add to an atmosphere of enjoyment. I suppose,” she added slowly, “he’s investigating the death of that fisherman.”

  He gave Morgan a quick nod. “Stevos came here often, but he was a man with few companions. He was not one for dancing or games. He found other uses for his time.” The waiter narrowed his eyes. “My customers do not like to answer questions.” He muttered something uncomplimentary, but Morgan wasn’t sure if it was directed at Stevos or Tripolos.

  “He was a fisherman,” she commented, struggling to concentrate on the Greek’s eyes. “But it appears his comrades don’t mourn him.”

  The waiter moved his shoulders eloquently, but she saw her answer. There were fishermen, and fishermen. “Enjoy your evening, kyrios. It is an honor to serve you.”

  “You know,” Andrew stated when the waiter drifted to another table, “it’s very intimidating listening to all that Greek. I couldn’t pick up on it. What was he saying?”

  Not wanting to dwell on the murder again, Morgan merely smiled. “Greek males are red-blooded, Andrew, but I explained that I was otherwise engaged for this evening.” She locked her hands behind her head and looked up at the stars. “Oh, I’m glad I came. It’s so lovely. No murders—no smuggling tonight. I feel marvelous, Andrew. When can I read some of your poetry?”

  “When your brain’s functioning at a normal level.” Smiling, he tilted more ouzo into her glass. “I think your opinion might be important.”

  “You’re a nice man.” Morgan lifted her glass and studied him as intensely as possible. “You’re not at all like Nicholas.”

  “What brought that on?” Andrew frowned, setting the bottle back down again.

  “You’re just not.” She held out her glass. “To Americans,” she told him. “One hundred percent pure.”

  After tapping her glass with his, Andrew drank and shook his head. “I have a feeling we weren’t toasting the same thing.”

  She felt Nick begin to push into her thoughts and she thrust him away. “What does it matter? It’s a beautiful night.”

  “So it is.” His finger traced lightly over the back of her hand. “Have I told you how lovely you are?”

  “Oh, Andrew, are you going to flatter me?” With a warm laugh, she leaned closer. “Go ahead, I love it.”

  With a wry grin, he tugged her hair. “You’re spoiling my delivery.”

  “Oh, dear . . . how’s this?” Morgan cupped her chin on her hands again and gave him a very serious stare.

  On a laugh, Andrew shook his head. “Let’s walk for a while. I might find a dark corner where I can kiss you properly.”

  Rising, he helped Morgan to her feet. She exchanged a formal and involved good night with the proprietor before Andrew could navigate her away from the crowd.

  Those not gathered in the kafenion were long since in bed. The white houses were closed and settled for the night. Now and then a dog barked, and another answered. Morgan could hear her own footsteps echo down the street.

  “It’s so quiet,” she murmured. “All you can really hear is the water and the night itself. Ever since that first morning when I woke up on Lesbos, I’ve felt as if I belonged. Nothing that’s happened since has spoiled that for me. Andrew.” She whirled herself around in his arms and laughed. “I don’t believe I’m ever going home again. How can I face New York and the traffic and the snow again? Rushing to work, rushing home. Maybe I’ll become a fisherman, or give in to Liz and marry a goatherd.”

  “I don’t think you should marry a goatherd,” Andrew said practically, and drew her closer. Her scent was tangling his senses. Her face, in the moonlight, was an ageless mystery. “Why don’t you give the fishing a try? We could set up housekeeping in Nick’s cottage.”

  It would serve him right, her mind muttered. Lifting her mouth, Morgan waited for the kiss.

  It was warm and complete. Morgan neither knew nor cared if the glow was a result of the kiss or the liquor. Andrew’s lips weren’t demanding, weren’t urgent and possessive. They were comforting, requesting. She gave him what she could.

  There was no rocketing passion—but she told herself she didn’t want it. Passion clouded the mind more successfully than an ocean of ouzo. She’d had enough of hunger and passions. They brought pain with disillusionment. Andrew was kind, uncomplicated. He wouldn’t turn away when she needed him. He wouldn’t give her sleepless nights. He wouldn’t make her doubt her own strict code of right and wrong. He was the knight—a woman was safe with a knight.

  “Morgan,” he murmured, then rested his cheek on her hair. “You’re exquisite. Isn’t there some man I should consider dueling with?”

  Morgan tried to think of Jack, but could form no clear picture. There was, however, a sudden, atrociously sharp image of Nick as he dragged her close for one of his draining kisses.

  “No,” she said too emphatically. “There’s no one. Absolutely no one.”

  Andrew drew her away and tilted her chin with his finger. He could see her eyes in the dim glow of moonlight. “From the strength of your denial, I’d say my competition’s pretty formidable. No”—he laid a finger over her lips as she started to protest—“I don’t w
ant to have my suspicions confirmed tonight. I’m selfish.” He kissed her again, lingering over it. “Damn it, Morgan, you could be habit forming. I’d better take you home while I remember I’m a gentleman and you’re a very drunk lady.”

  * * *

  The villa shimmered white under the night sky. A pale light glowed in a first-floor window for her return.

  “Everyone’s asleep,” Morgan stated unnecessarily as she let herself out of the car. Andrew rounded the hood. “I’ll have to be very quiet.” She muffled irrepressible giggles with a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m going to feel like an idiot tomorrow if I remember any of this.”

  “I don’t think you’ll remember too much,” Andrew told her as he took her arm.

  Morgan managed the stairs with the careful dignity of someone who no longer feels the ground under her feet. “It would never do to disgrace Alex by landing on my face in the foyer. He and Dorian are so dignified.”

  “And I,” Andrew returned, “will have to resume my drive with the utmost caution. Nick wouldn’t approve if I ran his Fiat off a cliff.”

  “Why, Andrew.” Morgan stood back and studied him owlishly. “You’re almost as sloshed as I am.”

  “Not quite, but close enough. However”—he let out a long breath and wished he could lie down—“I conducted myself with the utmost restraint.”

  “Very nicely done.” She went off into a muffled peal of giggles again. “Oh, Andrew.” She leaned against him so heavily that he had to shift his balance to support her. “I did have a good time—a wonderful time. I needed it more than I realized. Thank you.”

  “In you go.” He opened the door and gave her a nudge inside. “Be careful on the stairs,” he whispered. “Should I wait and listen for the sounds of an undignified tumble?”

  “Just be on your way and don’t take the Fiat for a swim.” She stood on her toes and managed to brush his chin with her lips. “Maybe I should make you some coffee.”

  “You’d never find the kitchen. Don’t worry, I can always park the car and walk if worse comes to worse. Go to bed, Morgan, you’re weaving.”

  “That’s you,” she retorted before she closed the door.

  Morgan took the stairs with painful caution. The last thing she wanted to do was wake someone up and have to carry on any sort of reasonable conversation. She stopped once and pressed her hands to her mouth to stop a fresh bout of giggles. Oh, it felt so good, so good not to be able to think. But this has to stop, she told herself firmly. No more of this, Morgan. Straighten up and get upstairs before all is discovered.

  She managed to pull herself to the top landing, then had to think carefully to remember in which direction her room lay. To the left, of course, she told herself with a shake of the head. But which way is left, for God’s sake? She spent another moment working it out before she crept down the hall. She gripped the doorknob, then waited for the door to stop swaying before she pushed it open.

  “Ah, success,” she murmured, then nearly spoiled it by stumbling over the rug. Quietly, she shut the door and leaned back against it. Now, if she could just find the bed. A light switched on, as if by magic. She smiled absently at Nick.

  “Yiasou, you seem to be a permanent fixture.”

  The fury in his eyes rolled off the fog as she stepped unsteadily out of her shoes.

  “What the hell have you been up to?” he demanded. “It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning!”

  “Oh, how rude of me not to have phoned to tell you I’d be late.”

  “Don’t get cute, damn it, I’m not in the mood.” He stalked over to her and grabbed her arms. “I’ve been waiting for you half the night, Morgan, I . . .” His voice trailed off as he studied her. His expression altered from fury to consideration, then reluctant amusement. “You’re totally bombed.”

  “Completely,” she agreed, and had to take a deep breath to keep from giggling again. “You’re so observant, Nicholas.”

  Amusement faded as her hand crept up his shirt front. “How the hell am I supposed to have a rational conversation with a woman who’s seeing two of everything?”

  “Three,” she told him with some pride. “Andrew’s only up to two. I quite surpassed him.” Her other hand slid up to toy with one of his buttons. “Did you know you have wonderful eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so dark. Andrew’s are blue. He doesn’t kiss anything like you do. Why don’t you kiss me now?”

  He tightened his grip for a moment, then carefully released her. “So, you’ve been out with young Andrew.” He wandered the room while Morgan swayed and watched him.

  “Young Andrew and I would have asked you to join us, but it just slipped our minds. Besides, you can be really boring when you’re proper and charming.” She had a great deal of trouble with the last word and yawned over it. “Do we have to talk much longer? My tongue’s getting thick.”

  “I’ve had about enough of being proper and charming myself,” he muttered, picking up a bottle of her scent and setting it down again. “It serves its purpose.”

  “You do it very well,” she told him and struggled with her zipper. “In fact, you’re nearly perfect at it.”

  “Nearly?” His attention caught, he turned in time to see her win the battle with the zipper. “Morgan, for God’s sake, don’t do that now. I—”

  “Yes, except you do slip up from time to time. A look in your eyes—the way you move. I suppose it’s convincing all around if I’m the only one who’s noticed. Then again, it might be because everyone else knows you and expects the inconsistency. Are you going to kiss me or not?” She dropped the dress to the floor and stepped out of it.

  He felt his mouth go dry as she stood, clad only in a flimsy chemise, watching him mistily. Desire thudded inside him, hot, strong, and he forced himself back to what she was saying.

  “Noticed what?”

  Morgan made two attempts to pick up the dress. Each time she bent, the top of the chemise drifted out to show the swell of her breasts. Nick felt the thud lower to his stomach. “Noticed what?” she repeated as she left the dress where it was. “Oh, we’re back to that. It’s definitely the way you move.”

  “Move?” He struggled to keep his eyes on her face and away from her body. But her scent was already clouding his brain, and her smile—her smile challenged him to do something about it.

  “It’s like a panther,” Morgan told him, “who knows he’s being hunted and plans to turn the attack to his advantage when he’s ready.”

  “I see.” He frowned, not certain he liked her analogy. “I’ll have to be more careful.”

  “Your problem,” Morgan said cheerfully. “Well, since you don’t want to kiss me, I’ll say good night, Nicholas. I’m going to bed. I’d see you down your vine, but I’m afraid I’d fall off the balcony.”

  “Morgan, I need to talk to you.” He moved quickly and took her arm before she could sink onto the bed. That, he knew, would be too much pressure for any man. But she lost her already uncertain balance and tumbled into his arms. Warm and pliant, she leaned against him, making no objection as he molded her closer.

  “Have you changed your mind?” she murmured, giving him a slow, sleepy-eyed smile. “I thought of you when Andrew kissed me tonight. It was very rude of me—or of you, I’m not sure which. Perhaps I’ll think of Andrew if you kiss me now.”

  “The hell you will.” He dragged her against him, teetering on the edge. Morgan let her head fall back.

  “Try me,” she invited.

  “Morgan—the hell with all of it!”

  Helplessly, he devoured her mouth. She was quickly and totally boneless, arousing him to desperation by simple surrender. Desire was a fire inside him, spreading dangerously.

  For the first time, he let himself go. He could think of nothing, nothing but her and the way her body flowed in his hands. She was softer than anything he’d ever hoped to know. So soft, she threatened to seep into him, become a part of him before he could do anything to prevent it. The need was raging, overpowering, ta
king over the control he’d been master of for as long as he could remember. But now, he burned to forfeit it.

  With her, everything could be different. With her, he’d be clean again. Could she turn back the clock?

  He could feel the brush of the bedspread against his thigh and knew, in one movement, he could be on it with her. Then nothing would matter but that he had her—a woman. But it wasn’t any woman he wanted. It had been her since the first night she had challenged him on that deserted beach. It had been her since the first time those light, clear eyes had dared him. He was afraid—and he feared little—that it would always be her.

  Mixed with the desire came a quick twist of pain. With a soft oath, he pulled her away, keeping his grip firm on her arms.

  “Pay attention, will you?” His voice was rough and unsteady, but she didn’t seem to notice. She smiled up at him and touched his cheek with her palm.

  “Wasn’t I?”

  He checked the urge to shake her and spoke calmly. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Talk?” She smiled again. “Do we have to talk?”

  “There are things I need to tell you—this morning . . .” He fumbled with the words, no longer certain what he wanted to say, what he wanted to do. How could her scent be stronger than it had been a moment ago? He was drowning in it.

  “Nicholas.” Morgan sighed sleepily. “I drank an incredible amount of ouzo. If I don’t sleep it off, I may very well die. I’m