The Right Path Read online

  sure the body only tolerates a certain amount of abuse. I’ve stretched my luck tonight.”

  “Morgan.” His breath was coming too quickly. His own pulse like thunder in his ears. He should let her go, he knew. He should simply let her go—for both their sakes. But his arms stayed around her. “Straighten up and listen to me,” he demanded.

  “I’m through listening.” She gave a sleepy, sultry laugh. “Through listening. Make love with me or go.”

  Her eyes were only slits, but the clear, mystical blue pulled him in. No struggle, no force would drag him out again. “Damn you,” he breathed as they fell onto the bed. “Damn you for a witch.”

  It was all hell smoke and thunder. He couldn’t resist it. Her body was as fluid as wine—as sweet and as potent. Now he could touch her wherever he chose and she only sighed. As his mouth crushed possessively on hers, she yielded, but in yielding held him prisoner. Even knowing it, he was helpless. There’d be a payment—a price in pain—for succumbing to the temptation. He no longer cared for tomorrows. Now, this moment, he had her. It was enough.

  He tore the filmy chemise from her, too anxious, too desperate, but she made no protest as the material ripped away. On a groan of need, he devoured her.

  Tastes—she had such tastes. They lingered on his tongue, spun in his head. The crushed wild honey of her mouth, the rose-petal sweetness of her skin, drove him to search for more, and to find everything. He wasn’t gentle—he was long past gentleness, but the quiet moans that came from her spoke of pleasure.

  Words, low and harsh with desire, tumbled from him. He wasn’t certain if he cursed her again or made her hundreds of mad promises. For the moment, it was all the same. Needs ripped through him—needs he understood, needs he’d felt before. But there was something else, something stronger, greedier. Then his flesh was against her flesh, and everything was lost. Fires and flames, a furnace of passion engulfed him, driving him beyond control, beyond reason. She was melting into him. He felt it as a tangible ache but had no will to resist.

  Her hands were hot on his skin, her body molten. He could no longer be certain who led and who followed. Beneath his, her mouth was soft and willing, but he tasted her strength. Under him, her body was pliant, unresisting, but he felt her demand. Her skin would be white, barely touched by the sun. He burned to see it, but saw only the glimmer of her eyes in the darkness.

  Then she pulled his mouth back to hers and he saw nothing, nothing but the blur of raging colors that were passion. The wild, sweet scent of jasmine seeped into him, arousing, never soothing, until he thought he’d never smell anything else.

  With a last force of will, he struggled for sanity. He wouldn’t lose himself in her—to her. He couldn’t. Without self-preservation he was nothing, vulnerable. Dead.

  Even as he took her in a near violent rage, he surrendered.

  Chapter 8

  The sunlight that poured through the windows, through the open balcony doors, throbbed and pulsed in Morgan’s head. With a groan she rolled over, hoping oblivion would be quick and painless. The thudding only increased. Morgan shifted cautiously and tried for a sitting position. Warily she opened her eyes, then groaned at the flash of white morning sun. She closed them again in self-preservation. Slowly, gritting her teeth for courage, she allowed her lids to open again.

  The spinning and whirling that had been enjoyable the night before, now brought on moans and mutters. With queasy stomach and aching eyes, she sat in the center of the bed until she thought she had the strength to move. Trying to keep her head perfectly still, she eased herself onto the floor.

  Carelessly, she stepped over her discarded dress and found a robe in the closet. All she could think of were ice packs and coffee. Lots of coffee.

  Then she remembered. Abruptly, blindingly. Morgan whirled from the closet to stare at the bed. It was empty—maybe she’d dreamed it. Imagined it. In useless defense she pressed her hands to her face. No dream. He had been there, and everything she remembered was real. And she remembered . . . the anger in his eyes, her own misty, taunting invitation. The way his mouth had pressed bruisingly to hers, her own unthinking, abandoned response.

  The passion—it had been all she had thought it would be. Unbearable, wonderful, consuming. He’d cursed her. She could remember his words. Then he had taken her places she’d never even glimpsed before. She’d given him everything, then mindlessly challenged him to take more. She could still feel those taut, tensing muscles in his back, hear that ragged, desperate breathing at her ear.

  He had taken her in fury, and it hadn’t mattered to her. Then he had been silent. She had fallen asleep with her arms still around him. And now he was gone.

  On a moan, Morgan dropped her hands to her sides. Of course he was gone. What else did she expect? The night had meant nothing to him—less than nothing. If she hadn’t had so much to drink . . .

  Oh, convenient excuse, Morgan thought on a wave of disgust. She still had too much pride to fall back on it. No, she wouldn’t blame the ouzo. Walking to the bed, she picked up the torn remains of her chemise. She’d wanted him. God help her, she cared for him—too much. No, she wouldn’t blame the ouzo. Balling the chemise in her fist, Morgan hurled it into the bottom of the closet. She had only herself to blame.

  With a snap, Morgan closed the closet door. It was over, she told herself firmly. It was done. It didn’t have to mean any more to her than it had to Nick. For a moment, she leaned her forehead against the smooth wooden panel and fought the urge to weep. No, she wouldn’t cry over him. She’d never cry over him. Straightening, Morgan told herself it was the headache that was making her feel so weak and weepy. She was a grown woman, free to give herself, to take a man, when and where she chose. Once she’d gone down and had some coffee, she’d be able to put everything in perspective.

  She swallowed the threatening tears and walked to the door.

  “Good morning, kyrios.” The tiny maid greeted Morgan with a smile she could have done without. “Would you like your breakfast in your room now?”

  “No, just coffee.” The scent of food didn’t agree with her stomach or her disposition. “I’ll go down for it.”

  “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Yes, beautiful.” With her teeth clenched, Morgan moved down the hall.

  The sound of crashing dishes and a high-pitched scream had Morgan gripping the wall for support. She pressed her hand to her head and moaned. Did the girl have to choose this morning to be clumsy!

  But when the screaming continued, Morgan turned back. The girl knelt just inside the doorway. Scattered plates and cups lay shattered over the rug where the food had splattered.

  “Stop it!” Leaning down, Morgan grabbed her shoulders and shook Zena out of self-defense. “No one’s going to fire you for breaking a few dishes.”

  The girl shook her head as her eyes rolled. She pointed a trembling finger toward the bed before she wrenched herself from Morgan’s hold and fled.

  Turning, Morgan felt the room dip and sway. A new nightmare crept in to join the old. With her hand gripping the doorknob; she stared.

  A shaft of sunlight spread over Iona as she lay on her back, flung sideways across the bed. Her head hung over the edge, her hair streaming nearly to the floor. Morgan shook off the first shock and dizziness and raced forward. Though her fingers trembled, she pressed them to Iona’s throat. She felt a flutter, faint, but she felt it. The breath she hadn’t been aware she’d held came out in a rush of relief. Moving on instinct, she pulled Iona’s unconscious form until she lay back on the bed.

  It was then she saw the syringe lying on the tumbled sheets.

  “Oh, my God.”

  It explained so much. Iona’s moodiness, those tight, jerky nerves. She’d been a fool not to suspect drugs before. She’s overdosed, Morgan thought in quick panic. What do I do? There must be something I’m supposed to do.

  “Morgan— Dear God!”

  Turning her head only, Morgan looked at Dorian standing
pale and stiff in the doorway. “She’s not dead,” Morgan said quickly. “I think she’s overdosed—get a doctor—an ambulance.”

  “Not dead?”

  She heard the flat tone of his voice, heard him start to come toward her. There was no time to pamper his feelings. “Do it quickly!” she ordered. “There’s a pulse, but it’s faint.”

  “What’s Iona done now?” Alex demanded in a tone of strained patience. “The maid’s hysterical, and—oh, sweet Lord!”

  “An ambulance!” Morgan demanded as she kept her fingers on Iona’s pulse. Perhaps if she kept them there, it would continue to beat. “In the name of God, hurry!” She turned then in time to see Alex rush from the room as Dorian remained frozen. “There’s a syringe,” she began with studied calm. She didn’t want to hurt him, but continued as his gaze shifted to her. His eyes were blank. “She must have OD’d. Did you know she used drugs, Dorian?”

  “Heroin.” And a shudder seemed to pass through him. “I thought it had stopped. Are you sure she’s—”

  “She’s alive.” Morgan gripped his hand as he came to the bed. A wave of pity washed over her—for Iona, for the man whose hand she held in her own. “She’s alive, Dorian. We’ll get help for her.”

  His hand tightened on hers for a moment so that Morgan had to choke back a protest. “Iona,” he murmured. “So beautiful—so lost.”

  “She’s not lost, not yet!” Morgan said fiercely. “If you know how to pray, pray that we found her in time.”

  His eyes came back to Morgan’s, clear, expressionless. She thought as she looked at him she’d never seen anything so empty. “Pray,” he said quietly. “Yes, there’s nothing else to be done.”

  It seemed to take hours, but when Morgan watched the helicopter veer off to the west, the morning was still young. Iona, still unconscious, was being rushed to Athens. Dorian rode with her and the doctor while Alex and Liz began hurried preparations for their own flight.

  Still barefoot and in her robe, Morgan watched the helicopter until it was out of sight. As long as she lived, she thought, she’d never forget that pale, stony look on Dorian’s face—or the lifeless beauty on Iona’s. With a shudder, she turned away and saw Alex just inside the doorway.

  “Tripolos,” he said quietly. “He’s in the salon.”

  “Oh, not now, Alex.” Overcome with pity, she held out both hands as she went to him. “How much more can you stand?”

  “It’s necessary.” His voice was tight with control and he held her hands limply. “I apologize for putting you through all this, Morgan—”

  “No.” She interrupted him and squeezed his hands. “Don’t treat me that way, Alex. I thought we were friends.”

  “Diabolos,” he murmured. “Such friends you have. Forgive me.”

  “Only if you stop treating me as though I were a stranger.”

  On a sigh, he slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Come, we’ll face the captain.”

  Morgan wondered if she would ever enter the salon without seeing Captain Tripolos seated in the wide, high-back chair. She sat on the sofa as before, faced him, and waited for the questions.

  “This is difficult for you,” Tripolos said at length. “For all of you.” His gaze roamed over the occupants of the room, from Morgan to Alex to Liz. “We will be as discreet as is possible, Mr. Theoharis. I will do what I can to avoid the press, but an attempted suicide in a family as well known as yours . . .” He let the rest trail off.

  “Suicide,” Alex repeated softly. His eyes were blank, as if the words hadn’t penetrated.

  “It would seem, from the preliminary report, that your cousin took a self-induced overdose. Heroin. But I hesitate to be more specific until the investigation is closed. Procedure, you understand.”

  “Procedure.”

  “You found Miss Theoharis, Miss James?”

  Morgan gave a quick, nervous jolt at the sound of her name, then settled. “No, actually, the maid found her. I went in to see what was wrong. Zena had dropped the tray and was carrying on . . . When I went in I saw Iona.”

  “And you called for an ambulance?”

  “No.” She shook her head, annoyed. He knew Alex had called, but wanted to drag the story from her piece by piece. Resigned, Morgan decided to accommodate him. “I thought at first she was dead—then I felt a pulse. I got her back into bed.”

  “Back into bed?”

  Tripolos’s tone had sharpened, ever so faintly, but Morgan caught it. “Yes, she was half out of it, almost on the floor. I wanted to lay her down.” She lifted her hands helplessly. “I honestly don’t know what I wanted to do, it just seemed like the right thing.”

  “I see. Then you found this?” He held up the syringe, now in a clear plastic bag.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know your cousin was a user of heroin, Mr. Theoharis?”

  Alex stiffened at the question. Morgan saw Liz reach out to take his hand. “I knew Iona had a problem—with drugs. Two years ago she went to a clinic for help. I thought she had found it. If I had believed she was still . . . ill,” he managed, “I wouldn’t have brought her into my home with my wife and my friend.”

  “Mrs. Theoharis, were you unaware of Miss Theoharis’s problem?”

  Morgan heard the breath hiss out between Alex’s teeth, but Liz spoke quickly. “I was perfectly aware of it.” Alex’s head whipped around but she continued calmly. “That is, I was aware that my husband arranged for her to have treatment two years ago, though he tried to shield me.” Without looking at him, Liz covered their joined hands with her free one.

  “Would you, Mr. Theoharis, have any notion where your cousin received her supply?”

  “None.”

  “I see. Well, since your cousin lives in Athens, perhaps it would be best if I worked with the police there, in order to contact her close friends.”

  “Do what you must,” Alex said flatly. “I only ask that you spare my family as much as possible.”

  “Of course. I will leave you now. My apologies for the intrusion, yet again.”

  “I must phone my family,” Alex said dully when the door closed behind Tripolos. As if seeking comfort, his hand went to his wife’s hair. Then he rose and left without another word.

  “Liz,” Morgan began. “I know it’s a useless phrase, but if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  Liz shook her head. She shifted her eyes from the doorway back to her friend’s. “It’s all so unbelievable. That she’s lying there, so near death. What’s worse, I never liked her. I made no secret of it, but now . . .” She rose and walked to the window. “She’s Alex’s family, and he feels that deeply. Now, in his heart, he’s responsible for whatever happens to her. And all I can think of is how cold I was to her.”

  “Alex is going to need you.” Morgan rose and walked over to put a hand on her shoulder. “You can’t help not liking her, Liz. Iona isn’t an easy person to like.”

  “You’re right, of course.” With a deep breath Liz turned and managed a weak smile. “It’s been a hell of a vacation so far, hasn’t it? No, don’t say anything.” She squeezed Morgan’s hand. “I’m going to see if Alex needs me. There’ll be arrangements to be made.”

  The villa was silent as Morgan went up to change. As she buttoned her shirt, she stood by the terrace doors, staring out at the view of garden, sea, and mountain. How could it be that so much ugliness had intruded in such a short time? she wondered. Death and near death. This wasn’t the place for it. But even Paradise named its price, she thought, and turned away.

  The knock on her door was quiet. “Yes, come in.”

  “Morgan, am I disturbing you?”

  “Oh, Alex.” As she looked up, Morgan’s heart welled with sympathy. The lines of strain and grief seemed etched into his face. “I know how horrible all this is for you, and I don’t want to add to your problems. Perhaps I should go back to New York.”

  “Morgan.” He hesitated for a moment. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I don’t do it for m
yself. For Liz. Will you stay for Liz? Your company is all I can give her for a time.” He released Morgan’s hands and moved restlessly around the room. “We’ll have to fly to Athens. I can’t say how long—until Iona is well or—” He broke off as if he wasn’t yet prepared for the word. “I’ll have to stay with my family for a few days. My aunt will need me. If I could send Liz back knowing you’d be here with her, it would make it so much easier.”

  “Of course, Alex. You know I will.”

  He turned and gave her a phantom of a smile. “You’re a good friend, Morgan. We’ll have to leave you for at least a day and a night. After that, I’ll send Liz back. I can be sure she’ll leave Athens if you’re here.” With a sigh, he took her hand absently. “Dorian might choose to stay in Athens as well. I believe he . . . has feelings for Iona I didn’t realize before. I’ll ask Nick to look after you while we’re gone.”

  “No.” She bit her tongue on the hurried protest. “No, really, Alex, I’ll be fine. I’m hardly alone, with the servants in the house. When will you leave?”

  “Within the hour.”

  “Alex, I’m sure it was an accident.”

  “I’ll have to convince my aunt of that.” He held out his hands, searching his own palms for a moment. “Though as to what I believe . . .” His look had hardened when he lifted his eyes again. “Iona courts disaster. She feeds on misery. I’ll tell you now, because I won’t ever be able to speak freely to anyone else. Not even Liz.”