The Right Path Page 7

  quickly banked. He considered his options before he spoke. “I’ll tell you this much, I am—concerned with smuggling. I’d be interested to know of any conversations you might hear on the subject.”

  Frowning, Morgan rose to wander the room. He was making it difficult for her to remember the straight and narrow path of right and wrong. The path took some confusing twists and turns when emotions were involved. Emotions! She brought herself up short. No, no emotions here. She had no feelings toward him.

  “Who was with you that night?” Keep to the plan, she told herself. Questions and answers. Save the introspection for later. “You were giving someone orders.”

  “I thought you were too frightened to notice.” Nick sipped at his drink.

  “You were speaking to someone,” Morgan went on doggedly. “Someone who did precisely what you told him without question. Who?”

  Nick weighed the pros and cons before he answered. With her mind she’d figure it out for herself soon enough. “Stephanos.”

  “That little old man?” Morgan stopped in front of Nick and stared down. Stephanos was not Morgan’s image of a ruthless smuggler.

  “That little old man knows the sea like a gardener knows a rose bush.” He smiled at her incredulous expression. “He also has the advantage of being loyal. He’s been with me since I was a boy.”

  “How convenient all this is for you.” Depressed, Morgan wandered to a window. She was getting her answers, but she discovered they weren’t the ones she wanted. “A home on a convenient island, a convenient servant, a convenient business to ease distribution. Who passed by the grove that night whom you wanted to avoid?”

  Frightened or not, he thought angrily, she’d been far too observant. “That needn’t concern you.”

  Morgan whirled. “You got me into this, Nicholas. I have a right to know.”

  “Your rights end where I say they do.” He rose as his temper threatened. “Don’t push me too far, Morgan. You wouldn’t like the results. I’ve told you all I intend to for now. Be content with it.”

  She backed away a step, furious with herself for being frightened. He swore at the movement, then gripped her shoulders.

  “I have no intention of harming you, damn it. If I had, there’s already been ample opportunity. What do you picture?” he demanded, shaking her. “Me cutting your throat or tossing you off a cliff?”

  Her eyes were dry and direct, more angry now than frightened. “I don’t know what I picture.”

  Abruptly he realized he was hurting her. Cursing himself, he eased the grip to a caress. He couldn’t keep letting her get under his skin this way. He couldn’t let it matter what she thought of him. “I don’t expect you to trust me,” he said calmly. “But use common sense. Your involvement was a matter of circumstance, not design. I don’t want to see you hurt, Morgan. That much you can take as the truth.”

  And that much she believed. Intrigued, she studied his face. “You’re a strange man, Nicholas. Somehow, I can’t quite see you doing something as base as smuggling opium.”

  “Intuition, Morgan?” Smiling, Nick tangled his fingers in her hair. It was soft, as he remembered, and tempting. “Are you a woman who believes in her intuition, or in her reason?”

  “Nicholas—”

  “No. No more questions or I’ll have to divert you. I’m very”—a frown hovered, then flashed into a grin—“very susceptible to beauty. You have a remarkable supply. Coupled with a very good mind, the combination is hard to resist.” Nick lifted the medal at her throat, examined it, then let it fall before he moved back from her. “Tell me, what do you think of Dorian and Iona?”

  “I resent this. I resent all of this.” Morgan spun away from him. He shouldn’t be allowed to affect her so deeply, so easily, then switch off like a light. “I came to Lesbos to get away from pressures and complications.”

  “What sort of pressures and complications?”

  She turned back to him, eyes hot. “They’re my business. I had a life before I went down to that damned beach and ran into you.”

  “Yes,” he murmured and picked up his drink. “I’m sure you did.”

  “Now, I find myself tossed into the middle of some grade-B thriller. I don’t like it.”

  “It’s a pity you didn’t stay in bed that night, Morgan.” Nick drank deeply, then twirled his glass by the stem. “Maybe I’m Greek enough to say the gods didn’t will it so. For the moment your fate’s linked with mine and there’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

  She surprised him by laying a hand on his chest. He didn’t like the way his heart reacted to the touch. Needs . . . he couldn’t need. Wants were easily satisfied or ignored, but needs ate at a man.

  “If you feel that way, why won’t you give me a straight answer?”

  “I don’t choose to.” His eyes locked on hers, cementing her to the spot. In them she saw desire—his and a mirror of her own. “Take me for what I am, Morgan.”

  She dropped her hand. Frightened not of him now, but of herself. “I don’t want to take you at all.”

  “No?” He pulled her close, perversely enjoying her resistance. “Let’s see just how quickly I can make a liar of you.”

  She could taste anger on his mouth, and just as clearly she could taste need. Morgan stopped resisting. The path of right and wrong took a few more confusing twists when she was in his arms. Whoever, whatever he was, she wanted to be held by him.

  Her arms wound around his neck to draw him closer. She heard him murmur something against her mouth; the kiss held a savageness, a demand she was answering with equal abandon.

  Had this passion always been there, sleeping inside her? It wasn’t asleep any longer. The force of it had her clinging to him, had her mouth urgent and hungry against his. Something had opened inside her, letting him pour through. His hands were in her hair, then running down her back in a swift stroke of possession. She arched against him as if daring him to claim her—taunting him to try.

  Somehow she knew, as her body fit truly to his, that they would come back to each other, again and again, against their will, against all reason. She might fight it from moment to moment, but there would be a time. The knowledge filled her with hunger and fear.

  “Morgan.” Her name wrenched from him on a sigh of need. “I want you—by the gods, I want you. Come, stay here with me tonight. Here, where we can be alone.”

  His mouth was roaming her face. She wanted to agree. Her body was aching to agree to anything—to everything. Yet, she found herself drawing back. “No.”

  Nick lifted his face. His expression was amused and confident. “Afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  His brows rose at the unexpected honesty, then drew together in frustration. The look in her eyes made it impossible for him to press his advantage. “Diabolos, you’re an exasperating woman.” He strode away and poured more liquor into his glass. “I could toss you over my shoulder, haul you up to the bedroom, and be done with it.”

  Though her legs were watery, Morgan forced herself to remain standing. “Why don’t you?”

  He whirled back, furious. She watched as he slowly pulled out the control. “You’re more accustomed to a wine and candlelight seduction, I imagine. Soft promises. Soft lies.” Nick drank deep, then set down his glass with a bang. “Is that what you want from me?”

  “No.” Morgan met his fury steadily while her hand reached instinctively for the medal at her throat. “I don’t want you to make love to me.”

  “Don’t take me for a fool!” He took a step toward her, then stopped himself. Another step and neither of them would have a choice. “Your body betrays you every time I touch you.”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” she said calmly. “I don’t want you to make love to me.”

  He waited a beat until the desire and frustration could be tamed a bit. “Because you believe I’m an opium smuggler?”

  “No,” she said, surprising both of them. She felt her strength waver a moment, then told
him the truth. “Because I don’t want to be one of your amusements.”

  “I see.” Carefully, Nick dipped his hands into his pockets. “I’d better take you back before you discover I find nothing amusing in lovemaking.”

  A half-hour later, Nick slammed back into the house. His temper was foul. He stalked into the salon, poured himself another drink, and slumped into a chair. Damn the woman, he didn’t have the time or patience to deal with her. The need for her was still churning inside him like a pain, sharp and insistent. He took a long swallow of liquor to dull it. Just physical, he told himself. He’d have to find another woman—any other woman—and release some of the tension.

  “Ah, you’re back.” Stephanos entered. He noted the black temper and accepted it without comment. He’d seen it often enough in the past. “The lady is more beautiful than I remembered.” Nick’s lack of response left him unperturbed. He moved to the bar and poured himself a drink. “How much did you tell her?”

  “Only what was necessary. She’s sharp and remarkably bold.” Nick eyed the liquid in his glass with a scowl. “She accused me flat out of smuggling.” At Stephanos’s cackle of laughter, Nick drained more liquor. “Your sense of humor eludes me at the moment, old man.”

  Stephanos only grinned. “Her eyes are sharp—they linger on you.” Though Nick made no response, Stephanos’s grin remained. “Did you speak to her of Alex?”

  “Not at length.”

  “Is she loyal?”

  “To Alex?” Nick frowned into his drink. “Yes, she would be. Where she cares, she’d be loyal.” He set down the glass, refusing to give in to the urge to hurl it across the room. “Getting information out of her won’t be easy.”

  “You’ll get it nonetheless.”

  “I wish to hell she’d stayed in bed that night,” Nick said savagely.

  The gap-toothed grin appeared before Stephanos tossed back the drink in one long swallow. He let out a wheezy sigh of appreciation. “She lingers in your mind. That makes you uncomfortable.” He laughed loud and long at Nick’s scowl, then sighed again with the effort of it. “Athens is waiting for your call.”

  “Athens can fry in hell.”

  Chapter 5

  Morgan’s frame of mind was as poor as Nick’s when she entered the Theoharis villa. Somewhere on the drive back from Nick’s she had discovered that what she was feeling wasn’t anger. It wasn’t fear or even resentment. In a few days Nick had managed to do something Jack hadn’t done in all the months she had known him. He’d hurt her.

  It had nothing to do with the bruises that were already fading on her arms. This hurt went deeper, and had begun before she had even met him. It had begun when he had chosen the life he was leading.

  Nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with me, Morgan told herself again and again. But she slammed the front door as she swept into the cool white hall. Her plans to go immediately to her room before she could snarl at anyone were tossed to the winds by a call and a wave from Dorian.

  “Morgan, come join us.”

  Fixing on a smile, Morgan strolled out to the terrace. Iona was with him sprawled on a lounge in a hot-pink playsuit that revealed long, shapely legs but covered her arms with white lace cuffs at the wrists. She sent Morgan a languid greeting, then went back to her sulky study of the gulf. Morgan felt the tension hovering in the air and wondered if it had been there before or if she had brought it with her.

  “Alex is on a transatlantic call,” Dorian told her as he held out a chair. “And Liz is dealing with some domestic crisis in the kitchen.”

  “Without an interpreter?” Morgan asked. She smiled, telling herself Nick wasn’t going to ruin her mood and make her as sulky as Alex’s cousin.

  “It’s ridiculous.” Iona gestured for Dorian to light her cigarette. “Liz should simply fire the man. Americans are habitually casual with servants.”

  “Are they?” Morgan felt her back go up at the slur on her friend and her nationality. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Iona’s dark eyes flicked over her briefly. “I don’t imagine you’ve had many dealings with servants.”

  Before Morgan could retort, Dorian stepped in calmly. “Tell me, Morgan, what did you think of Nick’s treasure trove?”

  The expression in his eyes asked her to overlook Iona’s bad manners, and told her something she’d begun to suspect the night before. He’s in love with her, she mused, and felt a stab of pity. With an effort, Morgan relaxed her spine. “It’s a wonderful place, like a museum without being regimented or stiff. It must have taken him years to collect all those things.”

  “Nick’s quite a businessman,” Dorian commented. Another look passed between him and Morgan. This time she saw it was gratitude. “And, of course, he uses his knowledge and position to secure the best pieces for himself.”

  “There was a Swiss music box,” she remembered. “He said it was over a hundred years old. It played Für Elise.” Morgan sighed, at ease again. “I’d kill for it.”

  “Nick’s a generous man—when approached in the proper manner.” Iona’s smile was sharp as a knife. Morgan turned her head and met it.

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that either,” she said coolly. Deliberately, she turned back to Dorian. “I met Nick’s cousin earlier this morning.”

  “Ah, yes, the young poet from America.”

  “He said he wanders all over this part of the island. I’m thinking of doing the same myself. It’s such a simple, peaceful place. I suppose that’s why I was so stunned when Alex said there was a problem with smuggling.”

  Dorian merely smiled as if amused. Iona stiffened. As Morgan watched, the color drained from her face, leaving it strained and cold and anything but beautiful. Surprised by the reaction, Morgan studied her carefully. Why, she’s afraid, she realized. Now why would that be?

  “A dangerous business,” Dorian commented conversationally. Since his eyes were on Morgan, Iona’s reaction went unnoticed by him. “But common enough—traditional in fact.”

  “An odd tradition,” Morgan murmured.

  “The network of patrols is very large, I’m told, and closely knotted. As I recall, five men were killed last year, gunned down off the Turkish coast.” He lit a cigarette of his own. “The authorities confiscated quite a cache of opium.”

  “How terrible.” Morgan noticed that Iona’s pallor increased.

  “Just peasants and fishermen,” he explained with a shrug. “Not enough intelligence between them to have organized a large smuggling ring. It’s rumored the leader is brilliant and ruthless. From the stories passed around in the village, he goes along on runs now and then, but wears a mask. Apparently, not even his cohorts know who he is. It might even be a woman.” He flashed a grin at the idea. “I suppose that adds an element of romance to the whole business.”

  Iona rose and dashed from the terrace.

  “You must forgive her.” Dorian sighed as his eyes followed her. “She’s a moody creature.”

  “She seemed upset.”

  “Iona’s easily upset,” he murmured. “Her nerves . . .”

  “You care for her quite a lot.”

  His gaze came back to lock on Morgan’s before he rose and strode to the railing.

  “I’m sorry, Dorian,” Morgan began immediately. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No, forgive me.” He turned back and the sun streamed over his face, gleaming off the bronzed skin, combing through his burnished gold hair. Adonis, Morgan thought again, and for the second time since she had come to Lesbos wished she could paint. “My feelings for Iona are . . . difficult and, I had thought, more cleverly concealed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Morgan said again, helplessly.

  “She’s spoiled, willful.” With a laugh, Dorian shook his head. “What is it that makes one person lose his heart to another?”

  Morgan looked away at the question. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  “Now I’ve made you sad.” Dorian sat back down beside Morgan and took her hands. �
�Don’t pity me. Sooner or later, what’s between Iona and me will be resolved. I’m a patient man.” He smiled then, his eyes gleaming with confidence. “For now, we’ll talk of something else. I have to confess, I’m fascinated by the smuggling legends.”

  “Yes. It is interesting. You said the rumor is that no one, not even the men who work for him, know who the leader is.”

  “That’s the story. Whenever I’m on Lesbos, I keep hoping to stumble across some clue that would unmask him.”

  Morgan murmured something as her thoughts turned uncomfortably to Nick. “Yet you don’t seem terribly concerned about the smuggling itself.”

  “Ah, the smuggling.” Dorian moved his shoulders. “That’s something for the authorities to worry about. But the thrill of the hunt, Morgan.” His eyes gleamed as they moved past her. “The thrill of the hunt.”

  “You wouldn’t believe it!” Liz bustled out and plopped into a chair. “A half-hour with a temperamental Greek cook. I’d rather