The Right Path Part 7

Morgan tossed out a phrase commonly heard in the less elite portions of Italy.

Nick responded with a pleased laugh.

"Agapetike, I should warn you, in my business I've had occasion to visit some Italian gutters." "Good, then you won't need a translation."

"Just be ready." He let his gaze sweep down her, then up again. "You might find it easier to deal with me in the daylight-and when you're more adequately attired."

"I have no intention of dealing with you at al ," Morgan began in a furious undertone. "Or of continuing this ridiculous charade by going with you tomorrow."

"Oh, I think you wil ." Nick's smile was confident and infuriating. "You'd find yourself having a difficult time explaining to Liz why you won't come when you've already expressed an interest in my home. Tel me, what was it that appealed to you about it?"

"The insanity of the architecture."

He laughed again and took her hand. "More compliments. I adore you, Aphrodite.

Come, kiss me good-night." Morgan drew back and scowled. "I certainly wil not."

"You certainly wil ." In a swift movement he had her pinned under him again.

When she cursed him, he laughed and the insolence was back. "Witch,"

he murmured. "What mortal can resist one?"

His mouth came down quickly, lingering until she had stopped squirming beneath him. Gradual y, the force went out of the kiss, but not the power. I t seeped into her, so that she couldn't be sure if it was hers or his. Then it was only pa.s.sion- clean and hot and senseless. On a moan, Morgan accepted it, and him.

Feeling the change in her, Nick relaxed a moment and simply let himself enjoy.

She had a taste that stayed with him long after he left her. Each time he touched her he knew, eventual y, he would have to have it al . But not now. Now there was too much at stake. She was a risk, and he had already taken too many chances with her. But that taste ...

He gave himself over to the kiss knowing the danger of letting himself become vulnerable, even for a moment, by losing himself in her. If she hadn't been on the beach that night. If he hadn't had to reveal himself to her. Would things have been different than they were now? he wondered as desire began to claw at him.

Would he have been able to coax her into his arms, into his bed, with a bit of flair and a few clever words? If they had met for the first time tonight, would he have wanted her this badly, this quickly?

Her hands were in his hair. He found his mouth had roamed to her throat. Her scent seemed to concentrate there, and the taste was wild and dangerous.

He lived with danger and enjoyed it-lived by his wits and won. But this woman, this feeling she stirred in him, was a risk he could calculate. Yet it was done.

There was no changing the course he had to take. And no changing the fact that she was involved.

He wanted to touch her, to tear off that swatch of silk she wore and feel her skin warm under his hand. He dared not. He was a man who knew his own limitations, his own weaknesses. Nick didn't appreciate the fact that Morgan James had become a weakness at a time when he could least afford one.

Murmuring his name, Morgan slid her hands beneath the loose sweats.h.i.+rt, to run them over the range of muscle. Nick felt need shoot like a spear, white-tipped, to the pit of his stomach. Using every ounce of wil , he banked down on it until it was a dul ache he could control. He lifted his head and waited for those pale, clouded blue eyes to open. Something dug into his palm, and he saw that he had gripped her medal in his hand without realizing it. Nick had to quel the urge to swear, then give himself a moment until he knew he could speak lightly. "Sleep wel , Aphrodite," he told her with a grin. "Until tomorrow."

"You-" She broke off, struggling for the breath and the wit to hurl abuse at him.

"Tomorrow," Nick repeated as he brought her hand to his lips.

Morgan watched him stride to the balcony, then lower himself out of sight. Lying perfectly stil , she stared at the empty s.p.a.ce and wondered what she had gotten herself into.

Chapter Four

The house was cool and quiet in the mid-morning hush. Grateful y, Morgan accepted Liz's order to enjoy the beach. She wanted to avoid Iona's company, and though she hated to admit it, she didn't think she could handle Liz's carefree chatter about the dinner party. Liz would have expected her to make some witty observations about Nick that Morgan just didn't feel up to. Relieved that Dorian had business with Alex, and wouldn't feel obliged to keep her company, she set out alone.

Morgan wanted the solitude-she did her best thinking when she was alone. In the past few days she had acc.u.mulated quite a bit to think about. Now she decided to work it through one step at a time.

What had Nicholas Gregoras been doing that night on the beach? He'd had the scent of the sea on him, so it fol owed that he had been out on the water.

She remembered the sound of a motor. She'd a.s.sumed it belonged to a fisherman but Nick was no fisherman. He'd been desperate not to be seen by someone ...

desperate enough to have been carrying a knife. She could stil see the look on his face as she had lain beneath him in the shadows of the cypress. He'd been prepared to use the knife.

Somehow the knowledge that this was true disturbed her more now than it had when he'd been a stranger. Kicking bad-temperedly at a stone, she started down the beach steps.

And who had been with him? Morgan fretted. Someone had fol owed his orders without any question. Who had used the beach steps while Nick had held her prisoner in the shadows? Alex? The man who rented Nick's cottage? Frustrated, Morgan slipped out of her shoes and began to cross the warm sand.

Why would Nick be ready to kil either one of them rather than be discovered by them? By anyone, she corrected. It could have been a servant of one of the vil as, a vil ager trespa.s.sing.

One question at a time, Morgan cautioned herself as she kicked idly at the sand.

First, was it logical to a.s.sume that the footsteps she had heard were from someone who had also come from the sea? Morgan thought it was. And second, she decided that the person must have been headed to one of the vil as or a nearby cottage. Why else would they have used that particular strip of beach? Logical, she concluded, walking aimlessly. So why was Nick so violently determined to go unseen?

Smuggling. It was so obvious. So logical. But she had continued to push the words aside. She didn't want to think of him involved in such a dirty business.

Somewhere, beneath the anger and resentment she felt for him, Morgan had experienced a total y different sensation. There was something about him -something she couldn't real y pinpoint in words. Strength, perhaps. He was the kind of man you could depend on when no one else could-or would

-help. She wanted to trust him. There was no logic to it, it simply was.

But was he a smuggler? Had he thought she'd seen something incriminating? Did the footsteps she'd heard belong to a patrol? Another smuggler? A rival? If he'd believed her to be a threat, why hadn't he simply used the knife on her? If he were a cold-blooded kil er ... no. Morgan shook her head at the description. While she could almost accept that Nick would kil , she couldn't agree with the adjective.

And that led to hundreds of other problems.

Questions and answers sped through her mind. Stubborn questions, disturbing answers. Morgan shut her eyes on them. I'm going to get some straight answers from him this afternoon, she promised herself. It was his fault she was involved.

Morgan dropped to the sand and brought her knees to her chest.

She had been minding her own business when he had literal y dragged her into it.

Al she had wanted was a nice, quiet vacation. "Men!"

"I refuse to take that personal y."

Morgan spun her head around and found herself staring into a wide, friendly smile.

"Hel o. You seem to be angry with my entire gender." He rose from a rock and walked to her. He was tal and very slender, with dark gold curls appealingly disarrayed around a tanned face that held both youth and strength. "But I think it's worth the risk. I'm Andrew Stevenson." Stil smiling, he dropped to the sand beside her.

"Oh." Recovering, Morgan returned the smile. "The poet or the painter? Liz wasn't sure." "Poet," he said with a grimace. "Or so I tel myself."

Glancing down, she saw the pad he held. It was dog-eared and covered with a fine, looping scribble. "I've interrupted your work, I'm sorry." "On the contrary, you've given me a shot of inspiration. You have a remarkable face."

"I think," Morgan considered, "that's a compliment."

"Dear lady, yours is a face a poet dreams of." He let his eyes roam it for a moment. "Do you have a name, or are you going to vanish in a mist and leave me bewitched?"

"Morgan." The fussy compliment, delivered with bland sincerity made her laugh.

"Morgan James, and are you a good poet, Andrew Stevenson?" "I can't say no."

Andrew continued to study her candidly. "Modesty isn't one of my virtues. You said Liz. I a.s.sume that's Mrs. Theoharis. You're staying with them?"

"Yes, for a few weeks." A new thought crossed her mind. "You're renting Nicholas Gregoras's cottage?"

"That's right. Actual y, it's a free ride." Though he set down the pad, he began to trace patterns in the sand as if he couldn't keep his hands quite stil .

"We're cousins." Andrew noted the surprise on her face. His smile deepened.

"Not the Greek side. Our mothers are related." "Oh, so his mother's American."

This at least explained his ease with the language. "A Norling of San Francisco," he stated with a grin for the t.i.tle. "She remarried after Nick's father died. She's living in France." "So, you're visiting Lesbos and your cousin at the same time."

"Actual y, Nick offered me the retreat when he learned I was working on an epic poem-a bit Homeric, you see." His eyes were blue, darker than hers, and very direct on her face. Morgan could see nothing in the open, ingenuous look to link him with Nick. "I wanted to stay on Lesbos awhile, so it worked out nicely. The home of Sappho. The poetry and legend have always fascinated me."

"Sappho," Morgan repeated, turning her thoughts from Nick. "Oh, yes, the poetess."