Eyes of Fire (5 page)

Closer to Seafire Isle, west of the south Florida mainland, was the mark for the
Beldona,
her father's love, his great passion—the mistress of his life.

The
Beldona
had, in the end, claimed him, or so it seemed. And without giving up a single one of her secrets. She'd gone down in 1722, also in “the Eyes of a Storm,” and she'd carried her crew, her prisoners and her treasure to a watery grave from which there had been no reprieve. She'd been something of a mystery ship from the very beginning, a British ship carrying secret documents as well as a doomed crew of Spanish privateers. No one had ever been able to tell a pirate tale like Justin Carlyle. No one. No one had ever been able to weave such a spell of magic, adventure and chills. And no one, perhaps, had ever been so caught up in the spell of his own lore.

Justin had also been an excellent diver, strict regarding the rules of safety.

But Justin had followed the
Beldona.
And he had never returned.

Strange, for all his hard, contemporary tactics and cool determination, Adam had been as seduced by her father's tales as any other man. He had sat up hour after hour with Justin, while they had drunk cheap whiskey together, laughing, imagining, weaving tales of what had happened the night of the storm. And they had speculated as to where the ship might have gone down. Yes, Adam and her father had been great together.

She inhaled raggedly again, backing away from the map. Great. Just great. She had gone from wondering about Adam to agonizing over her father, and now she couldn't stop remembering them both.

No, she would never waste time on such a rotten bastard again, and that was that. She turned toward the kitchen, walking slowly at first. Then more quickly.

Her walk became a run. She reached into the refrigerator and, more desperately than she wanted to, dragged out a bottle of zinfandel. She poured herself a glass, her hands shaking. She gulped down the wine.

She shuddered, her entire face puckering. Wine was not meant to be guzzled. She poured herself a second glass, determined not to think about Adam. She decided, as she made her way into the bathroom to start hot water running into the massive Jacuzzi, that he had one hell of a lot of nerve, thinking that he could just walk in here and expect her not to betray him.

Maybe she'd misread him and he really didn't care if she betrayed him or not. Maybe he was really on vacation.

No. Never.

By the time the Jacuzzi had been filled, she had her third glass of wine at her side. She crawled into the tub and leaned back, determined to relax, to unwind. Impossible. She laid her head back, feeling the water pulse against her back, her neck.

Damn him. What was he doing here now? Where had he been when things had gone badly for her, when her father had disappeared, when Hank had followed the exact same way? She'd been desperate enough then to write to him, to beg him for help, and he hadn't shown up. Where the hell had he been, and what possible right did he have to come now?

She sipped her wine, feeling its effects at last, soothing her body if not her soul. Great. She was guzzling zinfandel. Trying to get sloshed on wine. She hadn't done anything so stupid since she and Jem and Yancy had been sixteen and downed a bottle of cheap burgundy they had gotten hold of in Freeport. Think how sick she'd been….

No, she wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Right, she taunted herself. Her wine wasn't cheap anymore.

She shook her head, warning herself to slow down. She had a business to run. She didn't want to get sloshed at all—couldn't afford to—but his presence on the island was really getting to her. And she was usually so moderate. She hadn't overimbibed in wine or anything else since she had gotten so carried away that night when they had first…

She heard a noise behind her and tensed, sitting up straight, her fingers curling over the rim of the tub, listening.

She had imagined it, she told herself. She sat very still, barely breathing, listening once more.

Nothing….

Had she imagined it?

No, no…a few seconds later, it came again. Like a whisper through the air. Movement.

She gritted her teeth furiously.

Adam.

He'd been like the sun coming into her life, all powerful, blazing, the center of her universe.

She'd been like a stick of gum to him. Easily spat out and forgotten, exchanged for another.

And now he thought he could saunter in again, and she would be the same obliging innocent she had been before.

The noise was coming closer.

How had he gotten in? she wondered. The bastard. She spoke at last, controlling her contemptuous tone to the very best of her ability. “You son of a bitch, I don't know how the hell you got in here, but you can get out of my private quarters right this second!” she snapped.

He didn't reply. Not a word. Not a whisper of laughter, not a breath of mockery.

“Damn you!”

Furious, she twisted around. To her absolute amazement, it wasn't Adam.

At least, she didn't think it was Adam.

It was a figure in black. Completely in black—down to a black ski mask.

Sam was so stunned that she didn't even think to be frightened at first, just curious.

A ski mask? Nights on the island could be cool, but never cold enough for…

Oh, God. She was an idiot.

“What on earth…” she began to murmur. Then she realized that the figure was coming toward her, carrying some kind of a black cloth in its black gloved hand.

She stood up, drawing in breath she could expel in a shriek as she tried to leap from the tub and escape. But she was cut off from the doorway by the figure, left standing there naked, dripping.

She made an attempt to sidestep the figure and leap for the door. No luck. She stared at it hard. Male, she thought instinctively. Tall—no chest. But that was it. There was nothing else she could tell about her silent attacker.

For seconds they just stood, staring at one another.

Then she realized her situation. She was naked, unarmed, and an intruder was in her bathroom, completely camouflaged and staring at her.

“Help!” she screamed. Her cottage wasn't that far from the main house. And there were other cottages near hers. Someone might be walking on the beach. Someone…

This was ludicrous. A black-clad figure in a ski mask on a Caribbean island—attempting to attack her!

“Help!” she shrieked again.

The figure lunged for her.

“No!” she cried, beating her fists against his chest, kicking him. He grunted as one well-aimed kick connected, then seemed to find his own spurt of fury. He grasped one of her arms, and she was drawn, still kicking and screaming, against his body. He struggled to force the cloth over her face. She kept struggling to keep it away. She tried not to breathe. She could already smell the sickly sweet scent of the drug that soaked the cloth.

“Help!” she shrieked again, still kicking. The cry cost her what little breath she had left. She had to breathe. Had to inhale….

The scent was awful. Filling her nose, her lungs, seeping into her blood, deadening her limbs. She couldn't keep fighting, couldn't force her arms to move the way she wanted them to. She tried to claw, to scratch his eyes with her fingers.

Oh, God, she was losing her strength. She was being attacked…assaulted….

Murdered?

She still couldn't believe that an intruder had come here for her. This was her damned island!

Blackness…stars…weakness…

That awful, sickly sweet smell, closing in around her, filling her…

She was starting to go limp in the fierce hold of her attacker.

Suddenly the arms that held her were wrenched away. She was dimly aware of a thudding, crunching sound as a blow was thrown and connected with flesh and bone. She heard a groan, footsteps taking flight….

All in a matter of seconds.

“Sit!” someone snapped at her. “I'll be back.”

She reached out blindly. “Ca—can't!”

She lacked the strength to stand, yet she couldn't manage to tell her limbs to set her into a sitting position. She was going to fall against the unforgiving tile.

“Damn it!” she heard someone say. “He's going to get away.”

She didn't fall, she was swept up. She blinked furiously against the effects of the drug, trying to fight again.

“Damn it, Sam, I'm trying to keep you from killing yourself!”

Her vision started clearing. It was Adam. Right in front of her. No, holding her. She was still so dizzy. The room was spinning. No, he was walking. Carrying her. Laying her down on her bed.

He left her for a minute and the darkness began to recede. She drank in the fresh, salt-tinged night air that whispered over the island. She tried her fingers. They moved. Her toes. They wiggled.

There was a sensation of weight as he sat down at her side. Cold, as he pressed a washcloth rinsed in cool water over her face.

She inhaled through the cloth and felt her temper reviving the rest of her.

Adam was in her room—and she was stark naked.

He lifted the cloth from her face. His eyes were burning and sharp, his features tense, yet his lips seemed to curve in a mocking smile.

She struck out wildly, her palm swinging toward his cheek.

“Stop it, Sam! It's me. Adam!”

The Ray-Bans were gone. She could see his face clearly, if she could only focus. She blinked, making the attempt. She saw the silver glitter of his eyes against the striking, angled lines of his profile and tried to strike out again. He caught her hands, leaning over her, his weight bearing her down, preventing her from attacking him.

“Sam, damn it, it's me!”

“I know perfectly well who it is!” she cried out. Still struggling furiously, she managed to free a hand and tried again to strike him.

Once again, before her blow could land, her wrist was captured.

And she realized that she was lying naked and completely vulnerable…with Adam O'Connor not just back on her island, but lying on top of her in her bed.

“F
ine! Next time a stranger is trying to drug you, kidnap you, maybe even kill you, I'll remember to keep my distance,” Adam said evenly. His tone was husky. Angry.

His eyes were directly on hers, gleaming. A knife-like silver. Not giving away an iota of emotion.

Only his voice hinted of his feelings.

She stared at him. Not moving, not breathing. Not daring to, because the slightest motion would bring her bare flesh into closer contact with him.

He'd aged nicely over the years. He was even more attractive in his mid-thirties than he'd been in his late twenties. His voice had deepened; his chest had broadened. Even the lines in his face gave it the character that men seemed to achieve so easily, while women battled the ravages of age with expensive creams and potions. His dark hair was longish, collar length. It was tousled now from the fight he'd put up. One dark wavy strand had fallen over his forehead, where it looked too damned good. Sexy, sensual. Very masculine. It was great hair. Very thick. She knew, because once-upon-a-very-long-time-ago, she had run her fingers through it. She was tempted to touch it right now.

She would like to touch it and yank it right out of his head.

He'd changed clothes for dinner, making her current, uncomfortable situation seem all the more ludicrous. He was dressed in casual evening attire, black pants, jacket, bone and crimson vest over a dress shirt. He was in absurdly good condition. He wasn't breathing hard—only his hair had been mussed. Even his tie had remained straight, helping to maintain his look of casual elegance.

She was going to die, she realized, if she didn't breathe soon.

She might have died! She'd never been afraid on the island, never even thought to be afraid. What might have happened if…?

She inhaled, trying not to gasp too deeply for air. She couldn't gush out a thank-you-for-my-life. She just couldn't do it.

“He—he shouldn't be a stranger anymore,” Sam gasped, rallying. “You should have caught him. You should be after him right now rather than humiliating me.”

“You're humiliated?” he demanded, silver eyes cool.

“Adam—”

“Humiliation has never been your strong suit.”

“What would you know about my strong suit? You don't know me at all. You passed through my life years ago. Hundreds of people have passed through it since.”

“Hundreds with whom you've had affairs? In this day and age? Shame on you, Samantha. Really.”

She stared at him with all the careful restraint she could manage, eyes narrowed. “Get off me and get out of my bedroom. Now.”

“Yeah. You're welcome. But please, don't deluge me with any more gratitude. I can't deal with it. It would just go straight to my head.”

“God forbid. If anything else went to your head, it might explode.”

“Oh, really?”

“Damn right!”

“In contrast to the Queen of the Seven Seas here, eh?”

“O'Connor!”

He rose—carefully, ready for her to start swinging again.

She wouldn't have minded doing so. Except that it wouldn't have gotten her anywhere. Because he would have been right back on top of her. And that would
not
have been good. Because it was amazing just how vividly memory could serve—even when half a decade had passed.

He stood above the bed, looking toward the door to her room. The room was shadowy; dusk was falling. She was grateful for the darkness, since she didn't seem to be able to move and get any clothes.

It just seemed so absurd for him to be here. She should have forgotten him; he should have forgotten her. They were hardly friends now. They hadn't exactly parted on good terms. The words that passed between them now had quickly become sarcastic, scathing, when they should have been casual. But something remained after all that time.

Bitterness. Anger. And more. Things left unresolved. Being near him was like entering an energy field where slashes of lightning cut furiously through the air.

He was still in her room. Too close. Far too close.

Some things changed. Chemistry stayed the same. And she was still…frightened. She could strike out at Adam, or cling to him.

No. Oh, no.

“You should be going after him!” she said.

He looked at her again. She was sorry she had spoken. She felt as if her entire body was blushing, as if her skin was burning right down to her feet.

“What if it was a her?” he demanded.

“What?”

“It could have been a woman.”

“It was a man. The height—”

“They're making taller woman these days. Whoever it was, they weren't much taller than you.”

“It was a man.”

“Because the chest was flat?”

“How amazing! I hadn't thought you were aware that female chests could come in flat.”

He leaned over her again, a half smile curving his mouth. “You'd be amazed at the amount of wonderfully sensual, sexy women who come in size small.”

“Your tastes have broadened.”

“Ah, let's see, I just passed through your life and know nothing about you, but you can judge my tastes?”

She smiled, determined not to cringe or allow him to realize in any way that her nudity in front of him made her feel as vulnerable as a day-old kitten.

“I know that when you left here, the woman you left for was incredibly well-endowed. Not particularly tall, but—well-endowed.”

“You're mistaken. But then, you so often are.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“How could you possibly know my taste in breasts?”

“I'm only familiar with my own observations, of course.”

“Very mature ones,” he commented. “But then, you were just past being a child back then, weren't you?”

There was something disturbing about the way he asked the question.

Just past being a child…. She had been in her early twenties at the time. He'd just been accustomed to a faster crowd. Women who knew what they were doing.

Well, he had seen to her education.

“I do apologize,” she said coolly. In perfect control. “We're certainly both adults now, and this has to be one of the most ridiculous conversations I've ever had. Whether that was a man or a woman, you should have gone after them.”

“Oh, really? I get beaten up for saving you, and then I'm supposed to go after the intruder anyway?”

“You don't look beaten up.”

“Trust me, I am.”

“You—”

“Not only was I struck by the intruder, but then I got you throwing punches, as well.”

“Aftershock,” she said evenly.

“Um.”

“That doesn't matter now.”

“It doesn't matter to you because you weren't on the receiving end.”

“You are
not
hurt! You should be chasing—”

“Chasing who—and where?” he demanded curtly. “Your cottage is surrounded by others, and by the main house. All that intruder had to do was shuck the ski mask and black pullover and slip on a shirt or a jacket and you'd never recognize him or her in a thousand years.”

“It couldn't possibly be a guest!”

“No, a large stork delivered him to the island!”

“Well, you should have caught him!”

“Silly me. I should have let you crack your head on the tile so I could chase the intruder. Fine. Next time I'll let you crack your damned head!”

“What kind of a cop are you? You could at least look for clues.”

“I'm not a cop anymore.”

“No? Then what are you doing on the island?”

“Vacationing. Boating. Diving.”

“Lying.”

“Do you subject all your guests to the third degree?”

“Only you.”

“I'm here to dive.”

“The hell you are.”

“I love to dive. This is a great location.”

“So is Aruba.”

“I like the diving off Seafire Isle—and the dive mistress here has quite a reputation. I hear she's perfect—and perfectly entertaining.”

“Do you think you could possibly remove yourself from my room?”

“Do you think you can quit questioning me long enough for me to get out?”

Her eyes suddenly narrowed on him. “How did you get in here to begin with?”

“The same way your attacker did, I imagine.”

“I was careful today. I locked the door.”

“Not good enough, Sam.” He pointed to where one of her bedroom window curtains was floating inward on the breeze. “The window, Sam. Easy access.”

He turned to leave the room, and she started to shiver.

She rolled quickly under her bed covers, hoping he wouldn't realize how much he had unnerved her. But he was leaving the room without glancing her way. She wondered if he had actually taken a look at her to begin with.

If he'd even noticed that she was naked, or, if he had, if he'd cared in the least.

Wonderful. She'd been attacked, nearly…what? Kidnapped? Murdered? Yet here she was, worrying about Adam. What in God's name was the matter with her?

She leaped up when he was gone, hurrying to dress. She threw on panties, a bra, black pumps and a long-sleeved black knit dress. When she was dressed, she drew a brush through her not-really-washed-and-half-damp-hair, wincing as she hit the tangles. She told herself to toughen up, dragging the brush through her hair until it had a semblance of neatness to it, then hurried out of her bedroom—anxious to see if he had really left her cottage.

She didn't think he had.

And he hadn't.

He was seated in her living room, comfortably leaning back in the deep Victorian brocade sofa. Despite his evening attire, he'd managed a pose of casual ease, his feet propped up on the cherrywood coffee table. There was a bottle of beer in his hand, and he sipped it slowly, reflectively, as he stared at the treasure map on the wall. He lifted the bottle, indicating the map. “I'm surprised you keep that.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Your father.”

“I'd have to discard the entire island if I couldn't bear memories of my father.”

“I didn't mean the memory,” he murmured. “I meant—he disappeared searching for the
Beldona,
right?”

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes suddenly seemed more veiled than her own. “He loved that ship.”

“He didn't love the ship—he
couldn't
love the ship—he never found her. He just loved the sea, the adventure. And he loved the island. Look, forget my father for now, what about tonight? Should I call the mainland police? Make out a report?”

“You could.”

“Could? What does that mean?”

“Well, the police will come out, question you and question all your guests. You won't find out who attacked you, and you might well empty the island.”

She hadn't thought of that. “But—but what about the danger to my guests?”

“I'd bet my life that the attacker is very specifically after you.”

“Great. Then I'm in danger.”

“Yes. You'll have to be extremely careful.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Stay close to me.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “That could be difficult when you're running around with your well-endowed—and not-so-well-endowed—women.”

“Did I arrive here with a woman?”

“No, but they always seem to appear around you.”

“But I'll be watching
you.
”

“But—”

“Look, if the police come, they won't be able to do a damned thing but file a report. Your innocent guests will leave the island. And you'll still be in danger.”

“That's your opinion.”

“You're right. That's my opinion. Hank Jennings disappeared searching for the
Beldona,
as well, didn't he?”

She frowned, thrown by his abrupt change of subject—or determination to return to the original one. “Did you know Hank Jennings?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“I heard about his disappearance,” he said, his eyes on the map once again.

“Naturally you heard about it. I wrote to you, asking for help. You didn't come. But then, you didn't show up after my father disappeared, either, and you'd become bosom buddies with him.”