A Perilous Eden (10 page)

“Amber, Myra,” he said, acknowledging the others, then grinned at his wife.

“What are you doing here?” Josie insisted. “You're supposed to be in Washington.”

“I know, I know,” Jim Bainbridge said. “But things are really slow right now, so I thought it would be nice if I went on that cruise Ted Larkspur was talking about. I decided to come and see if I couldn't collect a bevy of beauties to accompany me. What do you say? We could have another few days here, then fly down to Miami, spend a night and take off the next morning.”

“I don't know—” Amber said.

“Well, I do! A cruise sounds like fun,” Myra said. “And George is in England for at least another three weeks. Come on, Amber. If those two are together, we can share a cabin. Why not?”

“What do you say?” Jim asked her cheerfully.

She felt her throat go suddenly dry as she realized that she had seen Michael Adams near Senator Daldrin. Maybe he had been hired as security for the senator.

“Come on, Amber!”

Why not? She wanted to go. She wanted to see Michael Adams again, and she had a strange feeling that he would be on the cruise.

“I …”

“Come on, Amber!” they all said in unison.

“All right!” she agreed. “But only if you and Jim go off and get your own room and leave Myra and me to go to sleep right now. My feet are killing me!”

“I've already gotten a room,” Jim assured her. “I was just trying to collect my wife.”

“Well, collect her and go, huh?” Myra said.

Thirty minutes later the Bainbridges were gone, and Amber had showered and lain down in her bed, her weary feet up on a pillow, her eyes closed.

But as exhausted as she was, she didn't sleep. Little flames of excitement were burning within her. She knew, with certainty, that the man with the ice-blue eyes and searing touch would be on that cruise.

She was a fool to be going.…

No … she really had no choice.

5

Port of Miami

June 12

T
he ship was called the
Alexandria
, and she was new and beautiful, but she didn't compare to the color of the sunset as they left land behind them and started out of the channel.

Amber stood by the ship's rail and watched the colors reflected on the water and blazing in the sky. They'd reached Miami last night, but they had yet to join up with Senator Daldrin's party. They had gone to Bayside for dinner, then spent the day shopping, and it had been just about time for the ship to sail when they had made it aboard.

Amber had dropped her belongings quickly in the stateroom she and Myra would be sharing—a large, beautiful room—and had run out. The others had been close behind her, but since she had been anxious to watch the ship's departure, she had left them behind to hurry along the rail. She loved everything about the water, the soft mist that seemed to hang in the air, the fresh, clean, salty smell of the sea. And there was a nice breeze to combat the tail end of the brutal June sun. Her hair was lifted from her shoulders as she stood there, and the soft wisps drifted lightly against her flesh. She wore a soft striped cotton halter dress, and the breeze picked up the hem of her skirt and sent it flying against her.

As they moved through the channel, the fingertip islands and roads of Miami and then Miami Beach slowly disappeared. The sun fell lower against the horizon, and the pinks in the sky gave way to shades of gray. Amber liked standing on the deck, feeling the breeze, feeling the sea. The air seemed to settle over her softly and soothingly. She could reflect on her life here, she thought. On her years with Peter, on the future that lay before her. There was nothing like the endlessness of the sea. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky and cherished the air against her cheeks.

“What the hell are you doing on this ship?”

The quick, harsh question brought her whirling quickly around.

Michael Adams was indeed on the ship. He was standing not two feet from her in dark jeans and a dark T-shirt, sneakers on his feet, his hair unruly in the breeze, his hands on his hips and his gaze a heated fire. There was such low fury in the question that for a moment she caught her breath, wishing she had never come.

Then she lifted her chin. It was a free world.

“Cruising, Mr. Adams. That's what I'm doing.”

“Does your father know where you are?”

A guilty little pang seized her. Actually, he didn't. She'd been trying to get through to him all week, but all she'd managed to do was tell his various secretaries and assistants that she would try again. She'd finally written him a letter yesterday. But it hadn't really mattered. He didn't expect her back for a while.

But just what was that to Michael Adams?

“Mr. Adams, that's really none of your business. I assure you, I'm quite old enough to make my own decisions.”

“He doesn't know you're here!” His words were harsh, and Amber felt as if a whole new atmosphere had settled over the deck. They were alone in the growing darkness—others who had waved goodbye to the shore had given up their vigil and gone in to change for dinner, or relax in one of the lounges, or perhaps just amble around. The salt-sea air seemed to change around them, razor sharp, touched by electricity. She wanted to slap the man, but she wanted to walk closer and touch him, too. He would be alive with fury, trembling, hot.

She was shivering, alternating between hot and cold. It was all very ridiculous; in the whole of her life, she'd never felt the way he made her feel, and she didn't like the lack of control one bit. He thought she shouldn't be on the ship; that much was obvious. But she wasn't going to kowtow to some two-bit security officer—no matter how much he thought of himself.

“Will you excuse me, Mr. Adams?” she said, and she was very proud of the sound of her voice; it was cool and controlled and level. She started to walk by him with the same disciplined disdain, but her exit was ruined when he caught her arm and whirled her around to face him.

They were touching. His hand lay on her arm, and she could tell that he was just as she had thought he would be: hot, vibrant, trembling just slightly, tense and electric.

“Answer me. Your father doesn't know you're aboard this ship, does he?”

She swallowed, finding it difficult to meet his eyes. She stared down to where his fingers wound around her arm in a vise. He wasn't hurting her, but she could not have moved, not unless he chose to let her go. She met his eyes at last and wondered what had happened to him to make him so very cold, and yet so fiercely hot, all in one. She didn't know. She was aware only that she was in over her head with this man and that she should keep her distance, no matter how much he intrigued her.

She didn't tug on her arm. She wasn't about to appear undignified. “If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Adams, I'd like to get by.”

“I mind. Who are you here with?”

She sighed with great patience, her teeth grating. “Congressman Bainbridge and his wife, and Myra Norman. Shouldn't you be elsewhere? I assume that, if you're here, you're gainfully employed in some capacity. Now, will you please remove your hand from my arm?”

To her amazement, he released her abruptly, turned around and left the deck.

Amber discovered that she was shaking so badly that she had to sink into one of the deck chairs. It was several long moments before she could stand up again.

Myra wasn't in their stateroom when Amber finally mustered up the strength to reach it. She showered and dressed for dinner. They were scheduled for the second seating, she knew, but once she was dressed she was too restless to remain in the stateroom. The casino was straight down from their room, and she found herself walking in that direction.

Along the hallway she passed a pair of handsomely dressed children of about ten and eight, the boy in a dinner suit, the girl in an elegant pink lace dress, with socks to match. Despite their appearance, the brother was chasing the sister mercilessly down the hall, and the sister charged right into Amber. The girl backed away, horrified, and looked around quickly to see if her parents had noticed the offense, but they were nowhere to be seen. She stared at Amber with her mouth very round. “I—I'm sorry!” she stuttered.

Amber smiled and shook her head. “It's all right.” She looked over the girl's head to her brother. “But you should be careful, you know. There may be some real grouches on board this ship.”

The girl nodded, smiling. Then she tried to don a very serious expression. “We'll be careful, I promise.” She kept staring at Amber, and she smiled again. “You're pretty.”

Amber laughed. “Thank you. So are you.”

The little boy was behind his sister then, taking her arm. “Thanks, miss. Come on, Arabella.” They hurried past her. Amused, Amber watched them go. When she turned again, her heart slammed hard against her chest. Michael Adams was there, ahead of her, standing by the case where the boarding pictures were being displayed. He had changed for dinner, too. He wasn't as elegant as he had been in his tuxedo, but he was every bit as striking. He was in black again, and he was watching her with a curious light in his eyes.

Amber squared her shoulders and started past him. “Good evening, Mr. Adams,” she said, brushing by.

“Miss Larkspur.”

He said nothing more as she passed him, and a curious feeling of disappointment fell over her.

She entered the casino and watched the handsomely dressed men and women at the blackjack tables for a while, then bought herself a handful of quarters for the slot machines. She idly tossed in coins and watched as watermelons and little black lines refused to line up. Frustrated, she turned.

Michael Adams was leaning against the next machine. She wondered uncomfortably just how long he had been there, and she instinctively knew that he had been watching her for quite a while. Instantly, her temper flared, and she was on the defensive. “I am old enough to gamble, Mr. Adams.”

“So I imagine,” he said.

When she started to turn away, he stepped closer. “Giving up so easily?”

She paused. His voice was light. There was an almost teasing quality to it.

“I've fed that machine quite enough, I think.”

“Oh, I don't know. Loyalty seems to pay off most of the time.” He slipped a quarter into the machine. It whizzed and whined, and to Amber's complete annoyance, the bars with the little money signs in the middle all lined up neatly. The machine began to clang and chirp, and quarters seemed to spill out by the dozens.

She looked from the quarters to Michael Adams. He was smiling at her, ignoring his winnings.

“Congratulations,” she said.

“I just put that quarter in for you.”

She shook her head. “I don't want your money.”

“Well, I don't want yours.”

“Hey, lady!” said a fat man with a cigar. “I'll take your quarters!”

“There's about fifty dollars there. What say we hand it over to a charity, then?” Michael suggested.

The tension left her. She suddenly found herself smiling, too. “All right.” She named her favorite charity.

“Sounds good,” Michael said.

Amber looked at the fat man. “Could I borrow one of your cups, please?”

“Sure, lady. Sure.”

Once she had cashed in the coins, she turned around to find that the changeable Michael Adams was waiting for her. “I think it's time for dinner,” he told her.

“Oh? Are we dining together?”

“Very together.” She looked up at him. He was staring straight ahead as they walked down the hall, his hand on her elbow. “Myra managed the seating arrangements. We're all at the senator's table.”

Leave it to matchmaking Myra, Amber thought. She was married, but Michael Adams was young and unattached, and so was Amber.

It was what she had wanted, wasn't it? Amber thought. But she didn't know. The more she saw of Michael, the less it seemed that she could ever know or understand him. One moment he beckoned to her; the next he thrust her away. Far, far away.

“Where do you live?” he asked her as they started down the stairs to the dining room.

“Now?”

His brow arched. “Do you live different places at different times?”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he answered flatly. “And you?”

“I've just moved back to Washington.”

“From where?”

“Atlanta.”

“Um,” he said, but there was something about the way he said it.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means you've just come from some great and traumatic relationship. Be careful on the rebound, Miss Larkspur.”

“I'm not on the rebound.”

“I'll bet you are.” He stopped walking suddenly. They were at the foot of the stairs, and he swung toward her, one foot on the bottom step, the bulk of his body preventing her from further movement. “They say that most women need a quick and careless affair after something like that. Just someone to clean away the past. Someone they may not even care to know well, but someone who attracts them on the most basic level. It shouldn't be me. I'm warning you—it shouldn't be me.”

Amber was nearly speechless. “What!” she snapped.

“I said—”

She shoved him, her hands planted firmly upon his chest. He moved, giving way for her. “Amber, I'm trying—”

“Don't try!” she retorted, her chin high as she headed toward the dining room. There were no lines at the doorway. The second-seating passengers must have already entered. Good. She could walk in with dignity and ignore Michael Adams.

No … she couldn't.

She stopped and swung around. “I should warn you. I find you to be one of the most obnoxious men I've ever met, and it's really a pity that your worth can't possibly measure up to your ego. I'm not on the rebound, I am not looking for an affair, and I most assuredly have no desire to go to bed with you.”