One Touch of Topaz (10 page)

“No, we made a deal to—”

He frowned. “For heaven’s sake, I wouldn’t steal the only things you value just because I caught you at a time when you were vulnerable. What kind of bastard do you think I am?”

She gazed at him in bewilderment. “But why did you bargain for them?”

“Because I knew you cared about them, and it was the only way I could think of to get you to let me take them with me.”

“You wanted me to have them, so you schemed to take them
off
the island? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense”—he smiled—“when you consider that I never intended to let you stay on St. Pierre. The attack by that patrol made very little difference. You’d still have been on that helicopter when it took off.”

“No, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t have left no matter what you said.”

“I’d already exhausted my arguments,” he said grimly. “But you would have come with me, anyway.”

“Force?”

“If necessary. Though I don’t regard saving your neck as kidnapping.”

Her eyes widened. “You really would have done that?”

“Yes.” He opened the door. “I told you St. Pierre had something I wanted.”

“The statues—”

“A woman named Samantha Barton.”

The door closed behind him.

Samantha’s gaze shifted from the door to stare blindly at the picture of the seascape on the opposite wall. Fletch’s last words had shaken her as much as the wild proposition he’d put to her.

It was one thing to accept his philosophy about taking what he wanted, but it was quite another to be the object of his philosophy. Not that he actually wanted her; it was the child he cared about. He merely thought of her as the most suitable and undemanding candidate to give him what he wanted.

She swallowed painfully as the seascape blurred mistily before her eyes. It shouldn’t
matter to her, she told herself desperately. It wasn’t as if she loved Fletcher Bronson. She would never be so stupid or self-destructive that she would let herself fall in love with him. A woman could batter herself against the hard wall of his emotions until she was broken and bloody. He might give her friendship, but little more. Yet there had been moments of exquisite tenderness between them. Didn’t that mean there was a possibility his affection could be won, if she tried to be what he wanted?

Dear Lord, she was clutching at straws as if she actually thought he might come to love her. If she accepted his proposition, it would be with the same cool practicality he had shown.

It seemed to be the answer to all their problems. Rescue for Paco and Dr. Salazar, security, and a chance to pursue her studies for herself. It wasn’t as if she were searching for love’s young dream after all she had been through in the last years. She would probably be stupid to refuse Fletch. It would
clearly be the perfect solution for all of them.

She closed her eyes wearily and relaxed against the pillows. Fletch had given her two weeks to make her decision, and there was no need to worry about it until she was stronger. But she would worry about it, she knew. Because if this was such a perfect solution, she couldn’t understand why she was experiencing this bewildering premonition of pain to come.

A huge shadow fell across her body, blocking out the strong rays of the afternoon sun. Samantha opened her eyes to see Fletch standing over her. He was only a dark outline framed against the brilliance of the sunlit sky, but there was no mistaking who he was.

“I didn’t hear the helicopter.” She scrambled to a sitting position on the beach towel. “How are you? Did your business go well?”

“As well as anything goes in D.C.” He
squatted down beside her. “How are you?” His keen glance raked over her bikini-clad figure. “Skip said you were eating decently, but you haven’t put on much weight.”

“It must be my metabolism,” she said. “I’ve always been skinny.” His dark blue suit had the stamp of fine English tailoring, and his burgundy-and-gray-striped silk tie was discreet and elegant. He should have looked like the typical, successful businessman, she mused, not a robust Viking. “You look … healthy.”

“I’m healthy, you’re healthy,” he said impatiently. “Now can we get down to business before we also get into Skip’s state of health? You sent for me.”

She nodded, moistening her lips with her tongue. “I didn’t want to bother you, but you told me to let you know when I made my decision.”

“You’re not bothering me. Tell me.”

She hesitated. “I’ll do it.”

His breath released in a little burst, as if he
had been holding it. A smile lit his rough features. “You won’t regret it, Samantha.”

“I hope not.” Her voice was very low. “I hope neither of us will.”

“I won’t regret it, no matter how the cards fall.” His gaze fell to the gleaming golden flesh of her abdomen. “You don’t burn? Skip says you spend most of your time here on the beach.”

“My mother was of Italian descent, and I inherited her olive skin.” His intent gaze moved to her thighs, and she felt a breathless stirring in the pit of her stomach. “Do you burn?”

He shook his head absently. “You look good in that shade of yellow.” He reached out and ran his index finger lightly down her inner thigh. It was the lightest of caresses, yet she felt a streak of fire follow his finger. He must have heard her tiny gasp because he looked up to meet her gaze. “I’d like to see you in a cloth of gold. You’d shimmer like the sun….” He trailed off and seemed to have forgotten what he was saying. A dark
flush had mounted to his cheeks, and she could see the rapid pulse at his temple. He pulled his gaze away to look at the waves lapping gently at the shore. “I’ll buy you a gown like that someday.”

“I have enough clothes.” She wanted to reach out and touch him, she realized. She wanted to feel her fingers on the strong brown line of his throat, the bold planes of his face. She hadn’t really touched him that night they had been together. Her body might know him sexually, but she had never learned him the way a woman does her lover.

“Nonsense. I sent Skip back from Miami with the bare minimum. I thought you’d prefer to get a complete wardrobe in Paris.”

“Paris?” She wished he’d look at her again. She had thought she had caught a glimpse of something hot and basic in his eyes before he had glanced away from her. She couldn’t have been mistaken. The atmosphere between them was still charged
with a scorching sensuality that was unmistakable.

Fletch
wanted
her. A swift freshet of joy spread through her in a bubbling tide. She couldn’t have been too amateurish that time in the cave, if he still wanted her.

“I thought you’d like to live in Paris. I hear art students are crazy about the ateliers there.”

“I never thought about it.” What was so fascinating about those blasted waves that he wouldn’t look away from them? His hand, braced on the towel beside her, was clenched into a fist, and she found herself fascinated by its power. It was as bold and blunt as Fletch himself, created for action and purpose. Yet she knew that hand could be gentle, those fingers could touch with exquisite gentleness as well as possessive passion.

Slowly, tentatively, she reached out and touched his hand.

He jerked his hand away as if she’d burned him. He stood up abruptly. “Come
on.” He reached down and pulled her to her feet. “We’ve got to get back to the villa.”

“Now?” she asked, bewildered. “Why?”

He was pulling her along behind him as he strode down the beach toward the large white stucco house. “You said you’d marry me. Let’s get to it.”

“Today?”

“Why not? We’ve already wasted a week while you dithered back and forth.”

“I did
not
dither.” She half ran to keep up with him. “It wasn’t something I could decide overnight.”

“Well, now that the decision is made, we might as well clinch the deal.”

“Where will we be married? Miami?”

He shook his head. “Here. There’s a priest waiting in my study.”

Her eyes widened. “You brought him with you?”

“Don’t get nettled. I wasn’t taking you for granted. I just wanted to be prepared in case you decided to honor me with your hand. I don’t like to leave my affairs hanging.”

“I can see that,” she said faintly. She was going to be married. Now. She had never thought much about wedding ceremonies, but she had a vague uneasiness about this lightning-fast ritual. “Fletch …”

He turned to look at her. “Sara and Skip can be the witnesses. There are some dresses in that bunch of clothes Skip brought you, aren’t there?”

“Yes, but what about a license?”

“I’ve got it. I also had your passport renewed and updated and had the premarital agreement drawn up by my lawyers when I was in Washington. Everything’s set to roll on greased wheels.” He stopped and turned to face her. “Except you. What’s wrong, Samantha?”

She gazed at him helplessly. “It’s too fast. I feel like I’m being bulldozed into this. You have my head whirling.”

“Good, that’s how brides are supposed to feel.” His smile faded and his expression became grave. “I
want
this, Samantha. I can’t
remember ever wanting anything as much as I want you to marry me.”

“Right now?”

“Right this minute. Will you let me bulldoze you, just this once?”

She hesitated, then slowly nodded. “Very well, but I have an idea it isn’t going to be limited to this one time.”

His laugh rang out, and for a moment his face reflected a boyish ebullience. “No promises. I’ve always liked my own way. You’ll just have to develop a little aggressiveness to keep me in line. I’ll run right over you if you continue to be this gentle.”

“Will you?”

His laughter vanished as he leaned forward and kissed her gently, sweetly. “No,” he said thickly. “I like you the way you are. There’s not been much gentleness in my life, and I value it above price. I’d never try to destroy that part of you.” He stroked her hair. “It … moves me.”

She laughed shakily, unbearably touched
by his awkward confession. “Even when it annoys you?”

He nodded, his eyes still grave. “Even then.” He took a step back and took her hand, threading her fingers through his own. “Remember that next time I start lecturing you.” He started off again, his hand companionably linked with hers. “And throw it back at me.”

“If I remember correctly, you seldom give me the opportunity to slip a word in edgewise when you’re angry with me.” She smiled at him. “But I’ll work on it.”

His eyes held a mixture of tenderness and a strange sadness. “I’ll work on it, too, Samantha. I know you’re not getting a bargain with this marriage—”

“You’re giving me what I want,” she said quietly. “And many people would consider it a very good bargain.”

He gazed at her a moment. “The team left for St. Pierre two days ago. I don’t know how long it will take, but we’ll get your friends out, Samantha.”

Her eyes widened. “Two days ago. What if I’d said no to your proposition?”

He made no answer.

“You would have done it, anyway,” she whispered. “You would have gotten Paco and Dr. Salazar out no matter what I did.”

“As a good businessman, I’d be a fool to admit doing something as quixotic as that, wouldn’t I? And I’m a very good businessman.”

“Yes, you are.” Her smile lit her thin face with joyous radiance. “But I like Fletch Bronson, the human being, better. And I happen to think you’re an absolutely magnificent human being beneath that IBM-compatible exterior.”

“IBM has never found me compatible.” The corners of his lips lifted in a smile. “And I doubt if anyone but you thinks of me as a magnificent human being. I do have my own code of ethics, but sending the team had nothing to do with that. It was something I wanted to do, and as I told you once, I always do what I want to do.” His smile
faded. “Now that you know Paco will be safe and free, you can back out, Samantha.”

She shook her head. “I think you know that what you did makes it impossible for me to break my word.”

“I hoped it would, but I was too much of a cynic to count on it. I’m not used to trusting people.” He paused. “I’ll make sure you’re not unhappy you made this choice, Samantha. That’s a promise, and I always keep my promises.”

“So do I.” She smiled. “Always, Fletch. Through hell and high water.”

For an instant a faint shadow crossed his face. He began walking toward the house in the distance. “Then, by all means, let the nuptials begin.”

T
HE RING WAS
beautiful, an enormous marquise-cut Russian topaz of the finest quality mounted on a gold band studded with diamonds that sparkled brilliantly under the last glowing rays of the setting sun. When Fletch had slipped it on Samantha’s finger during the ceremony, she had been stunned. Even now, several hours after the ceremony, it still gave her a little start of surprise whenever she caught a glimpse of it as she moved her hand to reach for her glass of wine.

“Do you like it?” Fletch’s glance followed
her own to the ring. “I suppose I should have let you pick out something yourself, but there wasn’t time. I thought the stone was kind of pretty, and it does match your eyes.”

“I love it,” she said softly. “I couldn’t have chosen anything I liked better.” She lifted the glass to her lips and sipped sparingly at the wine. She wanted to keep a clear head that night, and she already felt a little intoxicated with excitement and something else she refused to acknowledge. “But it doesn’t look like a wedding ring.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He leaned back in the chair. “And you don’t look like a bride.” His gaze ran over her melon-colored sundress, lingering on the smoothness of her golden shoulders beneath the spaghetti straps. “Not that I’m complaining. That shade is wonderful with your coloring.”

“I didn’t have anything that looked bridal, and I didn’t think it would matter to you.” Her eyes twinkled. “And besides, I wouldn’t have wanted to be so elegant that I
made Skip feel uneasy. He might have felt obligated to give up his baseball cap in favor of a morning coat.”

“Only on pain of death,” Fletch said dryly. He suddenly frowned. “He’s still calling you Topaz. I told him not to do that.”

“Why? It doesn’t matter.”