It had been Keith's emotions she had trusted from the first because they were so strong she felt them and because she had known instinctively that they were honest. Now, after all the hours with him, she believed that even more. His physical desire, unhidden and almost shockingly intense, was a need for
her,
not merely a need for sexual release.
And she thought he cared about her, whether he knew it or would admit it. His vivid eyes, less enigmatic than they had been at first, held expressions she had read easily: burning hunger when he wanted her, pain when he had guessed the loneliness of her childhood despite her denial, anger when she had described her relationship with her
father,
and a wrenching reluctance when he had left her tonight.
He had said that all he could give her of himself was what his terms so briefly defined, that he had nothing left, but Erin didn't believe that. What she
believed,
what she felt with certainty, was that he had built a wall with his anger, that simmering rage locked inside him, and until he released that, it would continue to stand between them.
But how could she help him free that fury? It was all tied up with what he was doing here in Miami Beach, she felt that. Something he had to do; she no longer believed the fiction of "work." He was here to do something very specific, something that put him under enormous pressure, and whatever it was, he didn't want to tell her because... Why?
With nothing more to go on, Erin couldn't begin to answer that question. And she couldn't ask him. She
couldn't.
Her contentment since they had become lovers was an instinctive thing; everything inside her was certain that she and Keith belonged together, and with such a certainty to hold on to, she could live for today. But the connection between them, strengthened during the last hours, also told her that the conflicts in Keith, steadily intensifying, could destroy him.
And she.
didn't
know how to help him.
Deeply troubled, Erin got up and put on one of his shirts that he'd worn earlier because it bore his scent and she needed that feeling of his nearness. The last thing she wanted to do right now was call her father, but she returned to her own suite and placed the call, curling up on her bed as she waited for him to answer.
Characteristically, almost his first words were, "You weren't in your room this morning."
It was a question, and one she chose not to answer. "Dad, I'm planning to fly over in a week or two, before you leave for Turkey. We can talk then."
There was a brief silence, only the faint hiss of the transatlantic connection audible, and then he spoke again in a very neutral tone. "You've met a man, haven't you?"
Was that his famed perception, she wondered, or did she sound different to him? It didn't really matter. Erin could have returned a flippant answer to his question, but their relationship had never contained banter—or any disrespect on her part. Her hesitation was brief. Keith had said not to mention him, but something, some intuition, told her that her father would be no threat to him.
Keeping her own voice neutral, she said, "Yes, I have."
"Is this man the reason you decided to remain in the States?"
The third degree, she thought, dispassionate enough to come from a diplomat. Not a father. "No. I decided that before I met him."
"Am I going to meet him?"
Honestly, Erin said, "I don't know.
Dad.
I'm not thinking past today."
There was another brief silence, and then his voice hardened.
"A cheap affair, Erin?
I thought I'd taught you better than that."
For the first time in their relationship, Erin didn't think about hurting or disappointing him, and all she felt was rage at his contemptuous dismissal. Her voice was shaking when she spoke, her fingers white on the receiver.
"What you taught me, Dad? I'll tell you what you taught me. You taught me that I had value to you only because of the way I look and the fact that men talk to me. You taught me to hide my own emotions, as if they were indecent somehow."
"Erin—"
"I'm not the son you wanted. I'm not an asset to your career. I'm not your secretary or your housekeeper or your hostess. And I'm not asking for your blessing, Dad, I don't even want to hear your opinion—"
"Erin."
His voice was harsher than she'd ever heard it, so unexpected that it silenced her. He drew an audible breath. "I'm sorry if I offended you."
She stared across the room at nothing, thinking of the gulf that lay between them. Back in, control, she said, "It doesn't matter. And if it relieves you to hear, my—affair—is a very private matter. Our fine, aristocratic linen won't be washed in public."
There was a pause. "You've never been sarcastic with me before," he noted quietly. "I've hurt you. I'm sorry. I didn't intend to do that. But this relationship is very sudden, Erin, and I wonder if you've given it enough thought."
Ever the diplomat, she thought, expressing a politely phrased question that really meant
are you out of your mind?
"That's my business, Dad.
And his.
I'm a grown woman; I'll make my own decisions, and my own mistakes."
This time the silence was much longer. When it came to father-daughter conversation, they really didn't have much to say to each other, Erin acknowledged sadly. And since she was far less hesitant in this conversation than ever before, her father had found no chink to subtly work his wiles on, no opening through which he could maneuver.
"Well," she said finally, "I'll see you in a week or so."
"Erin..."
"What is it?" she asked politely.
"Can this man take care of you?"
Knowing her father, he was probably asking if Keith was financially, socially, and/or politically prominent, not if he offered love and emotional support. But Erin supplied her own definition of the term "take care," and answered simply, "Yes, he can. I'll let you know when to expect me, Dad."
"Very well."
She cradled the receiver softly without saying good-bye, and remained there on her bed for a long time looking across the darkening room at an uninspiring print. If her father and Keith ever met, each probably would dislike the other and neither would ever understand the other. The only qualities they shared were strength of personality and intelligence, and each wore those traits so differently that they would provide no common ground.
Erin loved them both, and both men had set her at a distance; her father with detachment and Keith with
an anger
she didn't even understand. In a lifetime of trying, she hadn't been able to bridge the gulf of indifference between her and her father.
Unless she managed to close the distance between her and Keith, every instinct warned that she would lose him utterly.
He had asked how long she would be able to accept his terms, and now Erin knew the answer with certainty.
Not
long. Not long at all.
It was almost three A.M. when a big, casually dressed man slipped into the hotel through a seldom-used side entrance, and across the street in a parked car two men watched as he disappeared into the building.
"Will he go through with it?" the man on the passenger side asked in a low voice.
The man behind the wheel had a hard face and shuttered eyes, and he lit a cigarette before replying. "I don't know. He was different tonight.
Edgy,
and I didn't like the look in his eyes. Like part of him was somewhere else."
The
passenger
whose features were so bland he could have passed unnoticed through any crowd, didn't change expression. "What about Arturo and Wellman? Are they taking his bait?"
"Hook, line, and sinker.
Wellman wants Arturo off his back so bad it's beginning to show, and thinks the cartel Donovan's supposed to be fronting for will get the job done. Arturo has his sights set on running this territory, and believes he'll have the cartel's backing if he launches a war against Martine."
The passenger gave a low whistle, then said musingly, "Pretty, isn't it? I have to hand it to Donovan; he's played those two sharks beautifully."
"The driver grunted
. "
Yeah, but he's way out on a limb. If his timing isn't perfect, he's going to get caught in the cross fire."
The passenger shot a glance at his companion. "You could have told Wellman that
Duncan
is the stepson of the man he asked Arturo to have killed more than a year ago. You could have stopped Donovan cold that way, or had him picked up."
"Don't remind me. It was a judgment call, and I still think I called it right. You know what that New York cop, the friend of Donovan's, told me.
He came back from Europe to bury his whole family, heard the cops tell him they
knew
damn well it was a hit but couldn't prove it, and the only justice he got was a closed investigation. He's hell-bent on revenge, and I don't want to be the one who tries to stop him."
With a shrug, the passenger said, "Hey, I won't shed any tears over the likes of Arturo or Wellman, and if Martine gets a bloody nose, so much the better."
The driver grunted again.
"Of course not.
You're DEA, and a few less players in the war down here would suit you just fine. But I've been sitting on Wellman for more than a year, and I want to go through him to get Arturo's whole organization."
"Any luck?"
"Not till Donovan showed up. Since then, Well man's been unusually chummy with Arturo, and he's been a bit careless. Donovan has them both convinced that his fictional cartel is the answer to all their problems."
Almost idly, the passenger said, "I don't suppose it's occurred to Wellman that the cartel, if it existed, would be a worse master than Arturo?"
"Hell, no.
He didn't learn a damned thing from climbing into bed with Arturo. You'd think he'd see that he's just getting in deeper, but not him. He wants Arturo off his back, and he's completely convinced that the cartel, after killing to oblige him, would let him go his own way without asking anything of him but a few political favors."
"Donovan's got the nerve of a burglar," the passenger observed dryly. "He's told them two separate stories and counted on their mistrust to keep them from putting their heads together. And it's working."
"Yeah."
The driver, his hard face expressionless, looked back toward the hotel. "But he's mad. He's mad as hell. And if it isn't over soon, he's going to blow up in all our faces."
When Keith slipped quietly into his dark bedroom, his first emotion was sheer relief. She was there, curled up in his bed deeply asleep. He could hear her soft breathing, and when his eyes adjusted he could see the dark gleam of her hair on the pillow and her curved shape under the covers.
It had occurred to him several hours ago that she might not be here, that despite saying she would, she could well have decided to fold her tent and leave. He didn't know what he would have done if she'd been gone, the fear of that had been haunting him. It had taken all he had, more than he'd ever needed before, to stick with his role, and all the time his heart had been thudding sickly in his chest and he'd felt cold through to his bones.
But she was here, and the relief of that was so great he almost groaned aloud with it. He wanted to rip off his clothes and crawl in beside her, hold her and make love to her. He wanted to wake her up the way he had yesterday and see the gleam of her catlike green eyes in the darkness.
But he couldn't join her just yet. He'd barely managed to force himself to stop and change at the apartment; he needed to shower away that other man, that other world. He was always conscious of the scents that clung to him, and he hated the stuff he used to slick back his hair and cover the silver. So, forcing patience, he undressed silently in the dark bedroom and then went into the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the light, being as quiet as he could. He took a quick shower, using no more time than necessary to get clean, then dried off hastily and returned to the bedroom.
Some distant part of his mind acknowledged the fact that sometime, and probably soon, he was going to reach the absolute limits of his energy and stamina, physically and emotionally. He could feel it even now, a raw sense of having pushed himself too hard for too long. There were too many strains and complications, too many emotions, too much tension.
But right now, he didn't care. Right now, nothing mattered except the fact that he needed Erin and she was here.
He slipped into bed beside her, finding her body naked and warm, hearing her contented murmur when he pulled her into his arms. He wanted to wake her up slowly as he had the morning before, to kiss her and caress her for long minutes while she gradually woke to the realization that she was being loved. But desire hit him with the force of a blow, his whole body shaking with it, and he knew he couldn't wait even a moment.
There was little patience left in him, but he managed to keep his touch gentle as he turned her onto her back. He pushed the covers away and eased her legs apart, then moved between them. He wanted to fuse their bodies together, to make her his so utterly that he'd never again feel that icy fear of losing her. And though his mind told him the future couldn't be mastered even by an iron will, all his deepest instincts and his overwhelming need for Erin insisted that he try.
Asleep, her warm, relaxed body welcomed his as if it recognized his touch, sheathing his flesh with a tight heat that drove his desire impossibly higher. She sighed and almost purred, the throaty sound sensuous, moving slightly and unconsciously to cradle his body more comfortably. She was so deeply asleep that she didn't wake even then, but she responded. He could feel the building heat and tension in her, feel the hardening points of her nipples against his chest, and the sleeping smile his lips touched was one he had watched in fascination during other passionate interludes.
She was dreaming. He realized that, and he didn't know if he was her dream lover. It was maddening to feel the heat of her response and yet know that she was unconscious of
him,
that her sleeping mind was immersed in an erotic dream triggered by physical sensations without identity. He couldn't stand it.