One Touch of Topaz (7 page)

T
HE RICH AROMA
of freshly brewed coffee drifted to Samantha, piercing the last lingering mists of sleep.

She opened her eyes.

“It’s about time you decided to wake up.” Fletch was pouring steaming coffee into a cup a few yards away. “I had no idea ladies of the guerrilla persuasion were so slothful. It’s almost noon.”

“I was tired.” Sudden color flooded her cheeks as she remembered the reason she had been so exhausted that she had slept
without stirring for all these hours. She scrambled to a sitting position, clutching the blanket around her. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Not very.” He put the coffeepot on one of the stones edging the fire and rose to his feet. “You wriggle. It’s disconcerting.” He crossed the few yards separating them and knelt beside her, offering her the cup. “Drink this. It will wake you up. We’ve got to get you some proper nourishment, though.”

“Thank you.” She took the cup and sipped the hot liquid gingerly, gazing at him over the rim. He looked robust, vigorous, burning with restless energy. He wore his jeans and cream-colored shirt, but his hair was now damp and twisting in tight, rebellious curls, and she caught the fragrance of soap. “Your hair is wet. Have you been in the spring?”

He made a face. “That bucket of ice? No way. I told you I had the tastes of a sybarite. I borrowed your soap and a towel and went
down to that lake you showed me from your window last night.”

Her hand tightened on the cup. “You shouldn’t have done that. What if the patrol had seen you?”

“The patrol didn’t see me. I’m not a complete fool, Samantha. I chose a spot that was relatively screened from view.” He reached out and pushed a stray chestnut lock behind her ear. “And it wasn’t complete self-indulgence. I might have tried your ice bath if I hadn’t had to leave the cave for another reason, anyway.”

“What reason?”

“Food.” He smiled grimly. “I wasn’t about to let you go without eating any longer than necessary.” He gestured to a bucket to the left of the fire. “Lord knows, it’s not much. Just some berries and melons. I was afraid to run the risk of rigging a trap to capture any game with the patrols around.”

“Could you have done that?” she asked in surprise. “Are you a hunter?”

“Not anymore.” A shadow flitted across his face. “Not for a long time now.”

“You don’t like hunting?”

“I never liked it. It was something that had to be done.” He abruptly rose to his feet and turned away. “I was in the special forces in ’Nam.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. He seemed to be charged with explosive tension. She took a sip of coffee. “The newspaper article I read didn’t mention that you fought in Vietnam.”

“It wasn’t fighting, it was—” He broke off, reached for the coffeepot, and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You may think I have the instincts of a warrior, but I assure you I had no liking for that kind of warfare. Now I do my battling in ways that don’t involve bloodbaths for women and children.” He looked down at his cup. “What did your newspaper article tell you about me?”

“Not much, really. That you have interests in oil, shipping, and computers.” She smiled. “That you own an island in the
Carribbean called Damon’s Reef, a château in France on the outskirts of Paris, a fabulous mansion on one of the islands off the Oregon coast. It all sounds very glamorous.”

“Nothing else?”

She avoided his gaze as she took another sip of coffee. “Well, it did mention Monette Santore, the actress. Is she as beautiful as the article said?”

“She’s not beautiful at all. She has a certain earthy appeal and the elegance and gloss that most Frenchwomen seem to be born with.”

“She sounds fascinating. Has she been with you a long time?”

“She’s not
with
me at all,” he said bluntly. “She has her own career, and when I have time, I send for her and she flies to wherever I am.”

“It must prove inconvenient for her to have to drop everything when you whistle.”

He smiled cynically. “She sees that I make
it up to her. Monette is a very practical lady.” He paused. “Does she bother you?”

“Bother me that you have a mistress?” She shook her head. “Why should it? I know last night meant nothing to you. I guess I sort of counted on it.”

“How perceptive of you,” he snapped. He leaned down and set his cup on the ground. “I suppose you intend to immerse yourself in that icy spring?”

She nodded. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it.” She finished her coffee in one swallow and set her cup down. “I’ll just—” She broke off as he lifted her to her feet and began to unwind the blanket from around her. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you.” His expression was enigmatic as he pulled the blanket away and dropped it on the ground, leaving her naked. “You don’t mind, do you? After all, seeing you nude means nothing to a hardened womanizer like me.” He turned her around and urged her toward the pool with a pat on her fanny that was more of a slap. “Get
going. I’ll get you a towel and some clean clothes. Where are they?”

“In that trunk over there, but I can—”

“I’ll get them,” he repeated impatiently. “Get your bath over. You need something to eat.”

She hesitated, but he was already striding across the room toward the battered aluminum trunk she had indicated. She turned and walked slowly toward the pool. It felt odd being naked and vulnerable before a man, but Fletch seemed to be completely at ease and as unaffected as he had claimed. Moments later she was standing shivering in the pool, waiting for her body to become accustomed to the numbing cold.

“What’s this?” Fletch was coming toward her, carrying the towel, washcloth, and clothes he had taken from the trunk in one hand, and in the other a polished, seven-inch wooden statue. He tossed her the washcloth, dropped the towel and clothes on the stony bank, and held out the statue. “Did you do this?”

She nodded. “That’s Paco. Doesn’t he have an interesting face? He has an elfin quality.”

“At least he’s not another Greek god,” Fletch muttered. He sat down on the bank and crossed his legs Indian-fashion, studying the statue critically. “This is remarkable. You’ve brought him to life.”

“Thank you. I like it, but Paco says I didn’t do him justice.” She chuckled reminiscently. “He said his soul was far more handsome than Ricardo’s and the eyes of any artist should be able to detect it.”

“Did you do one of Lazaro too?”

She nodded as she ran the washcloth over her face and shoulders. “It’s in the trunk. Didn’t you see it?”

He shook his head. “Is it as good as this?”

“It’s better.”

His gaze lifted from the statue to her face. “No false modesty. I like that.”

“I know I’m good,” she said simply. “It started as a hobby, something to make the time pass, but it’s not that now.”

“Then what is it?”

“Pleasure, excitement, accomplishment. The same thing your work is to you.” She shrugged. “I guess ‘creative purpose’ pretty well encompasses it.”

“I guess it does. However, my work affords me a generous living, and sculpting is a career that’s hardly lucrative. You do intend to make it a career?”

She nodded. “But I don’t need a lot of money.” She chuckled. “You’ll have to admit that I’ve had excellent training in doing without for the last six years.”

His lips tightened. “All the more reason you shouldn’t choose to starve in a garret now that you’ve finished with St. Pierre.”

“But I’m not finished with St. Pierre. Not yet. There’s Paco. I’ll have time to consider my options later. There’s so much I have to do. I’ll have to finish my formal education, as well as find a good art school.”

He slowly put the statue on the ground beside him. “You still intend to stay here?”

“Of course. There’s no reason to change my mind. Paco still needs my help.”

“No reason except that you’re scared to death. No reason except that you could get yourself killed.” His voice was harsh. “Would your precious Paco want you to risk
dying
to get him off this damn island?”

“No, but I have to do it, anyway. Paco is my friend.”

“You don’t have to do it,” he said with barely leashed violence. “All you have to do is hop on that helicopter tonight.”

She shook her head, gazing at him in helpless misery.

His hand closed slowly into a fist. “Why do you have to be so damn stubborn? I’m giving you your life. Take it.”

“He’s my friend,” she repeated, dropping her gaze to the water. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it. We’ll only argue and it will spoil things. We have such a short time before—”

“Spoil things! You’re talking as if we have—” He stopped, took a deep breath,
and rose to his feet. “Get out of there and dry off.”

“I was going to wash my hair.” “Forget it.” He strode toward the fire. “It’s too cool in here. You’d probably catch a chill.”

“I could dry it by the fire.”

“Samantha.” Fletch’s voice was carefully controlled as he took a melon from the bucket and reached for the butcher knife beside it. “I’m trying to hold on to my temper. It would help if you wouldn’t argue with me.”

She gazed at him uncertainly and then slowly waded out of the pool and began to dry off, her movements quick and efficient. The rough towel was a welcome abrasion against her chilled flesh. She began to dress. “I wouldn’t have caught a chill,” she said quietly. “I’m used to—”

His voice cut through the sentence with the same sharpness as the knife slicing the melon. “I’m tired of hearing about how
accustomed you are to discomfort. You’re beginning to bore me.”

“Am I?” She tried to keep the hurt from her tone. “I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t think I was complaining.”

“I didn’t think anything,” he muttered savagely. “I’ve discovered it’s better not to think when dealing with an idiotic idealist who doesn’t know better than to put her neck on the chopping block and letting—” He stopped as his gaze lifted and he saw her face. “And don’t look at me like that. It doesn’t do a thing to me. You
are
an idiot.”

She swallowed hard. “I guess so.”

“Well, I know so.” He glared at her. “And don’t you dare cry.”

“I’m not going to cry.”

“That’s right, big, bad guerrillas never cry, do they? They’re too tough. Isn’t that what you said? Don’t you want to tell me again how tough you are?”

“No.” She didn’t look at him as she finished buttoning her shirt. “I don’t think I do.”

“Come over here and eat.”

“Okay.” She padded barefoot across the cavern and dropped down beside the fire. Her gaze avoided his as she took up the slice of melon he handed her. She stared at it listlessly, knowing she wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite until she managed to loosen the knot constricting her throat.

“Why are you just sitting there? Why don’t you shout at me?” Fletch asked thickly. “Why don’t you tell me to go to hell?”

She shook her head, still not looking at him. “Because I don’t want to tell you to go to hell,” she said shakily. “I don’t know why you’re so angry, but I think it’s because I might have hurt you in some way.”

“So you let me hurt you as some kind of recompense,” he said slowly. “How can you be so damn gentle? Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation?”

“Yes, but you don’t have to hurt someone else to protect yourself. Most people do a pretty good job of hurting themselves without any help.” Her eyes were shimmering
with unshed tears as she lifted them to gaze at him. “Don’t they, Fletch?”

He looked at her for a long moment without speaking. “Oh, God.” He tipped up her chin on the curve of his finger, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn there was fear as well as aching tenderness in his eyes. “Dear heaven, what am I going to do about you, Samantha?”

“Be my friend,” she whispered. “Is that so difficult? I could use a friend right now.”

“More difficult than you know.” His low voice had a somber ring. “I haven’t made a habit of practicing the art of friendship in recent years, particularly with women.”

“What a chauvinistic thing to say.” She smiled mistily. “Couldn’t you try?”

He was silent a moment. “Yes, I can try.” His hand fell away from her face. “I don’t make any promises, but I’ll try, Samantha.” He suddenly smiled. “If you’ll do me a favor in exchange.”

“What?”

He nodded to the slice of melon in her hand. “Eat. Not just a bite or two. I want you to eat like a lumberjack. Will you?”

She nodded happily. She would have done a good deal more to earn again the rare warmth of his smile. “If you’ll join me.” She bit into the golden fruit of the melon. “It’s really very good.”

“I can’t eat one bite more, so don’t tell me I need any more nourishment.” Samantha grimaced. “I’ve changed my mind about you needing a family. You’d probably bully them unmercifully.”

“You didn’t eat, you nibbled.” Fletch scowled. “It’s no wonder you’re so thin that you’re almost invisible.”

“I’ve had enough,” she said firmly. “It’s still several hours before we can leave for the glade. What do we do now?”

A purely masculine smile curved Fletch’s lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Samantha’s breathing quickened. It was
going to happen again, that wonderful, fiery magic. “Yes?”

He reached out and touched her cheek with caressing fingertips. “I suggest we—” He stopped, studying her eager face. The sensuality slowly faded from his expression, and his hand fell away from her face. “What do you usually do to while away the time?”

Samantha tried to mask her disappointment with a careless shrug. “I work on one of my statues or read a book. I have an entire trunk filled with paperback books, if you’d like to take a look at them.”

“I don’t think so.” He stood and picked up the lantern. “I’m restless. I think I’ll go exploring. You said there were several other rooms like this one in the cavern?”

She nodded. “You’re going away? Perhaps I’d better come with you. You might get lost or—” She broke off when she saw he was shaking his head. She nibbled at her lower lip. “Will you be gone long?”

“I don’t know. But don’t worry if I’m not back for several hours.” He turned away.

“Fletch?”