Tempestuous Eden (3 page)

A budding Cronkite,
Blair thought dryly. Her life hadn’t left her overly fond of reporters. Some were responsible professionals, but she had also met those devoid of sensitivity or a sense of responsibility about getting the facts straight.

Blair listened idly while Dr. Hardy droned on in bored, clipped tones, bluntly refusing to give an opinion on anything that involved the politics of this remote, ravaged country, no matter how the young Cronkite persisted. The interview didn’t last long; Dr. Hardy knew his place in life; he knew what he wanted, what he was doing. No reporter was going to twist anything out of him except the mundane truth—the Hunger Crew had one purpose, and one purpose only: to bring relief to the civil victims of disaster.

The young reporter was obviously discouraged. Dr. Hardy turned away even before the man had climbed into the jeep. Ready to take the short walk back, Blair suddenly froze instead. Apparently the man had spotted her hair through the trees. Instinct was pulling him out of the jeep again, and in her direction.

Blinding, bitter memories of the press kept her feet still when she should have been moving. The reporter didn’t know who she was yet, but if he came any closer …

Her feet had almost begun to move when immobility assailed her again, this time from surprise.

“Where do you think you’re going?”
A deep voice leaped out at the reporter, spinning him in his tracks.

Blair glanced swiftly from the reporter to the unknown man issuing the curt demand. He was another stranger, a man to fit the voice, so tall that his tawny head would brush the peak of their tents. He wasn’t looking at her, but at the bothersome visitor, his yellow stare a tangible thing that fixed the reporter where he stood. There was a definitive aura of danger to the tall, tawny man, an essence of quiet power that seemed to radiate throughout the compound. Blair could well understand the reporter’s hesitance to take another step.

Suddenly the stranger looked her way and she met his eyes. A slight smile of understanding twitched the corners of his lips and then he turned his attention back to the reporter, who was saying he’d like to interview a few more members of the crew, particularly the woman disappearing into the jungle.

Blair listened while the stranger stated firmly that the woman had no desire to be interviewed. There had been something in those topaz eyes that had met her briefly, an empathy that went beyond the timely protection he offered. He was a man she knew instantly that she was going to like, and yet also … fear. His entire bearing was too openly masculine, assured, imposing. His eyes were too knowing.

She wasn’t sure what was being said anymore, but the stranger gave the reporter a wicked grin, one that didn’t touch his piercing eyes. Blair held back a chuckle as she saw the cool, swaggering reporter—not so cool or swaggering anymore—duck by his brawny adversary and hightail it back to his jeep. The vehicle roared into quick action, coughing and sputtering, ripped into gear, and skidded off into the direction from, whence it had come.

Yellow eyes flicked at her briefly through the trees and once more met hers. Bemused and compelled, Blair smiled back and began to make her short return trip through the foliage.

She came to him in the compound and for a moment they both stared at each other, smiling over the reporter’s hasty exit.

“Ms. Morgan,” the man said with an easy grin.

For some reason, they both broke into laughter at the same time. Blair offered her hand to him, surprised at the little constriction that circled her heart.

He wasn’t the handsomest man she had ever come across—his features were far too severe—but he was certainly the most striking. His unusual eyes seemed to exude a fiery power; she was sure no one who had seen his gaze could have ever forgotten it.

“I’m at the disadvantage,” Blair told him, wryly feeling the unintended double entendre. She was a medium five foot five; the man stood a good head above her. “You know who I am, but”—she grinned bluntly—“but who are you?”

“Craig Taylor.” He smiled in return. “I was to introduce myself, but I stumbled into your little predicament. I’m one of the new recruits.”

“Oh,” Blair murmured, shielding puzzled eyes with thick lashes that matched the dark flame of her hair. Like Dr. Hardy, she was thinking that the man simply didn’t fit, although, unlike the reporter, he did know how to dress for a mucky jungle. His jeans were worn, but made of heavy duty, work-weight denim. His shirt was breathable cotton, a standard blue work shirt. Peeking at the ragged hem of his jeans, she saw a commendable pair of sturdy boots.

“Do I fit the bill?” he asked dryly.

Blair flushed, and her eyes flew back to his, which were flashing a golden amusement. She had definitely been caught in the act of assessment. “Yes,” she mumbled hastily, then grimaced. “No. Actually,” she told him bluntly, “you look like a cross between Tom Selleck and a leftover from the Haight-Ashbury days.”

He laughed easily. “I think I’m supposed to thank you for the first, and as to the second—leftover—huh!”

“Craig!”

The call came from the doctor’s med tent before Blair could respond.

“I think I’m being paged. I’ll see you later and you can give me proper thanks.” He grinned with a devastating charm that made his devilish features beguiling. “I did save you from the one fate worse than death—a reporter!”

Suddenly feeling a little on the defensive, and abruptly aware that the man could be dangerous in a way she hadn’t previously suspected, Blair crossed her arms over her chest and unconsciously adjusted her casual stance to a straighter, more dignified one. “I appreciated your timely arrival.” She frowned. “But I was fully capable of handling the situation myself.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Did she detect a subtle shadowing in those yellow eyes? A dry bitterness in his tone? No, he was still smiling easily.

“Okay,” he joked, “I exaggerated. Will I see you at dinner?”

“Around here,” she replied ruefully, “there really isn’t a tremendous choice.”

“We all eat together, huh?”

“More or less.”

Craig rubbed a firm chin hinting of stubble as if he were in deep contemplation. “Save me a seat—or ground space—beside you.”

Blair smiled, relaxing her guard slightly at the earnestness of his appeal. And admittedly he was intriguingly attractive. She couldn’t deny that her heart fluttered more quickly in his imposing presence, or that her breathing quickened by more than a pace. It had been a long time since she had been so touched by a man, if she had ever experienced such an instant reaction. If she were as smart as she felt herself to be, she would steer clear of him immediately. If this little encounter was stirring long-dormant senses …

But it would be impossible to really steer clear of anyone in the unit, or so she argued. And despite her fairy-tale marriage and the shattering tragedy, she didn’t consider herself an emotional cripple. He was a fascinating man. She would like to get to know him.

“Sure,” she murmured, the nonchalance of her comment marred slightly by the warm tint that rose to her cheeks again. “I’ll save you a place.”

“Thanks,” he grinned, pausing in a lithe movement to add, “and if you tell me what Blair Morgan is doing in this godforsaken place, I’ll tell you why Craig Taylor is here.”

“Well,” Blair hedged, “we’ll see.”

“Yes, we will, won’t we?”

Searing yellow eyes held hers an instant longer, then he waved nonchalantly and his tawny-headed height and breadth strolled away with leisurely assurance.

Blair stared after him for a moment, pondering her unease. She was terribly attracted to him, alarmingly so. But despite his easy banter, she sensed a tension in him, a powerful energy that simply didn’t jell.

He was clearly an intelligent man; his eyes absorbed everything they pierced. But he was also starkly physical, a man of action.

What was he doing in the jungle? Would the stories she received tonight be any more honest than the ones she would tell?

It was obvious he knew she was Ray Teile’s widow. Why else shield her from a reporter? But he didn’t look like a reporter looking for a scoop himself. Was he showing her a special interest?

Perhaps he knew of her father?

The night should, at least, she decided, prove interesting.

T
HAT NIGHT, THOUGH BLAIR
did make good on her promise, Craig did not join the group for dinner until most everyone had finished. Odd, Blair thought, for his first night with the crew. But perhaps his work during the day had tired him out. Then there was the change in climate to contend with; the steamy rain forest heat was capable of sapping the strength from even the fittest specimen.
Even
from Craig Taylor, she thought, smiling to herself. How many nights had she returned to her tent after a long hot day, too exhausted to eat or even talk? Too bone weary to do anything but sleep.

Though he did sit down beside her, favoring her with a special smile in greeting, Craig talked and joked easily with everyone. He seemed totally relaxed in their company, as if he had been with the crew for months instead of merely hours. He was charming them, Blair noted, just as he had charmed her earlier in the day.

Instead of joining the others at the fireside after the meal was cleared, Craig was the first to say good night and return to his tent. Blair had expected … Well, what had she really expected? She stretched out wearily on her cot and stared up at the low canvas ceiling of her tent, her eyes just becoming adjusted to the dark. Had she expected to be singled out by this man? To be joined at the fireside and maneuvered into a private conversation? Yes, she had to admit that she’d expected the evening to go that way. Now that it hadn’t happened at all like that, she didn’t know whether she felt relieved or disappointed.

Blair found that his behavior toward her that first night was to set the pattern for the following days. Though she did catch sight of him as they both moved around the complex on their assigned duties, they didn’t have a chance to speak at all, except during dinner. From the little she observed of him at work, she did have to admit that whatever his reason for joining their crew, he did it wholeheartedly. The unloading of the vehicles usually took two workers the majority of the week to complete. Craig Taylor was managing nicely by himself in what would be the same amount of time, or less.

On those nights when she did speak to him at dinner, or at the fireside afterward, he certainly wasn’t standoffish, yet Blair sensed nothing more in his feelings toward her than friendly interest. He certainly showed her no more attention than he showed to any other member of the crew. He had yet to make good on his promise to explain why he joined the crew. But she decided not to pursue it. Inexplicably drawn to this man, Blair was still aware of some instinctual suspicion or even fear that his disturbing presence aroused in her. He was right in every way; yet, she did not trust him.

On Friday afternoon he had stripped off his shirt, and in passing him Blair had surprisingly shared her father’s impression—the man should have been a prize fighter.

Perhaps not. He was excessively tall, six-three or six-four, if her estimation was correct, but not quite heavy enough for a fighter. His muscles, rippling golden beneath a merciless sun, were not massive or unwieldy, but rather tight coils of sleek, enduring iron. His abdomen was as tight as a drum. His shoulders were broad, but narrowed to his waistline like a triangle. His chest was thickly tangled with tawny hair that burnished and glistened in the rays of the sun, and when he glanced at her to give her a quick smile, she caught sight of his yellow eyes again. She smiled in return, but her unease tingled her flesh. The smile softened features that could best be described as severe, rugged, and craggy, but those features, coupled with the compelling eyes and startlingly powerful physique, suddenly gave her the impression that she was facing a lion, supreme in his own might, lord of his territory. He moved with assured, controlled tension, yet she felt he contained a leashed force that could explode upon the unwary at any time, and God help that unfortunate prey. A lion, stalking his victims playfully until the pounce.

“Stop ogling, Blair,” someone whispered in her ear. “It’s rather impolite …”

Blair spun around guiltily at the tap on her shoulder. Kate was staring at her with a mischievous smile. “I wasn’t ogling,” Blair protested dryly. “I was wondering what the hell he’s doing here.”

“Okay,” Kate laughed. “You wonder,
I’ll
ogle!”

“Seriously Kate—”

“Oh, Blair, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Blair raised speculative brows in an arch of wisdom. “What about a Trojan horse? He just doesn’t look as if he belongs here.”

Kate laughed ruefully and gave her friend a wry assessment. “And you do?” Devoid of makeup, her dark flame hair in a knot, her slender figure covered in well-worn jeans and a plain brown work shirt, Blair was still strikingly lovely and still exuded an air of breeding and regal poise.

“Oh, brother!” Blair murmured in defeat. She couldn’t really explain her feelings to herself; it would be impossible to get them through to Kate. She waved briefly as she headed toward the med tent. “See you later. I have a whole pack of trusting little souls awaiting my tender touch with a needle.”

Kate sniffed, calling, “Lucky you. I’m on lice squad.”

Laughing, Blair hurried back. She had been staring—ogling, wondering, speculating, whatever!—longer than she had meant to. The tent was filled with scared little faces, all watching her with wide brown soulful eyes that proclaimed her the wolf and they the lambs for slaughter.

She paused for a second at the tent flap, filled with anger and steeling herself for the task. It was the children who were always hurt, she thought. Generals waged self-righteous campaigns, shouting the valiant triumph of victory. The children lost their homes, their parents, their limbs. Sometimes they lost their lives.

Blair didn’t give a damn what set of guerrillas claimed power. She lived in the political arena all her life and learned the sad truth that the best man didn’t necessarily win, nor even the most powerful.