The Right Path Part 3

"Alex," Morgan began with a smile for his indulgence of his wife. "I can't simply move in as a companion, no matter how much both of us love Liz." "You're stil dedicated to your job at the U.N.?" His tone had altered slightly, but Morgan sensed the change. It was business now.

"I like my work. I'm good at it, and I need the chal enge."

"I'm a generous employer, Morgan, particularly to one with your capabilities." He took another long, slow drag, studying her through the mist of smoke. "I asked you to come work for me three years ago. If I hadn't been"-he glanced down at Liz's sleeping figure- "distracted"-he decided with a mild smile-"I would have taken more time to convince you to accept."

"Distracted?" Liz pushed her sungla.s.ses up to her forehead and peered at him from under them.

"Eavesdropping," Morgan said with a sniff. A uniformed steward set three iced drinks on the table. She lifted one and drank. "Your manners always were appal ing."

"You have a few weeks yet to think it over, Morgan." Tenacity beneath a smooth delivery was one of Alex's most successful business tactics. "But I warn you, Liz wil be more persistent with her other solution." He shrugged, reaching for his own drink. "And I must agree-a woman needs a husband and security."

"How very Greek of you," Morgan commented dryly.

His grin flashed without apology. "I'm afraid one of Liz's candidates wil be delayed. Dorian won't join us until tomorrow. He's bringing my cousin Iona with him."

"Marvelous." Liz's response was drenched in sarcasm. Alex sent her a frown.

"Liz isn't fond of Iona, but she's family." The quiet look he sent his wife told Morgan the subject had been discussed before. "I have a responsibility." Liz took the last gla.s.s with a sigh of acceptance. Briefly she touched her hand to his. "We have a responsibility," she corrected.

"Iona's welcome." Alex's frown turned into a look of love so quickly, Morgan gave a mock groan. "Don't you two ever fight? I mean, don't you realize it isn't healthy to be so wel balanced?"

Liz's eyes danced over the rim of her gla.s.s. "We have our moments, I suppose. A week ago I was furious with him for at least-ah, fifteen minutes." "That," Morgan said positively, "is disgusting."

"So," Alex mused, "you think a man and woman must fight to be ... healthy?" Shaking back her hair, Morgan laughed. "I have to fight to be healthy." "Morgan, you haven't mentioned Jack at al . Is there a problem?"

"Liz." Alex's disapproval was clear in the single syl able.

"No, it's al right, Alex." Taking her gla.s.s, Morgan rose and moved to the rail. "It's not a problem," she said slowly. "At least I hope it's not." She stared into her drink, frowning, as if she wasn't quite sure what the gla.s.s contained. "I've been running on this path-this very straight, very defined path. I could run it blindfolded." With a quick laugh, Morgan leaned out on the rail to let the wind grab at her hair. "Suddenly, I discovered it wasn't a path, but a rut and it kept getting deeper. I decided to change course before it became a pit."

"You always did prefer an obstacle course," Liz murmured. But she was pleased with Jack's disposal, and took little trouble to hide it. The sea churned in a white froth behind the boat. Morgan turned from her study of it. "I don't intend to fal at Dorian's feet, Liz-or anyone else you might have in mind-just because Jack and I are no longer involved."

"I should hope not," Liz returned with some spirit. "That would take al the fun out of it." With a sigh of exasperated affection, Morgan turned back to the rail.

The stark mountains of Lesbos rose from the sea. Jagged, harsh, timeless. Morgan could make out the pure white lines of Alex's vil a. She thought it looked like a virgin offering to the G.o.ds-cool, cla.s.sic, certainly feminine. Higher stil was a rambling gray structure which seemed hewn from the rock itself. It faced the sea; indeed, it loomed over it. As if chal enging Poseidon to claim it, it clung to the cliff. Morgan saw it as arrogant, rough, masculine.

The flowering vines which grew al around it didn't soften the appearance, but added a haunted kind of beauty.

There were other buildings-a white-washed vil age, snuggled cottages, one or two other houses on more sophisticated lines, but the two larger structures hovered over the rest. One was elegant; one was savage.

"Who does that belong to?" Morgan cal ed over her shoulder. "It's incredible."

Fol owing her gaze, Liz grinned and rose to join her. "I should have known that would appeal to you. Sometimes I'd swear it's alive. Nicholas Gregoras, olive oil, and more recently, import-export." She glanced at her friend's profile. "Maybe I'l include him for dinner tomorrow if he's free, though I don't think he's your type."

Morgan gave her a dry look. "Oh? And what is my type?"

"Someone who'l give you plenty to fight about. Who'l give you that obstacle course."

"Hmm. You know me too wel ."

"As for Nick, he's rather smooth and certainly a charmer." Liz tapped a fingernail against the rail as she considered. "Not as blatantly handsome as Dorian, but he has a rather basic sort of s.e.x appeal. Earthier, and yet ..." She trailed off, narrowing her eyes she tried to pigeonhole him. "Wel , he's an odd one. I suppose he'd have to be to live in a house like that. He's in his early thirties, inherited the olive oil empire almost ten years ago. Then he branched into import-export. He seems to have a flair for it. Alex is very fond of him because they go back to short pants together."

"Liz, I only wanted to know who owned the house. I didn't ask for a biography." "Liz, I only wanted to know who owned the house. I didn't ask for a biography."

"These facts are part of the service." She cupped her hands around her lighter and lit a cigarette. "I want to give you a clear picture of your options." "Haven't you got a goatherd up your sleeve?" Morgan demanded. "I rather like the idea of a smal , white-washed cottage and baking black bread." "I'l see what I can do."

"I don't suppose it occurs to you or Alex that I'm content to be single-the modern, capable woman on her own? I know how to use a screwdriver, how to change a flat tire ..."

" 'Methinks she doth protest too much,' " Liz quoted mildly. "Liz-"

"I love you, Morgan."

On a frustrated sigh, Morgan lifted her drink again. "d.a.m.n it, Liz," she murmured.

"Come on, let me have my fun," she coaxed, giving Morgan a friendly pat on the cheek. "As you said yourself, it's al up to fate anyway." "Hoist by my own petard. Al right, bring on your Dorians and your Nicks and your Lysanders."

"Lysander?"

"It's a good name for a goatherd."

With a chuckle, Liz flicked her cigarette into the churning water. "Just wait and see if I don't find one."

"Liz ..." Morgan hesitated for a moment, then asked casual y, "do many people use the beach where we swam yesterday?"

"Hmm? Oh." She tucked a pale blond strand behind her ear. "Not real y. It's used by us and the Gregoras vil a for the most part. I'd have to ask Alex who owns it, I've never given it any thought. The bay's secluded and only easily accessible by the beach steps which run between the properties. Oh, yes, there's a cottage Nick owns which he rents out occasional y," she remembered. "It's occupied now by an American. Stevens ... no," she corrected herself.

"Stevenson. Andrew Stevenson, a poet or a painter or something. I haven't met him yet." She gave Morgan a frank stare. "Why? Did you plan for an al over tan?"

"Just curious." Morgan rearranged her thoughts. If she was going to file it and forget it, she had to stop letting the incident play back in her mind. "I'd love to get a close look at that place." She gestured toward the gray vil a. "I think the architect must have been just a little mad. It's fabulous."

"Use some charm on Nick and get yourself an invitation," Liz suggested.

"I might just do that." Morgan studied the vil a consideringly. She wondered if Nick Gregoras was the man whose footsteps she had heard when she had been held in the bushes. "Yes, I might just."

That evening, Morgan left the balcony doors wide. She wanted the warmth and scents of the night. The house was quiet but for the single stroke of a clock that signaled the hour. For the second night in a row she was wide awake. Did people real y sleep on vacations? she wondered. What a waste of time.

She sat at the smal rosewood desk in her room, writing a letter. From somewhere between the house and the sea, an owl cried out twice. She paused to listen, hoping it would cal again, but there was only silence. How could she describe how it felt to see Mount Olympus rising from the sea? Was it possible to describe the timelessness, the strength, the almost frightening beauty?

She shrugged, and did what she could to explain the sensation to her father on paper. He'd understand, she mused as she folded the stationery. Who understood better her sometimes whimsical streaks of fancy than the man she'd inherited them from? And, she thought with a lurking smile, he'd get a good chuckle at Liz's determination to marry her off and keep her in Greece.

She rose, stretched once, then turned and col ided with a hard chest. The hand that covered her mouth used more gentleness this time, and the jet eyes laughed into hers. Her heart rose, then fel like an elevator with its cable clipped.

"Kalespera, Aphrodite. Your word that you won't scream, and you have your freedom."

Instinctively she tried to jerk away, but he held her stil without effort, only lifting an ironic brow. He was a man who knew whose word to accept and whose word to doubt.

Morgan struggled for another moment, then finding herself outmatched, reluctantly nodded. He released her immediately.

She drew in the breath to shout, then let it out in a frustrated huff. A promise was a promise, even if it was to a devil. "How did you get in here?" she demanded.

"The vines to your balcony are st.u.r.dy."

"You climbed?" Her incredulity was laced with helpless admiration. The wal s were sheer, the height was dizzying. "You must be mad." "That's a possibility,"

he said with a careless smile.

He seemed none the worse for wear after the climb. His hair was disheveled, but then she'd never seen it otherwise. There was a shadow of beard on his chin. His eyes held no strain or fatigue, but rather a light of adventure that drew her no matter how hard she tried to resist. In the lamplight she could see him more clearly than she had the night before. His features weren't as harsh as she had thought and his mouth wasn't grim. It was real y quite beautiful, she realized with a flood of annoyance.

"What do you want?"

He smiled again, letting his gaze roam down her leisurely with an insolence she knew wasn't contrived but inherent. She wore only a brief cinnamon-colored teddy that dipped low at the breast and rose high at the thighs. Morgan noted the look, and that he stood squarely between her and the closet where she had left her robe. Rather than acknowledge the disadvantage, she tilted her chin.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"It's my business to find things out," he answered. Silently, he approved more than her form, but her courage as wel . "Morgan James," he began. "Visiting friend of Elizabeth Theoharis. American, living in New York. Unmarried. Employed at the U.N. as interpreter. You speak Greek, English, French, Italian and Russian."

She tried not to let her mouth fal open at his careless rundown on her life. "That's a very tidy summary," she said tightly. "Thank you. I try to be succinct."

"What does any of that have to do with you?"