Her plans to go immediately to her room before she could snarl at anyone were tossed to the winds by a cal and a wave from Dorian. "Morgan, come join us."

Fixing on a smile, Morgan strol ed out to the terrace. Iona was with him sprawled on a lounge in a hot-pink playsuit that revealed long, shapely legs but covered her arms with white lace cuffs at the wrists. She sent Morgan a languid greeting, then went back to her sulky study of the gulf. Morgan felt the tension hovering in the air and wondered if it had been there before or if she had brought it with her.

"Alex is on a transatlantic cal ," Dorian told her as he held out a chair. "And Liz is dealing with some domestic crisis in the kitchen."

"Without an interpreter?" Morgan asked. She smiled, tel ing herself Nick wasn't going to ruin her mood and make her as sulky as Alex's cousin. "It's ridiculous."

Iona gestured for Dorian to light her cigarette. "Liz should simply fire the man.

Americans are habitual y casual with servants." "Are they?" Morgan felt her back go up at the slur on her friend and her nationality. "I wouldn't know."

Iona's dark eyes flicked over her briefly. "I don't imagine you've had many dealings with servants."

Before Morgan could retort, Dorian stepped in calmly. "Tel me, Morgan, what did you think of Nick's treasure trove?"

The expression in his eyes asked her to overlook Iona's bad manners, and told her something she'd begun to suspect the night before. He's in love with her, she mused, and felt a stab of pity. With an effort, Morgan relaxed her spine. "It's a wonderful place, like a museum without being regimented or stiff. It must have taken him years to col ect al those things."

"Nick's quite a businessman," Dorian commented. Another look pa.s.sed between him and Morgan. This time she saw it was grat.i.tude. "And, of course, he uses his knowledge and position to secure the best pieces for himself."

"There was a Swiss music box," she remembered. "He said it was over a hundred years old. It played Fur Elise." Morgan sighed, at ease again. "I 'd kil for it."

"Nick's a generous man-when approached in the proper manner." Iona's smile was sharp as a knife. Morgan turned her head and met it.

"I wouldn't know anything about that either," she said cool y. Deliberately, she turned back to Dorian. "I met Nick's cousin earlier this morning." "Ah, yes, the young poet from America."

"He said he wanders al over this part of the island. I'm thinking of doing the same myself. It's such a simple, peaceful place. I suppose that's why I was so stunned when Alex said there was a problem with smuggling."

Dorian merely smiled as if amused. Iona stiffened. As Morgan watched, the color drained from her face, leaving it strained and cold and anything but beautiful.

Surprised by the reaction, Morgan studied her careful y. Why, she's afraid, she realized. Now why would that be?

"A dangerous business," Dorian commented conversational y. Since his eyes were on Morgan, Iona's reaction went unnoticed by him. "But common enough- traditional in fact."

"An odd tradition," Morgan murmured.

"The network of patrols is very large, I'm told, and closely knotted. As I recal , five men were kil ed last year, gunned down off the Turkish coast." He lit a cigarette of his own. "The authorities confiscated quite a cache of opium."

"How terrible." Morgan noticed that Iona's pal or increased.

"Just peasants and fishermen," he explained with a shrug. "Not enough intel igence between them to have organized a large smuggling ring. I t's rumored the leader is bril iant and ruthless. From the stories pa.s.sed around in the vil age, he goes along on runs now and then, but wears a mask. Apparently, not even his cohorts know who he is. It might even be a woman." He flashed a grin at the idea.

"I suppose that adds an element of romance to the whole business."

Iona rose and dashed from the terrace. "You must forgive her." Dorian sighed as his eyes fol owed her. "She's a moody creature."

"She seemed upset."

"Iona's easily upset," he murmured. "Her nerves ..." "You care for her quite a lot."

His gaze came back to lock on Morgan's before he rose and strode to the railing.

"I'm sorry, Dorian," Morgan began immediately. "I didn't mean to pry."

"No, forgive me." He turned back and the sun streamed over his face, gleaming off the bronzed skin, combing through his burnished gold hair. Adonis, Morgan thought again, and for the second time since she had come to Lesbos wished she could paint. "My feelings for Iona are ... difficult and, I had thought, more cleverly concealed."

"I'm sorry," Morgan said again, helplessly.

"She's spoiled, wil ful." With a laugh, Dorian shook his head. "What is it that makes one person lose his heart to another?" Morgan looked away at the question. "I don't know. I wish I did."

"Now I've made you sad." Dorian sat back down beside Morgan and took her hands. "Don't pity me. Sooner or later, what's between Iona and me wil be resolved. I'm a patient man." He smiled then, his eyes gleaming with confidence.

"For now, we'l talk of something else. I have to confess, I 'm fascinated by the smuggling legends."

"Yes. It is interesting. You said the rumor is that no one, not even the men who work for him, know who the leader is." "That's the story. Whenever I'm on Lesbos, I keep hoping to stumble across some clue that would unmask him."

Morgan murmured something as her thoughts turned uncomfortably to Nick. "Yet you don't seem terribly concerned about the smuggling itself."

"Ah, the smuggling." Dorian moved his shoulders. "That's something for the authorities to worry about. But the thril of the hunt, Morgan." His eyes gleamed as they moved past her. "The thril of the hunt."

"You wouldn't believe it!" Liz bustled out and plopped into a chair. "A half-hour with a temperamental Greek cook. I'd rather face a firing squad. Give me a cigarette, Dorian." Her smile and everyday complaint made the subject of smuggling absurd. "So tel me, Morgan, how did you like Nick's house?"

Pink streaks joined sky and sea as dawn bloomed. The air was warm and moist.

After a restless night, it was the best of beginnings.

Morgan strol ed along the water's edge and listened to the first serenading of birds. This was the way she had planned to spend her vacation-strol ing along the beach, watching sunrises, relaxing. Isn't that what her father and Liz had drummed into her head?

Relax, Morgan. Get off the treadmill for a while. You never give yourself any slack.

She could almost laugh at the absurdity. But then, neither Liz nor her father had counted on Nicholas Gregoras.

He was an enigma, and she couldn't find the key. His involvement in smuggling was like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that wouldn't quite fit. Morgan had never been able to tolerate half-finished puzzles. She scuffed her sandals in the sand. He was simply not a man she could categorize, and she wanted badly to shake the need to try.

On the other hand, there was Iona. Morgan saw the puzzle there as wel . Alex's sulky cousin was more than a woman with an annoying personality. There was some inner agitation-something deep and firmly rooted. And Alex knows something of it, she mused. Dorian, too, unless she missed her guess. But what?

And how much? Iona's reaction to talk of smuggling had been a sharp contrast to both Alex's and Dorian's. They'd been resigned-even amused.

Iona had been terrified. Terrified of discovery? Morgan wondered. But that was absurd.

Shaking her head, Morgan pushed the thought aside. This morning she was going to do what she had come to Greece to do. Nothing. At least, nothing strenuous.

She was going to look for shel s, she decided, and after rol ing up the hem of her jeans, splashed into a shal ow inlet.

They were everywhere. The bank of sand and the shal ow water were glistening with them. Some had been crushed underfoot or beaten smooth by the slow current. Crouching, she stuffed the pockets of her jacket with the best of them.

She noticed the stub of a black cigarette half-buried in the sand. So, Alex comes this way, she thought with a smile. Morgan could see Liz and her husband strol ing hand in hand through the shal ows.

As the sun grew higher, Morgan became more engrossed. If only I'd brought a tote, she thought, then shrugged and began to pile shel s in a heap to retrieve later.

She'd have them in a bowl on her windowsil at home. Then, whenever she was trapped indoors on a cold, rainy afternoon, she could look at them and remember Greek sunshine.

There were dozens of gul s. They flapped around her, circled, and cal ed out.

Morgan found the high, piercing sound the perfect company for a solitary morning. As the time pa.s.sed, she began to find that inner peace she had experienced so briefly on the moonlit beach.

The hunt had taken her a good distance from the beach. Glancing up, she saw, with pleasure, a mouth of a cave. It wasn't large and was nearly hidden from view, but she thought it was ent.i.tled to an exploration. With a frown for her white jeans, Morgan decided to take a peek inside the entrance and come back when she was more suitably dressed. She moved to it with the water sloshing up to her calves. Bending down, she tugged another shel from its bed of sand. As her gaze swept over toward the cave, her hand froze.

The face glistened white in the clear water. Dark eyes stared back at her. Her scream froze in her throat, locked there by terror. She had never seen death before-not unpampered, staring death. Morgan stepped back jerkily, nearly slipping on a rock. As she struggled to regain her balance, her stomach heaved up behind the scream so that she could only gag. Even through the horror, she could feel the pressure of dizziness. She couldn't faint, not here, not with that only a foot away. She turned and fled.

She scrambled and spil ed over rocks and sand. The only clear thought in her head was to get away. On a dead run, breath ragged, she broke from the concealment of the inlet out to the sickle of beach.

Hands gripped her. Blindly, Morgan fought against them with the primitive fear that the thing in the inlet had risen up and come after her. "Stop it! d.a.m.n it, I'l end up hurting you again. Morgan, stop this. What's wrong with you?" She was being shaken roughly. The voice pierced the first layer of shock. She stared and saw Nick's face. "Nicholas?" The dizziness was back and she went limp against him as waves of fear and nausea wracked her. Trembling, she couldn't stop the trembling, but knew she'd be safe now. He was there.

"Nicholas," she managed again as though his name alone was enough to shield her.

Nick caught her tighter and shook her again. Her face was deathly pale, her skin clammy. He'd seen enough of horror to recognize it in her eyes. In a moment, he knew, she'd faint or be hysterical. He couldn't al ow either.

"What happened?" he demanded in a voice that commanded an answer.

Morgan opened her mouth, but found she could only shake her head. She buried her face against her chest in an attempt to block out what she had seen.

Her breath was stil ragged, coming in dry sobs that wouldn't al ow for words.