"He'd be a nice diversion for you," Liz mused, unscathed. "But he's from the genteel-poor side of Nick's family. I rather fancy seeing you set up in style.

Then again," she continued as Morgan sighed, "he'd be nice company for you ...

for a while." Dead on cue, Andrew strol ed into the courtyard. "Hel o. I hope I'm not intruding."

"Why, no!" Liz gave him a delighted smile. "Neighboring poets are always welcome."

He grinned, a flash of boyishness. With that, he went up several notches on Liz's list. "Actual y, I was worried about Morgan." Bending over, he cupped her chin and studied her. "It was such an awful morning, I wanted to see how you were doing. I hope you don't mind." His eyes were dark blue, like the water in the bay-and with the same serenity.

"I don't." She touched the back of his hand. "At al . I'm real y fine. I was just tel ing Liz I hadn't even thanked you for everything you did." "You're stil pale."

His concern made her smile. "A New York winter has something to do with that."

"Determined to be courageous?" he asked with a tilted smile.

"Determined to do a better job of it than I did this morning."

"I kind of liked the way you held on to me." He gave her hand a light squeeze. "I want to steal her for an evening," he told Liz, shifting his gaze from Morgan's face. "Can you help me convince her a diversion is what she needs?"

"You have my ful support."

"Come have dinner with me in the vil age." He bent down to Morgan again. "Some local color, a bottle of ouzo, and a witty companion. What more could you ask for?"

"What a marvelous idea!" Liz warmed to Andrew and the scheme. "It's just what you need, Morgan."

Amused, Morgan wondered if she should just let them pat each other on the back for a while.

But it was what she needed-to get away from the house and the doubts. She smiled at Andrew. "What time should I be ready?"

His grin flashed again. "How about six? I'l give you a tour of the vil age. Nick gave me carte blanche with his Fiat while I'm here, so you won't have to ride on an a.s.s."

Because her teeth were tight again, Morgan relaxed her jaw. "I'l be ready."

The sun was high over the water when Nick set his boat toward the open sea. He gave it plenty of throttle, wanting the speed and the slap of the wind.

d.a.m.n the woman! he thought on a new surge of frustration. Seething, he tossed the b.u.t.t of a slender black cigarette into the churning waves. If she'd stay in bed instead of wandering on beaches at ridiculous hours, al of this could have been avoided. The memory of the plea in her voice, the horror in her eyes flashed over him. He could stil feel the way she had clung to him, needing him.

He cursed her savagely and urged more speed from the motor.

Shifting his thoughts, Nick concentrated on the dead man. Anthony Stevos, he mused, scowling into the sun. He knew the fisherman wel enough- what he had occasional y fished for-and the Athens phone number he had found deep inside Stevos's pants pocket.

Stevos had been a stupid, greedy man, Nick thought dispa.s.sionately. Now he was a dead one.

How long would it take Tripolos to rule out the vil age brawl and hit on the truth? Not long enough, Nick decided. He was going to have to bring matters to a head a bit sooner than he had planned.

"Nicky, why are you looking so mean?" Iona cal ed to him over the motor's roar. Automatical y, he smoothed his features.

"I was thinking about that pile of paperwork on my desk." Nick cut the motor off and let the boat drift in its own wake. "I shouldn't have let you talk me into taking the afternoon off."

Iona moved to where he sat. Her skin glistened, oiled slick, against a very brief bikini. Her bosom spil ed over in invitation. She had a ripe body, rounded and ful and arousing. Nick felt no stir as she swung her hips moving toward him.

"Agapetikos, we'l have to take your mind off business matters." She wound herself into his lap and pressed against him.

He kissed her mechanical y, knowing that, after the bottle of champagne she'd drunk, she'd never know the difference. But her taste lingered unpleasantly on his lips. He thought of Morgan, and with a silent, furious oath, crushed his mouth against Iona's.

"Mmm." She preened like a stroked cat. "Your mind isn't on your paperwork now, Nicky. Tel me you want me. I need a man who wants me." "Is there a man alive who wouldn't want a woman such as you?" He ran a hand down her back as her mouth searched greedily for his. "A devil," she muttered with a slurred laugh. "Only a devil. Take me, Nicky." Her head fel back, revealing eyes half closed and dul ed by wine. "Make love to me here, in the open, in the sun."

And he might have to, he thought with a grinding disgust in his stomach. To get what he needed. But first, he would coax what he could from her while she was vulnerable.

"Tel me, matia mou," he murmured, tasting the curve of her neck while she busily undid the b.u.t.tons of his shirt. "What do you know of this smuggling between Lesbos and Turkey?"

Nick felt her stiffen, but her response-and, he knew, her wits-were dul ed by the champagne. In her state of mind, he thought, it wouldn't take much more to loosen her tongue.

She'd been ready to snap for days. Deliberately, he traced his tongue across her skin and felt her sigh.

"Nothing," she said quickly and fumbled more desperately at his b.u.t.tons. "I know nothing of such things."

"Come, Iona," he murmured seductively. She was a completely physical woman, one who ran on sensations alone. Between wine and s.e.x and her own nerves, she'd talk to him. "You know a great deal. As a businessman"-he nipped at her earlobe-"I'm interested in greater profit. You won't deny me a few extra drachmas, wil you?"

"A few mil ion," she murmured, and put her hand on his to show him what she wanted. "Yes, there's much I know." "And much you'l tel me?" he asked. "Come, Iona. You and the thought of mil ions excite me."

"I know the man that stupid woman found this morning was murdered because he was greedy."

Nick forced himself not to tense. "But greed is so difficult to resist." He went with her as she stretched ful length on the bench. "Do you know who murdered him, Iona?" She was slipping away from him, losing herself to the excess of champagne. On a silent oath, Nick nipped at her skin to bring her back.

"I don't like murder, Nicky," she mumbled, "and I don't like talking to the police even more."

She reached for him, but her hands fumbled. "I'm tired of being used," she said pettishly, then added, "Perhaps it's time to change al egiance. You're rich, Nicky. I like money. I need money."

"Doesn't everyone?" Nick asked dryly.

"Later, we'l talk later. I'l tel you." Her mouth was greedy on his. Forcing everything from his mind, Nick struggled to find some pa.s.sion, even the pretense of pa.s.sion, in return. G.o.d, he needed a woman; his body ached for one. And he needed Iona. But as he felt her sliding toward unconsciousness, he did nothing to revive her.

Later, as Iona slept in the sun, Nick leaned over the opposite rail and lit a cigarette from the b.u.t.t of another. The clinging distaste both infuriated and depressed him. He knew that he would have to use Iona, be used by her-if not this time, then eventual y. He had to tap her knowledge to learn what he wanted to know. It was a matter of his own safety-and his success. The second had always been more important to him than the first.

If he had to be Iona's lover to gain his own end, then he'd be her lover. It meant nothing.

Swearing, he drew deeply on the cigarette. It meant nothing, he repeated. It was business.

He found he wanted a shower, a long one, something to cleanse himself of the dirt which wouldn't wash away. Years of dirt, years of lies. Why had he never felt imprisoned by them until now?

Morgan's face slipped into his mind. Her eyes were cold. Flinging the cigarette out to sea, he went back to the wheel and started the engine.

Chapter Seven

During a leisurely drink after a leisurely tour, Morgan decided the vil age was perfect. White-washed houses huddled close together, some with pil ars, some with arches, stil others with tiny wooden balconies. The tidiness, the freshness of white should have lent an air of newness. Instead, the vil age seemed old and timeless and permanent.

She sat with Andrew at a waterfront kafenion, watching the fishing boats sway at the docks, and the men who spread their nets to dry.

The fishermen ranged from young boys to old veterans. Al were bronzed, al worked together. There were twelve to each net-twenty-four hands, some wrinkled and gnarled, some smooth with youth. Al strong. As they worked they shouted and laughed in routine companionship.

"Must have been a good catch," Andrew commented. He watched Morgan's absorption with the smal army of men near the water's edge.

"You know, I've been thinking." She ran a finger down the side of her gla.s.s.

"They al seem so fit and st.u.r.dy. Some of those men are wel past what we consider retirement age in the States. I suppose they'l sail until they die. A life on the water must be a very satisfying existence." Pirates ... would she ever stop thinking of pirates?