Nick stopped Morgan's panicked rush toward him with a terse command. "Go back to the vil a and stay there."

"Please," Dorian interrupted with a smile as he got to his feet. "Morgan must stay.

Such an interesting development." He pul ed out his own knife with a flourish.

"She'l be quite a prize for the one who lives."

"Go," Nick ordered again. His hand tensed on the knife. He was half Greek, and Greek enough to have tasted blood when he had seen Dorian strike her.

Morgan saw the look in his eyes. "Nicholas, you can't. He didn't hurt me."

"He left his mark on your face," he said softly, and turned the knife in his hand.

"Stay out of the way." Touching her hand to her cheek, she stumbled back.

They crouched and circled. As she watched, the knives caught the moonlight and held it. Glittering silver, dazzling and beautiful.

At Dorian's first thrust, Morgan covered her mouth to hold back a scream. There was none of the graceful ch.o.r.eography of a staged fight. This was real and deadly. There were no adventurous grins or bold laughs with the thrusts and parries. Both men had death in his eyes. Morgan could smel the sweat and the sweet scent of blood from both of them.

Starlight dappled over their faces, giving them both a ghostly pal or. Al she could hear was the sound of their breathing, the sound of the sea, the sound of steel whistling through the air. Nick was leading him closer to the surf-away from Morgan. Emotion was frozen in him. Anger, such anger, but he knew too much to let it escape. Dorian fought coldly. An empty heart was its own skil .

"I'l pleasure myself with your woman before the night's over," Dorian told him as blade met blade. His lips curved as he saw the quick, naked fury in Nick's eyes.

Morgan watched with horror as a bright stain spread down Nick's sleeve where Dorian had slipped through his guard. She would have screamed, but there was no breath in her. She would have prayed, but even her thoughts were frozen.

The speed with which they came together left her stunned. One moment they were separate, and the next they were locked together as one tangled form.

They rol ed to the sand, a confusion of limbs and knives. She could hear the labored breathing and grunted curses. Then Dorian was on top of him. Morgan watched, numb with terror, as he plunged his knife. It struck the sand, a whisper away from Nick's face. Without thought, Morgan fel on the guns.

Once, the revolver slipped through her wet hands, back onto the sand. Gritting her teeth, she gripped it again. As she knelt, she aimed toward the entwined bodies.

Coldly, wil ing herself to do what she had always despised, she prepared to kil .

A cry split the air, animal and primitive. Not knowing which one of them it had been torn from, Morgan clutched the gun with both hands and kept it aimed on the now motionless heap in the sand. She could stil hear breathing-but only from one. If Dorian stood up, she swore to herself, and to Nick, that she would pul the trigger.

A shadow moved. She heard the labored breathing and pressed her lips together.

Against the trigger, her finger shook lightly. "Put that d.a.m.n thing down, Morgan, before you kil me."

"Nicholas." The gun slipped from her nerveless hand.

He moved to her, limping a little. Reaching down, he drew her to her feet. "What were you doing with the gun, Aphrodite?" he said softly, when he felt her tremble under his hands. "You couldn't have pul ed the trigger."

"Yes." Her eyes met his. "I could."

He stared at her for a moment and saw she was speaking nothing less than the truth. With an oath, he pul ed her against him. "d.a.m.n it, Morgan, why didn't you stay in the vila? I didn't want this for you." "I couldn't stay in the house, not after I heard the shooting."

"Yes, you hear shooting, so natural y you run outside." "What else could I do?"

Nick opened his mouth to swear, then shut it again. "You've stolen my clothes," he said mildly.

He wouldn't be angry with her now, he promised himself as he stroked her hair. Not while she was shaking like a leaf. But later, by G.o.d, later ...

"You took mine first." He couldn't tel if the sound she made was a laugh or a sob. "I thought ..." Suddenly, she felt the warm stickiness against her palm.

Looking down, she saw his blood on her hand. "Oh, G.o.d, Nicholas, you're hurt!" "No, it's nothing, I-"

"Oh, d.a.m.n you for being macho and stupid. You're bleeding!"

He laughed and crushed her to him again. "I'm not being macho and stupid, Aphrodite, but if it makes you happy, you can nurse al of my scratches later.

Now, I need a different sort of medicine." He kissed her before she could argue.

Her fingers gripped at his shirt as she poured everything she had into that one meeting of lips.

Fear drained from her, and with it, whatever force had driven her. She went limp against him as his energy poured over her.

"I'm going to need a lot of care for a very long time," he murmured against her mouth. "I might be hurt a great deal more seriously than I thought. No, don't."

Nick drew her away as he felt her tears on his cheeks. "Morgan, don't cry. It's the one thing I don't think I can face tonight."

"No, I won't cry," she insisted as the tears continued to fal . "I won't cry. Just don't stop kissing me. Don't stop." She pressed her mouth to his. As she felt him, warm and real against her, the tears and trembling stopped.

"Wel , Mr. Gregoras, it seems you intercepted Mr. Zoulas after al ."

Nick swore quickly, but without heat. Keeping Morgan close, he looked over her head at Tripolos. "Your men have the crew?"

"Yes." Lumbering over, he examined the body briefly. He noted, without comment that there was a broken arm as wel as the knife wound. With a gesture, he signaled one of his men to take over. "Your man is seeing to their transportation," he went on.

Nick kept Morgan's back to the body and met Tripolos's speculative look calmly. "It seems you had a bit of trouble here," the captain commented. His gaze drifted to the guns lying on the sand. He drew his own conclusions. "A pity he won't stand trial."

"A pity," Nick agreed.

"You dropped your gun in the struggle to apprehend him, I see." "It would seem so."

Tripolos stooped with a wheeze and handed it back to him. "Your job is finished?" "Yes, my job is finished."

Tripolos made a smal bow. "My grat.i.tude, Mr Gregoras." He smiled at the back of Morgan's head. "And my congratulations."

Nick lifted a brow in acknowledgment. "I'l take Miss James home now. You can reach me tomorrow if necessary. Good night, Captain." "Good night," Tripolos murmured and watched them move away.

Morgan leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked toward the beach steps. Only a few moments before she had fought to keep from reaching them. Now they seemed like the path to the rest of her life.

"Oh, look, the stars are going out." She sighed. There was nothing left, no fear, no anxiety. No more doubts. "I feel as if I've waited for this sunrise al my life."

"I'm told you want to go to Venice and ride on a gondola." Morgan glanced up in surprise, then laughed. "Andrew told you." "He mentioned Cornwal and the Champs d'elysees as wel ."

"I have to learn how to bait a hook, too," she murmured. Content, she watched as day struggled with night. "I'm not an easy man, Morgan."

"Hmm? No," she agreed fervently. "No, you're not."

He paused at the foot of the steps and turned her to face him. The words weren't easy for him now. He wondered why he had thought they would be. "You know the worst of me already.

I'm not often gentle, and I'm demanding. I'm p.r.o.ne to black, unreasonable moods."

Morgan smothered a yawn and smiled at him. "I'd be the last one to disagree."

He felt foolish. And, he discovered, afraid. Would a woman accept words of love when she had seen a man kil ? Did he have any right to offer them?

Looking down, he saw her, slim and straight in his clothes-jeans that hung over her hips-a shirt that bil owed and hid smal , firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a waist he could nearly span with his hands.

Right or wrong, he couldn't go on without her.

"Morgan ..."

"Nicholas?" Her smile became puzzled as she fought off a wave of weariness. "What is it?"

His gaze swept back to hers, dark, intense, perhaps a little desperate.

"Your arm," she began and reached for him.

"No! Diabolos." Gripping her by the shoulders, he shook her. "It's not my arm, listen to me."

"I am listening," she tossed back with a trace of heat. "What's wrong with you?"

"This." He covered her mouth with his. He needed the taste of her, the strength. When he drew her away, his hands had gentled, but his eyes gleamed.