A Perilous Eden Read online

  He had Khazar now. The man knew what it was like to savor power. Khazar liked to kill, too, Adam thought.

  For Ali, perhaps this was a holy war. But not for his son.

  A chill snaked along Adam’s spine. He didn’t like Khazar. The man was someone to watch, to avoid. If Ali should happen to die in the midst of this, then God help them all.

  “What do you have to offer?” Ali asked.

  Adam smiled, folding his hands in his lap. “Contacts, gentlemen. The U.S. government doesn’t know what to think of me. They want me on their side. They’re ready to woo me. I can go places the very best of you can’t reach.”

  “But how do we know you’re really on our side, then?” Khazar asked sharply.

  “You’ll have to test me, won’t you?” Adam asked.

  “Yes,” Ali murmured, watching him carefully. “We shall have to test you. And I have the perfect situation in mind.” He rested his arms on the table and leaned close to Adam. He began to speak slowly, describing what he wanted, watching Adam all the while. His eyes were old, but very sharp. As Adam listened, he felt tension coiling in his stomach again. The rumors had been right. And now he knew where the next action was going to take place, and who was going to be their next target.

  “You will make sure the senator is where he is supposed to be,” Ali told him.

  “And then …” Khazar said, his eyes dark, intense, deadly. “Then you will come to the compound. When the mission is complete, we will know that you are one of us. And if you are not …” He paused for effect, Adam knew. His cup was in his hand, thick pottery.

  The cup cracked and broke. Khazar smiled.

  “If not, I will see to your death myself. And you may trust in the fact that I am a master, an artist, at death.”

  Adam smiled. He felt very cold. Khazar could not know that he was a master at death himself. This was between them, he thought. He knew, sitting there, meeting the two men, that Khazar had caused the death of his family. To Ali, those murders would have been pointless. To Khazar, they would have been pleasure.

  Adam sipped his espresso, then lifted his cup to Khazar. “I will prove myself to you, Monsieur Abdul.” He looked at Ali. “When shall I leave?”

  “Tonight. You must go home tonight. I want to have the senator in my hands with the others by the first of July. On the fourth I will have my men returned to me, or I will kill an American for the celebration of his independence.”

  4

  Washington, D.C.

  May 28

  The Templeton house was ablaze with lights. Chinese lanterns were strewn all around the gardens and the lawns. The pool reflected the colored shades with a mesmerizing beauty. The people in attendance were decked out in splendor, too, the men in tuxedos, the women in silks and satins and velvets, some demure, some startling, all created by the most famous designers. It was a Washington society party, and society was there in force. The president wasn’t in attendance, so the place wasn’t crawling with security, but there were a number of congressmen present, so Amber knew that some of the men moving around the room were probably security.

  She hadn’t really wanted to come to this party, but her father had asked her, and despite her wealth and popularity and importance, Helen Templeton was one of the nicest women Amber had ever met. It was just that she was anxious to leave—she and Josie and Myra were due to start their vacation late the next day, and she still hadn’t packed.

  The waiting hadn’t been half as hard as she had expected. She had even been somewhat disturbed at herself, because she wasn’t as miserable as she had expected to be. She had spent time with her father. She had gone to lunch with friends. And she hadn’t really thought about Peter, not at all. In fact, when she had dreamed, she had been haunted by the man with the ice-blue eyes, the man who had disappeared after the memorial service. She would most probably never see him again, she thought. And yet he walked through her dreams. He strode through them, and though they didn’t speak or touch, his eyes were on her, and she could not look away from them. One morning she realized that she had awakened to wonder what it would be like to go to bed with such a man, and then she really was disturbed. Her life, as she had lived it for so long, had fallen apart—and she wasn’t mourning a deep, long-term relationship, she was wondering about a stranger who had walked away into the sunset of life. And even as she danced on the terrace with her father, watching the play of the lights over the water, she was thinking of that man.

  “There’s Senator Daldrin,” her father muttered suddenly. “I need to speak with him. Do you mind?”

  Amber pulled away from him. “Of course not, Dad. You know that I’m a big girl. I’ll be all right on my own.”

  He smiled and excused himself. Amber wandered over to the buffet table and reached for a glass, planning to pour herself some punch.

  A hand closed over the glass, a masculine hand, long bronze fingers brushing over hers and bringing an instant flood of sensation washing through her. She looked up quickly.

  It was him. The man from the memorial service. The man from the park. The man with the striking light-blue eyes and rugged features. He hadn’t disappeared into the sunset. He was standing behind Helen Templeton’s buffet table, and he was going to pour her a glass of punch.

  His eyes were meeting hers just as they had in her dreams, and the intensity of his eyes and the brush of his fingers against hers were doing more to her than she had ever imagined any man could.

  “May I?” he asked politely. She liked his voice. She liked the depth of it, the timbre, the way it seemed to swirl around her. He was wearing a tuxedo with a starched white pleated shirt and vest, and he couldn’t have been more elegantly dressed. He wore the tux well. She might have thought that the very ruggedness of his appeal would make him stiff or uncomfortable in formal wear, but in fact the outfit enhanced his masculinity and made him all the more striking.

  “Thank you,” she said, releasing the glass. He poured out a measure of punch, and when she took it from him she felt the brush of his fingers again. Once more their glances met, and she was fascinated by the fire that seemed to burn within his eyes, despite their ice-blue shade.

  She sipped her punch, thinking that perhaps he would ask her to dance. Then she wondered why he had bothered to pour her punch, because he suddenly looked as if he disliked her. His gaze swept over her, and she thought that he was going to turn away. To stop him, she found herself speaking quickly, her hand extended to him. “I’m Amber Larkspur. Ted’s daughter. You know my father. I saw you speaking with him.”

  His brow arched, and he hesitated. Then his hand took hers. “I know. I’ve seen you with your father.”

  A small smile curved her lips. She’d met secretive types before—Washington sometimes seemed filled with them—but seldom had she seen the attitude taken quite so far.

  “Pardon me. I don’t mean to be rude, but do you have a name?”

  He smiled then, and she liked the smile. It was rueful and honest, and maybe hadn’t been intended. “Michael Adams, Miss Larkspur,” he said very softly. And then, “Do you dance?”

  “Well, certainly, Mr. Adams, I do.”

  He kept her hand and led her to the dance floor on the terrace. The music had been fast; now it was slow, and he pulled her into his arms to the softly pulsing strains of a popular ballad. Her fingers fell upon the coarse fabric of his jacket, and she found herself inhaling the scent of the man, a clean scent, lightly touched with after-shave. His hand rested on the small of her back and held her close, but not too close; she wasn’t uncomfortable at all. The fingers of his other hand curled around hers, and he led her across the floor, moving with a surprising grace. Just as his appearance in the tux had surprised her, so did the fact that he knew how to dance so well. How to hold a woman close, how to touch her.

  Her head fell back slightly, and she looked into his eyes. She was startled by the intensity of his gaze, then felt as if the fire of it was flooding through her. A rose tint colored
her cheeks as she realized that she was thinking about going to bed with this man again. She didn’t know him at all, but when she looked at him, when she felt his touch, she wanted to forget the past and the future and imagine that the present could go on forever. He wasn’t holding her too closely, and yet she knew that his thoughts were running dangerously parallel to her own. She knew from his eyes that though he might want to keep his distance from her, he was fascinated in spite of himself. He might not have wanted to give her even so much as his name, but strip away their environs, their hostess and the guests, the fabrics, the silks and the satins, the Chinese lanterns … strip it all down to the basics, and he wanted her, too.

  She swallowed convulsively, thinking that they’d barely exchanged a few dozen words, and yet intimate, forbidden things were taking place between them. She wanted to pull away, to run from him as she had never run in her life. But stronger than the urge to run was the desire to know. To go on touching him. To find out where this might lead …

  She needed to speak, to do something to break the tension between them. She moistened her lips and smiled, and yet she felt that there could be no small talk between them, that whatever she said had to be honest.

  “I saw you in the park,” she said.

  “Yes,” he told her.

  “Are you with the government?”

  He hesitated for a second. “Perhaps. I’m not sure yet. I’m thinking of taking a job.”

  Security, Amber thought. It had to be a security position.

  “I’ve been out of the country for a long time,” he supplied.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  He was quiet for a moment, his hand moving against the small of her back. He seemed to look down at her from a great height, and a shield of ice seemed to have fallen over his eyes. “You are forward, Miss Larkspur.”

  “Am I?” And he didn’t answer questions very well. But he’d been watching Ian Daldrin. He had to be considering a security position with the senator.

  “Um. Business and pleasure,” he said. “And all over.”

  “All over?”

  “I’ve been all over the globe, Miss—”

  “Amber. Please.” She felt as if he knew her inside and out, and he was still calling her Miss Larkspur.

  He smiled suddenly. “‘Forever Amber’?” he queried softly. His words, his whisper, just touched her ear. “I saw the movie. Does your nature run so freely and passionately, too?”

  “Now you’re being forward.”

  “Yes, but I gave you an answer.”

  This was the time to end it, to pull away and never see him again. She would let him remain in her heart, a fantasy. But she didn’t pull away. Instead she moved with him, moved on the air. She felt the dip and sway of the Chinese lanterns, felt his eyes, felt the magic of the colored lights rippling on the water. And she kept her gaze level with his.

  She felt as if his hand was trembling slightly, as if he wanted to pull her closer. As if the frost had left his eyes for a brief moment. Then he did pull her close, and for a moment they touched so fully that she felt his startling heat and vibrance from her breast down to her thighs. Then he released her, and she realized the music had stopped.

  “Amber!” She heard her father’s voice. He was standing behind her, his tone sharp.

  Michael Adams stepped away, but his eyes remained on her. “Mr. Larkspur,” he said, acknowledging her father’s presence but still watching Amber. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Larkspur,” he said.

  Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd. The music started again, and her father pulled her into his arms, but she was still staring after Michael.

  “Amber!”

  “What?” She looked into her father’s eyes. They were troubled and severe.

  “Stay—” He paused, swallowing. He hadn’t told her what she could and couldn’t do in years. “Stay away from—from Adams.”

  “Why? Who is he?”

  “You—”

  “Security?”

  “We … we haven’t decided yet. Amber, he’s dangerous.”

  “It sounds as if you don’t like him.”

  “No, I do like him. I like him very much. I just want you to stay away from him.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Her father was silent for a long moment. “He was in Vietnam—”

  “Dad! Half the men I know were in Vietnam!”

  “Damn it, Amber, just listen to me for once. Stay away from Michael Adams. For my peace of mind.” Angry, he released her, and Amber found herself alone on the dance floor, staring after the second man to leave her there.

  It wasn’t long before she was claimed again. Timothy Hawkins, the youngest rep from the great state of Kansas, slipped up behind her and offered her a broad grin. “Amber! You’re back in Washington! Is it too much to hope that you might be alone?”

  “Very much alone, Tim,” she replied, accepting his arm. He whirled her around happily. He was tall, with friendly hazel eyes and a freckled face, and she liked him very much. But even as she smiled and laughed and responded to his questions, she wondered how it could feel so different to dance with him. No quickening breath, no slow fire touching her soul.

  So Michael Adams was dangerous, in her father’s estimation. But her father liked him; he had admitted that. He liked him—but he still thought he was dangerous.

  She wondered whether she could make that matter or not.

  He couldn’t stay there. He couldn’t talk to Daldrin or Larkspur or any of the others. He had to leave the terrace.

  With a stiff Scotch in his hand, he hurried down one of the garden paths and came to a trellised arbor with a black wrought-iron bench. Sitting, he found himself loosening his tie. He was hot, burning up from dancing.

  No, it wasn’t from dancing. It was the woman.

  What was it about her? She was attractive, yes. She had beautiful flowing light hair that smelled wonderful. Her shoulders were bare beneath the slim strips of the kelly-green silk she was wearing. Her skin was ivory, she was slim, with beautiful hollows and curves, and she had fit into his arms as he had rarely felt any woman do. There was warmth to her, there was laughter, and there was that flare of passion and determination and bravado within her eyes. Eyes the color of the Caribbean. Green and blue and beguiling. From the moment he had seen her across the room, he had known that he should stay away from her. She was Ted Larkspur’s daughter, and he liked Ted Larkspur. And he wasn’t going to fall in love; love was dead within him. But from the moment he had seen her tonight, he had known that he wanted her. Wanted to bed her. Wanted to be with her. He didn’t want to know about tomorrow; he just wanted to have her, to feel her move beneath him. He had watched her on the dance floor, watched the length of leg displayed when her skirt swirled around her. Watched the laughter and the love when she looked into her father’s eyes. But when she had looked into his eyes, he had seen more, much more. He had seen passion, seen electricity that could spark and burn and rise in sweet, fantastic flames. The room had faded, and he had known that he needed to leave. Now fury touched his soul. He couldn’t have her, and that was that, and it was ridiculous to want to touch a woman so badly, any woman. The woman he had loved was gone, and others did not matter. One had to be the same as any other.

  But she wasn’t. His wanting wasn’t logical, and it couldn’t be reasoned away, and no matter how furious he grew with her, it wasn’t her fault that she was beautiful and charismatic and had a smile that caused a quivering deep within him.

  He swallowed a long gulp of Scotch, winced as it burned its way down to his gullet and turned to the house. From the shadow of the arbor he could see her again. She was with a younger man. He narrowed his eyes, quickly placing everyone he had met that night. Timothy Hawkins, the congressman from Kansas. A nice kid, if just a bit wet behind the ears. Still full of integrity and idealism. One day, maybe, he could be a force to be reckoned with—if he had the power and the charm.

  She made a perfect m
atch for Hawkins. She possessed the same charm, and she was laughing in his arms. Adam couldn’t see the color of her eyes, and yet he felt that he could see their sparkle and sizzle. He could feel the sweep of her silken hair over his fingers, brushing his chin.

  “Damn it!” he swore aloud, then chuckled. Toni would enjoy this. Maybe she would think he was alive at last.

  “When I need it the least!” he muttered, but he stretched his legs out and leaned back, and he kept watching Amber dance.

  Maybe it wasn’t wrong to watch her, to want her.

  No. To want any woman so intensely couldn’t be right.

  The punch was potent. Very potent. The dancing had made her hot, and the alcohol level in the punch hadn’t helped a bit.

  Determined to have a good time, Amber had danced and laughed and talked, then danced some more. Ian Daldrin had seemed depressed, so she had tried to spend time with him, talking, drawing him out. Josie and Myra had come, and they had talked about their plans and agreed to meet at the airport. Then she had danced with Timothy again. And then, hot and flushed, she had glimpsed the little arbor with its profusion of roses and started toward it for a few moments alone. The night had been difficult for her. She had learned long ago, for her father’s sake, to smile through almost anything. But her smile, she thought, was fading fast.

  Sipping her punch, she ducked beneath the spray of roses, then started, standing still as she realized that she was not alone. The light was behind her, and for a moment she didn’t know who she was facing. Then she realized that it was Michael Adams. She could tell by his scent, by the way he was standing, by the electricity that seemed to charge the small arbor. He had been sitting, but he stood quickly when she arrived, and now he was staring at her.