Mediterranean NIGHTS™

Diana Duncan
FULL EXPOSURE

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

From the bottom of my heart to my dear friends, Serena Tatti and Josie Caporetto: You have my undying gratitude for many patient translations, oodles of advice and constant cheerful encouragement. Grazie mille for being my navigators on this bumpy journey that was transformed into a completely different destination than we planned or anticipated.

Vi voglio bene, belle!

I could never have survived it without you.

PROLOGUE

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

February 14, Eight Months Ago

THE FAT LADY HAD SUNG, the curtain had dropped and Ariana Bennett had been unceremoniously fired. Sleet needles lashed her face as she trudged through snowdrifts. Frigid weather was the perfect encore. She flipped up the collar of her brown cashmere coat and turned on her iPod—two indulgences not yet paid for on her credit card—and not likely to be soon.

Administrative furlough due to budget cuts. Her department head hadn’t summoned the nerve to make eye contact while delivering that fable. And the weasel had waited until the end of the day to oust her.

Ariana stomped her feet to warm them as she reached her bus stop. The coward didn’t have the backbone to admit she’d been “furloughed” because the academic community was shying away from guilt by association. Her father’s museum had shared fundraisers with the university and he had guest-lectured on campus. The Bennetts’ battered credibility might affect public trust and alumni donations.

Thank you Pennsylvania University for rewarding my seven years of loyalty. She blinked back tears. She’d done enough crying the past months. Anger hurt far less than sorrow.

She peered through the stinging haze. Cars crawled bumper to bumper, but no sign of her bus. One advantage to being unemployed. She wouldn’t have to choose between traffic or mass transit. And she’d never again feel duty-bound to wear a purple sweatshirt emblazoned with the initials P.U.

Huddled under an overhang, Ariana clapped her gloved hands together and listened to the dramatic power of Verdi’s Aida soaring through her earbuds. Was any place more wicked miserable than Philly in February? Maybe the Arctic Circle. At least in Philly she wouldn’t be mauled by polar bears. She grimaced. If she counted the FBI, the press and her ex-bosses, she did have wolves snapping at her heels.

She turned her back to the wind, and a poster in an employment agency’s window snagged her attention. A cruise ship glided through sun-washed islands dotting the cobalt Mediterranean. “Get paid to travel in style. Greece, Italy, the Caribbean. Liberty Line has positions available for qualified personnel.”

Ariana stared longingly at the inviting picture. She imagined standing on deck, looking over the railing at white beaches bathed in sunshine. Sailing to Greece and Italy—countries whose cultures and artifacts she’d loved and studied her entire life.

Shuddering, she spun and faced the street. Right. A cruise line was the perfect employer for a librarian. Especially a librarian who couldn’t swim. She’d have a better chance at hitting bestseller lists with the fantasy stories she’d scribbled in her teenage journals…now in FBI custody. Another humiliating personal intrusion. She gritted her teeth. She hoped the Feds were bored to screaming by her secret girlhood dreams.

Her bus chugged into view, a sluggish dragon billowing steam, and Ariana clambered aboard. The packed interior smelled of soggy wool and overheated bodies. Eau de wet terrier. A baby’s scream wailed from the rear seats, and she grabbed a pole and then cranked up her iPod. At least she could stand. Although slightly breathless after her sprint through the gale, she’d outgrown the asthma that had crippled her until late adolescence. Enforced inactivity had cultivated her adoration for reading and writing. Bored with kiddy drivel, she’d devoured Greek and Roman myths, an interest shared with her father, who had loved his job as a museum curator.

Until the FBI’s relentless persecution killed him.

Her fingers clenched the pole, and she forced herself to concentrate on her music. Aida was a tragedy, but it was beautiful and romantic. She glanced at traffic snarled in the blizzard. Unlike real life, which was either humdrum or messy.

Humdrum would be welcome about now.

By the time she arrived home, she had resolved to put the setback behind her. There were other jobs. She still had a special dinner to anticipate. Still had a future with a nice guy. Compared to the past few months, getting fired wasn’t the apocalypse.

Her mom pounced the millisecond Ariana swept breathlessly inside. “You’re late. Is everything all right?”

She shut down her iPod. “The storm snarled traffic.” If you looked up overprotective mother on Google, Sadie Bennett’s picture popped up. Ariana had temporarily moved back in with her parents last fall after the FBI arrested her father. When he’d died three months ago, her mother had begged her to stay. From the moment Ariana drew her first uncertain breath, Sadie’s focus was centered on her only child’s welfare. Ariana didn’t have the heart to leave her mom alone in the big old house. Yet.

She brushed a kiss on Sadie’s cheek. “Geoff has reservations at Le Bec-Fin tonight. Will you be okay alone?” It would be the first Valentine’s Day without her father. Although Derek’s quiet, dreamy nature combined with frequent career travel had made her parents’ marriage seem more like a business partnership than a great romance.

“Of course.” Sadie’s blue eyes twinkled, a paler reflection of Ariana’s deep sapphire hue. “Le Bec-Fin, hmm? He’s been jittery lately.” She clapped her hands. “Finally, after seventeen months…the moment every woman waits for.”

This was supposed to be the highlight of her life? A strange thought. “I suspect so.” Geoffrey Turner was a professor of literature at the same university that had fired her this afternoon. Several months before her father’s sudden death, Geoff had subtly questioned her receptivity to marriage and children. The university was about to offer him job security in the form of tenure.

Annual day of romance, check. Reservations at Philly’s most prestigious restaurant, check. Exquisite food, superb wine and a tasteful ring served with the crème brûlée, check.

Ariana bit her lip. Their relationship wasn’t exactly hot. But they enjoyed each other’s company, shared common interests and didn’t make one another crazy. She may not be delirious with rapture, but unlike passion, contentment wasn’t disturbing. Or messy. She knew where she stood with Geoff. Many lasting marriages—including her parents’—had been founded on such secure principles.

She gathered her long, damp chestnut hair away from her face. “I’m a walking disaster. You know how the professor dotes on punctuality. I’m going to grab a coffee, run upstairs—”

The doorbell pealed. Geoff had probably sent a dozen predictable…ah…classic white roses. Ariana flung open the door. It wasn’t flowers.

It was the police.

After six months of harassment, she recognized the FBI’s second-in-command. Ariana scowled. “Unless you have another warrant, forget it. You people have already turned our house and our lives inside out.” She blocked the doorway, shielding her mother. “I doubt you’ll find America’s most wanted by rifling through my closet again.”

The solemn Agent indicated a U-Haul being unloaded by two movers. “After your father’s demise, the government’s case against him was officially terminated. The paperwork is complete, and we’re returning personal effects held as evidence.”

“Giving back our own possessions. Thank you.” She stepped aside so the men could enter. FBI search teams had shown up one day in the middle of Sunday brunch and torn apart their home. Cops had poked and pried and violated every inch. They’d taken the antiques, her father’s computer and research books and every scrap of paper, including her journals. The travesty had continued at his museum office. “Everything better be in perfect condition.”

“Nothing has been damaged.” Agent Thomas nodded stiffly. “Our experts didn’t have time to dig too deeply before the case was abruptly concluded.”

Hurt by his clinical description of the events that had destroyed her family, she pressed trembling lips together. “Is abruptly concluded the police-approved definition of ruining an innocent man’s reputation and persecuting him into an early grave?”

The Fed’s eyes glinted as cold and gray as the winter twilight. “Mr. Bennett was charged after brokering stolen antiquities to an undercover officer. The arrest was legitimate, as was the search.”

Talk about professional detachment. Maybe the FBI confiscated agents’ hearts when they entered the Bureau. For the second time in an hour, she let anger burn away pain. “Dad never so much as ran a stop sign. He didn’t know the antique jewelry was stolen. It was entrapment. If your ‘undercover officer’ had listened to him, my father would be alive today.”

“Everybody we detain is innocent, Miss Bennett.” His level tone didn’t negate the sarcasm. “Until proven guilty in a court of law.”

“He didn’t get that chance. He was convicted by the press and the museum’s board of directors.” Her father had been forced into a leave of absence. All because of the FBI and their gestapo tactics. Nobody would ever convince Ariana that the strain over the loss of his job combined with the impending trial hadn’t precipitated her father’s massive coronary. “In the public’s eyes, he died a guilty man.”

“Ariana.” Her mother’s quiet appeal made her turn around. “Don’t let this spoil your evening.” Sadie handed her a labeled box. “Why don’t you take your journals upstairs and get ready for tonight?”

Ariana squelched her temper. Her mother hated confrontation. According to Sadie, a lady never raised her voice, never lost her poise. A woman with class practiced avoidance. That method had worked for Ariana…until injustice had struck down her father. But Sadie had already been through the wringer, and Ariana wasn’t about to twist the handle. She accepted the box and marched upstairs.

She dropped the carton on the blue organza bedspread, which matched the bed canopy and frilly curtains. Her room remained unchanged since she’d left for college years ago. Dad wasn’t the only parent who liked museums.

She opened the box and began to slot journals in her bookcase according to year. She preferred order, in her surroundings and emotions.

Memories assailed her with each volume. Her first date. First kiss. First broken heart. A newspaper article fluttered out of the book dated Summer 1981, and her mouth softened. Even as a girl, she’d been a romantic. Charles and Diana—the Royal Wedding. She had set the alarm for dawn to watch the proceedings. A real-life fairy tale.

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed seven, and Ariana jumped. She had sixty minutes to prepare for “the moment every woman waits for.” She dropped the journal and sprinted to the shower.

THREE HOURS LATER, she shakily let herself back inside the house. Sadie didn’t ambush her, and Ariana tiptoed into the living room and found her mother asleep on the sofa.

A small boon in the day from Hades. She wouldn’t have to break the news until morning. The sadness she’d held at bay flooded her eyes.

Instead of a diamond with the dessert trolley, Ariana had received a quiet brush-off. A “better for both of us if we go our separate ways” swan song. Her courtly, dependable literary professor had politely retreated from their relationship.

She swiped her wet cheeks as she trudged upstairs. Of course, she hadn’t made a scene. Tantrums weren’t her style. She was her mother’s daughter. The goddess of get along. The countess of compromise.

And the Fates had compromised her out of a father, a job and a fiancé.

At least Geoff had possessed the decency to stop waltzing around the truth when she demanded a real explanation. He’d finally admitted Derek’s tattered reputation and Ariana’s “furlough” might threaten his tenure.

She tripped over the journal on the floor and snatched it up. A real-life fairy tale. In real life, the princess had been hounded to death…like Ariana’s father. So much for romance. So much for loyalty and undying love.

So much for happily ever after.

Ariana hurled the book aside and it thudded to the floor, the binding torn. Newspaper clippings littered the carpet, and something shiny glinted at the tattered edge of the journal. With trembling hands, she extracted a computer CD. The thin disk had been sealed between the embossed leather cover and cardboard backing.

Tears dried on her face as she booted up her laptop and inserted the CD. Over forty scanned pages of ancient Greek script and cryptic personal notations in her father’s spiky handwriting shimmered on the screen. She had enough rudimentary knowledge to discern that the information concerned antiques and Derek’s international brokerage.

Her breath caught. Why had her father secreted the CD in her journal? Had he suspected he was being set up? Thought he was in danger? Had he put the CD where he knew she would find it…in case something happened to him?

Her mother would have said, “We can’t change the past, let it go.”

She used to agree. Now an old Chinese proverb sprang to mind. If you cannot succeed, then die gloriously.

Compromise hadn’t worked out so well for Ariana, or her loved ones. Perhaps it was time to try a new tack. Her father’s reputation would not perish in ruin and be buried along with him.

Heart pounding, she directed her Web browser to libertycruiseline.com. The police had stolen her family, her reputation and her future.

All she had left was a crusade.

She grimly hooked up her iPod to the computer and began to reconfigure and download files. Fed up with being tossed around by the whims of the Fates, she was taking her life back.

After all, how much worse could things get?

CHAPTER ONE

Alexandra’s Dream

Mid-October

FATHER PATRICK CONNELLY aka Michael O’Connor dropped the benevolence he forced himself to wear in public and crossed the confines of his cabin in three impatient strides. Scowling, he unbuttoned his black shirt. The stiff white collar was penance for buying him credibility. He impatiently yanked off the torture device and tossed it aside. Penance. Now his alias was affecting his way of thinking. Neither guilt nor redemption were in his repertoire.

He poured two fingers of smoky Irish whiskey from his contraband stash. The Spencer Tracy affable priest persona was a pain in the ass. He’d thought it an inspired identity, but the saintly act had begun to chafe. His most grating role…but also the most challenging.

He sipped, savored the slow burn sliding down his throat. Definitely the most profitable.

As Father Pat Connelly, a priest knowledgeable about Greek and Roman culture, he’d been hired by the cruise line to educate interested passengers. As Mike O’Connor, a veteran professional smuggler, the reproduction antiquities he’d displayed in the library to illustrate “Father Connelly’s” lectures had given him the perfect place to plant genuine ancient artifacts. Hidden in plain sight among the fakes. Once the ship returned to America, fencing the stolen artifacts secreted aboard by him and his partner was their mysterious boss’s problem.

He glanced at the bureau drawer where he stored smaller pieces he’d acquired at various ports of call. He periodically rotated them to the library to freshen his lectures. Some were also real rather than reproductions, but nobody else knew that. His own…private investments. If the boss’s grand scheme worked, a bonus. If it didn’t…his insurance policy.

He swallowed another gulp of whiskey. Damn good thing he’d invested wisely, because it was looking as though he might have to cut and run.

A sharp rap on his door startled him. He opened it to see First Officer Giorgio Tzekas, and swore. “What now?”

Giorgio anxiously slipped inside. The playboy’s classic bone structure showed he’d once possessed looks to go with his oozing charm, but too much boozing and sordid nights now etched his face. “Did you see him? Lanky, salt-and-pepper hair, fiftysomething Italian?”

“Bernardo Milo. Yeah, he attended my lecture last night.”

“And?” Giorgio’s anxiety sharpened. “Did you get the vibe?”

The cop vibe. After fifteen years conning other people, Mike knew when he was being conned. With Milo, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if it was because several things had gone wrong during this operation…or because the scam really had been blown to hell. Mike wasn’t big on taking risks this late in the game. He planned to retire in the sunny Caribbean, not rot behind bars in some dank federal pen.

He sipped whiskey, buying time. He trusted his instincts, but he sure as hell didn’t trust the cocky bastard in front of him. Every screwup required a sacrificial lamb, and he couldn’t think of better roasted mutton than Giorgio Tzekas. The young Greek was an intellectually challenged egomaniac who squandered Daddy’s money on easy women and hard-core gambling. Old man Tzekas’s friendship with Elias Stamos, the cruise line’s owner, was the only reason sonny-boy had a legitimate job. God only knew why their mutual boss in the smuggling ring kept him on. In fact, on one of the first legs of the cruise, the moron had panicked and moved artifacts to potted plants, of all places, where they’d been discovered and spurred speculation and an investigation.

If Mike had his way, Giorgio wasn’t going to be his enforced partner much longer. Which meant keeping him obedient and unsuspecting. He shrugged. “Milo seemed real interested in the lecture. He took a buttload of notes, and chatted up the other attendees. He had more artistic know-how than any cop I’ve ever run into.”

“Since he boarded, I’ve had this weird feeling.” Giorgio scratched his chin. “I’ve never caught him staring, but he just seems like he’s around a lot, ya know?”

Milo had sought out Mike to discuss antiquities. The tall, craggy Italian had said he was a contractor who’d restored historical buildings. Art was his hobby and his passion—frescoes mostly. He’d recently lost his son, who’d worked with him, in a car accident and had booked the cruise to recover. The man was intelligent, interesting and seemed lonely rather than threatening. Their conversations had been relaxed and friendly on the surface…but Mike’s intuition was twitching. “There’s only so much real estate on a ship. We run into the same passengers frequently. Maybe he likes your technique for picking up sluts.” He smirked. “Or maybe he just likes you.”

The distraction worked. The Greek huffed. “I don’t bat for that team, and you know it, you bastard.”

“I figured you’d do just about anything for money.” In fact, Mike knew Giorgio had his own hoard of “private investments.” Tzekas had brokered several successful buys for himself and bungled one. Just more rope to hang his idiot self with. Mike inclined his head at the door. “I’m beat. Bye now.”

Giorgio hesitated. “Maybe we should tell the boss.”

That’s all he needed. For Megaera to climb all over his case again. Or worse, get suspicious and decide to micromanage the operation. “Report that you’re imagining some guy is looking at you? That would go over like a hooker at mass. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Giorgio shuffled his feet again. “Ariana Bennett’s mother is still aboard. Claims she’s not leaving until her daughter is found. You’re the one the boss usually contacts. Have you heard any news?”

“No.” Mike rolled his suddenly taut shoulders. Toward the beginning of the cruise, one of his genuine artifacts—an Olympian vase—had been accidentally broken in the library. He’d meticulously pieced it back together and discovered a shard missing. The sharp-eyed librarian had been suspicious of him since day one, and she’d been the only person nearby, the only one who could have taken it. She’d been poking her nose into things that didn’t concern her and asking questions, and Mike and Giorgio had reported her to the boss.

Then Ariana Bennett had disappeared.

“She’s been missing over a month.” Giorgio shifted. “Do you think she’s dead?”

“Not my concern.” Mike gulped the last of his whiskey. Truth was, he’d been growing antsy. Not about the nosy librarian’s welfare…but about his own. If she’d been killed because of his tip-off, it made him an accessory to murder. But he didn’t want Giorgio overthinking it. The moron was likely to bolt and leave him holding the bag. “You really had it bad for her, didn’t you? Quit whining over the one who got away. There are plenty of babes on this ship to keep you busy.”

Giorgio didn’t snap at the bait this time. “It will be your concern if Ariana is dead and her disappearance is linked to us.” The Greek’s forehead furrowed. “Murder carries a stiffer penalty than smuggling.”

Mike barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Don’t strain your brain cells, genius. “It’s too late for an attack of conscience, Tzekas. The boss is a pro. Megaera’s plans have worked brilliantly so far, even through the snafus.” He clapped a falsely friendly hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Keep the faith.”

Mike ushered Giorgio out and refilled his glass. From here on, his eyes and ears were wide-open. If he picked up a hint of trouble, he was a ghost. He would disappear and leave Megaera and her flunky to pay the price.

IMPRISONED IN the swaying belly of a seafaring monster, Ariana Bennett reluctantly floated to consciousness. Had she passed out? Been knocked out? She strained to see, but no light pierced the icy veil of smothering darkness.

No, she had died and gone to hell. Hades was cold and damp and black, and stank of fish and diesel fuel.

She tried to move. Her wrists, bound behind her back, throbbed in tandem with the pulsating heartbeat of twin engines. Her head pounded. Every breath dragged in her parched throat, and her body felt as battered as a discarded piñata.

Like many foolish souls before her, she had challenged the Fates—and lost. She moaned. She would have rather remained in the grip of somnolence. Oblivion was safer.

“Signorina Bennett?” The resonant baritone flavored with a rich Italian accent echoed from the abyss. “You are awake?”

She jerked. She wasn’t dead.

But she hadn’t escaped the devil.

“Where are you?” His deep voice in the black void seduced her with the promise of warmth. Compelled her to reply.

She compressed her lips. If he didn’t know, she wasn’t drawing him a map.

“Are you all right?”

That depended on his definition of all right. Surviving a mob kidnapping, yacht explosion, failed escape attempt and near drowning probably qualified. If she were a cat, she’d be eight lives short and counting.

“Ariana? It’s Dante.”

A shiver glided up her spine. As if she wouldn’t recognize the alluring voice of the man who had held her hostage for almost six weeks.

At the end of August, an antiquities dealer in the Naples market had directed her to a nearby archaeological dig. She’d found Dante excavating at the site. A fierce, dark Napoletano with a big, hard-muscled body and spine-tingling voice. She’d asked a few questions, and the mob had kidnapped her. She’d been interrogated and almost killed by Dante’s partner. Then she’d been drugged and awoken in a strange house. Alone with Dante.

“Answer me, bella. I am also a prisoner.”

She peered into the oily gloom. That was a new tactic. Fragmented memories of the previous night tumbled into place. Was this an elaborate plan to gain her cooperation? Signor Dante had held her captive for a month before bringing her aboard a yacht. They’d drifted around the Mediterranean nearly two more weeks. Yesterday, a fiery explosion had destroyed the yacht and in the melee, she had been forced to rely on Dante to get her to shore. She’d tried to escape from him, but a few bullets from a guy in a Zodiac and they’d both ended up prisoners.

“We must act. We may not have much time before they return.”

They? He actually sounded concerned. If this was a ruse, he’d done a superlative job. If their predicament was real, who would cross the mob by attacking him? Unless he wasn’t working with the Camorra, Naples’s Mafia. Perhaps the Camorra had hunted Dante down and incinerated the yacht. She closed her eyes. Impossible to think with a hammering headache.

Maybe Dante had gone rogue and kidnapped her solo. That would explain why he hadn’t hurt her. She was his investment. It also explained why she hadn’t been ransomed. Dante labored under the misimpression her family owned valuable antiques, although she’d explained multiple times that they were less fiscally solvent than dot-com investors.

“Trust me,” his low tone coaxed.

Right. And he had a cactus farm in Venice for sale. She cautiously shifted on the ice-cold floor, and her abused muscles shrieked. Were they both prisoners of the mob?

“Trust me, Ariana,” he repeated fervently.

Even before Dante had kidnapped her, she’d felt so alone. So isolated. Her mother disapproved of her job on the ship, and Ariana hadn’t been able to disclose the truth about her mission. Her father’s former contacts were leery of her motives. Ariana had made friends among the cruise-line staff, but she couldn’t confide in them about her plans to clear her father’s name. And she was suspicious of two employees who had expressed a little too much interest in her. The priest was savvy about antiquities and gave lectures to the passengers in the library, but Father Connelly’s disposition wasn’t exactly saintly. And First Officer Giorgio Tzekas was a player with more lines than the telephone company.

She wanted desperately to trust in something—trust someone. Dante had not threatened or hurt her. He’d calmly refuted her fear that he meant her harm, and remained cool and aloof…while implacably refusing to release her.

“I know you are listening, signorina. Why won’t you answer?”

How did he know? She gnawed at her lower lip. Logic had failed during her five-month journey to restore her father’s reputation. She’d gotten nowhere. A woman of order and reason, she had been thrust into an alien universe.

“San Gennaro, mio bello, aiutami tu!” Distress tinged his muttered exclamation. “If you wish to live, speak!”

Ariana stifled a gasp. If he were bluffing, a Naples native wouldn’t petition their venerated patron saint, San Gennaro. She uncurled and stretched stiff, sore legs. Dante had shown kindness during her captivity. Clean clothing. Books and magazines. Hot cappuccino at breakfast. Of course, he’d locked her in her room when he’d gone to fetch them. But yesterday when they’d been forced to flee the yacht, he had not only saved her life, he had expressed empathy over her fear of deep water and carried her.

“I am bound hand and foot. If you are able, talk to me, per favore. We need a plan.”

What should she do? Though Dante’s large, capable hands could break her in half, he had handled her with carefully tempered strength. He had touched her only when necessary, and with respect. A wise woman would choose him versus the coarse thugs who had trussed her up and tossed her into the bilge like fish bait, even if his interest in her welfare was only because he thought he could trade her for money. At least he was dedicated to safeguarding his investment.

Adrift and floundering, she was forced to rely on instinct. Those instincts screamed at her to answer him.

Pain ground her joints as she struggled to sit up. “I—” the word emerged as a croak, and she cleared her throat “—I can get up. Just my hands are tied.”

“Grazie a Dio!” He uttered a relieved sigh. “Then you must come to me.”

Decision made, she refused to second-guess herself. “Easier said than done. It’s as dark in here as the inside of the Trojan horse.”

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” His wry chuckle was oddly comforting. “Follow the sound of my voice.”

He issued calm commands and she replied as she blindly navigated the rolling maze. After long, frustrating moments of stumbling, she bumped against him. He was sitting on a crate, and she maneuvered herself down beside him.

He was so warm. Cold and scared, she couldn’t help huddling against his hard shoulder.

“You’re trembling.” He swiveled so they were pressed body to body, her cheek resting on his chest. Beneath the smooth cotton of his T-shirt, his heart beat strong and steady. The softness of his full beard caressed her face as he brushed his cheek over her temple. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She retreated from the intimate contact, but stayed close enough so his body heat radiated to her chilled, shivering limbs.

“Turn around so we can loosen each other’s ropes.”

They turned their backs to one another. The mutual exploration of his large, callused hands and sinewy arms jolted her system…reminiscent of the power surge that had once fried her laptop. She’d read about Stockholm syndrome. Over time, hostages sometimes fell for their captors. But the very first moment on the dig site when Dante’s eyes had locked with hers, her heart had leaped into her throat and pounded so hard she’d nearly choked.

The intriguing Italian possessed a primal gravitational force. Whenever he was in sight, her gaze was pulled to him and her pulse galloped. Now, weeks later, she’d jettisoned the attempt to convince herself her reaction was fear. Like everything else since her father had died, her involuntary attraction to Signor Dante made no sense. He was so far from her preferred cultured academic, he bordered on Paleolithic.

Not to mention that he was a criminal.

She fumbled with the ropes binding his thick wrists. “Are we prisoners on a ship that belongs to the Camorra?”

“If the Camorra had captured us, we would already be dead.” She had enjoyed the fresh aroma of his bay laurel soap lingering in the air after he’d showered, and now, in the icy blackness, his evocative scent conjured a vivid image of sun-warmed herbs growing wild on lush Mediterranean hills. His fingers tugged on her bonds. “I have no idea who is holding us. Or why.”

His efforts to free her sharpened the ache in her arms, and she stifled a whimper. “That’s reassuring.”

“Perdonami.” His quiet apology amazed her. She hadn’t betrayed her pain…she’d thought. “Don’t be afraid, Ariana. I will protect you.”

“Why, for the ransom? In any case, we’re in no position to put up a fight.”

He snorted. “A man’s worth is no greater than his ambitions.”

Her hands stilled. She had seen keen intelligence in his brown eyes. Who knew her kidnapper was well-read? “Marcus Aurelius, the ancient Roman emperor-philosopher.”

“I find him more helpful in such situations than George Clooney.”

In spite of the grim situation, she couldn’t help but smile. She’d seen rare flashes of il diavolo’s droll sense of humor before, but they always surprised her. “If you get into situations like this often, you might consider a new line of work.”

His broad shoulders moved against hers in a shrug. “Every profession has challenges. How aggressively you conquer them depends on how badly you wish to succeed.”

“Exactly how high do your ambitions reach, Signor Dante?”

“Let’s hope we are not pushed to find out.”

She didn’t need sight to know that the expression in his eyes mirrored the fierce resolve in his voice. She had spent almost as much time in the past weeks attempting to decipher him as she had her father’s encrypted notes. His bearded face rarely showed emotion. But his eyes gave away far more than he knew. As dark and rich as her favorite caramel espresso, the brown depths reflected a wealth of intriguing moods and emotions.

“Keep working at the ropes, Ariana.”

“The knots are too strong.”

“As you walked to me, did you feel anything that might sever them? Equipment or tools with sharp edges?”

“No, but I can go back—”

A door slammed open. A glaring halogen lantern blinded her, and she flinched. Two burly men swaggered in, boasting about their good fortune in a combination of broken English, Greek and Russian.

Ariana groped for Dante’s hands and clung to him. An uncertain anchor in the storm, he was all she had.

The lowlifes were big and muscular and scruffy. The Greek flipped open a large knife. She gulped, and Dante’s fingers tightened reassuringly. She and Dante were suddenly united by the common threat. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Though Dante was tied hand and foot, he quickly maneuvered her behind him on the crate.

Knife raised, the Greek stepped toward him. Dante pistoned his legs and rammed the man’s midsection. The knife clanged to the floor as the Greek flew across the hold.

The Russian swore and slugged Dante in the jaw, and the impact shoved her into the wall. Dante shook his head, but didn’t make a sound.

The Greek regained his feet, staggered forward and snatched up his knife. “You are wanted up top for questioning. Do not cause trouble, Napoletano. Only your mouth needs to be working. Your body can be broken into pieces.” His blade sliced the ropes at Dante’s ankles. Leaving his arms tied, his captors yanked him from the room.

The engines growled through the hull and the ship pitched. Ariana huddled alone in the icy blackness, stunned and trembling. When she was growing up, her parents had sheltered her. As an adult, she had ensconced herself in civilized academia. Violence confronted her daily, but in distant images from the newspaper or television. If it was too much, she could turn the page. Switch it off. She’d never been a helpless witness to brutality.

She couldn’t stop shaking. How could one human being cold-bloodedly abuse another? Your body can be broken into pieces. Nausea roiled in her stomach. Were they torturing Dante? She sucked in a quivering breath.

Was she next?

She forced her breathing to slow. Don’t panic. Think. She’d never been a scrapper. Brains trumped brawn in her world. As a librarian, she held fast to the belief that knowledge was power. Even when Dante had kidnapped her, she had hoped passive resistance would lead to negotiation. Her mother and the cruise line would be searching for her. She had planned to talk her way out, or stall until rescued. She bit her lip. Her usual weapons of logic and reason were useless against savages who brutalized first and asked questions later.

Ariana wriggled off the crate. Why meekly sit and wait? If she was about to be killed, she wouldn’t make it easy.

She needed a crash course in fighting dirty.

Squelching worry for Dante, she fumbled through a painfully slow investigation of the dark, swaying chasm. Horrifying images of what the barbarians were doing to him only made her weak and scared. The best way to help him—and herself—was to break free.

She had no idea how long she wandered in blackness before she stumbled over something and fell. Agony screamed through her limbs as she hit the floor. Every movement stabbed red-hot spears into her strained muscles. Panting, she curled into a ball, tempted to surrender.

The thought of Dante stoically enduring torture drove her to struggle to her knees. She cautiously felt behind her. She had tripped over a metal spool of chain. The rough edge might fray her bonds.

Battling the burning ache in her arms and wrists, she scraped her ropes on the spool’s edge. If she had been shown a preview before she began her ill-fated journey, would she have continued her crusade?

Absolutely.

Clearing her father’s name was worth any discomfort. He didn’t deserve what had happened to him. He could no longer speak for himself. She would speak for him. Cramping muscles ceased to matter as righteous determination fueled her efforts. She would shout Derek Bennett’s innocence from the rooftops. Make every newspaper that had vilified him print a retraction. She would contact CNN. Oprah. She’d even book a slot on Jerry Springer if he’d give her a platform.

She didn’t get far before the door banged open again, and cold light fractured the blackness. Dante was shoved into the hold, where he collapsed onto the floor. The Greek and Russian sauntered in behind him. Ariana pushed to her feet and stumbled to Dante, knelt at his side. Her heart jolted. His face was bruised, his lips cut, his beard matted with blood. Any doubts she’d harbored about their jailers being in his employ died a cruel death. Nobody would willingly take a brutal beating.

Ignoring Dante, the Russian leaned down, fisted his fingers in her hair and jerked her up. Pain burst over her scalp, and she cried out.

“Do not touch her!” Dante growled as he fought to his feet. He head-butted the Russian and sent him sprawling. His voice was dark with menace. “Or I will remove le tue palle and feed them to you.”

Though he was tied and beaten, the fierce Napoletano looked entirely capable of his threat. Ariana unconsciously edged behind him as if he could protect her.

Wishful thinking.

The Russian struggled upright. To Dante’s credit, the thugs hesitated before they both charged. Dante fought back with limited mobility, but his attackers landed blow after blow on his defenseless body.

“Stop it!” Ariana yelled. She flung herself between the warring men and received a sharp clip to the jaw. The punch slammed her to her knees.

Panting, Dante dropped beside her. “Stay behind me!”

She blinked away involuntary tears. Nobody had ever hit her before. How did Dante take the pain without uttering a sound?

The Russian knocked Dante flat. Pulse thundering in her ears, she bent over the fallen man. She didn’t have much time. “Dante, can you hear me?”

“Ariana.” He groaned, turning his head to look up at her. “I have failed you. Perdonami.”

“There’s nothing to forgive you for,” she whispered. “Save your strength and let them take me. There’s a metal spool, starboard, fifty paces. It might cut your ropes.”

Concerned respect shimmered in his gaze. “Stay strong, Ariana,” he murmured. “If you tell them what they want to know, you will become useless to them. Capisci, bella mia?”

She gulped. She understood all too well.

The Russian reached for her hair and she scrambled up before he hurt her again. She strove to draw their attention from Dante, motionless on the floor. Please, don’t let him be badly injured. “Let’s get this over with.”

The Greek shoved her toward the door. “We find out soon how tough you are.”

“Bastardi!” Dante’s ragged voice echoed behind her. “If you hurt her, I will kill you. That is a promise.”

Dante’s valiant defense fueled Ariana’s resolve. After the abuse he’d suffered, he still had the fortitude to insult and threaten his assailants. She thrust out her chin, feigning bravado. Much better than bursting into tears.

The men dragged her out the door. Fear iced her blood as they muscled her up two flights of stairs and down a long, dark corridor. The briny ocean smell and sharp slap of the waves told her she was above the waterline.

They yanked her to a halt outside a closed stateroom. The Greek sneered. “You will show respect. You will answer when spoken to. You will not attempt anything. Or—” he sliced his finger across his throat “—no mercy.”

His fist rapped on the door, and terror swelled in Ariana’s chest. Dante hadn’t talked, and neither would she.

No matter what their captors did to her.

Or she and Dante were dead.

CHAPTER TWO

THE GREEK OPENED the door and the Russian shoved Ariana into the murky stateroom. Then the portal slammed shut, sealing her inside alone. Whoever was in here, and whatever was planned for her, the henchmen weren’t participating. For now.

Skeletal fingers of moonlight pierced the window shutters and striped the carpet. Ominous silence vibrated from both sides of the door. Trapped in darkness, she could almost taste the thick, black silence.

Maybe the thugs had gone to finish off Dante. Anxiety thrummed inside her. How badly was he wounded? Maybe the men would murder him while she was being “questioned.” He might disappear and she would never know what had happened to him.

Why did she care so much?

She swallowed. Because he was her only ally at the moment. Because thoughts of him kept her from screaming with terror over what was about to happen.

Her pulse throbbed in her ears, and she leaned against the wall to support her wobbly knees. An intent gaze crawled over her skin.

Someone was watching her.

She shuddered. As a child, when she had feared monsters lurking in the night, she had burrowed beneath the covers and yelled for her daddy. He had run to the rescue, dispatched the monsters and given her a “magic shield” for protection.

She squelched a threatening sob. There was nowhere to hide. Her father was dead. The shield imaginary.

But the monsters were real.

Ariana inhaled shakily. Don’t stand here like a quivering ninny. “H-hello?” Her voice trembled and she cleared her throat and made a sterner inquiry. “Who’s there? What do you want?”

“The question is, what do you want, Ariana Bennett?”

Ariana jumped at the disembodied inquiry from across the room. Husky, tinged with a cultured Greek accent…and female. Her heart kicked. Not Camorra. Machismo mobsters would never take orders from a female. A Greek female. And the woman had called her by name! “Do I know you?”

“No. But I know you. I’m just not certain what to do with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell me about your family.”

Enlightenment dawned. “There’s an epidemic of ‘ransom the rich American.’” If she admitted she was poor, she might be killed. But she had nothing to gain by lying. Dante’s battered condition proved the mystery woman lacked patience. “Sorry to disappoint you. Most of our money went to defense attorneys for my late father, who got railroaded by the system. The remaining pittance is still frozen, tangled in FBI red tape. Red tape that strangled my father to death. My family has nothing. Not even our reputations.”

“I see.” A pause. “You are angry and mistrustful of the police, and have lost faith in the system’s ability to mete out justice. Interesting. Continue.”

She had probably said too much already. “Neither the government nor the cruise line will pay ransom. My life isn’t worth a thing to anyone with authority.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone. “I haven’t seen you, and won’t divulge information to the police. You might as well release me.”

“You could be worth far more than you believe possible, Miss Bennett.”

Maybe to white slavers? Ariana shuddered. Don’t give the black widow any ideas.

Absolute quiet descended, spun into a smothering web. A strategy to rattle her, make her talk first.

Ariana gritted her teeth. While this woman played mental chicken with her, Dante lay below, beaten and bleeding. She cloaked herself in a shield of fury. “You’ve had me blown up, kidnapped and beaten.” She locked her shaky knees. “And now you want to play mind chess.”

“Do not let hasty words overstep your abilities. A difficult lesson always follows.”

“If you’re going to kill me, stop playing games and just do it.” Her words were a challenge. Fear or submission would only amuse this woman.

At the woman’s throaty laughter, Ariana blinked in astonishment. “You’re not the pampered, fragile, prima donna I expected.”

“After everything that’s happened, I’m a far stronger woman than I was five weeks ago.”

A manicured hand flitted into view, and moonlight glinted on an ornate gold bracelet. “There is a chair near the window. Sit.”

Meekly obey like a trained puppy, or humiliate herself by collapsing? Ariana staggered across the carpet and dropped into an upholstered chair. Moonbeams fractured her vision, shadowing the woman opposite her. No accident. She’d bet this woman calculated every move. The musky fragrance of expensive perfume magnified her captor’s aura of power. “Who are you?”

“You may call me Megaera.”

Ariana started. Megaera was one of the Erinyes, or Furies. Three Greek goddesses of vengeance created by drops of Uranus’s blood, they pursued wrongdoers until the sinners were driven mad or died. The “daughters of night” had fiery eyes and dogs’ heads wreathed with serpents.

“A goddess of vengeance. Are you seeking revenge…on me? How do you think I’ve wronged you?”

The woman paused briefly before speaking. “You mentioned your father. Now I ask what vengeance you are seeking, Ariana?”

Was this about her dad? A chill skittered up Ariana’s spine, as if death had reached from the grave and stroked her with icy fingers. The hair on the back of her neck rose, and she shivered. I do not believe in mythical beings.

What kind of fresh FBI hell was this? An undercover sting? Or was Megaera a smuggler priming her to be another unwitting courier of stolen antiquities? Duping Ariana would be more difficult. Her naïveté had been buried alongside her father. “I don’t want vengeance,” she said cautiously. “Just justice.”

“They can be one and the same.”

A dangerous philosophy. “There’s a line. A point of no return.”

“Your family has suffered. What line would you draw? What will you sacrifice to gain ‘justice’ for Derek Bennett?”

Images haunted Ariana. Her father being led away in handcuffs in front of gaping neighbors. His despair over unreturned phone messages and canceled meetings by his colleagues. The disdain heaped upon the once-proud man, reducing him to a common thief.

She couldn’t exorcise the memory of sitting beside his hospital bed, watching his pale face slacken as his spirit faded. The stinging pain as icy raindrops blurred her vision when the casket holding the shell of what had been her father was lowered into the earth.

“I’ll do whatever I have to.”

“Would you reach into a serpent’s nest, though you could be bitten?”

Goose bumps prickled over Ariana’s skin. What did this woman want?

A silken rustle of clothing whispered in the darkness. “What is the Napoletano, Dante, to you?”

Ariana tensed. She needed to frame her answer carefully. Was this Megaera looking for an “opportunity” to hurt Dante? The gods and goddesses of legend frequently ensnared mortals with their own thoughtless words.

But the woman who held them captive was human…armed with intelligence and power. And the ruthlessness to wield them. Ariana hesitated. Megaera wanted Ariana to believe she was on her side. Dante seemed as if he were not. Instinct warned her to proceed with caution. “That sounds like a trick question.”

“I’ll make it easier. Do you wish me to dispose of him?”

An affirmative or a negative could land both her and Dante in serious jeopardy. If Megaera thought Ariana cared for Dante, the woman could use it against them. But Ariana refused to consent to hurting him further.

“Decide quickly. Or I will decide for you.”

“Then I…” Phrase it carefully. “In future dealings, I want you to treat Dante and me with equal respect.”

“An answer worthy of the ancient gods.” Satisfaction swam in Megaera’s sultry reply. “You risk throwing your lot in with his? Wise. And yet…most unwise.”

“I vote for wise.”

“It remains to be seen whether your choice reveals mercy—or weakness.” The woman’s hand rested on the arm of her chair, and moonlight illuminated the golden circlet at her wrist. The antique bracelet adorned with bloodstones sent a shiver of recognition through Ariana. Where had she seen it before?

“Hold fast to your secrets, Ms. Bennett. Do not reveal yourself to anyone.” Megaera rose and glided to the door. “And you may be granted a chance to even the score for your father.”

The woman left, abandoning Ariana to the gloom.

Her stomach heaved with the ship. What on earth had just happened?

More importantly, what would happen next?

The door crashed open and the Greek swaggered in. Without a word, he yanked her to her feet and marched her toward the yacht’s stern. Dread weighted her chest. Was this the end? Would he shove her into the unforgiving sea?

The torturous walk down the rolling deck was the longest of her life.

Clinging to her dignity—all she had left—Ariana refused to cry or beg. She shouldn’t have embarked on this ill-fated voyage. Sadie would never recover from losing both her husband and daughter.

At the stern, Ariana braced herself for the final assault. Instead, the thug left. Bewilderment assailed her. Reeling from captivity first in the odiferous hold and then the perfumed stateroom, she inhaled the bracing night air. If these were her last breaths, she would savor them.

Murky gray clouds scuttled across the pallid moon. The ocean churned below, where restless waves prowled to the horizon and tumbled off the earth. Shuddering, Ariana pressed trembling lips together. Don’t you dare start wailing.

How had she landed on a yacht in the Mediterranean waiting to die? She had never taken risks. Never longed for adventure. She’d been content to experience life through the stories she adored. She had never hungered for ambition. Never burned with passion. Never melded heart to heart with a soul mate.

At what were probably her few remaining moments before death, realization stole over her. She’d only flirted with blurry shadows of the real thing.

She had never truly lived.

It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t enough.

She wanted more!

If she made it through this, she would live her life the way she wanted…on her own terms. No more concessions. No more doubts. When she died, she wanted to leave behind no regrets.

She heard a commotion and spun around. Which was more terrifying? Someone creeping up from behind and shoving her into the water…or watching the waves rise up to swallow her?

The thugs struggled into view, wrestling Dante between them. The pair strove to restrain the furious Napoletano. Even tied up, he fought every step…defaming their parentage in admirably profane Italian. Relief crested over her. His injuries hadn’t disabled him as badly as she’d feared.

Dante saw her. He stumbled, his tirade broken mid-insult. His gaze swept her body, then locked with hers. His umber eyes mirrored her relief, and her heart jolted. Then he looked away, his features hardening into his usual stony expression.

The Russian opened a watertight door in the stern and motioned them down onto a platform. Her gaze fixated on the waves lapping at her deck shoes. “I’m sorry.” She sputtered a frantic apology at Dante.

“Stay calm, Ariana.” His low assurance vibrated in her ear. “Get into the boat.” He gestured at a speedboat moored to the platform.

Boat? Her limbs quivered as the spike of adrenaline ebbed. She hadn’t seen the boat.

The Greek piloted the speedboat and the Russian rode shotgun, with her and Dante trapped in the middle. As if they’d be moronic enough to dive headlong into the ocean with their hands tied behind their backs.

The Greek didn’t use the running lights. He either knew where they were going or was taking them farther out to sea to dump their bodies.

Wind whipped her hair as the hull chopped through surf. Shivering, she leaned into Dante. “Will they toss us overboard?” she whispered.

“I doubt it. They would have done it from the yacht and saved the effort.”

“You know I can’t swim. If you get a chance to escape, go. Save yourself.”

He angled his big frame to shield her from the wind. “I am not leaving you. And I will not let anything happen to you.”

“You don’t lack confidence, Signor Dante. I appreciate the encouragement, but unless you have blue spandex tights and a red cape stashed in your pocket, I don’t see how.”

It took a few seconds to translate. Then he threw back his head and laughed. His eyes sparkled and his teeth gleamed in his bearded face. Dazed, Ariana blinked at the impact of Dante’s unrestrained smile.

The Greek turned and scowled, and Dante lowered his voice.

“Don’t be so pessimistic, bella. Thanks to your cleverness, my ropes are weakened. I only need more time and a sharp object.”

“Which you won’t find in the middle of the Mediterranean.”

“We’re headed toward a destination. We wait. And watch.”

The Greek suddenly killed the motor.

“Shut up,” the Russian snarled. “No more talking.”

Ariana anxiously half turned as the beefy man stood, but he merely slid the oars into the oarlocks and reseated himself. His biceps knotted as he rowed.

She glanced up at Dante. Inscrutability shuttered his bruised face, but his forearms grazed hers as he fought his bonds. They had to be nearing their final destination. She fervently hoped he could break free.

Trembling with cold and apprehension, she huddled into the protection afforded by his body, and he moved closer. Though he had often appeared to ignore her over the past six weeks, in reality, he was acutely responsive to her body language. A survival skill when one conducted business with the mob.

Though their whispered conversation had been forbidden, the presence of his reassuring strength helped. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Soaking in his heat, she pressed against him, shoulder to firm shoulder, thigh to hard-muscled thigh.

She wasn’t convinced they were headed anywhere other than the bottom of the sea. If she succumbed to her rioting fear of how it might feel, how long it might take to drown, she’d start screaming like a banshee.

Think about something else. Anything.

She was freezing. Neither she nor Dante were dressed for nighttime on the open water. He had been wearing a long, weathered black Florentinian leather coat over his black T-shirt and black denims, but their captors must have stripped it from him before tying him up. She wore cargo pants with a long-sleeved shirt.

She jerked upright.

Oh. My. God. In the midst of the trauma, she’d forgotten. Was Dante’s coat the only thing their captors had confiscated? Muddled by terror, she hadn’t thought to check if her iPod and notebook were still in her hip pocket. Ariana twisted in frustration. She couldn’t tell. She’d taken the precaution of securing her iPod in a watertight case before accepting the job aboard Alexandra’s Dream and her notebook was in a sealed plastic bag.

The iPod hid Derek’s files, encrypted in ancient Greek, which she had spent months laboriously translating into the notebook. She’d had no idea cruise lines overlapped employee duties and that she’d be required to juggle many nonlibrary-related jobs. Duties aboard the cruise liner had kept her hopping. She’d spent every snippet of free time the past seven months decoding files. Only a long list of names and addresses, so far. Most dead ends. Finally, one had led her to the dealer in Naples. Her first break, thwarted by the Camorra.

When Dante had kidnapped her, she’d lost the use of her shipboard dictionary. Translating the complicated language had slowed to a painful crawl. She groaned. If Megaera’s cohorts had stolen her only clues to clearing her father’s name, her crusade was doomed.

Dante’s lips brushed her hair and his breath feathered into her ear. “Are you seasick?”

Not risking a reply, she shook her head. He had seen her scribbling in the notebook at the house, where she’d claimed to be writing stories to pass the time. Sometimes, she was telling the truth. She’d been writing them most of her life, and they’d been a familiar source of comfort during her captivity. Dante had requested she share them. She had politely declined. Their mistrust was mutual. He had searched her room when she was showering…and when he thought she was asleep. She’d thwarted him by keeping the iPod and notebook on her at all times and in sight when bathing.

“Are you in pain?”

She shook her head again, and his ebony brows lowered. “You’re lying.”

She hated deception…and she stank at it. “I’m fine.”

“Tell me.”

Even if she dared confide in him, what could he do? They were both victims of circumstance. Both helpless.

Not comforting.

“How are your bonds?” she whispered.

His mouth hardened. Naturally, he recognized bait and switch. He was a maestro at it. “I’m making progress.”

She peeked behind his back, and her throat constricted at the blood coating the rope. “It looks like all you’ve accomplished is further injuring yourself.”

Wounded male pride sharpened his features. Great. She’d hurt his feelings. After seven months at sea with a cultural grab bag of employees and passengers, she should be used to macho Mediterranean males.

Dante whispered fiercely, “Dio provvede.”

God will provide. Odd encouragement from a criminal. “God helps those who help themselves,” she whispered back.

“Exactly my point, Ariana. Keep the faith.”

She studied his striking profile. The man she’d thought a sullen mobster was a Gordian knot of intriguing contradictions.

The boat’s hull scraped land. The Greek leaped into the shallow water and dragged the craft onto a sliver of rocky beach carved out of a high cliff.

Their time had run out.

“Our hosts are not wearing guns,” Dante murmured. “Do as they say, and stay behind me, until I tell you otherwise.”

Ariana was too anxious to argue. He was the criminal expert.

Sandwiched between their two captors, she and Dante climbed awkwardly out of the boat. Coarse rock scrunched under her deck shoes as she trudged up the beach.

The Greek halted in front of a semicircle of craggy boulders spearing from the sand. “Sit.”

Dante uncharacteristically complied. Did he have a plan?

Please have a plan. She followed his lead and sat beside him.

Draped in the cold, black shroud of night, the hostile island appeared uninhabited. A cliff overshadowed the beach, bullying aside the moonlight. Waves pummeled the shore with white-capped fists.

The thugs turned and walked toward the boat, and Ariana reached for Dante’s hands. “Are they returning to the yacht and leaving us here to die?”

“Not if I can stop them.” He squeezed her fingers, then let go to continue his fight for freedom. “You watch them while I concentrate on escape.”

The Greek leaned into the boat and scooped out Dante’s leather coat. The Russian snatched it away. The Greek gestured and said something, and then they began to argue in their tangled English.

Ariana understood enough to grasp the conversational gist.

“Nyet!” The stocky Russian clutched the coat.

The Greek punctuated his diatribe with a vehement hand gesture.

Dante looked up from his urgent task. “Che?”

Ariana grimaced. “Abandonment suddenly doesn’t look so bad.” Dante had said the men weren’t armed with guns, but if the Greek still had his knife, he could cut their throats…She bit her lip. And while she was scaring herself with what-ifs, they were losing valuable seconds. “The Greek just said, ‘Do as we were told and leave it. No evidence.’”

Dante swore vilely in Italian and redoubled his effort. He shifted, felt behind him. “I scraped my knuckles on a jagged rock. With time, I can cut myself loose.”

Down the beach, the Greek acerbically reminded the Russian he could buy fifty coats with the price Megaera was paying them. Though the Russian couldn’t immediately agree without losing face, the debate cooled.

“Time is in very short supply.”

“Then you will have to stall. Distract them.”

“How? I doubt they’ll be interested in my rendition of the Iliad.”

His broad shoulders bunched as he vigorously scraped his ropes. He quirked a glossy brow. “There is one thing that interests all men, bella.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Admiration flashed briefly in his eyes. “Sei bellissima, Ariana.”

Amazement curled through her. Most beautiful. She shook her head. “Say I get their attention…and then you can’t break free.” She shuddered. “I really don’t want to go there.”

“My solemn oath, I will not fail you. Once my word is given, I follow through. No matter the cost.”

That could be good. Or very bad.

It all depended on the man.

“Trust me, Ariana.”

Trust him. She rested her forehead on her bent knees.

“We have no recourse,” Dante hissed. “If you want to survive, you must do it.”

She straightened and saw the Greek and Russian shaking hands. Whether they’d agreed to a fast end for her and Dante or a slow one, she didn’t want to know.

Not only were they out of time…they were out of options.

She scooted away from Dante to keep the men from noticing what he was doing while she played seductress.

“Hey…you guys.” She forced down her revulsion and attempted a come-hither look. Both men ignored her.

She glanced back at Dante. Muscles corded in his tanned arms and strong neck as he waged his war with his bindings.

Their glances locked, and resolve glinted in his eyes. His wrenching movements had to hurt—a lot—but his set features didn’t reveal pain. Her own effort in the hold of the ship had scalded her arms like liquid fire, and it hadn’t been nearly as ferocious.

She could fight as hard for their survival. Ariana scrabbled to her feet and attempted an enticing stroll. “You aren’t leaving, are you?”

Almost in slow motion, the thugs turned to stare at her.

She tilted her head. “I’m cold. And my arms hurt. If you untie me, I’d be really grateful. We could…um…maybe reach an agreement? Just please don’t abandon me here.”

Their eyes fired with greedy anticipation. The Greek’s lips curled in a sly grin. Dante’s coat slid from the Russian’s fingers, and his nostrils flared. A wolf on the scent of prey.

Ariana’s pulse lurched into triple time and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming as the men began to stalk her.

CHAPTER THREE

ARIANA’S HEART THRASHED. Why had she agreed to this terrible idea? With no time to weigh her choices, she’d listened to her intuition…and sided with Dante over dying.

As the men reached her, she backed up several steps. “I’m really uncomfortable. Can you untie me?”

Suspicion creased the Russian’s swarthy face. “Why should we?”

“Uh…because if my hands aren’t free—” her fingernails dug into her clammy palms “—it will spoil my…fun.”

The Greek’s slimy smile made her want to throw up. “Not necessary for you to be having fun.”

“Da.” The Russian nodded. “Only for us.”

Oh, suddenly the pigs were in agreement?

“If I’m not having as much fun, neither will you.” Just talking about it gave her the urge to throw up. The Russian’s cruel mouth twisted hungrily, and she forged ahead. “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

Before they could dwell on that awful scenario, she threw down the gauntlet. “Are you afraid to untie me? Scared of a girl?” She deliberately swept each opponent with a scornful gaze. She needed them tearing at each other’s throats again. “Which one of you is a real man?”

She may as well have pushed the button marked predictable. Both spat denials, and then hurtled into confrontation. The wary Greek was against untying her, while the machismo Russian insisted he could handle her.

She shot a covert glance down the beach. Darkness hid Dante’s progress, but he was still seated. Not good.

The thugs switched from haggling over whether to untie her to who should have her first. Ariana fought the impulse to flee into the night. Running might buy her three minutes, tops.

Dante, hurry!

The Russian’s dubious control snapped, and he shoved her backward onto the sand. Agony speared her bound arms and she screamed.

He crawled on top of her. For nightmare moments, pain and horror paralyzed her. She’d never been in a fight. She was bound. Helpless.

Then adrenaline blasted her system with burning resolve. Improvise. She head-butted her assailant.

He jerked back, swiping a palm over his bloody lip. “Bliad!”

The Greek gave a snide jab about how well Comrade handled the little girl.

The Russian swore. His huge hand circled her throat, cut off her air. His other hand shoved up her camisole. Bucking beneath his weight, she struggled to breathe as the Greek egged him on.

Dante, where are you?

Her vision grayed around the edges. A desperate burst of strength rammed her knee upward, but she merely grazed the target.

The Russian cursed again and flung out his arm to backhand her.

“Figlio di puttana!” Dante’s enraged roar rang out. “Enough!” The Russian was torn off her and went flying across the sand.

She wriggled upright as Dante pivoted and landed a right cross on the Greek’s jaw. Her satisfaction at his look of stunned panic amazed her. Who’s laughing now?

The Russian tackled Dante from behind. Dante battled to his feet, cussing an Italian blue streak and swinging his powerful fists like battering rams.

Fear evaporated Ariana’s satisfaction. Dante was beat up and weakened. No matter how determined, he couldn’t defeat two thugs.

Exhausted, hurting, she wrestled to her feet and stumbled to the rocks. Feeling behind her, she found the sharp boulder Dante had used. Her stomach tightened. The rock was slick and still slightly warm with his blood.

As the men’s combat ripped apart the night, Ariana scraped her ropes on the jagged edge. She didn’t have Dante’s strength, and her efforts were torturous. She forced herself to hurry, to ignore the sting of her wrists.

Finally, her ropes tore. She staggered to the shoreline where the battling men rolled in the surf. Dante fended off the Russian, sending him sprawling on the wet sand. But before Dante could regain his footing, the Greek pushed him underwater, held him down. A tidal wave of fear slammed into Ariana. He was drowning Dante!

Not while she had any say! She dragged an oar from the speedboat. Splashing into the shallows, she swung. The paddle hit the Greek and knocked him off Dante.

Dante surged out of the water and charged the Russian, who was heading for Ariana. “Bastardo!”

The men rolled underwater. Clutching the paddle, she circled the thrashing duo, seeking an opening.

Dante clambered upright, lifting the Russian by the collar, and then froze. He dropped the Russian and leaped at her. Wrapping his arms around her, he swept her beneath the waves.

She lost her hold on the oar. Saltwater flooded her nose and mouth, burned her eyes and stung her cuts. Panicked, she struggled. Why was Dante killing her? She was on his side.

As her head swam and her vision darkened, Dante scooped her up and tossed her behind him. “Stay back!”

Gagging, she wheezed in precious oxygen “Are. You. Insane?” She swiped her forearm across her eyes…and saw that the Greek had been sneaking up behind her, knife drawn. Her heart staggered. Dante had saved her life.

Moonlight glinted on razored metal as the Greek slashed at Dante, who jumped back. The hissing blade nearly sliced his abs.

“Nyet!” the Russian hollered. “No killing or we do not get our money!”

“I do not give a damn,” the Greek snarled. “I will gut them both.”

The furious man swiped with the knife, and Dante swayed in a lethal dance to stay between her and the blade. He scowled at the Greek. “She is under my protection. You don’t want to do that to l’ amico degli amici.”

The innocuous phrase had a curious effect.

“Megaera said nothing…” The Greek froze and his bristly jaw went slack. “Ah. The explosion…I understand now.”

The Russian choked out a dismayed phrase. He shoved Dante, who stumbled into her, submerging them both.

She swallowed another mouthful of brine before they gained their balance. Dante surged out of the water in a combat stance, water streaming off his hard muscles like Poseidon commanding the sea.

She pushed up beside him. The thugs were running toward the speedboat.

“Porca troia!” Dante raced down the sand.

Ariana slogged onto the beach. Thank heaven for such a dedicated protector. No matter what his motives were.

But hours of captivity and two beatings had cost him. The men had too much lead time. Before Dante got halfway there, the boat’s motor rumbled to life.

The speedboat rocketed into the night. Dante skidded to a stop. He swung around and frowned, his countenance savage.

They were stranded.

AT SEA ABOARD her rented yacht, Anastasia Catomeris handed more euros to the Greek and Russian than they deserved and then instructed the captain to escort the churlish duo off the vessel. Recommended by a contact as local “professionals,” they had reported for duty big on beef, short on brains.

The timely explosion of Dante and Ariana’s yacht the night before—possibly mob related—had enabled the hired hands to capture her prey. Tasia’s contacts had reported that Dante had been working at a mob dig site near Naples before he absconded with the girl. At first she’d suspected he might be working with the police—or one of her rivals. But her investigation had turned up no evidence of either involvement. He and Ariana must have thought they could escape the Camorra by sailing out of the area. It had taken Tasia time, effort and too much cash to locate the pair. She needed to use caution, because the Camorra would keep searching. The mob hadn’t obtained their reputation by operating like a trade workers union. Dante couldn’t just quit.

She switched on the gas fireplace in the stateroom and swept off her black veil. She was sick of lurking in the shadows. Always dark. Always hidden. Catching a glimpse of her face in the mirror, she proudly tilted her chin. Megaera, the goddess whose name she had borrowed, might have been hideous, but Tasia was still a stunner. She often passed for half her age—her only worthwhile inheritance from Greek peasants.

She sauntered to the bar and filled a crystal flute with champagne. Her hired oafs had returned from their assignment to deposit her captives on the island bloody, bruised and shaken. They had sullenly admitted to an altercation, but assured her Dante and Ariana were unharmed. The fools had better not be lying, because she needed the hostages alive.

For now.

She had planned and plotted and waited for exactly the right moment. Finally, everything was in place to teach the man who had abandoned her and his infant son the ultimate lesson. She had set Elias Stamos, the owner of Liberty Line, on a collision course with ruin. And what better vehicle for Elias to ride to public humiliation than the ship named after his revered late wife, Alexandra’s Dream.

Mike O’Connor and Giorgio Tzekas thought they were being paid, and handsomely, to smuggle artifacts to sell in America. The wily O’Connor acquired the pieces, and the not-so-bright but malleable Tzekas used his position as first officer to help get them aboard Alexandra’s Dream and hide them. However, Tasia had no intention of ferrying the antiquities that far. Once the ship docked in Athens she would plant the final piece with false invoices and then alert the authorities. Elias would be arrested. His sterling reputation as a patron of the Greek arts would crumble, and his patrons would flee. He would deplete his fortune defending himself in court.

If O’Connor and Tzekas played it smart, they’d walk away much richer. If not…She smirked. They couldn’t identify her.

Revenge, as rich and satisfying as caviar. Tasia bit into a cracker heaped with the best Beluga. Mmm. She could hardly wait to revel in the heady taste of vengeance.

Her “job” as a collection consultant for an Athens museum was the perfect cover. She’d been careful with her spending and had Swiss banked a tidy sum from a long, successful career of smuggling artifacts. But it still wasn’t quite enough. After Elias went down, she had one more cache to fence, huge enough to fund the rest of her luxurious life, and then she was done. She would buy her own yacht and sail to the south of France. She would bask in the sun and live in the style for which she had worked her derriere off. And which she deserved after a lifetime of scrimping.

Perhaps she’d even hunt up a new lover. Though her track record was abysmal. Sipping chilled bubbly, Tasia strolled to the chaise beside the crackling fire. What was the saying? Lucky at gambling, unlucky in love.

Wealth never lost its value. Never let her down. Living well was the answer to every problem. The luxury to do whatever you wanted whenever you chose was ultimate power. She didn’t need men…except for the obvious. She’d clawed her way up the slippery slope of success without help from any man.

Sighing, she settled into the cushions. Elias had been the only man she’d never been able to control. Until Dante. The enigmatic man had refused a bribe and stoically taken a beating without a betraying word. Too bad, because the savage Napoletano could be a very worthwhile…investment. That man would never cower at her feet. And she enjoyed an edge of danger, in and out of the bedroom.

Tasia licked a salty morsel of caviar from her lower lip. She’d spared his life because she appreciated beautiful things—and didn’t destroy them without good reason. And because her contact at Interpol couldn’t confirm exactly whose side Dante was on. If she made him disappear, there would be consequences. She needed to know what she might lose before making a decision. Her contact was running a background check on him, and his fate would wait until Tasia received more information.

Ariana, on the other hand…She frowned. Seeing her had stirred softer feelings than Tasia had expected. She was her father’s girl, smart and courageous. Ariana’s intelligence, knowledge of antiques and bitterness toward the police could be useful. As could her mission to redeem Derek’s reputation. Tasia drained her glass. Ariana’s mother had joined Alexandra’s Dream to search for her daughter, and Sadie and Elias had grown close. Ah, the gratification Tasia would gain from recruiting Ms. Bennett and hurting Elias even more. Double the revenge. He would learn the sting of betrayal, firsthand.

Would Ariana cooperate? Tasia abandoned the empty plate and flute on a table and draped a cashmere throw over her legs. As much as she would enjoy working with Derek’s daughter, Tasia couldn’t afford to let sentiment impede her goals. The girl’s future also remained undecided.

For now, the pair would remain trapped on the island…until Tasia decided to fetch them.

She stared into the hungry red flames and her lips curled in a slow smile. Or not.

THIGH-DEEP in the cold surf, Dante flung a universal parting gesture at the fleeing speedboat. Muttering, he splashed back to the woman shivering on the beach. Like him, she was soaked to the skin, bruised and scraped. He’d failed her for the second time in twenty-four hours. Rage made him shake. “Are you all right, Ariana?”

“Yes.” She unsteadily brushed aside a wet tendril of chestnut hair. “Heckle and Jeckle tore out of here like you’d sprouted horns. What’s so scary about being ‘a friend of the friends’?”

After almost six weeks, he had yet to discern if she was a bereaved daughter seeking the truth about her father, or a wily operator attempting to run her own game. In either scenario, if she knew who his friends really were, she would jeopardize his goals. Possibly his life. He scooped up his fallen coat.

“Ah. It’s a ‘don’t mess with the mob’ thing, right?”

He’d known from the moment she’d asked her first question at the dig site that she was not only beautiful, but extremely intelligent. Which made her extremely dangerous. “Sì.”

She planted her hands on her hips. Her eyes—as blue and unpredictable as the Mediterranean Sea—sparked. “Well, why didn’t you yell it sooner?”

He threw back his head and laughter rolled out of him. His studious librarian had far more audacità than he’d imagined. And the worse things got, the stronger she became. Forced into close proximity with her bright, alluring heat, his imagination had been working overtime.

Her full lips pursed, and his body tightened. Amusement fled. Allowing her to divert him could get them both killed. He still hadn’t decided if Signorina Bennett was hiding something far more hazardous than a fiery spirit. “A man does not throw the phrase around lightly—and not unless he can back it up.”

“But you can.” As mutual mistrust engulfed their newfound camaraderie, unease chased away her smile. A chilly gust plastered her sodden clothing to her body, and she trembled violently.

His adrenaline rush ebbed and ice crept into his bloodstream. Where were his brains? Mentally castigating himself, Dante caught her by the hand. He knew where. And if he wanted to keep Ariana and himself alive, he’d damn well better retrieve them.

Towing Ariana up the strand, he pulled her into the semicircle of boulders forming a windbreak. He tossed down his coat. Then he turned her to face him, grabbed her sodden shirt by the plackets and stripped it off her.

When he tugged up the hem of her camisole, she shrieked and her knee slammed into his groin. Searing nausea twisted his guts, sent him reeling.

“What the hell?”

“I think that’s my line.” She stumbled backward. “Just because we’re lost on an island in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean we’re going to go native.”

Dante groaned and eased upright. He didn’t retch, so he straightened and stared at the enraged woman. Had stress unhinged her? “Non capisco.”

“I flirted with those goons because it was a life-or-death emergency.” She inhaled shakily. “I am not a party favor.”

His jaw dropped. “San Gennaro, mio bello! We’ve been together nearly six weeks. You should know better.” Dante resisted the urge to inventory vital, perhaps irreparably damaged, anatomy. He’d rather take a fist in the face any day. “You are not a woman who engages in casual relationships.”

She rubbed her hands along her arms. “And you know that, how?”

“Just as you have been safe with me, I have been safe with you.” At least partially. While his attraction had been instantaneous, it was bearable. Resistible. Despite her vibrant coloring and the glint of impertinence in her gaze, she had shielded herself inside a bunker of aloof poise. She seemed coolly unaware of her latent passion…while his senses spun every time he got near her. If her guilelessness was an act designed to intrigue him, it had worked.

He’d never seen her come fully alive. Until fate had forced them into life-or-death peril. And the new determination in her sparkling eyes, the newly resolved set to her full lips intrigued him more than ever. He shrugged. “You have not attempted to use your sensuality to manipulate me.”

“My…” She opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. “Then what was with the fast track to seduction?”

“I was trying to save you from hypothermia. Believe me, cara, if I seduced you, you would know it.” He dropped his voice to a husky purr. “And it would not be forced. Or fast.”

Her eyes widened. “Uh…you suddenly started ripping off my clothes—” she cleared her throat “—so I’ll be warmer?”

“Wet fabric loses all ability to insulate. The wind makes it worse, like being inside a refrigerator.” He gestured impatiently. While they debated, her lips had paled and her graceful limbs shook uncontrollably. “You are shivering because your body is working too hard to get warm. Exhaustion will soon set in, and combined with hypothermia, will kill you.”

“You’re shivering, too.”

He peeled off his wet T-shirt and draped it over a boulder. “I am also removing my clothing.”

Bemused, he watched her astonished glance slide over him, then skitter everywhere but his bare chest. Sudden warmth infused his chilled skin.

“But if we’re…naked—” she swallowed audibly “—we’ll still freeze to death.”

“My coat is dry. We’ll share it…and our body heat.” He tugged off his boots. “Be sensible, bella. Every moment you delay, you grow colder.”

When she hesitated, he scowled. “I don’t want to have to take your clothes from you. But I will.”

Her wary gaze assessed him far too long. He moved toward her. “Do not force me to choose.”

She flung up a trembling hand. “You win.” She bit her lip. “But I don’t care if I turn into a human snow cone…I am not taking off my underwear.”

Dante chuckled. “I doubt a few scraps of damp silk will cause you harm.”

She wrinkled her nose. “There’s a highly effective technique called communication. Next time, before you grab…ask.”

“A lesson I’m not inclined to forget.” And if he was, the ache in his groin would remind him.

“Sorry. I was a bit on edge after…” She shivered again, and her eyes darkened.

Dante battled the desire to enfold her in his arms. He had to remain detached…for safety and sanity. “I understand.” He’d committed a multitude of sins in the line of duty, but sending Ariana into harm’s way ranked at the top. He’d burned with helpless rage while the bastards had mauled her. Desperately struggled to break free and prayed he would reach her in time. “Perdonami. It killed me to put you through that.”

“I knew what I was risking. I don’t outsource responsibility for my decisions.” She circled her finger. “Turn around so I can undress.”

He half turned to offer her the illusion of privacy. Being naked was as natural as breathing to him, but since she was self-conscious, he left his briefs on after removing his pants.

Their clothes should be dry by morning, draped in the wind outside the rocky semicircle. He donned his leather trench coat before sitting in the sand.

Propped against a boulder, he looked up at Ariana. Heated desire steamrollered over him. San Gennaro! A few scraps of damp silk may not cause her harm, but they might be his undoing.

Adorned in a strapless apricot satin bra and matching panties, she stole his breath. He’d kidnapped her wearing only the clothes on her back and he had bought her new ones. He’d chosen the lingerie, tormented by the knowledge of how lovingly it would cup her generous curves.

The moonlight burnished copper highlights in her hair and bathed her creamy skin in luminescence. Still and perfect, she stood before him a glowing alabaster sculpture—Venus rising from the sea.

When it came to the intriguing Ariana Bennett, his body bypassed his brain. It made him crazy in more ways than one, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. His arms opened for her. “Come here, Ariana.”

“I suppose it’s better than hypothermia,” she muttered.

Put firmly in his place, he laughed. “The sentiment every man awaits from a woman’s lips.”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Stiff and reluctant, she lowered herself to his lap.

He tucked her against his chest and wrapped his coat around her. She not only looked like a marble statue, she felt as cold and unyielding. He rubbed his hands over her back to generate heat. “Think warm thoughts.”

Her slender limbs trembled and her teeth chattered. “This takes the prize for the most…friendly first date I’ve ever had.”

“It’s survival,” he reminded himself as much as her. “It’s nothing personal.”

Her breathing rapid, she was trembling too hard, betraying her unease with their intimacy. “From where I’m sitting, it feels…ah…enormously personal.”

Their mutual misgivings didn’t quench the simmering attraction. He swore softly. The troops had bounced back from medical furlough to active duty. “I am a man.” With a gorgeous, nearly naked woman cuddled in his arms.

“As if your manliness was ever in doubt.”

“Relax, Ariana. I would never take advantage of a woman in distress.”

“What are we going to do, Dante? We could die.”

She was striving to be brave, and the quiver of fear in her voice tore at his heart. “I am not so easy to kill. And I won’t let you die, mia cara.” He knew some of her stiffness was due to the fact that she was hurting, but to her credit, she didn’t complain. He had no weapons, no food, no water. The only thing he could do was keep her warm and prevent her from going into shock.

He sought a diversion. For her and himself. “Tell me a story.”

She started. “What?”

“You have an affinity for stories, yes? I have never had time for such things. It will take our minds off our discomfort, pass the hours until morning.”

“Hmm…okay. I’ll tell you one of my favorites.” She inhaled. “Once upon a time, on a Greek island far, far away, a mortal princess named Psyche—which means soul—grew famous for her beauty. Have you heard this one?”

“No.”

“All right. Well, Psyche was kind and generous, and everyone adored her and claimed she was more exquisite than Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Even on her best day, Aphrodite was temperamental, and she grew enraged. She ordered her son Eros, the god of love, to shoot Psyche with a magical arrow and make her fall in love with a revolting monster. But Eros tumbled headlong in love with the princess and couldn’t force himself to carry out his duty.”

She finally relaxed in his embrace, and Dante smiled. “I am all ears.”

Ariana chuckled. “While it’s not nice to fool Mother Nature, it’s deadly to mess with Aphrodite. She cursed Psyche with a spell so no man would find her appealing. Psyche’s worried parents trekked to the Oracle at Delphi, who proclaimed that the princess was destined to belong to an entity who flew through the night like a huge winged serpent. A being so powerful that even Zeus, the king of the gods, could not withstand him.

“Psyche was smart enough to understand she’d annoyed the goddess and courageous enough to protect her family. She accepted the future the Fates had decreed. Her grieving family accompanied her to the top of the mountain where the beast would find her. Psyche couldn’t stop her tears as she hugged her parents and sisters goodbye.

“Alone, she braced herself to die, but instead, a gentle wind lifted her up and rocked her to sleep. She awoke inside a palace. A kind male voice proclaimed her mistress of the mansion. After she’d bathed, gowns and jewels appeared, along with a sumptuous banquet.”

“Va bene. I am beginning to see why you like this story.”

She returned his smile and his pulse skipped a beat. “That night, when darkness enveloped the castle, the man spoke again, and said he was her new husband. Psyche couldn’t picture the compelling voice belonging to a hideous beast. His words were loving and sweet, and he treated her tenderly.

“Unbeknownst to Psyche, Eros had secretly taken her for his bride. Because he feared Aphrodite’s wrath on his beloved, he couldn’t reveal his identity.

“Psyche grew to deeply love her undercover husband. He promised her everything she wanted, except seeing his face. He warned her if that happened, he would be forced to leave. She assured him his appearance didn’t matter, she loved his heart. She pleaded for him to come to her in the daylight, but he sadly refused. He said the day she saw his true form, their happiness would die.”

Dante shifted, and his abused muscles protested. Suddenly, he wasn’t liking this story so much. When Ariana hesitated, he rubbed her back. “Go on.”

“One night, Psyche reminisced about her family. Because Eros was a god, he knew a visit would rain down doom, but surrendered to the aching loneliness in his bride’s voice.

“When Psyche’s sisters arrived and saw the spoils, they jealously taunted her with the rumor that gullible Psyche was married to a dragon who planned to devour her. They urged her to peek at him while he slept. Psyche resisted, but finally curiosity prevailed, pushed by peer pressure. Was her husband her true love…or an evil monster? After he fell asleep beside her, Psyche lit a lamp. Instead of a deformed beast she saw the glorious beauty of the god of love…and realized he’d been protecting her from the mother-in-law from Hades.

“Overcome by shame, contrition seared her heart. In her shock, her hands trembled and she spilled hot oil onto her lover’s shoulder. Eros startled awake and realized what she had done. He cried out in sorrow, ‘Where there is no trust, there can be no love.’ He fled, and the palace crumbled into dust, leaving Psyche alone and miserable.”

Ariana’s voice softened, and she curled into him. “When Aphrodite learned her son had disobeyed her, she imprisoned him in a high tower. But Psyche refused to give up her one true love. Aphrodite wanted Psyche to suffer. She gave Psyche two impossible tasks with lethal consequences. Psyche was aided in the first by a colony of ants and in the second by the river naiads. What neither Psyche nor Aphrodite realized was that Eros was watching over Psyche from his prison and sending her help.

“When Psyche succeeded, Aphrodite decided to send her son’s bride to hell…literally. Aphrodite commanded her to go to the Queen of the Underworld and capture her beauty in a box. She was warned not to open it.

“A forlorn Psyche thought Eros had abandoned her, and resigned herself to the fact that no human could find their way back from the dark Underworld. But as she descended into Hades, a voice whispered the escape route in her ear. It was Eros, disguising his identity on the secret telepathic channel.”

Dante’s lips quirked as he enjoyed Ariana’s original narration, and he was relieved that she seemed warmer than before.

“Once Psyche returned to the sunlight, she vowed to resume her fight. But time in hell had made her a disheveled mess. If she wanted her man back, she had to look gorgeous. Psyche opened the box to borrow a smidgen of the Underworld Queen’s beauty. But the spells of gods are too powerful for mortals and knocked her out.

“Lucky for her, Eros escaped. He found his wife unconscious in the forest and woke her with a forgiving kiss. He went over Aphrodite’s head to the gods on Mount Olympus. The star-crossed lovers’ devotion touched them, and Zeus summoned Aphrodite and put his foot down. Eros had proved his love for Psyche, and Psyche had proved her dedication, patience and obedience.

“There was only one solution. Psyche was brought to Olympus and Zeus offered her the cup of immortality. She drank the ambrosial nectar and was transformed into the goddess of fidelity. Eros swept Psyche into his arms, and the lovers were united, heart and soul, for all eternity.”

Ariana finished her tale and went silent. After a few moments, her soft, warm cheek rested on Dante’s chest.

He listened as her breathing grew deep and even. The night closed around him, and the tenderness tugging at his heart turned to sharp claws of terror.

Like Eros, he’d been sent on a covert mission to bring down a woman…and found himself confronted by a dilemma he’d never expected. Assaulted by feelings he didn’t dare investigate.

During Ariana’s captivity, her lovely face had creased with concentration as she had listened to her iPod and scribbled in her notebook. She wasn’t merely writing stories. He’d tried to confiscate both items, but she’d thwarted him.

He frowned. Did she still have them, or had they been lost during the explosion? Ariana murmured and snuggled closer. The fact that she’d lowered her shields and fallen asleep in his lap did something strange to his insides.

Where there is no trust, there can be no love.

The cold, hard truth. His stomach knotted. Deception was his job. He lied and stole and strove to earn people’s trust…so he could betray them. He was damn good at it.

One way or another, he would obtain the information he needed. He glanced down at Ariana and his throat constricted.

How much of his soul would it cost him to use that information against the woman sleeping trustfully in his arms?

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