Kay Hooper - The Lady and the Lion

Contents

The Mysterious Spellbinder...
At first she was only a voice in the darkness before dawn, but soon Keith Donovan was haunted, obsessed by the woman who'd listened to his cynical, desperate murmurings, and shared secrets of her own troubled heart. He'd never expected her to be so impossibly lovely, nor did Erin Prentice imagine that her powerful, anonymous companion of the night could fill her with recklessness...and sweep her into his dangerous quest for revenge. Something beyond reason bound her to this man, whose ruthless passion overwhelmed her in a tidal wave of primitive demand that thrilled and terrified her. Keith was her destiny, her crossroads - and Erin knew she had no choice but to welcome the fire that flared between them, even if he could never promise her always. But when he was forced to choose between love and rage, between tomorrow and yesterday, would the untamed spirit that first drew her to him find the courage to surrender his grief?

Death is afraid of him because he has the heart of a lion.

Arab proverb

"Who is he?"

"Says his name's Duncan. Claims to represent a cartel operating out of Colombia."

"What do you think?"

"His boat's Colombian registry; so's the jet. He spends money like water, and throws parties almost every night. He has the locals eating out of his hand."

"Drug money?"

"Looks that way."

Guy Wellman drummed his fingers against the desk, frowning. He was a middle-aged man, in good shape, with distinguished gray hair and a self-satisfied expression stamped into his heavy features. That smug expression had eroded over the past months, so that now he seemed more petulant than impressive.

His assistant, a quiet man with a hard face and shuttered eyes, watched his boss unemotionally.

"And he wants to meet me?" Wellman asked finally.

"Says he has a business proposition for you."

"I don't touch drugs," Wellman said emphatically.

"I gather he knows that. My bet is that he wants to smooth the way for his cartel. He said he needed a man of influence and respectability to deal 'properly' with officials."

Wellman scowled. "That bastard Arturo's already using mewhy should I ask this one to do the same?"

After an almost imperceptible hesitation, his assistant said, "If his cartel is as powerful as he says, it wouldn't hurt to listen to the proposition."

"All right, all right. Arrange a meeting."

The clock on her nightstand softly chimed the hour as Erin Prentice hung up the phone, but she didn't need to glance at it. Five A .M ., ten A.M. in London. It was the best time to catch her fatherjust after breakfast and before his full schedule of morning meetings. After so many years, she knew his schedule, often to the minute. And though he hadn't asked it of her, she had automatically suited her schedule to his.

Ironic, she thought. She wasn't supposed to be on a schedule; that was the point of this vacation. One of them, anyway. But habit died hard. By placing the call at this hour on her first morning in Miami Beach, she had tacitly agreed to call him every morning at the same time, and he would expect her to continue to do so.

Restless, Erin rose from the chair by her phone and went out into her sitting room, absently tightening the belt of her robe. She opened the French doors leading onto her balcony, and stepped out into the coolness of the predawn quiet that was broken only by the pounding of the waves. The balcony overlooked Miami's famous expanse of white beach. First light was seeping in the east, beginning to separate the horizon into sky and ocean.

It was peaceful. She could see that, but couldn't feel it herself. What she felt was frustration, guilt, and a grinding uncertainty about the direction her future should take. But above all, she felt isolated.

The realization had barely crossed her mind when Erin heard a soft sound, the creak of a chaise as weight was shifted slightly. She looked quickly to the right, the first stab of unease fading as she remembered what the desk clerk had told her. Her suite connected to the one next to it, big double doors between the rooms could be opened if a guest wanted a much larger suite. Now the balcony was shared, so a stout latticework screen fashioned of steel strips was bolted firmly in place in the center to provide privacy to both occupants of the suites. For good measure, there were additional folding screens on either side of the divider to be used if even more privacy was needed.

The latticework of the steel screen was closely woven, so that Erin could see nothing at first. Then a faint red glow became briefly visible, and an elusive aroma of tobacco told her that her neighbor was smoking. Erin hesitated, wary of speaking to a stranger, but both her background and her overwhelming sense of isolation drove her to acknowledge the presence of someone else.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said, resting her hands on the waist-high masonry wall and turning her attention back toward the shimmering grayness of the sea and sky.

After a moment, a man responded, "Very beautiful. Very peaceful." His voice was deep and low, with a slight hint of restraint or tension.

Erin unconsciously tilted her head a bit as she listened to the voice rather than the words. In her father's world, where gamesmanship was subtle and careful, she had learned to pay more attention to tone and nuance, to all the things never spelled out in words. It was second nature to her to do so.

And what she heard in this man's voice intrigued her. The tension, she thought, seemed more physical than emotional, as if he were too tired or too edgy to relax. There was strength in his voice as well, power, a kind of certainty that told her he was very sure of his place in the world around him. Erin wanted to hear more, wanted to define the other things she heard, the shades and shadows and undercurrents. She forgot about merely being polite and courteous.

"I've always been an early riser," she said, keeping her own voice carefully neutral. "You too?"

As before, a moment passed before he answered. "I work nights. This is the end of a day for me."

Which explained the tension, Erin decided. He hadn't yet wound down enough to rest. She wanted to ask what his job was, thinking with mild curiosity that it must be temporary work of some kind since he was staying in a hotel, but she didn't want to seem too nosy. "I'm on vacation," she offered, still gazing out at the dark ocean. "And even now I can't make myself sleep late."

"Habits are difficult to break." His voice was a shade more relaxed now, but still slow and measured, reminding her of the tone her father used when he was talking to someone he hadn't quite made up his mind about.

She nodded, even though she knew he couldn't see her as anything more than a shadow. "Habits. Schedules. Sometimes I think the worst thing mankind ever did was invent a way of measuring time. We've become slaves to clocks." Listening to herself, Erin had to laugh. "Sorry. Dawn brings out the worst in me."

"It's a time of transition," the man said quietly. "It doesn't exist in itself except as a few minutes between night and day, a time when we ask ourselves the tough questions."

She thought he had probably asked himself a lot of tough questions. It was in his voice, something subtle she had heard only in the voices of highly intelligent, very powerful men. It was the sound of an intense inner drive that wasn't ambition for its own sake but rather a profound desire to accomplish something of importance.

"But when do the answers come?" she murmured.

"Another dawn. If we're lucky."

Still listening more to his voice than the words, Erin deliberately lightened the subject. "I'm not so sure I believe in luck. I always lose at card games. Now is that bad luck or just an inability to play cards?"

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