He had never been pale, but life on the sea turned his skin golden, so in the contrast, his eyes were as clear and blue and warm as the waves that lapped at the beach. It was easy to see his Greek blood now in his gilded skin and dark hair curling and ruffled in the wind. She watched as he scaled a small, rocky hill, his body sleek, never showy in its motion, but possessing both economy and art. Only today, she had seen the beauty of him, the efficiency of his strength, running like a myth across the surface of the water, and his skill with a rifle-never bloodthirsty, but precise and sure.

Now she watched the firm muscles of his legs as he climbed, and every so often, a fortuitous breeze came along and lifted the tails of his jacket so she was treated to a view of his edible backside. She had, during their nighttime trysts, felt those muscles tighten under her hands as he plunged into her hungry body, and their slickness as sweat covered both London and Bennett in their frenzy. The vivid memory sent a fast stab of need blazing through her. Last night felt very long ago.

When he reached the top of the hill, he looked back, and, at London's wave, smiled and waved before striding off to scout the island.

"You look at him as if he is the last bottle of wine left in the world," Athena said dryly, standing beside her.

London barely blushed. She was now very familiar with her desire for Bennett. "I am a woman of exceptional thirst."

"And will it be quenched, that thirst?"

London glanced over at her friend, considering. Her body still hummed with unallayed need for Bennett. It knew him now, and wanted him always. He'd been the match to her tinder. She could not douse the fire he had lit. How long would it last, this flame of need? She almost prayed it was soon, so, when the time came for their inevitable parting, the pain would not be too great. But she knew, deep within herself, that this hope was futile.

Athena saw her answer in London's face, and sympathy softened the witch's expression. "Perhaps you are sorry."

"Not at all," London said immediately. "I'm glad I was given this chance and I took it, no matter what happens after." She looked over at Kallas, who had made himself comfortable on a large rock farther down the beach and was smoking his pipe in the afternoon sun, his eyes closed. He was a handsome man, rough like the coast, but possessing his own craggy charms.

Athena followed London's gaze, then frowned. "That man," she said darkly. "I should push him overboard."

"I'm sure he can swim."

"But I cannot."

"If you want to get wet," London said, with a smile, "take the plunge."

A glimmer of humor sparkled in the witch's dark eyes, then rare uncertainty creased her brow. "And if I drown?"

London understood that uncertainty. "Galanos women won't drown. They always learn to swim."

Before Athena could respond, Bennett reappeared at the crest of the hill, his teeth white as he grinned with excitement. "Come and see," he called down to them. "Kallas, you, too. Stop sunning yourself like a lizard."

The captain grumbled, but soon everyone climbed the hill and was following Bennett through the shaded forest carpeting the island. Sharp and clean, pine needles scented the air. Even though Bennett had only just scouted the terrain, he held the lead as if born to do so, a.s.sured in his stride, never once hesitating or stumbling.

"A little treat for us weary travelers," he said, coming to a stop in a clearing. He waved toward a small, bubbling pool. The water was so clear, London could number each and every pebble lining the pond.

Bennett smoothly knelt on one knee beside the pool and dipped a hand into it. He drank the water cupped in his palm, droplets escaping between his fingers to sparkle in the light. He resembled some forest G.o.d, a creature of darkness and sunshine.

"Sweet and cold," he said with a laugh.

London had not realized how thirsty she was until she saw shimmering drops of water cling to Bennett's neck and slide beneath the open collar of his shirt. She came forward, then sank to her knees to also drink from the pool. Just as Bennett had said, the water's icy sweetness rolled down her throat, sending bright clarity into her belly. She scooped up handfuls of water and drank deeply, also letting the water run along her neck as some spilled from her hands.

Her hands stopped in midair as she caught Bennett's hot, hungry gaze on her.

"Woodland nymph," he rumbled for her ears alone.

She only smiled at him, but it was a smile of wicked invitation. Even though it had been many hours since the danger at the strait, her still body held a shuddering hunger for release, release that only Bennett could provide.

But that release would have to be delayed, for a little while longer. London made herself look away, at the pool, the trees, anything but Bennett, otherwise she'd launch herself at him right here and now, in front of Kallas and Athena. She felt much more free, that was true, but not so free that she wanted to make love with Bennett with an audience watching.

After Kallas and Athena had also drank their fill from the pool, Bennett rose gracefully. London did notice, however, him slightly adjusting his trousers, and she bit down her smile. At least she wasn't alone in this enormous, unshakable desire. "There's more to see," he said, and disappeared into the woods.

When she, Kallas, and Athena caught up with him, they all stood and marveled. Set in another clearing, ruins glowed like ivory in the pine-shaded enclave. Several Doric columns lined up in varying states of erosion, forming the supports of what had been the roof. Lichen and years wore at the marble columns' fluting. But the ruins' isolation had been its boon, for one of the pediments still stood, supported by the columns, though the figures carved into it were barely visible.

Stones set into the ground formed the ruins' floor, and resting heavily upon it was a large marble block, waist-high, and wide around as a dining table. Some gra.s.ses sprouted between cracks in the block. Nearby, the remains of a statue of a woman lay half buried.

"What is this place?" London breathed.

"A temple," said Athena. She examined the pediment. "Dedicated to the pool. A sacred spring."

"Like Bath in England," Bennett murmured.

Athena waved a hand. "That is Roman," she said, dismissive of the entire empire. "This is Greek, and much older. For the G.o.ddess Demeter."

"Perhaps we shouldn't disturb it," ventured Kallas. He seemed slightly less in command on land than on the sea, glancing around with caution.

"The G.o.ddess wants people to make use of her temple and her spring," said Athena. "It pleases her."

"Then, by all means," said Bennett, his eyes blue fire as he gazed at London, "let's please the G.o.ddess."

Many things sharpened one's appet.i.te. Obviously, going without food was one of them. But there was also the aftermath of danger which could hone one's hunger until sharp and keen. Bennett, in his work for the Blades, often found this to be the case. Most missions would have him face death, and he always emerged from those battles famished in more ways than one. That time near Tripoli, after he and Catullus Graves had gone up against a sand djinn under the Heirs' control, Bennett had eaten platters of chicken stewed with dates, piles of fragrant couscous, and mountains of sweet almond biscuits, all washed down with many gla.s.ses of mint tea. After that substantial meal, Bennett had spent the rest of his evening disporting himself in a house of pleasure, exhausting several highly appreciative dancing girls before he finally succ.u.mbed to satiety.

A sybarite, Catullus had called him, but not without a little admiration. Poor Catullus, a man of abstemious inclinations save where his inventions and his wardrobe were concerned. Food and women did not much capture Graves's interest, not when there were so many ideas for diabolical devices rattling around in his brain, and so few truly fascinating women who could genuinely capture his interest long enough to look up from his workbench. And the man was addicted to waistcoats.

Bennett was most definitely not Catullus. His needs were not complicated. He was a cryptographer for the Blades, but found his greatest pleasures not in papyri or codices but in the flesh. Action. Movement. Food. s.e.x.

Today, he'd sailed through a strait riddled with traps, then played sniper at an advancing Heirs' gunboat. Even if London hadn't been nearby, his body would have been demanding gratification. But having her beside him, seeing how close she she had come to danger, turned him into a beast he could hardly control. His need for her went far beyond his usual inclinations. If he'd had to, back in Tripoli, Bennett would have been able to suffice with a small meal and going straight to a solitary bed. had come to danger, turned him into a beast he could hardly control. His need for her went far beyond his usual inclinations. If he'd had to, back in Tripoli, Bennett would have been able to suffice with a small meal and going straight to a solitary bed.

Watching London sit, bare feet dangling over the deck of the caique as Kallas taught her to fish, Bennett knew that if he didn't make love to her that night, if not sooner, he would lose his mind. He'd been hard and hot as newly forged iron since they'd left the strait, a condition that had not diminished one iota in the intervening hours. And it was because of her. Lovely, courageous, fiendishly clever, and open to the world's experiences.

He needed inside of her. Physically. Mentally. However he could. Right now, he would be satisfied only by everything.

Dinner on the beach at sunset. Roast fish caught by Kallas and London. Wild greens picked by Athena. The meal could not go fast enough. Bennett wolfed down his food like a man breaking a fast. He hardly tasted anything. His mouth wanted only her flavors. He could barely speak during the evening conversation, reduced to monosyllabic replies. In the light of dusk, her hair golden, her eyes dark, laughing and talking, London could not be more beautiful, more desirable.

And when her gaze caught his, the responding fire he saw there, Bennett felt sure he'd go up in flames and burn the island around him.

Finally, finally, when the meal was done and the last drops of wine drunk, London rose from their gathering. Bennett leapt to his feet, not caring if Athena laughed at him or Kallas scowled at how readily he showed his need for London.

He held out a hand to her as they moved away from Kallas and Athena. "Let's walk." His voice was no more than a growl, sounding from somewhere low in his chest.

"A walk sounds perfect," she said. "I want to explore the island some more."

"Don't want to explore explore," he rumbled. "Not the island, anyway."

With a small, timeless woman's smile, she danced up the beach, toward the hill that led into the interior of the island. "But I I do. There's still that treasure to find." do. There's still that treasure to find."

"It'll be there in the morning."

"This can't wait." She climbed up the hill quickly, far faster than she would have a week earlier, but he wasn't much in the mood to appreciate her growing physical strength.

Bennett muttered, "Neither can I," yet he followed her, just the same.

She truly was a nymph, and he a satyr, as she skipped ahead of him, flitting between the trees, humming bits of an old sea tune Stathis the fisherman had sung. Bennett stalked after her, intent, drawn forward by invisible hands. He caught glimpses of her dress, a gleam of her hair, as she darted around the pines, letting her rich, soft voice torment him.

Had he wanted to, he could have caught her. Yet, even though he desperately wanted to touch her, he enjoyed this game, the playfulness of it, of her, and so, as she continued her dance, he followed, unhurried, steady.

The sound of water bubbling reached him, and he stepped into the clearing that held the sacred spring. But London was already on the other side of the clearing, and she smiled at him as she slipped back into the forest. He paused for a few moments, helping himself to a cooling handful of water, then continued his steady pursuit.

"Holy G.o.d," he growled when he arrived at the ruined temple.

London stood in the middle of the temple, next to the remains of the altar. She had already stripped off her clothing so she was quite, quite naked.

"No," she corrected him with a devilish smile. "Holy G.o.ddess."

Chapter 14.

The White Temple Bennett had been accused of being many things before: scoundrel, rogue, charmer, cheat, libertine-one of his favorites-and b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Most of those allegations were true. But no one ever accused him of being stupid.

As soon as he saw London standing without a sc.r.a.p of clothing in the middle of the temple ruins, her body a soft glow in the twilight, he immediately began to shuck his own clothes. Jacket first, thrown onto the ground. Then he started working on his waistcoat. The b.l.o.o.d.y b.u.t.tons felt tiny under his shaking hands.

"Slow a little," said London, walking toward him. His hands stilled, and he stared, utterly mesmerized by the sight.

Even though she was completely nude, she walked with absolute feminine confidence, the curves of her hips swaying with each step she took. His eyes roamed everywhere-the full roundness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, tipped with pale coral, the narrowing of her waist, the smooth satin of her arms and legs, the golden down between her thighs. In this sacred place, she was the embodiment of Woman, lush and alluring and so very, very powerful. He loved to see it in her, how much she had changed from the tethered lady he'd met in Monastiraki.

Now she stood in front of him, in this hidden, sacred place, her own eyes raking him up and down. She saw plainly his chest rising and falling, his hands curled as if already touching her, the aching length of his c.o.c.k pressing tight against his trousers. And she smiled.

"The G.o.ddess demands a sacrifice," she murmured.

"I hope like h.e.l.l it's me," Bennett growled.

"Let us prepare you for the ritual." She took one of his hands in both of her own and drew him slowly forward, until they both stood within the confines of what had been the temple. In the dusk, the stones gleamed white and marmoreal, but nothing compared to the radiance of London as she led him toward the large slab of stone at the temple's center.

"I don't know this ritual," he rasped.

"You will learn it well. And I shall guide you." She stepped close to him, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brushing the front of his waistcoat. h.e.l.l. He wanted her skin touching his, not the barrier of fabric. When his hands came up immediately to try again at unb.u.t.toning his waistcoat, she brushed them aside. "I will ready you for the sacrifice," she whispered. "Place your hands upon the altar behind you, and do not move them until I say you may."

He knew better than to disobey. Seeing her in complete command, heady with her own power, resounded deep within him even as she drove him to madness with desire. So, his back to the altar, as she called it, he slapped his heated palms down onto the cool stone.

"Very good. First, we begin with a kiss." She tilted her face up to his.

He leaned forward, bringing their mouths together. Since he could not touch her with anything but his mouth, he unleashed a kiss of impossible heat and irreproachable tenderness. He stroked the inside of her mouth, her warm heat. Their tongues met, tangled, lapping at each other. It felt like s.e.x, like lovemaking, from only their mouths. Her fingers threaded into his hair. From the back of her throat, she made a sound that could only be described as a whimper. Just as she began to press her body against his, she seemed to catch herself and move back a few inches. He ground his teeth together, sure he'd break his jawbone by the time this was over.

With an agonizing slowness, she undid the b.u.t.tons on his waistcoat. He obediently lifted one hand, then the other, as she removed the garment. He shrugged from his braces. Next came his shirt. Each b.u.t.ton carefully slid through its hole, her fingers dipping in to stroke his bare skin. He was shaking like a sail in a monsoon by the time she pulled the shirt off of him.

"Your body pleases the G.o.ddess," she breathed, trailing her hands over the planes of his chest, down the ridges of his twitching abdomen. She found the raised flesh of his scars and the newer injuries, the scratches from bullets, bruises, and traced them softly, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with compa.s.sion. "Such wounds you've borne in service to your cause."

He didn't care about that. He didn't care about anything but her, the heat and heart in her gaze.

When she bent to tug off his boots, he broke her rule and pulled them off himself. She was no lackey, to dirty her hands on his battered boots. But as soon as he was barefoot upon the stone floor, he replaced his hands upon the altar.

She nodded regally at his obedience, but something of her usual self slipped through when she smiled quickly, like a playful girl. He smiled back. Then she resumed her role and the queenly demeanor of a G.o.ddess.

She brushed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against him, the hardened points of her nipples a delicious rasp over his chest, and she closed her eyes at the pleasure. His skin was tight as a drum, and he felt even this small touch everywhere, especially between his legs, where he twitched with each press of her flesh to his.

Her hands went to the front of his trousers, stroking his straining c.o.c.k through the fabric. He hissed, his eyes squeezing shut, as his hips thrust forward of their own volition. "It seems the G.o.ddess pleases your body, as well," she murmured.

"She has no...d.a.m.ned idea...how much," he said between his teeth.

"I think she may have a d.a.m.ned idea how much."

She left off stroking him, but he wasn't sorry, because she was unfastening his trousers. As soon as the placket was open, she pushed the trousers down his hips, where his c.o.c.k leapt free, released at last. Past his hard thighs she slid his trousers, past his calves, and then he stepped out of the trousers. They were now both naked. And panting.

She took him in her hand again, and her fingers against his bare skin were excruciating, wonderful. Her thumb rubbed lightly back and forth over the crown of his c.o.c.k, spreading the drop of moisture there over his flesh. She moved her hand lower, enclosing his shaft with her hand, sliding up and down.

"So beautifully hard," she whispered. "You are almost ready for the sacrifice."

"Almost?" he repeated, hoa.r.s.e. If he was any more ready, he'd spend all over her hand.

"There is another rite to perform." She released him, then grabbed the heap of her discarded dress and bunched it together. She set the bundle of fabric on the ground, in front of Bennett. He knew at once what she meant to do and felt dizzy.

She knelt upon the fabric and looked up at him through the fringe of her lashes. His nod was clipped, barely a movement of his head, he trusted himself so little but trusted her entirely.

Her fingers silken torments, she wrapped them around his c.o.c.k, and took him into her mouth. His fingers dug into the stone as she ran her tongue over him, along the shaft, over the swollen head. Pulling, sucking, lapping at him. Her mouth was wet and hot and perfect.

How to decide? Watch her sucking him-her lips wrapped around his flesh, the bob of her head as she sank down onto him, her fingers stroking. But if he watched her, his climax would be a matter of seconds. Yet to close his eyes and focus only on the sensations was itself an agony.

She eyed him with stern disapproval when one of his hands came up from the stone and tangled in her hair, but she did not stop or tell him to release her. Instead, her own eyes fluttered closed with pleasure as he gently pushed her down, guiding her to take him deeper into her mouth. His hips moved, forward and back, and his body was tight and straining everywhere with tension. It was so G.o.dd.a.m.ned good.

He pulled her back, almost roughly, so that his c.o.c.k sprang from her mouth. Even in the fading light, he saw the flush covering her luscious body, the stain of arousal high on her cheeks, and her thighs rubbing together. He drew her up, so she stood, and they met in a fiery kiss. One hand he kept cupping the back of her head, the other gripped her hip, bringing her flush to his body. His wet, pounding c.o.c.k pressed into the curve of her belly. She moved, angling herself, so that, when she writhed against him, her slick p.u.s.s.y slid along his shaft. He caressed her breast, one then the other, plucking at her nipples so that she moaned.

He broke away just long enough to grab his waistcoat, shirt, and trousers. She watched him with glazed curiosity as he made a pillow from the shirt, then two more pads with the other clothing, and set them all upon the altar.

Everything became clear when he climbed onto the altar and lay back, his head cushioned on his jacket, and the other pads on either sides of his hips. He beckoned her forward.

She needed no encouragement. She also climbed onto the altar, then, with his hands upon her hips, straddled him. The pads protected her knees. In the violet light of dusk, surrounded by the white temple and green shadowed woods, he'd never seen anything as beautiful as she.

"It's time for the sacrifice," she said with a husky breath.

"Thank G.o.d for that," he rumbled.