Heart of a Hero (57 page)

For a long time, Dawn continued to watch the swimmers. Then she turned and asked in a whisper, “What word?”

Quince smiled. “Patience, little one. As I said to Carlotta, all in good time.”

Lord have mercy, Dawn thought, carefully schooling her expression of awe, Quince meant for
her
to kill Eric, or at least his alter ego, Jarad.

“If you tell him of this conversation,” Quince warned, “he will never trust you again. Always, he will be expecting you to act on my suggestion. I advise you to keep this to yourself for your own good. If he asks, we have been discussing the garden and grounds.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “The fragrance of the frangipani and the recipe for controlling snails.”

“That would be beer?” he asked, smiling sweetly.

“And salt. Now we need not lie about the subject of our talk. At least not entirely.”

“I like you, little one,” he said gently. “And I want you
to leave this island in a better spirit than how you arrived. You deserve that.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, wondering whether Quince meant
spirit
as in frame of mind, or
spirit
as in ghost.

As it happened, Eric, Carlotta and Sean survived their swim and soon were back at the table.

Dawn could hardly keep her eyes off the expanse of smooth brown skin exposed in the brief suit Eric was wearing. The ruddy-faced Sean McCoy was pale all over, fairly buff, but, she would guess from his muscles, not as efficiently trained as Eric. Also, he lacked the tensile, athletic grace Eric possessed.

Carlotta’s bikini left little to the imagination, though Sean kept eyeing her as if his might be working overtime. She was stacked, to put it mildly. Her body was long-limbed, and she moved as fluidly as a jungle cat, with muscles concealed under a slick, firm exterior. Dawn thanked her stars she hadn’t had to don a swimsuit and compete with that body today. That would have been enough to give a girl a complex.

Relief poured over her when Quince finally suggested they retire to their respective rooms for a siesta, or whatever the Greek equivalent of that might be called.

Quince reminded them for the third time that dinner was at eight and there would be entertainment. Then he walked on ahead of them to speak with his man, Conroy, who waited just inside the open doors.

“Probably planning a public execution or something,” Dawn muttered under her breath as they crossed the terrace to the French doors leading in. “He virtually offered to help me kill you.”

“Shh,” Eric warned. “Play along with whatever he suggests.”

Dawn wondered if that included taking a knife to his jugular while he slept.

Eric clasped her hand in his and began questioning her loudly about her short visit with Quince. She dutifully told him about snails, unfamiliar perennials and tamarind trees, noting the satisfied gleam in Quince’s eyes when he glanced over his shoulder at them.

When they reached their rooms, Dawn headed to the bathroom where she systematically searched for any concealed mikes. It was the smallest room and would be the most difficult to wire. But it was wired, of that she was certain. Anybody with any half sense would go in here and turn on the water to conceal any conversation. That was basic stuff. She had the water on now, to hide any rustling sounds she made.

There was no camera. She had looked for that first. Either Quince had a jot of decency left in him or hadn’t been able to figure out how to hide one in the john.

She discovered the mike, minuscule and sophisticated, top of the line. It wouldn’t do to deactivate it right now. She only needed to know where it was.

She continued probing every possible spot where she might find another. Bingo. On the frame of the mirror above the sink, away from any noisy jets of water, and at mouth level with anyone standing nearby.

Okay. Threats identified. Just to be sure, she completed her organized search of the entire room until she was satisfied there were only two microphones. Realizing she’d have to wait to tell Eric about her conversation with Quince, Dawn gave way to mental exhaustion and slept like the dead.

She knew Eric would be keeping watch. A few hours later, she woke and took her turn while he caught a few winks. Who knew what the evening would bring?

Dawn donned one of the beautiful gowns that had been packed for her. The pale green satin flowed like soft liquid against her skin, revealing her arms and shoulders, swirling about her ankles and tickling the tops of her matching pumps. If their ruse were real, a gown such as this would be worn in private for her husband’s eyes only. Dawn wondered what Eric’s true reaction to it would be. Feeling pretty sexy, she swept her hair up into a twist, secured it and added a small spray of diamonds to cover the pins.

Eric looked elegant in his dinner jacket and black slacks. The snowy white shirt complemented his fake tan to perfection. His teeth gleamed when he smiled. With panache, he produced a delicate diamond bracelet and fastened it on her wrist. “For my precious gem,” he crooned in Al-Dayal’s possessive manner.

Dawn sighed, wishing for a second that he was simply Eric, clipping a rhinestone bauble on her just because he liked her. She examined the stones and nodded. “Thank you, Jarad.”

“You are most welcome, my dove. Tonight I must share your loveliness with others and I hate the very thought. When this business is finished, I shall have you all to myself again. Only then will I be content.”

How could he look so sincere and say things like that? Dawn almost laughed to think any female would treasure such a possessive relationship. And yet, she had to admit there might be a certain comfort in knowing a man would go to such lengths to protect his woman from the leers of other men.

There had actually been times she wished she were wearing the concealing robe and veil. At least when she had it on, she didn’t have to worry about schooling her reactions.
In spite of what most people thought, it did give a woman a kind of freedom from pretense.

At precisely eight o’clock, they went downstairs, arm in arm, to join the motley crew that made up Quince’s house party. Conroy met them at the bottom of the staircase and directed them to the lounge, as he called it.

It was the living room, of course, beautifully decorated in a Tuscan style with tones of amber and gold. The glow of candles lent an old-world charm, though the furnishings looked rather new to Dawn. The others were already there, standing around with drinks in hand.

Sean had cleaned up nicely, but hadn’t completely ditched his rough-edged appearance. His spiky blond hair stood on end, probably without the benefit of gel. He had shaved, but not closely, leaving a slight stubble.

McCoy’s lively green eyes danced when he assessed her and his lips quirked appreciatively, drawing a warning growl from her
husband.

Carlotta wore a crimson chiffon wrap that bared the top half of her generous breasts and one long leg, emphasizing her height. Her hair fell straight and thick, caught behind one ear with a matching silk flower.

Dawn suddenly felt totally eclipsed. She shouldn’t have minded, ought to have felt relieved, but she couldn’t help but wonder how her own appearance held up in comparison, at least in Eric’s estimation.

For the first time, she was playing in the big leagues and wanted to measure up. Little Dawnie Moon from Middlesex, New Jersey, recently inducted into the world of espionage, wanted to be a Bond Girl.

The thought made her wince. What was wrong with her? Did she really want to be like Miss Galore over there?

At least her boobs were as big as Carlotta’s. That was something. However, her genes dictated her legs were several inches shorter than the long-stemmed Latin beauty’s. That was okay, Dawn decided. She visualized her precious marksmanship medals and the days in training when she had taken down male agents who were twice her size. Yep, she could hold her own where it counted, she was sure of it.

At that moment, Eric squeezed her hand and beamed down at her, ignoring the woman who shone like a red neon sign advertising sex for sale. His regard made Dawn feel better. But then again, he
was
pretending at everything else. She shook off the thought.

Quince approached from the mirrored bar with two glasses. “Nonalcoholic wine, especially for you two,” he announced.

They accepted the drinks without tasting them. Poison was a distinct possibility, Dawn realized. But then, Quince could simply shoot them, or have them shot, and bury them on the island if he wanted them dead right now. No, he wanted to watch them all match wits, she figured.

“Since it’s quite impossible to import any talent to the island for the purpose, I’ve decided that we will entertain ourselves tonight after dinner,” Quince announced. “Sean here is an accomplished tenor.”

Sean’s smile vanished and he set his drink down on a marble-topped table.

“Surely you realized that I would delve into your pasts extensively,” Quince said with a clever grin. “Can’t have strangers hanging about when the stakes are this high.”

“I won’t sing,” Sean said.

Quince’s grin disappeared in the instant. “I encourage you to humor me, my boy. If you refuse, or if you haven’t
a tenor voice that rings true to form, I will have to wonder whether someone has seen fit to replace the real Sean McCoy with an imposter.”

“That’s absurd,” Sean remarked, shaking his head.

Quince pursed his lips and shrugged. “Surely you understand that it pays to be thorough in these matters. Let’s call tonight’s event a verification of sorts.”

Sean threw up his hands and surrendered. “Aye, I’ll sing, then, if it’ll make you happy.”

Carlotta laughed. “What do you sing, McCoy? Sad Irish laments?”

He forced a grin. “‘Danny Boy’, wouldn’t you know?” he replied. “A favorite of yours, Lottie?”

She tossed back the remainder of her drink. “Oh please, spare me. Or at least pour me another scotch first.”

Quince turned to her. “And you are an incredible dancer, so I am told.”

Carlotta inclined her head in a pretense of modesty. “I do try.” She raised a jet-black brow at Eric. “And what does our esteemed sheikh do, I wonder? Camel calls?”

Eric shot her a nasty look that included Quince. “I do not perform,” he stated categorically. “Ever.”

“But you have,” Quince argued. “When you attended Oxford, you were known as an excellent pianist.” He gestured to the baby grand that occupied one corner of the room. “We would be honored if you would play for us.” He paused, then added to all of them, “As I said to Sean, this would certainly establish your backgrounds as genuine.”

“Come now, Jarad,” Carlotta said provocatively. “If I dance, then you must play. What else is there to do in this godforsaken place?” She cast a dismissive look at Quince. “Until our erstwhile host decides to end our captivity and allow us to get on with our lives?”

Then she seemed to remember Dawn. “What about her?” She flicked a red-tipped finger in Dawn’s direction.

“Oh, Aurora sings, too,” Quince said. “At the École de Fleur in Nice, she sang with the choir. I’m quite sure she would be happy to grace us with a song. Perhaps Jarad will accompany her on the piano?”

Dawn’s heart plunged to the pit of her stomach, but she retained her placid expression. Someone in charge of their cover identities had invented a persona for Aurora that listed
choir,
of all things?

She hadn’t sung a note since high school when she entered the contest for sweetheart of the FFA. Even the Future Farmers of America had been discriminating enough to recognize a shower singer when they heard her. She had lost to Susan Zimmerman, who wasn’t very good herself.

Quince didn’t quite trust that they were who they said they were. Okay. She could do this if it came down to the wire. What could she sing? Her old rendition of “America the Beautiful” was definitely out.

Something easy, then, that didn’t require much range. Nothing recently popular in the West. An old song that had probably made it to Europe. Peggy Lee’s “Fever”? She glanced surreptitiously at Eric. Okay, maybe not “Fever.”
Jarad
would have a fit.

With a shy smile, she looked to Eric for help. “Is this allowed?”

She noted the surprise he instantly masked with disdain. “Nothing of a religious nature,” he warned, referring to the fictional Aurora’s Catholic school education in France.

“Secular, of course,” she replied. “Perhaps something French? ‘La Vie En Rose’? Do you know it?”

“Edith Piaf?”

“She is a favorite of mine,” Dawn answered. “You have
heard it, then?” She injected a saucy note into her question that drew a reprimanding frown and a reluctant nod.

“Excellent!” Quince said, clapping his hands. “Off to dinner, now. I see Conroy is about to announce it. Come along, all of you. Aren’t we famished?”

He herded them to the dining room where they were expected to enjoy the fruits of his chef’s labors. Dawn tried to relax. Her nerves were strung so tightly, she was afraid she couldn’t eat a bite. However, everyone’s mood seemed to have lightened and hers did, too, eventually. Even the dinner conversation exceeded her expectations.

All the while, Dawn wondered just how Quince had managed to get them psyched up to show off abilities beyond their regular occupations.

Carlotta was bragging about the places she had danced when she was a girl. Sean kept trying to top her stories with anecdotes about the clubs in which he had sung.

Egos were odd things and reared up at the strangest of times. She was actually looking forward to trying her hand at being Edith Piaf and leaning on the piano while Eric played.

Jeez, she
hoped
he could play, and if he could, he was probably hoping just as fervently that she could sing.

As distractions went, the imminent program of entertainment served admirably. She could almost forget for whole minutes that one or more of the group might not survive the night.

G
od help her, she was next. Following Carlotta’s erotic heel-clicking routine that had shown off so much prominent bosom and leg wouldn’t be easy. The girl had some great moves, Dawn had to give her that. The flashy red dress hadn’t hurt the performance a bit. Had to make you wonder if she knew ahead of time she’d be cutting a rug.