Now You See Him (11 page)

She glanced over at the clearing. He'd managed a makeshift bed. One. Big enough for both of them. She looked back at him, a question in her eyes. "We're sleeping together?"

"Unless you want to freeze. I'm looking forward to your bedtime story. Who'd want to kill you, and why?"

"You wouldn't believe me," she said glumly.

He smiled then, just a faint, amused crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "Try me," he said. "I'm a lot more gullible than you'd think."

The T-shirt was a vast improvement. It was of a heavy cotton jersey and hung halfway to her knees. She wished she dared take off her wet bathing suit, but she didn't. Not because of the effect it might have on him, but what it might do to her.

Dinner was as horrendous as Michael had predicted, but they polished off every scrap of it, including emptying a bag of tasteless
muesli
for dessert. The water carried a designer label, and there was a full case of it, and there were even a couple of bottles of an excellent Chardonnay. When Michael extinguished the camp stove, darkness closed in around them, lit only by the brightness of a thousand stars in the inky sky overhead.

"Sorry there's no moon." His voice was slightly muffled in the darkness. He was over by the lagoon; she could see his body huddled down beside the water.

"Could you have arranged one?" she countered. The makeshift bed was behind her, and she wished she could come up with a reasonable alternative.

"Maybe if I'd had prior warning," he said lightly, rising and moving toward her, his gait smooth and even despite the evidence of his recent injuries.

"Your leg's much better," she observed, hoping to disconcert him, stalling for time.

"Yes, it is." He stopped a short distance away from her, as if he knew she was frightened. "You could probably still outrun me if you had a mind to."

She swallowed. "Is that supposed to set my mind at ease? Because if it is, it's failing."

Even in the inky starlight she could see the smile that creased his face. "I'm not going to chase you, I'm not going to rape you, I'm not even going to seduce you. Right now all I want to do is get some sleep, but I can't until you stop acting like a skittish virgin and lie down."

"I'm not a skittish virgin."

"No, you're not. So stop behaving like one and come to bed."

She couldn't come up with anything else to stall him. And suddenly she was bone-tired herself, the tumultuous events of the day catching up with her. Without a word she went over to the makeshift pallet, climbing in and pulling the light cotton cover over her. It was more comfortable than she'd expected, dangerously so. He'd fashioned some sort of mattress from the abundant greenery, and the smell of the crushed leaves was thick and evocative in the night air. She lay very still, legs together, arms crossed over her chest, and waited.

"You look like a mummy," he said affably, sliding in beside her. He was still wearing the baggy trunks, but he still had far too much skin exposed and was far too close. She could feel the warmth of him, even though they weren't touching. "Or maybe a crusader's wife, lying on her bier."

"I'm comfortable," she said stiffly.

"Well, I'm not." Before she realized his intent, he'd dragged her hands down from their protective position against her chest and pulled her body closer, his long bare legs brushing hers. She remained still, stiff, not bothering to try to move away. She knew without a doubt that he would simply haul her back. Besides, he was making no move to touch her, to caress her, to run his strong, beautiful hands down her arms, up under her loose white T-shirt. He was being as chaste as her posture dictated. "So tell me, Francey? Who's trying to kill you? And me, as well?"

She didn't want to talk about it. Here in the tropical darkness, she wanted to lie back and look at the stars, to feel the warmth of the man beside her and pretend life was still innocent. "It's a long story," she said.

"We've got a long time."

"I thought you were tired."

"I've got my second wind. Distract me."

She didn't want to think about the ramifications of that statement. It had been delivered in a bland enough tone, but she no longer knew her own mind. On the one hand, she wanted him safe, sexless, a boon companion. She didn't need the complications of desire so soon after the disaster of her involvement with Patrick Dugan.

On the other hand, whether she needed it or not, she had it. Desire. For the man lying so close to her. And while she usually had the good sense to be grateful he didn't seem to want her, a part of her was miffed at his immunity.

The few suggestions she'd had that he might not be as immune as he seemed frightened her. She told herself that she was frightened of her own ability to cope. But she had to admit, deep down inside her innermost heart, that she recognized something about Michael Dowd that terrified her.

She looked up at the stars, taking a deep breath, willing herself to relax. "Once upon a time," she said in a low voice, "there was a very stupid girl. She had no excuse for her stupidity—she had a good enough brain, a good enough education. But when it came to people she didn't have much common sense. She believed what they told her. She wasn't hopelessly naive, mind you. She knew there was evil in the world. She just never thought it would touch her."

"But it did." He was touching her, she realized. His hand was on her wrist. The one that still ached. And he was stroking it gently, kneading away the lingering stiffness and pain.

"It did," she agreed. "She met a man."

"Ah," said Michael.

"Indeed. He was a very handsome man. Irish, with all the charm associated with the Irish. He could have had anyone eating out of his hand, including people who were a lot more sophisticated than she was. She was child's play for him. All he had to do was smile at her and she fell in love."

"I think you're too hard on her," he said, his voice a low rumble in the night. "It sounds as if she was up against someone who was completely out of her league."

"That's still no excuse for being so trusting." Her voice was hard. "But she believed everything he told her. Believed in the cause he was working for, believed in the future he had mapped out for both of them. And she would have given him everything, everything…" Her voice failed for a moment at the shameful memory.

"What happened to these happy lovers?" At some point his hand had moved up her arm to her shoulder, and she'd moved closer, either at his volition or hers, she wasn't quite sure.

"He had a jealous sister. No, I keep forgetting, she wasn't his sister at all. She was his lover. And they weren't working together through a peace group, the way they told her. They were part of an organization called the Cadre. A violent, terrorist group that stops at nothing to gain their ends. He was planning on assassinating the Queen of England when she spoke at the United Nations. And then he was going to marry the stupid girl, use her for cover to get back into Great Britain, and then kill her, as well."

"Sounds cold-blooded and practical. What went wrong?"

"Someone betrayed them. Caitlin thought it was the girl. She came to her apartment, where she was waiting for her lover, and told her the truth. She dragged her out to find Patrick, to stop him in time, but it was too late. The girl tried to stop it, to warn someone, she wasn't quite sure. She pushed Caitlin in front of a car. And then she watched as Patrick was gunned down."

"And she's been mourning him ever since? She
is
a stupid girl," he said dispassionately.

"She didn't mourn him. She mourned the loss of her dreams, of what she'd thought he was. She mourned the loss of her innocence, her ability to trust. She mourned the loss of the woman she'd inadvertently killed, even though Caitlin was fully as soulless as Patrick Dugan had been. But most of all she mourned the loss of Francey Neeley. A part of her died, as surely as Patrick died. And there's no way to bring her back."

"You'd be surprised," Michael said, his voice low and warm, easing beneath her defenses. And then, leaning over her, he blocked out the stars.

«
^
»

Her lips were soft and cool beneath his. Startled by his actions, she grew stiff and still beneath his hands, his mouth. Michael kissed her gently, just brushing his lips against hers, letting her grow accustomed to the idea, and he kept his hands on her shoulders, no lower, even though the dampness of the T-shirt where it clung to the top of her bikini was having a predictable effect on his body.

She tasted sweet, pure, soft and clean, like a mountain stream. He'd forgotten women could taste like that, feel like that. And he wanted it, wanted her, with a need that could very quickly manage to make him forget all the things he should remember. That there were some very clever people out to kill them. And there was still the remote possibility that the sweet, innocent woman lying there letting him kiss her might be one of them.

He forced himself to lift his head, and her eyes were wide and glittering in the starlight. Glittering with unshed tears.

"Why did you do that?" she whispered, her voice only a thread of sound in the stillness.

He counted on his instincts to keep him alive. They saved his life on innumerable occasions, managed to make the difference between success and failure on others. He'd never bothered to use his instincts when it came to other people, to women, to potential lovers. Only with the basic question: Would they eventually try to kill him?

Looking down at Francey's defenseless face, her bright, tear-filled eyes and soft mouth, those instincts told him that she'd never in her life known passion. Real gut-wrenching, thrusting, pulsating passion. Oh, doubtless she wasn't a virgin. No one was, nowadays. But whatever sex she'd experienced, it hadn't ever really reached her. She was as truly innocent as she seemed.

And at that moment he knew that she was everything else she'd ever seemed to be. A victim of the Cadre's hit-and-run techniques, one more survivor of the vagaries of life and politics.

"You looked like you needed to be kissed," he said finally, answering her question.

"I don't think so. That's how I got into this mess in the first place."

The thought of being equated with a piece of murdering slime like Patrick Dugan, even for a moment, sent a chill down his spine. His hands tightened on her shoulders, then eased, and he sank back beside her, close enough to feel the heat from her body, smell the scent of her skin, far enough away to make it an even greater torment.

He was used to torment. It was good for his soul. Make a man out of him, his Mum would have said, if she weren't too drunk at the time. Lying beside Francey Neeley's scantily clad body was going to make him an iron man. In more ways than one.

"Tell me about your home."

He glanced over at her in the inky darkness. "I beg your pardon?"

"You said we had plenty of time for bedtime stories. Tell me what it was like for you, growing up."

He thought back to Newcastle. Dirty, gray, poverty hanging in the air with the coal dust. A father he'd never known, a mother who'd seldom been sober enough to know him. The street gang he'd joined at eight, commanded at twelve. The first time he'd seen a man die.

"We lived in Yorkshire," he said. "With everything green and hilly and very beautiful. The manor had been in the family for generations. Whipdale House, it was called, and my mother and father and three sisters lived there."

"Three sisters," she murmured sleepily. "No wonder you're so good with women."

He smiled ruefully in the darkness, knowing she couldn't see him. "I had a couple of much older brothers, but they were up at Oxford by the time I was born, the baby of the family. We always had masses of animals around. I remember I had a pet Newfoundland named Beastie. A huge black shaggy creature, he followed me everywhere." He could see the dog clearly, as clearly as if he'd really lived. He could see his three sisters, smart and pretty and dreadful teases; he could see his parents, devoted to each other, plain, upper-class country people. He could see it all.

"Tell me about your sisters," she murmured, and he knew she would be asleep in a matter of moments.

"There was Fiona," he said. "She was the eldest, with flaming red hair and a temper to match. She always wanted to be an actress, but she ended up marrying a banker and having six children. As far as I know, she's never regretted it. Then came Dinah…"

She was asleep, curled up slightly, one hand tucked beneath her chin. Not the hand he'd hurt—that was still wrapped protectively around her middle.

Most of the time she believed what he told her. He was sure she'd swallowed Whipdale House and the five siblings without even a second thought. But there were times when she looked at him out of those warm brown eyes of hers and he could see the doubt, the wariness. The uneasy expression.

He'd seen that look before. In people who had seen him kill.

Maybe Francey saw too much for her own good. While her mind couldn't quite admit that he'd calmly and brutally inflicted pain on her, in her heart she'd known, and she struggled with that knowledge.

That she was now sound asleep beside him expressed a kind of trust that went beyond conscious decisions. He lay beside her, watching her as she slept, and wondered if she would ever come to regret that trust.

Probably. He'd regretted ever putting that much trust in anyone. People weren't made to rely on other people and survive. You had to rely on yourself, and yourself alone, or you were screwed.

The tiny island of Baby Jerome was still and silent. They were alone there, totally and completely alone, at least for now. He doubted there were even the omnipresent mongeese around. Nothing higher on the food chain than a few insects. At least for now.

Tomorrow would be another matter. He hadn't lived as long as he had by underestimating his opponents, and he fancied Cecil was just as cautious. By tomorrow the Cadre's outrunners would have located them. He would simply have to be prepared.

The cache of weapons was just off to the left, under a thick outcropping of palm fronds. He'd had enough time to hide them before Francey had regained consciousness, and he would rather she didn't even know about them. He would rather she didn't know about
him
. While she might feel safer knowing she was sleeping with one of her majesty's most highly trained agents, she would keep that wary look in her eyes all the time. And he'd gotten rather fond of Whipdale House and the three sisters.