Now You See Him (23 page)

Half of what he said rang true. Half was a tissue of lies. And she had no idea which half was which. "One last question, Daniel."

"Francey, the less you know, the better off you'll be."

She ignored him. "Who was the man who rescued me? Who brought me out of the prison?"

He didn't even hesitate. "Cardiff hired him after I insisted he get you out. He was an Arab sailor who does a few discreet jobs on the side for British intelligence. He got you out, brought you to the boat, took his money and left."

"Did you see him?"

"Of course. Sort of an ugly fellow, actually. It's just as well you didn't get a good look at him—you might not have come, and he would have had a harder time if he'd had to drag you."

"I would have gone with Attila the Hun."

"Well, Ahmad wasn't a far cry. Any more questions, Francey?" he asked wearily.

"A thousand. I'll wait until you're feeling better."

"Thank God for small favors. Wait till we're back in New York. Thirty-six hours, Francey, and this will all seem like a dream."

"A nightmare," she said, reaching for Daniel's coffee cup and drinking the too-sweet mixture.

"Nightmare's over, Francey. Time to wake up and start life anew. Forget the past, the people you've met. Think about the future."

Forget the past. Forget Michael. Excellent advice, as always. If only she could follow it. Her life had been on a self-destructive slide since the day she'd first set eyes on Patrick Dugan. Michael Dowd was simply part of the slide. It was past time to pull herself up.

"The future," she echoed glumly.

"In two days I'll take you to dinner at Tavern on the Green and we'll toast that future." He looked and sounded so anxious that Francey decided to dismiss her misgivings, her doubt. Daniel had done a great deal for her over the years. The least she could do under the circumstances was lie to him.

"Sounds wonderful," she said firmly. "I can't wait."

The hotel in the center of the tiny city was very small, very old and very elegant. Francey couldn't even find the name of the establishment as Daniel whisked her inside, and a moment later she gave up the attempt. After all, what did it really matter? In less than twenty-four hours she would be on her way back home, and Malta, Spain, and the last month would be nothing but a distant memory.

She and Daniel were ensconced in adjoining suites. Her marble-and-gilt bathroom was more than twice the size of her prison cell, and the hot water was unlimited. When she emerged half an hour later, her skin was pink from scrubbing, she found her bed piled with new clothes, sand-washed silks, soft cottons, all a size too small. Except that she found they fit her perfectly, were even a little loose, when she tried them on. Glancing over at her reflection in the mirror, she grimaced. Besides looking pale and haunted, she'd lost weight. Too much weight. She looked like a good candidate for Daniel Travers's rest cure on St. Anne. Even Michael Dowd had looked healthier.

She tossed her old clothes into the trash, finding a measure of comfort in the feel of silk against her skin. Maybe things would be all right if she just concentrated on the small pleasures in this life. A soft bed. Silk against skin. The scent of roses filling the air. She needed to work up an appetite, think about the taste of coffee and chilled white wine, of whipped cream and strawberries, of pungent spices.

But all she could think about was the taste of Michael Dowd's mouth on hers. The feel of his hands on her skin.

"Enough," she said out loud. Michael Dowd was several continents away, and she was the last thing on his mind. It was time to make him the last thing on hers.

She rapped on the adjoining door between Daniel's suite and hers. There was no answer. He'd said something about having a rest, and, indeed, he'd looked as if he needed sleep. While the need to know still burned in the back of her brain, for now she was going to give him what he wanted. No more questions. She started to turn away when a trickle of uneasiness danced down her spine.

The door between their rooms was unlocked. She pushed it open, calling his name softly. The room was dark, the blinds pulled against the bright Mediterranean sunlight, the sunlight Francey couldn't get enough of. "Daniel," she called again, her eyes growing used to the dimness.

He was lying stretched out on the bed, his ghostly pallor distinguishable even in the shadows. His eyes were open, just focusing on her, and his voice was a mere thread of sound.

"Get Elmore," he whispered.

"Daniel, you need a hospital," she protested, panic filling her. She'd lost too much in the past few months, the past few days. She couldn't lose Daniel, too.

"I wouldn't trust the witch doctors around here," Daniel wheezed. "Get me Elmore. He should be in the hotel somewhere. He'll have what I need, or he can get it for me. He's a…damned fine…doctor when he isn't following orders."

"I'll find him. Otherwise…"

"There's no otherwise," Daniel said, firm despite the faintness in his voice. "I don't trust anyone else. This old ticker of mine likes to give me a scare now and then, and with my luck, it's chosen today. By tomorrow I'll feel right as rain."

"I'll find Elmore," Francey promised, keeping the panic from her voice.

It was easier said than done. Elmore was registered, all right, but he was nowhere in the small, elegant hotel. A phone call ascertained that he hadn't been back to the
True Blue
, and even when Francey asked about other doctors in the area, the concierge refused to oblige. "Mr. Travers wouldn't see another doctor," the elegantly suited gentleman insisted in an annoyingly paternal manner. "Let me make a few more phone calls, and I'm certain I can track the good doctor down."

"I'm not sure how much time my cousin has." For the first time in almost a month an edge of hysteria was creeping into Francey's voice, and she clamped down on it. If she lost control now, she might never regain it, and she imagined a Maltese mental hospital wasn't far removed from a Spanish prison.

The concierge allowed a faint frown of irritation to cross his brow. Obviously he considered her to be a hysteric of the first order, but just as obviously he didn't want to risk having a dead rich American in one of his suites. "The British embassy," he said abruptly, before he could change his mind. "I expect Dr. Brady is somewhere at the embassy. He usually checks in there when he comes to the island."

"But he's not British."

The concierge lifted his hands in a dismissive gesture. "I have no idea why he goes, Miss Neeley. I only know that he does. Let me see if I can find him for you. The telephones are a bit unreliable on the island, but if you'll just be patient…"

"I'll go myself." She practically sprinted across the lobby to the glassed-in front doors, almost knocking over a well-dressed matron in her haste. The concierge handed her into the waiting cab, issued a few unintelligible orders to the driver, and they were off, barreling through the crowded downtown streets.

They arrived at the embassy an agonizing twenty minutes later, stopping at a nondescript white building that Francey was certain they'd passed at least twice during their travels. When she questioned the driver he merely raised his hands and shrugged, and not for a moment did she believe he couldn't speak English.

By the time she stepped inside the cool, air-conditioned halls of the small embassy outpost she was ready to scream. Collaring the first bureaucrat she could find, an earnest young man in Bermuda shorts and an impeccable tie, she demanded that he produce Dr. Elmore Brady.

She half expected the response. "I'm sorry, Miss, never heard of him."

Francey took his perfect tie in her hand and yanked his head down to her level. "Then the ambassador will have to do. Maybe his memory is better than yours. And if you don't take me to see him immediately, I'll cause a scene that will be remembered throughout history. I have had enough, and I'm not willing to be fobbed off with any more excuses. My cousin could be dying, and I'm damned well not going to wait for an appointment or trust anyone less than the ambassador himself."

The young man had paled at the very mention of the word "scene," and her hand on his tie, choking him just slightly, was sufficient motivation. "Right this way, Miss…"

"Neeley. Frances Neeley," Francey said with deceptive affability, loosening her stranglehold on his school tie. Just slightly.

But the young man had obviously had the fear of God, or American womanhood on a rampage, put into him. Within two minutes Francey was being ushered into the elegant, walnut-paneled offices of Sir Henry Chapin as the ambassador himself raised his ponderous bulk from his leather chair and beamed at her.

"What can I do for you, Miss Neeley? I must say, we don't usually see such fetching young ladies, and such forceful ones, at that. Just tell me what the trouble is, and I'm certain we'll all do our best to set things right."

"If only it were that simple," she murmured, more to herself than him as she finally released the poor young man's tie. "My cousin is Daniel Travers, and I believe his doctor is somewhere on the premises. I need him, or, rather, Daniel needs him. Immediately."

"Daniel's an old friend of mine," Sir Henry boomed. "Don't tell me he's taken ill?"

"His heart. He says it's just the medicine, but I don't like the looks of him, and he says he won't see anyone but Elmore Brady."

"Understandable," Sir Henry said in his harrumphing voice. "Elmore's a damned fine doctor—wouldn't see anyone else myself, if I had the option. I'll see if he's here, though I can't say I ran across him in the past hour. Still, I don't know half of what goes on in this place, don't you know. Only been stationed here for the past six months, and it takes a while to learn the lingo, not to mention all the ins and outs. They even sent me some damned cultural attaché a couple of weeks ago to help me out. I ask you,
what does culture have to do with anything? Still, they send me these charming
young Johnnies and I have to do my best. At least the ladies like 'em. Tell you
what, Miss Neeley, I'll pass you on to my aide. Charming fellow, name of Charlie Bisselthwaite. He'll find Elmore. Make himself useful for a change."

"I don't think…" Francey began, uneasy at being foisted off on another charming bureaucratic incompetent, but Sir Henry was already speaking into the telephone.

A moment later the door opened behind her. "There you are, Charlie. I need you to dig up Dr. Brady for this young lady here. Seems her cousin's in some kind of fix."

Somehow she knew, long before she turned around. Maybe it was the shadow of his silhouette, taller, broader, than she would have expected. Maybe it was the myth of the Mediterranean islands, and gods and goddesses playing their tricks on unsuspecting mortals. She half expected to see a gorgon when she turned, the head of hissing snakes turning her to stone.

But the reality was far, far worse. She turned, slowly, and looked up into Michael Dowd's impassive, unnaturally brown eyes.

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He looked so very different, and yet unmistakably the same. He was broader, stronger, more powerful looking, than the frail schoolteacher who'd come to the Caribbean. His hair was dark brown instead of auburn; his blue eyes were now a muddy brown. But even more telling than the physical changes were the differences in the way he held himself. There was a foppish quality to him, a suggestion of the dilettante that came not just from the too impeccable white linen suit and the perfectly cut, slightly too long hair, but from the slightly preening way he held himself. It was no wonder the shortsighted Sir Henry had accepted him as an ineffectual remittance man, a member of the British aristocracy forced to put up with being stationed in a nothing job on a tiny island with no political importance whatsoever.

But Francey could see, very clearly. She'd been blind, stupid, for so long that the brightness of clarity was a physical pain in her head, in her heart. The charming fop was no more real than the sweet schoolteacher. The man in front of her, watching her out of indolent eyes that showed no recognition, was a wolf. A conscienceless wild animal, one with no moral compunctions whatsoever. A man who could kill. A man who could not love.

There was no question that he was the dark, robed Arab who'd brought her out of that hellhole. No question that he'd made love to her in the darkness of her storm-swept cabin, and then left her before she awoke from her drug-induced stupor to doubt her own sanity. There was no question that he'd been sent to St. Anne to guard her, maybe to question her. No question at all that she'd been a pawn from the start, first in Patrick Dugan's hands, then in Michael Dowd's far more clever ones. She wanted to throw up.

"I believe Dr. Brady is already back at the hotel," he said politely, his voice softer, slightly more fey. "Apparently Mr. Travers is feeling better."

"Good show," Sir Henry said, his dislike of the younger man obvious. "Then why don't you see Miss Neeley back there like a good fellow? You don't have anything to do till the cocktail party tonight."

"No, thank you," Francey said quickly, unable to hide the rising panic in her voice. "I can get back there on my own."

"At least escort her to a taxi, then, Charlie."

"No!" She no longer cared whether she sounded reasonable as she scrambled out of the chair, knocking it over as she went. "I prefer to go alone." She looked up, way up, into Michael's impassive eyes. He was blocking the doorway, and there was no way she was going to bring herself to touch him. The absurd room with its walnut paneling and manor-house atmosphere was suddenly unbearably stuffy. She pulled at the neckline of her silk shirt, feeling it tightening around her throat, and struggled to catch her breath. She had to get out of there. If he didn't move, she would turn around and jump out the window.

She'd forgotten how well he knew her. "As you wish, Miss Neeley," he said politely, backing out of the doorway. "I'll be in my office, Sir Henry."

She watched him disappear. Was that message for his bombastic superior, or for her? If he thought she was ready to hear excuses, or listen to threats, he was mistaken. A confrontation was the last thing she was ready to face.