Now You See Him (24 page)

She simply wanted to get home. Away from deceit. She gave Sir Henry what she knew was a ghastly smile. "You've been very kind," she mumbled. "I won't trouble you further."

"Miss Neeley, are you feeling well?" Sir Henry rose, his bluff, hearty face creased with worry. "Let me get Charlie back, have him see you…"

She bit back the scream that rose in her throat, knowing it would only convince Sir Henry that she needed to be placed in good old Charlie's competent hands. "I'm just relieved my cousin is being looked after, Sir Henry. Thank you again."

While the old man didn't look convinced, he also looked like a man willing to believe what would cause him the least personal trouble. "If you're certain…?"

"I'm certain." She should hold out her hand to him, put the horrible interview to an end, but her palms were covered with cold sweat, and she knew they would be trembling. She backed away toward the door instead, still smiling.

"We're having a little cocktail party tonight to welcome some London men to the island," Sir Henry said. "Perhaps you'd like to join us. I could send Charlie to fetch you."

God, was the man a totally oblivious idiot? It was no wonder the sun had set on the British empire if he was a representative of the foreign service. "Thank you, but no. We're flying out tomorrow, and I think I should stay with my cousin. Goodbye, Sir Henry." She escaped before he could come up with any more idiotic suggestions.

The hallway was cool and deserted. She'd been half-afraid that Michael would be lying in wait for her, ready to pounce, but he was nowhere to be seen. Apparently he'd taken her at her word.

She passed the young man who'd first brought her to Sir Henry, and he fingered his much-abused necktie nervously as she walked by. She had a fleeting, wistful fantasy that it had been Michael she'd nearly strangled. Except with him she wouldn't have stopped short of asphyxiation.

The taxi she hadn't requested was waiting for her. The man who poked his head out the passenger side was dark, with black, friendly eyes. "Miss Neeley. I'm to take you back to the hotel."

She didn't even consider it. She asked too many questions, knew too much, showed up in the wrong places at the wrong time. She was a major inconvenience, and they'd gotten rid of her once. If she got into that taxicab, she might never see the United States again.

It was late afternoon, with the heat of the sun fading slightly. "I'd rather walk," she said.

"Miss, it's too hot and too far to walk."

"I need the exercise."

There was no mistaking the panic in his voice. "I have orders…"

She turned. "From whom?"

He looked confused, guilty, for a moment. And then he jammed the car into gear and took off into the busy streets of the tiny port city. She watched him go. She didn't turn and look back at the embassy. She knew someone was watching her, and she knew perfectly well who that someone was. She didn't have to catch him in the act to know. Indeed, he was far more clever than she'd ever imagined. She probably wouldn't see him if she turned to look. But he would be there nonetheless, watching.

He would know she hadn't taken the bait, hadn't been fool enough to get into the taxi that would take her heaven knew where. He could make of that what he wished. But if she hesitated on the sidewalk too long he might come after her. And she didn't think she could stand that.

Her slender leather sandals were part of the new clothes Daniel had provided for her, and after the first hour they began to hurt her feet. She ignored the discomfort. She needed to walk. To walk and walk and walk. To breathe in the fresh salt air, to feel the breeze on her face, to empty her mind and her heart and simply be. She paid no attention to the direction her legs were taking her. She just kept walking.

"What the hell do you mean, you don't have her?"

Niall Regan shrugged, determined not to show fear. "She wouldn't get into the taxi. She said she wanted to walk."

"Sweet heaven, and you let her? She was so damned close, and you just let her go? Why didn't you follow her?"

"She started to get suspicious. Damn it, we were still at the embassy. Anyone could have come out, started asking questions. I couldn't risk it."

"Didn't have the nerve to risk it, you mean." The voice was cool, scathing. "It's a good thing we don't have to count on the likes of you. If you'd done as you were told, things could have been finished by now. As it is, we'll have to wait until tomorrow and grab her at the airport, if we have to. I'm not happy."

Niall Regan knew that. He knew he'd chosen a stern taskmaster, and he'd always told himself the cause was worth it. Now he wasn't so certain. There had been too many deaths, too much bloody carnage simply for the sake of bloody carnage. He was used to working with fanatics, wild-eyed visionaries without the common sense to see them safely into the toilet. But the leader of the Cadre went beyond that, into the realm of certifiable insanity. And he wondered whether he could be on that plane tomorrow, in Frances Neeley's place.

"Sorry I let you down," he said meekly. "It won't happen again."

"You can be sure of that, boy-o," said Caitlin Dugan, raising the gun he didn't know she had and pointing it to his forehead. And then there was nothing but a blinding white light. Nothing at all.

There was a different concierge on duty when she walked into the dark, hushed lobby. She carried her new sandals in her hand, walking barefoot on the beautiful oriental runner, and her long gauze skirt swirled around her legs. She'd lost all sense of time, letting darkness fall around her, and it was only because she'd somehow ended up back at the hotel that she'd decided to go inside.

She walked past Daniel's door on the third floor without giving him more than a cursory thought. Either Dr. Brady had managed to stabilize him, correct his medication and bring him back to his old self, or he hadn't. If he hadn't, the alternatives were equally obvious. The hospital or death. Whatever the answer, there wasn't anything she could, or would, do about it. She didn't even know whether Daniel had lied to her or not. He might have been fed the same convoluted stories—no, that wasn't true. He told her he'd seen the Arab who'd brought her out of prison. An ugly customer, he'd called him.

One more person she couldn't trust. She closed her door behind her, very softly, and reached for the light switch.

"Don't turn it on." Michael's voice came from out of the darkness, and she froze.

She had a great many alternatives. She could scream bloody murder; she could fling herself at him in a rage; she could fall at his feet. She wanted to do all those things—and she wanted to do none of those things. So she did nothing for a moment, just took a deep, steadying breath.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked finally, her voice thin and calm in the inky darkness. "Come to apologize? So sorry, Francey dear, but I've lied to you, your cousin's lied to you, but it was all for the good of society…"

"Be quiet, Francey."

"I think I've been quiet long enough."

"The hell you have. What do you think landed you in that Spanish prison?" His voice was weary. He was sitting on the sofa by the French doors—she could see his silhouette. See the faint glow of the cigarette she hadn't known he smoked. "I told you to forget about me. Why the hell didn't you listen?"

"I'm listening now." She walked into the room, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. "I'm going back to New York with Daniel…" Sudden misgivings assailed her. "Is that why you're here? Is Daniel dead?"

"He's fine. Elmore switched his medication, and he's all set to accompany you tomorrow. Assuming you're planning to go quietly."

"And if I'm not? Will someone drug me again, maybe find a Maltese prison to throw me into?"

"Don't be hysterical."

"I don't consider it hysterical of me. After all, I
have
been drugged, I
have
been imprisoned. Why not try again? I imagine this time you won't be around to rescue me. I don't quite understand why you did, Michael. Why didn't you just leave me there to rot?"

"The moment I found out where you were, I came after you."

"Why? Didn't it interfere with whatever spy game you're playing? That's what you are, isn't it? Some damned James Bond, living out Cold War fantasies?"

"Francey…"

"Why are you here, Michael? What is it you want from me?"

"I wanted to apologize."

She took a deep, furious breath. "You wanted to apologize?" she echoed in a blast of rage. "Not good enough, Michael, not by a long shot. You didn't just happen to choose St. Anne to recuperate from your so-called auto accident. You came after me. To pick my brain, to see what I knew about the Cadre. Didn't you?"

"Yes."

"It didn't matter that I'd told everybody everything a million times. It didn't matter that Patrick was dead. It didn't matter—" She stopped suddenly, as another sick realization hit her. "You killed him, didn't you?"

He didn't even pretend to misunderstand her. "Yes."

"Of course you weren't in a car accident. You were recovering from bullet wounds. He shot you before you killed him. I watched." Her voice broke slightly in the shadowy darkness.

"Yes," he said again.

"Damn you," she said quietly.

"For what? For killing a man who was trying to turn a public occasion into a bloodbath? For killing a man who damned near killed me?"

"For lying."

"Well, in that case I'm damned for sure, because my entire life is a lie," he said savagely.

"It was your choice. I wonder what your family thinks of you. Are they proud of the life you've chosen. Or don't they even know?"

His silence gave her the answer. "They don't exist, either, do they?" she said. "No Whipdale House and comfortable mum, no sisters and brothers and aging Newfoundlands. It was all a lie, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "Why me, Michael? Why did you come to St. Anne? Why didn't you believe me, let me be? Why should I have lied to the investigators?"

He rose from the sofa and walked to the French doors, his back to her. She watched him in the darkness, marveling again at the difference in him. He wasn't Charlie Bisselthwaite now, or gentle Michael Dowd. He was the man on Baby Jerome. A strong, dangerous man, suddenly larger than life. "We couldn't trust you," he said finally. "Not if we took into account your family connection."

"Don't be ridiculous. Daniel is almost pathologically loyal. He likes the same stupid games you do—he'd never become involved with terrorists or an organization like the Cadre."

"I'm not talking about your cousin Daniel. His loyalty is unquestionable."

"Unlike mine," she said bitterly. "Then what the hell
are
you talking about? I don't have any other family. My mother died in a car crash seven years ago, and my father drowned when I was three. Unless you're talking about the parade of stepfathers my mother presented me with, and I hardly think I can be condemned because of them."

"No one's condemning you," he said wearily, turning to face her. She shouldn't see much in the darkness, just the shape of him, the rumpled white suit that looked so different on his Charlie alter ego, the glitter of his eyes. And yet she knew he could see her quite clearly. Her face. And her heart.

"Then why don't you explain, simply and clearly, what it is that's made you suspect me?"

"That charming Irish poet your mother married," he said. "The one who drowned in the Liffey when you were three years old. Well, he was something more than a bad poet. He had strong political leanings. He didn't drown. He died while trying to plant a bomb. And you weren't his only child."

This couldn't be happening, Francey thought. "What child?"

"A girl. Born to an Irish waitress by the name of Cassie Dugan. She named her daughter Caitlin."

It came back with sickening suddenness. The feel of the girl's tight, furious body as she shoved her away from her, the screech of tires, the ominous thump of a body striking metal. "Caitlin was my sister?"

"You were marked, practically from birth. She and the man she called her brother sought you out. You were a perfect choice, a combination of political and personal enemy, and with a comfortable trust fund to boot."

"Not anymore. I got rid of as much as I could."

Michael laughed, the sound totally devoid of humor. "Just where they wanted it to go. You really think the Children of Eire is an innocent organization? It's the Cadre. They finally got what they wanted from you. Or almost everything. Caitlin wanted your death."

"And instead I killed her." Her voice was raw in the darkness. "Didn't I? Or is that one more little surprise you have for me…?"

He moved then, crossing the darkened room to come close, too close for her peace of mind. "This time I need you to listen to me, Francey. You need to get on that plane tomorrow with Daniel. No questions, no looking back. I never existed."

"Who didn't exist? Michael Dowd? Or Charlie Bisselthwaite? Or the Arab? Or…" Hysteria was making her voice rise, and he did what she'd been waiting for. He put his hands on her, catching her arms and pulling her tight against his body. He was hot, blazing hot, and she was so cold.

"None of us," he whispered in her ear. "In a few days this will all be over. You can wipe it out of your memory, forget it ever happened…"

She yanked herself free, and her anger blazed forth. "I can, can I? It's that simple? I just wipe out blocks of my life and do a little tap dance? Next thing I know, you'll be telling me to find a nice young man, settle down and get married?"

"You should."

She slapped him. The sound was loud and shocking in the still, dark hotel room. He didn't move, and she reached out to slap him again, to goad him into a reaction.

She got her wish without her hand connecting. He caught her wrist in a tight grip, pulled her back against him and kissed her, a hard, brutal kiss that hurt her mouth. And broke her heart.

There was more honesty, more emotion, in that heated, desperate kiss than in any he'd give her before. He still held her wrist, but she slid her other arm around his waist and clung to him desperately, feeling buffeted by the winds of fate and anger.