Now You See Him (26 page)

He didn't even glance at her. All his attention was focused on the man holding her. The hand digging into her arm was sweaty, and the gun trembled against her temple. He might very well kill her by accident if Michael wasn't careful.

"What kind of bargain?" Michael asked in a voice that bordered on indifference.

"You want the lady?"

"I want the lady." It was spoken softly, but Francey felt a chill slide down her backbone.

"Then you'll have to bargain. I want your car. I want you to put the gun down. And I want you to step back while I drive away. I'll leave her safe and sound in the next town."

Michael smiled. "Don't waste my time, Dex. Let her go."

"In the next town. Or I swear I'll blow her brains out right now."

"And then I'll kill you."

"I don't mind dying for the cause," he said nervously. "I just don't like losing."

"Too bad," Michael said gently. "You're going to do both."

Dex was shivering behind her, and cold sweat was soaking through his clothes, through hers. Francey didn't move, couldn't move as she watched with numb fascination. Dex held the gun, the hostage. And he was terrified of the man confronting them. So terrified that he was bound to make a lethal mistake. Yet she felt only a passing interest in whether her life was going to be forfeit in that mistake.

"I'll give you the girl," Dex said hoarsely. "Here and now. You let me take the car, get the hell out of here…"

"No."

"I'll disappear. No one will have to know…"

"The Cadre will find you," Michael said. "You know they will. And you know how they deal with traitors."

"I'm not a traitor!" Dex said desperately. "I just know when the odds are against me. Cougar, let me go."

"Let the woman go."

She could feel his indecision. The gun at her temple wavered for a moment, but a moment was long enough.

Dex fell backward, his sweaty hands slipping from her, and a second later she heard a whine and pop, the delayed report from Michael's gun. She stared down at the man at her feet, the pool of blood.

"You killed him," she said in a harsh whisper. "He was going to let me go. He was starting to release me…"

"He was about to shove you at me and then shoot us both." Michael was cool and matter-of-fact. "Get in the car and let's get the hell out of here."

"He might not be dead…" She started to lean down, to touch Dex's fallen body, when Michael crossed the space that separated them and hauled her upright.

"He's dead. Trust me. Now get in the car."

"I'm not going anywhere with a murderer." The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. His face was cool, handsome, absolutely expressionless. For a moment she wondered whether he would hurt her. And then she knew he wouldn't. No matter what he'd done, what crimes he'd committed, why he did what he did, one thing had been constant. He'd been trying to help her.

"Get in the car," he said again from between clenched teeth. "Or I swear to God I'll knock you over the head and drag you there."

So much for not hurting her. She moved stiffly, her body radiating outrage and indignation. "I'll get in the car," she said, "because I have no other way of getting to Daniel. But I don't want to have to talk with you, look at you, or have anything to do with you."

"You'll get in the car because I'm not giving you any other option. I imagine the driver's long gone, but that doesn't mean he won't be back. There's nothing I'd like better than to find some nice quiet jail cell and put you back there until this blows over, but I don't think I have that option. So get in the damned car and stop arguing."

Francey got in the car.

He climbed in beside her, and he seemed huge, overpowering, in the cramped space as he put his gun on the seat between them. It smelled of smoke and what she imagined was cordite, and it was lethal, black and ugly.

He glanced over at her, huddled by the door. "Put on your seat belt."

It was suddenly too much. "I've been kidnapped, shot at, nearly raped, imprisoned, bombed, had my car sabotaged, and you tell me to put on my seat belt? Why don't you give me a lecture about safe sex while you're at it?"

Only by a slight stiffening in his shoulders could she see that her barb had hit home. Ignoring her, he reached over and yanked the seat belt across her lap. "Do me a favor," he said softly. "Keep your mouth shut or I'll gag you."

She almost told him to try it. But some last-minute wisdom stopped her. He was a man who was more than capable of doing just that. He'd just killed two men—why would he balk at a little bondage? Ignoring him, she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, willing the inner trembling to subside. Daniel would make things better. She just needed to hold on till Michael brought her to the hospital, then disappeared into whatever fantasy he was living out. Surely she could keep herself together that long.

The car started with a jerk. He was driving fast, probably much too fast for the narrow island roads, but she refused to open her eyes and look. She was already intimidated by his presence, the size of him, the heat of him, the sheer animal intensity of him. In the shadows the night before he'd been disturbing. In the daylight he was overwhelming. Her only defense was to try to withdraw into some safe place of her own making. She'd been able to do that in prison, but that particular gift was failing her sorely. She knew why. She could hide from anything in this life. Anything but Michael.

She had blood on her dress. He hoped she hadn't noticed, but he couldn't count on that. Francey could be far too observant when she wanted to be, and right now she had nothing to gain by hiding from the truth. She'd hidden from reality when they'd been in the Caribbean, but the last weeks had brought life crashing down on her. Even if she wanted to, he doubted she could keep the truth from intruding.

She'd shut him out when she'd shut her eyes. Which suited him just fine for the present. He didn't want to talk to her, either. What could he do, offer excuses, apologies, explanations? None of them was good enough.

He had that sick, angry feeling inside that he always got when he had to kill. It didn't matter that he'd had no choice. It didn't matter that he could have killed the driver but had let him escape. It didn't even matter that he knew the history of the two men he'd killed, the crimes they'd committed, the innocent lives they'd ended. He'd learned long ago that nothing could assuage the burning inside, the hollow, empty feeling.

Once upon a time he'd hoped that Francey could. That tiny kernel of purity in her had been like a beacon. As long as he could keep her safe, then there would be a haven for him.

He knew now that that had been a foolish, romantic longing. There was no haven for him anywhere, and particularly not with her. She'd seen him kill. She knew his lies. And she knew he'd come to her bed when she was too drugged and shocked to have any conscious say in the matter.

It had been a taste of heaven, and one of the worst mistakes of his life. He'd hoped actually making love to her would wipe out the obsession. Nothing could be as good as the fantasy that he'd built up over the weeks.

But it had been. Better than the fantasy, better than any reality he'd ever known. He'd been able to turn his back and leave, knowing it was saving her, knowing he was being noble, self-sacrificing, and his one selfless act might somehow atone for his countless sins.

But she'd been brought back into his life time and time and time again. The more he fought it, the more he hurt her. As long as the Cadre existed to spin its murderous webs, then he and Francey were going to be caught in them. He had to stash her someplace safe while he finished with them. And then he could finish with Francey.

"Where are we?" She'd opened her eyes finally, staring around her with growing rage. "We should be at the hospital by now."

"We're not going to the hospital." They were taking a narrow road that ran along the sparsely populated western side of the island. The sea was beyond, gray and angry. It matched his soul.

He waited for her to start screaming at him, fully prepared for her to launch her body at him. She stayed very still in that distant corner of the front seat. "What about Daniel?" she said finally.

"Daniel will either recover or not. Your presence won't make a difference. In case you haven't noticed, the Cadre wants you dead. If you're at the hospital, they'll come after you there. They won't stop until they get you."

"For God's sake, why? Patrick is dead, and probably Caitlin, too. I didn't kill Patrick, you did. And I didn't mean to kill Caitlin. I was stupid enough to give them a lot of money. What more do they want from me? Why should one idiotic American female matter so damned much?"

"She shouldn't. But the leader of the Cadre has an obsession, and the members follow orders without question." He turned inland onto a narrow, winding drive. Francey didn't appear to notice.

"Why should the leader of the Cadre be so determined to kill me? Was he Caitlin's lover? Does he want revenge for her death?"

There was no reason not to tell her. He'd already told her too much. The more lies she was fed, the more she went ferreting for the truth. Maybe he could placate her, shock her into acquiescence, with enough of the truth. "Caitlin Dugan didn't die that night in New York."

He hated the expression that sprang into her eyes. "She didn't? She's still alive? Why didn't you tell me that last night? What happened to her?"

"I don't know the details," he said sourly. "I was otherwise occupied, taking out your murderous lover."

"We weren't lovers," she said automatically, and he didn't know whether he believed her or not. Or why it mattered. "But if she's alive," she went on, oblivious to his reaction, "then I could see her. Reason with her. There must be some humanity still left in her. No matter how monstrous she is, she's still my family. I can't believe that she couldn't call off the leader of the Cadre…"

"Caitlin Dugan
is
the leader of the Cadre," Michael said flatly.

The color and animation drained from her face. "She's trying to kill me?"

"She always was. And she won't stop until you're dead. Or she is." He pulled up outside a decaying villa, but she didn't even notice, still intent on him.

"So you're going to kill her?"

He didn't bother to deny it. "Yes."

"I can't let you do that."

"You're not going to have any say in the matter. My mission is to deactivate the most ruthless group of fanatics ever to be born on English soil. To intercept a shipment of arms and money, and to wipe out the last remaining members. The Cadre won't let themselves be taken prisoner. If we don't kill Caitlin, she'll kill herself rather than let herself be taken."

"Then let her," Francey said with sudden fierce passion. "Wipe out her organization, destroy their evil, but don't kill her. Not for her sake. But for yours. Promise me, Michael."

God, he wanted to. He would have given years off his life to offer her that assurance. "My name isn't Michael," he said coldly. "And I have no promises for you."

The light went out of her eyes. She gave up on him then, he knew it without question. Before, a part of her heart had belonged to him. Now it was wiped out, one more casualty of the Cadre's far-reaching destructiveness. One more casualty of his own empty way of life.

"Get in the house," he said, turning off the engine and pulling the key. He wouldn't have put it past her to try to make a run for it.

She didn't. Instead she looked down at her hands lying limp in her lap, at the blood on her silk skirt. She touched the stains that were rapidly turning brown in the hot, dry air, and she shivered. "Damn you, Michael," she whispered, staring at her hands.

"You can curse me to your dying day," he drawled, forcing a casual tone. "But at least that'll be decades away, and not tomorrow. Out of the car, Francey, or I'll carry you."

She looked up sharply then, and he could see the intensity of her emotions burning just beneath the surface. Hatred for him, without any question. He accepted it.

Without a word she opened the car door, sliding out and standing in front of the tumbledown villa. "What is this place?"

"A place to hide. No one outside the organization even knows of its existence. You'll be safe here."

"The organization? Now why doesn't that fill me with confidence?"

"The only one you have to fear in the organization is Ross Cardiff, and he's still in Spain. Assuming he managed to swim to shore." The moment the words were out he regretted them.

"What do you mean by that?" she demanded.

"I threw him off the
True Blue
. Last time I saw him, he was floundering around in Mariz harbor."

The light had come back into her eyes. "You did that for me?"

"Hell, no. I did it because he'd screwed up the mission by his rash actions."

"Didn't I do the same? By coming after you, asking questions? Why didn't you throw me to the sharks?"

"You'd already been there," he said flatly. "Don't get sentimental, Francey. I'd been looking for an excuse to get the drop on Cardiff for a long time. You simply provided it."

"I see."

"You'll find food in the kitchen area. There's no power, but the kerosene lamps are cleaned and ready. No telephone, either, and you'll be at least twenty miles from the nearest neighbor, so I wouldn't try to make it on foot if I were you. Someone will come to collect you as soon as it's safe."

"You're not leaving me here."

"You have no choice in the matter."

"The hell I don't," she said, as all her hard-won control suddenly short-circuited. And she leaped at him, her fury and rage and pain centered directly on him.

«
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Michael put up his hands to stop her, to keep her not from hurting him, but from hurting herself. He caught her wrists in his hard hands, but the feel of her flesh beneath his was a torment he wasn't able to resist. He yanked her body hard against his, and she stared up at him, wild-eyed, furious, for a long, breathless moment. And then slowly, deliberately, he dropped his mouth to hers.