Now You See Him (9 page)

He smiled then, a brief upturning of his mouth. Not the devastating charm he'd sent in her direction on several occasions, not the sexless, friendly smile of a housemate. It was a smile of real amusement, devoid of any particular role he was playing. She didn't even stop to consider why she thought he would be playing roles for her.

"You're from the same stock," he said. "Anglo-Saxon Protestant to the core."

"Actually, my father was Irish Catholic."

"Same difference," he said, shrugging. A man who'd grown up in Great Britain during some of the bloodiest Irish Catholic struggles, and he dismissed the differences. Before she could even think further about that, he reached out, putting his hands on her, pulling her into his arms. "You're freezing to death," he said, tucking her close against his heated body. "Shock will do that to you."

She wanted to resist his comfort. She didn't trust him. She was back to the way she'd been months ago, after Patrick had been killed. She didn't trust a soul, friend or stranger, relative or enemy. She didn't want to trust him.

But his heat was insidious, working through the block of ice around her body, melting it, melting the fierce tension within her. She tried to hold herself stiffly in his arms, but she couldn't, not with his long fingers kneading the cords of tension at the back of her neck, exposed by the skimpy cotton sundress.

She sighed, letting the fear drain out of her body, and leaned against him. "That's better," he murmured approvingly, and his accent was oddly more pronounced, and yet softer. "I'm not your enemy, Francey."

"I know you're not," she said wearily. "Honestly I do. I just get so frightened, so confused, not knowing whom I can trust…"

"You can trust me," he said. "You
need
to trust me. I'll do my best to help you, but you have to tell me what the hell is going on. Who would want to kill you?"

She sighed again, closing her eyes to the endless blue sea, afraid to look for the boat that would bring them salvation, afraid it would be the wrong boat, one that would bring them both death,

"It's too complicated," she murmured.

There was no answering tension in his body. His hand continued, warm, at her nape, stroking her beneath her heavy fall of hair, spreading heat and security through her chilled body. "Since it seems likely that they'd just as soon kill me along with you, I think I deserve to know. No matter how complicated it might be."

"You're right. It's just…" Her voice trailed off in the stillness. "Is that a boat?"

He was motionless, so utterly still that he might have been turned to stone. She didn't know a human being could be so still. "Yes," he said finally. "Either Cecil is unbelievably efficient, or we may be in real trouble."

She should have been frightened. But once more his hand moved, that sinuous, stroking motion on the back of her neck, and the panic couldn't spread over her as it wanted to. "I thought we were already in real trouble."

"Trouble's relative," he said. "I want you to do exactly as I tell you."

"Why? Because you're a man? Why should a math teacher from England be better able to get us out of this mess?"

For some reason he looked amused. "Don't go all feminist on me, Francey. You're on the border edge of hysteria, and it's taking all your considerable strength of purpose not to crack. I'm too unimaginative to be that frightened, particularly since you haven't told me what we're up against. And I have the advantage of having spent two years in the military, even if it seems like a century ago." His fingers tightened, just marginally, on the back of her neck. "Will you do what I tell you to do? No noble gestures, no flinging yourself on the sand to save me?"

She flushed, not even surprised that he'd managed to read her mind. "This isn't your fight, Michael. There's no reason why you should die because of me."

"No one's going to die, Francey. If you do as I tell you. Will you give me your word?" The amusement was gone from his voice. She wished he weren't wearing the dark glasses—maybe she could have read something from his eyes, something she couldn't fathom from the set of his mouth, the alert tension in his body.

"I'll do my best," she whispered as a boat rounded the point.

"Not good enough, love," Michael said in a gentle, almost loving voice. And then everything went black.

He laid her down gently in the thick undergrowth. It was a neat little trick he'd learned during a stint in Southeast Asia. Painless, swift, foolproof, if you knew just where to apply pressure, it brought instant unconsciousness to the victim. The drawback was they had to trust you enough to let you that close in the first place, so it was a tool used to betray people who cared about you, but it was a talent that had saved his life on numerous occasions. Today it just might save Frances Neeley.

"Hey, mon," Cecil called out from the disreputable-looking fishing boat. "You in trouble, mon?"

Michael rose from his spot in the bushes. "You can cut the accent, Cecil. She's out for the count."

Cecil dropped his huge bulk over the side, into a small, battered looking dinghy. "She faint?"

"With a little help," Michael said. "Did someone take care of the house?"

"I sent someone to work on it." He started the motor. It was a small, rusty looking machine that started with a well-oiled purr, and in moments he was up on the crushed coral beach. "Since we haven't heard an explosion, I expect he managed to take care of the problem." He waded toward Michael. "What happened?"

"How the hell do I know? You were supposed to be watching," he snapped, letting his temper out.

"We were watching, mon," Cecil protested, mocking him with his accent. "We were watching the two of you at the café, someone else was watching the house, and we had men stationed down at the beach where you two were supposed to go swimming. They were placing bets as to whether you were going to seduce her on the sand or wait until you were back in the house."

"Voyeurs," Michael muttered, more as a token protest. "She's not my type."

Cecil peered through the heavy foliage at the body lying in the brush. "You must be crazy, mon. Then again, you work for Cardiff…"

Michael glanced up at him. Cecil was a good deal taller than his own six foot two and outweighed him by several stone. On top of that, he hadn't spent the past few weeks in hospital. "You want to elaborate on that, Cecil?" he inquired gently.

Cecil took an involuntary step backward, a fact that amused Michael. Cecil's reputation had preceded him—he was a man who wasn't intimidated by much of anything, and his physical courage was enormous. Apparently the Cougar's reputation had preceded him, also. Enough to make Cecil wary. "No offense, mon. The lady's mighty fine looking, that's all."

"What I do or don't do with the lady is my business," he said. "Your only concern is to ensure our safety."

"My concern is the success of your mission."

Michael nodded, granting him that. "I'll find out what I need to know. It's up to me how I go about doing that."

Cecil didn't move as the two men measured each other. And then Cecil shrugged. "I'm glad we're on the same side, Cougar," he said. "I don't imagine you lose very often."

"Battles, sometimes. Never the war."

"You want me to get her?" Cecil started toward Francey's unconscious body, but Michael forestalled him.

"I'll take her."

"I'm stronger than you are right now," Cecil said, and Michael knew perfectly well he was goading him, testing him. This time he didn't mind.

"I'm sure you are," he said with a crooked smile. "But whether I want her or not, she's mine." In fact, she was lighter than he would have guessed, even as a dead weight. His bad leg gave way as he stood upright, and he staggered for a moment. Cecil wisely looked away.

The waters of the Caribbean were warm as he waded out to the dinghy. "She said there were coral reefs out here," he said over his shoulder.

Cecil was busy under the hood of the sports car. "She was right. If I hadn't had a local man with me, you would have been a sitting duck." He slammed down the hood, cursing. "Get the hell in the boat."

He dumped her body on the floor of the boat, vaulting in after her. "Why?"

"They're thorough bastards. They've got a bomb set in the car for good measure. Just in case you caught on to the gas. You're just damned lucky you didn't jar it into going off when you came down that old road."

Michael didn't even feel a trickle of fear. Might-have-beens wasted time. He glanced down at the woman lying at his feet, and he flipped her cotton skirt over her long, tanned legs. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"You got it, man," Cecil said, forgetting his accent as he raced through the shallow water. "She's about to blow."

He'd just managed to reach the boat when the explosion rocked the landscape, sending the dinghy hurtling backward through the suddenly stormy sea. Michael reached down and hauled Cecil's impressive bulk into the dinghy, then stared back at the cove.

Flames were shooting up from the skeletal remains of the car. Trees had been uprooted by the force of the explosion, and the underbrush was burning sullenly.

"They were pretty thorough," he remarked as Cecil settled himself by the engine. He had a gash over his cheekbone, one that was oozing blood, and they were all drenched from the sea spray that had shot up.

"Not a trace left of you, mon," Cecil observed cheerfully. "Maybe that'll keep them off your tail for a while. I considered letting the house blow as a decoy, but I figured your buddy Travers might think that was going a little too far in the way of cooperation."

"Good thinking. They'll be just as likely to be fooled by the car exploding as the house."

"Which means…?"

Michael looked down at Francey, lying huddled on the floor of the dinghy. She was soaked to the skin, her sun-streaked brown hair matted against her face, and he found himself wanting to pick her up and cradle her in his arms. To strip off his damp shirt and dry her. To warm her chilled flesh, soothe her chilled soul.

He let her be. "Which means they're not likely to be fooled at all. Or not for long. So better to sacrifice a car than a house. I rather liked that house."

"I got through to Cardiff. It's going to be a few days on the island."

Michael lifted his eyes to meet Cecil's. "How many days?"

"You know Cardiff. He wasn't sure how he was going to get you off, or how long it was going to take, but I'd say thirty-six hours, at least."

"I imagine he sent some smarmy message for me."

"Just to be careful. And enjoy yourself."

"Bastard," Michael said carefully. He didn't want to enjoy himself. Not with the vulnerable woman lying at his feet.

"You've got enough supplies, the weather's supposed to be fine, and you've got yourself a pretty lady. If I were you, I wouldn't complain."

"You're not me," Michael said dispassionately as the dinghy pulled up next to the fishing boat. He had no choice but to hand Francey's body up to the waiting men, and he wondered briefly if he'd used too much pressure, or not enough. The ride out to the Baby Saints would take forty minutes. He didn't want her waking up too soon, asking questions before he'd decided on the answers. Or too late. He didn't want to hurt her any more than was completely necessary.

The problem with Francey was that she didn't accept easy answers. Easy lies, automatic excuses. She saw through them, and he wasn't quite sure why. He only knew that she was a lot harder to fool than he'd ever imagined.

It the end, though, it was easy. She didn't begin to come out of it until Cecil and his men had disappeared, leaving them on the tiny, lush island of Baby Jerome, with enough supplies to last them a depressingly long time. He'd laid her out on a blanket, his rolled-up white suit jacket beneath her head, the late-afternoon sun baking her skin, drying the salt-stiffened dress and smoothing away the chill that rippled her skin. He'd turned away to rummage through the packages Cecil had dropped, looking in vain for fresh clothing, and when he turned back her eyes were open, and she was watching him, expressionless, motionless, and he waited for her accusation.

"Did I faint?" Her voice was rusty, strained, her eyes still faintly dazed with shock.

He almost wanted to deny it. To tell her she'd had some help. But he couldn't. Why would a math and soccer master from Somerset know how to render someone unconscious like that?

He gave her a charming, impartial smile. "I'm afraid so. You missed all the excitement."

"Excitement?" She struggled to sit up, glancing around her at the deserted beach. "Where are we?"

"On one of the Baby Saints, I gather. Cecil assures me no one comes here, that we'll be safe for the time being. Until your uncle can mount a rescue."

She shook her head, patently trying to clear the mists that still clung to her. "So they never showed up?"

"Who?"

"The bad guys. Those mythical people who are supposedly trying to kill me," she said with a trace of sharpness, a sharpness that amused him.

She didn't like being passive. She was already fighting back. He wished he were a normal man, with even a trace of a normal life. He would like to see her when her emotions hadn't been battered. "They never showed up," he agreed, sitting back on his heels.

"I told you, this is crazy. No one—"

"They did, however, leave you a present." He interrupted her protests.

She went very still, and he could see a shiver dance over her tanned skin. "A present?"

"A bomb in the sports car. I'm afraid it blew just as we took off out to sea."

She looked ill, and he wondered whether she was about to throw up. The thought didn't disturb him—he'd done worse in his life than hold a lady while she puked her guts out.

She shut her eyes, murmuring weakly, "Oh, my God."

"With luck, they'll assume we died in the car."

She opened her eyes again, and her gaze was remarkably calm and steady in the whiteness of her face. "And if they don't?"

"Then we're likely to have visitors. Sooner or later. We'll just have to hope Travers gets here sooner."