Now You See Him... Page 21

  Chapter 17

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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.

  She jerked spasmodically, trying to reject him, but he was too strong, too determined. He pulled her arms tight around his waist so that her thin, panting body was plastered against his. She could stop him, he knew, by using her knee, by kicking him; she could distract him enough to stop him kissing her. But she didn't. Her arms tightened around his waist, her head tilted back beneath his, and if she didn't kiss him back, she didn't deny him access to her open mouth.

  She let him kiss her, an angry, passion-filled kiss that ravaged her mouth even as it ravaged his soul. When he lifted his head to look down at her, he didn't know what he expected.

  She looked dazed, wary, but not ready to give up fighting. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice husky.

  He found to his complete amazement, after all they'd been through in the last bloody hour, that he could smile. "That was supposed to be a kiss. If you didn't recognize it, I must not have been doing it right."

  For a moment she didn't say anything. "Then maybe you'd better try it again."

  He caught her face in his hands, and when his mouth touched hers this time, he was lost. She kissed him back, sliding her arms up his back, clinging to him, her fingers digging into the loose cotton shirt.

  He had to get back to town. Things were moving quickly; he needed to stash Francey and get back to the others. He needed to shove her away from him, get in the car and drive away without looking back.

  But he couldn't. He lifted his head to look down at her, knowing he should say something, anything, to get her away from him.

  "What's the matter?" she whispered huskily. "You only like drugged women?"

  She was turning feisty in her old age. "Were you drugged that night? I thought you were normally that passive."

  Withdrawing her arms from around him, she slid her hands up the front of his shirt to the open neck. And then she yanked, hard, ripping his shirt open. "I think I've been passive long enough."

  He caught her hands in his, knowing he should put her away from him. Instead he hauled her into his arms, picking her up and starting into the cool dark interior of the half-ruined villa.

  He slept at the end of the house, on a king-size bed surrounded by paneless windows. The breeze from the ocean blew night and day, and the place was clean, bare, stark. He set her down on a mattress covered only by a white sheet, and he knew he should turn and run.

  She didn't move, just watched him, her eyes huge in her pale face. Her mouth was red and damp from his own mouth, and it made him hard just looking at it.

  How many times had he justified his actions by telling himself it was the last time? He would never see her again, so this once was all right? He was telling himself that same thing once more. In a few hours he might be dead. If he wasn't, the Cadre would be, and there would never be another reason for their paths to cross. She would be free of him. It might take her a while—he was pragmatic enough to realize that—but sooner or later the sheer normalcy of life would take over. She would find someone to love, to marry, to have babies with.

  She would get over him a lot faster if he turned and walked away right now, without a backward glance. He'd tried so damned hard to be noble; if he gave in now, all that effort would have been wasted.

  "No," she said clearly, not moving from the bed.

  So she was going to make it easier for him. "No?" he echoed quizzically, unable to resist. "Then why did you rip off my shirt?"

  She rose from the bed, and he knew he was in trouble. The bed was huge, white, pristine, behind her, and she was small, frail, wounded. And far too determined. She slid her hands up under his ripped shirt, her skin hot against his flesh, and he groaned quietly.

  "I mean, no, you're not leaving," she said, low and determined. "You're not disappearing again, leaving some soulless bureaucrat to pick up the pieces. You're staying here with me."

  If her hands reached his nipples he would be lost. "I'm a soulless bureaucrat," he said, trying to back away.

  "No, you're not. You're the man who loves me. And you're not going to leave me again."

  He'd known the words would come back to haunt him. He knew he should deny them, dismiss them. But her hands slid up, covering him, and he needed her out of that bloodstained dress, he needed her naked, stretched out on his big white bed that had been so empty for so long, and there was no way he could fight them both.

  "Take off your dress," he said.

  She smiled then. Not a look of triumph, more an expression of relief. And mischief. "Make me."

  It came apart easily under his big hands, far more easily than his alter ego Charlie's custom-tailored linen shirt. In a moment she was standing naked in front of him, her head thrown back in defiance as she waited for him to touch her.

  And then she didn't wait. Moving closer, she pushed his ruined shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor. She reached for his leather belt, unfastening it deftly and pulling it from the loops with a tiny whispered sound. He let her do it, holding himself perfectly still, giving her control.

  He waited, wondering whether she was going to have the nerve to unfasten his trousers. It took her a moment, and then she swayed against him, reaching out to touch him through the linen trousers.

  He wondered whether the extent of his arousal would shock her. And then he no longer wondered anything, as her deft, curious fingertips traced the rigid outline of him behind the row of buttons.

  He covered her hand with his, pressing her harder against him, and he made a low, guttural sound of need in the back of his throat.

  She was struggling with the buttons, her hands shaking with arousal and frustration. Holding her hand still against him, he kissed her hard, pushing her back against the mattress, falling with her, half covering her. He fumbled with the buttons himself, finally shucking out of his pants, and then he pushed her up higher on the mattress, cradling her head with his arms as he lay beside her.

  "Damn Charlie and his buttons," he said wryly, brushing his lips against hers.

  "Who is Charlie?"

  "No one. An illusion. A means to an end. He's not here."

  "Who is? Who are you?"

  He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he could find an answer. Wishing he even knew. "The man who loves you," he said finally.

  She smiled then, a radiant expression. "That's enough," she whispered. "For now."

  She was awake this time, shiveringly, blindingly awake. Her flesh trembled with sensitized awareness as he ran his mouth across her stomach, and her nipples tightened fiercely when he suckled them. She was hot, damp, tight, when he sheathed himself in her, too soon and not soon enough, and she climaxed immediately, convulsing around him, her eyes wide with shock.

  It took all his rapidly vanishing self-control to keep from following her. If this was his last time with her, possibly his last time on earth, he was going to make it last. He waited for the contractions to lessen, and then he surged against her, hard, fierce and hungry.

  If he'd worried that he was too much for her, she immediately disabused him of the notion. She arched her hips up, pulling him in deeper, and her mouth was hungry, seeking, beneath his. He rocked against her slowly, wanting to bury himself in her tight, needful body, and the bed bounced beneath them, a gentle counterpoint.

  And then it wasn't slow at all. It was fast and hard and furious, the bed pounding beneath them, her hands clawing at his back, her mouth full of anguished entreaties, and he wanted to give her more, more, give her everything she asked, everything she didn't ask. He wanted to give her his life, his soul, to pour everything into her and exist only in that moment.
He waited, stretching out the moment until he could no longer bear it, waiting for the wave to hit her once more. She made a sound, part scream, part sob, as her body shattered once more, and this time he let himself go, shaking to pieces in her arms, disappearing to the kind of place only a man with no name could reach.

  She reached for him when he finally pulled away, but he placated her with a gentle kiss on her damp brow, and she smiled, her eyes closed, foolishly trusting. He found a sheet somewhere and threw it over her sleeping body. He took an abstemious shower, leaving enough hot water for Francey, and went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of instant coffee before leaving.

  He knew he was just prolonging the inevitable. He knew the longer he waited to get dressed the more likelihood there was of her waking up. But he couldn't make himself go. It was earlier than he'd thought, just after seven. He wasn't due to meet the others until after midnight. He had more than enough time to just sit and watch her while she slept.

  But he wasn't going to do it. If he watched her, he would pull the sheet away from her and join her back on the bed, and every time he touched her it got harder and harder to leave her.

  "You're going, aren't you?"

  He hadn't even realized she was there. He turned in the dimly lit kitchen, his face carefully blank, even when he saw her.

  She was wrapped in the sheet he'd thrown over her. Her sun-streaked hair was a tangle behind her pale face, her eyes large and beseeching, and he could see the marks he'd left on her only too clearly. The lovemarks on her neck and shoulders, and other places beneath the heavy white sheet. And the pain reflected in her eyes.

  "I have a job to do," he said, deliberately calm and noncommittal.

  "Were you going to say goodbye?" she asked. "Or were you just going to slink away in the night like the rat you are?"

  It made him smile. Francey when she was calm and loving was a potent package indeed. Francey when she was angry was somehow reassuring. The truth was there in her eyes, that she loved him enough to be mad. Perhaps it might provide balm for his wounded soul during the long, empty years ahead. And perhaps it would be a torment all its own.

  He wasn't going to tell her that. He was trying to pull the tattered remnants of Charlie back around him. "You were sleeping quite soundly. I didn't want to wake you."

  "Like hell," she said, coming closer. "You keep leaving me, Michael, or whoever you are. And I keep turning up like a bad penny. When are you going to realize that we're meant to be together?"

  All trace of amusement fled. "We're not. Don't be absurd, Francey. Do you really think there are happy endings for the likes of us? For you, maybe. I'm doing my damnedest to ensure that. But not for me. Not with you."

  She came right up to him, vibrating with intensity. She smelled of flowers; she smelled of sex. She smelled of him. "You're wasting your time. There is no happy ending for me if you're not part of it."

  He cupped her face with his hands, brushing his mouth across her soft lips. "Then, Francey," he whispered, "there's no happy ending for you, either."

  He walked away from her without another word, and she let him go, the feel of his mouth still warm on her lips, the feel of his body still imprinted on hers. She wanted to call after him, to plead with him, to fling herself at his feet and beg. But she didn't move.

  He'd left a cup of coffee on the scrubbed wooden counters. She took a sip, but it was cold, and she shivered. She heard the car drive away, and her hand tightened around the coffee cup. Charming Charlie would be back at work, probably squiring someone to an embassy cocktail party, and his boss, Sir Henry, would look down his nose at him and mutter deprecating remarks.

  And then, sooner or later, he would leave and turn into…what had Dex called him? The Cougar? And before long, possibly before the morning, her sister, her dear, murderous sister, would be dead.

  He would disappear. She knew it. And despite her pledge, this time she wouldn't find him. If he wiped out the Cadre, there would be no more threat to her. He would simply vanish. And she would have no way of finding him ever again.

  She drank the cold coffee after all, for the dubious comfort of putting her mouth to something he'd put his mouth to. She left the kerosene lamp burning as night darkened around her and the wind whipped through the half-ruined building. She moved slowly back to the bedroom, the sheet trailing around her like a rained toga, and it wasn't until she was sitting cross-legged on the bed in the dusk-laden darkness that she saw the man in the window.

  He was sitting there, watching her with bland, unreadable eyes, and she knew him immediately. The last time she'd seen him it had been outside the café in Mariz, Spain. And suddenly the warm Mediterranean breeze was icy cold on her skin.

  "I wondered when he was finally going to remember he had a job to do," Ross Cardiff said affably. "This is quite unlike him—he's always put his mission first. You've been the ruin of him, young lady. The sordid finale to a fine career."

  She wanted to pull the sheet tighter around her, away from his prying eyes, but she let it stay loosely around her shoulder. For one thing, she knew instinctively that he had no lascivious interest in her, or any other woman, for that matter. For another, she didn't want to show how completely unnerved she was by his presence.

  "Why do you say his career is ruined?" she finally managed to ask, her voice cracked and dry, showing all the fear she'd hoped so desperately to disguise.

  He put his other leg over the windowsill and stepped into the room, and Francey knew where Michael had gotten the inspiration for Charlie the fop. The little man in front of her carried himself the same way. The only difference was the intensity in his gaze, the sheer malevolence beneath the bland smile. "It's down the toilet, my girl. But then, he knows that better than anyone. He's going to be a little too careless, tonight, or soon after. He's going to be courting death, all thanks to the influence of a good woman."

  "Don't be ridiculous, he's—"

  "Women like you make me sick," he said, overriding her protest. "He was doing fine, just fine, until he ran into you. I was against his going to St. Anne, but then, he never did listen to me. Never could accept that I had his best interests at heart. He was weak but determined, and there you were, a sweet little damsel in distress. The first woman he trusted in his entire life."

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "I'll tell you what's wrong with that," Cardiff hissed. "People like the man you call Michael can't afford to trust. Because trust is always betrayed, by accident or design, and in his line of work, that will kill you. He's been a dead man since he met you, and he knows it. That's why he wants you out of the way."

  "Is that why you had me stashed in a Spanish prison? To save him?"

  Cardiff smiled, reaching out a small, well-manicured hand to touch her hair. "I already knew it was too late. I was just playing for time. And indulging in a particular weakness of mine. A taste for revenge." He yanked on her hair, hard, then released it. "If I'd known Michael would come racing to the rescue like a tarnished Sir Galahad, I would have had you killed outright and risked your cousin's suspicions."

  He moved away from her, wandering over to the window with a dreamy expression on his face. "Maybe I'll rape you," he murmured. "It's the closest I'll ever get to him, and there might be some sort of vicarious thrill in it. And in knowing I've done it."

  I will not panic, she told herself, her fingers clutching the sheet. Panic won't help. "You don't strike me as the sort of man who's interested in raping women."

  He smiled sweetly. "I'm not. But I'm afraid I have rather a…thing…for Michael. Not reciprocated, of course. He is rather determinedly hetero. But then, life is full of disappointments, isn't it?" He shrugged. "Get your clothes on."

  "Why?"

  "You have an appointment."

  The man didn't look crazy, even if his words seemed over the edge. Surely he could be reasoned with. "Look, Mr. Cardiff, I'm sorry if I jeopardized your mission. I want the Cadre wiped out just as much as you do, and I promise I'l
l stay here and keep out of the way. I won't interfere at all."

  "But you don't understand, my dear." Ross patted her hand gently. "You're part of the deal."

  "The deal?"

  "With your sister. I don't just deliver up the British government's well-laid plans for wiping them out in return for my tidy little sum of money. I also present Caitlin Dugan with a far from virgin sacrifice to appease her family pride and bloodlust."

  For a moment Francey couldn't breathe. Suddenly it all made sense. "You're a traitor."

  Again he shrugged. "Every man is out for his own benefit. I'm a pragmatist. Of course, the Cadre have promised me a prominent role in the new order, but I'm not holding my breath. They'll be wiped out sooner or later, quite possibly sooner. Michael is a phenomenal agent, an absolute killing machine. He's quite beautiful in action. He might very well prevail tomorrow morning. In which case I've covered my tracks quite effectively, and while I'll enjoy giving him an official reprimand for going off on his own, I believe I'll give him an opportunity to continue the good work he does for us."

  "The killing, you mean." She was numb, sick with horror.

  "They don't call him the Cougar for nothing. He's quite lethal." He tapped his neatly shod little foot. "Hurry up, there's a love. Caitlin's waiting for us, and she is an impatient one."

  "And if I refuse."

  "Then I'll kill you in his bed, quite bloodily, and leave it to him to find you. I imagine you know he's quite foolishly sentimental where you're concerned. If you have to die—and believe me, Miss Neeley, you do have to die—then you might do your best to make it easier on the lad. After all you've meant to each other."

  "You're a pig."

  "Spare me. I've been called any number of creative things, and I have a very thick hide. Your choice, Miss Neeley. At my hands, or your sister's."

  She closed her eyes for a moment, conjuring up Caitlin Dugan's hate-filled face. She had no hope of making her see reason. The best she could do was buy herself some time.