Now You See Him... Read online

  "What happened to these happy lovers?" At some point his hand had moved up her arm to her shoulder, and she'd moved closer, either at his volition or hers, she wasn't quite sure.

  "He had a jealous sister. No, I keep forgetting, she wasn't his sister at all. She was his lover. And they weren't working together through a peace group, the way they told her. They were part of an organization called the Cadre. A violent, terrorist group that stops at nothing to gain their ends. He was planning on assassinating the Queen of England when she spoke at the United Nations. And then he was going to marry the stupid girl, use her for cover to get back into Great Britain, and then kill her, as well."

  "Sounds cold-blooded and practical. What went wrong?"

  "Someone betrayed them. Caitlin thought it was the girl. She came to her apartment, where she was waiting for her lover, and told her the truth. She dragged her out to find Patrick, to stop him in time, but it was too late. The girl tried to stop it, to warn someone, she wasn't quite sure. She pushed Caitlin in front of a car. And then she watched as Patrick was gunned down."

  "And she's been mourning him ever since? She is a stupid girl," he said dispassionately.

  "She didn't mourn him. She mourned the loss of her dreams, of what she'd thought he was. She mourned the loss of her innocence, her ability to trust. She mourned the loss of the woman she'd inadvertently killed, even though Caitlin was fully as soulless as Patrick Dugan had been. But most of all she mourned the loss of Francey Neeley. A part of her died, as surely as Patrick died. And there's no way to bring her back."

  "You'd be surprised," Michael said, his voice low and warm, easing beneath her defenses. And then, leaning over her, he blocked out the stars.

  Chapter 7

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  Her lips were soft and cool beneath his. Startled by his actions, she grew stiff and still beneath his hands, his mouth. Michael kissed her gently, just brushing his lips against hers, letting her grow accustomed to the idea, and he kept his hands on her shoulders, no lower, even though the dampness of the T-shirt where it clung to the top of her bikini was having a predictable effect on his body.

  She tasted sweet, pure, soft and clean, like a mountain stream. He'd forgotten women could taste like that, feel like that. And he wanted it, wanted her, with a need that could very quickly manage to make him forget all the things he should remember. That there were some very clever people out to kill them. And there was still the remote possibility that the sweet, innocent woman lying there letting him kiss her might be one of them.

  He forced himself to lift his head, and her eyes were wide and glittering in the starlight. Glittering with unshed tears.

  "Why did you do that?" she whispered, her voice only a thread of sound in the stillness.

  He counted on his instincts to keep him alive. They saved his life on innumerable occasions, managed to make the difference between success and failure on others. He'd never bothered to use his instincts when it came to other people, to women, to potential lovers. Only with the basic question: Would they eventually try to kill him?

  Looking down at Francey's defenseless face, her bright, tear-filled eyes and soft mouth, those instincts told him that she'd never in her life known passion. Real gut-wrenching, thrusting, pulsating passion. Oh, doubtless she wasn't a virgin. No one was, nowadays. But whatever sex she'd experienced, it hadn't ever really reached her. She was as truly innocent as she seemed.

  And at that moment he knew that she was everything else she'd ever seemed to be. A victim of the Cadre's hit-and-run techniques, one more survivor of the vagaries of life and politics.

  "You looked like you needed to be kissed," he said finally, answering her question.

  "I don't think so. That's how I got into this mess in the first place."

  The thought of being equated with a piece of murdering slime like Patrick Dugan, even for a moment, sent a chill down his spine. His hands tightened on her shoulders, then eased, and he sank back beside her, close enough to feel the heat from her body, smell the scent of her skin, far enough away to make it an even greater torment.

  He was used to torment. It was good for his soul. Make a man out of him, his Mum would have said, if she weren't too drunk at the time. Lying beside Francey Neeley's scantily clad body was going to make him an iron man. In more ways than one.

  "Tell me about your home."

  He glanced over at her in the inky darkness. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You said we had plenty of time for bedtime stories. Tell me what it was like for you, growing up."

  He thought back to Newcastle. Dirty, gray, poverty hanging in the air with the coal dust. A father he'd never known, a mother who'd seldom been sober enough to know him. The street gang he'd joined at eight, commanded at twelve. The first time he'd seen a man die.

  "We lived in Yorkshire," he said. "With everything green and hilly and very beautiful. The manor had been in the family for generations. Whipdale House, it was called, and my mother and father and three sisters lived there."

  "Three sisters," she murmured sleepily. "No wonder you're so good with women."

  He smiled ruefully in the darkness, knowing she couldn't see him. "I had a couple of much older brothers, but they were up at Oxford by the time I was born, the baby of the family. We always had masses of animals around. I remember I had a pet Newfoundland named Beastie. A huge black shaggy creature, he followed me everywhere." He could see the dog clearly, as clearly as if he'd really lived. He could see his three sisters, smart and pretty and dreadful teases; he could see his parents, devoted to each other, plain, upper-class country people. He could see it all.

  "Tell me about your sisters," she murmured, and he knew she would be asleep in a matter of moments.

  "There was Fiona," he said. "She was the eldest, with flaming red hair and a temper to match. She always wanted to be an actress, but she ended up marrying a banker and having six children. As far as I know, she's never regretted it. Then came Dinah…"

  She was asleep, curled up slightly, one hand tucked beneath her chin. Not the hand he'd hurt—that was still wrapped protectively around her middle.

  Most of the time she believed what he told her. He was sure she'd swallowed Whipdale House and the five siblings without even a second thought. But there were times when she looked at him out of those warm brown eyes of hers and he could see the doubt, the wariness. The uneasy expression.

  He'd seen that look before. In people who had seen him kill.

  Maybe Francey saw too much for her own good. While her mind couldn't quite admit that he'd calmly and brutally inflicted pain on her, in her heart she'd known, and she struggled with that knowledge.

  That she was now sound asleep beside him expressed a kind of trust that went beyond conscious decisions. He lay beside her, watching her as she slept, and wondered if she would ever come to regret that trust.

  Probably. He'd regretted ever putting that much trust in anyone. People weren't made to rely on other people and survive. You had to rely on yourself, and yourself alone, or you were screwed.

  The tiny island of Baby Jerome was still and silent. They were alone there, totally and completely alone, at least for now. He doubted there were even the omnipresent mongeese around. Nothing higher on the food chain than a few insects. At least for now.

  Tomorrow would be another matter. He hadn't lived as long as he had by underestimating his opponents, and he fancied Cecil was just as cautious. By tomorrow the Cadre's outrunners would have located them. He would simply have to be prepared.

  The cache of weapons was just off to the left, under a thick outcropping of palm fronds. He'd had enough time to hide them before Francey had regained consciousness, and he would rather she didn't even know about them. He would rather she didn't know about him. While she might feel safer knowing she was sleeping with one of her majesty's most highly trained agents, she would keep that wary look in her eyes all the time. And he'd gotten rather fond of Whipdale House and the three sisters.

 
; No, she was better off not knowing, taking him at face value. After all, there was always the chance that he might not be able to protect her. That they might kill him and expect her to come up with answers. Answers she would be helpless to withhold, given the advanced state of the Cadre's torture capabilities.

  No, she was going to continue to think he was Michael Dowd, junior Boy Scout. She thought she'd lost her illusions permanently. She hadn't. And he was planning on doing his best to give them back to her.

  And maybe, just maybe, regain a few of his own.

  Francey woke once during the long night. She was lying on her side, curled up close to the blazing furnace that was Michael's body. One of her legs was tucked between his, her head was resting against his shoulder, and his arms were around her loosely, possessively, one hand brushing her breast. The top to her bikini had come loose, so that now it was resting in the vicinity of her waist.

  The odd thing was, her body didn't stiffen in instinctive protest. She didn't freeze up or try to draw away from him. Maybe it was simply that she was still half-asleep. Maybe not.

  She heard a sigh and knew it was her own. Refusing to think about consequences, ramifications or any of those other unpleasant issues, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

  When she awoke again she was alone in the rumpled, makeshift bed. She felt no panic, no fear that she might have been abandoned. Only a faint regret.

  She smelled the coffee, and then there was no room even for regret. She turned her head to look at him, secure in the knowledge that he thought she was still asleep. She could watch him without his even being aware of it.

  He was standing at the edge of the lagoon, drinking a tin mug of coffee, and there was water beaded on his strong body, dazzling in the early-morning sun. He'd dispensed with his baggy trunks, and the skimpy black racing suit had hardly more fabric than her own bikini. It left very little to the imagination, and Francey's imagination was already overwrought.

  It constantly amazed her that a race as staid and supposedly uptight as the British would wear so little on the beach. The baggy trunks seemed much more in keeping with a math master from a British public school, but then, Michael probably knew that. Probably wore them whenever he had an audience, to enhance his role.

  Now why did she think that? Why did she think he was playing a role? If he weren't who he said he was, wouldn't he have told her by now? And surely cousin Daniel wouldn't have sent her a dangerous stranger.

  Except that he was a dangerous stranger, whether he was a math teacher or no. Dangerous to her, to her state of mind, to her heart. Perhaps even to her body, she thought, moving her wrist experimentally. And yet she trusted him more than she'd ever trusted anyone in her entire life. And she'd spent a lifetime trusting people, mostly unwisely.

  "Looked your fill?" he inquired pleasantly, not turning toward her.

  She shouldn't have been surprised. He seemed to have far more intuition than a normal man, sixth and seventh senses, at least. "That bathing suit is indecent," she said.

  He turned to her then, and a wry grin curved his mouth. She knew, because she was determined not to look any lower than his face. "Depends on whether you find bodies indecent," he said. "You want some coffee?"

  "Please." She crawled out from under the covers, tugging the oversize T-shirt around her, and headed for the bushes.

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  She didn't hesitate. "The ladies' room."

  "Don't go too far."

  She looked back over her shoulder. "You want to come along and hold my hand?"

  "Feisty, aren't you?" he murmured, draining his coffee. "I wouldn't count on being safe here. If the Cadre tracked you down to St. Anne's, then they can probably find us on Baby Jerome."

  She paused. "You think it's the Cadre?"

  "Got any other ideas?" He obviously didn't expect an answer as he turned and headed for the pot of coffee. "Don't take too long, or I'll come after you."

  By the time she returned to the campsite he was dressed, thank heavens, in his wrinkled white trousers, rolled up at the ankles, and his blue shirt left open to the faint tropical breezes. If he was observant enough to notice her relief he didn't say anything, simply handed her a mug of black coffee that was sinfully delicious.

  "This is awfully good for instant coffee," she murmured, for lack of anything better to say.

  "And isn't the weather lovely, and do you think it will rain, and how about those Mets?" he responded. "Do we really need to waste time on small talk?"

  "All right. Do you have any other suggestions? I'm not really in the mood for Robinson Crusoe meets the Blue Lagoon."

  "Whether you're in the mood for it or not, we're stuck here, at least for a while. If we're lucky, your cousin will show up to rescue us by this afternoon. If we're not, your friends will get here sooner. I want to scout out the island, see if there's anyplace to hide."

  "And I bet you don't want me with you," she said, taking another sip of coffee. It really was good coffee, and she realized with sudden amusement that it wasn't instant at all. Michael was an even more proficient Boy Scout than she'd imagined.

  "I never underestimated your intelligence. The bad guys might get here sooner than we expect. I'd be better off alone."

  "So you could take them on single-handedly?" she asked, glancing at him over the rim of the cup.

  He laughed. "Are you nuts? I'll have a much easier time running away if I don't have to worry about you."

  He was doing it again. All gangling charm and asexual cheer. Just a sweet, ineffectual teacher from England, thrown into a situation miles out of his ordinary experience. And she didn't believe him.

  "I'll stay here," she agreed. "How long do you think it'll take you?"

  "That depends. If I run into trouble, there's no telling when I'll be back. I want you to keep out of sight."

  "Michael…"

  "Don't argue with me," he said, softening the order with an endearing smile that didn't reach his intense blue eyes. "We've gone over this before. It's in my upbringing—I have to do my best for the damsel in distress. Not to mention the fact that I seem to have thrown my lot in with you. Your safety and mine go hand in hand at this point."

  "You could always cut a deal with them if you happen to run into them."

  "From what I've heard of the Cadre, they'd slit my throat first and ask questions later," he said.

  She grew very still. "From what you've heard of the Cadre?" she echoed. "I hadn't realized anyone knew much about them at all. When I talked to the FBI, they said they were an ultrasecret organization. I'd certainly never even heard their name."

  He didn't even blink. "But you're an American. The Cadre's a branch of the IRA—surely your FBI explained that much. And we in England know far too much about the IRA and their various splinter factions. You're right, the Cadre keeps a low, extremely nasty profile. But one hears things."

  She suddenly felt very cold, even as the morning sun beat down overhead. "Be careful, Michael," she said, frightened.

  He grinned, boyish, freckled, lighthearted. No match for the ruthless killers she'd come in contact with. "Don't worry, love. Even with a game leg, I can run a hell of a lot faster than they can."

  She couldn't keep him from going. She could only watch as he disappeared through the thick greenery, and then the silence settled down around her, as heavy as a tomb.

  There wasn't much to keep her busy. She finished the coffee, polished off a cellophane bag of muesli and tidied the makeshift kitchen Michael had rigged up. She aired out the blankets and folded them; she swam in the tepid lagoon. Out of desperation she read every single printed word on the food packages, then went for the label on Michael's discarded jacket. That one was a puzzle. The labels had been cut out, leaving no clue to the tailor. And it had definitely been tailor-made—Francey remembered her third stepfather's exquisite taste. Turning the jacket inside out, she searched, finding only the trace of threads where someone had scissored out the tell
tale mark.

  She folded it carefully, leaving it on top of the blankets, her mind preoccupied. She could think of no reason whatsoever for a man to have all the identifying labels cut out of his clothes. She found his baggy, discarded trunks and discovered that they were in the same shape.

  "What are you trying to hide, Michael?" she said out loud, her voice echoing eerily in the little clearing. There was no answer.

  When the overhead sun grew too hot, she made herself a little shelter, draping one of the blankets over a framework of branches and crawling beneath. She slept, her dreams filled with blood and violence. And sex. She woke, and even the birds were still. And she could smell death in the air.

  Michael hadn't really expected it to take the Cadre long to find Baby Jerome. Despite the fact that they'd screwed up three times, he didn't make the mistake of thinking they were any less dangerous. He picked his vantage spot carefully, taking a few choice pieces from Cecil's munitions box with him, including his treasured Beretta. It all depended on how many showed up, and whether they made the choice to separate or stay together. He figured he could handle a maximum of four if they stayed together, six if they split up. But if they split, one of them might find Francey before he took him out.

  In the end there were three of them, two older men and a boy of about eighteen. He watched them disembark, feeling no emotion at all, other than a faint regret. The young ones were the worst. Soulless, fearless, merciless. If he had any sense, he would take the young one out first.

  There was never any question of capturing them or simply putting them out of commission. The Cadre took no prisoners, and they never allowed themselves to be taken. This was going to be a battle to the death, no mistake about it, and Michael wasn't in the mood to kill three people. But he was even less in the mood to let Francey die, and that was the alternative. He didn't really give a damn about himself. But he wasn't going to let them win.

  There were some things you never forget. There were some circumstances when even the most compromised body came through. The three split up. The two older men fought fast, well, with a deadly accuracy that would have meant the end for another man. He let them find him first, but even two against one was only a delay in the inevitable outcome. And then he went after the boy.