“I look stupid, don’t I?” she sighed.
“No. You look different, which was the whole idea.”
She nodded. “I look stupid.”
“Come on, try the dress.”
“What is this?” she asked, holding up the garment. “One size fits all?”
“I know it’s big, but I couldn’t pass it up. It was—”
“Don’t tell me. On sale, right?” She laughed. “Well, if we’re a pair, we ought to fit together.” She glanced at his tattered clothes. “What are you supposed to be, anyway? A bum?”
“From the odor of this jacket, I’d say I’m a drunk fisherman. Let’s call you my wife. Only a wife would put up with a slob like me.”
“All right, I’m your wife. Your very hungry wife. Can we eat now?”
He went to the window and looked down at the street. “I think it’s dark enough. Why don’t you change?”
She began to undress. Nick gazed steadily out at the night and struggled feverishly to ignore the tempting sounds behind him: the rustle of the blouse as it slid from her shoulders, the whisper of the skirt as it fell past her hips.
And it suddenly occurred to him what a ridiculous situation he was in.
For four years Nick O’Hara had managed to stay sanely independent. For those same four years, he’d kept his emotional doors tightly closed against women. And then, quite unexpectedly, Sarah Fontaine, of all people, had slipped in a back entrance. Sarah, who was obviously still in love with Geoffrey. Sarah, who in the course of two and a half weeks had managed to get him fired from his job, shot at and nearly run off the road. It was a spectacular beginning.
He couldn’t wait to see what came next.
CHAPTER NINE
IN A TAVERN thick with laughter and smoke, they sat at a wobbly table and split a bottle of burgundy. The wine was rough and undisciplined; farmer’s wine, thought Sarah, as she downed her third glass. The room had grown too warm and too bright. At the next table, old men swapped tales over bread and ale and their laughter rang in her ears. A cat strolled through the chairs and quietly lapped at a saucer of milk by the bar. Hungrily Sarah took in every sight, every sound. It was so good to be out of hiding. So good to be out in the world again, if only for a night! Even the flecks of red wax on the tablecloth struck her as strangely beautiful.
Through the haze of cigarette smoke, she saw Nick smiling at her. His shoulders drooped in the tired slouch of a man who has labored long and hard all his life. Day-old stubble darkened his jaw. She could hardly believe he was the same man she’d met in a sleek government office only two weeks ago. But then, she was not the same woman. Fear and circumstances had changed them both.
“You did justice to your meal,” he said, nodding at the empty plate. “Feeling better?”
“Much better. I was starved.”
“Coffee?”
“In a bit. Let me finish my wine.”
Shaking his head, he reached across the table and pushed her glass aside. “Maybe you’d better stop. We can’t afford to get careless.”
She regarded the displaced wineglass with irritation. As usual, Nick O’Hara was trying to run her life. It was time to fight back. Deliberately she slid the glass in front of her. “I’ve never been drunk in my life,” she said.
“It’s a very bad time to start.”
Gazing at him steadily, she took a sip. “Is that a hobby of yours? Ordering people around?”
“What do you mean?”
“Since the day we met, you’ve been in total control, haven’t you?”
“Over you? Or the situation?”
“Both.”
“Hardly. Skipping off to London was your bright idea. Remember?”
“You never did say why you followed me. You were angry, weren’t you?”
“I was mad as hell.”
“Is that why you came? To wring my neck?”
“To be perfectly honest, I considered it.” He raised the glass of wine to his lips and stared at her over the rim. “But I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“It was the way you looked at the police station. So exposed. Defenseless.”
“I may be stronger than you think.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m not a kid, Nick. I’m thirty-two years old. I’ve always taken care of myself.”
“I’m not calling you incompetent. You’re a very bright woman. A well-respected researcher.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen your security file.”
“Oh, yes. That mysterious file. So what did you learn?”
He sat back. “Let’s see. Sarah Gillian Fontaine, graduated University of Chicago. Co-researcher on half a dozen papers in the field of microbiology. Successful grant applicant for the last two years—not bad in this era of tight federal budgets. Oh, you’re obviously bright.” He paused. Quietly he added, “I also think you need my help.”
They fell silent as the waiter came by to collect the bill. When the man was once more out of earshot, Nick said with dead seriousness, “I know you can take care of yourself, Sarah. Under ordinary circumstances. But these aren’t ordinary circumstances.”
She couldn’t argue that point. “Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll admit it, Nick. I’m scared. And I’m tired. Tired of having to be careful all the time. Tired of checking the street before I walk. Wondering who’s a friend and who isn’t.” She returned his steady gaze. “But don’t underestimate me, Nick. I’ll do anything to stay alive.”
“Good. Because before this is over, you may have to turn into a dozen different women. Remember, you’re not Sarah Fontaine anymore. You can’t be, not in public. So leave her behind.”
“How?”
“Make someone up. Down to the very last detail. Become that person. Now describe yourself. Who are you?”
She thought it over for a moment. “I’m—I’m a fisherman’s wife…struggling to make ends meet….”
“Keep going.”
“My life isn’t easy. I’m tired a lot. And I have children—six of them—screaming all the time.”
“Good. Go on.”
“My husband, he…” She suddenly focused on Nick. “I mean you…you’re not home very much.”
“Often enough to give you six children,” he pointed out with a smile.
“It’s a crowded flat. All of us screaming at each other.”
“Are we happy?”
“I don’t know. Are we?”
He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Since I’m one half of this fabricated couple, I’ll put in my two cents’ worth. Yes, we’re happy. I love my children, all five girls and a boy. I also love my wife. But I’m drunk a lot and I’m not very gentle.”
“Do you beat me?”
“When you deserve it.” Then he added softly, “But afterward I’m very, very sorry.”
All at once they were staring at each other, the way two strangers do when they realize, for the first time, that they know each other well. His eyes softened. She suddenly found herself wondering how it would feel to lie beneath him in their hard bed. To feel the crushing weight of his body on hers. Though Geoffrey had been a gentle lover, there had been something cool and passionless about him. She sensed that Nick would be very different. He would take her like a starved man.
With an unsteady hand, she reached for her wineglass. “How long have we been married?” she asked.
“Fourteen years. I was twenty-four. You were…only eighteen.”
“Then I’m sure my mama didn’t approve.”
“Neither did mine. But it didn’t matter.” He brushed his hand across hers. The touch of his fingers left her tingling. “We were crazy about each other.”
Something about the tone of his voice made her stop speaking. This game of make-believe, so lighthearted a moment ago, had somehow changed. She heard the blood roaring in her ears, and everything melted away—the roomful of strangers, the laughter, the smoke. There was only Nick’s face and his eyes, brig
ht as silver, staring at her.
“Yes,” he said again, so softly she barely heard him. “We were crazy about each other.”
The sound of her glass hitting the table jerked her back to reality. She watched, bewildered, as a river of burgundy trickled across the tablecloth. The noise of the tavern suddenly swelled and burst over her.
Nick was already out of his chair, a napkin in hand. She sat mutely as he blotted up the wine. I’m drunk, she thought. I must be drunk to be acting like this....
“Sarah? What’s wrong?”
Her chair flew backward as she bolted from the table and out of the tavern. The night air was like a cold slap in the face. Halfway down the alley she heard Nick’s footsteps; he was running after her. She didn’t stop until he grabbed her from behind and whirled her around. They were standing in the middle of a square. The buildings shone like gold in the lamplight. Around the shuttered flower carts, bruised petals lay scattered and fragrant on the cobblestones.
“Sarah. Listen to me.”
“It’s make-believe, Nick!” she said, trying desperately to pull free. “That’s all it is! Just a silly game we’re playing!”
“No. It’s not a game anymore. Not for me.”
He pulled her against him, pulled her so abruptly that she didn’t have time to fight or even to feel surprised. She was only aware of the dizzy sensation of falling through darkness and of the jolt as she landed against his chest. She had no time to recover, no time to even draw the next breath.
Nick tasted of wine, of that rough farmer’s burgundy, and she reeled like a drunken woman. She tried to make sense of what she felt, but there was no logic in this moment. Her lips parted. Her hands found their way to the back of his neck, and she felt the dampness of his hair.
“Sarah. Oh, Sarah,” he groaned, pulling away to look at her. “It’s not a game. It’s real. More real than anything I’ve ever known.”
“I’m afraid, Nick. Afraid of making another mistake. The way I did with Geoffrey—”
“I’m not Geoffrey. Hell, I’m just an ordinary guy, pushing middle age, not very rich. Probably not even very bright. I haven’t got a hidden agenda. I just— Sarah, I’m lonely. I have been, for so long. I want you. Enough to get myself into one hell of a lot of hot water….”
With a sigh he drew her against him. She buried her face in the reeking wool jacket, but she no longer cared how it smelled; she only cared that Nick was wearing it, that it was his shoulder she was resting against, his arms that were holding her so tightly.
The drizzle turned to rain, and the drops splattered on the cobblestones. Laughing, Nick and Sarah dashed across the windows, past lovers huddled beneath an umbrella, past a bakery that smelled of coffee and bread.
By the time they’d climbed the stairway to their room, they were soaked. She stood beside the bed, rainwater dripping from her clothes, as Nick bolted the door. He turned and watched silently as she pulled the wig off and shook her hair free. Damp copper waves fell to her shoulders. The light above cast strange shadows on his face. Water trickled from his wet hair and down his cheek.
He came toward her, his eyes burning. At the touch of his hands on her face, she shivered. Gently he covered her mouth with his. She tasted the wine again and then the rain, trickling down his cheek to her lips. His hands slid down her neck, to the top button of her dress. One by one the buttons came undone, and then the dress sagged open. As their mouths drank each other in, his fingers slid beneath the fabric of her dress. He took her breast in his hand.
They were both shivering now, but beneath their rain-soaked clothes, fires were raging out of control.
He shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall heavily to the floor. His wet shirt was like ice against her naked breasts. The lightbulb above seemed to sway and recede. They sank to the mattress and the bedsprings creaked as his weight came down beside her. With eager hands he peeled off his shirt and threw it onto the floor. She remembered what she’d thought earlier that night, that Nick would not take her gently; he’d take her like a starved man.
But did she want him to? She was just as starved as he was; surely he sensed it! He also sensed her confusion. Frowning, he drew back and gazed at her. “You’re shaking, Sarah,” he whispered. “Why?”
“I’m afraid, Nick.”
“Of what? Me?”
“I don’t know. Of myself, I think…. I’m afraid of feeling guilty.”
“About making love?”
She closed her eyes tightly. “Oh, God, what am I doing? He’s alive, Nick! My husband’s alive….”
Slowly his hand slid away from her breast and moved to her face, willing her to look at him. He was studying her, trying to see through her eyes, into her mind. His gaze stripped away all her defenses; never had she felt so naked. “What husband, Sarah? Simon Dance? Geoffrey? Some ghost who never existed?”
“Not a ghost. A man.”
“And you’d call what you had a marriage?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m not stupid.”
“Then let him go, Sarah!” He pressed his lips to her forehead and his breath warmed her hair. “Let the memories go. They weren’t real. Get on with your life.”
“But there’s a part of me that still wonders….” She sighed. “I’ve learned something about myself, Nick, something I don’t like. I loved an illusion. That’s what he was, nothing but a dream. But I wanted him to be real. I made him real because I needed him.” She shook her head sadly. “Need. That’s what destroys us, you know. It makes us blind to everything else. And now I need you.”
“Is that so bad?”
“I’m not sure of my motives anymore. Am I falling in love with you? Or am I just talking myself into it because I need you so much?”
Slowly, reluctantly, Nick began to button up her dress. “You won’t know the answer to that one,” he said, “until you’re safe. Not till you’re free to walk away from me. That’s when you’ll know.”
She touched his lips. “It’s not that I don’t want you, Nick. It’s just that…” Her voice faded.
He could see the inner struggle in her eyes, those utterly trusting, open windows that concealed no secrets. He wanted her. So badly, in fact, that just looking at her now was enough to awaken that familiar ache. He wanted her, but the time and circumstances were all wrong. She was still in a state of shock. And even if there’d never been a husband, Nick didn’t think Sarah was a woman who gave herself easily to any man.
“You’re disappointed,” she said softly.
He forced a smile to his lips. “I’ll admit it.”
“It’s just that—”
“Don’t, Sarah.” He hushed her. “There’s no need to explain. Just lie here with me. Let me hold you.”
She buried her face against the naked warmth of his shoulder. “Nick, my guardian angel.”
His laughter was quick and gentle. “And here I was all set to tarnish the old halo!”
In silence they lay together, and the flames that had raged so brightly between them were slowly beaten back to a warm glow. If only they could find a cottage on a moor where they’d never be found! But those were wild, unreasonable dreams. Even if they came true, she wouldn’t be content. Not while the past remained unresolved. Not while she still wondered about Geoffrey.
“What are we going to do, Nick?” she whispered.
“I’m working on it.”
“We can’t keep running.”
“No. We could stretch the money out a few months, maybe. But even if it lasted forever, this cloud would always be hanging over our heads. You’d always wonder. You’d never really be free….” He looked at her with new intensity. “You have to close that part of your life,” he said. “To do that, you have to find him.”
He might as well have said they had to fly to the moon. It was just as impossible. How could they search all of Europe for one man? Even worse, how could they find him and not be caught themselves? They were innocents, forced into a game they didn’t understand,
a game with unseen players and unknown stakes, except one—their lives.
“We haven’t got much to go on,” said Nick. “I had to take a gamble today. I called Roy Potter.”
She jerked out of his arms and stared at him. “You called him?”
“From a pay phone across town. Look, he already knows we’re in Brussels. He’s probably got an eye on our bank accounts. I guarantee that withdrawal we made this afternoon is now blinking on a CIA computer somewhere.”
“Why did you call? I thought you didn’t trust him!”
“I don’t. But what if I’m wrong? What if he’s really okay? Then at least I’ve got him thinking. Now he’ll take a closer look at his people, if he hasn’t already.”
“He’ll be searching for us….”
“Brussels is a big city. And we can always move on.” His gaze turned insistent. “Sarah, I could have all the contacts in the world, but the rest is up to you. You were married to Geoffrey. Think, Sarah. Where would he go?”
“I’ve thought about it so long. I just don’t know.”
“Could he have left you a message? Somewhere you haven’t looked?”
“I’ve only got my purse.”
“Then let’s start with that.”
She grabbed the purse from the nightstand and emptied the contents onto the bed. There was only the usual clutter of a woman’s handbag, plus the unopened bills they’d taken from Eve’s mailbox.
Nick picked up the wallet and gave her a questioning glance.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I don’t have any secrets. Not from you.”
One by one he slipped out the credit cards, then the photographs. For a few seconds, he paused at Geoffrey’s picture before laying it on the bed. Over the years, snapshots of nieces and nephews had found their way into her wallet, and now they all spilled out.
“You’ve practically got a whole photo album in here,” he observed.
“I don’t have the heart to throw them away. Don’t you carry any pictures?”
“Only my driver’s license.”
As he went through the scraps of paper she’d tucked away in various pockets—the phone numbers, the business cards, the little reminders—she found herself wondering why he carried no photographs. Had his divorce been that unfriendly? And why had there been no other women in his life since then? It reminded her how much she had to learn about him.
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