by Sara Craven
She discovered the mike, minuscule and sophisticated, top of the line. It wouldn’t do to deactivate it right now. She only needed to know where it was.
She continued probing every possible spot where she might find another. Bingo. On the frame of the mirror above the sink, away from any noisy jets of water, and at mouth level with anyone standing nearby.
Okay. Threats identified. Just to be sure, she completed her organized search of the entire room until she was satisfied there were only two microphones. Realizing she’d have to wait to tell Eric about her conversation with Quince, Dawn gave way to mental exhaustion and slept like the dead.
She knew Eric would be keeping watch. A few hours later, she woke and took her turn while he caught a few winks. Who knew what the evening would bring?
Dawn donned one of the beautiful gowns that had been packed for her. The pale green satin flowed like soft liquid against her skin, revealing her arms and shoulders, swirling about her ankles and tickling the tops of her matching pumps. If their ruse were real, a gown such as this would be worn in private for her husband’s eyes only. Dawn wondered what Eric’s true reaction to it would be. Feeling pretty sexy, she swept her hair up into a twist, secured it and added a small spray of diamonds to cover the pins.
Eric looked elegant in his dinner jacket and black slacks. The snowy white shirt complemented his fake tan to perfection. His teeth gleamed when he smiled. With panache, he produced a delicate diamond bracelet and fastened it on her wrist. “For my precious gem,” he crooned in Al-Dayal’s possessive manner.
Dawn sighed, wishing for a second that he was simply Eric, clipping a rhinestone bauble on her just because he liked her. She examined the stones and nodded. “Thank you, Jarad.”
“You are most welcome, my dove. Tonight I must share your loveliness with others and I hate the very thought. When this business is finished, I shall have you all to myself again. Only then will I be content.”
How could he look so sincere and say things like that? Dawn almost laughed to think any female would treasure such a possessive relationship. And yet, she had to admit there might be a certain comfort in knowing a man would go to such lengths to protect his woman from the leers of other men.
There had actually been times she wished she were wearing the concealing robe and veil. At least when she had it on, she didn’t have to worry about schooling her reactions. In spite of what most people thought, it did give a woman a kind of freedom from pretense.
At precisely eight o’clock, they went downstairs, arm in arm, to join the motley crew that made up Quince’s house party. Conroy met them at the bottom of the staircase and directed them to the lounge, as he called it.
It was the living room, of course, beautifully decorated in a Tuscan style with tones of amber and gold. The glow of candles lent an old-world charm, though the furnishings looked rather new to Dawn. The others were already there, standing around with drinks in hand.
Sean had cleaned up nicely, but hadn’t completely ditched his rough-edged appearance. His spiky blond hair stood on end, probably without the benefit of gel. He had shaved, but not closely, leaving a slight stubble.
McCoy’s lively green eyes danced when he assessed her and his lips quirked appreciatively, drawing a warning growl from her husband.
Carlotta wore a crimson chiffon wrap that bared the top half of her generous breasts and one long leg, emphasizing her height. Her hair fell straight and thick, caught behind one ear with a matching silk flower.
Dawn suddenly felt totally eclipsed. She shouldn’t have minded, ought to have felt relieved, but she couldn’t help but wonder how her own appearance held up in comparison, at least in Eric’s estimation.
For the first time, she was playing in the big leagues and wanted to measure up. Little Dawnie Moon from Middlesex, New Jersey, recently inducted into the world of espionage, wanted to be a Bond Girl.
The thought made her wince. What was wrong with her? Did she really want to be like Miss Galore over there?
At least her boobs were as big as Carlotta’s. That was something. However, her genes dictated her legs were several inches shorter than the long-stemmed Latin beauty’s. That was okay, Dawn decided. She visualized her precious marksmanship medals and the days in training when she had taken down male agents who were twice her size. Yep, she could hold her own where it counted, she was sure of it.
At that moment, Eric squeezed her hand and beamed down at her, ignoring the woman who shone like a red neon sign advertising sex for sale. His regard made Dawn feel better. But then again, he was pretending at everything else. She shook off the thought.
Quince approached from the mirrored bar with two glasses. “Nonalcoholic wine, especially for you two,” he announced.
They accepted the drinks without tasting them. Poison was a distinct possibility, Dawn realized. But then, Quince could simply shoot them, or have them shot, and bury them on the island if he wanted them dead right now. No, he wanted to watch them all match wits, she figured.
“Since it’s quite impossible to import any talent to the island for the purpose, I’ve decided that we will entertain ourselves tonight after dinner,” Quince announced. “Sean here is an accomplished tenor.”
Sean’s smile vanished and he set his drink down on a marble-topped table.
“Surely you realized that I would delve into your pasts extensively,” Quince said with a clever grin. “Can’t have strangers hanging about when the stakes are this high.”
“I won’t sing,” Sean said.
Quince’s grin disappeared in the instant. “I encourage you to humor me, my boy. If you refuse, or if you haven’t a tenor voice that rings true to form, I will have to wonder whether someone has seen fit to replace the real Sean McCoy with an imposter.”
“That’s absurd,” Sean remarked, shaking his head.
Quince pursed his lips and shrugged. “Surely you understand that it pays to be thorough in these matters. Let’s call tonight’s event a verification of sorts.”
Sean threw up his hands and surrendered. “Aye, I’ll sing, then, if it’ll make you happy.”
Carlotta laughed. “What do you sing, McCoy? Sad Irish laments?”
He forced a grin. “‘Danny Boy’, wouldn’t you know?” he replied. “A favorite of yours, Lottie?”
She tossed back the remainder of her drink. “Oh please, spare me. Or at least pour me another scotch first.”
Quince turned to her. “And you are an incredible dancer, so I am told.”
Carlotta inclined her head in a pretense of modesty. “I do try.” She raised a jet-black brow at Eric. “And what does our esteemed sheikh do, I wonder? Camel calls?”
Eric shot her a nasty look that included Quince. “I do not perform,” he stated categorically. “Ever.”
“But you have,” Quince argued. “When you attended Oxford, you were known as an excellent pianist.” He gestured to the baby grand that occupied one corner of the room. “We would be honored if you would play for us.” He paused, then added to all of them, “As I said to Sean, this would certainly establish your backgrounds as genuine.”
“Come now, Jarad,” Carlotta said provocatively. “If I dance, then you must play. What else is there to do in this godforsaken place?” She cast a dismissive look at Quince. “Until our erstwhile host decides to end our captivity and allow us to get on with our lives?”
Then she seemed to remember Dawn. “What about her?” She flicked a red-tipped finger in Dawn’s direction.
“Oh, Aurora sings, too,” Quince said. “At the École de Fleur in Nice, she sang with the choir. I’m quite sure she would be happy to grace us with a song. Perhaps Jarad will accompany her on the piano?”
Dawn’s heart plunged to the pit of her stomach, but she retained her placid expression. Someone in charge of their cover identities had invented a persona for Aurora that listed choir, of all things?
She hadn’t sung a note since high school when she entered the contest for sweetheart of
the FFA. Even the Future Farmers of America had been discriminating enough to recognize a shower singer when they heard her. She had lost to Susan Zimmerman, who wasn’t very good herself.
Quince didn’t quite trust that they were who they said they were. Okay. She could do this if it came down to the wire. What could she sing? Her old rendition of “America the Beautiful” was definitely out.
Something easy, then, that didn’t require much range. Nothing recently popular in the West. An old song that had probably made it to Europe. Peggy Lee’s “Fever”? She glanced surreptitiously at Eric. Okay, maybe not “Fever.” Jarad would have a fit.
With a shy smile, she looked to Eric for help. “Is this allowed?”
She noted the surprise he instantly masked with disdain. “Nothing of a religious nature,” he warned, referring to the fictional Aurora’s Catholic school education in France.
“Secular, of course,” she replied. “Perhaps something French? ‘La Vie En Rose’? Do you know it?”
“Edith Piaf?”
“She is a favorite of mine,” Dawn answered. “You have heard it, then?” She injected a saucy note into her question that drew a reprimanding frown and a reluctant nod.
“Excellent!” Quince said, clapping his hands. “Off to dinner, now. I see Conroy is about to announce it. Come along, all of you. Aren’t we famished?”
He herded them to the dining room where they were expected to enjoy the fruits of his chef’s labors. Dawn tried to relax. Her nerves were strung so tightly, she was afraid she couldn’t eat a bite. However, everyone’s mood seemed to have lightened and hers did, too, eventually. Even the dinner conversation exceeded her expectations.
All the while, Dawn wondered just how Quince had managed to get them psyched up to show off abilities beyond their regular occupations.
Carlotta was bragging about the places she had danced when she was a girl. Sean kept trying to top her stories with anecdotes about the clubs in which he had sung.
Egos were odd things and reared up at the strangest of times. She was actually looking forward to trying her hand at being Edith Piaf and leaning on the piano while Eric played.
Jeez, she hoped he could play, and if he could, he was probably hoping just as fervently that she could sing.
As distractions went, the imminent program of entertainment served admirably. She could almost forget for whole minutes that one or more of the group might not survive the night.
Chapter 11
God help her, she was next. Following Carlotta’s erotic heel-clicking routine that had shown off so much prominent bosom and leg wouldn’t be easy. The girl had some great moves, Dawn had to give her that. The flashy red dress hadn’t hurt the performance a bit. Had to make you wonder if she knew ahead of time she’d be cutting a rug.
Poor old Sean had to reel in his tongue when she stopped. Eric had applauded, too, surprising them all. His appreciation apparently whetted Carlotta’s ham factor and caused an immediate encore. Now a thin sheen of sweat coated Carlotta and she’d had enough adulation to do her a while, Dawn guessed.
Quince was fiddling with the stereo system that had provided the rousing bambuca music.
Eric rose and offered his hand to Dawn. “Shall we?”
She stood and trailed him across the room to the piano.
“What key?” he asked under his breath as they approached it.
“You choose,” she whispered, now terrified and trying hard to mask it. She didn’t even read music, much less know what key she sang in, but she couldn’t admit that in front of Quince. She was supposed to have been in a choir.
“You begin and I’ll follow. Whatever key is comfortable for you.” He squeezed her hand. “Relax, Aurora. I’m certain you will be fine.”
Dawn swallowed hard, blew out a breath and sucked in another. “I was never a soloist,” she admitted to Quince, “but I shall do my best.”
She had been running over the words in her mind. Her French was fair and she did love the song. She had heard a scratchy recording of Piaf singing it on television.
All eyes were on her now—Carlotta’s mocking, Sean’s curious and Quince’s ready to assess. She looked at Eric for reassurance, and his smile did the trick. He hit several chords, pausing between each, then waited for her to begin.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the piano, feeling the smooth hard surface beneath her forearm.
You’re in the shower. All alone. Doors locked. No one to hear but you. Dawn imagined the water pulsing down on her, soothing, warm, relaxing.
She began with a breathy talking of the first line of lyrics, then found her way into it, raising her voice as she let loose. The vibrations from the instrument’s strings reverberated through her, giving her confidence.
Words poured out almost without effort and before she knew it, she reached the last note and held it, knowing it sounded sweet. She was a chanteuse!
When Eric’s music trailed away to nothing, she heard only dead silence.
Oh God, she had blown it. Dread held her immobile as she forced her eyes to open.
Sean stood and began to clap, his face rapt and his smile wide. Quince followed suit, grinning from guest to guest. Carlotta merely rolled her eyes and gulped her scotch and water.
Unable to help herself, Dawn turned to Eric. He smiled, too, plunked a resounding chord and added a trill of notes. “Very nice, Aurora,” he said almost inaudibly.
Quince sat down again and waved an autocratic hand at Sean. “Top that, I dare you!” he said with a gruff laugh.
Dawn’s knees were absolutely too weak to walk back to her chair. Eric seemed to realize it and got up to escort her, his strong forearm and hand supporting hers. She would have killed for the remainder of Carlotta’s scotch and she didn’t even like the stuff.
Eric returned to the piano to accompany Sean on the ballad. He did “Danny Boy,” probably to annoy Carlotta, Dawn thought. His voice was clear and sweet, reaching notes that sent goose bumps chasing up and down her arms. The boy had missed his calling. What a waste of talent. Or maybe he had talents on the terrorist front that surpassed his music. God only knew.
Eric remained seated after Sean’s offering and gave them a small taste of Beethoven. Just a dash of culture that supposedly wasn’t his but had been necessary to acquire while he had been a foreign student.
Dawn smiled with true satisfaction. He played both the piano and the audience to perfection, she thought.
Everyone had convinced Quince they were who they proclaimed to be, that was obvious. He looked very pleased with himself and with their efforts as he got up from his chair and suggested drinks on the terrace.
The whole evening seemed surreal.
Dawn grasped Eric’s hand in a death grip as they climbed the steps that led up the high wall that surrounded the terrace. The scent of the blooms below swept up and enveloped them in a swirl of heady perfume tinged with salt air. Wind off the sea tossed her hair in every direction, all but blinding her.
He stopped and sat down a few steps from the top where they had an excellent view of both seascape and the terrace where the others were sitting with drinks.
“Let’s play newlyweds,” he suggested quietly, turning her so that she lay back against his chest with his arms around her to ward off the night’s chill. He placed his lips near her ear. “Keep your voice low and no one can possibly hear us up here if you have anything you want to say.”
“Parabolics?” she asked, reminding him of the possibility.
“They’d be useless with this wind, but there won’t be any set up out here anyway. The house isn’t even properly bugged.” He hugged her. “It’s okay.”
“I hate having to interact with them,” Dawn whispered, eager to share her thoughts. “In some respects they seem almost normal at times.” She turned her head so that she could see his expression as they talked.
“Yeah, we’d rather think of them as monsters without conscience, things with no feelings or emotions. But they ar
e people, too, you know,” Eric said with a sigh. He smoothed down the sides of the fake mustache and regarded McCoy, who was laughing merrily at something Carlotta had said. “You know as well as I do that people are seldom all bad or all good.”
“You believe that?” Dawn had known people who were definitely all bad. And her grandmother had been good clear down to the marrow of her bones. “One of them is a killer.”
“And definitely more bad than good,” Eric admitted with a grimace. He lifted his chin in McCoy’s direction. “Take Sean there. Given his behavior toward you and Carlotta, I’d be willing to bet he was always kind to his mother. Loved her. But he was raised in a society filled with hatred for the opposition, and war has always been a way of life for him. He thinks he’s honoring his family with what he does and they may think so, too. No doubt he’s loyal to the death when it comes to his cause and his comrades. Likable fellow under the right circumstances.”
“These are not those,” Dawn muttered darkly. “I suppose you see redeeming qualities in Carlotta, too.”
He chuckled and took her hand, teasing her fingers with his lips. “The girl can dance, you gotta give her that.”
“Big deal. And Quince, what about him? I swear I can’t get a handle on that guy. Why is he playing at this and dragging it out this way? You’d think he’d be anxious to be done with it.”
Eric seemed to be assessing their host as she spoke. For a long time, he said nothing, then shook his head. “Something’s not right about him. Have you noticed how tentative he seems at times? He’ll be totally in command, marching all of us around like chess pieces and then you see this hesitation, like he’s not quite sure what to do next.”
Dawn nodded. “Exactly. I think he’s the front man. Somebody else is running the show, someone who doesn’t want anyone to see his face.” She sighed. “Anyway, that’s my take on it.”
“Astute. I get the same impression.”
She leaned even closer. “Impression? What happened to your mind-reading talent? Can’t you delve into the old gent’s thoughts, or won’t he cooperate?”