by Anne Stuart
"I expect they're just testing new waters," he said with deliberate laziness. The deck they were sitting on wouldn't be an easy target for snipers. The ocean beyond the point was particularly choppy that morning, and their watchers would have to spray the balcony with a machine gun to ensure hitting their targets.
He dropped his coffee mug on the terrace, watching as it rolled toward Francey. "I'm sorry," he said, making a suitably abortive effort to retrieve it. It ended exactly where he wanted it, under her chaise.
"I'll get it," she said with a smile, getting down on the deck and reaching for it. No sudden hail of bullets, no telltale whine, Michael thought, ready to roll on top of her in an instant if need be. Whoever was out there, they were simply watching, waiting. For another accident, perhaps. Or maybe they really only wanted one of them. But which one?
He stared down at the boat in the distance. He could see the sunlight reflect off glass. Someone's binoculars were trained on Belle Reste, but that came as no surprise. What was surprising was this wait-and-see attitude.
"What are you looking at?" Francey was on her knees beside his chaise, her head just above the railing of the balcony. They could probably manage a perfect shot if the seas would just calm for a moment.
Catching her arm in a loose grip, he came off the chaise with clumsy speed and hauled her after him, hoping his infirmity would disguise his sudden wariness. He pulled her into the kitchen, limping more heavily than he needed to. "Let's get out of here," he said breathlessly.
"What?" She stared up at him, her high forehead wrinkled in confusion.
"Show me the island. I'm feeling a little stir-crazy."
"Michael, you just got here." Her voice was the soul of patience. "If you're housebound already, how do you think you'll feel in another couple of weeks?"
I'm not going to be here in a couple of weeks, he thought with a certain amount of savagery. "I've been in hospital since yesterday, Francey. Belle Reste is absolutely beautiful, but I have a sudden craving to be out and about. Free, for the first time in months. I don't suppose it makes any sense…"
"Of course it does." There it was again, that damned maternal soothing. "I'm just surprised you trust my driving after last night. We have one major problem, however. No car."
"I don't know of a driver I'd trust more," he said, completely honest for once. "Can't I rent a car? Have it delivered?"
"I never thought of that. "
"Why don't you get some shoes on, comb your hair, do whatever you need to do?" Michael suggested. "If you point me in the direction of the phone, I'll make arrangements."
"I don't think it's going to be that simple."
"I do," Michael said, knowing that Cecil was already prepared. "Trust me."
She looked at him for a moment with those doubting brown eyes of hers, and then she nodded. "All right," she said. "It won't take me long."
He waited until she left the room before he dialed the number that would be patched through to Cecil's cellular phone. And he wondered whether she trusted him any more than he trusted her. He'd thought he'd fooled her completely. Now he was beginning to wonder.
Michael was as good as his word. Francey dawdled as long as she could, fiddling with the makeup she hadn't touched in months, brushing her hair back, then forward, then giving up on it entirely as it simply began to curl in the humidity. She stared at her reflection in the mirror of the downstairs bedroom. She didn't know why she'd chosen that sundress. In all the time she'd been on St. Anne she hadn't worn it—the colors were too bright, the flowers too cheerful. But she'd put it on this morning, and now there was no way she could revert to the old T-shirt and cutoffs she'd been favoring.
It must be his accent, she decided. Maybe she was just a sucker for a voice from the British Isles. Her stomach cramped at the involuntary thought, but she faced it sternly. There was only so long that she could hide from what had almost happened, and that time was coming to an end.
She had been attracted to a murderer and a liar. A terrorist. She hadn't known it, of course. But the fact of the matter was, if fate and the British secret service hadn't taken a hand, she would have gone to bed with him that night. And probably ended up another victim in a few months' time, after he'd bled her bank account dry.
Not that Michael Dowd was anything like Patrick Dugan. They both had charm, of course. But Patrick's fanaticism had burned deep within him, shedding an intense light on those around him. Michael Dowd probably reserved his emotions for algebra and soccer matches. Anyone who could face their close brush with death last night with such equanimity had to be a pretty cold fish.
She couldn't figure out why she found him attractive. Maybe months of seclusion were finally taking their toll. Maybe it was the first healthy sign of life stirring in her pain-deadened heart. Or maybe she'd really gone crazy.
He was waiting for her by the front door. He was wearing a loose linen jacket and a pair of sunglasses, and his cane was hooked over one arm. "Madame, your chariot awaits," he said, opening the door for her with a flourish that made her smile.
Chariot, indeed. Parked directly in front of the broad veranda steps was a bright red sports car, complete with right-hand steering wheel and convertible top. She glanced at Michael. "Did you ask for this in particular?"
He shrugged. "I just said I wanted something red and fast and racy. You like it?"
"I like it," she said, moving down the stairs. "Who dropped it off?"
"The rental agency," he said easily, and she wondered why she doubted him.
She glanced over at the point, where the mysterious fishing boat had been anchored. It was gone now, and the bright azure sea was empty.
"Shall we take her for a little spin?"
These brakes could have been tampered with, too. He could be carrying a gun beneath that baggy linen jacket, and the moment they were someplace secluded, he could put it against her head and…
It was too beautiful a day for such macabre, paranoid thoughts. It was shocking to her, how far her normal trust had been eroded by one twisted encounter. The man standing beside her, frail and weak as he was, was the farthest thing from a hired assassin as anyone could find. She was definitely going a bit looney tunes.
"Let's go," she said firmly, heading for the driver's seat, leaving him to limp his way after her as best he could.
She drove in silence at first, very slowly, testing the brakes at every possible chance. They were tight, secure, and she wondered if there was any other way to sabotage a car.
"I hate to complain," Michael drawled, "but you're giving me whiplash. Stop jumping on the bloody brakes and see what this baby can do."
She glanced at him, startled, but he seemed merely bored at the thought of possible danger. The road stretched out ahead of them, one of the few straight stretches on the curvy island of St. Anne. The sun was shining down on them, gilding his curly auburn hair, and death and danger seemed to belong to another time, another place. The accident last night had been an unlucky fluke. Fate wouldn't be so unkind, two days in a row. Without hesitation she pushed her foot down hard on the gas pedal, and the car shot forward with a satisfying burst of power.
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Michael slid down further in the bucket seat of the sports car, mentally thanking Cecil for his unorthodox choice. While it would never blend in with the crowd, the tiny island of St. Anne already boasted an eclectic blend of transportation. Various four-wheel drive vehicles, convertibles of every shape and color, mopeds and motorcycles and even good old-fashioned bicycles, made driving seem more like negotiating an obstacle course. Something that Francey Neeley could do with effortless grace.
If Cecil had chosen a dark, anonymous sedan, it would have stuck out like a sore thumb. And it probably wouldn't have had the pickup this little baby had, despite Francey's initial hesitation.
"Where would you like to go?" she asked, glancing over at him. With her oversize sunglasses shielding half her face and her sun-streaked brown ha
ir whipping around in the wind, she looked exactly what he'd imagined her to be. A spoiled, thoughtless American, someone with too much money and too little morals. A playgirl, and the wrong sort of female to interest a man who no longer knew how to play.
But he'd seen behind the dark glasses to the huge, shadowed eyes that reflected a pain most people hid. The brave red lipstick couldn't disguise the vulnerability in her mouth, and her slender, delicate hands gripped the leather-covered steering wheel with something close to desperation. A desperation that didn't interfere with her obvious skill.
"You know the island," he answered her question. "You choose." He sank a little more into the seat, his eyes alert behind his mirrored sunglasses.
"We could go north, to the cliffs," she suggested. "On a clear day you can see all the way to the Baby Saints."
"The Baby Saints?"
"A group of tiny, uninhabited islands. They're off limits—part of some secret government program, I gather."
"Probably testing germ warfare," Michael said.
"You're not serious!"
"Of course not," he said easily. Most governments he knew wouldn't hesitate to test anything lethal if they thought it would be to their military benefit. His own government, which happened to own the Baby Saints, was no different from Middle Eastern fanatics or right-wing extremists when it came to protecting their own interests. Who knew that better than he did? At least he also happened to know the Baby Saints were safe.
"Or there's the town," she continued. "Wonderful shopping, charming restaurants, not too many tourists. That's why Daniel picked this place. It's off the beaten track."
"I'd say so. I was lucky your cousin offered to fly me here in his private plane. I would have had trouble finding a commercial flight."
"Daniel's a very generous man," Francey murmured. "How did you happen to meet him?"
"Mutual friends," he said blandly.
She was too sharp. He had a long, involved, totally believable scenario he was prepared to spin for her, and he chose not to bother. She wasn't really expecting explanations, and one of the first mistakes people usually made in his line of work was to lie too elaborately when they wanted to cover up.
"So there're the cliffs and the town," he said instead. "I'm not sure I'm ready for souvenir shopping. What are our other options?"
"I think we've already had enough of the bay," she said, a small, wistful smile curving her mouth. "But we could drive to the dunes on the west end of the island. Or we could do all of the above, ending with lunch in town."
Where there was a town, there would be public telephones. He needed to check in with Cardiff, much as he disliked the notion, and he certainly wasn't going to trust either the phones at Belle Reste or anything as easily compromised as Cecil's cellular phone. "Sounds perfect," he said, flashing his practiced smile.
He was unprepared for her reaction. She stared at him, her mouth open slightly in amazement, then swerved just as she was about to go sailing into a ditch.
"Stupid," she muttered under her breath.
He was inclined to agree, not in the mood for another car accident, but he didn't say so. "What's wrong?"
She kept her face averted, eyes staring at the cement roadway in front of them. "You look different when you smile," she said flatly, surprising him.
He knew he did. It was one of his stocks in trade, a boyish, engaging grin that could seduce the most hardhearted of females. And despite his initial, logical suspicions, he was coming to realize that Frances Neeley was one of the most softhearted creatures he'd seen in a long time. Did that mean he wanted to seduce her?
"Yes, well, I'm not always so grumpy," he said easily, brushing past the awkward moment. "I can really be quite charming when I set my mind to it."
"I'll just bet you can," she murmured, mostly to herself.
He glanced at her again, at the slender wrists, the narrow ankles, the clean, smooth lines of her beneath the sundress. She even had nice breasts, fuller than her slender body would suggest. He could spend a pleasant time between those long, shapely legs and have ample justification for it. Women liked to talk after they made love, and they babbled on without paying any attention to discretion or common sense.
He might, he thought, feeling his body react as he went with the fantasy. There was only one problem. What if he was wrong? What if she were everything he'd first suspected? What if he had sex with her. And then had to kill her?
He didn't have much of a soul left, after some fifteen years in the business. But no matter who and what she was, no matter how evil she turned out to be, he didn't think what little kernel of decency still resided inside his burned-out hull of a body would survive. And then he might as well be dead himself.
Very deliberately he toned down the wattage of his smile, keeping it distant, friendly, deliberately asexual. She wasn't looking at him now; her attention on the roadway, and he had the notion that she was almost afraid of him. Wiser than she realized, he thought. She should be afraid of him.
He pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead, surveying the lush countryside around them as she sped forward. "Give me a tour of the island," he said, "and I promise to be the perfect tourist."
She did glance at him then. At his innocent smile, guileless blue eyes. And it was with chill despair that he realized she didn't believe him. But did that distrust come from a fanatic's belief in evil? Or an innocent victim's fear?
But she covered up her doubt as easily as he covered up his duplicity, and if her smile wasn't as unguarded as it should have been, most people wouldn't notice.
But he wasn't most people.
"You botched it." The voice on the other end of the line was flat, cold, the Irish lilt a chilling counterpoint.
"We could have taken her out anytime during the past month or so and been gone before anyone realized it," the man protested, clutching the telephone in one meaty fist. "When you do two at once you run greater risks."
"Don't second-guess me, Seamus. I'd be there myself if I could, and you know it. I send my most trusted men, and what happens?"
"We'll get them. Both of them. It'll just take time…"
"It's taken too much time already!"
"You didn't give the word until two days ago. The accident caused too much suspicion. We'd best wait a week or so before we try again."
"Are you a coward, Seamus? Afraid you boys will be caught?"
His fist tightened on the black telephone. "No one calls me a coward. They'll be dead in a week. You have my word on it."
"I hope that's good enough, Seamus. For your sake." And the connection was severed.
Seamus stared at the phone for a moment, then began to curse. There weren't many people he was afraid of, in this life or the next. But the chill, disembodied voice half a world away terrified him as no one else's could. Francey Neeley was going to go up in a blaze so huge they'd see it over in Ireland.
And her buddy, the Cougar, was going with her. Or his own life wouldn't be worth living.
Seven days later, Francey could feel Michael's eyes on her from behind his mirrored sunglasses as she sipped from her second glass of wine. She didn't know whether he was passing judgment or not. She didn't care. She'd tried tranquilizers the first few weeks after Patrick's bloody death, then given them up when they made her too sleepy. An occasional extra glass of wine tended to take the edge off when she was feeling nervous, paranoid, worried.
There was a gentle trade wind blowing off the Caribbean as she sat outside Marky's Cafe, and she lifted her face slightly, reveling in the breeze. She ought to be getting used to him by now. He'd been on St. Anne's for more than a week, and this was the fourth time they'd come to Marky's for lunch. But instead of getting more comfortable with him, she found her uneasiness growing.
Maybe it was as simple as the fact that she was attracted to him. Overwhelmingly so, when she'd thought she would never be interested in men or sex again. She'd realized it early on, with the feel of his surprisingly muscular arm b
eneath the loose white suit, with his dazzling smile that had an almost nuclear meltdown capacity. She'd realized it even more during the quiet moments, during their long drives in the absurd red sports car, with their companionable silences and easy talk about nothing whatsoever.
She didn't want to be attracted to him. She preferred safe friendship to the hot spice of desire that trickled through her when she least expected it. She tried to concentrate on her paranoia. Every time they went out driving she had the absolute certainty they were being followed. There was nothing to base that fear on. It was never the same car, nor the same driver, they were never bothered, never tailed too closely. When she was being reasonable she told herself it was simply that the tourist season was heating up. More strangers on the road. She wasn't often reasonable.
When she didn't think about who was watching them, she tried to think about whether or not she should trust him. She had absolutely no reason not to. But something kept her holding back, even as she smiled and laughed with him.
For instance, the photograph. Marky hired a down-on-his-luck artist to take photos of the tourists. It was a lucrative sideline, and Andre was very subtle about it. So subtle, in fact, that Michael never even noticed his picture was being taken, and Michael was the sort of man who noticed things.
She'd stopped Andre from offering it to him. On a deceptive trip to the ladies' room she'd taken him aside and asked for the photo herself. Andre was French and worldly-wise. He'd simply nodded, and Michael never knew of the photo's existence.
There was no reason why he should mind. Why he wouldn't want his picture taken. He was exactly who he seemed to be, a weary, wounded man, recovering slowly in the bright Caribbean sunlight, a man with charm and sensitivity, a harmless, gentle man who probably didn't view her in a sexual light at all. Who probably never lay awake at night listening to the sound of the waves outside, to the wind through the trees, to the heat and longing that swept through the house like a mistral, making her dream of skin and sweat and muscle and…