Now You See Him...

by Anne Stuart

  Michael slid down in the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him and tilting his head back. He felt bone weary, and yet curiously more alive than he had in weeks. He refused to worry about Francey…she was far more resilient than most people he'd met in his various lives. Once the drugs wore off she would heal in her own way, her own time. As long as certain people didn't interfere. People with their own twisted agendas. People like her cousin. Like Ross Cardiff. People like him.

  He glanced down at his hands. The skin was stained dark on top of the layers of tan, and his short hair was an unnatural black. He should have taken a shower, washed off some of his disguise, but he hadn't wanted to leave her for any longer than he had to to rid himself of Ross Cardiff, at least temporarily. If she awoke in the darkness she would see only his light eyes in his unnaturally dark face, and she wouldn't know him.

  But she wouldn't awaken, not if her drugged breathing was any sign. Not for a long, long time. She'd gone someplace safer than the world she'd been thrust into, and she wouldn't be returning for a while.

  She wouldn't feel the weight of his body as he sat on the bed next to her. Wouldn't know he'd pulled the sheet down away from her body. Someone had cleaned her up, dressed her in a chaste white nightgown complete with a row of tiny buttons down the front. She hadn't felt it when someone fastened those buttons. She wouldn't feel his long, dark fingers as they undid them.

  Her skin was smooth, pale and creamy in the shadowy light. He sank his fingers into her thick, tangled hair, feeling for the lump at the back of her head. She'd hit the wall hard when Juan had shoved her, enough to make her black out for a moment. She might have a concussion, or worse.

  The lump was small enough, and the faint moan that broke through her drugged sleep was one of discomfort, not excruciating pain. He moved his hands back, down over her shoulders, pushing her nightgown away from her body.

  She had bruises. Cruel marks, some fresh, some older and yellowing, on her shoulders, on her ribs, on her breasts, and Michael wished he'd taken longer with Juan. And that he hadn't been so merciful with Cardiff.

  There was a row of striped bruises on her wrist. He put his hand on them, and they matched his long, hard fingers perfectly. He cursed then, slowly, savagely, the whispered words filling the cabin. It took him longer to refasten her buttons, and he realized with abstract amusement that his fingers were trembling. He drew the sheet back up over her chastely, and then lay down beside her, full-length, drawing her unresisting body into his arms.

  She felt small, slight, almost not there at all, and his grip tightened. Soon she wouldn't be. His act of throwing Ross Cardiff overboard had been one more rash move on his part, one of a series of rash moves. He'd stated his enmity, loud and clear, and Ross would have his revenge. Michael wasn't afraid of being cashiered out of the service. Even Ross wasn't powerful enough to do that if Michael didn't want to go—too many people were in awe of his reputation.

  But Cardiff was the kind of creature who could find a man's weak points and then use them, twist them, until you had no choice but to do his bidding.

  He knew Michael's weak point. He'd put her in a Spanish prison. He could use her again and again, until something backfired, as it almost had tonight, and Francey would wind up dead.

  He would have no choice but kill Cardiff then. It only made sense to do it earlier. Francey wouldn't be safe as long as Cardiff held any power. And keeping Francey safe had become Michael's prime directive, more important than wiping out the Cadre, the security of what was left of the British Empire, or the safety of the entire free world. And he was perfectly ready to do anything, anything, to ensure that safety.

  But for now, for the next few hours, she was as safe as she could ever be. Wrapped tightly in his arms, where no one, and nothing, could wound her.

  For the next few hours. And then he would be gone, and she would never even know he'd been there. He would vanish into the night like her drunken Arab savior. And before long she would forget he'd ever existed.

  He could only hope that fate would be kind enough to grant him a similar amnesia, because he didn't know how long he would be able to take it otherwise.

  Chapter 13

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  Francey dreamed. For a while she was back on the island, not in the lagoon this time, but lying on the bedroll, wrapped in Michael's arms. She could feel his warm, smooth flesh against her face, the strength of his arms around her, and for a time everything was safe. And then things shifted, and the man holding her was a threat, a dark, huge stranger who rescued her and then abandoned her. Sunlight poured into the cabin, and she refused to open her eyes. The back of her head pounded, her muscles felt thick and drugged, and she wanted to crawl back into the warm dark nest and take Michael with her. Her stomach felt empty, queasy, and the bed felt rocky and unstable beneath her.

  "How are we feeling today?" The voice was far too cheerful, but it was blessedly familiar. Making the supreme effort, she opened her eyes a fraction, enough to see Daniel's cherubic face hovering far too close.

  "Like pig droppings," she said succinctly. Or rather, she tried for a succinct tone. Her voice came out blurred and fuzzy, and her tongue felt thick. It took most of her strength to lift her head from the pillow, to look at the empty mattress beside her. She was lying in the middle of the oversize double bed, the covers wrapped tightly around her. She was alone, as she had been all night long.

  "You need some food," Daniel said, his hands fluttering ineffectually. "You need to lie on the deck in the sun and recuperate. You've been through a ghastly time, Francey, and I can't say how sorry I am that you couldn't find me. You need to just empty your mind and let yourself heal…"

  "I need answers." Some of the fuzziness faded. She managed to sit up, fighting off the dizziness, the pain in the back of her head. "I need to know what in God's name is going on."

  Daniel looked distressed. "I'll tell you what I can, Francey."

  "You'll tell me what you know, Daniel," she said. "I'm not going to be fobbed off with vague fairy tales this time. I want to know who Michael Dowd is. More important, where he is. I want to know who that little man was. I want to know why I was locked away in a Spanish prison, and how you managed to find me and rescue me. And I want to thank the man who brought me out of there. I want—"

  "All in good time," Daniel said soothingly. "First you need a hot shower, something to eat and a vitamin B-12 shot. Then we'll sit down and I'll tell you everything."

  The promise of a hot shower distracted her as nothing else could. She almost gave in. "Where are we going?"

  "We're on our way to Malta," Daniel said. "We should be there midday tomorrow, and the next day we'll fly back to the States. Both of us. What do you think of that?"

  "I don't know. But if we're on a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean, I suppose you can't get too far. You did say a hot shower?" Even she could hear the yearning in her voice.

  "Unlimited. Take your time, and then Dr. Brady will bring your vitamin shot."

  "No shots," she said flatly.

  "But, Francey…"

  "No shots. I need a decent meal, a hot shower and some answers."

  Daniel's smile was uneasy. "I'll give you everything I can," he murmured.

  She locked the door behind him, moving on unsteady feet across the thick carpeting. Leaning against the door, she stared at her quarters, at the first privacy she'd had in weeks.

  She'd been in a different cabin the last time she'd been on the True Blue. This was one of the larger ones, reserved for movie stars and heads of state. Being locked in a Spanish prison had its advantages, she thought sourly, surveying the bed.

  Such strange dreams, she thought. Would they haunt her from now on? Or would she put them behind her, along with Spain and her fruitless search for Michael?

  Only when she knew the truth. And she wasn't going to stop asking, stop demanding, until she did. It didn't matter that her ceaseless quest had led to being imprisoned. She couldn't, would
n't be a good little girl and go home. Even though she knew Daniel was going to do his best to convince her to do just that.

  She walked slowly, carefully, across the room. Her feet hurt. Last night was a blur, but she had snatches of memory, of being dragged through the back alleys of Mariz by a dark, robed figure. She'd lost her shoes somewhere along the way and stumbled along barefoot. It was no wonder her feet hurt.

  She moved to the side of the bed, looking down at the rumpled gray sheets, reaching out and touching them, her hands brushing the smooth cotton. She sank, stretching out on the bed, burying her face against the sheets, her fingers clutching the material. And she lay there and shook with longing, and the trace of a lost memory.

  "She's asking too many questions," Daniel fretted.

  Michael looked up at him, squinting into the direct sunlight. The hot shower had taken only one layer of the stain from his skin, his hair was still dark, and he felt reasonably secure in just keeping his distance from Francey. Maybe he'd been too sanguine about the situation. She'd seemed so exhausted, so apathetic, that he'd assumed she'd given up her quest.

  "What kind of answers have you been giving her?"

  "None, yet. But I don't know how long I can put her off. Cardiff told me I should keep her drugged until we get on the plane back to New York, but I…"

  "No." He kept his voice flat and even, but Daniel flinched nervously. Michael was accustomed to having that effect on people, and for once he was glad of it. "No more drugs. She's been through enough. Tell her anything you damned well please, as long as it doesn't compromise the current operation."

  "I don't even know what the current operation is," Daniel said fretfully.

  "And why should you? All that matters is that she doesn't know where I am. Tell her I'm in Northern Ireland. I don't think you can make her believe I'm a schoolteacher, not if she ran into the real Michael Dowd. Use your imagination. Lie to her. You've been on the fringes of the intelligence community long enough to have learned how to do it."

  "She's not too easy to lie to."

  Michael closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. "No, she's not. But you'll have to rise to the occasion. Tell her I'm part of a witness relocation program. Tell her you don't know, but you think I'm somewhere in Russia. Tell her I'm dead."

  "That might be for the best."

  Michael considered his demise unemotionally. "Yes," he said. "It might. For everyone. What's she doing now?"

  "She's having a shower, then coming up on deck. You'd better make yourself scarce. I can come up with something if I don't have to worry about her seeing you."

  "She won't recognize me if she does. Michael Dowd was a tall, frail redhead. She didn't know me last night, and she won't know me today if she sees me from a distance."

  "You were in robes last night, and she was under a lot of stress. I wouldn't count on her being that unobservant, particularly if you won't let me drug her. Maybe you want her to recognize you."

  Michael considered that possibility, considered what would happen if she did. And he shook his head. "It would probably sign her death warrant. I'll keep out of her way. You keep her out of mine."

  Daniel stared at him. "I don't like you, you know. I don't like what you've done to Francey. I don't like the kind of man you are. I just thought I should mention that."

  Michael smiled then, and Daniel took an involuntary step backward. "When she was with me, old man, she was safe. You were the one who knew Ross Cardiff was pulling a fast one, and yet you did nothing to protect her. You sacrificed her for your vicarious thrill seeking, and you don't even have the excuse that you were working for the greater good. You're a voyeur, Travers, a ghoul who feasts on other men's violence. At least Cardiff has no illusions that he's one of the good guys." He rose, towering over the older man, and he could see real fear in his eyes. "Don't worry, old man. Your worthless hide's safe. Unless something else happens to Francey."

  "Nothing's going to happen to her," Travers said stiffly.

  "Old man," Michael said softly, "see that it doesn't."

  She was seeing Michael everywhere. When she stepped out of the cabin, not bothering to wait for Daniel to come fetch her, she saw a shadow disappearing around the corner, a shadow that looked like Michael.

  On the deck, in the distance, a tall dark man had the same grace, the same back. She shook her head and he was gone, and she felt a little frisson of unease run through her. Was she going to be tormented by ghosts for the rest of her life? How long would it take her to forget him?

  "Have some more coffee, Miss Neeley." Daniel's private doctor, a jovial soul named Elmore Brady, pushed her cup toward her. "You've been through quite an experience. Caffeine's the drug of choice, don't you know?"

  Francey managed a polite smile. She knew perfectly well why Daniel had invited Elmore to join them for breakfast. He thought she would be too discreet to ask the questions that were plaguing her, to demand the answers she deserved. He was wrong.

  She took another sip of her too-sweet coffee, squinting into the bright sunlight. Daniel's yacht was making good time, plowing through the bright blue of the Mediterranean, heading toward Malta and eventually home. She had no intention of stepping on any airplane until she had a few answers.

  "So tell me, Daniel," she said sweetly. "Who is the man you sent to stay with me on St. Anne?"

  She didn't miss the look that passed between the doctor and Daniel, a look that hinted at more knowledge than anyone felt like giving her. For a moment a black rage swept over her, one that left her weak and shaking.

  "You mean Michael Dowd? You know perfectly well who he was. A recuperating schoolteacher from Willingborough. Why should you assume any differently?" Daniel didn't meet her accusing gaze, concentrating instead on his fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  "Because I met the real Michael Dowd. The man you sent me was a phony. And it was searching for him that got me locked up in that Spanish prison. So I think I have every right to know who and what he is. And where."

  "I really don't know, Francey. The little man… Cardiff's his name, by the way. I know him through some of my volunteer work. He asked if I knew of a place for a friend of his. I had no idea that the friend was using an assumed name, or that he was putting you into any danger. I really thought—"

  "Bull," she said flatly. "You may be shortsighted, but you're not a fool, Daniel. The man calling himself Michael Dowd came to St. Anne for a reason. I want to know what that reason was."

  "Don't you think," Dr. Elmore Brady suggested gently, "that you might be better off not knowing?"

  The sun was too damned bright. It was giving her a blinding headache, making her joints ache, her heart thud, her eyes feel leaden, swollen. "How dare you?" she tried to say, but her tongue was thick. For a moment her eyes widened, to look at the two men watching her with such concern. "You… bastards…" she said. "You've drugged…" Her mouth no longer worked.

  She heard Daniel's voice. "I'm sorry, Francey, but it's for your own good. I had to—" And then his voice stopped in a strangled, pained squeak.

  "I should kill you," Michael's voice came from nowhere, from the blinding brightness of the sun. But Michael wasn't there, and why should he want to kill her? It was all too confusing, and for now she couldn't fight to make sense of it. She needed to use all her energy to fight the insidious effect of whatever filthy drug they'd given her, fight to open her eyes, fight to stay awake, fight…fight…

  Michael was getting too damned used to this chair. He hadn't left her since he'd carried her back to the cabin. He watched, eagle-eyed, as that quack Elmore checked her vital signs. He watched, unmoving, when the housekeeper came and put her back into that chaste white nightgown, ignoring any claim to modesty Francey might have. He remained all through the long hours of the day, as a storm front moved over the Mediterranean, sending the True Blue skidding along the tops of the waves. He remained through the long hours of the evening, when rain lashed against the portholes and wind howled along the decks. Not
for a minute did he worry about the True Blue sinking. It would be a mercy for all if it did. Francey would never know what happened to her. And he wouldn't have to deal with the Cadre, with the deceit of everyone who surrounded him. With his own deceit.

  Somewhere around two in the morning he decided he was going to start smoking again the moment he got off this boat. He didn't really know why he'd stopped, except that any addiction at all had the potential of betraying him to the enemy. He already had a powerful addiction, one to the woman lying on the bed. He was far more vulnerable through her than he was through cigarette smoke.

  The sea calmed, the rain became a steady drone, and he slept, fitfully, knowing the door was locked against any intruders, knowing that for at least a few more hours he could keep her safe. When he opened his eyes again to the early-morning stillness, the bed was empty.

  She was kneeling at his feet, staring up at him out of drugged eyes. Her hair was a tangled mass behind her pale face, and her hands were holding on to the seat of the chair, as if for support, as she watched him.

  "Michael?" Her voice was no more than a whisper. She reached out to touch him, as if she couldn't believe he was real, he was there, he was solid flesh.

  He was lost, and he knew it. In the murky shadows she wouldn't see the dark skin and hair, the added muscle. She knew him, would have known him with her eyes closed. On some level she'd probably known he was there from the beginning, no matter how drugged she was.

  He could deny it, fight it. He could catch her slim white hand before it connected with his chest, put her back to bed alone and let the drug regain its control. He could leave her to the tender mercies of her cousin and his drug-pushing doctor, and she would probably be a lot better off.

  But he wasn't going to. She was drugged, shocked, confused and vulnerable. And he was going to take her anyway.