Now You See Him...

by Anne Stuart

  Her hand was cool through the thin cotton of his open shirt, cool against his hot skin. He covered her hand with his larger one, pressing it against him, and he could feel white-hot desire leap through his veins.

  That saintly, country-bred gentlewoman who ruled Whipdale Manor would have raised her son never to take advantage of a woman in Francey's condition. But then, he'd never known that mythical woman. He'd made his own ethics, his own sense of honor. Now he was about to betray it, and he didn't give a damn. He needed her more than honor.

  He slid his other hand behind her, under the thick tangle of sun-streaked hair, and urged her closer. She moved willingly, kneeling between his wide-spread legs, and she tilted her head back, closing her eyes and parting her lips, waiting for him.

  Such an invitation was too hard to resist, and he wasn't the man to try. He put his lips against hers, very gently, just brushing them for a moment.

  She groaned, moving closer, wanting more, her hands sliding up his chest to dig into his shoulders, and he deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth across hers, dampening her drug-dry lips with his tongue before plunging it deep. She shuddered in his arms, moving closer still, her stomach pressed up against his groin, and he wanted to pull her astride him, onto his lap, opening his pants and taking her there and then.

  It was a potent fantasy, but not as strong as the reality of her mouth. Whatever consciousness had surfaced beyond the drug's reach, it was being channeled into her mouth, her body. He slid his hands down, lifting her up effortlessly, and moved her over to the bed.

  "Don't leave me," she whispered when he set her down, and she reached for him with something close to desperation.

  "I won't," he said, knowing it was a lie, knowing he was going to leave her all too soon. He didn't bother with the row of tiny buttons this time; he simply yanked the white cotton nightgown over her head. She lay back against the pillows, her hair fanned out around her, watching him, completely unselfconscious.

  Her tan had faded, she'd lost weight, and the bruises marked her body in the dim light. Stripping off his own clothes, he lay down next to her, drawing her unresisting body into his arms. "I don't even know what they did to you," he whispered against her skin, kissing the bruise on her shoulder. "I can see the marks where they hurt you, but I don't know how badly. I don't know if you're ready for this." He looked down at her, pushing her hair out of her face. "I only know I can't wait…"

  She silenced him, reaching up with her mouth, catching his, kissing him, and then there was no more room for words. He touched her with his hard, dark hands and watched her body writhe with pleasure. He kissed her on her pale breasts, the bruises scattered across her peach-colored flesh; he kissed her between her legs until she arched off the bed with a strangled, inarticulate cry.

  He didn't remember when he'd last had a woman. He didn't remember if he'd ever had a woman like Francey. A good woman, one who deserved far better. He knelt between her legs, looming over her in the darkness, and expected to see the shadow of fear darken her dazed face. Instead she reached for him, pulling him down to her, and he sank into her gloved tightness with a sense of coming home.

  It was a reaction she didn't share. The moment he drove deep into her she stiffened, panic making her body rigid, and he wondered whether he'd been wrong, whether he hadn't gotten there in time, whether she'd been raped by those animals in the jail. She struggled for an instant, and he was about to make the supreme sacrifice, to gather what little determination he had and pull away, when she suddenly collapsed beneath him, no longer fighting.

  He held himself, and her, very still, knowing he was much too big and heavy for her, needing more than numbed acquiescence from a woman who was probably too drugged to give it. He cradled her face with his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks, and he could feel the dampness of tears seeping from behind her closed eyes.

  He cursed himself, called himself every name he could think of, but he didn't move away from her, didn't stop wanting her.

  He licked the tears from her cheeks. Her eyes flew open, dazed, drugged eyes staring into his. Lost eyes, and he knew he had to move away.

  And then her legs came up around him, her arms slid around his waist, and her soft mouth opened. "Make love to me, Michael," she whispered. "Now."

  He couldn't control it any longer. He surged against her, tremors of need racking his body, and he covered her mouth with his. She arched up to meet him, and he could feel her own response building, shimmering within her, as her fear dissolved. Her mouth was hungry, seeking, beneath his; her body was trembling with longing, and he knew he wasn't going to be able to make it last. It had been too long, and he wanted her too much.

  And then it was too late. The first spasm hit her, arching her body against him, contracting around him, and he had no choice but to follow her down that dark, limitless chasm, and it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. It was death and life and a blinding fragment of heaven that would have to last him forever. When he finally collapsed on top of her, his breath was coming in sobbing rasps, and he wanted to pull her into him, to absorb her into his very bones.

  Slowly, slowly, his breathing calmed, his tumultuous heartbeat slowed its pace, as did hers. When he finally felt within miles of normal, he lifted his head to look at her.

  She no longer seemed drugged or confused. The expression on her face, in her eyes, was very clear, very calm. "Don't leave me again, Michael," she whispered. "Don't disappear on me. Don't vanish from my life so that I doubt if you ever really existed. Don't do that to me."

  It was the only thing he could do. The only way he could ensure she had any peace of mind. But he couldn't tell her that. "I won't," he said. "I love you." The moment the words were out of his mouth, horror washed over him. She didn't know, accepting the words with an expression of such exquisite peace that he almost couldn't regret having said them.

  And then she closed her eyes, drifting, sinking back into the safe cocoon, and he knew her brief moment of lucidity would disappear into the mists of drug-shrouded memory. She wouldn't know he'd said it, not for certain.

  But he would. Words he'd never said before in his life, and now that his mouth had actually spoken them, they took on a malevolent life of their own. He'd said them, he couldn't call them back, deny them. To do so would be to compound the fatal error. He loved her; he knew it. And it was going to be his doom.

  She didn't move when he pulled himself from her arms, from her body, her breathing heavy and drugged. He crossed the room into her bathroom, bringing back a wet, soapy washcloth to wash the traces of his lovemaking from her body. She never stirred, even when he washed between her legs, even when he put his mouth where he'd washed. When she was once again dressed in the chaste white nightgown, her hands folded neatly on top of the covers, he told himself there was no way for her to know she'd been taken advantage of by a conscienceless brute.

  But he would know, he thought, pushing her hair away from her face. He would know, in some part of his mind, some part of his body, for every waking and sleeping minute for the rest of his life. He only hoped that wouldn't be too long.

  Chapter 14

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  Francey didn't want to wake up. The bed felt warm, safe, the covers wrapped tightly around her. She'd been through this before, waking up from a drugged sleep in the warm, sunlit cabin. And yet this time it felt different.

  She opened her eyes, but the bed was still empty, just as it had been the other morning. There the similarities ended.

  There was no Daniel looming over her, sounding concerned even as he planned once more to drug her. Her body felt tender, exquisitely sensitive, as if she'd spent the night making love, which was, of course, a patent absurdity, the remnants of the most erotic, realistic dream she'd had in her entire life. Her body still tingled with the memory.

  But the most important change of all was that the boat was no longer moving. Kicking aside the covers, she struggled to the porthole. They were anchored in a harbor, b
right sunlight washing down over the small city. Pushing open the heavy glass pane, she let the fresh salty air pour over her, clearing some of the drug-induced mists from her brain.

  They kept trying to silence her questions. In the beginning they had refused to answer. When she grew persistent, someone had her immured in a filthy Spanish prison, and chances were she might never have surfaced again if it weren't for her mysterious rescuer. Now they simply kept pumping her with drugs if she grew too importunate.

  She should have learned her lesson by now, she thought, pulling away from the window. But then, she'd never been that docile. She could be amazingly stubborn when someone was trying to push her, and right now she was feeling downright intractable. If people wouldn't answer her questions, she would find some other way to get her answers. She would go after them herself.

  "Where do you think you're going?" Daniel materialized at the top of the gangplank half an hour later when she emerged from her cabin, his usually ruddy face pale in the bright sunlight.

  Francey managed a breezy smile. "Isn't it obvious? I'm going into town. I've never been to Malta before, and as you can imagine, I'm feeling a little claustrophobic."

  His hand was on her arm, above the row of bruises, and she could feel the sweat of his palm. It wasn't warm enough out for him to have sweaty palms. "I didn't even realize you were awake yet. Why don't you come and have something to eat? Your hair's still wet from your shower. Just give me a little while and I'll accompany you."

  She considered yanking her arm out of his trembling grasp. But he was her cousin, her closest living relative, and she loved him. Even though he had betrayed her, she still cared about him.

  "Daniel," she said gently. "I'm afraid I don't trust you not to drug my food."

  He winced. "I deserve that, I know. Humor me, Francey. You can eat off my plate, drink from my cup. Give me a couple of hours, and I'll give you some answers."

  She was a fool to believe him. But her alternatives weren't spectacular. "A cup of coffee," she agreed. "From the same pot you're using. And the truth."

  "What I can tell you."

  She wanted to argue with him. She could feel eyes on her, people watching, and she looked behind her, trying to still the little tremor of nervousness. Daniel might love her dearly, might want to protect her, but there were others who were probably more than capable of tossing her over the side of this boat. "What you can tell me," she agreed, running a hand through her shower-wet hair, turning her back to him. She'd seen that shadow again, the tall dark man. She turned back again, but he was gone. "And you can tell me how I got rescued from the prison."

  "What I can," he said again.

  And she had to accept it.

  Michael watched her disappear into the front cabin with Daniel. It had been a close call this time, too close. She'd almost run smack into him, and all his elaborate subterfuge would have been for nothing.

  Once again he wondered whether he'd done it on purpose, flirted with danger, hoping she would see him, hoping she would force a crisis. Ross wasn't there to hurt her—if she actually came face-to-face with him, there would be a hell of a blowout. And then she would leave. Get on the plane with her cousin and never think about him again, except with hatred and contempt. Wasn't that what he wanted?

  Or did he want her anger, her recriminations, and then her eventual declaration of undying love, once her initial fury had passed? Was he fool enough to believe there might be a future for the two of them?

  Postcoital insanity, he told himself, reaching for the pack of Turkish cigarettes he'd bought off a sailor. There were no happy endings for the likes of him. Except in front of a firing squad.

  "You ready to go?" the man next to him asked, his dark eyes curious. The launch was waiting to take him back to his current identity, his current mission. Stopping the Cadre as they made one last attempt at solidifying their dubious power. Wiping the last trace of them off the face of this earth. It was the best thing he could do for Francey, that and disappearing from her life. Regrets were a waste of time. He had a job to do.

  "Ready," he said. And he didn't look back.

  "Witness protection program?" Francey echoed, setting the coffee cup down untouched. "I thought that was an American institution."

  "It's used the world over. Invaluable, really, or no one would ever testify against powerful criminals. The man you knew as Michael Dowd was a witness to an IRA bombing. He testified, they tried to kill him, and he was sent to St. Anne and you to recuperate a bit before taking up his new life."

  "He hadn't been in a car accident?"

  "He'd been shot. Quite badly, but modern medicine is amazing, really. They patched him together, and right now he's living quite happily in Australia. With his wife."

  "Wife?" Francey echoed.

  "Quite a lovely woman. And loyal. She'd been wonderful through all this, Cardiff says. But they're quite safe and happy now. I know he regretted not being able to say goodbye to you, but things got a little dicey at the end there on St. Anne."

  "Cardiff. Is that the little man?"

  Daniel nodded. "He's a pretty high-up member of British intelligence. I'm afraid he got a little overenthusiastic when you went looking for Michael. You were never completely cleared of suspicion in connection with the Cadre, and he was afraid you were out to kill him. He couldn't get in touch with me, so he decided to put you out of commission for a while until he sorted things out. I'm certain he didn't realize what he'd gotten you into."

  "I imagine not," Francey said faintly, still trying to absorb the information Daniel was finally giving her. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

  "I told you, lives were at stake. Michael and his wife and children. Various agents…"

  "Children?" she echoed in a high-pitched little shriek.

  Daniel nodded. "Three little redheaded boys, the spitting image of their father. Their safety came first. No one thought you were in any danger, and it seemed possible that you were one of the bad guys. I tried to tell them otherwise…"

  "This isn't making sense," Francey said, shaking her head to try to clear away some of the confusion.

  "Life doesn't make sense, Francey. You've been through too much in the past few days, the past weeks, the past months. We need to get you back to the States. I've arranged for two first-class tickets for tomorrow afternoon. We'll fly to Rome, change planes, and be in New York by Sunday."

  "But—"

  "Trust me, Francey. As time passes this will all seem a lot clearer. There's nothing we can do except get the hell away from here and get back to normal as soon as possible."

  "Why?"

  Daniel looked confused for a moment, and he wiped his pale, sweating forehead with a white linen handkerchief. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Why do we need to get away from Malta? It's supposed to be a beautiful island, with lovely beaches. Why don't we spend a few days enjoying it? God knows I could use the sun and sea and fresh air."

  "If you want a seaside vacation, you can go back to Belle Reste," Daniel said.

  "So someone can try to sabotage my car again?"

  "Those people have been taken care of."

  "The dead men on Baby Jerome? Who killed them? Not an innocent witness who was trying to relocate."

  "You ask too many questions, Francey. And you wouldn't want to know the answers, I assure you. Just believe that you'd be safe on St. Anne, or in New York, for that matter."

  "But I wouldn't be safe on Malta?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "You didn't have to. What's on Malta that's so dangerous?"

  "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Don't you want to get home? Back to your life, your apartment?"

  He was sweating even more profusely now, despite the fact that the cabin was swathed in air-conditioned cool. He looked ill, and she felt a moment's compunction. His heart wasn't in the best of shape, and if she could trust her instincts, he was as much a pawn in whatever complicated game was going on as she was.

  He was right, tho
ugh. None of it mattered. The man who'd been haunting her dreams, her waking and sleeping hours, was a happily married father now living the good life down under. He was exactly who he'd said he was, a decent, upper-middle-class Brit caught in circumstances beyond his control. She'd been clinging to a fantasy.

  "Are you taking your heart medicine, Daniel?" she asked, trying to push her own concerns aside. "You don't look well."

  Daniel managed a sickly smile. "I think I need a new prescription. The current stuff doesn't seem to have the kick it once had. Elmore's going to look into something when we get to the hotel."

  "If you trust him."

  "He was just following orders, Francey."

  "Yours?"

  "Cardiff's. If there's anyone who makes me uneasy, it's Cardiff. I'm not sure where he is—we left him behind in Spain—but he's a man with a vision. Once he decides something's for the common good, then it's damn all to the individual. You've been through enough."

  Half of what he said rang true. Half was a tissue of lies. And she had no idea which half was which. "One last question, Daniel."

  "Francey, the less you know, the better off you'll be."

  She ignored him. "Who was the man who rescued me? Who brought me out of the prison?"

  He didn't even hesitate. "Cardiff hired him after I insisted he get you out. He was an Arab sailor who does a few discreet jobs on the side for British intelligence. He got you out, brought you to the boat, took his money and left."

  "Did you see him?"

  "Of course. Sort of an ugly fellow, actually. It's just as well you didn't get a good look at him—you might not have come, and he would have had a harder time if he'd had to drag you."

  "I would have gone with Attila the Hun."

  "Well, Ahmad wasn't a far cry. Any more questions, Francey?" he asked wearily.

  "A thousand. I'll wait until you're feeling better."

  "Thank God for small favors. Wait till we're back in New York. Thirty-six hours, Francey, and this will all seem like a dream."