Authors: Anne Stuart
"Cecil says his cousin will have word on the Jeep by this afternoon. He'll stop back and let us know."
"Can't he call?"
"No phone."
"Of course." She shook her head at her own stupidity. "Coffee or tea?"
Or me, he thought irreverently. "Coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon," he said. "Unless it's tea bags. Then I'll stick with coffee the whole time." He started toward the kitchen, moving slowly. He'd left his cane behind, and he had to do a creditable job struggling along without it. It was more of a prop than a necessity most of the time, but after the rigors of his day of travel and night of grand prix driving, he could have used the support. "I can make it."
"You'll do no such thing," she said, suddenly bustling and maternal once more. "You go out on the veranda while I make a pot of coffee and something to eat. You need to take it easy, build your strength back." She'd already turned away from him, heading back through the butler's pantry into the kitchen, and he watched her go, wryly aware of his own conflict.
By the time he got his bags up to his bedroom, managed a shower and a change into a pair of his old, baggy khakis and a loose white T-shirt, he could smell the coffee wafting upward. He took his cane this time and headed downstairs, moving a little more slowly than he had to. One problem with this hot climate was the skimpy clothing. There was no way he could hide a gun in what he was wearing, and assuming he stripped down to shorts or a bathing suit, he would even have to ditch the knife he had strapped to his calf. He didn't like the idea of being out there at the end of St. Anne without proper protection. But until he knew how far he could trust Frances Neeley, he wasn't going to be anything more than an invalid schoolteacher. One who certainly wouldn't be carrying his efficient-looking Beretta.
"There you are," she said when he limped out onto the veranda. "I was worried about you." She'd managed to change into some flimsy sundress, one that exposed long, tanned legs and arms and the slight swell of her breasts. He usually preferred busty women. Maybe it was time to change his tastes.
She made good coffee; he had to grant her that. She made good bacon and eggs, too, even if he'd let them sit too long. She also made good conversation, and, even more, she knew when to be peacefully quiet. All in all, an estimable woman. If she wasn't an IRA murderer.
She yawned, stretching her bare legs out in front of her, and he found himself watching her feet. He'd never seen a woman with beautiful feet before in his life. Of course, he hadn't spent that much time looking below their knees. Maybe she wasn't that extraordinary.
He was on his second cup of coffee, feeling marginally better than he had in months, when her dreamy voice broke through his abstraction. "I wonder what that boat's doing?" she murmured, snatching the final croissant that he'd been resisting for the past few minutes.
Michael narrowed his eyes to squint into the bright sunlight. The boat looked ordinary enough to him. Large, slightly rusty, equipped with fishing paraphernalia, it looked like a commercial fisherman's boat. "Fishing?" he suggested lazily.
She shook her head. "Not there. Any of the locals know that the currents run too fast by the point. I can't imagine who could be out there."
Michael set his cup down very carefully. It wasn't one of theirs. He knew exactly which boats Cecil and company employed, and none of them was a deceptively rusty trawler like the one lurking just beyond the point. Once he looked closer he could see the telltale signs of sophisticated electronic surveillance equipment, probably the kind that could pick up every word they were saying. Not to mention the name of the damned boat.
Irish Fancy
. He could imagine just what their fancy was.
"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.
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 hair 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.