Patricia Potter (16 page)

They had tossed coins for partners, and she and Sanders Evans exchanged wry looks when they were paired, each sympathizing with the other.

Sanders, however, was unexpectedly good and saved them, if not from defeat, from abject humiliation. Meara kept apologizing for misses while his face registered surprise every time he returned a particularly difficult shot.

They were laughing when it ended, Meara and Sanders winning only one of the games and howling triumphantly as they did. As they had the day before, they had drinks together, Meara and Kay a gin and tonic, Sanders a beer, and Brad a whiskey.

Meara enjoyed the companionship, yet part of her kept watching, even though she knew Michael was probably now far beyond her sight. She tried to concentrate instead on Sanders, who was talking of Washington.

“There’s not a hotel room in the city,” he said. “It’s frantic.”

“Do you live in Washington?”

“Now I do. A small apartment,” he replied.

“Now?” Meara’s question was soft. She’d seen a trace of sadness in Sanders’s eyes.

“My wife…didn’t like Washington. We had a house in Virginia.” Pain was in the words, but he didn’t say any more, and Meara didn’t want to probe wounds. She had one of her own at the moment.

Kay diplomatically changed the subject. “And before that? I can’t quite place your accent.”

“Pennsylvania. My father owns a farm.”

“But you like cities?”

“I didn’t care about farming, which was fortunate. I have two older brothers who did, and the farm wasn’t large enough to support us all.”

“Do you miss it?” Meara asked.

“Perhaps the peace sometimes. But other than that, no. It’s a solitary life, and dependent on so many things you can’t control.”

“You like what you do now?”

He shrugged self-consciously, not altogether at ease with the attention. “I don’t know if I really like it. But I think it’s necessary.”

Meara noticed his discomfort and liked him even more for it. There was an obvious strength and integrity about Sanders Evans that attracted her, although not in the way Michael Fielding did. There was no rush of the blood or mad thumping of the heart or tingling of nerve ends. But there was an instinctive liking and trust.

By common consent, the talk turned lighter, to the music of Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey, and the latest films, particularly “Mrs. Miniver,” which was all the rage at the moment. Apt, Meara thought privately, but she said little, letting Kay and Brad do most of the talking. Sanders did the same, although Meara often found his gaze on her. He was older than they, although Brad was in his mid-twenties. Sanders was probably of an age with Michael Fielding, she guessed. There were other similarities between the two men. Both, she knew, were used to responsibility; she could see it in their eyes, in the way they held themselves.

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly as the four of them sat and sipped cool drinks while the sun dipped low. Finally, Brad and Kay left, leaving Sanders and Meara alone.

Meara knew she should leave too, but she needed some companionship at the moment, even the hint of admiration in Sanders’s eyes.

For a moment, an awkward silence stretched between them. Meara took a sip of the drink, which was now mostly melted ice. For want of a better question, she blurted out the one which had been in her mind since he’d mentioned a wife. “Do you have children?”

He hesitated a moment before saying in a low, controlled voice, “I did. A daughter. She and my wife were killed in a car accident three years ago.”

Meara closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s getting easier to talk about. For a while, I couldn’t even say the words, as if they weren’t true unless I spoke them.”

“And now?”

“The good memories are taking over. Little by little, the pain dulls. It’s always there, but it becomes easier to live with.”

Meara pushed the glass around the table in front of her. “I don’t know if I could ever cope with that kind of loss.”

He smiled slightly. “I didn’t think I could either for a time. But you do. Now I can look at Tara Connor without flinching and think how pretty she is. At one time I couldn’t have done that.”

Meara looked away. She had avoided thinking about the possibility of Michael’s death. She didn’t think she could bear it, yet she had known him only a few days. What must it be like to lose a wife and child? Someone you loved as much as Sanders had apparently loved his family?

Sanders must have seen something in her face.

“You’re afraid for someone?”

Meara nodded.

“Michael Fielding?”

Her eyes widened.

“It’s none of my business, Meara, but I’ve seen you together several times.”

“It’s that obvious?”

“Perhaps not to everyone. But I’m accustomed to putting two and two together.”

“And you do that often?”

“Yes.” The answer was so short yet so confident Meara had to smile, and that brought a smile of his own, as if they shared a secret.

“I’ll remember that,” she said.

“But don’t tell anyone else,” he warned with some humor.

“I think everyone already suspects it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“There’s a rumor floating around that an FBI agent is here. You seem the only possible suspect.”

“So much for stealth,” he admitted wryly. “But I really am here on vacation.”

“There’s nothing very ominous about this island.”

“Except the tennis players,” he said dryly.

“You did very well for yourself. But me…” Meara shook her head with disgust.

“You were preoccupied.”

“You noticed?”

He nodded. “Where is Commander Fielding?”

“On a cruise along the islands.”

“A very unimaginative man, the commander,” Sanders said. “I could think of much better things to do.” She flushed, knowing he meant being with her.

As if he knew he’d made her uncomfortable, he quickly retreated from the subject. “What about tennis tomorrow, just you and me. I think we need some practice if we continue playing with those two.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. Not tomorrow.” She saw a brief flicker of disappointment in his eyes. And a loneliness she now understood.

“Perhaps Monday?”

Meara hesitated. She wanted to spend every moment she could with Michael, but she liked Sanders. She liked him very much. “I think so.”

“Good.” He rose slowly. “I’ll reserve the court for three o’clock.”

She stood and held out her hand, noticing how very gently he took it. “Thank you for the game,” she said. “And the company.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

As she walked away, she felt his gaze on her. She knew if it hadn’t been for the mention of Michael, he would have asked her to dinner. His interest hadn’t been disguised, but neither had he pressed her in any way.

Meara looked toward the docks. One of the boats was readying to take the day workers back to Brunswick. A club yacht, used for pleasure trips along the islands, was gone. She wondered who was along, particularly which marriageable young daughters.

The uncertainty returned. The uncertainty and the doubt and the hurt that she had pushed from her mind this afternoon. They all flooded back now with a vengeance. She thought of Michael’s grim face when she last saw him, the dark blue eyes that gave so many conflicting signals.

She made herself a sandwich but couldn’t eat it. She found a book but couldn’t read. She was tired but couldn’t sleep. She kept remembering the feel of him. The fresh salty taste. The way her body had responded to him. The gentleness. The sweetness and then the swift wild passion. Her body tensed with the newfound feelings, with the remembrance of profound discovery.

Meara finally willed herself to bed, to a restless sleep disturbed by persistent feelings of unease.

Michael massaged his leg in his room. It was getting stronger. He was able to go for longer periods of time without the cane, and ordinarily he would have been elated at the long-awaited progress. But he felt no elation, only quiet hurting desperation.

He couldn’t have asked for a more successful afternoon and evening, and yet all he felt was cold, hopeless desolation. The yacht had skirted around the entire island and visited two neighboring islands, Sea Island and Saint Simons. He had mentally catalogued every detail about each of them: the shore lines, the distances between the islands and the coastal city of Brunswick, the strength of the current. He wasn’t exactly sure why; he shouldn’t need any of that information, yet it accumulated in his brain, almost as if by plan.

A veritable feast had been served aboard the ship, along with the usual abundance of champagne and good wines, and conversation. There had been eight people, including two families, one with a son in college and the other with two daughters, each of whom eyed him speculatively. Both were attractive enough, but neither had Meara’s lively sense of humor or passion for life, two of the qualities which had most attracted him. They seemed totally lifeless in comparison. Michael was polite, more than polite, and by the end of the cruise had received an offer of a job after the war.

When he had trained in Germany for the mission, he had never realized how difficult this job would be. He hadn’t liked the idea of spying, but he’d never expected the depth of guilt he would know, or suspected he would like and admire the people he meant to betray, certainly not that he would love one of them.

Hans, he knew, had no such scruples. His eyes had shown only satisfaction when Michael had reported successful contact with the sub. Satisfaction and a certain malicious gleam. He had wanted to know everything, every move Michael had made, every conversation he had had.

At least Hans would be off the island tomorrow when he met Meara. It would be, he knew, the most difficult meeting in his life. He had to convince her that whatever there was between them was over. He wondered exactly how he could do that when everything in him longed to touch her, to hold her again. Only she, he knew, could warm the icy chill within him.

He rose and went to the wardrobe where his suitcase was stored. It was exactly where he had placed it, two inches from the back wall of the handsome oak furniture. He took a key from his pocket and leaned down, studying the lock and the strand of hair that was stretched undisturbed across it.

Michael unlocked and opened it. The army Colt pistol was where he had left it, wrapped securely in a pair of slacks. He felt the lining where tiny vials were hidden, small containers of sedatives and even one of poison. There was no sign of disturbance. Even if there had been, he doubted whether even the most diligent of searchers would find the hidden lining, and the gun was innocuous enough. He was, after all, a soldier.

Michael closed the bag, running the strand of hair over the lock once more, and replacing the suitcase back in the exact location. He didn’t know why he had checked, perhaps to remind him why he was here. Perhaps because the presence of Sanders Evans disturbed him more than a little.

But it would be over soon. A few more days and it would be over.

Chapter Eight

M
ICHAEL PICKED UP
Meara in the red bug, for the picnic.

She was sitting in the swing, her hair in a braid, and dressed in a white cotton blouse and full skirt that moved gracefully as she stood and walked toward him, a welcoming, expectant smile on her face.

Open and happy, it was a smile that stabbed.

He stepped out and took her hand, helping her settle down on the seat, which was more like a perch than anything else. Her hand was warm, but it clasped his firmly, and he felt the now familiar darts of searing heat invade him.

Michael couldn’t help but look at her. Her eyes were such a vivid green, loving and searching in such a way that everything in him responded. His hand went up and brushed a wayward curl from her face, his mouth bending in a slight smile.

“God, but you’re lovely.”

Her smile was blinding. So much, he thought, for distancing himself.

He took his hand from hers and started the little car, watching not the path but the wisps of red-gold hair that escaped from the braid and the effervescence in her eyes. Her hands knitted together, long tapered fingers moving nervously, belying the calmness of her face.

“How was tennis yesterday?”

“Terrible.” Her tone was so full of disgust he had to smile.

“What happened to you and Brad?”

“Brad played with Kay.”

There was a brief silence. “You played with Evans?”

“Yes.”

“He seems pleasant enough.” Michael’s tone was noncommittal.

“He’s very nice. And lonely, I think.”

Michael looked over at her questioningly. “Why lonely?”

There was a slight pause. “His wife and daughter were killed in an accident.”

Michael raked a hand through his hair as he considered the information. Evans and Meara obviously had a long conversation yesterday. Had he been mentioned? Had there been questions asked? Aside from those concerns, he felt a certain jealousy again. It was like a disease, the way it gnawed at him, and he didn’t like the flash of sympathy he felt toward the federal agent. He was feeling entirely too many things already.