Now You See Him (12 page)

No, she was better off not knowing, taking him at face value. After all, there was always the chance that he might not be able to protect her. That they might kill him and expect her to come up with answers. Answers she would be helpless to withhold, given the advanced state of the Cadre's torture capabilities.

No, she was going to continue to think he was Michael Dowd, junior Boy Scout. She thought she'd lost her illusions permanently. She hadn't. And he was planning on doing his best to give them back to her.

And maybe, just maybe, regain a few of his own.

Francey woke once during the long night. She was lying on her side, curled up close to the blazing furnace that was Michael's body. One of her legs was tucked between his, her head was resting against his shoulder, and his arms were around her loosely, possessively, one hand brushing her breast. The top to her bikini had come loose, so that now it was resting in the vicinity of her waist.

The odd thing was, her body didn't stiffen in instinctive protest. She didn't freeze up or try to draw away from him. Maybe it was simply that she was still half-asleep. Maybe not.

She heard a sigh and knew it was her own. Refusing to think about consequences, ramifications or any of those other unpleasant issues, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

When she awoke again she was alone in the rumpled, makeshift bed. She felt no panic, no fear that she might have been abandoned. Only a faint regret.

She smelled the coffee, and then there was no room even for regret. She turned her head to look at him, secure in the knowledge that he thought she was still asleep. She could watch him without his even being aware of it.

He was standing at the edge of the lagoon, drinking a tin mug of coffee, and there was water beaded on his strong body, dazzling in the early-morning sun. He'd dispensed with his baggy trunks, and the skimpy black racing suit had hardly more fabric than her own bikini. It left very little to the imagination, and Francey's imagination was already overwrought.

It constantly amazed her that a race as staid and supposedly uptight as the British would wear so little on the beach. The baggy trunks seemed much more in keeping with a math master from a British public school, but then, Michael probably knew that. Probably wore them whenever he had an audience, to enhance his role.

Now why did she think that? Why did she think he was playing a role? If he weren't who he said he was, wouldn't he have told her by now? And surely cousin Daniel wouldn't have sent her a dangerous stranger.

Except that he
was
a dangerous stranger, whether he was a math teacher or no. Dangerous to her, to her state of mind, to her heart. Perhaps even to her body, she thought, moving her wrist experimentally. And yet she trusted him more than she'd ever trusted anyone in her entire life. And she'd spent a lifetime trusting people, mostly unwisely.

"Looked your fill?" he inquired pleasantly, not turning toward her.

She shouldn't have been surprised. He seemed to have far more intuition than a normal man, sixth and seventh senses, at least. "That bathing suit is indecent," she said.

He turned to her then, and a wry grin curved his mouth. She knew, because she was determined not to look any lower than his face. "Depends on whether you find bodies indecent," he said. "You want some coffee?"

"Please." She crawled out from under the covers, tugging the oversize T-shirt around her, and headed for the bushes.

"Where do you think you're going?"

She didn't hesitate. "The ladies' room."

"Don't go too far."

She looked back over her shoulder. "You want to come along and hold my hand?"

"Feisty, aren't you?" he murmured, draining his coffee. "I wouldn't count on being safe here. If the Cadre tracked you down to St. Anne's, then they can probably find us on Baby Jerome."

She paused. "You think it's the Cadre?"

"Got any other ideas?" He obviously didn't expect an answer as he turned and headed for the pot of coffee. "Don't take too long, or I'll come after you."

By the time she returned to the campsite he was dressed, thank heavens, in his wrinkled white trousers, rolled up at the ankles, and his blue shirt left open to the faint tropical breezes. If he was observant enough to notice her relief he didn't say anything, simply handed her a mug of black coffee that was sinfully delicious.

"This is awfully good for instant coffee," she murmured, for lack of anything better to say.

"And isn't the weather lovely, and do you think it will rain, and how about those Mets?" he responded. "Do we really need to waste time on small talk?"

"All right. Do you have any other suggestions? I'm not really in the mood for Robinson Crusoe meets the Blue Lagoon."

"Whether you're in the mood for it or not, we're stuck here, at least for a while. If we're lucky, your cousin will show up to rescue us by this afternoon. If we're not, your friends will get here sooner. I want to scout out the island, see if there's anyplace to hide."

"And I bet you don't want me with you," she said, taking another sip of coffee. It really was good coffee, and she realized with sudden amusement that it wasn't instant at all. Michael was an even more proficient Boy Scout than she'd imagined.

"I never underestimated your intelligence. The bad guys might get here sooner than we expect. I'd be better off alone."

"So you could take them on single-handedly?" she asked, glancing at him over the rim of the cup.

He laughed. "Are you nuts? I'll have a much easier time running away if I don't have to worry about you."

He was doing it again. All gangling charm and asexual cheer. Just a sweet, ineffectual teacher from England, thrown into a situation miles out of his ordinary experience. And she didn't believe him.

"I'll stay here," she agreed. "How long do you think it'll take you?"

"That depends. If I run into trouble, there's no telling when I'll be back. I want you to keep out of sight."

"Michael…"

"Don't argue with me," he said, softening the order with an endearing smile that didn't reach his intense blue eyes. "We've gone over this before. It's in my upbringing—I have to do my best for the damsel in distress. Not to mention the fact that I seem to have thrown my lot in with you. Your safety and mine go hand in hand at this point."

"You could always cut a deal with them if you happen to run into them."

"From what I've heard of the Cadre, they'd slit my throat first and ask questions later," he said.

She grew very still. "From what you've heard of the Cadre?" she echoed. "I hadn't realized anyone knew much about them at all. When I talked to the FBI, they said they were an ultrasecret organization. I'd certainly never even heard their name."

He didn't even blink. "But you're an American. The Cadre's a branch of the IRA—surely your FBI explained that much. And we in England know far too much about the IRA and their various splinter factions. You're right, the Cadre keeps a low, extremely nasty profile. But one hears things."

She suddenly felt very cold, even as the morning sun beat down overhead. "Be careful, Michael," she said, frightened.

He grinned, boyish, freckled, lighthearted. No match for the ruthless killers she'd come in contact with. "Don't worry, love. Even with a game leg, I can run a hell of a lot faster than they can."

She couldn't keep him from going. She could only watch as he disappeared through the thick greenery, and then the silence settled down around her, as heavy as a tomb.

There wasn't much to keep her busy. She finished the coffee, polished off a cellophane bag of
muesli
and tidied the makeshift kitchen Michael had rigged up. She aired out the blankets and folded them; she swam in the tepid lagoon. Out of desperation she read every single printed word on the food packages, then went for the label on Michael's discarded jacket. That one was a puzzle. The labels had been cut out, leaving no clue to the tailor. And it had definitely been tailor-made—Francey remembered her third stepfather's exquisite taste. Turning the jacket inside out, she searched, finding only the trace of threads where someone had scissored out the telltale mark.

She folded it carefully, leaving it on top of the blankets, her mind preoccupied. She could think of no reason whatsoever for a man to have all the identifying labels cut out of his clothes. She found his baggy, discarded trunks and discovered that they were in the same shape.

"What are you trying to hide, Michael?" she said out loud, her voice echoing eerily in the little clearing. There was no answer.

When the overhead sun grew too hot, she made herself a little shelter, draping one of the blankets over a framework of branches and crawling beneath. She slept, her dreams filled with blood and violence. And sex. She woke, and even the birds were still. And she could smell death in the air.

Michael hadn't really expected it to take the Cadre long to find Baby Jerome. Despite the fact that they'd screwed up three times, he didn't make the mistake of thinking they were any less dangerous. He picked his vantage spot carefully, taking a few choice pieces from Cecil's munitions box with him, including his treasured Beretta. It all depended on how many showed up, and whether they made the choice to separate or stay together. He figured he could handle a maximum of four if they stayed together, six if they split up. But if they split, one of them might find Francey before he took him out.

In the end there were three of them, two older men and a boy of about eighteen. He watched them disembark, feeling no emotion at all, other than a faint regret. The young ones were the worst. Soulless, fearless, merciless. If he had any sense, he would take the young one out first.

There was never any question of capturing them or simply putting them out of commission. The Cadre took no prisoners, and they never allowed themselves to be taken. This was going to be a battle to the death, no mistake about it, and Michael wasn't in the mood to kill three people. But he was even less in the mood to let Francey die, and that was the alternative. He didn't really give a damn about himself. But he wasn't going to let them win.

There were some things you never forget. There were some circumstances when even the most compromised body came through. The three split up. The two older men fought fast, well, with a deadly accuracy that would have meant the end for another man. He let them find him first, but even two against one was only a delay in the inevitable outcome. And then he went after the boy.

He found him training a gun on Francey's back. She was wandering around the campsite dressed only in the skimpy bikini and baggy T-shirt, but Michael didn't feel his automatic spasm of lust. Every nerve, every cell, in his body was frozen in momentary panic.

The boy turned, some sixth sense alerting him to Michael's presence, and the empty blue eyes that looked into his were a mirror image. And then he leaped for Michael.

It was over quickly. A brief, vicious struggle that the boy doubtless thought he'd win. And he was good; Michael had to grant him that. Good enough to inflict a fair amount of damage with repeated, vicious blows to Michael's left side.

Only a knowledgeable person would have concentrated on the most vulnerable part of his body. The internal damage caused by Patrick Dugan's bullets hadn't yet healed, and Michael could feel the tearing deep within him as he fought.

And then it was over, the boy's youth and cunning no match for Michael. He pulled away, looking at his fallen enemy, and he thought about Vikings. About honoring a fallen soldier. And he spat at the boy's feet.

He limped back to the beach, clutching his side. A year ago the boy wouldn't have gotten to him. But then, a year ago he wouldn't just have come through pretty dicey surgery. Once again the spectre of retirement rose before him, and he thought of his cottage in the Lake District. He thought of the fictional Whipdale House, the comfortable Mum, the three doting older sisters. Closing his eyes, he sank onto the sand, letting the blackness wash over him.

It was late afternoon when he finally made his way back to the clearing. She'd dressed in her wrinkled sundress, something he would have regretted if he felt any better. She'd managed to concoct something on the cookstove, and he told himself he ought to eat. But all he wanted to do was collapse on the neat pile of blankets and make the last few hours go away.

She looked up when he stepped into the clearing, her sun-streaked brown hair pulled back from her face, and her brown eyes widened as she rose.

"They're here," she guessed, starting toward him, her face pale with alarm. "My God, Michael, what have they done to you?"

He managed to pull himself together. "Not a thing," he managed with an airy wave. "I haven't seen any sign of them. I was just stupid enough to fall down a cliff. Banged myself up good and proper." He swayed slightly, telling himself it was for effect, for her sympathy and warm, strong arms, and knowing it was because he couldn't help it.

She smelled of sun and flowers and innocence. He managed to keep from collapsing, leaning against her just slightly as she helped him toward the pallet, and he gave her a crooked smile. "Sorry to have made such a botch of things. I guess my leg wasn't as strong as I thought. It twisted underneath me, and the next thing I knew, I was at the bottom of a ledge. I was terrified that you might get into trouble, but it took me this long to get back."

It had taken him that long to rouse himself, go back and dispose of the bodies, to try to patch himself up. There wasn't much he could do for the internal injuries, except hope to God Travers would get there in time. Before the Cadre decided to send in reinforcements.

"You look like hell," she said, staring down at him.

"That's nothing compared to how I feel. There's some whiskey somewhere in one of the boxes. I could do with a drink."

"It's Scotch," she said. "I thought you preferred Irish whiskey."

"For some reason I'm not in the mood for Irish," he said grimly, leaning back.

A moment later she was kneeling beside him, a mug of whiskey in her hand. Nicely full, he noticed, taking a deep, shuddering sip. Bless the woman.