Authors: Anne Stuart
She could always abandon him to his own defenses, rent a house of her own. The tourist season hadn't geared up yet, and she'd made a few connections during her infrequent visits to town. Something would turn up.
But she couldn't do that to her cousin Daniel or the ailing Michael. Providing a haven for emotionally destitute souls was one of Daniel's many charitable activities, and Francey had taken full advantage of it. The least she could do would be to provide the kind of healing environment she'd been enjoying. She didn't know whether Michael Dowd could stay alone, but she suspected he needed someone keeping an eye on him at the very least, if not outright nursing.
The villa was big enough that he wouldn't have to get in her way. And he was hardly likely to be making a pass at her in his current condition.
She threw back her head and laughed, squinting up into the bright sunlight. Who the hell did she think she was? In the best of times, with the healthiest of males around, she was hardly irresistible. Even the forced proximity of Belle Reste wasn't likely to turn an invalid into a ravening beast.
Maybe she had been alone too long. Maybe she needed to get used to the company of men again. Someone weak and harmless would be a perfect start. He would probably be querulous—most sick men were—and no threat at all. She could cosset him with custards and fresh fruit, and outwalk or outrun or outswim him if he grew to be too much of a pain. He would probably talk about his girlfriend or his ex-wife or both, and he'd probably whine. All in all, there was absolutely nothing to worry about, she told herself.
Nevertheless, she was going to savor every last minute of her solitude. She was going to drink in the hot sun, the cooling breezes, the rich scent of the ocean and the tropical growth around the villa. She was going to sit and drink fruit drinks and think about absolutely nothing at all until she had to face the mountainous drive to the airport. And from the moment she picked up her unwelcome houseguest, she was going to be the perfect hostess.
But for now she was simply going to vegetate in the bright, glorious sunlight and hope the sun would bake more of the pain away.
"I don't want her hurt." Daniel Travers was a man in his prime—just under sixty, with a bull-like body, a high complexion, bright blue eyes and a deceptively hearty demeanor. He was a great deal more astute, and more dangerous, than most people credited him with being, and that was part of his great value.
Michael Dowd wasn't under any delusions, however. He knew just how far Daniel Travers was capable of going, and he knew enough not to antagonize him more than he needed to. Goad him far enough but not too far, and you got the best results.
"I'm not planning on hurting her," Michael said, leaning back against the leather seat of the Rolls. There was one thing to be said for Travers—he knew how to live well. At least this current assignment involved Rolls-Royces and a villa in the Caribbean. Better than a hovel in Northern Ireland anytime. "I just want to find out what she knows."
"She's gone through extensive debriefing…"
"You know that's not worth a damn if it's not done right. She was in shock, all her defenses in place, not knowing whom to trust. Now she's had a long time to recuperate, with no one bothering her, no one asking unpleasant questions. She's had a nice, peaceful vacation, and she should be just about ready to open up to someone who knows how to ask the right questions in the right way. Particularly someone as harmless as I am."
Travers's bright blue eyes slid over to him, doubtful, and Michael almost laughed. In his current condition he was no threat to anyone at all. He was pale, skinny, and he couldn't walk without the aid of a cane. At least it was better than the wheelchair he'd been inhabiting for longer than he cared to remember. But it was going to be a while before he was back at full strength, maybe longer. Before that wary expression in Travers's eyes would be justified.
Travers shook his head. "I don't think you'd be harmless if you were in a coma," he said. "That's why I'm warning you. Don't hurt her any more than she has been already. Find out what you need to know, and then I'll get you out of there. I have a dozen places at my disposal if you want to finish your recuperation."
"I've finished my recuperation," he said savagely, hating his weakened state. "I've just about gone off my nut these past few weeks. There's no end to the things I can accomplish, even while I'm still so knocked up. As soon as your cousin tells me about her friends, I can move on to another job, and no one will ever bother her again. I'm not that interested in pumping a lovesick female for information, but I'm sick of sitting on my butt watching other people ball up things I've been working on for years."
"That's between you and Ross Cardiff," Travers said stiffly. "I wouldn't presume to give you advice."
"The hell you wouldn't," Michael said with a ghost of a smile. "Particularly when it comes to your precious cousin. Don't worry, old man. She'll be safe as houses with me."
"Considering your expertise in explosives, that's hardly a sterling recommendation," Travers said. "Just remember, you're a dangerous young man. But I can be a dangerous old man, when me and mine are threatened. I'm letting you go to Belle Reste because I want this settled once and for all. Tread carefully."
"I can't do much else, now can I?" Michael countered, lifting his metal cane in a negligent gesture. "Don't worry," he said again. "When I leave St. Anne, your cousin won't even know her brain's been picked clean."
"For your sake, you'd best hope so," Travers grumbled as the Rolls pulled up beside a small private jet.
Michael didn't bother to answer. Private citizens like Daniel Travers were one of the few things that made his job easier. He didn't know what motivated the man—patriotism, civic duty, or sheer boredom—and he didn't particularly care. All that mattered was that Travers put his considerable resources at the disposal of certain select branches of the secret service organizations of various countries, Travers's own and Great Britain among them. All the man asked for in return was a vicarious taste of the excitement and the knowledge that he'd struck a blow for democracy or whatever he was after.
Michael suspected he was deeply disappointed by the recent easing of relations with Eastern Europe. Travers still managed to cheer himself up with thoughts of Middle Eastern terrorists and the subversive branches of the IRA, but even South Africa seemed to be mellowing. If things continued as they were, Daniel Travers would be out of a hobby and Michael would be out of a job.
He doubted it would happen, though. He didn't trust any of it. Not the lessening of repression in Eastern Europe, not the free elections in Latin America, not the hopeful steps in South Africa. Thirty-seven years of life on the edge had made him an extremely cynical man, and a few examples of media manipulation and feel-good public relations weren't going to convince him that the intrinsic nature of the world had changed from bad to good. As long as there were people left alive, he and others like him would be needed. And the nastier, more unpleasant the job, the more often he would be the one to be called.
He hadn't been exaggerating—the past few weeks had been holy hell. He'd been pretty well shot to pieces, and a body takes time to heal, particularly one that had gone through this sort of thing too many times. He didn't like drugs, and his mind instinctively resisted painkillers, even when his body craved them. The pain had been the only thing that had kept him going when he'd first emerged from three weeks in intensive care. The pain, and the hatred.
Normally the idea of weeks in the sun, lying there doing nothing but swelter, would be his idea of hell, especially after such a long stretch of forced inactivity. But he wouldn't be inactive. While he lay in the sun and tried to marshal his strength, his energy, he would be finding out exactly what Frances Neeley knew. And just how deeply she'd been involved.
Of course, he hadn't confided those suspicions to Daniel. If the old man thought Michael suspected his young cousin of conspiracy, he wouldn't let him within a thousand miles of her. And Daniel could do just that, spirit her away on that ocean liner of a yacht he owned and head out into international waters where there'd be no reaching her.
So Michael had pretended to believe in the woman's innocence, keeping his own opinion in reserve. Word on the street had been divided. Some said she was sleeping with Dugan, some that she was just another victim. He intended to find out the truth as soon as possible and then head back to England to clean up the mess Dugan had left behind. See if he could find out who'd been pulling the strings, giving the orders. Who headed up the dread sect of the IRA known only as the Cadre. With Frances Neeley's information in hand, there was no way they could keep him on the sidelines, much as Ross Cardiff wanted to.
He was going to the Caribbean with a very simple goal in mind. To get stronger. And smarter. And meaner. Even though he knew that most people simply wouldn't consider that possible.
He wondered if he was going to have to sleep with Daniel Travers's plain, pale cousin to get what he wanted from her. And he wondered if he was going to have to kill her.
Francey had never liked the way the pink Jeep handled. It tended to pull to the left, particularly when she was enthusiastic with the brakes, and she had grown a little too accustomed to power brakes, power steering, power windows and the like. The old Jeep was not much of an improvement over a push-pull railway cart, and she'd been half tempted to rent a more reasonable car to get around the mountainous little island.
Two things stopped her. One, she didn't go out often enough to make the hassle worthwhile. Daniel had regular deliveries of food and staples arranged, and just about every need was taken care of by a silent army of workers who came and went with smiling faces and almost invisible presences.
The second reason was less practical but far more devastating. She simply didn't want to drive on the left-hand side of the road. She had too many memories of Patrick teasing her about her future, trying to drive on the left-hand side of the road when they went back to Ireland. She had too many memories of Patrick.
One of those almost invisible workers had just checked over the Jeep that morning, so at least she could reassure herself that the silly vehicle was marginally safe. The gas tank had been topped off, the bright pink paint was newly waxed, the awning clean, the vehicle swept clean of sand. She could only assume that whoever had checked the car was equally well versed in its underpinnings. The only sign that marred the spotless paint was a greasy thumbprint on the hood, proof that someone had known enough to at least check the engine.
One of the great blessings of Belle Reste was its remoteness from the rest of the small, busy island. One of its greatest disadvantages was its distance from the tiny airport, most of it over hilly, twisty roads. People also tended to fly in during the evening hours, making the trip even more hair-raising, but Francey navigated the narrow roads with her usual aplomb. She liked driving. And she hadn't yet gotten to the point where it mattered terribly if she lived or died.
Daniel's private jet had already landed by the time she drove the stubborn little Jeep into the airport confines. She slammed the vehicle into Park and jumped out, absently noticing that the brakes were a little spongier than usual. The moment she caught sight of the man making his way carefully down the flight ramp she held her breath, oddly startled.
Even in the electric light she could see that his color wasn't good. He was deathly pale as he moved down the stairs, leaning heavily on the handrail and a cane, and his eyes seemed too big for his face. He was tall and as thin as a scarecrow, his rumpled white suit flapping around his long legs, and his face was narrow and lined with pain beneath a shock of incongruous auburn hair.
A thousand confusing emotions swept over her as she leaned against the mesh of the fence, watching him as he reached the tarmac and moved slowly forward. She didn't quite know what she was feeling, whether it was déjà vu, the odd sense that this had all happened before, or something else. Some strange, psychic knowledge that the sick-looking man walking slowly across the empty runway was going to matter to her very much. Was going to make the difference between life and death. And that he might mean death.
She shook her head, forcing such morbid thoughts away,, and the movement caught his eye. Across the deserted tarmac he looked at her, and while she knew that he wouldn't be able to see that well across the artificially lit distance, she suddenly felt uneasy. As if she'd been caught spying.
Opening the wire gate, she started toward him, forcing a welcoming smile onto her stiff face. "You must be Michael Dowd," she said when she reached him. "I'm Frances Neeley, better known as Francey." And she held out her hand.
It took him a moment to laboriously shift the cane, then reach out his own thin hand. His grasp was weak, ominously so, and for a moment she forgot her own concerns in worry over him. "I'm Michael," he agreed, and his voice was surprisingly warm, strong and unnervingly British, During her brief time with Patrick Dugan she'd learned to think of British accents as those belonging to the enemy, compared to Patrick's charming lilt… No, she wouldn't think of that.
"How was your trip?" she asked, pushing away her instinctive doubts. "How are you feeling? The Jeep's just over there—you won't have far to walk. Unless you'd like me to see whether I could find a wheelchair."
"No wheelchair," he said flatly. "I've already spent too much time in them since the car accident. And I feel like hell."
Querulous, Francey thought with a trace of satisfaction. A pale, weak, querulous man. A pain in the butt and nothing worse.
And then he looked down at her and smiled, and the charm he was exerting was a palpable thing, something she could no more resist than she could stop her heart from beating. "I'm a pain in the butt, aren't I?" he said, reading her mind. "I promise you I won't spend my time here whining. I'm just done in."