Now You See Him...

by Anne Stuart

  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.

  "What can I do?" she asked, sitting back on her heels.

  He could think of any number of things, none of which he was in any shape to enjoy at that particular moment. "Don't look at me like that, Francey," he said wryly. "I'm not going to die."

  "You look it."

  "Don't count on it."

  "Don't joke."

  "You have to joke or cry," he said, thinking of the sightless blue eyes of the dead boy. He'd seen too many dead boys, too many soulless faces. Including his own. "You can do something for me," he said, taking another deep swallow, letting it burn through the pain in his gut.

  "Anything."

  She thought Patrick Dugan's filth had destroyed her soul. She didn't know how far from the truth she was. There was a basic goodness in her that nothing would ever touch, and right then he needed that, more than he needed the whiskey, more than he needed help for his wounds. "Lie down with me," he said.

  No arguments, objections, sassy back talk. Stretching out beside him, she drew him very carefully into her arms. And closing his eyes, he let the darkness take him, the whiskey spilling from his hand and sinking into the dirt beside him.

  Chapter 8

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  When he woke it was dark once more. There was a faint sliver of moon overhead, but clouds had come up during the past few hours, and a stiff wind was blowing them across the sky, obscuring, then revealing, the fitful light. The pain in his side was dull, aching, and he knew his body well enough to make a reasonable estimation of the damage. He was bleeding internally, at a slow rate. If Travers made it by tomorrow afternoon, so would he. If not…

  He shifted, looking at the woman lying next to him. She was asleep, her tawny hair tangled behind her, and he could see the dried rivulets of tears on her cheeks. Why had she been crying? Was she frightened? Afraid of the future? Feeling sorry for herself?

  Or had she been crying for him?

  He was a man who'd always attributed the basest, most self-serving motives to the human beings he'd met. And yet he knew without question that her tears, her concern, hadn't been for herself at all. And that knowledge was almost too painful to bear.

  Death had never been a despised enemy, just one of the risks of the game. Lately it had been looking more and more like an old friend. But not now. Not this time.

  He didn't know whether the Cadre had any other operatives in the islands. If they did, how soon would they come to check up on the first three?

  Chances were the three he'd killed had been working alone. There would have been no reason for any one else to remain behind. They would have come here, finished the two of them off, then headed away from St. Anne and embarrassing questions. There were enough islands in the area that they could have made it safely away and been on a jet back to Ireland before the bodies were discovered.

  But he couldn't count on his instincts. He needed to wake Francey up, to tell her the truth about who and what he was, to tell her what she needed to do if things moved a little faster with his body, if he were unconscious, or dead, before Travers got there.

  Now, while he still felt halfway human, he needed to get her deeper undercover. He needed…

  He put his hand on her arm, and her skin was soft, warm beneath his cool hand. She opened her eyes, looking up at him sleepily, and before she had time to think about it she smiled. A sweet, sleepy smile that curved her mouth and warmed her eyes. The eyes that had shed tears for him.

  "Are you feeling better?" she whispered, her mouth close to his.

  Tell her, his training demanded. But his brain refused to obey. In approximately eighteen hours they would separate forever. He would either be dead or on his way to a secured hospital, and she would never see the invalided Brit schoolteacher again. Michael Dowd would cease to exist. It would be up to someone else to teach her passion. To show her that the real Francey hadn't shriveled up and died inside.

  "No," he said, to himself, to her. He took nothing for himself. He did what he had to do, whatever filthy job the well-being of the world demanded, and he came away with nothing. If these might be his last few hours on earth, he was going to take something this time. He was going to take Francey Neeley.

  He moved his hand up her arm, sliding it behind her neck, beneath her thick curtain of sun-streaked hair. "Michael," she said, her voice a soft question, her eyes dark with worry. He wanted to wipe the questions, the worry, from her mind.
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  "Hush," he said, pulling her toward him. "Just hush." Her mouth was soft beneath his, and not unwilling. He kissed her slowly at first, dampening her lips with his. Then he increased the pressure, opening her mouth with his, using his tongue. She jerked beneath him, but he held her still, ignoring her shyness. He felt her hands come up to twine around his neck, and at that little gesture of acceptance a bolt of desire shot through his battered body.

  He knew she wasn't wearing anything under the sundress—he'd seen her black bikini drying on the makeshift clothesline. And she was kissing him back, shyly, her tongue touching his, her arms tight around his neck.

  He moved his hand down the front of the cotton dress to the tiny row of buttons, unfastening them with unaccustomed clumsiness, needing to feel her skin against his, her warmth.

  She jerked again when his hand closed over her breast, then grew still as he stroked her, pushing the dress down to her waist. He broke the kiss, staring down at her in the darkness, watching her face as he touched her breast, his long fingers stroking the pebbled hardness of her nipple.

  "Michael," she said, her voice rough and sweet. She said it again, "Michael," but this time it was a strangled cry, as he put his mouth on her breast, suckling it deeply into his mouth.

  Her hips rose off the blanket in reaction, and her hands dug into his shoulders. He welcomed the pain. It was a small distraction from the other pain trying to control his body, warring with the desire and determination he felt.

  He slid the sundress down over her narrow hips and flung it away, leaving her warm and naked beside him. She trembled, suddenly aware of her own vulnerability, and he covered her with his own clothed body, ignoring the pain that seared through him. He wanted her, wanted her so badly that he didn't care if it killed him. He pressed his hardness against her, felt her lift her hips in response, and he cursed, slowly, fluidly, savagely beneath his breath.

  She put her hands to his face. They were hot, trembling, and her eyes were slightly glazed with desire. The way he'd wanted to see her. "Michael, what's wrong?" she whispered against his mouth, and he could feel the hard peaks of her breasts against his bare chest, feel the soft yielding of her thighs. He rocked against her, slowly, tantalizingly, and she responded, arching up against him, even as he cursed himself.

  He couldn't do it to her. Oh, he could perform, all right. His body was raging out of control, and it would take more than a life-threatening injury to keep him from having her. It would take something far more devastating. His own long-absent sense of honor.

  He covered her hands with his, pressing them against his face, and he pressed down on her body, trying to still the restless trembling in her long limbs. "Michael," she said again, her voice a strangled cry, and he saw suddenly that he'd pushed her too far. The body beneath his was on fire, raging with a need as great as his. Her eyes were wide and shocked, her mouth pale, and he knew she was aroused to the point of pain, with little knowledge of how to deal with that arousal, how to slow it down, turn it down.

  He rolled off her, taking her with him, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her, long, slow, calming strokes, down her arms, her body. But it didn't do any good. She whimpered, a pained little sound in the back of her throat, and each calming stroke of his hand only made her skin jump beneath his touch.

  "Calm down," he whispered against her hair. "I shouldn't have done this. You don't need this right now, and not from me. Just take deep breaths, relax…"

  She caught his wrists, pulling them away from her, and her expression was dark and hunted. "What do you mean?" Her voice was soft and raw. "I need this. I need you."

  He couldn't stand to hear it, not and keep his last ounce of decency. Tell her, his better self ordered. Tell her, so she'll know she could do so much better. But he couldn't. "You're frightened, confused, looking for comfort," he said instead. "That's not a good enough reason."

  "Damn you," she said, yanking away. Except that he wouldn't let her go. He was much, much stronger than she was, and his hand was a manacle around her wrist, jerking her back against him.

  She fought for a minute, but he stilled her with no effort at all, simply by wrapping himself around her again. He couldn't let her storm off into the night. Damn it, he couldn't let her go at all.

  She smelled of heat and flowers and aroused female flesh, and he knew what he was going to do. For her, not for him.

  Pushing her back against the blankets, he silenced her mouth with his. Her hips jerked as he moved his hand down her smooth-skinned stomach, sliding between her thighs, and she tried to clamp them closed against him. But she had to fight both his strength and her own need, and it was a battle she was destined to lose. She was wet and soft and sleek, arching up against him, and she was his.

  The hands that had been pushing him away now clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into the loose cotton shirt that billowed around them. She tore her mouth away, burying her face against the side of his neck, and he could feel the wetness of her tears, the heat from her strangled breathing. He talked to her then, a jumble of words, telling her how brave, how beautiful, how sweet, she was, telling her all the things he wanted to do to her when they had the time and place. She was fighting it, fighting her own body, even as she reached for it.

  He knew women's bodies, better than she did. She was no match for his knowledge, his experience, his determination. He knew how to balance her on the edge of desire, stringing it out for a breathless eternity, and he knew how to plunge her over, prolonging it until she was sobbing against him, beating against him, as her body convulsed, his hand clamped between her thighs.

  He gave her time to calm down. He brushed her hair away from her tear-damp face, whispering to her, words of praise, of love, of sex. He could tell her he loved her. He was Michael Dowd, a math master at Willingborough. He was the kind of person who could love, who could give.

  She shivered in the warm night air, and he pulled the blanket up around her body, pulling her tight against him. She looked up at him, but the clouds had thickened, and he couldn't see her face, her expression. It didn't matter. He knew it in his heart.

  "Michael…" she said, her whispered voice a question.

  He stroked her shoulder, realizing absently that his own hands were trembling. "Go to sleep, love," he said, and meant it. Love.

  "But…"

  "That was for you, love. We'll worry about me next time."

  That phrase, next time, calmed her. It calmed him, even though he knew it was a lie. A moment later she was asleep, her arms tight around him, as if she was afraid he might drift away from her. She knew him better than she realized.

  There would be no next time. Tomorrow Michael Dowd would be gone from the face of this earth, either by the grace of the intelligence bureaucracy or a vengeful God. He would never see her again, and for that he was grateful. In barely more than a week she had become the worst weakness he'd ever known, and he couldn't afford weakness.

  He wondered with a trace of amusement which part of his body was more uncomfortable: the pooled heat and hardness between his legs, or the damage in his side. A man wouldn't die of frustration, but it felt a hell of a lot more terminal than the slow seeping pain beneath his ribs.

  Moving his head, he placed his lips against her forehead. The night was still all around them, dark and silent. There was no danger, not from the three men whose bodies he'd hidden on the far side of the little island. Not from the woman asleep in his arms.

  Only from himself, and his own lost soul.

  Francey let him sleep when she rose from the tumble of blankets. He looked pale in the early light beneath the golden layer of his tan, and there was a faint film of sweat on his forehead. Even in his deep sleep he'd clung to her for a second as she slid out of the makeshift bed, then released her with a sigh. She'd sat back on her heels, nude in the early-morning sunlight, and watched him for long minutes, wondering if he were going to wake, wondering if they were going to continue what they'd started last night.


  She wasn't ready to. Not yet. If she crawled back under the blanket and woke him, then there would be no going back. She couldn't give herself heart and soul to a man again and risk having that gift thrown back in her face.

  Not that she'd actually given herself to Patrick, she reminded herself pragmatically, pulling her sundress over her head and fastening the first few of the tiny buttons. Not her heart, not her soul, not even as much of her body as she'd shared with Michael last night.

  She could feel the color rise in her cheeks, and she glanced back at the sleeping man. It was a lucky thing for her that he was so exhausted, his breathing deep, noisy, his color pale in the shadowy light. It gave her time to pull her defenses back around her, to decide how she was going to handle things when he finally awoke.

  She could admit it now—she'd never loved Patrick. If she had, she wouldn't have waited so long to go to bed with him. Patrick had been wooing her, charming her, for five months before she'd finally decided she trusted him enough to make love with him.

  She'd known Michael Dowd for eight days. She didn't believe half of what he told her, but if he asked, she would strip off her sundress and lie down with him again. She didn't trust him to tell her the truth, but she would trust him with her life. In fact, she already had.

  The smell of coffee didn't move him. The crash of pans as she cleaned up lacked the power to reach him. She swam in the lagoon, washing her hair and rinsing it with the imported water, and still he slept, his noisy, stertorous breathing the only sound in the stillness.

  She was floating lazily on her back, listening to him, when the first trickles of uneasiness hit her. She'd slept with him two nights ago, and before that she'd been sleeping within hearing distance for almost a week. She knew without question that he wasn't a man who snored.