Now You See Him...

by Anne Stuart

  "Stop it." His words were stripped of all charm and calm, and he sounded bleak, as lost as she felt. "Don't do this to yourself, Francey. Don't do this to me. You don't understand all the ramifications."

  "You're right, I don't. Because no one answers my questions, no one is honest with me. I'm trying to be mature about this, Michael. You've made it clear you don't want to be bothered with me again, and I'm accepting that as gracefully as I can. We went through an intense, emotional experience when our lives were at stake and ended up imagining there was more of a connection between us than there really was. Or at least I did. But I'm a big girl now. I know how things work, and I can—"

  "Shut up." His voice was savage. She could hear the noise in the background, British schoolboys out on a celebratory lark. She closed her eyes in the darkness, wishing she were there beside him to see his face, to touch him, to try to understand what he wasn't telling her.

  "What do you want from me, Michael?" she asked finally, her voice deceptively even.

  "Nothing. I want nothing from you, I want a thousand things for you. I want you to have a good life, Francey. Away from death and terror and lies, from people who aren't who they say they are and never will be. Away from me."

  "Michael…"

  He broke the connection, the transatlantic buzz loud in her ear. She stared at the phone, willing him to be there. She could see him, the cozy English pub around him, uniformed, ruddy-cheeked schoolboys surrounding him, everything as safe and eternal as England herself. And she wondered what in God's name he was talking about.

  Michael stared at the phone in mute frustration, rubbing a hand across his face. He'd been crazy to give in to temptation, another sign that his time was running out. He glanced out beyond the beaded curtain to the bar beyond, the babble of a dozen different languages surrounding him. He was suffering from jet lag, a hangover and a need so powerful that it threatened to wipe out his good sense. He needed Francey Neeley; his soul yearned for her. And if he had any spark of decency left within his battered carcass, he would never go near her again.

  He'd meant to say goodbye. But it hadn't come out that way. He didn't want to hurt her, but he would rather end up wounding her than killing her. He'd meant to be cool and brisk. But she'd gotten through his front so quickly, so devastatingly, that he knew he didn't dare contact her again. She had too much pride to try to contact him, and even if her pride failed her, she had no idea how to find him. She would be safe, whether she liked it or not. Safe from the Patrick Dugans of this world. Safe from men like him.

  He pushed himself away from the counter and, wandered into the bar, squinting through the heavy cigarette smoke. There was a woman waiting for him, someone with information he needed—if he was willing to meet her price. She was very beautiful, very experienced, very deadly. His kind of woman. There was no room in his life for the Francey Neeleys of this world. If he expected to survive for much longer, he'd best remember that. And not waste his time regretting it.

  For a long time Francey didn't move. She sat on the floor, hugging a pillow against her, dry eyed, heartsick and confused. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she whispered out loud to the cockroaches. "Nothing seems to make sense anymore."

  The cockroaches didn't answer. She had a headache from too much champagne, a stomachache from too much emotion, and all she wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep.

  But sleep and security and what dubious peace of mind she'd attained had been ripped from her by Michael's voice. She'd thought she could forget about him, forget those ten days on the islands. Forget those moments by the lagoon.

  She knew better now. Michael might want that chapter in his life closed—she couldn't. Not without seeing him once more. She wasn't going to be patted on the head and told to get on with her life. She'd heard him, beneath the easy charm. She'd heard his need, as raw as her own. And she damned well wasn't going to forget it.

  She was going after him. Willingborough was a well-known boys' school in the south of England; she would fly to London and hire a car. If he could look her in the eye and tell her things were better left as they were, maybe she could accept it. If she saw him surrounded by the accoutrements of English country life, maybe her confusion would fade.

  First she would need to book the first flight available. There was six hours difference; if she got a plane out by that evening, she would arrive the next morning and be at Willingborough by evening.

  She crawled back up onto the bed, shivering slightly in the too cool artificial air, and started making plans, mentally ticking off all the things she would have to accomplish before making a clean getaway. It wasn't until she was almost asleep that the niggling little discrepancy hit her. Michael had told her that he had taken his schoolboy soccer team to a pub to celebrate the victory they'd just won. According to her calculations, it had been nearly ten o'clock in the morning, far too early for a pub to open, much less for a soccer game to have been played.

  Keep away from lies, he'd told her. Keep away from men like me. She hadn't known what he meant; she still didn't. She only knew that was the one thing she couldn't do.

  "I'm sorry, Miss, but I'm Michael Dowd," the heavyset, red-faced man informed her. "I've taught here at Willingborough for the past fifteen years, and I've never been in an auto accident. Someone must have been pulling your leg."

  Francey simply stared at the man. He had thinning blond hair combed back over a sunburned scalp, a petulant expression in his slightly protuberant eyes, and bad teeth. She couldn't blame him for his obvious irritation, she thought numbly. She must seem like a madwoman.

  She shook her head slightly, hoping the scrambled picture would come into focus. But the wrong man was still in front of her, glaring at her, and the stately environs of Willingborough loomed menacingly behind him.

  "I don't suppose you have a mother, three sisters and two brothers, and live in Yorkshire," she said, already knowing the answer.

  "One brother, parents both dead, and I come from the Midlands. Someone's played a nasty trick on you, miss. Particularly if you've come all the way from the States to meet this liar."

  Francey was feeling no emotion whatsoever. The combination of jet lag and a long drive across England, only to be faced with the semi-irate stranger, was too much for her. Her emotions, even her brain, simply shut down. "I needed a vacation anyway," she said vaguely. "I'm sorry that I bothered you." She began to turn away, but the real Michael Dowd appeared suddenly contrite.

  "You look all done in. Why don't you come in for a cup of tea or something? My wife could fix you something to eat."

  "No, thank you. I'd better get moving."

  "But where are you going?"

  If it was an odd question from a stranger she didn't realize that until later. She answered without thinking. "Back to London. To ask some questions, see what I can find out."

  "Don't you think you'd be better off just leaving things be? It's none of my business, of course, but I imagine the man who gave you a phony name doesn't want to be found."

  She looked back at him, resolution forming in her heart. "Perhaps he doesn't. But I don't like being lied to. I'm going to keep looking until I find him. And when I do, I'm going to want some answers."

  Michael Dowd looked as if he wanted to argue with her further; then he shut his mouth. "I'd advise against it," he said. "But it's your funeral. Best of luck, then."

  She nodded absently, heading back to the car she'd barely mastered. "My funeral," she echoed. "It just might be." She drove out along the spacious drive of Willingborough, with its century-old oaks and chestnuts, its stately grandeur, but her eyes could barely see the road. She drove mindlessly, heading back toward London. Until suddenly everything was awash, and she could barely see. She pulled over, wrestling with the unaccustomed right-hand steering wheel, and put the car into Park. And realized it wasn't raining after all. She was crying.

  She wiped her face, but the tears kept coming, an unstoppable flow, and finally she couldn't
fight them anymore. Leaning forward, she put her head on the steering wheel, clutching it with her hands, and wept.

  The real Michael Dowd lumbered down the empty halls of Willingborough. The little swine were off reading their girlie magazines, blasting rock and roll through their adolescent eardrums. There was no one around to overhear.

  He dialed the number quickly and efficiently. "Cardiff," he said when a familiar voice answered. "You were right. She showed up."

  "Unfortunate," Ross Cardiff said at the other end. "But I knew she would, I just knew it. What did she say when you told her who you were?"

  "She didn't believe me, of course. But I managed to convince her. She looked as if she'd been hit by a bomb. Just sort of mumbled something and said she was heading back to London."

  "Do you think she'll have the sense to drop it?" Cardiff's voice was its usual nasal whine.

  "I doubt it. You know Americans. And she had that 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' expression on her face. You know the effect he usually has on women. She'll probably walk barefoot over coals till she tracks him down. She said she was going to ask a lot of questions when she got back to London. She could make a great deal of trouble."

  "Curse him," Ross fumed. "And curse her, too. He swore he hadn't boffed her. I should have known better. Even on his death bed he couldn't keep his pants on. He probably went through half the nursing staff while he was in a coma."

  The real Michael Dowd grimaced on the other end, knowing full well the real cause of Ross Cardiff's fury. "I couldn't say, sir. All I know is she looked shocked, angry and determined. She said she didn't like being lied to."

  "I suppose there's no need to overreact. After all, how much trouble can she cause? It's not as if she has anything to go on."

  "She has a photograph, sir."

  "Impossible! He couldn't have gotten that soft!" Cardiff exploded. "How did it happen?"

  "I couldn't say. Obviously he didn't know it was being taken. From the looks of it, it was done at some restaurant in the islands. But it looks like the Cougar, boss. Anyone who knows him would recognize him."

  There was a dead silence on the other end, and he could just imagine the expression on Cardiff's weaselly little face. "Then I suppose we're just going to have to do something about this little problem, aren't we, Dowd?"

  "Not me, sir. I've got twenty-seven young buggers here to keep me busy. I've done what I can."

  "For now," Cardiff said, and his voice was chilling. "I'll get back to you later."

  Michael Dowd hung up the phone, staring at it for a moment. Ross Cardiff was a bad man to cross, a petty, back-stabbing little bureaucrat who thought nothing of bending the rules to support his own shortsighted agenda. He paid extremely well and asked no questions, and the real Michael Dowd had always appreciated a little tax-free income. But he was glad he was out of the line of fire in this one.

  The girl was going to be right sorry she'd ever come across Ross Cardiff. And she was going to regret even more the time she'd spent with the man who'd appropriated Michael Dowd's name.

  Still and all, it wasn't his problem. And if an American tourist was found floating in the Thames in the next few days, he would skip over that bit in the newspaper and concentrate on the tits and bum in the centerfold.

  Still and all, it was a hell of a life.

  Of all his recent persona, the man sometimes known as Cougar thought, Charlie Bisselthwaite was one of the most annoying. He'd been somewhat envious of the Michael Dowd he'd created, with his basic decency, his solid background, his hopes for the future. Charlie Bisselthwaite was nothing more than an irritating fop.

  He squinted up into the bright sunlight. He'd been on Malta for more than a week now, cultural attaché to Sir Henry Putnam, the blustery ambassador, a nothing kind of job that required no more than a decent social grace and appearances at various cocktail parties. Occasionally he might have to squire around someone's angular spinster daughter, but the rest of the time was his, as long as he was discreet about it.

  The problem with discretion, of course, was that it was hard for information to find you. In the week he'd been in place he'd put out tentative feelers, showing up in out-of-the-way places, asking casual questions, and so far he'd come up with nothing. Far less than had been apparent during his cursory stop on Gibraltar.

  Which had only convinced him further. The Cadre wouldn't leave an obvious trail. Ross was going to have his own troop of goons tromping all over Gibraltar, looking for terrorists, and they would most likely come up with nothing more dangerous than a few Barbary apes.

  On his end, he'd just begun to come up with a few stray pieces of information. Enough to keep him going. Enough to keep him so busy that he couldn't even think about Francey Neeley.

  At least he knew she was getting on with her life. He'd kept tabs on her before his rash, late-night phone call. She'd gone back to work, had even gone to a few parties. In another month or so she would forget about a man named Michael Dowd and settle down into the safe little life she'd been born to. As long as he kept away from her, away from the telephone, she would be fine.

  He only hoped he had the self-control to keep his promise to himself. It was in the middle of the night that it hit him—the remembered scent of her skin, the way her eyes lit up, the softness of her mouth. And nothing could wipe it away; he just had to sweat it out and hope the next day he would forget again.

  He had a message waiting for him when he let himself into the villa he was renting on the south end of the island. He made himself a drink first, not certain he wanted to talk to Scott. Scott was stationed in New York—he'd had him watch over Francey from a discreet distance, just to make certain she was all right.

  On the one hand, she might be in trouble. On the other, Scott might just be checking in with the latest report. Maybe he would tell him that she was seeing someone. Sleeping with someone. Ready to get married.

  He drained his whiskey and water in one gulp, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. The brown hair suited him, and so did the tan. He was getting used to the brown contact lenses—he'd used them often enough before, and he had finally begun to put the weight back on his gaunt body. The man Francey had known on the island no longer existed. He needed to remember that.

  "Bad news about your little friend, chum," Scott said flatly when he finally reached him.

  He was used to controlling his reactions. He ignored the sudden stab of panic. "Is she all right?" he managed in a calm drawl.

  "She left for London more than a week ago, and on Saturday she went missing. There are a couple of possibilities."

  "I'm waiting."

  "One, that she went looking for you. Someone fitting her description was seen outside Willingborough, but Michael Dowd said he hadn't seen her."

  "What's the other possibility?" His voice was terse, strained.

  "Before she left she liquidated a large portion of her personal fortune. I don't think you're going to want to know what she did with it."

  "Don't make me ask."

  "The Children of Eire. She signed it all over to them, after working on fund-raising during the bulk of last month. And you know as well as I do what the COE is a front for."

  "The Cadre." He wouldn't believe it. Despite strong cause for doubt, he'd believed her, trusted her. He couldn't believe she was part of that nest of vipers. Not after all this time. It just didn't add up.

  "It would fit in with her disappearance. She could have gone over to join them."

  "Then why was she near Willingborough? And why did Dowd lie about it?"

  "You know who you'll have to ask about that, old man. Cardiff himself. I can't do any more for you."

  "You've done enough, Scott. I owe you."

  There was a momentary hesitation on the other end. "You think she's okay, Cougar? I got sort of fond of her while I was watching her. Seemed like a nice girl."

  "I don't know. I damned well mean to find out, if I have to beat it out of Cardiff."

 
"And if she's gone to join the Cadre?"

  It was a possibility too bleak to even consider. "Then I'll find her when I find the others." And God have mercy on her soul.

  Chapter 11

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  The cell was tiny, foul and terrifying. Francey sat on the edge of the narrow pallet, making herself very small. The voices were all around her, speaking in languages she couldn't understand, Spanish, Arabic, German. And she was frightened.

  So very, very frightened. How had it happened? Somehow she'd been thrust into a maze of contradictions and lies that had brought her to this place of horrors. Just days before she'd walked into a sunny Spanish bar. And ended up here.

  "I'm looking for a man," she had said, trying to cover the faint quaver of uneasiness in her voice.

  The man behind the bar ignored her. She tried again, her voice a little louder, a little shakier. "I'm looking for a man, señor," she said.

  The bartender stared at her out of black, expressionless eyes. She knew he spoke English as well as Spanish—the sign on the bar informed her of as much. In the two days she'd been wandering around Spain, she'd discovered that most people were multilingual, and if they didn't understand English, she could just manage to communicate in her schoolgirl French. The tiny port of Mariz was her third Spanish city in two days, the smallest, after Malaga and Sevilla, and the least hopeful.

  The bartender spread a meaty hand over the crowded bar. "Take your pick," he said, turning away.

  She had the nerve to reach out and catch his arm. "No, I'm looking for a particular man. My cousin. He has a big boat…"

  "Lots of big boats," the bartender said, nodding toward the shining blue of the Mediterranean beyond the grimy, fly-specked window.

  "His name is Daniel Travers. He's my cousin…"

  A man standing too close beside her sniggered. "That's what they all say. If you can't find this 'cousin' of yours, I can get you plenty of work. There are lots of very rich cousins out there, and I won't expect too much of a cut."