by Anne Stuart
There was a different concierge on duty when she walked into the dark, hushed lobby. She carried her new sandals in her hand, walking barefoot on the beautiful oriental runner, and her long gauze skirt swirled around her legs. She'd lost all sense of time, letting darkness fall around her, and it was only because she'd somehow ended up back at the hotel that she'd decided to go inside.
She walked past Daniel's door on the third floor without giving him more than a cursory thought. Either Dr. Brady had managed to stabilize him, correct his medication and bring him back to his old self, or he hadn't. If he hadn't, the alternatives were equally obvious. The hospital or death. Whatever the answer, there wasn't anything she could, or would, do about it. She didn't even know whether Daniel had lied to her or not. He might have been fed the same convoluted stories—no, that wasn't true. He told her he'd seen the Arab who'd brought her out of prison. An ugly customer, he'd called him.
One more person she couldn't trust. She closed her door behind her, very softly, and reached for the light switch.
"Don't turn it on." Michael's voice came from out of the darkness, and she froze.
She had a great many alternatives. She could scream bloody murder; she could fling herself at him in a rage; she could fall at his feet. She wanted to do all those things—and she wanted to do none of those things. So she did nothing for a moment, just took a deep, steadying breath.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked finally, her voice thin and calm in the inky darkness. "Come to apologize? So sorry, Francey dear, but I've lied to you, your cousin's lied to you, but it was all for the good of society…"
"Be quiet, Francey."
"I think I've been quiet long enough."
"The hell you have. What do you think landed you in that Spanish prison?" His voice was weary. He was sitting on the sofa by the French doors—she could see his silhouette. See the faint glow of the cigarette she hadn't known he smoked. "I told you to forget about me. Why the hell didn't you listen?"
"I'm listening now." She walked into the room, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. "I'm going back to New York with Daniel…" Sudden misgivings assailed her. "Is that why you're here? Is Daniel dead?"
"He's fine. Elmore switched his medication, and he's all set to accompany you tomorrow. Assuming you're planning to go quietly."
"And if I'm not? Will someone drug me again, maybe find a Maltese prison to throw me into?"
"Don't be hysterical."
"I don't consider it hysterical of me. After all, I have been drugged, I have been imprisoned. Why not try again? I imagine this time you won't be around to rescue me. I don't quite understand why you did, Michael. Why didn't you just leave me there to rot?"
"The moment I found out where you were, I came after you."
"Why? Didn't it interfere with whatever spy game you're playing? That's what you are, isn't it? Some damned James Bond, living out Cold War fantasies?"
"Francey…"
"Why are you here, Michael? What is it you want from me?"
"I wanted to apologize."
She took a deep, furious breath. "You wanted to apologize?" she echoed in a blast of rage. "Not good enough, Michael, not by a long shot. You didn't just happen to choose St. Anne to recuperate from your so-called auto accident. You came after me. To pick my brain, to see what I knew about the Cadre. Didn't you?"
"Yes."
"It didn't matter that I'd told everybody everything a million times. It didn't matter that Patrick was dead. It didn't matter—" She stopped suddenly, as another sick realization hit her. "You killed him, didn't you?"
He didn't even pretend to misunderstand her. "Yes."
"Of course you weren't in a car accident. You were recovering from bullet wounds. He shot you before you killed him. I watched." Her voice broke slightly in the shadowy darkness.
"Yes," he said again.
"Damn you," she said quietly.
"For what? For killing a man who was trying to turn a public occasion into a bloodbath? For killing a man who damned near killed me?"
"For lying."
"Well, in that case I'm damned for sure, because my entire life is a lie," he said savagely.
"It was your choice. I wonder what your family thinks of you. Are they proud of the life you've chosen. Or don't they even know?"
His silence gave her the answer. "They don't exist, either, do they?" she said. "No Whipdale House and comfortable mum, no sisters and brothers and aging Newfoundlands. It was all a lie, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
She took a deep, shaky breath. "Why me, Michael? Why did you come to St. Anne? Why didn't you believe me, let me be? Why should I have lied to the investigators?"
He rose from the sofa and walked to the French doors, his back to her. She watched him in the darkness, marveling again at the difference in him. He wasn't Charlie Bisselthwaite now, or gentle Michael Dowd. He was the man on Baby Jerome. A strong, dangerous man, suddenly larger than life. "We couldn't trust you," he said finally. "Not if we took into account your family connection."
"Don't be ridiculous. Daniel is almost pathologically loyal. He likes the same stupid games you do—he'd never become involved with terrorists or an organization like the Cadre."
"I'm not talking about your cousin Daniel. His loyalty is unquestionable."
"Unlike mine," she said bitterly. "Then what the hell are you talking about? I don't have any other family. My mother died in a car crash seven years ago, and my father drowned when I was three. Unless you're talking about the parade of stepfathers my mother presented me with, and I hardly think I can be condemned because of them."
"No one's condemning you," he said wearily, turning to face her. She shouldn't see much in the darkness, just the shape of him, the rumpled white suit that looked so different on his Charlie alter ego, the glitter of his eyes. And yet she knew he could see her quite clearly. Her face. And her heart.
"Then why don't you explain, simply and clearly, what it is that's made you suspect me?"
"That charming Irish poet your mother married," he said. "The one who drowned in the Liffey when you were three years old. Well, he was something more than a bad poet. He had strong political leanings. He didn't drown. He died while trying to plant a bomb. And you weren't his only child."
This couldn't be happening, Francey thought. "What child?"
"A girl. Born to an Irish waitress by the name of Cassie Dugan. She named her daughter Caitlin."
It came back with sickening suddenness. The feel of the girl's tight, furious body as she shoved her away from her, the screech of tires, the ominous thump of a body striking metal. "Caitlin was my sister?"
"You were marked, practically from birth. She and the man she called her brother sought you out. You were a perfect choice, a combination of political and personal enemy, and with a comfortable trust fund to boot."
"Not anymore. I got rid of as much as I could."
Michael laughed, the sound totally devoid of humor. "Just where they wanted it to go. You really think the Children of Eire is an innocent organization? It's the Cadre. They finally got what they wanted from you. Or almost everything. Caitlin wanted your death."
"And instead I killed her." Her voice was raw in the darkness. "Didn't I? Or is that one more little surprise you have for me…?"
He moved then, crossing the darkened room to come close, too close for her peace of mind. "This time I need you to listen to me, Francey. You need to get on that plane tomorrow with Daniel. No questions, no looking back. I never existed."
"Who didn't exist? Michael Dowd? Or Charlie Bisselthwaite? Or the Arab? Or…" Hysteria was making her voice rise, and he did what she'd been waiting for. He put his hands on her, catching her arms and pulling her tight against his body. He was hot, blazing hot, and she was so cold.
"None of us," he whispered in her ear. "In a few days this will all be over. You can wipe it out of your memory, forget it ever happened…"
She yanked herself free, and her a
nger blazed forth. "I can, can I? It's that simple? I just wipe out blocks of my life and do a little tap dance? Next thing I know, you'll be telling me to find a nice young man, settle down and get married?"
"You should."
She slapped him. The sound was loud and shocking in the still, dark hotel room. He didn't move, and she reached out to slap him again, to goad him into a reaction.
She got her wish without her hand connecting. He caught her wrist in a tight grip, pulled her back against him and kissed her, a hard, brutal kiss that hurt her mouth. And broke her heart.
There was more honesty, more emotion, in that heated, desperate kiss than in any he'd give her before. He still held her wrist, but she slid her other arm around his waist and clung to him desperately, feeling buffeted by the winds of fate and anger.
And then he released her abruptly, flinging her wrist away, stepping back. "Goodbye, Francey," he said, biting the words off as if they pained him. And a moment later he was gone, the heavy door closing silently behind him.
She didn't move, wondering almost absently whether she was going to cry.
No tears came. No fury, no pain, no recriminations. Just a deep, thick calm, wrapping around her. Tinged with joy.
He loved her. She remembered the words from her drugged stupor, and she felt them in her heart, in his rage, his anger, his need for her. He loved her fully as much as she loved him.
And there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. To remain on Malta would be to put her life in danger and, therefore, his. The best thing she could do was leave, tomorrow, and wait for him to come to her.
He hadn't said he would. He had told her to forget about him. He might even have thought it was possible. But it wouldn't be for him. Sooner or later, he would have to come to her. And she would be waiting.
It had never been dark in the prison cell. Bare light bulbs had glared in her eyes all night long, and the thick, stench-laden air had sunk into her lungs. She'd come to cherish the darkness. The silence. A town that closed down early. Or maybe it was later than she realized. Only an occasional car drove by outside, beneath the small balcony, and there were no voices, no sounds of street quarrels or lovers' laughter. Moving around the room, she turned off the lights, plunging it into darkness. She didn't bother to check the door. She knew she hadn't locked it, and she told herself she didn't care. She stretched out on the bed, on top of the covers, and lay very still. It was as dark and silent as a tomb, with only the fresh salt breeze reminding her that she was alive. Alive. And it wasn't until she was almost asleep that she realized why she hadn't locked her door.
It hadn't been apathy, lack of concern that the people who wanted to hurt her, the members of the Cadre, the mysterious Cardiff, might hurt her. And it hadn't bad anything to do with her recent intense hatred of locks and keys.
It had to do with the deep-seated, unshakable hope that Michael Dowd would change his mind, come once again to her in the shadows, and make her feel alive.
Their plane was due to depart from the tiny Maltese airport at one-thirty in the afternoon. They were to change in Rome, then fly straight on to the United States without stopping, passing time zones and governments without even being aware of them.
Francey threw out the sand-washed silk clothes she'd walked the streets in, threw out the sandals that had carried her away from the embassy. She dressed without thinking, not noticing the texture of the silk this time, not noticing the flattering drape of the cloth. She left the hotel room without a backward glance, meeting Daniel in the lobby and accompanying him out to the airport in complete silence.
He still didn't look well. Whatever drugs Elmore had given him hadn't done the trick, and his color was just as bad as it had been before. He kept rubbing his upper arm in an unconscious gesture, and occasionally he stumbled. By the time they'd managed to check in for their flight at the tiny airport, he was sweating profusely in the cool, air-conditioned atmosphere.
"Boarding in half an hour, Miss Neeley," the flight attendant announced.
"Damned island," Daniel muttered as he sank into a chair. "The runway's too small for my jet. I hate flying commercial airlines. I hate it."
Francey tried to dredge up some sympathy and failed completely. "It can't be that long a flight to Rome. If you want, you can wait there for your jet while I go on ahead. I have no problem with flying commercial airlines. I simply want to get home."
"I'm coming with you," Daniel said, wheezing slightly.
"Why? So I don't get into any more trouble?" she asked tartly.
He shook his head, closing his eyes in sudden weariness. "I haven't done well by you, Francey. When your mother died, I promised I'd watch out for you, make sure you were all right. I've failed at that, failed miserably."
"You did your best," she murmured soothingly, the hard knot of her anger buried deep inside. It wouldn't do any good to accuse Daniel of betrayal. His motives, his beliefs were his own.
"I should have told you, warned you…" he said, rubbing his upper arm.
"Yes," she said. "But it's past that now. Shouldn't I be looking ahead? Shouldn't both of us?"
He sighed. "He told you, about Caitlin, didn't he? I'm glad. I wish I'd felt I could, but I promised your mother…"
"Let's not talk about it now," Francey said, putting a soothing hand on his arm, feeling the faint tremors. "She's gone, there's nothing she can do to hurt us anymore."
Daniel opened his mouth to speak, but instead a look of intense surprise passed over his face. He clutched his arm again, tightly. "Francey," he gasped. And then he pitched forward onto the tile floor.
Chapter 16
« ^ »
The man known by many names, including Michael Dowd, had been furious when he'd walked into Sir Henry's office and seen Francey's slender back. He'd been in a white-hot rage, so intense he was barely rational. How someone would have been shortsighted enough to let Francey Neeley come to the British embassy, how all their failsafe systems could have shorted out, was a matter of complete mystery to him. He'd been a fool to think he could ever get away with it, simply fade out of her life without seeing her again. He was too old a hand at this game to have wasted his time on false hopes. But he couldn't rid himself of the blind rage that had swamped him as he saw the shocked recognition in Francey's eyes.
He couldn't understand why she hadn't denounced him. Why she hadn't launched herself in a furious attack, or at the very least told that old fool, Sir Henry, that he was no more a cultural attaché than Oliver North had been. Because she'd known. He understood her very well, better than he knew himself. And in her shocked, hurt eyes he'd seen a sudden wealth of comprehension. She knew everything, or just about. Knew the limits of his betrayal.
And she'd simply walked away. Without a word of reproach or threat. Simply curled in on herself and vanished.
She didn't know he'd followed her. He hadn't lost his touch enough for her to notice he'd been shadowing her as she walked aimlessly through the old town section, down by the waterfront, up past the rich houses of the expatriates, skirting the cafés and bars that were bright and warm with humanity. She didn't know his watchful shadow had kept any number of men from trying to strike up a conversation with the aimless wanderer.
He'd waited until she neared the hotel, slipped ahead of her in the shadows and waited for her in her room. He didn't know what he'd hoped to accomplish. He certainly hadn't wanted to touch her again. Had he?
But of course he had. He'd come within inches of taking her to that wide, empty bed and making sure nothing fogged her memory of what it was like between them. But something had stopped him. Maybe his last remnants of decency. Or maybe just the dazed pain in her beautiful brown eyes.
He'd left her before he could touch her again. And then he'd turned and walked to the nearest bar and proceeded to get just as drunk as he could afford to.
It didn't make the next day any better. He didn't have a headache or a hangover—his body was too well controlled to be prey to an
y such weaknesses. He showed up at work a fashionable forty-five minutes late, as his alter ego, Charlie, always did, and managed to look languid and unconcerned as he waited for his carefully constructed cover to come crashing down around him.
He had no idea what she was going to do. Whether she would leave with Daniel, quietly accepting that it was over. He'd told her the truth, or most of it, about her sister to shock her into acquiescence. But with Francey, nothing was a certainty.
There was no phone call. No outraged summons from Sir Henry, demanding an explanation. Not even a word from Daniel, warning him of the upcoming debacle. Nothing at all.
He was more than accustomed to the frantic tedium of waiting for all hell to break loose. He told himself that this was no different from keeping watch outside a terrorists' hideout, but he knew otherwise. For the first time in his life his emotions were involved. And in a matter of hours the first woman he'd ever loved would send his mission into oblivion. Or she would disappear from his life forever. And he didn't know which would be worse.
He spent the hours shuffling papers on his artfully messy desk, drinking very strong coffee and flirting with any woman who happened to walk by his open office door. Her plane was due to leave at two-thirty. If he could just ignore the clock until after that he would be fine.
But for the first time in his life his iron will faded. At a quarter of two he looked at the thin gold watch that belonged to a Charlie-type person and knew he had just enough time to make it to the airport. Not to stop her. But to watch her fly away, out of his life forever.
The ambulance was just pulling out when he arrived at the airport, and it charged past him, lights flashing, siren keening. He barely noticed it, so intent on finding Daniel and watching the plane take off that he almost didn't see the car following the ambulance. Almost didn't see Francey's pale, frightened figure in the back seat, sandwiched between two large men.
He didn't waste his time cursing; he jerked the wheel, heading after the ambulance and the gray car. Charming Charlie the indolent fop had disappeared. The man who'd taken his place had no name, no identity other than Cougar, only one purpose in life, and the willingness to use any means to get it. He'd recognized Dex, the man to the left of Francey. And he knew with a cool clarity that he wouldn't be able to get her away without killing on her behalf.
