"You did? Why didn't you call me?" He really wanted to know the answer to that question. Why hadn't she tamed to him for help?
"I didn't want to bother you. You'd been through enough in the past twenty-four hours. Besides, crime is practically nonexistent on St. Anne. Whoever was out there probably didn't mean us any harm. And if they did, this place comes equipped with the latest in security systems. They couldn't have gotten in."
The security system Daniel Travers had installed was already out-of-date and any operative worth his salt could have gotten past it, but he wasn't supposed to know these things. "That's a relief. Not that either of us has any enemies. Do we?"
Once again her face turned pale beneath her tan, and he wondered if she were simply better than he expected, or if she really was that vulnerable. "No enemies," she said in a slightly raspy voice. "Not that I know of."
"Cecil says his cousin will have word on the Jeep by this afternoon. He'll stop back and let us know."
"Can't he call?"
"No phone."
"Of course." She shook her head at her own stupidity. "Coffee or tea?"
Or me, he thought irreverently. "Coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon," he said. "Unless it's tea bags. Then I'll stick with coffee the whole time." He started toward the kitchen, moving slowly. He'd left his cane behind, and he had to do a creditable job struggling along without it. It was more of a prop than a necessity most of the time, but after the rigors of his day of travel and night of grand prix driving, he could have used the support. "I can make it."
"You'll do no such thing," she said, suddenly bustling and maternal once more. "You go out on the veranda while I make a pot of coffee and something to eat. You need to take it easy, build your strength back." She'd already turned away from him, heading back through the butler's pantry into the kitchen, and he watched her go, wryly aware of his own conflict.
By the time he got his bags up to his bedroom, managed a shower and a change into a pair of his old, baggy khakis and a loose white T-shirt, he could smell the coffee wafting upward. He took his cane this time and headed downstairs, moving a little more slowly than he had to. One problem with this hot climate was the skimpy clothing. There was no way he could hide a gun in what he was wearing, and assuming he stripped down to shorts or a bathing suit, he would even have to ditch the knife he had strapped to his calf. He didn't like the idea of being out there at the end of St. Anne without proper protection. But until he knew how far he could trust Frances Neeley, he wasn't going to be anything more than an invalid schoolteacher. One who certainly wouldn't be carrying his efficient-looking Beretta.
"There you are," she said when he limped out onto the veranda. "I was worried about you." She'd managed to change into some flimsy sundress, one that exposed long, tanned legs and arms and the slight swell of her breasts. He usually preferred busty women. Maybe it was time to change his tastes.
She made good coffee; he had to grant her that. She made good bacon and eggs, too, even if he'd let them sit too long. She also made good conversation, and, even more, she knew when to be peacefully quiet. All in all, an estimable woman. If she wasn't an IRA murderer.
She yawned, stretching her bare legs out in front of her, and he found himself watching her feet. He'd never seen a woman with beautiful feet before in his life. Of course, he hadn't spent that much time looking below their knees. Maybe she wasn't that extraordinary.
He was on his second cup of coffee, feeling marginally better than he had in months, when her dreamy voice broke through his abstraction. "I wonder what that boat's doing?" she murmured, snatching the final croissant that he'd been resisting for the past few minutes.
Michael narrowed his eyes to squint into the bright sunlight. The boat looked ordinary enough to him. Large, slightly rusty, equipped with fishing paraphernalia, it looked like a commercial fisherman's boat. "Fishing?" he suggested lazily.
She shook her head. "Not there. Any of the locals know that the currents run too fast by the point. I can't imagine who could be out there."
Michael set his cup down very carefully. It wasn't one of theirs. He knew exactly which boats Cecil and company employed, and none of them was a deceptively rusty trawler like the one lurking just beyond the point. Once he looked closer he could see the telltale signs of sophisticated electronic surveillance equipment, probably the kind that could pick up every word they were saying. Not to mention the name of the damned boat. Irish Fancy. He could imagine just what their fancy was.
"I expect they're just testing new waters," he said with deliberate laziness. The deck they were sitting on wouldn't be an easy target for snipers. The ocean beyond the point was particularly choppy that morning, and their watchers would have to spray the balcony with a machine gun to ensure hitting their targets.