Now You See Him(14)

He dropped his coffee mug on the terrace, watching as it rolled toward Francey. "I'm sorry," he said, making a suitably abortive effort to retrieve it. It ended exactly where he wanted it, under her chaise.

"I'll get it," she said with a smile, getting down on the deck and reaching for it. No sudden hail of bullets, no telltale whine, Michael thought, ready to roll on top of her in an instant if need be. Whoever was out there, they were simply watching, waiting. For another accident, perhaps. Or maybe they really only wanted one of them. But which one?

He stared down at the boat in the distance. He could see the sunlight reflect off glass. Someone's binoculars were trained on Belle Reste, but that came as no surprise. What was surprising was this wait-and-see attitude.

"What are you looking at?" Francey was on her knees beside his chaise, her head just above the railing of the balcony. They could probably manage a perfect shot if the seas would just calm for a moment.

Catching her arm in a loose grip, he came off the chaise with clumsy speed and hauled her after him, hoping his infirmity would disguise his sudden wariness. He pulled her into the kitchen, limping more heavily than he needed to. "Let's get out of here," he said breathlessly.

"What?" She stared up at him, her high forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Show me the island. I'm feeling a little stir-crazy."

"Michael, you just got here." Her voice was the soul of patience. "If you're housebound already, how do you think you'll feel in another couple of weeks?"

I'm not going to be here in a couple of weeks, he thought with a certain amount of savagery. "I've been in hospital since yesterday, Francey. Belle Reste is absolutely beautiful, but I have a sudden craving to be out and about. Free, for the first time in months. I don't suppose it makes any sense…"

"Of course it does." There it was again, that damned maternal soothing. "I'm just surprised you trust my driving after last night. We have one major problem, however. No car."

"I don't know of a driver I'd trust more," he said, completely honest for once. "Can't I rent a car? Have it delivered?"

"I never thought of that. "

"Why don't you get some shoes on, comb your hair, do whatever you need to do?" Michael suggested. "If you point me in the direction of the phone, I'll make arrangements."

"I don't think it's going to be that simple."

"I do," Michael said, knowing that Cecil was already prepared. "Trust me."

She looked at him for a moment with those doubting brown eyes of hers, and then she nodded. "All right," she said. "It won't take me long."

He waited until she left the room before he dialed the number that would be patched through to Cecil's cellular phone. And he wondered whether she trusted him any more than he trusted her. He'd thought he'd fooled her completely. Now he was beginning to wonder.



Michael was as good as his word. Francey dawdled as long as she could, fiddling with the makeup she hadn't touched in months, brushing her hair back, then forward, then giving up on it entirely as it simply began to curl in the humidity. She stared at her reflection in the mirror of the downstairs bedroom. She didn't know why she'd chosen that sundress. In all the time she'd been on St. Anne she hadn't worn it—the colors were too bright, the flowers too cheerful. But she'd put it on this morning, and now there was no way she could revert to the old T-shirt and cutoffs she'd been favoring.

It must be his accent, she decided. Maybe she was just a sucker for a voice from the British Isles. Her stomach cramped at the involuntary thought, but she faced it sternly. There was only so long that she could hide from what had almost happened, and that time was coming to an end.

She had been attracted to a murderer and a liar. A terrorist. She hadn't known it, of course. But the fact of the matter was, if fate and the British secret service hadn't taken a hand, she would have gone to bed with him that night. And probably ended up another victim in a few months' time, after he'd bled her bank account dry.

Not that Michael Dowd was anything like Patrick Dugan. They both had charm, of course. But Patrick's fanaticism had burned deep within him, shedding an intense light on those around him. Michael Dowd probably reserved his emotions for algebra and soccer matches. Anyone who could face their close brush with death last night with such equanimity had to be a pretty cold fish.

She couldn't figure out why she found him attractive. Maybe months of seclusion were finally taking their toll. Maybe it was the first healthy sign of life stirring in her pain-deadened heart. Or maybe she'd really gone crazy.

He was waiting for her by the front door. He was wearing a loose linen jacket and a pair of sunglasses, and his cane was hooked over one arm. "Madame, your chariot awaits," he said, opening the door for her with a flourish that made her smile.