"Not a trace left of you, mon," Cecil observed cheerfully. "Maybe that'll keep them off your tail for a while. I considered letting the house blow as a decoy, but I figured your buddy Travers might think that was going a little too far in the way of cooperation."
"Good thinking. They'll be just as likely to be fooled by the car exploding as the house."
"Which means…?"
Michael looked down at Francey, lying huddled on the floor of the dinghy. She was soaked to the skin, her sun-streaked brown hair matted against her face, and he found himself wanting to pick her up and cradle her in his arms. To strip off his damp shirt and dry her. To warm her chilled flesh, soothe her chilled soul.
He let her be. "Which means they're not likely to be fooled at all. Or not for long. So better to sacrifice a car than a house. I rather liked that house."
"I got through to Cardiff. It's going to be a few days on the island."
Michael lifted his eyes to meet Cecil's. "How many days?"
"You know Cardiff. He wasn't sure how he was going to get you off, or how long it was going to take, but I'd say thirty-six hours, at least."
"I imagine he sent some smarmy message for me."
"Just to be careful. And enjoy yourself."
"Bastard," Michael said carefully. He didn't want to enjoy himself. Not with the vulnerable woman lying at his feet.
"You've got enough supplies, the weather's supposed to be fine, and you've got yourself a pretty lady. If I were you, I wouldn't complain."
"You're not me," Michael said dispassionately as the dinghy pulled up next to the fishing boat. He had no choice but to hand Francey's body up to the waiting men, and he wondered briefly if he'd used too much pressure, or not enough. The ride out to the Baby Saints would take forty minutes. He didn't want her waking up too soon, asking questions before he'd decided on the answers. Or too late. He didn't want to hurt her any more than was completely necessary.
The problem with Francey was that she didn't accept easy answers. Easy lies, automatic excuses. She saw through them, and he wasn't quite sure why. He only knew that she was a lot harder to fool than he'd ever imagined.
It the end, though, it was easy. She didn't begin to come out of it until Cecil and his men had disappeared, leaving them on the tiny, lush island of Baby Jerome, with enough supplies to last them a depressingly long time. He'd laid her out on a blanket, his rolled-up white suit jacket beneath her head, the late-afternoon sun baking her skin, drying the salt-stiffened dress and smoothing away the chill that rippled her skin. He'd turned away to rummage through the packages Cecil had dropped, looking in vain for fresh clothing, and when he turned back her eyes were open, and she was watching him, expressionless, motionless, and he waited for her accusation.
"Did I faint?" Her voice was rusty, strained, her eyes still faintly dazed with shock.
He almost wanted to deny it. To tell her she'd had some help. But he couldn't. Why would a math and soccer master from Somerset know how to render someone unconscious like that?
He gave her a charming, impartial smile. "I'm afraid so. You missed all the excitement."
"Excitement?" She struggled to sit up, glancing around her at the deserted beach. "Where are we?"
"On one of the Baby Saints, I gather. Cecil assures me no one comes here, that we'll be safe for the time being. Until your uncle can mount a rescue."
She shook her head, patently trying to clear the mists that still clung to her. "So they never showed up?"
"Who?"
"The bad guys. Those mythical people who are supposedly trying to kill me," she said with a trace of sharpness, a sharpness that amused him.
She didn't like being passive. She was already fighting back. He wished he were a normal man, with even a trace of a normal life. He would like to see her when her emotions hadn't been battered. "They never showed up," he agreed, sitting back on his heels.
"I told you, this is crazy. No one—"
"They did, however, leave you a present." He interrupted her protests.
She went very still, and he could see a shiver dance over her tanned skin. "A present?"
"A bomb in the sports car. I'm afraid it blew just as we took off out to sea."
She looked ill, and he wondered whether she was about to throw up. The thought didn't disturb him—he'd done worse in his life than hold a lady while she puked her guts out.
She shut her eyes, murmuring weakly, "Oh, my God."
"With luck, they'll assume we died in the car."
She opened her eyes again, and her gaze was remarkably calm and steady in the whiteness of her face. "And if they don't?"