She looked up at the stars, taking a deep breath, willing herself to relax. "Once upon a time," she said in a low voice, "there was a very stupid girl. She had no excuse for her stupidity—she had a good enough brain, a good enough education. But when it came to people she didn't have much common sense. She believed what they told her. She wasn't hopelessly naive, mind you. She knew there was evil in the world. She just never thought it would touch her."
"But it did." He was touching her, she realized. His hand was on her wrist. The one that still ached. And he was stroking it gently, kneading away the lingering stiffness and pain.
"It did," she agreed. "She met a man."
"Ah," said Michael.
"Indeed. He was a very handsome man. Irish, with all the charm associated with the Irish. He could have had anyone eating out of his hand, including people who were a lot more sophisticated than she was. She was child's play for him. All he had to do was smile at her and she fell in love."
"I think you're too hard on her," he said, his voice a low rumble in the night. "It sounds as if she was up against someone who was completely out of her league."
"That's still no excuse for being so trusting." Her voice was hard. "But she believed everything he told her. Believed in the cause he was working for, believed in the future he had mapped out for both of them. And she would have given him everything, everything…" Her voice failed for a moment at the shameful memory.
"What happened to these happy lovers?" At some point his hand had moved up her arm to her shoulder, and she'd moved closer, either at his volition or hers, she wasn't quite sure.
"He had a jealous sister. No, I keep forgetting, she wasn't his sister at all. She was his lover. And they weren't working together through a peace group, the way they told her. They were part of an organization called the Cadre. A violent, terrorist group that stops at nothing to gain their ends. He was planning on assassinating the Queen of England when she spoke at the United Nations. And then he was going to marry the stupid girl, use her for cover to get back into Great Britain, and then kill her, as well."
"Sounds cold-blooded and practical. What went wrong?"
"Someone betrayed them. Caitlin thought it was the girl. She came to her apartment, where she was waiting for her lover, and told her the truth. She dragged her out to find Patrick, to stop him in time, but it was too late. The girl tried to stop it, to warn someone, she wasn't quite sure. She pushed Caitlin in front of a car. And then she watched as Patrick was gunned down."
"And she's been mourning him ever since? She is a stupid girl," he said dispassionately.
"She didn't mourn him. She mourned the loss of her dreams, of what she'd thought he was. She mourned the loss of her innocence, her ability to trust. She mourned the loss of the woman she'd inadvertently killed, even though Caitlin was fully as soulless as Patrick Dugan had been. But most of all she mourned the loss of Francey Neeley. A part of her died, as surely as Patrick died. And there's no way to bring her back."
"You'd be surprised," Michael said, his voice low and warm, easing beneath her defenses. And then, leaning over her, he blocked out the stars.
Chapter 7
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Her lips were soft and cool beneath his. Startled by his actions, she grew stiff and still beneath his hands, his mouth. Michael kissed her gently, just brushing his lips against hers, letting her grow accustomed to the idea, and he kept his hands on her shoulders, no lower, even though the dampness of the T-shirt where it clung to the top of her bikini was having a predictable effect on his body.
She tasted sweet, pure, soft and clean, like a mountain stream. He'd forgotten women could taste like that, feel like that. And he wanted it, wanted her, with a need that could very quickly manage to make him forget all the things he should remember. That there were some very clever people out to kill them. And there was still the remote possibility that the sweet, innocent woman lying there letting him kiss her might be one of them.
He forced himself to lift his head, and her eyes were wide and glittering in the starlight. Glittering with unshed tears.
"Why did you do that?" she whispered, her voice only a thread of sound in the stillness.
He counted on his instincts to keep him alive. They saved his life on innumerable occasions, managed to make the difference between success and failure on others. He'd never bothered to use his instincts when it came to other people, to women, to potential lovers. Only with the basic question: Would they eventually try to kill him?
Looking down at Francey's defenseless face, her bright, tear-filled eyes and soft mouth, those instincts told him that she'd never in her life known passion. Real gut-wrenching, thrusting, pulsating passion. Oh, doubtless she wasn't a virgin. No one was, nowadays. But whatever sex she'd experienced, it hadn't ever really reached her. She was as truly innocent as she seemed.