And at that moment he knew that she was everything else she'd ever seemed to be. A victim of the Cadre's hit-and-run techniques, one more survivor of the vagaries of life and politics.
"You looked like you needed to be kissed," he said finally, answering her question.
"I don't think so. That's how I got into this mess in the first place."
The thought of being equated with a piece of murdering slime like Patrick Dugan, even for a moment, sent a chill down his spine. His hands tightened on her shoulders, then eased, and he sank back beside her, close enough to feel the heat from her body, smell the scent of her skin, far enough away to make it an even greater torment.
He was used to torment. It was good for his soul. Make a man out of him, his Mum would have said, if she weren't too drunk at the time. Lying beside Francey Neeley's scantily clad body was going to make him an iron man. In more ways than one.
"Tell me about your home."
He glanced over at her in the inky darkness. "I beg your pardon?"
"You said we had plenty of time for bedtime stories. Tell me what it was like for you, growing up."
He thought back to Newcastle. Dirty, gray, poverty hanging in the air with the coal dust. A father he'd never known, a mother who'd seldom been sober enough to know him. The street gang he'd joined at eight, commanded at twelve. The first time he'd seen a man die.
"We lived in Yorkshire," he said. "With everything green and hilly and very beautiful. The manor had been in the family for generations. Whipdale House, it was called, and my mother and father and three sisters lived there."
"Three sisters," she murmured sleepily. "No wonder you're so good with women."
He smiled ruefully in the darkness, knowing she couldn't see him. "I had a couple of much older brothers, but they were up at Oxford by the time I was born, the baby of the family. We always had masses of animals around. I remember I had a pet Newfoundland named Beastie. A huge black shaggy creature, he followed me everywhere." He could see the dog clearly, as clearly as if he'd really lived. He could see his three sisters, smart and pretty and dreadful teases; he could see his parents, devoted to each other, plain, upper-class country people. He could see it all.
"Tell me about your sisters," she murmured, and he knew she would be asleep in a matter of moments.
"There was Fiona," he said. "She was the eldest, with flaming red hair and a temper to match. She always wanted to be an actress, but she ended up marrying a banker and having six children. As far as I know, she's never regretted it. Then came Dinah…"
She was asleep, curled up slightly, one hand tucked beneath her chin. Not the hand he'd hurt—that was still wrapped protectively around her middle.
Most of the time she believed what he told her. He was sure she'd swallowed Whipdale House and the five siblings without even a second thought. But there were times when she looked at him out of those warm brown eyes of hers and he could see the doubt, the wariness. The uneasy expression.
He'd seen that look before. In people who had seen him kill.
Maybe Francey saw too much for her own good. While her mind couldn't quite admit that he'd calmly and brutally inflicted pain on her, in her heart she'd known, and she struggled with that knowledge.
That she was now sound asleep beside him expressed a kind of trust that went beyond conscious decisions. He lay beside her, watching her as she slept, and wondered if she would ever come to regret that trust.
Probably. He'd regretted ever putting that much trust in anyone. People weren't made to rely on other people and survive. You had to rely on yourself, and yourself alone, or you were screwed.
The tiny island of Baby Jerome was still and silent. They were alone there, totally and completely alone, at least for now. He doubted there were even the omnipresent mongeese around. Nothing higher on the food chain than a few insects. At least for now.
Tomorrow would be another matter. He hadn't lived as long as he had by underestimating his opponents, and he fancied Cecil was just as cautious. By tomorrow the Cadre's outrunners would have located them. He would simply have to be prepared.
The cache of weapons was just off to the left, under a thick outcropping of palm fronds. He'd had enough time to hide them before Francey had regained consciousness, and he would rather she didn't even know about them. He would rather she didn't know about him. While she might feel safer knowing she was sleeping with one of her majesty's most highly trained agents, she would keep that wary look in her eyes all the time. And he'd gotten rather fond of Whipdale House and the three sisters.
No, she was better off not knowing, taking him at face value. After all, there was always the chance that he might not be able to protect her. That they might kill him and expect her to come up with answers. Answers she would be helpless to withhold, given the advanced state of the Cadre's torture capabilities.