No, she was going to continue to think he was Michael Dowd, junior Boy Scout. She thought she'd lost her illusions permanently. She hadn't. And he was planning on doing his best to give them back to her.
And maybe, just maybe, regain a few of his own.
Francey woke once during the long night. She was lying on her side, curled up close to the blazing furnace that was Michael's body. One of her legs was tucked between his, her head was resting against his shoulder, and his arms were around her loosely, possessively, one hand brushing her breast. The top to her bikini had come loose, so that now it was resting in the vicinity of her waist.
The odd thing was, her body didn't stiffen in instinctive protest. She didn't freeze up or try to draw away from him. Maybe it was simply that she was still half-asleep. Maybe not.
She heard a sigh and knew it was her own. Refusing to think about consequences, ramifications or any of those other unpleasant issues, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
When she awoke again she was alone in the rumpled, makeshift bed. She felt no panic, no fear that she might have been abandoned. Only a faint regret.
She smelled the coffee, and then there was no room even for regret. She turned her head to look at him, secure in the knowledge that he thought she was still asleep. She could watch him without his even being aware of it.
He was standing at the edge of the lagoon, drinking a tin mug of coffee, and there was water beaded on his strong body, dazzling in the early-morning sun. He'd dispensed with his baggy trunks, and the skimpy black racing suit had hardly more fabric than her own bikini. It left very little to the imagination, and Francey's imagination was already overwrought.
It constantly amazed her that a race as staid and supposedly uptight as the British would wear so little on the beach. The baggy trunks seemed much more in keeping with a math master from a British public school, but then, Michael probably knew that. Probably wore them whenever he had an audience, to enhance his role.
Now why did she think that? Why did she think he was playing a role? If he weren't who he said he was, wouldn't he have told her by now? And surely cousin Daniel wouldn't have sent her a dangerous stranger.
Except that he was a dangerous stranger, whether he was a math teacher or no. Dangerous to her, to her state of mind, to her heart. Perhaps even to her body, she thought, moving her wrist experimentally. And yet she trusted him more than she'd ever trusted anyone in her entire life. And she'd spent a lifetime trusting people, mostly unwisely.
"Looked your fill?" he inquired pleasantly, not turning toward her.
She shouldn't have been surprised. He seemed to have far more intuition than a normal man, sixth and seventh senses, at least. "That bathing suit is indecent," she said.
He turned to her then, and a wry grin curved his mouth. She knew, because she was determined not to look any lower than his face. "Depends on whether you find bodies indecent," he said. "You want some coffee?"
"Please." She crawled out from under the covers, tugging the oversize T-shirt around her, and headed for the bushes.
"Where do you think you're going?"
She didn't hesitate. "The ladies' room."
"Don't go too far."
She looked back over her shoulder. "You want to come along and hold my hand?"
"Feisty, aren't you?" he murmured, draining his coffee. "I wouldn't count on being safe here. If the Cadre tracked you down to St. Anne's, then they can probably find us on Baby Jerome."
She paused. "You think it's the Cadre?"
"Got any other ideas?" He obviously didn't expect an answer as he turned and headed for the pot of coffee. "Don't take too long, or I'll come after you."
By the time she returned to the campsite he was dressed, thank heavens, in his wrinkled white trousers, rolled up at the ankles, and his blue shirt left open to the faint tropical breezes. If he was observant enough to notice her relief he didn't say anything, simply handed her a mug of black coffee that was sinfully delicious.
"This is awfully good for instant coffee," she murmured, for lack of anything better to say.
"And isn't the weather lovely, and do you think it will rain, and how about those Mets?" he responded. "Do we really need to waste time on small talk?"
"All right. Do you have any other suggestions? I'm not really in the mood for Robinson Crusoe meets the Blue Lagoon."
"Whether you're in the mood for it or not, we're stuck here, at least for a while. If we're lucky, your cousin will show up to rescue us by this afternoon. If we're not, your friends will get here sooner. I want to scout out the island, see if there's anyplace to hide."
"And I bet you don't want me with you," she said, taking another sip of coffee. It really was good coffee, and she realized with sudden amusement that it wasn't instant at all. Michael was an even more proficient Boy Scout than she'd imagined.