No arguments, objections, sassy back talk. Stretching out beside him, she drew him very carefully into her arms. And closing his eyes, he let the darkness take him, the whiskey spilling from his hand and sinking into the dirt beside him.
Chapter 8
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When he woke it was dark once more. There was a faint sliver of moon overhead, but clouds had come up during the past few hours, and a stiff wind was blowing them across the sky, obscuring, then revealing, the fitful light. The pain in his side was dull, aching, and he knew his body well enough to make a reasonable estimation of the damage. He was bleeding internally, at a slow rate. If Travers made it by tomorrow afternoon, so would he. If not…
He shifted, looking at the woman lying next to him. She was asleep, her tawny hair tangled behind her, and he could see the dried rivulets of tears on her cheeks. Why had she been crying? Was she frightened? Afraid of the future? Feeling sorry for herself?
Or had she been crying for him?
He was a man who'd always attributed the basest, most self-serving motives to the human beings he'd met. And yet he knew without question that her tears, her concern, hadn't been for herself at all. And that knowledge was almost too painful to bear.
Death had never been a despised enemy, just one of the risks of the game. Lately it had been looking more and more like an old friend. But not now. Not this time.
He didn't know whether the Cadre had any other operatives in the islands. If they did, how soon would they come to check up on the first three?
Chances were the three he'd killed had been working alone. There would have been no reason for any one else to remain behind. They would have come here, finished the two of them off, then headed away from St. Anne and embarrassing questions. There were enough islands in the area that they could have made it safely away and been on a jet back to Ireland before the bodies were discovered.
But he couldn't count on his instincts. He needed to wake Francey up, to tell her the truth about who and what he was, to tell her what she needed to do if things moved a little faster with his body, if he were unconscious, or dead, before Travers got there.
Now, while he still felt halfway human, he needed to get her deeper undercover. He needed…
He put his hand on her arm, and her skin was soft, warm beneath his cool hand. She opened her eyes, looking up at him sleepily, and before she had time to think about it she smiled. A sweet, sleepy smile that curved her mouth and warmed her eyes. The eyes that had shed tears for him.
"Are you feeling better?" she whispered, her mouth close to his.
Tell her, his training demanded. But his brain refused to obey. In approximately eighteen hours they would separate forever. He would either be dead or on his way to a secured hospital, and she would never see the invalided Brit schoolteacher again. Michael Dowd would cease to exist. It would be up to someone else to teach her passion. To show her that the real Francey hadn't shriveled up and died inside.
"No," he said, to himself, to her. He took nothing for himself. He did what he had to do, whatever filthy job the well-being of the world demanded, and he came away with nothing. If these might be his last few hours on earth, he was going to take something this time. He was going to take Francey Neeley.
He moved his hand up her arm, sliding it behind her neck, beneath her thick curtain of sun-streaked hair. "Michael," she said, her voice a soft question, her eyes dark with worry. He wanted to wipe the questions, the worry, from her mind.
"Hush," he said, pulling her toward him. "Just hush." Her mouth was soft beneath his, and not unwilling. He kissed her slowly at first, dampening her lips with his. Then he increased the pressure, opening her mouth with his, using his tongue. She jerked beneath him, but he held her still, ignoring her shyness. He felt her hands come up to twine around his neck, and at that little gesture of acceptance a bolt of desire shot through his battered body.
He knew she wasn't wearing anything under the sundress—he'd seen her black bikini drying on the makeshift clothesline. And she was kissing him back, shyly, her tongue touching his, her arms tight around his neck.
He moved his hand down the front of the cotton dress to the tiny row of buttons, unfastening them with unaccustomed clumsiness, needing to feel her skin against his, her warmth.
She jerked again when his hand closed over her breast, then grew still as he stroked her, pushing the dress down to her waist. He broke the kiss, staring down at her in the darkness, watching her face as he touched her breast, his long fingers stroking the pebbled hardness of her nipple.
"Michael," she said, her voice rough and sweet. She said it again, "Michael," but this time it was a strangled cry, as he put his mouth on her breast, suckling it deeply into his mouth.