But she couldn't take it back, and her past had almost killed an innocent man. A man who had come to matter far too much. "Actually, things are going quite well," she said, wondering if she should tell him what she'd done today, then dismissing the notion. "I've gone back to work. Things are hot and busy. I've been doing my best to put things behind me."
"Good for you. Looking back is a waste of time. There's nothing you can do about it at this point. Better to look forward." There was something he wasn't saying. Something in his voice, beneath the light, charming tone, that sent tendrils of alarm through her.
"Michael, are you certain you're all right?" she asked, suddenly anxious.
"Right as rain," he said firmly. "Listen, the boys are raising a fuss, and if I don't get back to them they'll probably spray ginger beer all over the waitress. I just needed to make certain you were all right."
"I'm fine," she said. "Better for hearing your voice. When am I going to see you again?"
The hesitation on the other end of the line answered her better than his evasion. "Sooner or later. It's a busy time for me, after having missed so much. And I don't think I'm in the mood for traveling. I've missed England too much."
"I could come over there."
"I don't think that would be a good idea."
It was said very gently. She hadn't realized pain could be delivered with such a soft touch. She absorbed the blow, shivering slightly.
"You're probably right," she said finally, her voice as artificially cool as the air-conditioned apartment. "It's part of everything that I need to put behind me. Get on with my life and all that. I'm glad to hear you're well, and I wish you the best of luck in the future, Michael. You're a very sweet, gentle man, and I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. I know you'll have a good life. I can't think of anyone who deserves it more, and—"
"Stop it." His words were stripped of all charm and calm, and he sounded bleak, as lost as she felt. "Don't do this to yourself, Francey. Don't do this to me. You don't understand all the ramifications."
"You're right, I don't. Because no one answers my questions, no one is honest with me. I'm trying to be mature about this, Michael. You've made it clear you don't want to be bothered with me again, and I'm accepting that as gracefully as I can. We went through an intense, emotional experience when our lives were at stake and ended up imagining there was more of a connection between us than there really was. Or at least I did. But I'm a big girl now. I know how things work, and I can—"
"Shut up." His voice was savage. She could hear the noise in the background, British schoolboys out on a celebratory lark. She closed her eyes in the darkness, wishing she were there beside him to see his face, to touch him, to try to understand what he wasn't telling her.
"What do you want from me, Michael?" she asked finally, her voice deceptively even.
"Nothing. I want nothing from you, I want a thousand things for you. I want you to have a good life, Francey. Away from death and terror and lies, from people who aren't who they say they are and never will be. Away from me."
"Michael…"
He broke the connection, the transatlantic buzz loud in her ear. She stared at the phone, willing him to be there. She could see him, the cozy English pub around him, uniformed, ruddy-cheeked schoolboys surrounding him, everything as safe and eternal as England herself. And she wondered what in God's name he was talking about.
Michael stared at the phone in mute frustration, rubbing a hand across his face. He'd been crazy to give in to temptation, another sign that his time was running out. He glanced out beyond the beaded curtain to the bar beyond, the babble of a dozen different languages surrounding him. He was suffering from jet lag, a hangover and a need so powerful that it threatened to wipe out his good sense. He needed Francey Neeley; his soul yearned for her. And if he had any spark of decency left within his battered carcass, he would never go near her again.
He'd meant to say goodbye. But it hadn't come out that way. He didn't want to hurt her, but he would rather end up wounding her than killing her. He'd meant to be cool and brisk. But she'd gotten through his front so quickly, so devastatingly, that he knew he didn't dare contact her again. She had too much pride to try to contact him, and even if her pride failed her, she had no idea how to find him. She would be safe, whether she liked it or not. Safe from the Patrick Dugans of this world. Safe from men like him.
He pushed himself away from the counter and, wandered into the bar, squinting through the heavy cigarette smoke. There was a woman waiting for him, someone with information he needed—if he was willing to meet her price. She was very beautiful, very experienced, very deadly. His kind of woman. There was no room in his life for the Francey Neeleys of this world. If he expected to survive for much longer, he'd best remember that. And not waste his time regretting it.