Now You See Him(56)

But she wouldn't awaken, not if her drugged breathing was any sign. Not for a long, long time. She'd gone someplace safer than the world she'd been thrust into, and she wouldn't be returning for a while.

She wouldn't feel the weight of his body as he sat on the bed next to her. Wouldn't know he'd pulled the sheet down away from her body. Someone had cleaned her up, dressed her in a chaste white nightgown complete with a row of tiny buttons down the front. She hadn't felt it when someone fastened those buttons. She wouldn't feel his long, dark fingers as they undid them.

Her skin was smooth, pale and creamy in the shadowy light. He sank his fingers into her thick, tangled hair, feeling for the lump at the back of her head. She'd hit the wall hard when Juan had shoved her, enough to make her black out for a moment. She might have a concussion, or worse.

The lump was small enough, and the faint moan that broke through her drugged sleep was one of discomfort, not excruciating pain. He moved his hands back, down over her shoulders, pushing her nightgown away from her body.

She had bruises. Cruel marks, some fresh, some older and yellowing, on her shoulders, on her ribs, on her breasts, and Michael wished he'd taken longer with Juan. And that he hadn't been so merciful with Cardiff.

There was a row of striped bruises on her wrist. He put his hand on them, and they matched his long, hard fingers perfectly. He cursed then, slowly, savagely, the whispered words filling the cabin. It took him longer to refasten her buttons, and he realized with abstract amusement that his fingers were trembling. He drew the sheet back up over her chastely, and then lay down beside her, full-length, drawing her unresisting body into his arms.

She felt small, slight, almost not there at all, and his grip tightened. Soon she wouldn't be. His act of throwing Ross Cardiff overboard had been one more rash move on his part, one of a series of rash moves. He'd stated his enmity, loud and clear, and Ross would have his revenge. Michael wasn't afraid of being cashiered out of the service. Even Ross wasn't powerful enough to do that if Michael didn't want to go—too many people were in awe of his reputation.

But Cardiff was the kind of creature who could find a man's weak points and then use them, twist them, until you had no choice but to do his bidding.

He knew Michael's weak point. He'd put her in a Spanish prison. He could use her again and again, until something backfired, as it almost had tonight, and Francey would wind up dead.

He would have no choice but kill Cardiff then. It only made sense to do it earlier. Francey wouldn't be safe as long as Cardiff held any power. And keeping Francey safe had become Michael's prime directive, more important than wiping out the Cadre, the security of what was left of the British Empire, or the safety of the entire free world. And he was perfectly ready to do anything, anything, to ensure that safety.

But for now, for the next few hours, she was as safe as she could ever be. Wrapped tightly in his arms, where no one, and nothing, could wound her.

For the next few hours. And then he would be gone, and she would never even know he'd been there. He would vanish into the night like her drunken Arab savior. And before long she would forget he'd ever existed.

He could only hope that fate would be kind enough to grant him a similar amnesia, because he didn't know how long he would be able to take it otherwise.





Chapter 13


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Francey dreamed. For a while she was back on the island, not in the lagoon this time, but lying on the bedroll, wrapped in Michael's arms. She could feel his warm, smooth flesh against her face, the strength of his arms around her, and for a time everything was safe. And then things shifted, and the man holding her was a threat, a dark, huge stranger who rescued her and then abandoned her. Sunlight poured into the cabin, and she refused to open her eyes. The back of her head pounded, her muscles felt thick and drugged, and she wanted to crawl back into the warm dark nest and take Michael with her. Her stomach felt empty, queasy, and the bed felt rocky and unstable beneath her.

"How are we feeling today?" The voice was far too cheerful, but it was blessedly familiar. Making the supreme effort, she opened her eyes a fraction, enough to see Daniel's cherubic face hovering far too close.

"Like pig droppings," she said succinctly. Or rather, she tried for a succinct tone. Her voice came out blurred and fuzzy, and her tongue felt thick. It took most of her strength to lift her head from the pillow, to look at the empty mattress beside her. She was lying in the middle of the oversize double bed, the covers wrapped tightly around her. She was alone, as she had been all night long.

"You need some food," Daniel said, his hands fluttering ineffectually. "You need to lie on the deck in the sun and recuperate. You've been through a ghastly time, Francey, and I can't say how sorry I am that you couldn't find me. You need to just empty your mind and let yourself heal…"