Now You See Him(59)

She heard Daniel's voice. "I'm sorry, Francey, but it's for your own good. I had to—" And then his voice stopped in a strangled, pained squeak.

"I should kill you," Michael's voice came from nowhere, from the blinding brightness of the sun. But Michael wasn't there, and why should he want to kill her? It was all too confusing, and for now she couldn't fight to make sense of it. She needed to use all her energy to fight the insidious effect of whatever filthy drug they'd given her, fight to open her eyes, fight to stay awake, fight…fight…



Michael was getting too damned used to this chair. He hadn't left her since he'd carried her back to the cabin. He watched, eagle-eyed, as that quack Elmore checked her vital signs. He watched, unmoving, when the housekeeper came and put her back into that chaste white nightgown, ignoring any claim to modesty Francey might have. He remained all through the long hours of the day, as a storm front moved over the Mediterranean, sending the True Blue skidding along the tops of the waves. He remained through the long hours of the evening, when rain lashed against the portholes and wind howled along the decks. Not for a minute did he worry about the True Blue sinking. It would be a mercy for all if it did. Francey would never know what happened to her. And he wouldn't have to deal with the Cadre, with the deceit of everyone who surrounded him. With his own deceit.

Somewhere around two in the morning he decided he was going to start smoking again the moment he got off this boat. He didn't really know why he'd stopped, except that any addiction at all had the potential of betraying him to the enemy. He already had a powerful addiction, one to the woman lying on the bed. He was far more vulnerable through her than he was through cigarette smoke.

The sea calmed, the rain became a steady drone, and he slept, fitfully, knowing the door was locked against any intruders, knowing that for at least a few more hours he could keep her safe. When he opened his eyes again to the early-morning stillness, the bed was empty.

She was kneeling at his feet, staring up at him out of drugged eyes. Her hair was a tangled mass behind her pale face, and her hands were holding on to the seat of the chair, as if for support, as she watched him.

"Michael?" Her voice was no more than a whisper. She reached out to touch him, as if she couldn't believe he was real, he was there, he was solid flesh.

He was lost, and he knew it. In the murky shadows she wouldn't see the dark skin and hair, the added muscle. She knew him, would have known him with her eyes closed. On some level she'd probably known he was there from the beginning, no matter how drugged she was.

He could deny it, fight it. He could catch her slim white hand before it connected with his chest, put her back to bed alone and let the drug regain its control. He could leave her to the tender mercies of her cousin and his drug-pushing doctor, and she would probably be a lot better off.

But he wasn't going to. She was drugged, shocked, confused and vulnerable. And he was going to take her anyway.

Her hand was cool through the thin cotton of his open shirt, cool against his hot skin. He covered her hand with his larger one, pressing it against him, and he could feel white-hot desire leap through his veins.

That saintly, country-bred gentlewoman who ruled Whipdale Manor would have raised her son never to take advantage of a woman in Francey's condition. But then, he'd never known that mythical woman. He'd made his own ethics, his own sense of honor. Now he was about to betray it, and he didn't give a damn. He needed her more than honor.

He slid his other hand behind her, under the thick tangle of sun-streaked hair, and urged her closer. She moved willingly, kneeling between his wide-spread legs, and she tilted her head back, closing her eyes and parting her lips, waiting for him.

Such an invitation was too hard to resist, and he wasn't the man to try. He put his lips against hers, very gently, just brushing them for a moment.

She groaned, moving closer, wanting more, her hands sliding up his chest to dig into his shoulders, and he deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth across hers, dampening her drug-dry lips with his tongue before plunging it deep. She shuddered in his arms, moving closer still, her stomach pressed up against his groin, and he wanted to pull her astride him, onto his lap, opening his pants and taking her there and then.

It was a potent fantasy, but not as strong as the reality of her mouth. Whatever consciousness had surfaced beyond the drug's reach, it was being channeled into her mouth, her body. He slid his hands down, lifting her up effortlessly, and moved her over to the bed.

"Don't leave me," she whispered when he set her down, and she reached for him with something close to desperation.

"I won't," he said, knowing it was a lie, knowing he was going to leave her all too soon. He didn't bother with the row of tiny buttons this time; he simply yanked the white cotton nightgown over her head. She lay back against the pillows, her hair fanned out around her, watching him, completely unselfconscious.