Now You See Him(61)

But he would know, he thought, pushing her hair away from her face. He would know, in some part of his mind, some part of his body, for every waking and sleeping minute for the rest of his life. He only hoped that wouldn't be too long.





Chapter 14


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Francey didn't want to wake up. The bed felt warm, safe, the covers wrapped tightly around her. She'd been through this before, waking up from a drugged sleep in the warm, sunlit cabin. And yet this time it felt different.

She opened her eyes, but the bed was still empty, just as it had been the other morning. There the similarities ended.

There was no Daniel looming over her, sounding concerned even as he planned once more to drug her. Her body felt tender, exquisitely sensitive, as if she'd spent the night making love, which was, of course, a patent absurdity, the remnants of the most erotic, realistic dream she'd had in her entire life. Her body still tingled with the memory.

But the most important change of all was that the boat was no longer moving. Kicking aside the covers, she struggled to the porthole. They were anchored in a harbor, bright sunlight washing down over the small city. Pushing open the heavy glass pane, she let the fresh salty air pour over her, clearing some of the drug-induced mists from her brain.

They kept trying to silence her questions. In the beginning they had refused to answer. When she grew persistent, someone had her immured in a filthy Spanish prison, and chances were she might never have surfaced again if it weren't for her mysterious rescuer. Now they simply kept pumping her with drugs if she grew too importunate.

She should have learned her lesson by now, she thought, pulling away from the window. But then, she'd never been that docile. She could be amazingly stubborn when someone was trying to push her, and right now she was feeling downright intractable. If people wouldn't answer her questions, she would find some other way to get her answers. She would go after them herself.

"Where do you think you're going?" Daniel materialized at the top of the gangplank half an hour later when she emerged from her cabin, his usually ruddy face pale in the bright sunlight.

Francey managed a breezy smile. "Isn't it obvious? I'm going into town. I've never been to Malta before, and as you can imagine, I'm feeling a little claustrophobic."

His hand was on her arm, above the row of bruises, and she could feel the sweat of his palm. It wasn't warm enough out for him to have sweaty palms. "I didn't even realize you were awake yet. Why don't you come and have something to eat? Your hair's still wet from your shower. Just give me a little while and I'll accompany you."

She considered yanking her arm out of his trembling grasp. But he was her cousin, her closest living relative, and she loved him. Even though he had betrayed her, she still cared about him.

"Daniel," she said gently. "I'm afraid I don't trust you not to drug my food."

He winced. "I deserve that, I know. Humor me, Francey. You can eat off my plate, drink from my cup. Give me a couple of hours, and I'll give you some answers."

She was a fool to believe him. But her alternatives weren't spectacular. "A cup of coffee," she agreed. "From the same pot you're using. And the truth."

"What I can tell you."

She wanted to argue with him. She could feel eyes on her, people watching, and she looked behind her, trying to still the little tremor of nervousness. Daniel might love her dearly, might want to protect her, but there were others who were probably more than capable of tossing her over the side of this boat. "What you can tell me," she agreed, running a hand through her shower-wet hair, turning her back to him. She'd seen that shadow again, the tall dark man. She turned back again, but he was gone. "And you can tell me how I got rescued from the prison."

"What I can," he said again.

And she had to accept it.



Michael watched her disappear into the front cabin with Daniel. It had been a close call this time, too close. She'd almost run smack into him, and all his elaborate subterfuge would have been for nothing.

Once again he wondered whether he'd done it on purpose, flirted with danger, hoping she would see him, hoping she would force a crisis. Ross wasn't there to hurt her—if she actually came face-to-face with him, there would be a hell of a blowout. And then she would leave. Get on the plane with her cousin and never think about him again, except with hatred and contempt. Wasn't that what he wanted?

Or did he want her anger, her recriminations, and then her eventual declaration of undying love, once her initial fury had passed? Was he fool enough to believe there might be a future for the two of them?

Postcoital insanity, he told himself, reaching for the pack of Turkish cigarettes he'd bought off a sailor. There were no happy endings for the likes of him. Except in front of a firing squad.