Now You See Him(65)

"What can I do for you, Miss Neeley? I must say, we don't usually see such fetching young ladies, and such forceful ones, at that. Just tell me what the trouble is, and I'm certain we'll all do our best to set things right."

"If only it were that simple," she murmured, more to herself than him as she finally released the poor young man's tie. "My cousin is Daniel Travers, and I believe his doctor is somewhere on the premises. I need him, or, rather, Daniel needs him. Immediately."

"Daniel's an old friend of mine," Sir Henry boomed. "Don't tell me he's taken ill?"

"His heart. He says it's just the medicine, but I don't like the looks of him, and he says he won't see anyone but Elmore Brady."

"Understandable," Sir Henry said in his harrumphing voice. "Elmore's a damned fine doctor—wouldn't see anyone else myself, if I had the option. I'll see if he's here, though I can't say I ran across him in the past hour. Still, I don't know half of what goes on in this place, don't you know. Only been stationed here for the past six months, and it takes a while to learn the lingo, not to mention all the ins and outs. They even sent me some damned cultural attaché a couple of weeks ago to help me out. I ask you, what does culture have to do with anything? Still, they send me these charming young Johnnies and I have to do my best. At least the ladies like 'em. Tell you what, Miss Neeley, I'll pass you on to my aide. Charming fellow, name of Charlie Bisselthwaite. He'll find Elmore. Make himself useful for a change."

"I don't think…" Francey began, uneasy at being foisted off on another charming bureaucratic incompetent, but Sir Henry was already speaking into the telephone.

A moment later the door opened behind her. "There you are, Charlie. I need you to dig up Dr. Brady for this young lady here. Seems her cousin's in some kind of fix."

Somehow she knew, long before she turned around. Maybe it was the shadow of his silhouette, taller, broader, than she would have expected. Maybe it was the myth of the Mediterranean islands, and gods and goddesses playing their tricks on unsuspecting mortals. She half expected to see a gorgon when she turned, the head of hissing snakes turning her to stone.

But the reality was far, far worse. She turned, slowly, and looked up into Michael Dowd's impassive, unnaturally brown eyes.





Chapter 15


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He looked so very different, and yet unmistakably the same. He was broader, stronger, more powerful looking, than the frail schoolteacher who'd come to the Caribbean. His hair was dark brown instead of auburn; his blue eyes were now a muddy brown. But even more telling than the physical changes were the differences in the way he held himself. There was a foppish quality to him, a suggestion of the dilettante that came not just from the too impeccable white linen suit and the perfectly cut, slightly too long hair, but from the slightly preening way he held himself. It was no wonder the shortsighted Sir Henry had accepted him as an ineffectual remittance man, a member of the British aristocracy forced to put up with being stationed in a nothing job on a tiny island with no political importance whatsoever.

But Francey could see, very clearly. She'd been blind, stupid, for so long that the brightness of clarity was a physical pain in her head, in her heart. The charming fop was no more real than the sweet schoolteacher. The man in front of her, watching her out of indolent eyes that showed no recognition, was a wolf. A conscienceless wild animal, one with no moral compunctions whatsoever. A man who could kill. A man who could not love.

There was no question that he was the dark, robed Arab who'd brought her out of that hellhole. No question that he'd made love to her in the darkness of her storm-swept cabin, and then left her before she awoke from her drug-induced stupor to doubt her own sanity. There was no question that he'd been sent to St. Anne to guard her, maybe to question her. No question at all that she'd been a pawn from the start, first in Patrick Dugan's hands, then in Michael Dowd's far more clever ones. She wanted to throw up.

"I believe Dr. Brady is already back at the hotel," he said politely, his voice softer, slightly more fey. "Apparently Mr. Travers is feeling better."

"Good show," Sir Henry said, his dislike of the younger man obvious. "Then why don't you see Miss Neeley back there like a good fellow? You don't have anything to do till the cocktail party tonight."

"No, thank you," Francey said quickly, unable to hide the rising panic in her voice. "I can get back there on my own."

"At least escort her to a taxi, then, Charlie."

"No!" She no longer cared whether she sounded reasonable as she scrambled out of the chair, knocking it over as she went. "I prefer to go alone." She looked up, way up, into Michael's impassive eyes. He was blocking the doorway, and there was no way she was going to bring herself to touch him. The absurd room with its walnut paneling and manor-house atmosphere was suddenly unbearably stuffy. She pulled at the neckline of her silk shirt, feeling it tightening around her throat, and struggled to catch her breath. She had to get out of there. If he didn't move, she would turn around and jump out the window.