"Yes," he said again.
"Damn you," she said quietly.
"For what? For killing a man who was trying to turn a public occasion into a bloodbath? For killing a man who damned near killed me?"
"For lying."
"Well, in that case I'm damned for sure, because my entire life is a lie," he said savagely.
"It was your choice. I wonder what your family thinks of you. Are they proud of the life you've chosen. Or don't they even know?"
His silence gave her the answer. "They don't exist, either, do they?" she said. "No Whipdale House and comfortable mum, no sisters and brothers and aging Newfoundlands. It was all a lie, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
She took a deep, shaky breath. "Why me, Michael? Why did you come to St. Anne? Why didn't you believe me, let me be? Why should I have lied to the investigators?"
He rose from the sofa and walked to the French doors, his back to her. She watched him in the darkness, marveling again at the difference in him. He wasn't Charlie Bisselthwaite now, or gentle Michael Dowd. He was the man on Baby Jerome. A strong, dangerous man, suddenly larger than life. "We couldn't trust you," he said finally. "Not if we took into account your family connection."
"Don't be ridiculous. Daniel is almost pathologically loyal. He likes the same stupid games you do—he'd never become involved with terrorists or an organization like the Cadre."
"I'm not talking about your cousin Daniel. His loyalty is unquestionable."
"Unlike mine," she said bitterly. "Then what the hell are you talking about? I don't have any other family. My mother died in a car crash seven years ago, and my father drowned when I was three. Unless you're talking about the parade of stepfathers my mother presented me with, and I hardly think I can be condemned because of them."
"No one's condemning you," he said wearily, turning to face her. She shouldn't see much in the darkness, just the shape of him, the rumpled white suit that looked so different on his Charlie alter ego, the glitter of his eyes. And yet she knew he could see her quite clearly. Her face. And her heart.
"Then why don't you explain, simply and clearly, what it is that's made you suspect me?"
"That charming Irish poet your mother married," he said. "The one who drowned in the Liffey when you were three years old. Well, he was something more than a bad poet. He had strong political leanings. He didn't drown. He died while trying to plant a bomb. And you weren't his only child."
This couldn't be happening, Francey thought. "What child?"
"A girl. Born to an Irish waitress by the name of Cassie Dugan. She named her daughter Caitlin."
It came back with sickening suddenness. The feel of the girl's tight, furious body as she shoved her away from her, the screech of tires, the ominous thump of a body striking metal. "Caitlin was my sister?"
"You were marked, practically from birth. She and the man she called her brother sought you out. You were a perfect choice, a combination of political and personal enemy, and with a comfortable trust fund to boot."
"Not anymore. I got rid of as much as I could."
Michael laughed, the sound totally devoid of humor. "Just where they wanted it to go. You really think the Children of Eire is an innocent organization? It's the Cadre. They finally got what they wanted from you. Or almost everything. Caitlin wanted your death."
"And instead I killed her." Her voice was raw in the darkness. "Didn't I? Or is that one more little surprise you have for me…?"
He moved then, crossing the darkened room to come close, too close for her peace of mind. "This time I need you to listen to me, Francey. You need to get on that plane tomorrow with Daniel. No questions, no looking back. I never existed."
"Who didn't exist? Michael Dowd? Or Charlie Bisselthwaite? Or the Arab? Or…" Hysteria was making her voice rise, and he did what she'd been waiting for. He put his hands on her, catching her arms and pulling her tight against his body. He was hot, blazing hot, and she was so cold.
"None of us," he whispered in her ear. "In a few days this will all be over. You can wipe it out of your memory, forget it ever happened…"
She yanked herself free, and her anger blazed forth. "I can, can I? It's that simple? I just wipe out blocks of my life and do a little tap dance? Next thing I know, you'll be telling me to find a nice young man, settle down and get married?"
"You should."
She slapped him. The sound was loud and shocking in the still, dark hotel room. He didn't move, and she reached out to slap him again, to goad him into a reaction.
She got her wish without her hand connecting. He caught her wrist in a tight grip, pulled her back against him and kissed her, a hard, brutal kiss that hurt her mouth. And broke her heart.