The car started with a jerk. He was driving fast, probably much too fast for the narrow island roads, but she refused to open her eyes and look. She was already intimidated by his presence, the size of him, the heat of him, the sheer animal intensity of him. In the shadows the night before he'd been disturbing. In the daylight he was overwhelming. Her only defense was to try to withdraw into some safe place of her own making. She'd been able to do that in prison, but that particular gift was failing her sorely. She knew why. She could hide from anything in this life. Anything but Michael.
She had blood on her dress. He hoped she hadn't noticed, but he couldn't count on that. Francey could be far too observant when she wanted to be, and right now she had nothing to gain by hiding from the truth. She'd hidden from reality when they'd been in the Caribbean, but the last weeks had brought life crashing down on her. Even if she wanted to, he doubted she could keep the truth from intruding.
She'd shut him out when she'd shut her eyes. Which suited him just fine for the present. He didn't want to talk to her, either. What could he do, offer excuses, apologies, explanations? None of them was good enough.
He had that sick, angry feeling inside that he always got when he had to kill. It didn't matter that he'd had no choice. It didn't matter that he could have killed the driver but had let him escape. It didn't even matter that he knew the history of the two men he'd killed, the crimes they'd committed, the innocent lives they'd ended. He'd learned long ago that nothing could assuage the burning inside, the hollow, empty feeling.
Once upon a time he'd hoped that Francey could. That tiny kernel of purity in her had been like a beacon. As long as he could keep her safe, then there would be a haven for him.
He knew now that that had been a foolish, romantic longing. There was no haven for him anywhere, and particularly not with her. She'd seen him kill. She knew his lies. And she knew he'd come to her bed when she was too drugged and shocked to have any conscious say in the matter.
It had been a taste of heaven, and one of the worst mistakes of his life. He'd hoped actually making love to her would wipe out the obsession. Nothing could be as good as the fantasy that he'd built up over the weeks.
But it had been. Better than the fantasy, better than any reality he'd ever known. He'd been able to turn his back and leave, knowing it was saving her, knowing he was being noble, self-sacrificing, and his one selfless act might somehow atone for his countless sins.
But she'd been brought back into his life time and time and time again. The more he fought it, the more he hurt her. As long as the Cadre existed to spin its murderous webs, then he and Francey were going to be caught in them. He had to stash her someplace safe while he finished with them. And then he could finish with Francey.
"Where are we?" She'd opened her eyes finally, staring around her with growing rage. "We should be at the hospital by now."
"We're not going to the hospital." They were taking a narrow road that ran along the sparsely populated western side of the island. The sea was beyond, gray and angry. It matched his soul.
He waited for her to start screaming at him, fully prepared for her to launch her body at him. She stayed very still in that distant corner of the front seat. "What about Daniel?" she said finally.
"Daniel will either recover or not. Your presence won't make a difference. In case you haven't noticed, the Cadre wants you dead. If you're at the hospital, they'll come after you there. They won't stop until they get you."
"For God's sake, why? Patrick is dead, and probably Caitlin, too. I didn't kill Patrick, you did. And I didn't mean to kill Caitlin. I was stupid enough to give them a lot of money. What more do they want from me? Why should one idiotic American female matter so damned much?"
"She shouldn't. But the leader of the Cadre has an obsession, and the members follow orders without question." He turned inland onto a narrow, winding drive. Francey didn't appear to notice.
"Why should the leader of the Cadre be so determined to kill me? Was he Caitlin's lover? Does he want revenge for her death?"
There was no reason not to tell her. He'd already told her too much. The more lies she was fed, the more she went ferreting for the truth. Maybe he could placate her, shock her into acquiescence, with enough of the truth. "Caitlin Dugan didn't die that night in New York."
He hated the expression that sprang into her eyes. "She didn't? She's still alive? Why didn't you tell me that last night? What happened to her?"
"I don't know the details," he said sourly. "I was otherwise occupied, taking out your murderous lover."
"We weren't lovers," she said automatically, and he didn't know whether he believed her or not. Or why it mattered. "But if she's alive," she went on, oblivious to his reaction, "then I could see her. Reason with her. There must be some humanity still left in her. No matter how monstrous she is, she's still my family. I can't believe that she couldn't call off the leader of the Cadre…"