Now You See Him(77)

All trace of amusement fled. "We're not. Don't be absurd, Francey. Do you really think there are happy endings for the likes of us? For you, maybe. I'm doing my damnedest to ensure that. But not for me. Not with you."

She came right up to him, vibrating with intensity. She smelled of flowers; she smelled of sex. She smelled of him. "You're wasting your time. There is no happy ending for me if you're not part of it."

He cupped her face with his hands, brushing his mouth across her soft lips. "Then, Francey," he whispered, "there's no happy ending for you, either."



He walked away from her without another word, and she let him go, the feel of his mouth still warm on her lips, the feel of his body still imprinted on hers. She wanted to call after him, to plead with him, to fling herself at his feet and beg. But she didn't move.

He'd left a cup of coffee on the scrubbed wooden counters. She took a sip, but it was cold, and she shivered. She heard the car drive away, and her hand tightened around the coffee cup. Charming Charlie would be back at work, probably squiring someone to an embassy cocktail party, and his boss, Sir Henry, would look down his nose at him and mutter deprecating remarks.

And then, sooner or later, he would leave and turn into…what had Dex called him? The Cougar? And before long, possibly before the morning, her sister, her dear, murderous sister, would be dead.

He would disappear. She knew it. And despite her pledge, this time she wouldn't find him. If he wiped out the Cadre, there would be no more threat to her. He would simply vanish. And she would have no way of finding him ever again.

She drank the cold coffee after all, for the dubious comfort of putting her mouth to something he'd put his mouth to. She left the kerosene lamp burning as night darkened around her and the wind whipped through the half-ruined building. She moved slowly back to the bedroom, the sheet trailing around her like a rained toga, and it wasn't until she was sitting cross-legged on the bed in the dusk-laden darkness that she saw the man in the window.

He was sitting there, watching her with bland, unreadable eyes, and she knew him immediately. The last time she'd seen him it had been outside the café in Mariz, Spain. And suddenly the warm Mediterranean breeze was icy cold on her skin.

"I wondered when he was finally going to remember he had a job to do," Ross Cardiff said affably. "This is quite unlike him—he's always put his mission first. You've been the ruin of him, young lady. The sordid finale to a fine career."

She wanted to pull the sheet tighter around her, away from his prying eyes, but she let it stay loosely around her shoulder. For one thing, she knew instinctively that he had no lascivious interest in her, or any other woman, for that matter. For another, she didn't want to show how completely unnerved she was by his presence.

"Why do you say his career is ruined?" she finally managed to ask, her voice cracked and dry, showing all the fear she'd hoped so desperately to disguise.

He put his other leg over the windowsill and stepped into the room, and Francey knew where Michael had gotten the inspiration for Charlie the fop. The little man in front of her carried himself the same way. The only difference was the intensity in his gaze, the sheer malevolence beneath the bland smile. "It's down the toilet, my girl. But then, he knows that better than anyone. He's going to be a little too careless, tonight, or soon after. He's going to be courting death, all thanks to the influence of a good woman."

"Don't be ridiculous, he's—"

"Women like you make me sick," he said, overriding her protest. "He was doing fine, just fine, until he ran into you. I was against his going to St. Anne, but then, he never did listen to me. Never could accept that I had his best interests at heart. He was weak but determined, and there you were, a sweet little damsel in distress. The first woman he trusted in his entire life."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong with that," Cardiff hissed. "People like the man you call Michael can't afford to trust. Because trust is always betrayed, by accident or design, and in his line of work, that will kill you. He's been a dead man since he met you, and he knows it. That's why he wants you out of the way."

"Is that why you had me stashed in a Spanish prison? To save him?"

Cardiff smiled, reaching out a small, well-manicured hand to touch her hair. "I already knew it was too late. I was just playing for time. And indulging in a particular weakness of mine. A taste for revenge." He yanked on her hair, hard, then released it. "If I'd known Michael would come racing to the rescue like a tarnished Sir Galahad, I would have had you killed outright and risked your cousin's suspicions."