Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
Francey Neeley’s life has been torn to pieces. Her handsome and charming Irish boyfriend turned out to be a terrorist who was only after her fortune and planned to kill her once he got it. His "sister” forced Francey to help her attempt a rescue when his cover was blown during a mission to assassinate a world leader. Francey barely escaped with her life in the shoot-out.
Now Francey’s secluded herself amidst the beautiful, healing atmosphere of Belle Reste, her cousin’s resort on a Jamaican island. She’s emotionally shattered and remains under a cloud of suspicion even after being interrogated by every major law enforcement agency.
Warning bells go off from the moment British school teacher Michael Dowd arrives to recuperate from a car accident. Though he’s obviously recovering from serious injuries, she sees glimpses of a coldly efficient predator that make her wary of her intense attraction to him. She made one horrible mistake already . . .
Michael Dowd is there to find out the truth about her involvement; he’ll seduce her if that’s what it takes. And if he learns she was one of the terrorists, he’ll kill her.
But someone on the island is trying to kill them both. How will Francey know who to trust when Michael disappears and reappears as a perfect stranger? Who is the villain, and who is the savior? The wrong answer means death.
Anne Stuart is a grandmaster of the genre, winner of Romance Writers of America's prestigious Lifetime Achievement Award, survivor of more than forty years in the romance business, and still just keeps getting better. Her general outrageousness has gotten her on Entertainment Tonight, as well as in Vogue, People, USA Today, Women’s Day and countless other national newspapers and magazines. Anne’s multi-genre booklist appears on numerous award and bestseller lists. Visit her at Anne-Stuart.com.
Coming soon!
Prologue
"THEY’RE GOING
to kill him!” Caitlin Dugan pushed past Frances Neeley’s partially open door
into the Greenwich Village apartment.
Francey knew
Caitlin better than she wanted to and was far too accustomed to her fits of
melodrama. She simply continued toweling her hair, wishing she hadn’t gone to
the trouble of getting out of her bath to come face-to-face with Caitlin’s
hysteria. "What are you talking about?” she asked patiently, planting herself
in Caitlin’s way. She didn’t want the woman to see the apartment, or it might
precipitate an even greater crisis.
Her converted
loft was set for seduction. Francey and her distant cousin Patrick Dugan were
going to make love that night, after weeks and months of careful courtship.
He’d finally been able to break down her resistance, her natural reluctance to
surrender, and for some reason it had always seemed like a surrender. But
finally, tonight, she was ready. Once Patrick returned from the demonstration
they were going to celebrate in truly memorable style, he’d promised her,
kissing her before he left. And she’d told herself that she’d waited long
enough—if she really loved him, there was no reason to wait any longer. Was
there?
But Caitlin was
an oddly possessive sister, jealous where she had no moral, Catholic right to
be. She wouldn’t like the notion of Francey and Patrick going to bed together.
She wouldn’t like the notion of anyone coming close to her brother. And her
expected protest would only strengthen Francey’s lingering doubts.
But Caitlin was
uninterested in either the apartment or Francey. "They’re going to kill
Patrick!” she shrieked. "Did you talk to anybody? Tell them anything you
shouldn’t?” She grabbed the lapels of Francey’s terry-cloth bathrobe in her
sharp little hands, yanking at her. "Did you turn him in, you traitorous
bitch?”
Francey shoved
her away, wiping the angry spittle off her face. "You must be absolutely
crazy,” she said, disgust and pity mixed. "I don’t have the faintest idea what
you’re ranting about. You know as well as I do that Patrick’s at the
anti-British demonstrations while the Queen speaks at the UN. And why aren’t
you there, for that matter? Don’t you care about a free Ireland?”
"Don’t give me
that. Patrick hasn’t gone to waste his time shouting slogans. The time for that
passed decades ago. Why the hell do you think he borrowed your car? He wouldn’t
need a quick getaway from a simple demonstration.” The green eyes in her
narrow, pointed face were bright with contempt.
"What are you
talking about?”
"Patrick’s gone
to kill that royal bitch. Then maybe they’ll pay attention. But some dirty,
sneaking traitor has ratted on him, and he’s going to be shot down like a dog.”
Horror overcame
Francey’s shocked disbelief. "No!” she said, unable to push her doubt away. With
sudden clarity, she realized that beneath Patrick’s rich Irish charm was a
streak of fanaticism that ran deeper than she’d ever wanted to admit. "But he’s
coming back here.”
"Of course he
is,” Caitlin scoffed. "He’s coming back to screw you, get you to marry him, and
then get back into Ireland using you as a cover. You must have said something,
told someone, you stupid idiot—”
"I didn’t talk
to anyone,” she said numbly. This isn’t happening, she thought, pulling
the robe more tightly around her. It can’t be...
"Get your
clothes on.”
"Why?”
"You’re coming
with me. Maybe we have a chance to save him. You love him, don’t you?” she
demanded, her voice full of contempt. "You were about to go to bed with him.
You wanted to marry him and donate all your money to the bloody cause, didn’t
you? Get dressed!” she shrieked.
It took Francey
less than two minutes to pull on jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, ignoring the
silky lingerie she’d bought in preparation for tonight, ignoring the perfumed
scent of her bathwater. Even if she hadn’t wanted to go, she would have had no
choice. Caitlin was fierce and dangerous, and Francey was no match for her kind
of dirty street fighting.
She didn’t
recognize the car Caitlin had waiting outside. She didn’t bother to ask where
it came from—she didn’t want to know the answer. They drove through the New
York streets like any New Yorker, with speed and desperation. The streets
surrounding the UN were blocked off, as usual, and Caitlin simply left the car
standing in the middle of Forty-eighth Street, grabbing Francey’s wrist and
dragging her toward the huge modern complex of buildings.
They could hear
the noise of the demonstration from a distance. There were television cameras
everywhere, noise and light and confusion. In the swirling mass of angry
demonstrators there was no sign of Patrick, no sign of his broad, smiling face,
his charming green eyes, his warmth. He couldn’t be a murderer, Francey
thought. Caitlin must have been doing drugs. She must have finally flipped. She
must...
"There he is,”
Caitlin breathed, stopping short, her Irish lilt rich with satisfaction. "They
haven’t seen him yet. There’s still a chance.”
Francey peered
into the shifting crowds, squinting against the glare of the television lights
amidst the mass of media equipment. "Where? I don’t see him.”
"Maybe we’ll
still be able to pull this off. Move over there and keep your mouth shut. We’ll
watch and see what happens.”
The shock of the
hard prick of a knife against her baggy sweatshirt left Francey with no choice
but to go along. "He can’t really mean to kill her?” she asked, stumbling
slightly as she searched for a thread of normalcy beneath all this horror.
"Oh, can’t he
just? And you’ll get to witness it, or you’ll get this between your ribs, and
trust me. I’ve done it often enough to know what I’m doing. I’ll make it
deadly, and I’ll make it hurt.”
Francey didn’t
doubt her for one moment. "Aren’t you going to try to warn him? He won’t get
away with it.”
"It won’t
matter. He’ll die gloriously, a worthy death for any Irishman, to die for the
cause.”
"He’s your
brother, for God’s sake! How can you watch him die?”
"He’s not my
brother. Oh, he’s some sort of kin—all Dugans are related to each other. He’s
my lover, and has been since I was thirteen.” Caitlin pushed her face against
Francey, and there was a look of pure hatred on her pale, Celtic face. "It was
my plan to have him seduce you and get all your wonderful American money. He
was going to come to me afterward and tell me all the details.”
Francey didn’t
move. "I don’t believe you.”
"Believe me.
He’s not your distant cousin, darlin’. He’s not some charming Irish expatriate.
He needs your money, he needs your protection, and he doesn’t give a damn
about the spawn of Sean Neeley and the rich American bitch he married. Screwing
you was the frosting on the cake.”
They were
huddled against a building on First Avenue, across from the UN, across from the
demonstration. The motorcade that was pulling up could signal only one thing,
and the sudden increase in activity from the crowd, the television crews, and
the security people was ominous.
"There he goes,”
Caitlin breathed, and if she hadn’t said anything Francey would never have seen
him. It happened so quickly. She could just make out Patrick, the lithe, strong
body she’d ached for, blending in with the scaffolding on one of the light
platforms. But no one else was looking in his direction, not even Caitlin,
momentarily distracted by her anticipation. Everyone else was concentrating on
the Queen’s arrival.
It was Francey’s
only chance, and she took it without stopping to think. She shoved hard,
knocking Caitlin off balance. The knife went skittering away on the sidewalk,
and Caitlin’s slender body went tumbling in front of a slow-moving limousine.
But not slowly enough.
"Watch out!”
Francey screamed, not sure who she was warning, Patrick or the security people,
Caitlin or the driver of the limousine.
It didn’t
matter. Her call signaled the onset of a bloodbath. Patrick began spraying the
crowded plaza with bullets, a look of monstrous delight on the face she’d
thought she loved. He was so intent he didn’t notice another figure climbing a
scaffold near him until it was almost too late. Something must have alerted
him, for he turned the gun in time to mow down the man who’d almost reached
him. But not quite soon enough. As the man lay writhing on the scaffold, his
hand moved, and Patrick went plummeting off his own platform, into the crowd
below. As he fell, Francey could see the blood spurting from the hole in the
middle of his forehead, in his beautiful, soulless face.
She started
screaming then, the sound swallowed up by the hysteria around her. She simply
sank onto the sidewalk, wrapped her arms around her legs and continued to
scream until her voice dried up, her mind shrank, and everything went
mercifully blank.
Chapter 1
FRANCEY LET her
long toes wriggle into the hot white sand. They were her one beauty, she
thought dispassionately. How many people could say they had beautiful toes? And
considering that she’d lived most of her life in chilly northern climates, few
people had had the chance to appreciate the one gift nature had given her.
Here on the tiny
island of St. Anne in the blue Caribbean she seldom wore shoes at all, and
when she had to, she made to do with leather thongs. Still, no strange men were
falling all over her, rhapsodizing about her toes. Which was just as well. She
wasn’t going to be ready to have any men falling all over her for quite a
while. If ever.
She’d been lucky
so far. In the time she’d been staying in her cousin’s secluded villa, he’d
sent very few people to intrude on her healing process. A couple of elderly
women who’d just lost their husbands, a college student breaking away from
drugs and an unhealthy relationship, a middle-aged woman facing cancer with
remarkable courage. All broken birds, traveling to the peace and serenity of
Daniel Travers’s rambling colonial cottage. All of them eventually left, their
healing processes begun. All but Francey, who stayed behind, walking alone in
the sand, waiting for her own healing to start.
But today her
luck had run out. Arriving on the evening flight from Boston was the first man
Daniel had inflicted on her, and there was nothing Francey could do but accept
with as much grace as she could muster. After all, she had no place else to go.
At least, no place that she could face. The whitewashed walls of the villa, the
wide boundaries of Daniel’s land and private beaches were all the world she
cared to deal with. And if she had to share that world with another one of
Daniel’s charity cases, then share it she would.
It wasn’t as if
she weren’t a charity case herself. Not financially, of course. Her personal
fortune, while not in the league of Daniel Travers’s, was respectable enough to
keep her from having to worry. But emotionally she was as dependent as lost
child, and Daniel knew that.
Besides, the new
arrival wasn’t likely to make many demands. Michael Dowd was a semi-invalid
from somewhere in the south of England, a man who was recovering from a near
fatal auto crash. The hospitals had done the bulk of the work over the past
few months. Now he just needed sunshine and rest, something the villa could
easily provide. It was named Belle Reste for just that reason, and Francey
could no more resent the intrusion than she could welcome it.
She would have
to leave for the plane soon enough, using the absurd, pink-awninged Jeep
Daniel had provided, but until then she was going to treasure the last moments
of her solitude.
Maybe she should
have pushed it. Maybe she should have forced herself to face the debacle her
life had become, forced herself to deal with it. She’d been coasting on a
mindless, dreamless breeze, the dark shadows left behind in New York. She’d
thought there was no hurry, but Michael Dowd was about to prove otherwise. The
presence of any man was going to force her to deal with things she would rather
keep ignoring.
She could always
abandon him to his own defenses, rent a house of her own. The tourist season
hadn’t geared up yet, and she’d made a few connections during her infrequent
visits to town. Something would turn up.
But she couldn’t
do that to her cousin Daniel or the ailing Michael. Providing a haven for
emotionally destitute souls was one of Daniel’s many charitable activities, and
Francey had taken full advantage of it. The least she could do would be to
provide the kind of healing environment she’d been enjoying. She didn’t know
whether Michael Dowd could stay alone, but she suspected he needed someone
keeping an eye on him at the very least, even if he didn't need actual nursing.
At least, she hoped he didn't. She hated blood.
The villa was
big enough that he wouldn’t have to get in her way, and he was hardly likely to
be making a pass at her in his current condition.
She threw back
her head and laughed, squinting up into the bright sunlight. Who the hell did
she think she was? In the best of times, with the healthiest of males around,
she was hardly irresistible. Even the forced proximity of Belle Reste wasn’t
likely to turn an invalid into a ravening beast desperate for sex.
Maybe she'd been
alone too long. Maybe she needed to get used to the company of men again.
Someone weak and harmless would be a perfect start. He would probably be
querulous—most sick men were—and no threat at all. She could cosset him with
custards and fresh fruit, and outwalk or outrun or outswim him if he grew to be
too much of a pain. He would probably talk about his girlfriend or his ex-wife
or both, and he’d probably whine. All in all, there was absolutely nothing to
worry about, she told herself.
Nevertheless,
she was going to savor every last minute of her solitude. She was going to
drink in the hot sun, the cooling breezes, the rich scent of the ocean and the
tropical growth around the villa. She was going to sit and drink fruit drinks
and think about absolutely nothing at all until she had to face the mountainous
drive to the airport. And from the moment she picked up her unwelcome
house-guest, she was going to be the perfect hostess.
But for now she
was simply going to vegetate in the bright, glorious sunlight and hope the sun
would bake more of the pain away.
"I DON’T WANT
her hurt.” Daniel Travers was a man in his prime— just under sixty, with a
bull-like body, a high complexion, bright blue eyes, and a deceptively hearty
demeanor. He was a great deal more astute, and more dangerous, than most people
credited him with being, and that was part of his great value.
Michael Dowd
wasn’t under any illusions, however. He knew just how far Daniel Travers was
capable of going, and he knew enough not to antagonize him more than he needed
to. Goad him far enough but not too far, and you got the best results.
"I’m not
planning on hurting her,” Michael said, leaning back against the soft leather
seat of the Rolls. There was one thing to be said for Travers—he knew how to
live well. At least this current assignment involved Rolls-Royces and a villa
in the Caribbean. Better than a hovel in Northern Ireland anytime. "I just want
to find out what she knows.”
"She’s gone
through extensive debriefing...”
"You know that’s
not worth a damn if it’s not done right. She was in shock, all her defenses in
place, not knowing whom to trust. Now she’s had a long time to recuperate, with
no one bothering her, no one asking unpleasant questions. She’s had a nice,
peaceful vacation, and she should be just about ready to open up to someone who
knows how to ask the right questions in the right way. Particularly someone as
harmless as I am.”
Travers’s bright
blue eyes slid over to him, doubtful, and Michael almost laughed. In his current
condition he was no threat to anyone at all. He was pale, skinny, and he
couldn’t walk without the aid of a cane. At least it was better than the
wheelchair he’d been inhabiting for longer than he cared to remember. But it
was going to be weeks before he was back at full strength, maybe longer, before
that wary expression in Travers’s eyes would be justified.
Travers shook
his head. "I don’t think you’d be harmless if you were in a coma,” he said.
"That’s why I’m warning you. Don’t hurt her any more than she has been already.
Find out what you need to know, and then I’ll get you out of there. I have a
dozen places at my disposal if you want to finish your recuperation.”
"I’ve finished
my recuperation,” he said savagely, hating his weakened state. "I’ve just
about gone off my nut these past few weeks. There’s no end to the things I can
accomplish, even while I’m still so knocked up. As soon as your cousin tells me
about her friends, I can move on to another job, and no one will ever bother
her again. I’m not that interested in pumping a lovesick female for
information, but I’m sick of sitting on my butt watching other people ball up
things I’ve been working on for years.”
"That’s between
you and Ross Cardiff,” Travers said stiffly. "I wouldn’t presume to give you
advice.”
"The hell you
wouldn’t,” Michael said with a ghost of a smile. "Particularly when it comes
to your precious cousin. Don’t worry, old man. She’ll be safe as houses with
me.”
"Considering
your expertise in explosives, that’s hardly a sterling recommendation,”
Travers said. "Just remember, you may be a dangerous young man, but I can be a
dangerous old man, when me and mine are threatened. I’m letting you go to Belle
Reste because I want this settled once and for all. Tread carefully.”
"I can’t do much
else, now can I?” Michael countered, lifting his metal cane in a negligent
gesture. "Don’t worry,” he said again. "When I leave St. Anne, your cousin
won’t even know her brain’s been picked clean.”
"For your sake,
you’d best hope so,” Travers grumbled as the Rolls pulled up beside a small
private jet.
Michael didn’t
bother to answer. Private citizens like Daniel Travers were one of the few
things that made his job easier. He didn’t know what motivated the
man—patriotism, civic duty, or sheer boredom—and he didn’t particularly care.
All that mattered was that Travers put his considerable resources at the
disposal of certain select branches of the secret service organizations of
various countries, Travers’s own and Great Britain among them. All the man
asked for in return was a vicarious taste of the excitement and the knowledge
that he’d struck a blow for democracy or whatever he was after.
Michael
suspected he was deeply disappointed by the recent easing of relations with
Eastern Europe. Travers still managed to cheer himself up with thoughts of
Middle Eastern terrorists and the subversive branches of the IRA, but even
South Africa seemed to be mellowing. If things continued as they were, Daniel
Travers would be out of a hobby and Michael would be out of a job.
He doubted it
would happen, though. He didn’t trust any of it. Not the lessening of
repression in Eastern Europe, not the free elections in Latin America, not the
hopeful steps in South Africa. Thirty-seven years of life on the edge had made
him an extremely cynical man, and a few examples of media manipulation and
feel-good public relations weren’t going to convince him that the intrinsic
nature of the world had changed from bad to good. As long as there were people
left alive, he and others like him would be needed. And the nastier, more
unpleasant the job, the more often he would be the one to be called.
He hadn’t been
exaggerating—the past few weeks had been holy hell. He’d been pretty well shot
to pieces, and a body takes time to heal, particularly one that had gone
through this sort of thing too many times. He didn’t like drugs, and his mind
instinctively resisted painkillers, even when his body craved them. The pain
had been the only thing that had kept him going when he’d first emerged from
three weeks in intensive care. The pain, and the hatred.
Normally the
idea of weeks in the sun, lying there doing nothing but swelter, would be his
idea of hell, especially after such a long stretch of forced inactivity. But he
wouldn’t be inactive. While he lay in the sun and tried to marshal his
strength, his energy, he would be finding out exactly what Frances Neeley knew.
And just how deeply she’d been involved.
Of course, he
hadn’t confided those suspicions to Daniel. If the old man thought Michael
suspected his young cousin of conspiracy he wouldn’t let him within a thousand
miles of her. And Daniel could do just that, spirit her away on that ocean
liner of a yacht he owned and head out into international waters where there’d
be no reaching her.
So Michael had
pretended to believe in the woman’s innocence, keeping his own opinion in
reserve. Word on the street had been divided. Some said she'd been sleeping
with Dugan, some that she was just another victim. He intended to find out the
truth as soon as possible and then head back to England to clean up the mess
Dugan had left behind. See if he could find out who’d been pulling the strings,
giving the orders. Who headed up the brutal sect of the IRA known only as the
Cadre. With Frances Neeley’s information in hand, there was no way they could
keep him on the sidelines, much as Ross Cardiff wanted to.
He was going to
the Caribbean with a very simple goal in mind. To get stronger. And smarter.
And meaner, even though he knew that most people simply wouldn’t consider that
possible.
He wondered if
he was going to have to sleep with Daniel Travers’s plain, pale cousin to get
what he wanted from her. And he wondered if he was going to have to kill her.
FRANCEY HAD
never liked the way the pink Jeep handled. It tended to pull to the left,
particularly when she was enthusiastic with the brakes, and she had grown a
little too accustomed to power brakes, power steering, power windows and the
like. The old Jeep was not much of an improvement over a push-pull railway
cart, and she’d been half tempted to rent a more reasonable car to get around
the mountainous little island.
Two things
stopped her. One, she didn’t go out often enough to make the hassle worthwhile.
Daniel had regular deliveries of food and staples arranged, and just about
every need was taken care of by a silent army of workers who came and went with
smiling faces and impenetrable French.
The second
reason was less practical but far more devastating. She simply didn’t want to
drive on the left-hand side of the road. She had too many memories of Patrick
teasing her about her future, trying to drive on the left-hand side of the road
when they went back to Ireland. She had too many memories of Patrick.
One of those
almost invisible workers had just checked over the Jeep that morning, so at
least she could reassure herself that the silly vehicle was marginally safe.
The gas tank had been topped off, the bright pink paint was newly waxed, the
awning clean, the vehicle swept clean of sand. She could only assume that
whoever had checked the car was equally well versed in its underpinnings. The
only sign that marred the spotless paint was a greasy thumbprint on the hood,
proof that someone had known enough to at least check the engine.
One of the great
blessings of Belle Reste was its remoteness from the rest of the small, busy
island. One of its greatest disadvantages was its distance from the tiny
airport, most of it over hilly, twisty roads. People also tended to fly in
during the evening hours, making the trip even more hair-raising, but Francey
navigated the narrow roads with her usual aplomb. She liked driving. And she
hadn’t yet gotten to the point where it mattered terribly if she lived or died.
Daniel’s private
jet had already landed by the time she drove the stubborn little Jeep into the
airport confines. She slammed the vehicle into park and jumped out, absently
noticing that the brakes were a little spongier than usual. The moment she
caught sight of the man making his way carefully down the flight ramp she held
her breath, oddly startled.
Even in the
electric light she could see that his color wasn’t good. He was deathly pale as
he moved down the stairs, leaning heavily on the handrail and a cane, and his
eyes seemed too big for his face. He was tall and as thin as a scarecrow, his
rumpled white suit flapping around his long legs, and his face was narrow and
lined with pain beneath a shock of incongruous auburn hair.
A thousand
confusing emotions swept over her as she leaned against the mesh of the fence,
watching him as he reached the tarmac and moved slowly forward. She didn’t
quite know what she was feeling, whether it was déjà vu, the odd sense that
this had all happened before, or something else. Some strange, psychic
knowledge that the sick- looking man walking slowly across the empty runway was
going to matter to her very much. Was going to make the difference between life
and death. And that he might mean death.
She shook her
head, forcing such morbid thoughts away, and the movement caught his eye.
Across the deserted tarmac he looked at her, and while she knew that he
wouldn’t be able to see that well across the artificially lit distance, she
suddenly felt uneasy. As if she’d been caught spying.
Opening the wire
gate, she started toward him, forcing a welcoming smile onto her stiff face.
"You must be Michael Dowd,” she said when she reached him. "I’m Frances Neeley,
better known as Francey.” And she held out her hand.
It took him a
moment to laboriously shift the cane, then reach out his own thin hand. His
grasp was weak, ominously so, and for a moment she forgot her own concerns in
worry over him. "I’m Michael,” he agreed, and his voice was surprisingly warm,
strong, and unnervingly British. During her brief time with Patrick Dugan she’d
learned to think of British accents as those belonging to the enemy, compared
to Patrick’s charming lilt. No, she wouldn’t think of that.
"How was your
trip?” she asked, pushing away her instinctive doubts. "How are you feeling?
The Jeep’s just over there—you won’t have far to walk. Unless you’d like me to
see whether I could find a wheelchair.”
"No wheelchair,”
he said flatly. "I’ve already spent too much time in them since the car
accident. And I feel like hell.”
Querulous,
Francey thought with a trace of satisfaction. A pale, weak, querulous man. A
pain in the butt and nothing worse.
And then he
looked down at her and smiled, and the charm he was exerting was a palpable
thing, something she could no more resist than she could stop her heart from
beating. "I’m a pain in the butt, aren’t I?” he said, reading her mind. "I
promise you I won’t spend my time here whining. I’m just done in from the
travel.”
She found
herself smiling back, up into eyes that were very, very blue. "That’s all
right,” she said soothingly, falling into her natural role of caretaker. "We’ll
get you home to Belle Reste and get you settled. By tomorrow you’ll be able to
lie out in the sun and feel a lot better.”
"If you say so.”
His expression was wry. "Lead the way to the Jeep. I’m assuming that pink
monstrosity is yours.”
"Daniel’s, not
mine. Where’s your luggage?”
"Lost,” he said
succinctly. "The airline people said they’ve managed to track it down, and
someone will be bringing it over in the morning. In the meantime, I can borrow
something of Daniel’s can’t I?”
"Of course.” She
held out her arm, to give him some extra strength to lean on, and for a moment
he simply looked at her, his eyes distant and unreadable.
"Thanks,” he
said finally, taking it and leaning heavily. "I need all the help I can get.”
It was a slow
process to reach the Jeep. By the time she got him settled she was breathing
heavily herself, and she glanced over at him as he lay back in the seat, his
eyes closed, his color pale, his chest rising and falling beneath the too-big
suit. "Are you sure you’re all right? We don’t have much in the way of hospital
facilities here on the island, but they might be able to help—”
"I’ll be fine,”
he said without opening his eyes, and his voice sounded slightly fainter.
Whatever doubts
she’d had about him vanished the moment she realized how very sick he was.
She’d been able to be a remote, gracious hostess to the other lost souls Daniel
had sent her. Michael Dowd was another prospect altogether. For the first time
in months she found someone whose needs superseded her own. Someone to
concentrate on, ignoring her own helpless pain. From the moment she’d felt his
weak clasp and looked into his pain-lined face, she’d known he wasn’t really a
threat at all. He was simply a sick man, someone she wanted to help.
She drove with
uncharacteristic sedateness through the narrow streets of the town, then headed
up into the hills toward Belle Reste with only a decorous increase in speed.
Driving was one thing she really enjoyed, and during the past few months of
penance and mourning she’d been denying herself that pleasure. Now, suddenly,
she felt like stretching her wings, but she knew that with an invalid beside
her she had to be as demure as an old lady. Maybe tomorrow she would see about
renting a car after all. A small sporty convertible, something with a little
power beneath the hood. Her new houseguest would probably enjoy going for
drives once his strength increased a bit.
The road to
Belle Reste was a series of three hills and three valleys, with the villa lying
at the end of the final valley on a spit of land jutting out into the warm
Caribbean. With Francey keeping a sedate pace and a companionable silence as
her passenger rested, they made it through the first hill and valley, up the
next hill, and were heading downward again when the car began gathering
momentum.
Francey pushed
her sandaled foot down on the brake, but instead of slowing down the Jeep
seemed to move even faster, and she glanced down, wondering if by some odd
chance she was pressing the accelerator instead.
The brake was all the way to the floor. Pumping was utterly useless— the speedometer
was climbing past its well-bred thirty-five to something beyond fifty. Suicide,
on roads like these.
Don’t panic, she
told herself, still pumping the useless brake pedal. Keep steering and try to
downshift.
The gears ground
noisily as she tried to push the stick shift into third, and the speedometer
climbed to fifty-five. Her passenger turned his face toward her, opened his
sleepy eyes and said in a tone of complete unconcern, "Brakes failed?”
She couldn’t
help it—his mundane tone made her want to laugh. "It seems so.”
"You’ve tried
pumping them, and you’ve tried shifting down,” he observed casually. "What
about the emergency brake?”
"It never
worked.” She allowed herself a quick glance over at him. She would have
expected him to look even worse, paler, now that death stared them in the face.
Instead his color had improved, and his eyes had something that in another man,
another situation might almost be called a sparkle.
"Then you’re
simply going to have to drive like hell,” he said. "Or we’re going to die.”
The speedometer
had reached sixty. They were only halfway down the hill, and coming up was a
series of S-curves worthy of the Grand Prix of Monte Carlo. "Maybe in a
Ferrari,” she muttered, "with decent tires. We have maybe a snowball’s chance
in hell of making it.”
Michael Dowd
laughed. "Well then, Francey, it’s been nice knowing you.”
"Nice knowing
you, Michael,” she muttered, concentrating on the steering. The speedometer was
edging toward seventy, the S-curves were approaching, and Francey Neeley didn’t
want to die. Patrick Dugan was dead, cut down in a hail of bullets, and she
didn’t want to run the risk of ever seeing him again, even in some nebulous
afterlife.
She took one
last glimpse at her passenger before they headed into the curves. At least he
didn’t seem to mind dying. That should have made two of them, but she realized
she didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to take the easy way out, the coward’s
way out. There was too much left to do, to accomplish.
"For heaven’s
sake put your seat belt on!” she shrieked at her passenger, just noticing he
hadn’t bothered to fasten himself in.
"Will it make a
difference?”
"Humor me. We
just might make it. If we get through the next section there’s a stretch of
rocky beach. I might be able to steer this thing into the water.”
"I don’t fancy
drowning any more than I do crashing.”
"Shut up and let
me drive.”
She almost made
it. Not by slowing down, something that was beyond the Jeep’s capabilities,
but by speeding up just at the curve of each turn. She was cursing beneath her
breath, a steady litany that had to take the place of the prayers she’d
forsaken months ago, and by the time they entered the final S-curve she knew
she was going to make it. The curve was ending, the beach was up ahead, all she
had to do was steer across the stretch of rocky beach—She hadn’t counted on the
moped with the teenager on board, driving too fast and blithely ignoring her
oncoming Jeep. She stared in horror at the accident about to happen,
momentarily paralyzed, and then Michael reached over and yanked the wheel
sharply.
They went
sailing past the teenager, past the stone abutment, past the rocky beach.
Gripping the steering wheel, Francey closed her eyes and prepared to die.
