craving to be out and about. Free, for the first time in months. I don't suppose it makes any sense…"
"Of course it does." There it was again, that damned maternal soothing. "I'm just surprised you trust my driving after last night. We have one major problem, however. No car."
"I don't know of a driver I'd trust more," he said, completely honest for once. "Can't I rent a car? Have it delivered?"
"I never thought of that. "
"Why don't you get some shoes on, comb your hair, do whatever you need to do?" Michael suggested. "If you point me in the direction of the phone, I'll make arrangements."
"I don't think it's going to be that simple."
"I do," Michael said, knowing that Cecil was already prepared. "Trust me."
She looked at him for a moment with those doubting brown eyes of hers, and then she nodded. "All right," she said. "It won't take me long."
He waited until she left the room before he dialed the number that would be patched through to Cecil's cellular phone. And he wondered whether she trusted him any more than he trusted her. He'd thought he'd fooled her completely. Now he was beginning to wonder.
Michael was as good as his word. Francey dawdled as long as she could, fiddling with the makeup she hadn't touched in months, brushing her hair back, then forward, then giving up on it entirely as it simply began to curl in the humidity. She stared at her reflection in the mirror of the downstairs bedroom. She didn't know why she'd chosen that sundress. In all the time she'd been on St. Anne she hadn't worn it—the colors were too bright, the flowers too cheerful. But she'd put it on this morning, and now there was no way she could revert to the old T-shirt and cutoffs she'd been favoring.
It must be his accent, she decided. Maybe she was just a sucker for a voice from the British Isles. Her stomach cramped at the involuntary thought, but she faced it sternly. There was only so long that she could hide from what had almost happened, and that time was coming to an end.
She had been attracted to a murderer and a liar. A terrorist. She hadn't known it, of course. But the fact of the matter was, if fate and the British secret service hadn't taken a hand, she would have gone to bed with him that night. And probably ended up another victim in a few months' time, after he'd bled her bank account dry.
Not that Michael Dowd was anything like Patrick Dugan. They both had charm, of course. But Patrick's fanaticism had burned deep within him, shedding an intense light on those around him. Michael Dowd probably reserved his emotions for algebra and soccer matches. Anyone who could face their close brush with death last night with such equanimity had to be a pretty cold fish.
She couldn't figure out why she found him attractive. Maybe months of seclusion were finally taking their toll. Maybe it was the first healthy sign of life stirring in her pain-deadened heart. Or maybe she'd really gone crazy.
He was waiting for her by the front door. He was wearing a loose linen jacket and a pair of sunglasses, and his cane was hooked over one arm. "Madame, your chariot awaits," he said, opening the door for her with a flourish that made her smile.
Chariot, indeed. Parked directly in front of the broad veranda steps was a bright red sports car, complete with right-hand steering wheel and convertible top. She glanced at Michael. "Did you ask for this in particular?"
He shrugged. "I just said I wanted something red and fast and racy. You like it?"
"I like it," she said, moving down the stairs. "Who dropped it off?"
"The rental agency," he said easily, and she wondered why she doubted him.
She glanced over at the point, where the mysterious fishing boat had been anchored. It was gone now, and the bright azure sea was empty.
"Shall we take her for a little spin?"
These brakes could have been tampered with, too. He could be carrying a gun beneath that baggy linen jacket, and the moment they were someplace secluded, he could put
"Of course it does." There it was again, that damned maternal soothing. "I'm just surprised you trust my driving after last night. We have one major problem, however. No car."
"I don't know of a driver I'd trust more," he said, completely honest for once. "Can't I rent a car? Have it delivered?"
"I never thought of that. "
"Why don't you get some shoes on, comb your hair, do whatever you need to do?" Michael suggested. "If you point me in the direction of the phone, I'll make arrangements."
"I don't think it's going to be that simple."
"I do," Michael said, knowing that Cecil was already prepared. "Trust me."
She looked at him for a moment with those doubting brown eyes of hers, and then she nodded. "All right," she said. "It won't take me long."
He waited until she left the room before he dialed the number that would be patched through to Cecil's cellular phone. And he wondered whether she trusted him any more than he trusted her. He'd thought he'd fooled her completely. Now he was beginning to wonder.
Michael was as good as his word. Francey dawdled as long as she could, fiddling with the makeup she hadn't touched in months, brushing her hair back, then forward, then giving up on it entirely as it simply began to curl in the humidity. She stared at her reflection in the mirror of the downstairs bedroom. She didn't know why she'd chosen that sundress. In all the time she'd been on St. Anne she hadn't worn it—the colors were too bright, the flowers too cheerful. But she'd put it on this morning, and now there was no way she could revert to the old T-shirt and cutoffs she'd been favoring.
It must be his accent, she decided. Maybe she was just a sucker for a voice from the British Isles. Her stomach cramped at the involuntary thought, but she faced it sternly. There was only so long that she could hide from what had almost happened, and that time was coming to an end.
She had been attracted to a murderer and a liar. A terrorist. She hadn't known it, of course. But the fact of the matter was, if fate and the British secret service hadn't taken a hand, she would have gone to bed with him that night. And probably ended up another victim in a few months' time, after he'd bled her bank account dry.
Not that Michael Dowd was anything like Patrick Dugan. They both had charm, of course. But Patrick's fanaticism had burned deep within him, shedding an intense light on those around him. Michael Dowd probably reserved his emotions for algebra and soccer matches. Anyone who could face their close brush with death last night with such equanimity had to be a pretty cold fish.
She couldn't figure out why she found him attractive. Maybe months of seclusion were finally taking their toll. Maybe it was the first healthy sign of life stirring in her pain-deadened heart. Or maybe she'd really gone crazy.
He was waiting for her by the front door. He was wearing a loose linen jacket and a pair of sunglasses, and his cane was hooked over one arm. "Madame, your chariot awaits," he said, opening the door for her with a flourish that made her smile.
Chariot, indeed. Parked directly in front of the broad veranda steps was a bright red sports car, complete with right-hand steering wheel and convertible top. She glanced at Michael. "Did you ask for this in particular?"
He shrugged. "I just said I wanted something red and fast and racy. You like it?"
"I like it," she said, moving down the stairs. "Who dropped it off?"
"The rental agency," he said easily, and she wondered why she doubted him.
She glanced over at the point, where the mysterious fishing boat had been anchored. It was gone now, and the bright azure sea was empty.
"Shall we take her for a little spin?"
These brakes could have been tampered with, too. He could be carrying a gun beneath that baggy linen jacket, and the moment they were someplace secluded, he could put
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