Patricia Potter (19 page)

The thought was excruciating, and yet he still could not break away from her. He realized he was like a lemming swimming to its doom or a moth slowly burning to death. Yet he was as helpless to save himself as they. The compulsion was simply too overpowering.

He was only too aware, much of the time, of two sets of eyes on him: Sanders Evans’s and Hans Weimer’s. He was not amused by the dichotomy of the situation. Neither side trusted him.

To make everything complete, he no longer trusted himself.

From the edge of the pool in front of the clubhouse, Meara watched Peter and Tara race across the pool. Oblivious to the chill of the water, they swam like little fishes, almost as much at home in the water as they were on land.

There was also a lifeguard on duty, and Meara allowed her thoughts to wander, gazing expectantly toward the front of the clubhouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of Michael.

In the several days since the picnic, he’d seemed to avoid her although they had met and talked twice on the beach. She would have been devastated by his desertion had she not seen the pain in his eyes each time she saw him and the way his hand reached out to touch her when they stood together. There was no disguising the awareness that always ran between them. It reverberated in the air like distant thunder. She felt it. She knew he felt it.

She sensed he was trying to avoid hurting her. He would be leaving in several days, perhaps not to return, and he was trying to minimize the impact. Yet there was no way to minimize her feelings now, and she was determined to tell him that, to tell him she would take every moment she could now, and never regret the ones they may not have in the future.

Meara told herself that the very fact he was trying “to do the right thing” said he cared about her, perhaps even loved her, she hoped wistfully. If it were otherwise, wouldn’t he readily take what was offered?

She looked down at her bathing suit, pleased that she had spent precious money in buying this new one. It was a two-piece suit, a trifle daring for her usual conservative taste. The color, a rich forest green that she knew complemented her eyes, had prompted the unusual purchase. This was the first time the weather had been truly warm enough to wear it, and she was both nervous and expectant at Michael seeing her in it. Her figure, she knew, was slim and pleasant enough, but nothing spectacular. She had few of the curves some of the other girls here had.

“Meara.” She turned around and watched Sanders approach, and she smiled in return. He was in a swimming suit and a loosely fitting shirt, and he looked fit and attractive. She liked him more each day, and any other time she would welcome his company. But now all she wanted was a few moments alone with Michael. A few moments which, she hoped, would lead to more.

But immediately she was ashamed as she saw the flash of pleasure in Sanders’s eyes.

“May I join you?”

“Of course,” she replied. “You’ve been down to the beach?”

He nodded.

“Many people down there?”

His eyes were knowing. Kind and knowing. “A few. I saw your Canadian friend return from one of his long walks.”

Meara tried to appear indifferent but she could feel a blush crawl up her face. The question came quickly to her lips, splashing out before she could prevent it. “Is he still down there?”

Sanders nodded, and Meara felt his sharp gaze penetrate right through her. There were questions in the look, questions that she couldn’t answer. Questions and a hint of sympathy.

She was surprised when he quietly voiced one of those questions. “Has he said much about himself, about his family?”

“Only that he doesn’t have any. Why?”

Sanders didn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t know,” he finally said slowly. “It’s just that…I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man who seems quite so alone.”

Meara stared at him. So he had seen it too. It was curious because Michael mingled so easily, and with so much warm charm, with others. She didn’t realize anyone else had noticed the brief seconds, sometimes only a quick flash, of emptiness, of complete isolation, that she had glimpsed in him.

Sanders watched her closely, realizing that she had seen the same thing he had, and he was surprised. He was a trained observer. Meara was not. Still, it probably meant nothing. He had checked with FBI headquarters and his superiors had found nothing odd about Michael Fielding. Sanders still, however, felt a vague disquiet that was pure instinct and had asked for a more thorough investigation.

“He nearly died. Perhaps, that’s why,” Meara answered slowly. “I would think that would give anyone a sense…of needing time alone.”

“Could be,” Sanders observed neutrally. “His leg seems to be getting better. But then I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone work so hard at making it that way.”

She hesitated, not quite sure of the reasons for Sanders’s interest. “So he can go back and get shot at again,” Meara finally replied, resignation in her voice. “Why do men like war so much?”

“I don’t think it’s a case of liking,” Sanders said. “At least not for most men. It’s more of a case of necessity, duty if you wish. Or honor.”

“But he doesn’t have to go back, not with that leg.”

“Perhaps he does…for himself,” Sanders said.

“And you?” It was an unfair question, she knew, especially when he stiffened slightly. But his questions worried her in a way she didn’t understand.

“I have my own job,” he finally said cautiously.

“Catching spies?” she said, her curiosity over his occupation surfacing.

He shrugged. “I do a lot of things.”

“Can you tell me about them?”

“It’s not that interesting. Mostly waiting. Or pouring over books and figures until you think you’re going blind.”

“What kind of books?”

Sanders grinned, his body relaxing. “Now I see the journalist in you.”

“You’re avoiding the subject.”

“I’m on vacation.”

“But you’re not really enjoying it.”

His glance was sharp, once more surprised at her intuition. “No, I don’t guess I am. Except for you. I’m not used to this kind of luxury. I don’t really enjoy it.”

“Then why did you come?”

“It was…suggested to me.”

“And you always take suggestions?”

His mouth twitched at the corners at her pert persistence. “Depends on who they come from.”

“You haven’t found any spies here?”

“Nary a one.” He grinned.

“Good,” Meara said, leaning back with her two hands based firmly behind her on the cement near the edge of the pool. “Now you can relax, or do you ever really relax?”

Sanders looked at her intently. She continued to surprise him with her perceptiveness. “Whenever there’s a very pretty woman around.”

“I don’t think I believe you,” she replied with a slight smile. “I doubt if anything really distracts you.”

“You should tell my boss that,” he replied with a slow, lazy smile. “But I don’t think he’ll believe you.” He glanced out at Tara and Peter, who were conducting a water fight in the pool. “I think Tara needs some assistance,” he said. He took off his shirt and slipped into the water, giving a short yelp at its cold temperature.

Meara watched as he swam easily over to the youngsters and bent his head over to speak to Tara. It must be difficult for him, she thought as she remembered the pain with which he spoke of his own wife and child. She dived into the pool and swam to them, joining Peter’s cause while Sanders became Tara’s champion. In seconds, they were splashing and laughing together.

He was an easy man to be with, despite what must be an often violent occupation. There was something nurturing about him, even with those eyes that looked as if they saw everything. He would make a good friend, she knew, a very loyal one. She had seen the admiration in his eyes and knew he had been on the brink several times of asking her out. Yet he showed today that he realized her interest lay elsewhere, and offered companionship instead.

Unlike many women, Meara had always had men friends, friends in the nonromantic way. Many of her ambitions and interests were comparable to theirs, and because she had her own goals she seldom thought of men as possible conquests or marriage partners. She didn’t indulge in many of the usual games between men and women, and had shunned relationships that might affect her career.

But since she had met Michael, she was beginning to feel more and more like a woman. She now understood, only too well, the illogical pull between two people, the obsession that had always escaped her until now. Obsession. Was that another word for love?

She finally pleaded a chill, and lifted herself easily back to the edge of the pool, watching as Sanders continued to play with the children. The sun was at its most pleasant, warm and caressing as it often was in late Match on the island, and her skin dried quickly. She closed her eyes, enjoying the light warmth, the sense of well-being it stirred in her.

“Meara.” Peter’s demanding voice broke into her thoughts. She looked to the pool where he stood on Sanders’s shoulders, ready to dive into the water. She smiled at him before looking away, looking toward the road to the beach.

He
was there, walking slowly and deliberately, and she remembered what Sanders had said, and now, more than ever, she felt it—a stark, lonely quality. But when he saw her, his shoulders straightened almost rakishly, and he flashed a crooked, even abashed, grin at her.

The change came so quickly she thought she only imagined her first impression. But nothing mattered, nothing but the electrification of the air as he approached, his gaze running swiftly and approvingly over her bathing costume, devouring her, possessing her.

He sat on the edge of a chair to rest. He wasn’t using the cane again today, and she heard the slight sigh of relief as he sat. She could only wonder at the determination that made him exercise his leg so thoroughly when there obviously was much pain. She wanted to massage the deep scars she had seen on his leg, to run a hand along the ridge of his firmly set jaw, to erase the lines around his eyes. She wanted to touch. She wanted to touch and be touched.

Instead, she rose as gracefully as possible from where she sat on the cement, and walked to the chair next to his. Heat radiated between them. Heat and excitement and uncertainty. She watched his body tense ever so slightly as she neared. His gaze rested on her for one intimately intense moment before moving to the pool where Sanders now relaxed against the side before swinging up and joining them.

“Commander,” Sanders acknowledged.

Michael’s gaze shifted from Meara to Sanders. “Michael,” he insisted.

“Another early walk on the beach?”

Meara wondered if all Sanders’s conversations were on the inquisitive side, but Michael appeared to take no offense. “It’s the best time of day. You should try it.”

“Maybe I will,” Sanders replied lightly.

Meara looked from one man to another. There was a challenge and wariness between the two men she really didn’t understand.

Yet there was something else too, something similar between them. An elusive similarity. Strength, maybe. Determination?

She knew Michael well enough by now to detect the slight tension in his body as he ordered coffee from a waiter making a circuit of the tables.

“How long are you staying?” Michael asked the other man.

“Through Easter. And you?”

I he same.

“And then?”

“To London.”

“How is London these days?”

“Grim,” Michael replied. “Bombed-out buildings, shortages of everything.”

“I hear the morale is still good though, especially now that British bombers are giving Germany a taste of its own medicine.”

Michael’s stomach tightened. His mother and brother were in Berlin, and the British night bombing had been a continuous source of fear for him. But he kept his face impassive.

“The British,” he said, “are survivors.”

Sanders’s eyes clouded slightly. “My wife and I went to London years ago. It seemed so peaceful. It’s difficult to think of it today.”

As he had difficulty thinking of Berlin. Michael looked at Meara. Fire and destruction. Mindless, impersonal, violent death raining from the sky. He looked upward, watching some clouds drift across the peaceful sky. They were innocuous looking now, puffs of lace against a rich blue background.

“War seems a long way off here,” he said, more to himself than to the others.

“I know what you mean,” Sanders replied dryly. “But a ship was blown up not far from here a few days ago. Those damned U-Boats seem to have free range of the sea.”

Michael grimaced. “I think the return to England might be as dangerous as actual duty.”

“How will you be going?”

“A Canadian transport.”

“You’ve already made arrangements then?”

Michael nodded.

Sanders picked up the watch he had taken off before entering the pool, and looked at it. “I have some telephone calls to make,” he said apologetically. “I’ll see you both later.”

As Sanders walked toward the clubhouse, Michael’s gaze returned to Meara. Her face was turned toward the pool where she could keep an eye on Peter and Tara. But he saw her chin lift slightly, and he knew that she was fully aware that his attention was on her.