Patricia Potter (22 page)

His hand moved down to hers, and he felt her tremble.

“Cold?” he said softly.

“Not next to you.”

He touched her cheek, exploring his face. “I’ve no right….”

“You’ve had every right.”

“I don’t want you to hate me.” There was an aching regret in his voice that reached into every corner of her.

“I won’t. I couldn’t.”

“I didn’t want this to happen.”

Now her fingers inched toward his. “I don’t think either of us could avoid it.”

“I should have.”

Meara shook her head. “No.”

His eyes clouded in the firelight. “You’ve given me something I didn’t know existed. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

The lump in Meara’s throat grew larger. He was speaking as if he would never return, as if he were certain of his own death, once again as if he knew something she didn’t.

“I love you,” she whispered, no longer able to keep the words within her.

Michael winced at the words, as if they were body blows. Abruptly he rose. “We’d better return. The water is getting rough.”

Meara hesitated, then nodded. The night clouds were looking thunderous, the waves cresting higher. She felt some of the joy seep from her at the sudden rough, harsh tone of his voice. She had the sick feeling that this would be the last time they would be together. “Will I see you again before you leave?” She couldn’t keep the waver from her voice, but she was determined to be strong. For herself. For him. She wanted his memories of her to be like that.

He went completely still. Would they see each other again? Not if he could help it. Certainly not like this. But he hadn’t been able to help anything up to now. He had succumbed to her as easily as a small boy to a plateful of forbidden cookies. The problem was she would pay the higher price. Perhaps. Because now he knew his own price would be lifelong hell. He had started something that would haunt him the rest of his life.

“I don’t know,” he finally said.

“Will you be going to New York before leaving?”

“No.”

Meara winced at the harsh finality of the word, and she leaned down for her clothes, wondering if she had misled herself to think that
he’d
really cared, that she had wanted it so badly that she had fooled herself.

Then she felt his hand on her again, and the soft deep sound of his voice. “I’m sorry, Meara. It seems I’m always saying that. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“God, I don’t know.” The answer was almost an expletive. Violent. Confused.

But they had no more time to explore the raw open feelings. Rain came. Sudden and heavy. Dousing the fire and making everything black except for the white caps of the water.

Michael quickly helped her into her clothes, pulling on his own impatiently before racing toward the boat, Michael’s stiff leg unexpectedly fast. He grabbed the rope holding the boat, and his arms strained with the force of its movements. He helped Meara in before pushing the boat into deeper water and, with one hand, twisted his body easily up into the driver’s seat. He used an oar to get them a little farther out, fighting against the tide that sought to bring them back. Finally he started the boat, and, rocking and smashing into heavy waves, they slowly made progress toward Jekyll Creek and the dock at the Jekyll Island Club.

Michael, grateful that the force of the sea was taking every ounce of his concentration, did not have the opportunity to say any more to Meara. An anxious club employee awaited him at the dock. When he delivered Meara at the cottage, both Connors were also hovering with anxiety. Storm warnings were out.

He apologized for the worry he had caused, saying they had heard nothing and had gotten caught in the rough seas on their way back and had to maneuver very slowly. Being caught in the storm was, thankfully, excuse enough for the calamitous condition of their clothing.

Michael was invited in for a brandy, but he excused himself, saying he needed to get into dry clothes. He turned and stopped by a bedraggled Meara, who nonetheless looked quite beguiling to him. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Her eyes had never looked greener, never deeper, as they searched his face, looking for answers he carefully kept concealed.

“I’ll never forget it,” she whispered.

“Neither will I. Never.” Before he could say anything else, something he might later bitterly regret, he turned and left.

Michael woke to the almost imperceptible sound of a knob turning and the door opening. Although his head was foggy, he knew he had locked the door earlier.

It had been a bad evening. He had returned to his room, ignoring several invitations from those at the clubhouse, and buried himself in a bottle of Scotch. It had done nothing to solve his problem or his emptiness or his overwhelming sense of guilt. Why was he so powerless around Meara? His best intentions were little stronger than a feather in a hurricane whenever he looked into those great green eyes, not to mention what happened to his body.

He had indulged his own needs again, ignoring the consequences. He had meant to explain a little today, to try to do something to mitigate the pain when it came. Instead, he had made it even worse. He had, God forgive him, even whispered love words to her. He had lost himself in the sense of well-being she always aroused in him, in the sense of rightness about their union.

But nothing in the world could excuse it. Nothing.

So it had been very late when the liquor finally dulled his brain and his thoughts, and he fell into a listless sleep. But the noises, the stealthy, secretive sounds, brought him to sudden awareness. He twisted around to see who was entering the room, the alcoholic fog dissipating in the flash of danger that raced through him. His gun was in the wardrobe. His knife also.

The door closed again, and the brief illumination, provided by the light in the hall, was cut off. But not before Michael saw Hans’s tall, bulky form enter. Michael leaned over and turned on the light next to him, sitting up abruptly in the bed.

“Du bist wohl von allen guten Geistern verlassen.”
The German words burst from Michael’s lips before he could recall them, but Hans’s sudden presence had thoroughly disconcerted him.

“Have I lost my senses? I think it’s you who have done so. What else have you lost?” The words were threatening.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I watched you come back with the girl tonight. I’ve watched you with her. What exactly does she mean to you?”

“Nothing,” Michael spit out, his stomach hurting. “It’s my job, damn you. To make friends with these people.”

“She’s nothing but a servant.”

“She was my introduction to Connor. They think of her as a daughter.”

“Don’t you think you’re carrying this ‘introduction’ a little far?” Hans’s voice was sneering.

“You know nothing about my job. You were passed over for this particular phase. Remember?” Michael said with contempt, knowing his words were a mistake but unable to withhold the stark rage at being spied upon. Rage, and fear for Meara. “There was a damned good reason for it,” Michael added harshly. “You know nothing about these people.”

“And you do, pretty boy?” An equal amount of venom was in Hans’s voice.

“Enough to carry out my part, if you haven’t ruined it by this stupid visit tonight.”

“No one saw me.”

“No? It was an idiotic thing to do.”

“I just wanted to remind you of your duty.”

“I need no one to remind me of duty. Particularly you.”

“No? I wonder,” Hans said silkily.

Michael held his tongue, but curses vibrated in his throat, just barely held in check.

“You’re a fool, criminally so,” Michael said, finally restoring an edge of cool disdain to his voice. “Taking a risk like this.”

“Ich lasse mich von ihnen doch night fur dumm verkaufen.”

Michael smiled coldly. “If you don’t want me to take you for an idiot, then don’t act one. Everything is under control, at least it was until now.”

“Remember what happens if it isn’t. Your mother. Your brother.”

Michael’s lips tightened. “Don’t threaten me, Hans. Not now. Not ever.”

Hans’s eyes were pale and cold. “Just so you understand.”

“I don’t need you to explain my duty, or responsibilities. Now get out.”

“I’ll meet you Saturday at noon. We will go over the final details.”

Michael merely stared at him coldly. “Get out. Now.”

Hans nodded. He opened the door slightly and looked in the hallway, then slipped outside. “Saturday,” he said just before he closed it again.

The word echoed ominously in the room after he left.

Meara finally gave up trying to sleep at midnight when a clap of thunder seemed to shake the room.

She rose and went to the window. She could see only darkness now, but she could hear the roar of the wind through the open window.

She knew she had been fooling herself. She had told him, she had told herself, over and over again, that she would be satisfied with these brief days, but she knew now she was not. And never would be.

Some part of her had believed in fairy tales, that once a prince awakened his princess he would stay with her forever. Part of her, although she had not admitted it to herself, had truly believed that Michael would finally sweep her up in his arms and ride away with her.

Meara realized in the past few hours how foolish a thought that had been.

He had tried to tell her. Over and over again, he had tried to tell her there was no future. He had tried in so many ways. No matter how much she had probed today, she still knew less than nothing about him, not how to write him, not how to reach him, not anything. At first it had added intrigue and mystery, even that odd sense of vulnerability that sometimes showed in him, that aura of loneliness that reached so deeply inside her.

But now she realized how little he was leaving her. How much and how very little.

Michael was like the fog settling on the island, gray and mysterious. He would be gone with the sunlight. But, oh, how magnificent it had been for one timeless moment.

Yet she wondered how she could go through life with that particular haunting legacy, and whether the sun would ever again be quite so bright.

Or even if it would shine at all.

Chapter Eleven

G
OOD
F
RIDAY WAS
the worst day Michael had ever known.

He had been a greater fool than he had earlier thought. He had underestimated Hans. His judgment, the one thing in which he had always trusted, had been lacking since the first day he had come to Jekyll Island.

Not only had he knowingly started a relationship destined to end in disaster, but he knew now he’d also placed Meara in grave danger.

Michael had a very bad feeling about Hans. He had never liked the man, but he knew Hans was capable. Capable and very, very dangerous. No matter what Michael had said last night, he knew German Intelligence did not use fools, borrowed or not. The SS man was sly and clever and dedicated.

Now Hans knew about Meara, had even surmised that Meara was a weak link in Michael’s armor.

Perhaps even worse were Michael’s own traitorous thoughts. He was already looking for options, telling himself it was only wise in the event something went wrong.

After Hans left last night, Michael had started planning. In his exploration of the island, he had noticed several small, very unseaworthy-looking boats, probably belonging to some of the year-round employees who lived on the island. But none of them had motors, only oars that were adequate near shore but not for a longer trip and not through the strong tides to the mainland. Today he would go back to Saint Simons and purchase a small motor, just in case he might have to leave the island quickly and quietly. His mind had also, almost subconsciously, started listing alternative plans. He had a great deal of cash with him, and a list of places where he could get more. In his particular role, it had been important that he seem well-heeled; guest or not, the cost of staying at the Jekyll Island Club was prohibitive.

He smiled dryly, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. No matter what happened tomorrow, the bill was one thing he needn’t worry about. But if anything did go wrong, and he somehow survived the next few days, he would need money, and he would need to keep it dry and safe. Just in case.

Michael looked in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn, his mouth set in a grim smile. A stranger looked back at him. A stranger who no longer knew what and who he was. Christ, he ached to be with Meara, to fill the emptiness that clawed at him with the talons of a vulture.

In lieu of something to do, he checked his suitcase again. The lock was still untouched, the money safe, the gun in its place. He wouldn’t put anything past Hans, including rifling through his belongings. But everything seemed to be exactly as he had left them.

Michael paced the room, feeling like a trapped tiger. Wherever he looked, he saw Meara’s face. It was imprinted indelibly in his brain no matter how hard he tried to erase it.