Patricia Potter (36 page)

“The man who came to your house today,” he tried again. “He could be dangerous,” he said, ignoring her observation.

“Like you?”

“Worse than me.” There was a deep brooding sadness in the words that almost disarmed her. Almost.

“How can that be?”

“I know…what you must think…feel…”

“You know nothing,” she spat out. “Nothing.”

He stood, and Meara noted absently that he did so stiffly, as if the old injury still bothered him. Not an injury inflicted by Germans but by her own people. He had even used that to gain her confidence.

Andy, next to her, wriggled closer to her, as if he understood her distress, and she held him tight, trying to keep tears from her eyes. She wouldn’t give Michael Fielding, or whoever he was, that satisfaction.

Then another thought struck her. He had watched her house. He would have seen Lisa. What if he realized…?

Get away from him, she thought frantically. Run for your life. But how? She couldn’t seem to move. Nothing worked, not even her brain.

“Does the government know about you?” she said suddenly.

He looked at her steadily, weighing his answer. Her husband had been with the FBI. One phone call, and he’d probably be sitting in jail, or a federal office someplace, and Meara…? But he was through lying.

“No.”

Her eyes glittered for a moment with a malice he’d never thought possible, and then it faded, and she looked defeated. The laughter was gone from her eyes, the laughter he’d loved so much, the spirit, the adventure. They’d all been tamed and now there were only eyes which had seen too much. They were still lovely, the green just as vivid as ever, but now there was compromise and knowledge and despair in them rather than a glorious quest for life. The golden red hair curled in restless tendrils around a face that was still easy to read. But now he hated what he saw there. Fear. Distrust. Even hatred. He shivered under its impact. He’d known this would be difficult; he had not known how difficult. He had not thought she would have changed so much, had hoped that somehow she would have survived more whole than she apparently had.

But then he had not done well himself. Why should he think her any different?

“A phone call,” he said softly. “One phone call, and I’ll be in jail.” He had to discover how strong her hatred was.

Meara remained motionless. “I don’t understand…why you came back. Where have you been?”

“The northwest. I went to Oregon from here.”

“You didn’t go back to Germany?” she asked again.

“My mission failed…my family was in danger. This way, I died a German hero, and I thought they would be safe.”

“Your family?” He’d said there was no one. Another betrayal, another lie.

“A mother and brother,” he said softly. “It was because of them I accepted the…mission.”

“Where are they now?”

“Dead. They died in 1944 during a bombing raid.” It was said tonelessly.

“Why should I believe you? Why should I believe anything you say? I heard you say you were calling in the submarine. I heard you agree to taking Tara and Peter.”

“Hans enjoyed killing, Meara. I had to make him think I agreed. It was the only way I could buy time, to protect you and the children.”

“Hans. Was that his name? What is yours? Is it Fielding? Is it von Steimen?” She had never forgotten one instant of that confrontation, nor the name referred to by her captor.

He hesitated. “It was von Steimen,” he acknowledged quietly.

“Was?”

God, she was quick. But then she always had been. “I’ve changed it.”

“Again?”

“Obviously it was necessary.” A trace of wry humor was evident in the brief glimmer of an ironic smile.

“Nothing about you is obvious,” Meara retorted, the bitterness back in her voice. “I’ve heard of a man with a thousand faces. You must be the man with a thousand names. Might I ask what it is now?”

Hell, Chris thought. Everything else is gone. “Chris…Christopher Chandler.”

“A fine American name,” she replied stiffly. “Who did you kill to get it?”

“I told you the war ended for me that night,” he repeated quietly. He hesitated, wanting to explain, to make her understand just a little. “I was a naval officer, Meara. I had fought honorably for two years until I was…wounded. I wasn’t a spy by choice. I never wanted any part of what happened but I didn’t see any way out, not then. I intended to do what I was told, but something happened to me that had never happened before. I fell in love. And I was trapped.”

He stopped. How could he justify the unjustifiable? How could he justify making love to her? How could he justify betraying people who trusted him? But he tried, as much for himself as for her. “But I still had a duty…and responsibility…to Germany and to my family there. God help me, I was prepared to honor it until I found out that the orders included children.”

“Honor?” she retorted fiercely. “Making people trust you, like you, when you know you’re going to destroy their lives. The Connors. Peter and Tara. Sanders. You have a strange concept of honor.”

He noticed she didn’t include herself. His hand clenched tighter in the pocket of his slacks. What else did he expect? What else could he expect? He stood there silently, waiting for the next volley, the next blow. He had told himself all this a hundred times, but it was even more bitter coming from her.

“If you were so…offended about…the children,” she said, “why didn’t you go to Sanders instead of…what you did?” She couldn’t bring herself to relive the explosion again.

“My mother and brother would have been killed,” he said quietly.

“And you would be tried for espionage?” she accused.

“Probably.”

“You just had a sudden change of heart,” she asked sarcastically. “Or did you just think you might be trapped here on the island?”

“Does it matter?” His voice was weary now but a muscle worked along his jaw, revealing some of the tension he obviously felt.

“No. I wouldn’t believe anything you said.”

Meara stayed in the sand. She didn’t think she could rise if she wanted to. Her whole body was like melted wax. There was no strength, no core. But for some insane reason she had to keep talking. She had to know.

Know what? She already knew everything. She had gone over every minute in her mind a hundred, a thousand, times. He had used her, betrayed her in the worst possible way. But why was he here? Did he know about Lisa? Please don’t let him know about Lisa. Meara bartered with God as she never had before.

“How did you find me?” she said finally.

“A private detective. Years ago. I had to know you were all right.”

“All right?” She couldn’t stop a momentary hysterical giggling. “All right? I fell in love with an enemy spy who used me. I killed a man. I was kidnapped. I thought for a while the children were dead. I’d seen you blown to bits.” She choked on those words before continuing. “All right? My God, it was kind of you to worry.” She couldn’t help it. Her whole body started trembling. “Damn you. Damn you to hell.”

Chris stood there, frozen. There was nothing he could say. He had known that first day on the island years ago what was happening. He had known it and allowed it to happen. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a voice hoarse with emotion.

Tears. Tears which had been damned up inside her for years starting falling. She felt Andy squirm next to her and she took him in her arms, burying her head, and the wetness, in his fur. She didn’t want
him
to see them. Her whole body was shuddering, shaking, quivering with so much grief that had accumulated. The unshed tears of the past weeks when she had to be strong for Lisa, the tears of lost and betrayed dreams. Tears for Sanders and tears for herself. They poured down, like a river released from a dam.

She felt his hands around her shoulders, so tender, so gentle that she wanted to yield to them, and then she remembered.
You can’t trust him.
Once more, she jerked away from his touch.

“Don’t,” she said in a jagged cry as she tried desperately to retain a shred of dignity.

“Christ,” she heard him say in a low agonized voice, and she sensed rather than saw that he was walking away. Against her will, she looked up. He was looking out toward the ocean, his face ravaged, the muscles at his throat working convulsively, and even in the gathering dusk she could see a tear trickling down his cheek.

“Michael.” She didn’t even know she had said the name until he turned, and she knew she had never seen so much pain in another person’s face. She remembered his earlier words. “I’ve paid and paid and paid.” And now for the first moment she believed him.

Something buried inside her reached out to his agony. “Michael,” she said again, and then he was beside her, his hand wiping tears from her face with tentative, uncertain fingers, ready to move away if she wished it.

But for this moment, this one hurting instant, she didn’t wish it. Together, they rocked in the sand, not with passion, but with a shared hurting anguish, with a need so violent that it eclipsed lifetimes.

“Oh, Michael,” Meara cried one last time in both torment and the strangest desire to comfort.

Chapter Nineteen

M
EARA DIDN
’
T FEEL
joy in the embrace, only the sense of finally coming home.

His every movement, every touch, was tentative, obviously wanting to succor without invading. There was something oddly touching and comforting about his hesitancy. The arrogance, the self-assurance she had once known were gone.

What are you doing?

The one still reasoning part of her brain punctured the brief insanity. This was the man who had lied to her repeatedly, who had betrayed her, who’d made her believe he was dead when she was carrying his child.

His child. Was that why he was back? Had he somehow learned about Lisa? A private detective, he had said.

With a sob, she tore herself away from him. She managed to focus her eyes on his face. “What do you want from me?”

You
. He wanted to say the word. It was true, as true as it had been twenty years ago. The pull was just as strong, if not stronger. The lovely, laughing girl had been replaced by a mature, beautiful woman. He wanted to bring back the laughter to her, the joy. He wondered if it were too late. If he had indelibly altered her. The thought was excruciating.

He controlled himself with tremendous effort. His arms ached to hold her, his hand to reach out to her, but he knew she would reject it despite that one brief moment of contact, of incredible closeness. There was deep suspicion in her eyes, bitterness.

They searched and questioned.

“I didn’t want to hurt you again,” he finally said. “But I had to warn you.”

Meara tried to remember everything that had been said. But thoughts and words were whirling around in her head. Only his presence was real, and she wasn’t even sure of that at the moment.

“I…don’t understand…”

Once more, she watched him struggle against emotions she sensed were barely held in check. Why? A spy didn’t have emotions or conscience. Or heart. So why had he been watching her these years? Suddenly, she felt anger at the invasion. He had been watching her while she thought him dead. It was a sickening thought. She wanted to strike him again, but her strength was gone, depleted in that spontaneous storm’s eye of violent need, a need she hated and despised herself for. She suddenly wanted to hurt him as much as possible and she wanted to punish herself for still feeling anything.

She struck out blindly. “If you’ve been spying on me, you know I married Sanders.”

“Yes,” he said evenly, only his eyes showing bleakness.

What else did he know? “Then you know he died recently. Is that why you came, you thought you were safe? Still the coward.”

He visibly flinched.

“You thought I would fall at your feet again. Just as I did before. ‘So easily,’ your friend said. It
was
easy, wasn’t it, Michael, so incredibly easy. Did you think it would be as easy again? What do you want this time? Who do you work for now? Who do you want me to betray? Sanders? Sorry about that, but he’s dead. The FBI? Well, I’m afraid I’ve never had a very good track record with them, not after you. I’m not the best security risk in the world, even with Sanders as a husband. It held him back, you know. My susceptibility to the wrong men. Who was to say I wouldn’t repeat the mistake. Mistake? My God, catastrophe.”

He reeled back with each succeeding blow, and she felt the satisfaction of sensing they hurt more than a physical punch. But he made no effort to defend himself. If he had, she knew, she would have found the strength to hit him again.

She continued, all the pain revealing itself on her face. “After you…ran, Sanders and I were left with the pieces. I spent days, weeks, in strangers’ offices explaining every sordid detail. How you kissed me. How you made love to me. What you said when you were doing it. The reluctance. The nobility.” She spit out the last words. “You really were a master at it, weren’t you? Tell me, are you a natural or did you take courses in seduction? A kind word here. A hint of reserve there. Just enough mystery to intrigue. And yes, make sure the moon is shining bright. And tenderness. Don’t ever forget tenderness. How much practice do they give you, Michael?”