skittish virgin."
"No, you're not. So stop behaving like one and come to bed."
She couldn't come up with anything else to stall him. And suddenly she was bone-tired herself, the tumultuous events of the day catching up with her. Without a word she went over to the makeshift pallet, climbing in and pulling the light cotton cover over her. It was more comfortable than she'd expected, dangerously so. He'd fashioned some sort of mattress from the abundant greenery, and the smell of the crushed leaves was thick and evocative in the night air. She lay very still, legs together, arms crossed over her chest, and waited.
"You look like a mummy," he said affably, sliding in beside her. He was still wearing the baggy trunks, but he still had far too much skin exposed and was far too close. She could feel the warmth of him, even though they weren't touching. "Or maybe a crusader's wife, lying on her bier."
"I'm comfortable," she said stiffly.
"Well, I'm not." Before she realized his intent, he'd dragged her hands down from their protective position against her chest and pulled her body closer, his long bare legs brushing hers. She remained still, stiff, not bothering to try to move away. She knew without a doubt that he would simply haul her back. Besides, he was making no move to touch her, to caress her, to run his strong, beautiful hands down her arms, up under her loose white T-shirt. He was being as chaste as her posture dictated. "So tell me, Francey? Who's trying to kill you? And me, as well?"
She didn't want to talk about it. Here in the tropical darkness, she wanted to lie back and look at the stars, to feel the warmth of the man beside her and pretend life was still innocent. "It's a long story," she said.
"We've got a long time."
"I thought you were tired."
"I've got my second wind. Distract me."
She didn't want to think about the ramifications of that statement. It had been delivered in a bland enough tone, but she no longer knew her own mind. On the one hand, she wanted him safe, sexless, a boon companion. She didn't need the complications of desire so soon after the disaster of her involvement with Patrick Dugan.
On the other hand, whether she needed it or not, she had it. Desire. For the man lying so close to her. And while she usually had the good sense to be grateful he didn't seem to want her, a part of her was miffed at his immunity.
The few suggestions she'd had that he might not be as immune as he seemed frightened her. She told herself that she was frightened of her own ability to cope. But she had to admit, deep down inside her innermost heart, that she recognized something about Michael Dowd that terrified her.
She looked up at the stars, taking a deep breath, willing herself to relax. "Once upon a time," she said in a low voice, "there was a very stupid girl. She had no excuse for her stupidity—she had a good enough brain, a good enough education. But when it came to people she didn't have much common sense. She believed what they told her. She wasn't hopelessly naive, mind you. She knew there was evil in the world. She just never thought it would touch her."
"But it did." He was touching her, she realized. His hand was on her wrist. The one that still ached. And he was stroking it gently, kneading away the lingering stiffness and pain.
"It did," she agreed. "She met a man."
"Ah," said Michael.
"Indeed. He was a very handsome man. Irish, with all the charm associated with the Irish. He could have had anyone eating out of his hand, including people who were a lot more sophisticated than she was. She was child's play for him. All he had to do was smile at her and she fell in love."
"I think you're too hard on her," he said, his voice a low rumble in the night. "It sounds as if she was up against someone who was completely out of her league."
"That's still no excuse for being so trusting." Her voice was hard. "But she believed everything he told her. Believed in the cause he was working for,
"No, you're not. So stop behaving like one and come to bed."
She couldn't come up with anything else to stall him. And suddenly she was bone-tired herself, the tumultuous events of the day catching up with her. Without a word she went over to the makeshift pallet, climbing in and pulling the light cotton cover over her. It was more comfortable than she'd expected, dangerously so. He'd fashioned some sort of mattress from the abundant greenery, and the smell of the crushed leaves was thick and evocative in the night air. She lay very still, legs together, arms crossed over her chest, and waited.
"You look like a mummy," he said affably, sliding in beside her. He was still wearing the baggy trunks, but he still had far too much skin exposed and was far too close. She could feel the warmth of him, even though they weren't touching. "Or maybe a crusader's wife, lying on her bier."
"I'm comfortable," she said stiffly.
"Well, I'm not." Before she realized his intent, he'd dragged her hands down from their protective position against her chest and pulled her body closer, his long bare legs brushing hers. She remained still, stiff, not bothering to try to move away. She knew without a doubt that he would simply haul her back. Besides, he was making no move to touch her, to caress her, to run his strong, beautiful hands down her arms, up under her loose white T-shirt. He was being as chaste as her posture dictated. "So tell me, Francey? Who's trying to kill you? And me, as well?"
She didn't want to talk about it. Here in the tropical darkness, she wanted to lie back and look at the stars, to feel the warmth of the man beside her and pretend life was still innocent. "It's a long story," she said.
"We've got a long time."
"I thought you were tired."
"I've got my second wind. Distract me."
She didn't want to think about the ramifications of that statement. It had been delivered in a bland enough tone, but she no longer knew her own mind. On the one hand, she wanted him safe, sexless, a boon companion. She didn't need the complications of desire so soon after the disaster of her involvement with Patrick Dugan.
On the other hand, whether she needed it or not, she had it. Desire. For the man lying so close to her. And while she usually had the good sense to be grateful he didn't seem to want her, a part of her was miffed at his immunity.
The few suggestions she'd had that he might not be as immune as he seemed frightened her. She told herself that she was frightened of her own ability to cope. But she had to admit, deep down inside her innermost heart, that she recognized something about Michael Dowd that terrified her.
She looked up at the stars, taking a deep breath, willing herself to relax. "Once upon a time," she said in a low voice, "there was a very stupid girl. She had no excuse for her stupidity—she had a good enough brain, a good enough education. But when it came to people she didn't have much common sense. She believed what they told her. She wasn't hopelessly naive, mind you. She knew there was evil in the world. She just never thought it would touch her."
"But it did." He was touching her, she realized. His hand was on her wrist. The one that still ached. And he was stroking it gently, kneading away the lingering stiffness and pain.
"It did," she agreed. "She met a man."
"Ah," said Michael.
"Indeed. He was a very handsome man. Irish, with all the charm associated with the Irish. He could have had anyone eating out of his hand, including people who were a lot more sophisticated than she was. She was child's play for him. All he had to do was smile at her and she fell in love."
"I think you're too hard on her," he said, his voice a low rumble in the night. "It sounds as if she was up against someone who was completely out of her league."
"That's still no excuse for being so trusting." Her voice was hard. "But she believed everything he told her. Believed in the cause he was working for,
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