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large mouth, small nose, heart-shaped face. In reality she was more. So much more that he was having a hard time forgetting that he'd been forcibly celibate for months. Which must be a record, since he'd lost his virginity at the tender age of thirteen. It must simply be a monumental case of horniness.
    Still, he'd come to St. Anne ready to distrust her, ready to pin her down and get what he wanted from her through fair means or foul.
    He still didn't trust her. But he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. There was stark, empty pain in her eyes. Pain that might simply have come from her lover's death. Or a pain that had come from a betrayal far deeper than that.
    Those eyes saw too much, though. It was a good thing he'd thought to borrow one of Travers's suits. His own were slightly baggy, but this oversize one had made him look like a scarecrow. Enough to soothe even the most nervous female's anxieties.
    Though Francey didn't strike him as a nervous female. She drove like a bootlegger, all right. Or an IRA driver. He didn't trust how good she was; it didn't fit.
    Still, someone had definitely been trying to kill at least one of the passengers in the Jeep. Which immediately put her on the side of the hunted.
    At least he'd been able to fool her for now. She had a frail schoolteacher in her adjoining bedroom, one barely able to walk on his own two feet. That much was true, he thought in disgust. But he was able to hold his own a hell of a lot better than she suspected, including pushing that damnably heavy Jeep out of the water.
    Tomorrow he would begin to work on her. Slide under her unsuspecting guard and see exactly how much she knew about Patrick Dugan and his confederates. And then he would decide what to do with her.
Chapter 3
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    At the moment there was only one question troubling Francey: Exactly what was going on with the man sleeping in the room next to hers? Something didn't ring true about him, about his arrival, and yet she had nothing to go on but her instincts. Instincts that had failed her badly in the past few months.
    She shoved the pillows behind her back and stared out into the dark night. The noises from the room next to her had stopped, and she could only assume Michael had finally managed to drift off to sleep. If only she could be so lucky.
    She'd heard him climb out of bed. She'd lain very still, listening to the quiet thuds, the faint groans and wheezes, from the room beyond, and it had been all she could do not to run in and check on him. It had sounded as if he were having one of his spasms, and for all she knew she would find him dead the next morning.
    But something kept her tied to the uncomfortable bed, something she couldn't begin to understand. She wasn't going to leave this small bastion of safety to check on her housemate unless he called for help.
    And he wouldn't do that unless he had to. She'd seen his self-contempt, his hatred of his weakness, and she knew he hated other people's efforts even more than he hated his own. For all his charm, his wonderful smile and easy ways, he wouldn't take kindly to intrusions and maternal caring. She'd almost kissed him on the forehead when she tucked him in, then wisely resisted the impulse. He wasn't a sick little boy. He was a man, and he was probably already feeling emasculated.
    There was one thing troubling her, one tiny niggling little problem. When Daniel had called and told her about Michael during one of the infrequent phone conversations the terrible phone service allowed them, she had accepted everything he'd told her without question. The man asleep in the room next to her was simply an ailing boys' schoolteacher from England, a harmless, weak soul.
    So why didn't she trust him? Why did she have the sudden unnerving suspicion that he might really be one of Patrick or Caitlin's friends, sent to wreak justice or revenge or whatever?
    It hadn't been her fault that Patrick had died. It had been his, and his alone, his mind