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clouded with dreams and a cause that went beyond idealism into murder, and she would have been a ready sacrifice. Would he have killed her? She would never know.
    She didn't even know whether Caitlin had lived or died. For that matter, she didn't care. That night of horror had begun to fade into a bloody blur, and the weeks and months preceding it were simply part of a nightmare. Every time she thought of Patrick's hands on her, his mouth on her, teasing, taunting, arousing, all the time knowing he was using her, laughing at her, going to Caitlin and telling her all about the foolish, besotted American, her stomach began to churn. And Caitlin, Patrick's willing accomplice, had lost any claim to what Francey had thought was her boundless compassion.
    She climbed out of bed very slowly, the cotton sheets sliding against her skin as she moved silently to the balcony window. She slid it open a crack, but everything at Belle Reste worked so well that not the slightest noise penetrated the thick cocoon of the night. Only the soothing rush of the ocean beyond broke the stillness.
    Tired as she was, she wasn't going to sleep. She should go back downstairs and find her unfinished glass of whiskey. She should go in search of the pills the doctors had prescribed for her. But she already knew that sleeping pills and tranquilizers and Scotch whiskey couldn't keep the demons away. And they were hovering close around her tonight, so close she could feel the flutter of their black wings.
    She discounted her immediate worry. Michael Dowd couldn't be IRA. If he were, he would have killed her already—there was no reason to delay. He wouldn't have been a fellow potential victim in the sabotaged car. He had to be an innocent, one who nearly lost his life because he'd happened to get in the way of people who wanted Francey dead.
    She would try to call Daniel tomorrow, see if he could get Michael safely away. Maybe she would go, too. Tonight had been a revelation on several fronts. She'd discovered that she didn't want to die. And she'd discovered that all her hormones hadn't shriveled up and vanished. Michael Dowd might be a frail semi-invalid, but he had the most erotic hands she'd ever seen. And the feel of his arm through the loose jacket against the side of her breast had jump-started something that she'd thought had died.
    Leaning her forehead against the glass, she stared out into the inky darkness. The moon had set by then, and the stars were bright overhead. Everything was still and peaceful.
    Everything but the ominous shadow of a huge, hulking figure she saw prowling along the side of the house.
     
    Those sadists at the hospital who called themselves nurses woke him up at six every morning, whether he'd had a good night or a bad one. Michael's body had gotten used to it, and it was going to take a concerted effort on his part to change back to his usual slothful ways. He had every intention of making that effort, but not right now. For now he needed the extra time in the morning to prowl around. He had exceptionally good hearing, and he could make out the regular breathing of the woman in the bedroom next to his. She wouldn't be awake for a good long while.
    It was no wonder. He'd listened to her move around after he'd gone to bed, even caught the hurried movements of a momentary panic. He'd taken a glance out the window, noting that Cecil had been fool enough to get himself noticed, and waited for Francey to come screaming into his room.
    She didn't.
    She didn't place any phone calls or go out to confront her intruder herself, thank God. She had the sense to stay put. At least, this time it showed good sense. If the person prowling the beaches of Belle Reste had been the one who'd severed her brake line, then she might have been signing her own death warrant by staying in her bedroom.
    God, he hated innocents! He'd been hoping she would be some cold-blooded harpy, a worthy opponent. He hadn't been counting on someone with the wounded