Patricia Potter (14 page)

“We’d better part here,” he said, looking toward the still well-lighted clubhouse.

Meara hesitated, her face turned upward as if she wanted to say something. Her hand stretched out and touched his arm in unspoken supplication. He leaned down and his lips touched hers, briefly but very tenderly.

It was enough. She smiled tenuously, a wistful smile that ravaged his soul. With obvious effort, she took the path to the Connors’ cottage, turning back only once and only very briefly to look at him.

There was still a lot of activity in the public rooms of the clubhouse despite the late hour. As Michael walked in the side entrance, he passed the card room where two couples were evidently deeply involved in a game of gin. He heard the sound of voices in the billiard room and was about to mount the steps when he heard Sanders Evans’s voice. “Care for a nightcap?”

Michael turned slowly. Evans was standing in a space just off the stairs, a private nook of the lobby. He held a glass in his hands.

Michael shrugged. “Why not?” He didn’t want to go to his room alone. He didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t think he could tolerate himself.

He followed Evans to a table and watched as the man signaled a waiter.

“Scotch,” Michael told him. “A little water. No ice.”

“European style?” Evans asked the question easily, but Michael felt himself tense inside.

“Sailor style. There’s seldom a surplus of ice either on a ship or in some of the ports where she docks.”

“You must have seen much of the world.”

“Some of the least attractive parts. A lot I’d rather not have seen.” Michael sat down, stretching his injured leg in front of him. God, it ached. He leaned over and massaged the calf down to his ankle. The leg of his slacks came up, and he knew Evans could see part of the vivid scar that ran up his leg.

“Still giving you a lot of trouble?”

“Some,” Michael replied carelessly. “I’ve been trying to give up the cane, just for a few hours a day, but I’m afraid I overdid it tonight.”

“I can understand why. It’s quite beautiful out there.”

“I thought I saw you.”

Evans nodded. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted some air before going to bed.”

“Have you been here before?”

“No, it’s a little rich for my blood. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for John.”

“Where is he?”

“Retired early.”

“You’ve been friends for a long time?”

“No,” Evans said. “But war seems conducive to making friends quickly.” It was a facile answer that revealed little. Michael wondered for the briefest of seconds if his companion meant Meara.

Michael merely nodded. He thought about prying more, but he had been reckless enough tonight.

The Scotch came, and he sipped it slowly, using the time to study the man opposite him. He believed his cover was well protected, as well as it could be. There were holes in any story, but he hoped there wasn’t enough time for anyone to find them.

“When did that happen?” Evans finally asked him, flicking his eyes toward Michael’s injured leg.

“Five months ago.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“It will never be as strong as it was, but it should do well enough. They had to do a bone graft, and the muscles are damnably weak from disuse.” He shrugged. “It’s just such a bloody nuisance.”

“Cal Connor says you plan to return to duty.”

“I hope so. I was medically discharged, but I’m trying to pull some strings. As soon as my doctor approves. He suggested coming here, thought it might help regain my strength. Limited exercise, he said. But I’m afraid I have a tendency to want to do everything too quickly.”

Sanders Evans smiled slowly, a warm, disarming smile. “I know. I was injured once. It gets damned frustrating.”

“Should I ask how?” Michael watched Evans carefully. It was a leading question at best, obviously conveying the impression that he suspected Evans was not what he seemed.

“Nothing as dramatic as a war wound,” Evans said easily. “A case of not ducking when I should.”

“Interesting defense job,” Michael observed dryly.

“At times. At other times, infernally dull.”

Michael finished his Scotch. Sanders Evans was maintaining no more pretense. The agent was smart enough to know his own cover was weak at best. Michael hoped like hell his was much better.

“I think it’s time I join your friend in retiring for the night.”

Sanders half rose, lifting his empty glass in salute. “I enjoyed our conversation.”

Strangely enough, Michael thought as he painfully climbed the steps, so had he.

Sanders remained in the parlor, nursing his brandy. He liked Michael Fielding. It was difficult not to. Yet something about him seemed wrong. And Sanders’s instincts were usually right.

He wondered briefly if it could be jealousy. From the moment he had seen Meara O’Hara, he’d been attracted to her, more than he had to any other woman since his wife, along with his child, died three years ago in an accident. The two women had the same quick smile, the same easy personality that made a stranger feel welcome almost immediately. He’d watched her with the Connor children, observed the open affection between them, and he’d felt the first stirring of interest in a very long time.

But then he’d noticed very quickly how she looked at Michael Fielding and the way the two of them walked to the river together from the Connor picnic, and he’d warned himself to back off. But earlier today there had been a certain chill between the girl and the Canadian. He sighed philosophically. Obviously any problem had been settled.

He took another sip of brandy, wondering again about Fielding. He’d seen the Canadian descend the stairs earlier and slip outside. When Fielding hadn’t returned, Sanders had become interested. It was that damned instinct again. But now it seemed there was no more to it than a pretty girl.

Still, something nagged at him, and he didn’t know why. Everything about Fielding fit. He was obviously wounded. No one could fake those scars nor the obvious difficulty with which he moved. Sanders had also recognized the Canadian accent in the man’s speech.

Damn. What, then, bothered him? The ready acceptance, perhaps. Fielding had almost immediately won the affection and respect of everyone here, especially of Cal Connor and his children. Fielding had been here no more than five days and had already met and befriended everyone. Resentment? Resentment was unfamiliar to Sanders. He had been content with his life until his wife and child died, and since then he’d buried himself in work. He finally shrugged. Perhaps he was just tired, seeing shadows where there were none.

It wouldn’t hurt to run a check, however, although Sanders had personally felt, from the very beginning, that this whole trip had been unnecessary. However, Director Hoover did not, not after he learned the names of some of the guests staying at the Jekyll Island Club over the Easter weekend. The director had already suggested that the club be closed because of its accessibility to German subs and vulnerability to attack. After his arrival, Sanders had learned that the club would indeed be closed, that this was the last season, not because of any threat but simply because of sheer economics: gas rationing, decline in manpower, and the members’ lack of time to use the facilities. War had made time a very precious commodity.

The visit to the island had been presented as a holiday for Sanders. He had just completed a grueling three-month case involving German spies in New York, and he’d been tense and tired and long overdue for some vacation and rest. Hoover had summoned him into his office, smiled tightly in a way Sanders had learned to suspect, and announced Sanders would be rewarded with this trip to the coast. Just keep his eyes open. The arrangements had been made with John Graves, a member of the Jekyll Island Club and a political ally of the director.

But it was not the kind of vacation Sanders enjoyed. He did not like fancy places. He did not like formal dress. He did not care for many of the activities offered.

It was not that he was a snob. He simply felt uncomfortable. He would much prefer a simple steak rather than the heavily sauced dishes that were snatched by waiters every time he blinked. He preferred beer to wine, and he detested champagne, which seemed to be the standard drink here. And he had little in common with the other guests. Moreover, he did not like being on guard every moment. He’d had enough of that in the past year.

Meara O’Hara had almost changed his mind about his so-called vacation. He had thoroughly enjoyed the tennis game, even though he was no longer good at the game. He was highly competitive and he liked sports, but working his way through college, then law school before joining the FBI, hadn’t left him much time for play. There was even less time after his marriage; if he had one regret in his life it was that he hadn’t had enough time for Judy or his daughter.

He sat back and studied the rich, thick rugs and elegant furnishings. From the moment he had set foot on the club cruiser he felt he’d entered another time. Perhaps that was why Meara O’Hara had made such an impact on him. She seemed the only real thing here, the only flesh and blood person. Could that be why his hackles rose at seeing her with Fielding?

Still he would check on Fielding. He would call his office tomorrow and ask for a background check.

He looked at his watch. Three o’clock. He drained the last of the golden red liquid in his glass, thinking briefly how the color resembled Meara’s hair. Sanders shook his head at his own folly and followed Fielding up the stairs.

Meara slipped in the door and floated upstairs. The door was never locked here on Jekyll Island. Nor were there any questions about her whereabouts. She was of age and, on past visits to Jekyll, she often attended dances or bonfires or went turtle hunting and didn’t return until late.

But she was glad no one appeared to be awake. She knew she must be a total mess. Grains of sand were still in her hair, inside and outside her clothes, on her face.

Meara had never until this past week anticipated making love outside marriage. The idea, in fact, had never even particularly appealed to her. Like any young girl, she had, during her teens, been in love with the idea of being in love. Yet no kiss, no brief caress, had ever tempted her beyond those mostly unsatisfactory and even distasteful experiences.

But from the moment she had met Michael Fielding, her body had changed and she was filled with a need and yearning she couldn’t believe was wrong. She had thought she had been ready tonight, but…perhaps he had known her even better than she knew herself. Tonight, at least.

Tomorrow? She didn’t know about tomorrow.

She went to the window and opened it, looking out at the sky above.
I love him.
She wanted to sing it, to yell it. But instead she whispered the words over and over again. Those words, and his name. His name. Michael. She rolled it around in her mouth, tasting it, loving it.

Meara had been afraid to say the words tonight, to say even his name, because she knew she would be saying the first in saying the second. But she could say it here.

First love. Last love. Only love.

Michael.

Chapter Seven

S
ATURDAY DAWNED BRIGHT
and sunny, and after a leisurely breakfast Meara took Tara and Peter to the beach. The day was a perfect island day. Warm but not too warm. A breeze but not too much breeze. Sun but not too much sun. Pleasant but not burning.

Perfect. Meara thought life was perfect. She had been unable to sleep all night but she felt awake and alive and wonderful.

She had gone over the events of the previous night a hundred times, and she had, nine times out of ten, reached the same conclusion. Michael might disapprove of a wartime romance but she believed he cared very much for her. Otherwise how could he have been so gentle, so concerned.

She was sure he would find her sometime today, and her heart sang at the thought. All of her hummed and tingled and anticipated. It was wonderful being in love. How could she have ever thought it would not be?

The three of them wandered down the beach, hunting turtle tracks and pink-and-silver shells. The water was a silver blue in the sun, and they all sampled the temperature with their feet, running back as the cold water wrapped around their ankles. Then Meara sat while Peter and Tara chased birds, laughing and giggling and tripping over themselves. The children dug frantically for crabs, which burrowed much too quickly in the sand for small hands, but disappointment was quickly abated when they found a perfect sand dollar.

Meara watched them, wondering for the first time what it would be like to have children of her own. Children with deep blue eyes and golden hair. She tried to think of her ambitions, of her upcoming job, but now it seemed far away. It was that which was illusory now. Her only reality was Michael Fielding.

She was firmly convinced he would seek her out, that they would make plans for the evening. She’d already committed to tennis today, and Michael was well aware of that. She had mixed feelings about the obligation. She liked both Brad and Sanders Evans, and any other time she would have looked forward to the spirited competition. But now all she wanted was to spend every moment she could with Michael. She wouldn’t even allow herself to think of eight days hence, when he would return to war and she to New York.