foolishness in believing in Patrick Dugan. Michael Dowd was the antithesis of Patrick, safe and sane and harmless. It was no wonder she was drawn to him.
And that attraction would safely wither and disappear the moment he left for home. In the meantime, it did her no harm to let her mind drift into vague, erotic fantasies. Knowing she had absolutely no intention of following up on them.
She smiled at Michael, reaching out and putting her hand over his in a friendly gesture. His skin was cool, smooth beneath her innocent touch, and if she felt prickles of awareness between their flesh, his expression was completely bland and unmoved.
Harmless, sweet and definitely undersexed, she thought with dismay and relief. She couldn't be safer.
"You slept with her yet?" Ross Cardiff demanded. He had a high-pitched, nasally whine of a voice, with a trace of Northern England thrown in. Michael was originally from the North himself, and he'd always liked the sound of Yorkshire in a man's voice. But not since he'd been working with Ross Cardiff.
"None of your bloody business."
"The hell it's not. You talked me into this, against my better judgment. We need to keep on Daniel Travers's good side, and we need to move very carefully in this issue. Patrick Dugan wasn't the only one involved in the attack on the Queen. There's no guarantee that he was the head of the Cadre…"
"I thought we'd already agreed that he wasn't," Michael said sharply, glancing through the smoked glass of the phone booth to Francey. She was sitting back in the white mesh chair, staring out at the sea, waiting while he put in a call to his dear old Mum. His mother had been dead in a drunken car accident since the early sixties, and no great shakes as a mother anyway. He smiled sourly, turning away from her.
"You decided," Ross corrected. "I'm not convinced. However, there's no denying that the Cadre's been active recently. Gearing up for something. Any more attempts?"
"Not as far as we can tell. Cecil's been clinging like a burr, and I upgraded the security system while she was sleeping. James Bond couldn't get through it."
"I rather thought you fancied
you
were James Bond," Ross said nastily.
"Hell, no, Ross," he said pleasantly. "You're the one with fantasies."
The dead silence that greeted that remark reminded Michael that there was a limit as to how far he could push Ross. Cardiff's sexual proclivities were not a topic of conversation, even if Michael's were.
"How long are you going to be there?" Cardiff demanded finally. "Why don't you just boff her, find out what she knows and get the hell out of there?"
"Not that simple. She seems fairly traumatized by her run-in with Dugan."
"And you believe that? You're getting soft."
Not likely, Michael thought absently, remembering his intermittent discomfort when Francey brushed by him in that huge, empty house that was too small for both of them. "I never believe anything until I'm ready to, Ross," he said. "I need more time."
"Two more days. If you can't get her in bed and find out her secrets by then, then you shouldn't be back in action. I told you that you should take some time off, spend a few months at your cottage in the Lake District…"
He was tired of this, Michael thought. Mortally tired of taking orders from shortsighted bureaucrats and weaselly, narrow-minded idiots like Cardiff. He'd done everything he could to get transferred from Ross's jurisdiction once he realized what a venal bungler the man was, but the bureaucracy had been adamant. Besides, he had a reputation for being a lone wolf. The powers-that-be figured at least Cardiff would irritate him enough to check in.
"I'll take as long as I bloody well need," he said flatly. "I'll check in tomorrow."
"Cougar…" That nasally whine was cut off as Michael slammed down the phone, keeping his back to Francey. He hated that name. There'd been a time in his life when he'd taken a romantic pleasure in it. That time was long past.
The
And that attraction would safely wither and disappear the moment he left for home. In the meantime, it did her no harm to let her mind drift into vague, erotic fantasies. Knowing she had absolutely no intention of following up on them.
She smiled at Michael, reaching out and putting her hand over his in a friendly gesture. His skin was cool, smooth beneath her innocent touch, and if she felt prickles of awareness between their flesh, his expression was completely bland and unmoved.
Harmless, sweet and definitely undersexed, she thought with dismay and relief. She couldn't be safer.
"You slept with her yet?" Ross Cardiff demanded. He had a high-pitched, nasally whine of a voice, with a trace of Northern England thrown in. Michael was originally from the North himself, and he'd always liked the sound of Yorkshire in a man's voice. But not since he'd been working with Ross Cardiff.
"None of your bloody business."
"The hell it's not. You talked me into this, against my better judgment. We need to keep on Daniel Travers's good side, and we need to move very carefully in this issue. Patrick Dugan wasn't the only one involved in the attack on the Queen. There's no guarantee that he was the head of the Cadre…"
"I thought we'd already agreed that he wasn't," Michael said sharply, glancing through the smoked glass of the phone booth to Francey. She was sitting back in the white mesh chair, staring out at the sea, waiting while he put in a call to his dear old Mum. His mother had been dead in a drunken car accident since the early sixties, and no great shakes as a mother anyway. He smiled sourly, turning away from her.
"You decided," Ross corrected. "I'm not convinced. However, there's no denying that the Cadre's been active recently. Gearing up for something. Any more attempts?"
"Not as far as we can tell. Cecil's been clinging like a burr, and I upgraded the security system while she was sleeping. James Bond couldn't get through it."
"I rather thought you fancied
you
were James Bond," Ross said nastily.
"Hell, no, Ross," he said pleasantly. "You're the one with fantasies."
The dead silence that greeted that remark reminded Michael that there was a limit as to how far he could push Ross. Cardiff's sexual proclivities were not a topic of conversation, even if Michael's were.
"How long are you going to be there?" Cardiff demanded finally. "Why don't you just boff her, find out what she knows and get the hell out of there?"
"Not that simple. She seems fairly traumatized by her run-in with Dugan."
"And you believe that? You're getting soft."
Not likely, Michael thought absently, remembering his intermittent discomfort when Francey brushed by him in that huge, empty house that was too small for both of them. "I never believe anything until I'm ready to, Ross," he said. "I need more time."
"Two more days. If you can't get her in bed and find out her secrets by then, then you shouldn't be back in action. I told you that you should take some time off, spend a few months at your cottage in the Lake District…"
He was tired of this, Michael thought. Mortally tired of taking orders from shortsighted bureaucrats and weaselly, narrow-minded idiots like Cardiff. He'd done everything he could to get transferred from Ross's jurisdiction once he realized what a venal bungler the man was, but the bureaucracy had been adamant. Besides, he had a reputation for being a lone wolf. The powers-that-be figured at least Cardiff would irritate him enough to check in.
"I'll take as long as I bloody well need," he said flatly. "I'll check in tomorrow."
"Cougar…" That nasally whine was cut off as Michael slammed down the phone, keeping his back to Francey. He hated that name. There'd been a time in his life when he'd taken a romantic pleasure in it. That time was long past.
The
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