Free Now You See Him by Anne Stuart

damnable thing about it was that Ross was right this time. He was just wasting time. Francey Neeley was vulnerable, ready to fall, and all he had to do was reach out a hand. She would go—into his arms, into his bed—and she would tell him absolutely anything he wanted to know once he'd spent a few hours reminding her what bodies were made for. He was mad to hesitate.
    He turned to look at her. The wind was tossing her sun-streaked hair back from her profile, and she looked both strong and vulnerable. Her mental health once he was finished with her wasn't his problem, his consideration. All he needed to think about was the Cadre, who and what and where they were. And how to stop them. In comparison to their vicious destructiveness, the well-being of one rich American female wasn't of great consequence.
    He'd been sidelined too long. But he was no longer completely sure of that fact, even as he told himself he was. Maybe, much as he hated to admit it, for once in his life Ross Cardiff was right. He'd grown soft, emotionally and mentally, as his body had hardened.
    No, he couldn't ever admit that a bug like Cardiff was right. Francey wanted him, whether she was completely sure of that fact or not. Tonight he was going to take her. He was going to spend a long, energetic night with her, working off the longest stretch of celibacy he'd known since he'd reached puberty. And by midday tomorrow, in a postcoital haze, she would tell him absolutely everything he needed to know.
    "You look grim," she said when he reached the table, her eyes as sharp as usual. "Is your mother all right?"
    "Mum's in fine shape. Just crabbing about the change of life." It was his only small measure of revenge against Cardiff's nit-picking. Referring to the man as his menopausal mother had the capacity to amuse him as few things did.
    "Isn't she a little old for that?" Francey asked.
    Michael's smile didn't waver, even as he mentally cursed. Maybe Cardiff was right after all. "She had me when she was a teenager," he said easily. "Are we going swimming?"
    She made a face. "We're going swimming."
     
    He was smiling at her again. Francey wondered absently whether he knew what it did to her when he smiled like that. She doubted it. If he knew his smile could be that powerful, he wouldn't be the gentle, unassuming man that he was.
    But that smile made her nervous. It started her thinking that maybe he was just as attracted to her as she was to him. He seemed to have gotten a lot stronger in the time he'd been on St. Anne, and every now and then she thought she'd surprised a heated expression in his usually bland blue eyes. But it would be gone as quickly as she noticed it, and she'd told herself it was her imagination.
    But ever since his troubling conversation with his mother, during the long drive back to Belle Reste, he'd been sending forth waves of charm that disturbed her as much as they drew her. She had the uneasy sense of being manipulated. Absurd. Patrick had managed to twist her mind around past common sense. Things had gotten out of hand when she couldn't even trust a straightforward schoolteacher.
    "Funny," she said, fiddling with the front door key while Michael blocked the light behind her.
    "What's funny?"
    "The lock's not working properly. I'm certain I locked it when I left. Not that it's necessary, but you're so paranoid…"
    "You locked it," he said easily, reaching out and taking the key from her. A second later the door swung open, and she started into the shadowy coolness.
    His hand on her bare arm stopped her. "Wait a minute."
    "But…"
    "Hold still," he said, no longer gentle and polite. There was a wariness about him, and all gentleness, all sweetness, seemed to have vanished. "Someone's been here."
    "Don't be absurd. Why should someone…?"
    "Move back." It was a ridiculous statement. His hand was clamped around her upper arm so tightly it would likely leave bruises, and he was already moving her back, slowly, steadily.
    "What's