'That1 s just it,' he said. 'It was almost an exact replay of when your husband first called me three years ago.'
Her eyes cut sideways at him. 'It wasn't a dream, then?'
'Oh, no. It was real, all right. The caller had a British accent and identified himself as George Blackwell, an investment adviser based in Kuala Lumpur.'
'Kuala Lumpur,' she repeated thoughtfully.
'That's right. He told me he was in town for a couple of days and was familiar with my work and wanted to run a business proposal by me. So I thought, Sure, why not? There's no harm in listening.'
Dorothy-Anne's throat felt constricted. 'Go on,' she said hoarsely.
Kurt shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. 'We met for lunch in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons. That was yesterday.'
Dorothy-Anne nodded silently.
'Apparently Beijing gave his consortium the green light to build a Western-style theme park in southern China.'
'In other words, he made you an offer you found difficult to refuse?'
'You could say that,' Kurt said frankly. 'I'd have full creative control and, as with Eden Isle, be in on it from the ground up. I can also write my own ticket, so long as it's within reason.'
'They must want you pretty badly.' Dorothy-Anne stared blankly off into space. She had the peculiar sensation of being aboard a doomed ship, with every blow she suffered causing the deck to list ever more precariously.
Kurt's right about one thing, she thought. It really is a replay of when Freddie lured him away from Disney World.
Now the big question remaining was whether George Blackwell's call was a coincidence or . . .
Or what?
Part of an ominous plot directed specifically at her?
Her mind was in overdrive. Kuala Lumpur is in Malaysia, she thought, mentally connecting the dots. The Hale Dynasty Hotel, where the outbreak of Legionnaires' disease occurred, is in Singapore.
And there was more.
Sir Ian Connery is based in Hong Kong, as is Pan Pacific Bank.
Dorothy-Anne wasn't sure what to make of it all. An awful lot of Asian connections were affecting the Hale Companies recently—and in the most detrimental way possible.
Surely too many to be coincidental?
Dorothy-Anne's memory dredged up a long-forgotten line from Goldfinger: 'Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, and the third time it's enemy action.'
Is that what this is? she wondered. Enemy action? Or am I trying to fit a conspiracy theory where none exists?
She honestly didn't know.
Keeping her voice calm, she turned her attention back to Kurt. 'May I ask where you and Mr. Blackwell left things?' she inquired.
'Up in the air,' Kurt said, sighing, his features molded to an expression of apologetic but loyal candor. His eyes were pained, as though he found himself battling an internal war, unable to decide which option to pursue. 'I told him I would have to think about it.'
'And?'
Kurt pulled a face. 'He said that I shouldn't wait too long.'
Dorothy-Anne nodded. 'In other words,' she murmured, 'the offer doesn't stand indefinitely.'
'I'm afraid not.' He smiled ruefully at her. 'But the challenge of a new project aside, what really makes this so darn tempting is my wife. As you know, she's Amerasian. Her father was an American GI, and her mother was Vietnamese. She has relatives over there she's never seen.'
Dorothy-Anne thought, I wonder if George Blackwell isn't aware of that fact? She knew Kurt well enough to realize he was incapable of deception. There was an almost childlike innocence about him. If his family is being used as a bargaining tool, he's probably not even aware of it.
Folding her arms, she stared reflectively into the distance. Her fingers fluttered at her elbows like trapped birds, then abruptly froze.
'Kurt?'
'Yes?'
'What—' Her voice carried an unsteady vibrato and she had to clear her throat and swallow before continuing. 'What does this Mr. Blackwell look like?'
He thumbed the brim of his hardhat, tilting it back on his head. 'You mean physically?'
'That's right.' She nodded.
'Well, I can sketch him a lot faster and more accurately than I could describe him. I've got pen and paper in the car.'
'Could you?' she said. 'You don't mind?'
For the first time since she'd landed, his lips broke into a smile. 'Why would I mind?' he said, his arm executing an exaggerated flourish. 'Step into my atelier, madam. It's right this way.'
He led her to the rear of the Range Rover, where she waited as he got a felt pen and the artist's pad off the backseat. Flipping it open to a blank page, he uncapped the pen and propped the pad against the rear window.
Dorothy-Anne watched the creative process in silence.
First Kurt became very still. He puckered his lips slightly, just enough to give the impression he was blowing a kiss, and then the eyes behind the rimless blue lenses seemed to go totally blank.
Then, nodding briskly to himself, he put pen to paper. His long, slender hand blurred. So swiftly and assertively did he sketch that the felt tip literally flew across the thick buff sheet.
It was amazing.
A few deft sketches, and a baby-faced gent of Dickensian proportions began to take shape. A few inspired lines more, and eyes resting in heavy hammocks of flesh appeared, and receding hair, and a certain smug, superior set to the chubby features.
As the drawing progressed, Dorothy-Anne felt her skin crawl.
Dear God, she prayed, her eyes veiled with premonition. Don't let it be him! Please let me be wrong about this!
Kurt's pen thatched a pair of prickly, barbed-wire eyebrows, then added a set of black-framed spectacles.
Dorothy-Anne gasped. With one hand, she clutched a fistful of her guayabera and wrung it.
Dear God! she thought. It is him! Him!
Unaware of her reaction, Kurt tore the sheet from the pad and proffered it. 'Voila!'
Dorothy-Anne drew back as if from a snake. A groan escaped her lips, and she felt her cheeks sinking inward.
There was no mistaking the man Kurt knew as George Blackwell. She knew him too.
It was Sir Ian Connery.
At least, that's what he went by in Julian Priddy' s office. Dorothy-Anne wondered who he really was. I damn well better find out. He's the man who's holding the bloody paper on my company's loans!
The thought was enough to make her dizzy.
Kurt was looking at her strangely. 'What's wrong?' he asked. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost.'
'No,' she croaked, 'not a ghost.' I'd gladly take a ghost over reality, any day.
Kurt tossed the drawing into the Range Rover, then put a hand under her elbow, another around her waist, and steadied her. 'Are you going to be all right?'
'Yes, Kurt.' She nodded, but her breathing was ragged and uneven. 'I—I'm fine.'
'You sure don't look it.'
She wished, devoutly, that she was stronger, or at the very least, appeared stronger. 'Maybe it's the heat,' she said weakly.
'Let's get you back in the car,' he said. 'I'll turn on the air conditioning and take you down to the visitors' quarters. You could probably use some rest.'
'Rest. Yes.' She allowed him to lead her to the passenger side of the Rover, hating the way it made her feel like an invalid.
'We'll reschedule your inspection of the site for later,' Kurt said. 'Maybe we should put it off until tomorrow.'
But Dorothy-Anne wasn't listening to a word he was saying. She was still trying to assimilate this latest shock.
It was obvious what Sir Ian Connery—or whatever his name was!— was up to. Pan Pacific wants me to default.
Something else was obvious, too. Sir Ian wants me to know I'm cornered. Otherwise he would never have contacted Kurt personally.
He was sending her a message by raiding her talent.
She sat stiffly in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the windshield. She knew
what Pan Pacific was up to.
They want my collateral, she thought. They want the Hale Companies.
Worst of all, they had a very good chance of succeeding.
42
The yacht was named Quicksilver. Sleek, rakish, and white, it seemed to float at anchor like an airborne balloon, high above the sun-dappled, mottled turquoise of the coral reefs.
From all appearances, the two people on desk basked in carefree, leisurely luxury.
Dorothy-Anne lay belly down in the shade of the blue bimini top, her elbows on the canvas cushions, her chin on her hands. She was wearing a cropped, navel-length polo shirt with horizontal black and white stripes and a matching bikini bottom. Her hair was pulled back and held in place by a black band, and her body gleamed with sunscreen and oils.
Staring toward shore, she had the peculiar sensation that the sloop's deck was stationary, and that it was Eden Isle that actually rose and dipped like an unmoored island, bobbing gently as it drifted wherever the currents took it.
Hunt was stretched out across the transom, at a right angle from her. He was shirtless, his muscular shoulders resting against the inverted U of a life preserver, his upper torso tapering down into his denim cutoffs. His arms were crossed behind his head and he had on the hat he'd bought Dorothy-Anne in Puerto Angel, which he wore jauntily, way down over his eyes.
But their poses were deceptively relaxed. Forgotten, for the moment, were the tall, sweating glasses of iced tea on the collapsible table in the center of the cockpit; untouched were the bowl of black olives, the platter of cold shrimp. Dorothy-Anne had just spent the better part of an hour detailing the troubles that plagued the Hale Companies. It hadn't been her intention to share her problems with him; in fact, she'd valiantly put her best face forward.
Which he'd seen through right away. Still, it had taken a lot of prying on his part to get her to open up.
Once started, she left nothing out, including her suspicions that the bacterial outbreaks had been no accident.
'In other words,' he said softly, 'you're talking sabotage.'
'That's right.'
She stared broodingly at the green island a hundred yards away. The volcanic ridge seemed to rise for the sole purpose of scraping the high white clouds before dipping back down and etching its profile against the china blue of the sky.
'But you're not sure,' he said.
'Venetia thinks I'm imagining conspiracies where none exist.' Doro- thy-Anne turned her head and looked at him questioningly. 'What's your take on it, Hunt? Do you think I'm whistling in the wind? Maybe just being paranoid?'
He frowned and took off the hat and stuck his index finger in the crown and slowly began twirling it around.
'No,' he said quietly, 'I don't think you're being paranoid. Granted, the evidence is circumstantial. But it's there.'
She nodded. Hearing him say it didn't make her feel any better. On the contrary—it only reinforced her own worst fears.
'Look, why don't we break it down?' he suggested. 'Take this incident by incident, see what we come up with?'
She rolled over on her back. If only she could empty her mind, however temporarily, and forget all her worries for a little while. What a nice change that would be.
She stared up at the tightly stretched blue canvas awning overhead. The sun's refraction off the water spangled it with dancing spots of bright light. She nodded. 'Yes. I'm up to it,' she said.
'Good. Let's start with the bank loans.'
'Ouch.' She pulled a face. 'You really do cut to the chase, don't you?'
'That's because money's the motive behind most everything. People kill for it all the time. Just ask any cop.'
Her face had paled. 'I'm not sure I like the direction this is headed.'
'You don't have to like it,' Hunt said gently. 'But you have to face it. You've got seven hundred and fifty million bucks in paper floating around out there, and your company's the collateral. That's an awfully big prize for somebody who wants to pick up an eight-billion-dollar corporation for twenty cents on the dollar. All they've got to do is see to it that you default.'
'You sure know how to scare a girl,' she said in a shaky voice.
'I'm only stating the obvious.'
Dorothy-Anne sighed, her breasts heaving.
'Now let's do a logical jump and move on to the bacterial outbreaks,' Hunt continued. 'The way I see it, one incident like that's unfortunate. Not that I'd exactly condone it—but hey. Accidents happen. They happen all the time. But two?'
He shook his head. 'You ask me, it seems like a surefire way to cut off your cash flow.'
'Thereby causing me to default on my loans,' Dorothy-Anne whispered.
'That's right. And it's not a far-fetched scenario, either. Not when you consider what's at stake.'
Dorothy-Anne sighed. The yacht was rocking gently, and she could hear the soft slapping of the waves, the little creaks from the pressure of the water against the wooden hull.
'At least you've convinced me I'm not paranoid,' she said at last. 'I suppose I should be grateful for that.'
'Sometimes a little paranoia can be healthy,' he said.
'What's so amazing,' Dorothy-Anne murmured, 'is that until now, I never gave any of this so much as a thought.'
'And why should you? Your industry is hospitality and leisure.'
He reached for his glass of iced tea and picked it up. A paper napkin was affixed to the glass with a rubber band. He took a sip and then set it carefully back down.
The wind was starting to pick up and he looked beyond Dorothy- Anne. To the south, a squall was building, and the waves chucking rhythmically against the hull were already leaping higher, their tips frothing with foam. The rocking of the yacht became more noticeable.
'Squall's forming,' he observed.
She glanced over her shoulder. 'Oh, that,' she said, with a shrug. 'This is the tropics. You know how it is. One moment the sun's out, and the next it pours. Then bing. The sun's back out again.'
He nodded. 'If you're not worried, I'm not either. But just to be on the safe side, let me go and secure the hatches.'
She nodded and he got up. Keeping his head down, he walked his fingers across the varnished table and then swung himself expertly out from under the awning. She watched as he made his way forward along the narrow side deck in bare feet, locking and testing each of the ventilation hatches, his coordination and balance perfect. Obviously, being on boats was second nature to him.
When he was done, he returned aft and disappeared down the companionway. She could hear him moving about belowdecks, snap-locking the sliding ports in the saloon and then in each of the two forward cabins. When he reappeared, he sat back down in the cockpit and sketched a goofy salute.
'Aye, aye, skipper,' he reported. 'Ship's dogged down.'
Dorothy-Anne glanced up at the blue awning. 'What about the top?'
'It can stay. If need be, I can have it down in seconds.'
She smiled. 'Nothing like a great crew, is there?'
He flashed her a thousand-watt grin. 'We aim to please.'
Then his demeanor was suddenly serious again. Frowning, he reached for his iced tea and scratched at the moist napkin around the glass with his fingernails, shredding off tiny crescents of paper that blew away in the wind.
'Getting back to the subject at hand,' he said.
She waited.
'The way I see it, we've figured out motive. Who knows?' Hunt shrugged and looked at her. 'Could be, we're way off base. Maybe the outbreaks were accidental.'
'A wish I'd give my eyeteeth for,' Dorothy-Anne murmured fervently.
'But in case they weren't, why don't we see how the other incidents fit in?'
'I suppose it can't hurt,' Dorothy-Anne replied. 'Besides, bacteria and viruses aren't exactly my favorite subjects.' She made an expression of distaste and stared off into space. 'But then, neither are my outstanding bank loans.'
'Can't say I blame you. However, AmeriBank did sell your loa
ns to Pan Pacific. And that's not speculation. It's fact.'
'A highly unpleasant fact,' she agreed, nodding.
'Also, as you yourself pointed out, Pan Pacific is an unknown quantity.' He frowned thoughtfully. 'That disturbs me. So does AmeriBank's selling them your loans without notifying you first. The whole thing stinks.'
'Damn right, it does! And to high heaven!' Dorothy-Anne's nostrils flared angrily. 'As far as Pan Pacific goes, I don't trust them an iota. I haven't from the start.'
'With good reason, apparently.'
She was silent.
The low, dark clouds were scudding directly overhead now, blotting out the sun and throwing the afternoon into semidarkness. The wind had increased markedly. It whipped the waves to a froth and tugged at the canvas awning. The twelve-meter sloop tossed and reared like a thoroughbred trying to slip its reins, but the anchor held fast.
Neither Hunt nor Dorothy-Anne seemed to be aware of the effects of the storm.
'And finally,' Hunt said, 'there's the suspicious timing of Kurt Ackerman's so-called job offer.'
'And Kurt's sketch,' Dorothy-Anne added.
'That's right. And his sketch. If Kurt is only half the artist you claim he is—and I trust your opinion—I'd say you have every right to be leery of Sir Ian or Mr. George Blackwell or whatever his real name is. If you hadn't made the connection that the two are one and the same, Pan Pacific could have walked off with the entire candy store.'
'They still might,' Dorothy-Anne reminded him.
Her pale eyes were filled with shadows and resembled the surrounding shoals with their dark blue patches like clouds of ink.
'I'm not out of the woods yet,' she said.
'I realize that. But my money's on you.' Hunt smiled confidently. 'Something tells me Sir Ian and Pan Pacific will rue the day they decided to mess with you.'
'Do you mean that, Hunt?' she whispered. 'Do you really?'
He reached out and placed one hand on hers. His touch was like an electrical current. She felt the pulsating warmth emanate from his fingers, felt it spread swiftly throughout her body.
'You bet I mean it,' he said staunchly.
Her voice was hesitant. 'Then you don't think I'm . . . crazy?'
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