'Crazy!' His teeth gleamed and his laughter reached his eyes. 'Of course not! If you were, then I'd have to be certifiable, too. And we can't both be afflicted with the same mental disorder at the same time, can we?'
Her brows knit together and she dropped her eyes, as if she'd become absorbed in the teak grain of the table.
'I wish that made me feel better,' she said slowly, 'but it doesn't.'
'I'm not trying to make you feel better. I meant every word I said.'
She lifted her eyes up to meet his. 'That's just it!'
'What is?' He gave his head a shake. 'Now you've got me thoroughly confused.'
'Hunt, don't you see? Your believing me makes the whole thing that much more real and scary! It's no longer an abstraction!'
'Dorothy-Anne, listen to me!' Hunt still had his hand on hers, and he leaned toward her across the table and looked deep into her eyes. 'There's no need to be frightened,' he said softly. 'You'll lick 'em. I know you will!'
But his words went in one ear and out the other. Dorothy-Anne was too distracted by Hunt's disturbing proximity—his hand on hers, his face so close she could smell the faint, lingering fragrance of soap from his shower, the spicy aroma of mint leaves on his breath from the iced tea. Masculine scents, the lot of them: clean and fresh and healthy, unsullied by cologne or aftershave or talcum. And underneath them all she caught a whiff—the merest suggestion, the barest hint, really—of that most powerful, provocative, and naturally intoxicating of any man's scent, testosterone.
She felt she was drowning in his eyes, being inhaled by his breath. A noise like the amplified rushing of surf filled her head.
If the table weren't separating us, she realized, we would be kissing . . . .
Then the first heavy raindrops fell, puckering the canvas above them, and suddenly the clouds burst. Eden Isle was swallowed up by a thick curtain of water, and the noise was such that they couldn't hear themselves think.
The downpour ended as abruptly as it had begun. One moment, the rain was coming down in sheets; the next, the sun shone gloriously and Eden Isle reappeared in even sharper focus than before.
The yacht had ridden out the squall like a champ. Dorothy-Anne and Hunt had remained on deck for the duration, only slightly the wetter for wear.
'Bracing,' he pronounced.
'Exhilarating!' she agreed. Her eyes were clear and wide and bright. The cloudburst had been like an amusement ride, a welcome diversion, however brief, from the troubles at hand.
Hunt smiled at her.
She smiled back at him.
Then they got seriously back down to business, continuing where they'd left off.
'First thing you need to do,' Hunt said, 'is to find out who owns Pan Pacific.'
'I know. Derek's been working on that.'
'And?'
'And nothing. He's been on top of it since the end of December.'
'Yes?'
Dorothy-Anne let out a sigh. 'So far he hasn't gotten to square one. We still don't know any more than we did when he started.'
'You're putting me on.' Hunt's voice was incredulous. 'And he's had three months?'
'That's right.' She nodded. 'He keeps running into obstacles. Private banks in Asia apparently bring new meaning to the word 'inscrutable.' They make the Swiss look like a bunch of gossips.'
Hunt shook his head. 'I don't buy that. There's always a weak link. You just have to know where to look.'
He paused and gazed off at the horizon, where the hazy blue sea met the hazy blue sky.
'Maybe it's time you brought in a professional,' he suggested.
Dorothy-Anne tossed him a frown. 'What kind of a professional?'
He drew his eyes back in and folded his hands on the table.
'A private investigator.'
'A P.I.!' she sputtered, unable to contain her mirth. 'Like in the movies? Hunt, please tell me you're kidding!'
'A friend of mine from way back founded one of the top firms in the business,' he added. 'I highly recommend him. If anybody can get you results, it's him. We met in the navy.'
'You were in the service?'
'Yep. I signed up for four years, right after I graduated from Yale.'
'You went into the navy from Yale?.'
'What can I say? It's a family tradition. Also, my mother was convinced it would ensure my political career. I decided to indulge her—for my sake. It was either that, or working for Winslow Communications and reporting directly to her.'
He smiled wryly.
'When she found out I went behind her back and joined the SEALs, she nearly blew a gasket.'
He chuckled at the memory.
'So you were a SEAL,' Dorothy-Anne marveled, her eyes aglow. 'An honest-to-goodness, daredevil SEAL.' Somehow Hunt never failed to surprise. Perhaps it was this unpredictability that made him so attractive? She wasn't quite sure; most likely, it was the sum total of everything.
He reached out, chucked a finger under her chin, and raised it. 'Just think about a P.I. Okay?'
'Your advice is duly noted,' she said, folding her arms in front of her breasts. 'But I don't think my staff could possibly sell me out.'
Hunt changed the subject. 'Aren't you supposed to be getting back to shore? Doing your queen bee act on the drones?'
Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'I thought I told you. I postponed the inspection tour until tomorrow morning.'
She paused, cocked her head to one side, and eyed him speculatively. Ordinarily, she didn't believe in mixing business with pleasure, but it wouldn't hurt for Hunt to see just how unjustified and baseless his suspicions were. No, she decided, it certainly couldn't hurt, not this once.
'You wouldn't, by any chance, care to tag along?' she asked, her voice a curious mixture of cajolery, seduction, and challenge.
He didn't hesitate. 'I'd like that,' he said, a smile broadening his eminently kissable mouth, a smile she had to remind herself to fight and resist. 'Hmmra. Yes, I think I'd like that a whole lot.'
43
A steady light rain was falling, and Victoria Peak was wreathed in clouds. In his villa near the summit, the lung tao was at a potting table, grafting a hybrid tea rose with one of his prized pink weeping tree roses.
Instead of the ceremonial robes he usually favored, he was in his gardening pajamas. He had on a loose, black mandarin-collared top over baggy black peasant trousers. Though they made him seem smaller, he looked far from ordinary; his commanding presence was such that no one would ever mistake him for hired help.
Hearing the brisk click-clacks of high heels, Kuo Fong said: 'That is you, Spring Blossom?' He spoke Chiuchow, and kept concentrating on his work.
'Yes, most venerated Kuo.' Although he did not look up, she bowed graciously all the same. 'You called for me?'
'Unfortunately, this rose requires my immediate attention. Just a moment.'
'Of course, venerable Kuo,' she said.
She waited while he fitted the rose branch into the surgical incision he'd made in the delicate trunk.
'I am most grateful,' he said when he was done. 'If you would be so kind, call Pan Pacific and tell Sir Ian the lung tao wishes to see him. At once, heya?
'Yes, venerable Kuo.'
'But when the motherless fornicator arrives, make him wait for an hour before you bring him in here.'
Spring Blossom stifled a cackle. She despised the foreign devil for his condescending manner and rude pomposity, and looked forward to keeping him waiting—all the while mouthing meaningless strings of flowery apologies.
She bowed respectfully. 'Consider it done.'
Sir Ian Connery knew a summons when he received one. He had his chauffeur bring his car around, told his secretary to cancel the rest of the morning's appointments, and was off.
He stared uneasily out the window as his garnet Rolls-Royce conquered the curves of Victoria Peak. No matter where he looked, all he could see beyond the rain-streaked glass were thick shrouds of blanketing cloud. Their pewter opacity seemed e
specially fitting, since the purpose of this trip was as obscure as the world beyond the piercing beams of the yellow fog lights.
He tried to guess what the lung tao wanted this time, but came up empty. There was simply no telling. The only constant was the ride up Victoria Peak—it never failed to fill him with dark premonitions and dread.
Sir Ian's fear was palpable. It was like a physical force, a fluttering of muscular tics, a twitching of his extremities, an asthmatic wheeze as he tried to breathe. His hands dug into the edge of the garnet-piped leather seat, imprinting the soft, wildberry hide with the deep impressions of his fingers.
Fear: yes. The old man frightened him—and in a way no gang of switchblade-wielding street toughs ever could. For Kuo Fong possessed true power, a power so self-evident there was never any need to assert it, and that was so absolute that it brooked no argument, nor tolerated any mercy.
But Kuo Fong possessed much more.
He owned people.
Sir Ian, for one. In fact, the old lung tao owned everything except Sir Ian's impoverished title. All the rest—the props so indispensible to a well- turned-out aristocrat, were Kuo Fong's: Sir Ian's plum position at Pan Pacific; his elegant penthouse condominium; the expensive memberships in Hong Kong's most exclusive clubs; this very car, in fact, in which he was now riding. Even the beautifully tailored clothes on his back—all were conditional. His for as long as he played the lung tao's British stooge.
Without these necessary appurtenances, without these costumes, these props, Sir Ian knew he'd be just another in a long row of threadbare aristocrats.
So he danced to whatever tune the old lung tao played.
Sir Ian danced. And danced. And the more he danced, the more impossible it was to stop. It was as if he'd foolhardily slipped his feet into the Red Shoes.
Painfully, heavily, he exhaled a sigh. The red shoes demanded nonstop dancing. Engraved invitations, dinners, cocktails, restaurants, yacht races, the track. The red shoes demanded nonstop dancing. Sir Ian. Banker. Committee chair. Well-fed man about town. The red shoes demanded nonstop dancing. Gossip, secrets, favors, loans, payoffs, bribes . . .
At first he had tried to fool himself, but by now he was reconciled. There were no other options open to him. You didn't just pack your bags and leave the lung tao's employ. Not, that was, if you valued your health and well-being.
Once recruited, you belonged to the old man . . . either for life, or until death did you part.
The big car slowed, then swung a sharp left and stopped. Beyond the Rolls's silver lady, a pair of elaborate iron gates loomed tall, the combination of fog lights and drifting cloud making for a theatrical effect. Tall, dark privet hedges faded, as though through thickening scrims, into the mist on either side. There was a microphone mounted on a post outside the driver's window.
Before his chauffeur could speak into it, the electronic gates swung slowly inward, and Sir Ian was reminded of cyclopean lenses and hidden surveillance cameras.
Gravel crunched as the car rolled forward.
Sir Ian drew a deep breath. When in doubt, bluster.
Squaring his shoulders, he sat erect and tossed his freshly barbered head. Dressed himself in the raiments of pomposity. Adorned himself with ornaments of self-importance.
He willed himself larger, more imposing, confident.
The Rolls drew to a halt under the porte-cochere of the house, and the usual drill commenced.
It never varied. The chauffeur came around and held the rear door. The butler let him into the house and took his coat. A bodyguard expertly patted him down. Then a houseman led him to the familiar, marble- floored reception room where a fire fluttered in the grate.
There he was relegated—purposely, no doubt—to the same, uncomfortably low, too soft easy chair as always, the one from which he'd have difficulty rising. He waved away the customary offer of refreshment and settled down to wait.
The house was quiet. The fire crackled, spraying occasional sparks against the screen. On the mantel, the French clock ticked metronomically, as though mocking him for rushing to get here.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Impatiently he shot back his cuff and scowled at his gold Rolex. Testily drummed his fingertips on the upholstered arms of the chair.
This was not the first time he had been kept waiting in this house.
Far from it. It had become an epidemic of late. And Hong Kong had yet to be turned over to the Chinese! If the lung tao and his people saw fit to toy with him—a titled British subject!—this way already, what would it be like after the official takeover?
And, more important and to the point, could it be that his usefulness was drawing to a close? Was he to be discarded like an old shoe—no longer serviceable or of need?
Which sent other, even more disturbing questions rumbling, like approaching thunder, along the horizon of Sir Ian's mind.
If they decided to discard him, then how would they go about it? He had been privy to too many dirty secrets; had been the front man in too many underhanded deals. They couldn't just retire him and let him walk.
So. How will they go about it?
He shuddered to think.
Yet he knew better than to chalk up these fears as mere manifestations of paranoia. A little paranoia could be extremely healthy, as evidenced by the dozen or so people—inconvenient people—he'd known who had simply disappeared into thin air, so mysteriously and effectively they might never have existed in the first place.
Is that to be my fate, too? he wondered, his broad pink forehead breaking out in glistening beads of perspiration.
No, no, he reassured himself. I must stop jumping to conclusions. I have to calm down . . . .
He plucked a fresh white handkerchief out of a pocket and delicately blotted his forehead, struggling to even his breathing, to control the betrayals of muscular tics.
Calm is called for. Yes, calm . . .
Fifteen minutes. Twenty . . .
Presently the door opened and quick-stepping heels resounded on marble. He squinted owlishly through the lenses of his large, black- framed glasses. Spring Blossom Wu was crossing the room toward him, her purposeful but compact gait dictated by the narrow cut of her bright blue chong sam.
'Ah! Ms. Wu!' Sir Ian fell into the bumbling, avuncular character of the dotty Englishman abroad. He quickly brushed his thinning hair back with his fingers, then placed his hands on the chair's arms to push himself to his feet.
'No, no, Sir Ian. Please to remain seated.' Spring Blossom's voice was pleasingly soft, even musical.
She bowed politely.
'Honorable Kuo begs a thousand pardons. He is momentarily detained. I must apologize for any inconvenience.'
He blinked away a scowl, but not fast enough to hide his displeasure. The waiting game rankled, and outrage feasted on his ulcer.
'I have, of course, informed Honorable Kuo the moment you arrived.' She smiled brightly. 'Could I offer you some tea, Sir Ian?'
'A spot of tea?' he said, clearly disappointed.
He would have welcomed a gin or scotch, but to ask for something that wasn't offered was considered barbaric by these people. When in Hong Kong . . .
He shook his head lugubriously. 'Lovely of you to offer, but no. Thanks all the same.'
She nodded. 'Your patience is much, appreciated, Sir Ian. It will surely not be much longer.'
'Sooner the better, eh?' He forced out a chuckle.
'Yes, yes. Soon.' She nodded happily. 'Very soon.'
But it was another forty minutes, interspersed by two more apologetic visits from her, before she finally said, 'Sir Ian? Honorable Kuo will see you now. Again, a thousand heartfelt apologies.'
He nodded, his lips forming a chilly, formal smile. Each of her appearances had provoked a new level of insult within him, and he had become too angry to trust himself to speak. His clenched fists quivered at his sides.
'This way, please.'
The long hall she led him down echoed thei
r heels like a deserted museum. She took him not to the lung tao's study, as he had expected, but past it to a nautilus like staircase of marble with five landings. Although the street front of the villa was two-storied and deceptively modest, the back was built down the plunging hillside, so that the bulk of the structure was hidden from the road.
Descending the stairs, they passed niches in the wall, each devoted to a single priceless, spot lit artifact. The collection seemed to encompass the entire spectrum of Chinese dynasties.
None bought through the usual channels, Sir Ian was willing to bet. Plundered from archeological digs on the mainland, he was certain. Before they could be inventoried.
At the bottom of the staircase, he followed Spring Blossom down yet another luminously floored marble hall. Along both walls, pedestals displayed ancient Near Eastern texts. Sumerian pictographic script on stone tablets. An earthenware cylinder with rows of cuneiform, from Nebuchadnezzar II, King of Babylon. Cappadocian business letters in Sammerlurkunde text.
Sir Ian smirked. These he had to pay for.
At the end of the hall, Spring Blossom Wu opened a door and stepped aside. She gave a courteous bow.
'Please to go in, Sir Ian,' she said.
He stepped across the threshold—'Jesus, fuck!'—and gagged, recoiling from the glutinous wall of heat, humidity, and nauseatingly rank manure that smacked him squarely in the face. Swiftly he whipped out his handkerchief and pressed it over his nose and mouth. His eyes, already watering behind his lenses, leaped about.
He was in a garden room, one of those Victorian-style conservatories with glass-paned walls and a glass ogee roof. The kind that had once again become all the rage, and was usually added onto a house as a winter garden or dining room.
Not this one. It was used for its originally intended purpose—hence the maze of five-tiered etageres lined with precise formations of potted roses.
Handkerchief to his face, and taking shallow breaths through his mouth, Sir Ian turned a full circle.
Roses. They were everywhere. Hundreds of them. All in various stages of growth.
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