by Pam Crooks
Jorge Esteban took a deep, thoughtful pull on his cheroot. Outside his window, the sound of horse hooves receding into the night told him the customs inspector and his tall companion had left.
The door to his office cracked open. He gestured the short, stocky Celestial to come inside.
“So you know I had visitors,” Esteban said.
“Yes. I heard everything.”
Sam Kee entered the office. The forefront of his head was shaved, and he wore a queue, the end of which reached the back of his knees. But his suit was American--the fit superb, the fabric expensive.
He strode straight to each window and yanked the edges of the draperies together, preventing anyone from the outside to see in.
“You were careless, Jorge. It was too easy for them to find you,” he said in flawless English.
“I have always been safe in my own home. Who would have thought they would come looking for me here? In my country?”
Sam poured a glass of whiskey at the small bar near the desk. “You know of the woman, then? This Belle they spoke of?”
Jorge nodded, ground out the stub of his cheroot.
“Her name is Blue Belle Lamont. I met her a very long time ago, when she first arrived in Tijuana.”
She had not yet healed from giving birth; her breasts were still swollen from the milk, but she had no baby in her arms to nurse.
He recalled her stark beauty, her haunting grief for the daughter who had been taken from her. Her hate and bitterness for the young but powerful lawyer who banished her from his country.
“She came to a brothel here,” he said. “I happened to be there the night she arrived. Before I met my wife, of course.”
Sam raised a sardonic brow. “Of course.”
Jorge never claimed fidelity as one of his strong points. But, if nothing else, fatherhood had enlightened him to the love for a child.
“She tried many times to reclaim her baby, though the child’s father was too clever, too powerful,” he said. “She had no chance with him.”
“You know many things about her.”
“Si. Too many.” The years fell away. “Belle opened one of her own brothels. She learned of the child’s father’s smuggling activities through one of her patrons. She hoped to use his information to testify against the father, but”--he shrugged--“it did not work for her.”
“How so?”
“The patron was found murdered before he had a chance to tell the American authorities what he knew.” Esteban held no regrets on his part of it. He had been young himself. Ambitious. Hungry for money. And the lawyer had paid him well for his trouble. “After that, she was sent to Belén. I have not seen her since.”
Knowing she was still alive surprised him. Was she still so beautiful? So haunted?
Her life would not have been easy. Perhaps it had been the hate which allowed her to survive, eh?
Sam eyed Jorge. “The child’s father. You know him, don’t you?”
Unease trickled through him, pulled him out of his reverie. He thought of the lawyer, now a powerful, California judge. “Yes. His name is Reginald Chandler. And it is his daughter who is looking for her mother. Who else would the tall gringo protect so hard, eh?”
“Are you going to tell Chandler you’re bringing Belle to Tijuana?”
Jorge’s mouth thinned with irritation. Chandler would be furious.
But it didn’t matter. Not this time. If Chandler chose to retaliate, Esteban had enough information on him to do some retaliating of his own.
Before he could stop them, memories of Belle’s anguish rushed back all over again. Vivid and real.
Tell Chandler about Belle?
“No,” he said and thought of the wire he would send to Belén.
He owed her at least that.
“May I help you, sir?”
Liko Kwan flashed his most charming smile at the Hotel Brewster desk clerk.
“Yes, thank you. I have some friends that are staying here in your lovely hotel. A man and a woman. But I’m afraid I don’t know their room number. I was hoping you might look them up so I may call on them.”
“Certainly.” The clerk smiled amiably. “A name, sir?”
“Mathison. Trig Mathison.”
The clerk scanned the log of guests once. Twice. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. There is no one registered by that name. Are you sure they are at our hotel?”
“I’m positive.” He had seen Mathison walk in with Carleigh, then watched him leave again a couple of hours later in the company of a giant of a man.
“Perhaps you are mistaken. Is there another name I might check?”
Liko frowned. “Try Chandler.”
The clerk checked again. “I’m sorry. No Chandler, either.”
He clenched his teeth. “Let me see that log.”
Before the clerk could stop him, he snatched the book and studied the column of signatures himself, but nothing looked familiar.
He had underestimated Mathison’s cleverness.
Liko forced a smile and slid the book back across the gleaming counter. “Thank you for your time.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Liko moved away, and the clerk’s attention shifted to the person behind him. Liko paused near a scrolled plaster column to contemplate his next move.
The hotel lobby was crowded with people, baggage and harried staff. Strains of music drifted from the dining room, fast filling with guests arriving for their evening meal. The Brewster’s popularity promised a full house tonight, which would only make it all the more difficult to find Chandler’s daughter.
Carleigh. She could be in any one of the rooms. On any one of the four floors. She could be anywhere in this damned hotel.
Frustration stung at him. He spied another employee, a slightly-built Mexican, his arms loaded with a pile of towels. He wore a tag on his black vest, his name engraved as ‘Manuel Cruz-Garcia’.
“Excuse me,” Liko said, using his charming smile for the second time in a span of minutes. “I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you can help me.”
“Senor.” The Mexican bowed slightly.
“A woman. Beautiful. Reddish-brown hair. Striking blue eyes. Can you advise me which room she has taken?”
Something flickered in the man’s expression, but he only shrugged. “There are so many guests tonight, Senor. The hotel is full of beautiful women. One does not stand out over the others.”
Liko hid his contempt. After darting a cautious look around him, he took the man’s elbow and pulled him behind the column. He withdrew his leather wallet, snapped out a bill, and stuffed it in the man’s palm.
“She had a dog with her. Small and white.”
Cruz-Garcia glanced at the denomination of the bill. This time, he smiled broadly. “Si, Senor. I know the woman.”
Excitement rushed through Liko. He had to get to her before Mathison returned. “Is she in her room?”
“No. She is having her dinner with a friend. I saw them just a short time ago in the Dining Hall.”
“Find her. Give her some excuse that will send her up to her room.” He peeled off another bill. “But make no mention of me. Do you hear?”
“Si, Senor.” The Mexican happily stuffed the money into his pocket.
“Do you know her room number?” Liko asked.
The dark head bobbed; white teeth flashed. “Room 424.”
“Good. Very good. Now, go and do as I told you.”
The Mexican pivoted to leave, but on an afterthought, Liko called him back.
“Allow me to warn you, Mr. Cruz-Garcia, that if you conveniently fail to find the beautiful lady for me after I’ve paid you handsomely to do so, I will go to your superiors and accuse you of stealing my wallet. Do you understand?”
Cruz-Garcia’s eyes widened with alarm; his head bobbed in utmost seriousness.
“Go.”
Liko watched the little man scurry away.
Indeed, it was a pleasure to be on the giving end of orders for once. He rat
her liked it. Satisfied those orders would be met, Liko headed toward the stairs.
An orchestra played a lively rendition of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” from an alcove five feet above the Dining Hall floor. Carleigh delighted in the music, the atmosphere, the cuisine. The dining room was at its capacity, 150 or so well-dressed guests from the Hotel Brewster, and with Flower beside her for company, the evening promised to be enjoyable.
All that was missing was Trig.
She wished he were back from Tijuana. Safe, where she could see him. Anything could go wrong in his quest to have her mother brought from Belén. What would he do if the prison director refused to honor his request?
“You worry about him,” Flower said knowingly, leaning over to pat her hand in consolation. She had changed from her buckskin dress to one more American, a graceful summer gown of black India silk, strewn with yellow and pink blossoms.
“Yes.” Once more, Carleigh’s gaze darted to the room’s entrance in the hopes of seeing him return with Gif.
“They are strong men.” Flower made an exaggerated posture of flexing her biceps, and Carleigh couldn’t help laughing. “They can take care of themselves.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“Smart, too. They will know just what to do if something goes wrong.”
She sighed. “I know.”
“You have barely touched your oyster soup. It is delicious. Eat.”
Reassured by Flower’s calm and common sense, Carleigh reluctantly picked up her spoon.
“Pardon, Senora.”
She started at the accented voice behind her. She hadn’t noticed Manuel Cruz-Garcia approach.
She stiffened. What could the greedy man want with her?
He bent close, kept his voice low. “Your dog, Senora. He is barking, and he does not stop. Perhaps he misses you, but he is disturbing the other guests with the noise he makes.”
Carleigh exchanged a quick glance with Flower. It wasn’t like Spencer to misbehave when she was gone; she’d left him many times before with no problems. More worrisome, however, was the very real risk of incurring the hotel proprietor’s disapproval. She’d be devastated if Spencer was banished to the livery for his behavior.
“Thank you, Mr. Cruz-Garcia,” she said, setting aside her linen napkin. “I’ll see to him immediately.”
The Mexican bowed and made a hasty retreat.
Flower reached for her handbag. “I will go with you.”
“No, no. It’s not necessary. I’ll be gone only a little while.”
“But Trig and my husband insisted I not leave you alone. It is important we stay together, Carleigh.”
“A few minutes.” Taking her own handbag, she pushed her chair back and rose. “The dining room is very busy. We’ll lose our table if you come with me. Please. Finish your meal while it’s still hot.”
“But--.”
“I’ll be fine, Flower. Truly.”
Carleigh left her before she could protest further. Once in the hotel lobby, she strode straight to the elevator, far quicker than climbing four flights of stairs.
She pushed a gold button; the doors slid open. In only a few moments, Carleigh was on the fourth floor. She rushed out of the motorized compartment, room key in hand, fully expecting to hear Spencer barking.
She heard nothing. Relieved he no longer made a nuisance of himself, she turned toward Room 424. The thick floral carpet muffled her steps, and she slid the key into the lock--.
A hand clamped over her mouth. Hard. The force of the grip yanked her against a man’s chest, left her stunned about what was happening. His other hand covered hers to finish unlocking the door; he shoved her into the dimly-lit room.
She wrenched free of his hold and whirled. He locked the door behind them.
“You!” The shock of recognition slammed into her, and she gasped in outrage. “How dare you!”
“Get your things together. You’re coming with me.”
“I will not!”
She gaped at him. He was one of her father’s associates; she had seen him in Papa’s office now and again. Though he was of partial Chinese descent, he was unusually tall for a Celestial; his skin color more tanned than yellow, and scars from a pox permanently disfigured his face.
She had never spoken a single word to him in her entire life, but she knew his name was Liko.
Liko Kwan.
Suddenly remembering Spencer, she twisted, looking frantically for him. He lay on the cushion she’d readied as his bed; he only now roused from a nap, and upon seeing her and sensing her alarm, he broke into frenzied barking.
“Shut that damn dog up!”
Liko looked so furious, she feared he would harm Spencer, and she scooped his quivering body into her arms. Continuous growls rumbled low in his throat.
She glared, hurt and fury spinning through her.
“My father sent you, didn’t he?” she accused bitterly.
Did Papa know the tactics this man would use? That he’d be ruthless and harsh?
Or was Papa so determined to have her return to San Francisco that he wouldn’t care?
“Do as I told you.”
“I refuse.”
“You really think you can hold out until Mathison comes back?”
She was going to try. Dear God, she had to.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she snapped. “Ever. You can tell Papa so. And you can tell him I will never, never forgive him--.”
Liko’s teeth bared in a snarl. His arm swung out, and he back-handed her with such force, she lost her hold on Spencer and catapulted to the floor with a cry.
Her hair fell loose from its pins, and she swiped it out of her eyes. Her mouth throbbed. She tasted blood and raw fear.
Spencer charged toward Liko with more ferocity than Carleigh had ever thought him capable and sank his teeth into his ankle. Hurling an oath, Liko kicked at him, and he rolled across the floor with a yelp.
Carleigh cried out again; she crawled toward him to gather him into his arms, but Liko reached him first, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and held him at arm’s length.
“Damn dog!”
With his free hand, he pulled out a handkerchief and used it as a muzzle, tying the ends firmly despite Spencer’s wriggling. Taking the leash Carleigh left near the fireplace, he tied him to the grate with little slack to move.
Sloe-eyes glittering with a cruel lust, Liko turned to Carleigh.
Rage burned within her for the treatment she and her pet received. Rage, such as she’d never felt before.
She knew how to defend herself. And she knew how to hurt a man when she had to. Trig had showed her how.
“Leave us alone,” she hissed between her teeth. “Do you hear me? I am not going back to San Francisco with you!”
He lunged for her, and she slammed the heel of her hand in an upward motion against his nose, and his head snapped back. He yelled in pain; blood streamed out of his nostrils.
He swayed, then caught himself. With another yell of fury, he grabbed her by the hair, jerked her head back at an awkward angle until she was sure he’d pull every strand out by its roots.
“Spoiled bitch!”
His hand slashed through the air and struck her cheek. Pain exploded. She crumpled, and everything went black.
Chapter 13
Trig and Gif reined in at the Hotel Brewster, dismounted, and looped the leathers at the hitching posts. Hotel guests milled about on the boardwalk to enjoy conversation and a leisurely evening smoke. Strains of music from the Dining Hall drifted outside, the notes lively and inviting.
“Whatever the Brewster’s chefs are cooking sure smells good.” Gif inhaled deep at the savory aromas reaching them from the kitchen chimneys. “Didn’t realize I was so hungry.”
“I could use some grub myself,” Trig said, his thoughts on Carleigh and the dinner she’d likely finished by now. Without him.
They’d ridden from Tijuana straight to the hotel. She’d be happ
y to know of Esteban’s cooperation, that if all went as planned, she could see her mother in another day’s time.
“Heard tell the Brewster’s French chef is known for his éclairs. Might order one for dessert.”
Trig grinned. Gif’s sweet tooth contributed to his girth but was a factor in his good nature as well. The man was happiest when he had the taste of sugar on his tongue.
“When I get back to San Francisco, I’ll send you some of the best confectionaries this side of the Missouri.” They strode through the hotel doors and entered the elegant lobby, ablaze with lights and guests. “Just to show my appreciation for all your help in . . ..”
His thoughts scattered at the sight of Flower, looking worried as she hurried out of the Dining Hall.
Carleigh wasn’t with her.
There wasn’t a single acceptable reason why she wouldn’t be. Not one. Not when he’d given the women strict orders to stay together.
His stride lengthened across the lobby. “Flower.”
She pressed a hand to her breast in relief at their return.
“Where’s Carleigh?” he demanded.
“She should have been back by now, Trig. She only went to the room after the man told her Spencer was barking, and--.”
“What man?”
“An employee of the hotel. Manuel somebody.”
Cruz-Garcia.
What did Spencer bark at? Or who? And loud enough the Mexican had to tell her about it?
Something was wrong. It wasn’t like the dog to bark for long periods of time with no reason. How--why?--did Cruz-Garcia become involved?
Trig began moving toward the elevator.
“Watch the stairs, Gif, in case I miss her,” he ordered.
He pushed the button that would open the doors, but a light indicated the car was in use on another floor. He pushed it again and again, his impatience mounting with every second the doors remained closed.
He swore and gave up. He bolted toward the stairs at a full run, sending startled guests skittering out of his way. He loped up the steps two at a time until he reached the fourth floor.
The hall leading to their room was deserted except for a tall, dark-headed man with a queue heading toward a hotel staff stairwell. He carried something wrapped in a blanket, something--.