Dangerous Journey (mobi v.9/12) Page 3

  Still nothing.

  About fifteen minutes later, a light tap at her door meant dinner. The bellboy looked with curiosity at the mess filling the room as he put down the tray.

  C.J. set the dinner dishes on the small writing table, placed a chair on each side, then sat and waited for the stranger to emerge. Five minutes of silence later, she began to worry.

  She knocked at the door. “Are you all right?”

  “Wonderful. This is great! Want to join me?”

  She jumped back, glad he couldn’t see the blush lighting up her cheeks at the picture her overly active imagination had conjured up.

  “Dinner's here. You don't want it to get cold,” she said, deciding it was best just to ignore his question.

  “Dinner? That’s the one word you could say that would get me out of here. Be with you in a minute.”

  A short while later he joined her, a thick white bath towel secured around his waist, his chest and legs bare, his face freshly shaved, and his hair glistening. He had a good build, with broad, muscular shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and hips. With the beard and mustache gone, she noticed that his face was more rugged than she had expected, but it didn’t detract from his attractiveness at all. If anything, it added to it. Her artist’s eye had suspected there was a good-looking man under all that dirt, and she had been right. She felt her temperature go up at least five degrees.

  “Sorry about the towel. I travel light,” he said. “Unless you’ve got a robe I could borrow?”

  She gave what she hoped was a saucy little toss of the head. “No bathrobe in your bedroll? Whatever would Miss Manners say? Your clothes should be returned soon. Come on, let’s eat.”

  She took the tops off the bowls of Cantonese war won ton, walnut chicken in black bean sauce, bok choy with beef, pork chow mein and rice. He didn’t load up his plate, but ate Chinese style, putting bits of food onto his rice bowl with his chopsticks. As he ate, C.J. noticed several long scars interrupting the smoothly tanned skin of one forearm and wondered what outrageous undertaking he had been involved in to get those. They reminded her once again how little she knew about him, and that she needed to be careful.

  As she picked at her food, she watched with growing wonder as he polished off one dish after another. She thought she had ordered far too much, since she hadn’t been sure which dishes he would like, but now she was afraid she hadn’t ordered enough.

  Finally he sat back and placed his bands on his stomach, his green eyes shining. “I think I’ve injured myself,” he groaned.

  What? “I’m sorry—”

  “No, it’s wonderful.” His smile was lazy. “I haven’t eaten this much since. . . Rangoon? Right, it was Rangoon. Two, three months ago.”

  She sat looking at him, not knowing what to do or say. He offered no assistance, and the silence grew. “Would you like some coffee? Cigarettes? Anything?” she asked finally.

  “Yes. To all of the above.” He raised one suggestive eye brow.

  Most disarming.

  She cleared her throat and said, “I’ll call room service.”

  He reached for the morning’s Hong Kong Star, which was lying on the bureau, and devoured it like Rip Van Winkle trying to catch up on what he missed in the world.

  In a few minutes the bellboy arrived again. As he looked at the stranger, draped only in a bath towel, his expression grew even more dumbfounded than it had been earlier. C.J. gave him a generous tip.

  The man folded up the paper and laid it aside. Taking a swallow of coffee and a long drag of a Marlboro, he sat back in his chair looking relaxed and content.

  C.J. felt anything but content. Her nerves were frayed, and she stirred her coffee, round and round. She had imagined that the stranger would quickly bathe, nap and eat, then tell her about Alan and go on his way. It wasn’t working out quite that way. She had to find a way to ask her hundred and one questions, and then get him out of there.

  “Well, Sis,” he said. She dropped her spoon, sending it clattering onto the table. She reached to grab it, but he put his hand on top of hers. She felt the strength in it. Stiffening, she looked at him in surprise. “My male ego would like to think it was my magnetism that attracted you and made you plead with me to come here as your kept boy, but I know better. What now?”

  “We need to talk.” She pulled her hand away.

  “True. Shall I call you Sis, or Seejay—sounds like a Pakistani name.”

  “Pakistani? Oh, I see. My goodness, no. Straight mid-west. My name is C period, J period. Just initials.”

  Once again, she realized she had been so caught up with Alan’s problems that she hadn’t asked the man who he was. “What’s your name?”

  “C.J. isn’t a name.”

  Had she heard him right? “It’s mine.” She tried again. “What’s yours?”

  “No one names little girl babies just letters. That’s usually something they do to themselves to hide sickeningly sweet names like Bunnie, Queenie, Missy, Muffy—”

  “Most little girls’ names are not sickeningly anything. What’s your name?”

  He pursed his lips. “C.J. Hmm. Is it Carrie? What about Cecilia? Or Carla? Now, there’s one worth initializing.”

  Her eyes narrowed with irritation. “No!”

  “Carmen? Charmaine?”

  “Knock it off!”

  “Aha! You’re not afraid to speak up! That means it must be a delicate, feminine name—one that’s totally unsuitable, right?”

  C.J. felt the color drain from her face at those words.

  “How about Clarissa? Clarice? Cassandra?”

  How can I stop this dreadful man? How can I get him out of my room, out of my life? To think I invited him here! I must have been crazy. “I have politely asked your name a number of times,” she began. “The least you can do is answer. You are, after all, sharing my room, my food, my—”

  “Yes?” he leaned closer.

  She seethed.

  “All right." He backed off with a grin. "The name’s Kane. Darius Kane.”

  “Oh.” She leaned back in her chair. The name meant nothing to her; she hadn’t come across it in any of Alan’s papers.

  “Yes, well, that’s the reaction I get from a lot of women.”

  “I didn’t mean that I’m not interested.”

  “Oh?”

  She fumed. “I mean, it’s just that I was hoping that your name might mean something to me. But I’ve never heard of you before.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Let’s go back to how interested you are.”

  She jumped up. “Look, Mister Kane—”

  “Darius,” he interjected, another grin playing on his lips. “No woman calls me Mister when my clothes are off.”

  “Mister Kane! My brother is missing. I’m at the end of my rope. No one will help me. I’ve been fighting here, literally fighting, with the police, immigration, the airport people. I just. . .I just. . .” She crossed the room and sat on the bed, arms folded, trying to calm herself.

  “Hey, Clementina.” Darius got up from the table and walked to her side, placed a hand on her shoulder, then bent toward her. “Forgive me. I should have realized. It was just a joke. A bad one. Forget it, okay?”

  His apologetic words were her undoing; her eyes welled with tears. He was so close that she could smell the soapy cleanliness of his skin, feel the heat from his hands, and she turned her head away, more upset than before.

  “I never cry, you know.” She brushed a tear from her cheek. “I haven’t cried since I was sixteen and the boy I was madly in love with showed up at a beach party with an eighteen-year-old. Now I’ve cried twice in as many hours. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “C.J., I’m sorry.”

  It sounded too much like pity. “Stop!” She stormed across the room to the dresser and leaned over it, seething. She had been taxed beyond endurance by the whole frustrating situation of not being able to find Alan, not to mention the reticence of the police, and now she had to deal w
ith an unnerving reaction to Darius Kane. She couldn’t stand it anymore; something had to give. She spun around and glared at him. “It was a mistake to involve you. You don’t know a thing, do you? Nothing. I should have left you with the police. I should have let you rot in jail!”

  Darius yawned and sauntered to the far side of the double bed. “Let me know when my clothes come back. In the meantime, I’m going to take that nap you mentioned.”

  With a single, fluid motion, he pulled back the covers, then lay down, stretching the length of the bed and then some. With a contented sigh he pulled the covers over himself and flipped the towel he had been wearing to the floor.

  C.J. stood speechless as she watched the towel fall, appalled at his presumption in getting into her bed. She gave what she hoped was a withering look, but immediately saw that her glare had been wasted. His eyes were shut, and his chest moved with the calm rhythm of sleep.

  How can he do that? she wondered, one hand on her hip. She was beside herself with anger, and he had the nerve to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He had to be the most infuriating man she had ever met. She hadn’t even asked him any of her questions, and there was so much she needed to know.

  She had an urge to push him off the bed in such a way that his supercilious posterior would be rudely greeted by the floor.

  She stepped closer to him. How could anyone who was so devilish when he was awake look so angelic when he slept? She was struck by the dark hollows beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted, vulnerable, and something more—as if under that easy grin and behind all the jokes there was sadness, a deep hurt. This was crazy, she thought. She had no business doing two-bit analysis on someone she hardly knew.

  Darius Kane. She looked down at him and shook her head. “Dangerous” Kane would have been more suitable. He was a mystery to her, yet, for some reason, he had decided to trust her. She knew that only trust would let a man like him fall asleep in such a defenseless way. He seemed to be a man who lived on the edge of society, yet he’d put himself under her protection, for a little while, at least.

  She wearily rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. Why am I angry with him, anyway? she wondered. Unable to answer her question, she switched off the lamp that was shining on his face, sat down on the nearby chair and watched him sleep as the night grew dark.

  Chapter 4

  C.J. was vaguely aware of sunlight flooding the room, and she rolled to her side, burying her face in the pillow. As she turned, she bumped something with her foot and gave it a good kick to get it out of the way.

  “Ouch! What the—”

  At the sound of a man’s voice, her eyes opened wide. The events of the previous day came back with the chilling clarity of a scene in a horror movie. She sat bolt upright, not looking at him, and giving a prayer of thanks that she was fully dressed and on top of the covers.

  “If you wanted to wake me up so badly, there are nicer ways to do it than with a kick,” Darius said. She peeked over her shoulder at him, then quickly scrambled off the bed before she turned to face him again.

  He was on his side facing her, his elbow propped up on the pillow, and his head resting against his hand, a look of bemusement on his face. His hair was tousled, a few stray golden locks falling over his forehead, and his eyes were still heavy from the long night’s sleep. The flutter her heart gave at his appearance was more than a little disturbing.

  “I was hoping you were just a nightmare,” she said, madly trying to smooth her clothes and her hair.

  His laugh was low, husky and intimate. “It was nice of you to join me.”

  Bristling, she folded her arms. “Before you get too smug about your irresistible charm, I suggest you try sleeping in that spindly little chair all night. It’ll give you a good idea of what was really irresistible on this side of the room.”

  Surprise flickered across his face, and then he laughed.

  “If that’s how you feel,” he said with a rueful look, “I’ll go.”

  Slowly his foot emerged from under the covers, then the calf of his leg, up to the knee. Now fully awake, C.J. remembered his state of undress.

  “Wait a minute,” she cried, hurrying to the phone, not daring to face him. “I’ll call for your clothes. I’m sure they’re ready. In fact, they should have come back last night. Don’t do anything rash.”

  “All right, dear sister, you can turn around again. I’ll stay covered up in your bed as long as you like. I’m not complaining.”

  She rolled her eyes as she called the front desk. Peeking at him, she saw that the wayward foot was back under the covers, and she sighed with relief.

  Before long a bellboy, a different one this time, appeared with Darius’s clothes. He walked into the room, then looked from C.J.’s rumpled state to Darius in the bed. “Miss Perkins,” he said, bowing slightly, then hung the clothes in the closet.

  “Oh, my God!” C.J. was horrified at the bellboy’s expression.

  Darius chuckled, “I’m sure it’s not the first time—”

  “It’s not funny!” She was still staring at the hotel door.

  “Oh, what tangled webs we weave…”

  She turned to glare at him, but when her eyes met his, the mirth he exuded hit her. Against her will, the sides of her mouth began to rise, and she knew that if she allowed herself to look at him one minute longer, she’d laugh out loud, and this was not a laughing matter. One’s reputation was not to be trifled with.

  My God, she thought, I’m thinking like Mildred! At that she did give an amused chuckle, then grabbed some clothes and went off to shower. For some reason, one she absolutely refused to contemplate, she found herself taking extra care with both her clothes and her makeup.

  She emerged from the bathroom in an emerald green blouse, pearl gray slacks, and low black heels. Darius’s eyes drifted over her appreciatively, causing a further rush of color to her cheeks.

  He had dressed in jeans and a crisp plum colored shirt. She saw once again, as if she needed it, how handsome he was. Her conservative, almost matronly outfit felt dowdy in comparison.

  His rolled-up sleeves revealed again the scars on his forearm, causing her to remember how little she knew about him. The day before, she hadn't allowed herself to think about the type of man who would be running around Southeast Asia with no passport or other identification. But this morning that was all she thought about. The possibility that he was some sort of criminal was all too real.

  He had ordered a pot of coffee, char siu bau, and a newspaper as she showered.

  By the time he finished his pork bun, two cups of coffee, and the morning paper, C.J.’s patience had vanished. "Who are you?” she demanded, her fingers tightening on her coffee cup. “What do you know about Alan?”

  He slowly folded the newspaper. “I’m just an American who finds this part of the world suitable. As to your brother, I know very little, except that his name is mixed up with the White Dragon theft.”

  “Theft?”

  “You didn’t know?” He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe her surprise.

  “No, no one will tell me anything. What theft? What is the White Dragon?”

  “You’re kidding me. You’ve got to know something.”

  She stiffened. “I beg your pardon!”

  “You came here by yourself?” he asked. “Into this mess with no idea what’s actually going on?”

  “Hard though it may be for you to believe, I came here because my brother is missing.”

  “But this is…” He stopped.

  “This is what?” she demanded.

  He studied her as if taking in the measure of her, not wanting to believe her, but realizing he did. “Dangerous. It’s very dangerous.” His voice was soft but serious.

  She blanched. “Tell me everything.”

  He paused for a moment. “The white dragon is a small jade statue, no bigger than a large apricot, carved during the Chinese T’ang dynasty, around 750 A.D. The jade the artist used was white, not t
he usual green, and it was absolutely flawless. It was intricately carved into the shape of a dragon and presented as a gift to the Emperor of China.”

  She looked at him blankly. “I see. It sounds very valuable.”

  “Priceless.”

  “And now it’s been stolen?”

  “That’s right. It belongs to the People’s Republic of China. The Chinese agreed to send it along with some other T’ang sculptures on a tour to major European museums. The pieces got no farther than Hong Kong. They were stolen from the Museum of History. It’s a very embarrassing situation for the Hong Kong government, and since this is a British colony, the British feel responsible. The Chinese are furious.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “All those governments involved. How could it happen?”

  “It took a pro. It was a slick, well-planned operation.”

  She thought about everything he told her. “When did this happen?”

  “Over a month ago,” Darius replied.

  “A month!” Relief filled her. “Alan was in Malaysia a month ago. How could he have known anything about it?”

  “You tell me. I’ve told you all I know, C.J. Your brother’s name has been mentioned in and around Hong Kong in connection with the theft, but there’s no proof that I know of that he stole it.”

  “Of course not, he’s innocent.”

  “That’s not what’s being said,” Darius told her.

  She felt her throat constrict and bit her bottom lip. “He is! It’s just…he’s not…” She couldn’t go on. The paper she’d found in Alan’s room had Bai-loong, the Chinese words for White Dragon, written on it. She shut her eyes, concentrating on blocking the thought that wanted to be born. It was more than coincidence, but it didn’t mean Alan was guilty.

  Darius frowned, more at himself than at her. And then, with an expression that said he had no idea why he was allowing himself to get involved, he stood and held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where are we going?”