Meet Phoenix
Marcia King-Gamble
Brilliant, beautiful and brazen, art expert Phoenix Sutherland is prepared for anything when she embarks on a daring quest to recover a priceless statue–anything except having her sexy ex-husband, Damon, as a specialist on her team. Phoenix vows to remain professional.But with Damon's lean, strong body awakening buried longing, forbidden pleasure beckons as they enter the heart of Tibet, where danger, adventure and mystery await.Soon the thrill of the moment rekindles sparks of desire neither Phoenix nor Damon can resist, as they recklessly toss inhibitions aside and discover the only real treasure worth risking everything to claim.
Damon’s voice held me spellbound. I might just be able to fall asleep after all.
His warm breath blew against my chilled flesh. I went on alert, stiffening.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Trying to get you to relax.”
A feather-soft kiss seared my skin.
“Stop it, Damon.”
His hands were on my nape again, kneading, soothing.
“You’re wound as tight as a spring.”
I hated to admit it, but Damon’s massaging hands on my back felt wonderful. My entire body was beginning to tingle and buzz.
“Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
MARCIA KING-GAMBLE
is a national bestselling author and a former travel industry executive. She’s lived in five different states and has traveled to some of the most exotic parts of the world. The Far East, Venice, Italy, and New Zealand are still her favorites.
She enjoys a good workout, and is passionate about animals, old houses and tearjerker movies. Marcia is also the editor of a monthly newsletter entitled Marcia’s Romantically Yours. Log on to her Web site, www.lovemarcia.com, and find out what she’s all about.
Meet Phoenix
Marcia King-Gamble
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
“As you read may you find your own Divine Wisdom.”
Dear Reader,
I have been fortunate enough to spend some time in the Far East, and love it. Each visit is treasured and each time I return to the United States I feel more enriched. At one point in my life I even considered moving there. When that did not materialize, I satisfied my yearnings for places like Hong Kong, Singapore and Bangkok by taking frequent trips.
Even now the old architecture, mysticism and spiritualism of Asia continue to draw me. Combine those with elegant dining, endless hours of shopping and visits to mosques and temples, and I’m in my own state of nirvana.
Needless to say, when I got the opportunity to write an action-adventure story set in Tibet, I was really excited. Tibet is one of the few places I haven’t visited, and I had to rely on research. After immersing myself in the culture, Tibet is now one of my top ten places to visit.
Buddhism is also a religion that has interested me. Maybe it has something to do with having an enormous crush on Richard Gere, who runs neck and neck with Denzel Washington as the two sexiest men on the planet. Or maybe my high energy requires that calming effect.
What I do know is I created my hero, Damon Hernandez, with Denzel’s smile and Richard’s sexy walk in mind. Let me know if I was successful in creating a to-die-for hero and a strong, sensual heroine.
If you’ve enjoyed reading Meet Phoenix, I’d love to know. Please drop me an e-mail at mkinggambl@aol.com, or write me at P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, Florida. And if you want to know what I’m up to, visit me frequently at www.lovemarcia.com. I’m always off on one adventure or another.
Happy travels,
Marcia King-Gamble
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 1
“I will not allow you to commit him.” I tightly clutched the phone and swiveled around in my office chair.
“There may be no other choice,” my aunt Estelle said. “Since yesterday he’s been almost catatonic.”
My eyes burned and tension weighed between my shoulder blades. This was my father she was talking about. I knew he had problems but to commit him to a psychiatric institution? Unthinkable.
I knew he was depressed, but the only therapeutic shock treatment Thomas Sutherland needed was to have his name cleared. And I intended to do just that. It was one of the reasons I’d accepted this assignment in Tibet.
Aunt Estelle was going on and on about how debilitating depression was. I blinked the moisture from my eyes, stuck my head out of the open studio window and focused on the leaves pooling around the trees. Taxis whizzed by. The sky was a cloudless, brilliant blue. Fall in New York promised to be beautiful.
“Can we discuss this later?” I said softly and hung up. I just couldn’t deal with this today. Plus, they couldn’t commit him without my consent anyway.
“Althea’s on the other line,” Whitley Montgomery, my assistant, called from the outer room.
I took a deep breath of the brisk morning air and picked up the receiver. Althea Wright and I had met eight years ago at an art institute in Florence, Italy. I was in the conservation program, devoted to the preservation of cultural heritage, and Althea was in the restoration program, which restores and reconstructs the work of art back to its “original” state. Or at least close to it. Ever since then we were as tight as two people could be.
“Hey, you caught me at the right time, Althea.” I injected gaiety into my voice. I welcomed any distraction.
“Is that Tibetan trip still on? You did say you needed someone with expertise in reconstruction.”
“Does that mean what I think it does?”
“Yup. I’m coming if you’ll still have me.”
I needed this news. I could use both my best friend’s expertise and her support.
“Of course I’ll have you, silly girl. We’re about to make history. We’ll be working on a statue that is as important as the Messiah is to the Western world. Maitreya’s finding is heralded like the second coming of Christ. He’s considered the universal teacher.”
“Yes, I know. He’s one of three priceless Buddhas crafted by an artisan back in 500 B.C. How long will we be gone?”
“At the very least, three months.”
“Three months, Phoenix? That’s more than enough time for you to get into your usual trouble. And it’s a long time for both of us to be away from our studios. The Tibetan government had better be paying us well.”
I named a figure then went on to say, “If we meet the deadline we get a bonus. There just aren’t any artisans in Tibet qualified to reconstruct a piece this rare.”
This was exactly the kind of project I loved. I’d read and reread every article I could get my hands on about this rare finding. Even now a newspaper lay on my desk, the headline prominently displayed.
Maitreya, Future Buddha Found By Gardener.
Something wasn’t quite right though. It was definitely odd that all of a sudden a missing Buddha would show up in a garden, of all places. Plus, if my suspicions were confirmed, it would be an opportunity to clear my father’s name.
Whitley rapped on the door and stuck her head in through the crack, signaling time-out.
“Got to go, Althea,” I said, hanging up the phone and waving Whit in.
“Some guy’s outside asking to see you.”
“I don’t remember making an appointment.”
“You probably didn’t write it down. Stop picking up your own calls and we wouldn’t have these issues. What should I do with him?” Whit asked.
I rose to my full height of five feet nine inches and rested my butt against the desk, crossing one denim-clad leg over the other. “Does him have a name?”
“Yup. Him has a card, too.” Whit flipped a business card in my direction. “Him is a hottie.”
I glanced at the crisp white card and my breath hitched.
What did Damon Hernandez want? It had been eight years since I’d last laid eyes on him.
“Send him in,” I said, curiosity getting the better of me.
“I’m already in,” a deep male voice said from the doorway, the Bronx accent very pronounced.
My heart palpitated and then settled, but my stomach was a different story. Must be the fried chicken and chips from lunch…I fumbled, found the Tums I kept in the pocket of my shirt, and quickly popped one.
The last I’d heard, Damon Hernandez was still in Europe, and that had been just fine with me.
“Heartburn, Phe? Tell me life isn’t that rough.”
I managed a smile. I would not let his appearance rattle me. I would not let those dark good looks, tight curls and dreamy gray eyes fog up my thinking. No trips down memory lane. That would not be permitted.
“How are you, Damon?” I asked. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Doing well, Phe. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d swing by and take you out for coffee.”
I hiked an eyebrow. “It’s been a long time.”
Silence. We just stared at each other.
“Cut the bull, Damon. Why are you here?”
“I’ve missed you, Phe,” he said, taking a step closer. “Missed that lovely face of yours, those wonderfully sculpted cheekbones and sparkling eyes.”
I stepped back and swept a lock of straightened brown hair off my cheek. I considered popping another Tums since the one I’d downed seconds ago was lodged in my chest. Why had I chosen today of all days to wear baggy overalls?
Whit was openly following the conversation. I could almost hear her brain clicking, trying to figure out how we knew each other. With a slight movement of my head, I dismissed her. To him I gestured to the most uncomfortable chair in the cramped office.
“Damon,” I said, “I don’t have time for coffee today. Grab a seat.”
He flopped into the chair and I retreated behind the safety of my desk.
Breathe, dammit! Breathe! Don’t let him see how much he rattles you. What you two had is long over with.
“Ah, Phe, you haven’t changed at all,” Damon continued, his gaze sliding over me. “If anything, you’re lovelier than ever.”
He must want something. I stuffed both hands into the pockets of my denim overalls and waited.
“Suppose you tell me why you’re really here?” I asked, reasoning that my heated cheeks had to do more with his irksome presence than irrepressible hormones.
“Phe, you suspicious woman.” Damon chuckled, a deep-throated sound. “I came to see you, and find out how your dad’s doing?”
My dad was a sensitive topic.
I was protective of the father who’d raised me and four brothers single-handedly, since my mom died when I was five. Dad, once a museum curator in Asian art, was brilliant but eccentric. I loved him with utter devotion. He’d encouraged me to pursue a career in art conservation and restoration and we’d dreamt of one day working together.
I still held on to that dream.
“Holding his own,” I answered, not elaborating.
“That’s good. Must have been tough losing that job.”
“Very tough.”
Damon didn’t have to know how badly Dad’s condition had deteriorated after he’d been fired, and how a paralyzing depression had set in.
“So is your father the reason you’ve accepted an assignment in Tibet?” Damon held a hand up, preventing me from cutting him off. “I heard about the trip via the grapevine. You’re going because you hope to clear your dad’s name?”
I blinked at Damon but kept my tone even. “There’s nothing to clear. My father is innocent.”
“I know that,” Damon said in the tone that used to give me goose bumps. Used to, being the operative words. “But you’ll be needing an experienced X-ray infrared technologist along, yes? I’m at your service.”
So that was why he was here. Word had gotten out that I’d been awarded the coveted assignment of preserving the Maitreya. Damon, self-serving as always, was here to capitalize on my good luck.
“I’ll interview one if I need one,” I countered.
Damon catapulted out of his chair, approaching my desk. He spread bronze-colored hands across the surface. I thanked the Lord for the safety of the barrier between us.
“Why bother interviewing, Phe? I’m your man. I’m as good as it gets and I wouldn’t charge you what the others will.” His voice was a whispered caress.
“Maybe I’ve already hired someone,” I lied.
“Who? Lyle Greenspan’s already committed. He’s working on a project for the Museum of Modern Art and Felicia Michaels is in Egypt. You wouldn’t use Earl Kincaid. He’s not exactly dependable.”
“And I wouldn’t use you, either, for the same reason,” I said firmly. I picked up the receiver and punched in a number. “Whit, please show Mr. Hernandez out.”
Damon leaned in, placing his copper-colored face very close to mine. I could smell the heat emanating from him and the aroma of coffee on his breath. He probably still took it black.
“I am not ready to leave, Phe,” he said, without any inflection in his tone. “You need me. Let bygones be bygones and hire me. We always made a good team.”
Although there was no longer a “we,” the idea of working with Damon again was tempting, but not to be considered. Only masochists would hitch their wagons to his.
Whit, still standing at the door, cleared her throat.
“Phoenix, do you need me?”
“Yes, Mr. Hernandez is ready to leave. Please help him find his way out.”
“I’m not done,” Damon said again, his voice even. I wondered about this new calmness.
He took a couple of long strides toward my assistant, who seemed spellbound by his physique. Her eyes practically bugged out of her head.
Damon placed a hand on Whit’s arm and eased her out of the doorway, firmly shutting the door in her face. Not in the mood to be alone with him, I picked up the phone.
“I’ll call the police and have you removed,” I threatened.
He reached a hand out for the receiver. “One minute, Phe. Listen to what I have to say.”
I’d never been one to take orders. That came from living with four bossy brothers who would run over me if I let them. I’d learned one thing at an early age: if you wanted to be heard, and respected, either you spoke up or fought back. So hoping to send him a message I was not to be toyed with, I grabbed Damon’s arm, right below the crease of the elbow and applied pressure.
His sharp intake of breath told me I’d accomplished my mission. I relinquished my hold and his entire body relaxed.
The moment I let go, Damon’s free hand clamped down on mine. “Hang up, Phe,” he ordered.
My reflexes kicked in and my hand opened of its own accord. The receiver catapulted, clunking against Damon’s temple.
Startled, I reached out to press my fingers against the injured flesh. I hadn’t meant to hit him that hard.
“Oh, Damon, I’m sorry.”
We exchanged a long, charged look. Damon’s fingers remained twined around my wrist. Sympathy was not what he was after.
“That hot temper hasn’t mellowed with age, I see,” he said more amiably than I would have.
“It was an accident, I’m sorry. But if you hadn’t manhandled me it would never have happened.”
“Manhandled you? I reached across to touch you, chica.” Smoky gray eyes swept my face. Blood thudded in my ears. Damon Hernandez could no longer get to me. I repeated it like a mantra.
And chica wasn’t going to work. Not this time. Using my free hand, I poured water from my water bottle on some tissues and tossed them to him.
Damon held the wad against his bruised temple. “Sorry doesn’t cut it.”
“That’s all you’re getting.”
It was all he was getting. And, yes, I was sorry I’d hurt him. But he’d hurt me badly, too. It had taken me forever to recover from Damon’s betrayal.
But I’d filed that painful experience under “Lessons Learned,” and cautioned myself never to give my heart to a man who thought that women weren’t equal.
And I had learned some things from the experience: independence and resilience. How many African-American twenty-eight-year-old females could say they owned their own business? How many twenty-eight-year-olds owned anything at all?
Damon took another step toward me.
I stepped back.
He advanced.
“I’m not going to get on my knees and plead for forgiveness, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I jabbered, feeling like a cornered rat. This was my office. My studio. I was still in control.
“Then make it up to me in another way,” Damon said, his voice deceptively low. “Take me to Tibet with you.”
“When hell freezes over.”
“Oh, Phe,” Damon said, shaking his head and pressing his advantage. One hand still held the wad of tissues against his temple. “Admit you need me.”
A morsel of guilt finally kicked in and with it my normal compassion. “Maybe you should have that…uh…injury looked at by a doctor. I’ll pick up the tab, of course.”
“It’ll heal.”
He balled up the tissues and tossed it at me. I deftly caught it. For a brief moment I considered stuffing it down his arrogant throat. But I’d done enough damage for one day.
He reached around me and picked up the newspaper, reading out loud.
“‘Maitreya, “Future Buddha,” one of a priceless trio, found on the grounds of a deserted Tibetan monastery.’ Now that’s intriguing stuff.”
He took his time reading the article while I seethed. After he was through, he uncapped a pen and scribbled some words down on a card before thrusting it at me.
“By the way, Maitreya’s supposed to be yellow. That statue has a greenish tinge to it. Here’s my home and cell numbers. You’ll need my help.”
We were on the same wavelength, always had been. The idol did look more green than yellow, but I’d be damned if I’d agree with him out loud.
Tucking my newspaper under his arm, Damon flashed me a grin and wiggled his fingers.
“I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Phe. Don’t keep me hanging, I’m a pretty busy boy.”
He backed out of the room, taking the paper with him. My paper.
Damon would be waiting a damn long time for my call. I certainly didn’t want him involved in any project I was associated with.
Yet seeing him after all these years made me realize a few things. It made me grateful and proud that I’d had the courage to end the relationship. If I hadn’t walked I wouldn’t be where I was today.
Time to get focused and make some phone calls. I needed an X-ray infrared specialist and I needed one soon. I got out my BlackBerry, scrolled through the list of names and found Lyle Greenspan’s, Felicia Michaels’s and Earl Kincaid’s. I quickly scribbled down their numbers.
Fifteen minutes later I conceded Damon was right. All three were busy and unable to make it.
What choice was I left with?
Taking a deep breath, I picked up the phone again. As I punched in the numbers, I thought about my throwing arm. Damon’s temple was probably really swollen now, and most likely hurt like hell. Good; let him suffer for once.
Damon’s voice mail kicked in and I left a message.
Less than five minutes later he called me back.
“What’s up, Phe?”
“Where are you, Damon?”
“Heading home?”
“Do you have a visa?” I almost choked on my words. I pictured him grinning.
“Why do I need a visa?”
“Stop playing games.”
He’d known all along that I would get back to him. Not only was he eminently qualified, I’d found out during my conversation with Lyle that Damon had converted to Buddhism, Tibet’s most popular religion. That, to my mind, was an added advantage. He would at least be familiar with the culture and he wasn’t expecting an exorbitant salary.
“You there, Phe? Did you say you want me to go to Tibet with you?”
“Yes. I need your services.”
“Cool. Sounds like the perfect assignment for someone like me, a follower of the Dalai Lama.”
“Last I knew you were Roman Catholic. Your mother must have had a cow when you converted to Buddhism.”
“My mother died. It hasn’t been the best of times lately. Buddhism was my salvation, especially after you left me.” He chuckled.
Left him? More like the other way around. Damon had made it difficult for me to stay with him, especially if I wanted to remain my own woman. He’d let his machismo get in the way—of everything. But I was sorry to hear of his mother’s death. She and I had gotten along well. She had enjoyed regaling me with stories of growing up in the Dominican Republic. And I’d enjoyed every last one of them.
“I’m so sorry about your mom, Damon.” I quickly changed the topic. “You and I may very well be on the same wavelength when it comes to Maitreya. I’m thinking this discovery may be a hoax.”
“So we go and find out. Why turn down a trip to a country I’ve been dying to see? You did say all expenses are paid?”
I had not. But I guess he knew that pretty much came with the territory.
Damon continued. “Do you know what finding Maitreya means to the Buddhist world? It means the awaited teacher is coming. He is the master of wisdom, and a guide for people of every religion. Maitreya is supposed to be reborn during a period of decline. He represents our future.” He sounded really excited.
I wasn’t particularly religious, but the idol’s discovery couldn’t have been timelier. Natural disasters happened almost daily now and terrorism, well, that was something we lived with. The world needed a savior.
While doing my research, I’d read some of the more “out there” papers. There had been signs of Maitreya’s imminent arrival for some time now.
Damon’s interest in this project most likely had to do with him wanting to identify the statue as a hoax. And if by some amazing turn of events it was not, then he wanted to be the one to return it to the Dalai Lama.
“We’re leaving in two days,” I said. “Can you be ready?”
“That’s sudden. Has something happened?”
“No. I just wanted to get a jump on things. The sooner the better.”
“I can’t commit this soon,” he said. “I’m in the middle of another project.” He was going to keep me dangling. Make me sweat a little.
I expressed myself loudly using a colorful expletive then decided it was pointless letting him needle me. “Make yourself available,” I said. “It’ll be worth your while.”
“Tsk. Such unladylike behavior. How can anyone work with you?”
I repeated the invective. “Do you want the job or not?”
He wanted it. He’d already admitted it was a dream come true.
“Only if the money is right.”
I let the silence drag on then countered with a salary that was way too low.
“No way. Up it another thirty percent and there’s room for discussion. I gotta go.”
“Don’t you hang up on me!”
Several beats went by.
“You still there?” he asked.
“I’m here,” I said grumpily. “I’ll split my bonus. But that means the project has to come in on time or I’ll be all over you.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“Go get a visa.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He disconnected.
I closed my eyes and tried to calm down.
He was still irksome as ever. Why after all this time was Damon Hernandez back in my life?
Someone up there must have it in for me.
Chapter 2
“Bye, Dad. I love you.”
“Be safe, little girl.”
My dad’s voice, the booming, authoritative voice, reduced to a whisper, now sounding lifeless; a mere echo of what it once had been. But at least he was talking. I blew him a kiss through the phone’s mouthpiece and disconnected.
If I accomplished only one thing in Tibet, it would be clearing his name. My dad would not have been involved in any type of plot to steal an artifact, especially a Buddha statue lent to a museum in the United States and on his watch. It was ludicrous.
I had a feeling this was going to be the trip of two lifetimes—mine and my dad’s.
Tossing my cell phone into my backpack, I navigated the crowded airline terminal and went in search of Damon. I hadn’t seen him at the gate’s boarding area. The final boarding announcements were now being made. Damon was still nowhere in sight. Please, God, don’t let him let me down.
There were a few passengers hovering around the counter when I reluctantly boarded the aircraft, none of them Damon. I flopped into the vacant seat next to Althea. The minute the seat belt sign went off, and the flight attendant announced it was safe to get up, I flew out of my uncomfortable coach seat and went in search of Damon. I got to the seat Whit had reserved for Damon, one over the wing with more legroom, and sufficiently far from me. I found a woman seated there.
Damn him! Now what was I going to do?
“Try first class. Those passengers are usually the first ones on,” Althea suggested when I returned. “You and I arrived late.”
I shot her a puzzled look. “What would he be doing there?”
The Tibetan government hadn’t sprung for expensive seats. We were a team, we sat together.
“Who knows?” Her expression indicated she was holding back.
Sauntering by a bewildered flight attendant, I whisked through the curtain separating coach from first and sashayed into the cabin.
“Miss,” the attendant called after me. “Miss, there’s a bathroom in the back.”
“I’m looking for a friend,” I tossed over my shoulder.
I stood at the back getting my bearings. No, impossible, that could not be Damon’s silver-streaked curls in 3B. That would not be him seated with his feet up on the recliner. On his tray table were a bottle of brand-name water and a plate of appetizers. Back in coach we still hadn’t seen anything looking remotely like food.
“Hey,” I said, presenting myself. “When did you get here?” I swiped a canapé off his plate and bit into it. “Not bad!”
“Phe,” Damon greeted me as if we were the best of friends. “How nice of you to visit.” He raised his water bottle in a jaunty salute. “Sorry I missed the briefing. Bad traffic on the expressway. I made the flight by the skin of my teeth. My seat was released. I had to plead, cajole but finally persuaded someone to upgrade me.”
Nothing had changed. He’d always had a problem with tardiness. I bit into the canapé wishing it was Damon’s head. He removed his feet from the recliner and gestured to the plate.
“Help yourself to as many as you would like.”
My stomach was growling, but I wouldn’t give Damon the satisfaction of cleaning up all of his leftovers. I’d humbled myself enough, practically begging him to take this job and then splitting my bonus with him. What was wrong with me? I needed my head examined.
“Come on back,” I invited, although it damn near choked me. “Althea and I can fill you in on the briefing.”
He made a production of yawning. I wanted to slap him. “Can’t it wait until after I nap?” He propped one leg over the other so that I could see his fancy slipper socks with the airline’s logo. “A nap will do us both some good. You’re starting to look a bit peaked, Phe.”
I shot him a look that could freeze water and sashayed off. I was up anyway, and needed to work off my frustration.
In the main cabin, the fancy word for coach, there wasn’t any sign of food or beverages being served. I wasn’t just ravenous now but thirsty, as well. Stopping by my row, I mouthed to Althea, “I’m taking a walk.”
“Might as well,” she answered in a too-loud voice, which meant music vibrated through the headphones she’d clamped on. “It’s going to be a bitch of a flight.”
“Flights,” I corrected. “We have a connection to face.”
Althea groaned, “Oh, God, I hate flying.”
My sentiments exactly but I wasn’t going to let something like that get in the way. The discomfort would be worth it if what I suspected was true. Maybe, just maybe, the father I loved more than life itself would finally be able to exorcise his demons and join the real world again.
My father, my inspiration, had undergone a tremendous personality change since he’d been fired from his museum curator’s job. He’d pushed me to be the best I could be, and instilled in me a sense of independence. It was at his insistence I pursued a career in art restoration, a field that required endless hours of intense concentration and tedious attention to detail. That repetition helped me with discipline.
Dad’s losing his job at the museum had been a major blow to his ego and psyche. It had changed the strong yet gentle man I knew into someone unrecognizable. Seeing what losing his job had done to him was so painful. Now those chronic bouts of depression had left him at times incapable of getting out of bed or taking care of basic everyday needs. His job, his art, his museum, his reputation had been everything to him.
I wanted my confident, loving dad back again. When Bhaisajyaguru had been reported missing, Dad had been vilified by the newspapers and branded as either incompetent or in cahoots with the thieves. My mission now was to make him whole again.
I just hoped I wasn’t too late.
We had five long hours to go before touching down in Frankfurt, then another long flight to Kathmandu and finally to Lhasa.
At the back galley, I paused. Flight attendants were pulling out beverage carts, and long lines were beginning to form at the lavatories. An attractive African-American attendant handed me a disposable cup filled with liquid.
“You look thirsty,” she said.
I thanked her, gulped the drink, and out of my peripheral vision noticed a passenger wending his way toward me. He loped down the aisle with purpose then stopped abruptly at the magazine rack, scanning the offerings. I finished my drink and set down my cup on the galley counter, considering what lay ahead.
The Buddha statue must already be uncrated, photographed and recorded by a registrar. It would need to be analyzed so that an exact date could be put to the piece. Materials would need to be tested to determine the best and safest way to treat, clean and restore the idol. But the actual hard work would begin once I’d decided how best to repair it. It would probably require endless retouching.
An elbow jostled me. Liquid spilled. No apology followed.
“Dang! Excuse you.”
I stepped aside. The same passenger who’d been scrutinizing the magazine rack whipped through the galley and made a U-turn up the far aisle.
Rudeness made my blood boil! Instinctively my hands went to the pocket of my cargo pants where I kept my wallet. No fancy purses for me. The wallet was gone, along with my money, credit cards and driver’s license. My passport and other important documents were in the knapsack under my seat.
Okay, he’d headed up the other aisle. I strode there with purpose, nudging several grumbling passengers aside.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Hey, what’s the problem? It’s not like you’re going anywhere faster than the rest of us,” a bespectacled man cried as I bumped into him.
“Miss,” a flight attendant called. “Is there something I can help you with? Are you looking for someone?”
Several passengers craned their necks. One of the flight attendants began trailing me. She probably thought I was deranged or a new breed of terrorist.
I spotted the man who’d stolen my stuff as he hurdled into the middle seat, closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. I leaned over the heavyset man occupying the aisle seat and held out my hand.
“You have something that’s mine. Give it up.”
The thief opened his eyes and grunted something in a foreign language.
“What’s going on?” the other occupant, a woman who was clearly terrified, asked, clutching her chest.
I had no time for explanations. My wallet had been there when I boarded the plane. I’d produced my driver’s license at the gate. My passport and plane ticket had been put back into my backpack after I’d checked in. I needed my money and I needed my ID, simple as that.
“Give me back my wallet,” I said, reaching across the obese man and grabbing a handful of the thief’s shirt. His eyes bugged out of his head and his neck jerked forward as I began to shake him.
“Turn it over, now.”
I’d garnered pretty much all of the attention of the passengers in the surrounding areas.
The pickpocket’s mouth worked. He made a gargling sound. The woman seated next to him’s left eye ticked. Petrified, she pressed her bony body against the wall.
I straddled the male passenger and stood in front of the thief, hemming him in. Behind me, bedlam broke out. I felt a hand tapping my shoulder.
“Miss, you need to calm down.”
Audible gasps followed as the surrounding people watched me shove a finger into the hollow of my accoster’s throat. His entire body jerked as he gasped for air and made a gurgling sound.
“I’ll stick my knee in your groin next,” I said, patting him down with my free hand. “Hand over my wallet.”
I felt a bulky object at his waistband. Victorious, I reached into his pants and retrieved my goods then waved my wallet above his head.
“As I suspected, you took something that’s not yours.”
“Take it easy, little lady,” a Southern voice growled from behind me. “You keep this up and we’ll need to restrain you.”
I glanced over my shoulder, spotting one of the pilots. I eased the pressure on the pickpocket’s windpipe.
“This man’s a thief. He stole my wallet,” I explained.
The thief held his throat, rasping. Guttural words came out in the strange foreign language.
“Is that so,” the pilot said, sounding as if he didn’t quite believe me.
I held up my wallet, doing a quick check to make sure that my money, credit cards, driver’s license and social security card were still in their respective compartments.
The pilot attempted to interrogate the man but the passenger didn’t respond. Orders were given to find a crew member proficient in Chinese.
“I want to press charges,” I said, as yet another flight attendant came racing up the aisle to the pilot’s assistance.
“We’ll call ahead and have the authorities meet the flight. These things take time, so you’ll probably miss your connection if you have one,” she answered.
I couldn’t afford to be delayed. Timing on this project was everything. I’d promised to have Maitreya, if that’s who the statue was, restored before Buddha’s Enlightenment Day. That festival drew every pilgrim from the far ends of the earth. It also helped fuel the Tibetan economy.
So although it went against everything I believed in to let the crook go free, what choice did I have? I didn’t have time for questions or filling out tedious paperwork. I could not afford to miss my connection. I had a deadline to meet. Missing my connection would cost me money.
And possibly my father’s sanity and his name.
But why had the pickpocket chosen me of all people to come after? I was dressed in cargo pants and hiking boots, not exactly an outfit that was a fashion statement or said I had money to burn.
Grumbling, I flounced by the still-gawking passengers. Their loud whispers followed me back to my row. A few even had the gumption to cheer.
“Way to go!”
“You’re some gutsy female.”
I grunted something and sank into my seat and quickly clamped on my headphones. Music would soothe the soul and make me forget how ravenous I was.
My pickpocket disappeared in Frankfurt and we finally made it to Lhasa, Tibet, without further incident.
After enduring immigration we collected our checked luggage and cleared customs. When we finally exited the Gonkar terminal, I looked around for our driver. Several Asian men held placards with names that were barely legible. There was no sign of a driver retained for just the Sutherland group.
“Xiong Jing, our project manager, said he’d arranged transportation for our group,” I said out loud. “But there doesn’t seem to be anyone here to meet us.”
I was tired, edgy and wound up from the ridiculous incident. I hadn’t gotten much sleep on the flight, not folded like a pretzel in those uncomfortable seats.
“I don’t see anyone waiting,” Damon said, coming up behind me.
“Could be he’s late. I’ll see what we can do about getting us to the hotel.”
“I’ll get a taxi.” Damon hurried off.
“I’m finding rickshaws,” I announced. “They’re cheaper and a whole lot more fun.” I stomped off in the other direction, my trusty Althea, her dreads secured by a rubber band, next to me.
“I hope the luggage and equipment fit into those rickety pedicabs,” Damon said as he returned loud enough for me to hear. “Betcha anything Phoenix will make that luggage fit.”
I decided to let it go.
A weathered-looking man of indeterminate age stepped in front of me. “Madam Sutherland?” he queried in a singsongy voice with foreign intonations.
“I am. And you are?”
“Your driver. Your manager, Xiong Jing, asked me to meet you. I’m sorry I was detained. Is that all of your luggage?”
My manager? I waved a hand indicating the group and their bags. “Yes, thank you for coming to get us.”
Everyone had been instructed to travel light. We were restricted to clothing and personal effects, enough to fit in either backpacks or duffels. The bulky items we’d been forced to check were the equipment we would need to work.
The driver signaled to a group of lounging porters. The men swooped down like vultures, piling the bags and equipment on their heads and backs. They gestured for us to follow them.
Outside, a minibus was haphazardly parked at the curb, hemming in a line of beat-up taxis. A child who looked to be no older than twelve guarded the vehicle. Coins exchanged hands before our escort motioned to us to climb in.
I was short of breath and my chest felt tight. I blamed the long, exhausting flights and the twelve-thousand-foot altitude for this unexpected weariness. After the bags and equipment were crammed into the back hatch we pulled out.
A nerve-racking journey followed. The bus swerved this way and that, narrowly missing pedestrians, bicyclists and pedicabs. We bounced down rutted streets and with every jostle the cardboard airline meal I’d ingested threatened to be expelled. I pretended to take it all in stride but what I really needed was a Tums, something to settle my chest and stomach that were in danger of imploding.
Ten minutes passed then the driver pulled over abruptly.
“Where are we?”
“Please just make it the hotel,” Althea mumbled, opening up two droopy eyes. She looked about as gray as I probably did.
I couldn’t quite make out where we were. It was dark outside. Where we’d stopped sure didn’t look like the Himalaya Hotel to me. Squinting, I spotted a barricade. It must be some kind of a security checkpoint of sorts.
A uniformed man, police or public security, I think they were called, approached. He waved his arms and demanded something of the driver in Tibetan.
The driver sprang from the vehicle. His stance quickly became subservient as he spoke to the man before motioning for us to get out.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked.
When the driver didn’t answer, I climbed from the bus and followed him.
A number of uniformed men converged on my driver, jabbering and pointing to the back of the van where the luggage was piled. They began motioning to unload the bags and equipment. The men went through our personal items, tossing clothing on the ground and waving electronic gadgets in the air.
“I’m falling asleep on my feet,” Althea complained. “Let them take what they want.”
“Are those real guns?” I asked, shock receding.
I’d read about the Public Security Bureau, Tibet’s answer to the police, and figured these rather unpleasant men were them. I’d been told they wore green uniforms but favored plainclothes and dark glasses when undercover. Their goal was to blend in with the crowd, and so they would often hide behind newspapers. The PSB’s responsibilities encompassed staying on the alert for civil unrest, checking for expired visas and monitoring crime and traffic.
A bald, beefy officer, who looked to be the leader, unzipped Damon’s duffel and began strewing clothes about. I chuckled gleefully as two pairs of jeans and a handful of T-shirts went flying. When sweatshirts hit the dirty pavement, followed by socks and a pitiful few pairs of underwear, I heard Damon groan. Beefy, the larger man, waved something that got the attention of the other officers.
Things got pretty serious quickly and my good humor ended. Heart in my mouth, I watched security converge.
“Dammit, Damon,” I gritted out through clenched teeth. “Tell me you weren’t stupid enough to smuggle in booze or drugs?”
“Just a dime bag of pot for medicinal purposes,” he quipped. An amused grin lit up his pretty boy features. The man didn’t seem to sweat. I, however, was sweating plenty.
The driver continued jabbering away in his language to the Tibetan officers. He beckoned Damon over.
The officers held up two books. I squinted, hoping to get a look at the jackets. I came closer while the officers kept their flashlights trained on us. Both books were written by popular New York Times bestseller authors.
But it wasn’t the books the officers were after. It was the photographs used as bookmarks they shook out from between the pages. Damon must have forgotten them there. He’d used photos of the exiled Dalai Lama to mark pages. He’d probably forgotten them there. This was what the fuss was about.
“What’s the problem?” I asked the driver.
A crooked index finger worried the driver’s forehead. “It’s illegal to have pictures of the Dalai Lama,” he explained. “You all may be in big trouble and so am I.”
Damon thudded his palms against his head. “I’ll take full responsibility if you explain to the officers it was an oversight on my part,” he said. “Tell them we’re here on official government business.”
The driver sighed loudly. “I’m not sure that’s going to work. This isn’t the United States.”
Turning back to the officers, his palms clamped together as if he were praying, he apparently pleaded our cause. The more he spoke, the more questions were hurled at him.
I needed to do something. I couldn’t just stand there. I trotted over just as the lead officer snarled something at the driver.
“They won’t deal with a woman,” my driver yelped in loud English, gesticulating with one hand for me to stay out of it.
I handed him an envelope. “Explain to these gentlemen we’re not ordinary tourists. We’ve been commissioned by the government to work on an important historical finding.”
The envelope was snatched out of his hand by Beefy, and a flashlight produced. The surrounding officers peered at the paper and began talking at once.
“They don’t read English,” my driver explained. “They don’t understand.”
“Then please translate,” I pleaded. “Show them the official government stamp.” I pointed to the letter’s gold seal.
“I will do my best,” he said firmly, as if fearing I would make things worse. “Tibet is not exactly a woman’s world.”
“It doesn’t seem to be a man’s, either,” I muttered then turned away and fumbled through the pockets of my pants.
Behind me Damon muttered. I called on the Lord for patience. What I really wanted to do was throttle Damon.
My barb was apparently lost on the driver, who was out of his element. In a desperate attempt to move things along, I whipped out a copy of the newspaper article I’d been saving. I pointed to the picture of the future Buddha, patted my chest, and pointed to the letter again.
This served to elicit more excited conversation.
“Talk to me,” Damon said to our driver. “What’s happening?”
“They’re thinking of arresting both of you,” our driver explained. “You, for illegal possession of the Dalai Lama photographs, and her for obstructing justice.”
“This can’t be happening, Phe,” Damon snapped.
No point in getting into it with him, or telling him it was his fault. I needed to come up with a plan. I looked over at Althea and she looked scared stiff and silent.
I raced over to the area where the luggage was strewn. Two of the security police followed, guns trained on me. I riffled through my knapsack and dumped the remaining contents on the ground. Finding what I needed, I turned back to them.
These were men. I was a woman. In their minds I served no useful purpose, except one.
My voice became sweet and seductive as I spoke to our driver. “Tell them I have a very special present, something I brought all the way from America.”
I began passing around the cigars I held. The remaining one I stuck in my mouth.
“Got a light?” I asked Beefy, stroking his arm and making a motion with my fingers, indicating I needed a match.
Beefy smiled and produced matches. He stuck his cigar into his mouth while his eyes roamed over me. Then he lit his before mine. The other officers followed his lead and began lighting up.
Sucking on that smelly thing, I batted my eyelashes at Beefy, then tilted my head back and exhaled a perfect smoke ring. The officers tried to imitate me, but didn’t quite make it. I exhaled again, pouting my lips.
Nice lips, I’d often been told.
“Now,” I said to the driver. “Can you tell Handsome I think he’s hot? And if it’s okay with him I’d like to go. He can visit with me if he’d like.”
There was a gleam of admiration in the driver’s eye as he nodded and began speaking with Beefy, who kept his eyes on me the whole time. Finally he jerked a thumb in the direction of the minivan.
I signaled to the crew and raced toward the vehicle. There would be fat chance of that man ever seeing me again. Not if I could help it.
Damon cleared his throat as we climbed back into the bus. I ignored him. He should be thanking me for saving his miserable butt. He should be drawing my bath and kissing my toes.
But knowing my ex, he would never acknowledge that I’d saved the day. Pride and machismo had always been his undoing.
“Thank you, Phe,” he said, surprising me. “That was quick thinking on your part.”
I almost swallowed my tongue but managed a nod in his direction. Him, thanking me, was unheard of. Maybe, he’d changed.
Nah, best not to go there. Damon had his own agenda.
And I had mine.
Chapter 3
“What do you mean there’s been a holdup on the project? Why didn’t anyone call me?” I asked Xiong Jing, our project manager, when I met with him in the lobby the next morning.
“These things happen, madam. You are to enjoy your stay at the hotel until you hear otherwise.”
I was ready to go to work. A delay would mean my bonus was in jeopardy, the one I’d foolishly agreed to split. Turning my brown-eyed gaze on Xiong Jing, I said, “I’m Phoenix, not madam. I’d appreciate it if you’d remember that.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “As you wish.”
Xiong Jing, our project manager, was an Oxford-educated man in his late thirties. I’d disliked him on sight and I got the feeling the sentiment was mutual. There was something about the way he refused to look me in the eye.
His behavior hadn’t fazed Damon one bit. He’d shrugged, dismissing the man’s aloof body language as a cultural thing. But I thought there was more to it than that. I was certain Xiong Jing disliked females and black females at that.
So why hadn’t he told me there was a problem last evening when he’d called and arranged this meeting?
I studied the elaborate chandelier in the hotel lobby and prayed for patience—not one of my better virtues. That little problem had cost me an assignment or two.
I’d convinced my travel companions to sleep in, reminding them that this might be their one night in the lap of luxury. Future accommodations would be at the monastery in refurbished monks’ and nuns’ cells. Luxuries such as comfortable beds didn’t come with that territory.
“I can arrange tours of our beautiful city for you and your group, madam,” Xiong Jing offered, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
“Why don’t you just tell me what’s happening?” I asked, trying my best to tamp down on my irritation. What I really wanted to do was reach over, grab the man’s chin, and force him to look at me.
“Security’s been increased around the monastery,” Xiong Jing answered through an almost-closed mouth. “Rumor has it there was a bomb threat.”
“I guess it would make some serious statement, blowing up the Deprung Monastery where the Maitreya is being housed.”
He didn’t seem that perturbed at the thought. “We live in an era of terrorism,” Xiong Jing said. “The discovery of Maitreya—considered ‘the future’—is bound to cause unrest. If you have political or social changes there are always disbelievers. Humans will sacrifice themselves for the cause.”
Was there a hidden meaning behind this? I didn’t have time to interpret double entendres, if that’s what it was. I’d reflect on Xiong Jing’s words later.
“So what do we do?” I asked. “Sit at this hotel and twiddle our thumbs until you contact us?”
“Madam, you can, or you can go on one of our tours and learn something about my country. That might be the smart thing to do until things calm down.”
I didn’t like his tone or the implication that I knew very little about his country. I also didn’t like it that he was perfectly accepting of the delay.
“Surely there’s someone else I can talk to,” I fumed. “Where is Liu Bangfu, the Minister of Religion and Culture? Will he not be meeting with us?”
“The minister is busy dealing with the police and such,” Xiong Jing responded smoothly. “I promised him I would take very good care of you. And I will.”
I took a step toward the smarmy project manager. A muscle in his jaw flickered. He stepped back, keeping an acceptable space between us. He probably wasn’t used to anyone getting in his face, especially a woman.
“Why don’t you take me to the police?” I asked, softening my tone a bit. “I’d like to hear what they’re doing about this bomb threat.”
“Madam, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Phe, are you badgering our project manager?” Damon’s amused voice came from behind me.
I turned to find him only feet away, so close I could smell the combination of body heat and musk, his characteristic scent. He’d been jogging. His silver-streaked curls were plastered to his head and sweat trickled down his solar plexus. In some ways, I’d once thought he was the best-looking man I knew. I still did.
Raising a corded arm, Damon took a swig from a foam cup he was carrying.
I shot him a disgusted look and turned my attention back to Xiong Jing.
“Don’t let her bully you,” Damon said, trying to be the peacemaker and buddying up to the man.
“Stay out of this.”
Xiong Jing, happy to have an ally, chuckled. “Ms. Phoenix is in no way bullying me. She has been most gracious.” He was comfortable with his own gender. He repeated to Damon what he’d just told me.
Damon pumped both arms in the air. “A small reprieve, a chance to go sightseeing. Buddha is good. And so is this magnificent hotel.” Grabbing my elbow, he attempted to propel me along. “Chica, you and I are going out on the town. I’ll even spring for breakfast.”
“I’ve had breakfast,” I snarled. “I need to find the Minister of Religion and Culture.”
“Find him later.” Damon made a production of sniffing under his armpits. “Turning me down, Phe? I guess I do need a shower.”
Despite my earlier irritation with him I laughed. He really was pitiful. Pitiful but funny. It was one of the things I had liked about him. He pretty much took everything in stride.
Besides, having Damon with us might come in useful after all. I was slowly finding out that being a female in this male-dominated city, dubbed the Roof of the World, was not going to be a picnic.
Two hours later after breakfast and leaving Damon to sightsee solo, I was seated in a crumbling old Tibetan building on the east side of Lhasa. Xiong Jing, who reluctantly agreed to accompany me here, paced the austere waiting room of the minister’s office. The expression on his face was inscrutable. Three puny miniature golden yaks, encased in glass, were considered decoration.
Tossing aside the newspaper I’d been pretending to read, I approached a petite secretary who was hunting and pecking on an old typewriter.
She was Chinese, and took her duties seriously, guarding the Minister of Religion and Culture like a zealous Foo Dog. So far she’d managed to keep me at bay by insisting Liu Bangfu was still meeting with the chief of police. The typewriter she banged on I hadn’t seen the likes of in years. No fancy technology here.
The secretary looked up nervously when I approached.
I drummed my fingers on her ancient desk and stared her down.
“Yes, madam?”
“I’m giving the minister another five minutes then I’m going in,” I said.
Scooting her chair back a safe distance, she squeaked, “Mr. Bangfu has given me strict orders that he is not to be interrupted.”
I straightened my five-foot-nine-inch frame. “Please remind him that I’ve been waiting here almost an hour,” I said, leaning in closer. She seemed to shrink.
Xiong Jing was still pacing. He darted worried looks at me. Judging by his mottled complexion, he would have preferred to be anywhere but here.
“I’m counting to ten, then I’m going in,” I said, beginning to count softly.
The frightened secretary picked up the receiver but hesitated before inserting a finger into the rotary dial.
Grabbing the receiver from her, I announced, “Ten,” and planted it back into its cradle. Leaving her openmouthed, I stalked by her and wended my way down a long corridor. Heels thudded behind me as Xiong Jing followed.
I stuck my head into the first open door and called, “Hello, sorry to interrupt. I’ve been waiting outside for quite some time.”
A middle-aged Chinese man held a receiver in one hand. He barked something into the mouthpiece before dropping it into its cradle. The brass nameplate on his desk confirmed that he was Liu Bangfu.
“Mr. Bangfu,” I said, pointedly glancing at my watch. “I thought perhaps you had forgotten me.”
An eyebrow rose. “Ms. Sutherland, welcome. You are the American restorer?”
The emphasis placed on American did not go unnoticed.
“Yes, I’m Phoenix Sutherland.”
“My apologies. Didn’t your project manager tell you a situation came about I needed to handle?” His natural graciousness kicking in, he stuck out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, madam.”
I accepted that hand, squeezing it hard enough to make him realize I wasn’t just some girlie-girl.
“May I offer you soja, our tea?” the minister asked, actually wincing. Gently he pried his hand loose and picked up the receiver again.
“Bring us tea,” he ordered into the phone, no doubt addressing the secretary.
“I’d just like to be told what’s going on and what the reason is for this delay,” I insisted.
The minister and Xiong Jing exchanged looks. For a moment I thought neither would answer.
“This bomb threat has us all nervous and aware,” Liu Bangfu said carefully.
“Isn’t the chief of police involved? What is he doing about this? I thought you were meeting with him.”
That produced another set of glances.
“Ten Seng Yang and I conducted our business over the phone. Have a seat.”
I sat in the one chair facing Bangfu and waited for him to go on. When no further explanation followed, I added, “Please tell me what’s going on?”
Liu Bangfu’s glasses slid dangerously low on his nose. He fidgeted with them then finally gave up. I could tell he wasn’t used to explaining himself to a woman and didn’t like it one bit.
“Didn’t I say the police are looking into it?” he said, the corners of his mouth turned up in what was supposed to be a smile. “I am certain they will keep us informed.”
“And just what are they looking into?”
“They’re interrogating groups that are known to be disruptive.”
A shriek came from the doorway. The noise sounded like a panic-stricken cat. We all jumped. The annoying secretary came scurrying in, arms flapping.
“Sir, sir,” she squeaked, hopping from one high-heeled foot to another. “We need to leave the building. Now. There’s been a bomb threat.”
“What!” Bangfu was up like a shot, gathering the papers on his desk. “You’d better leave,” he said, bolting from behind its safety. My project manager, who’d forgotten he had promised to take good care of me, raced after him.
Bangfu’s secretary’s high-pitched voice carried. “I got an anonymous call from a man who said a bomb was planted in the building. I telephoned the police. They told me to get out now. Come, come, we must go.”
I could be hardheaded but I wasn’t a fool. I sprinted right after her, but instead of leaping onto the creaky elevator they were all taking, I raced down three flights of stairs. I almost got run over by a number of uniformed men wearing visors and gloves on their way up.
I burst out of the building and spotted the majority of people milling around on the other side of the street. Neither Bangfu, my project manager, nor the minister’s high-strung secretary were among them. Suddenly I spun around.
Was I imagining things?
I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched. I looked across the street and into the eyes of the pickpocket who’d attempted to steal my wallet on the plane. He took off running.
Without looking right or left I gave chase, darting across the street and right in front of a pedicab. The driver swerved, cursing at me. I was fast losing sight of my accoster. Pushing people aside, I raced after him, and came damn close to catching him, when I tripped and fell. By the time I’d steadied myself, he was plowing through the crowd.
I continued my pursuit. Brakes squealed and cars swerved as I wove through the traffic. Foreign curses came at me from every direction. Bent and determined as I was that he would not get away, I sprinted in front of a bus packed with locals. The vehicle swerved in a valiant attempt to avoid running me over.
Frustrated, I watched the thief hop into an idling cab and the vehicle inch its way onto the road.
I couldn’t just sit helplessly and let the pickpocket get away, not when there was a car at my disposal.
I spied an idling SUV and dove onto the driver’s lap. Opening the door, I pushed him out.
“I need to borrow your car. I’ll make it up to you!” I started the ignition and swerved onto the street.
Horns honked and metal scraped metal. I held on to the steering wheel for dear life. Another vehicle clipped the back bumper and the SUV catapulted upward before settling on the sidewalk. I tried steering around the crowd of scattering people and finally slid to a stop in front of a terrified woman clutching the hands of two children. The mother and children barely had time to make it out of the way before I lost control and the truck plowed headfirst into a brick building. There were popping sounds and a loud explosion.
Then everything around me crumbled in slow motion.
I knew I was alive because there was an acrid smell in my nostrils. I felt hands under my armpits pulling me from the vehicle. I was laid on my back looking up at a darkening sky alive with pyrotechnics. There was a buzz of conversation around me and the bitter taste of smoke in my mouth. My entire body burned.
Memory came back in vivid Technicolor. I had tossed a man out of his car and wrecked it. What was I thinking? I would need to make good on that somehow. Was that even possible? A huge adrenaline rush forced me into a seated position. I needed to find the man and make amends. Strong arms pushed me back onto the sidewalk and foreign words filled my ears.
In the distance, sirens wailed followed by more popping and loud explosions. Flames spiraled sky-high as people dived for cover. Now I was alone, left to claw my way through mass hysteria, bitter smoke making me choke. The vehicle I’d been in just minutes ago was engulfed in flames and so were several others. I hoped there were no humans inside.
Sick to my stomach, I fought the stream of traffic and retraced my steps, looking for the government building that I’d fled earlier.
My chest felt constricted and my lungs hurt. I passed injured people, and tripped over those way beyond help. I hit a wall of crying, screaming human bodies that police struggled to hold back. Those that still breathed life were being shoveled into the backs of ambulances. Only a charred column of the government building remained. I’d been lucky to get out.
I looked up at the spiraling smoke in disbelief and tuned out the popping and hissing. The skeletonlike building reminded me of a spent sparkler at the culmination of the Fourth of July. But this was not Independence Day and I was far away from the good old U.S. of A. The building I had just been in and had been driving near—had been bombed. Looked like those threats were true.
I was surrounded by shocked faces coated in gray-and-white film. For the first time in a long while I did not feel in control of my life. I stood there praying that the obnoxious project manager, the Minister of Religion and Culture and even the vapid secretary had been spared.
Life, sweet life. I breathed in and out, long and deep.
A voice I recognized filtered through the madness. “Madam,” Xiong Jing said, tapping me on the arm. “There you are. Are you okay?! I have a hired car. I’ll take you back to your hotel.”
I hadn’t thought it was possible to be this happy to see anyone in my life. I could have easily hugged him.
Turning away from the sight that was destined to haunt me for the rest of my life, I followed Xiong Jing to a side street where several parked cars waited.
I wanted to kiss the sidewalk and give praise to Damon’s Buddha.
Chapter 4
“We’ve been invited to tea at Madeline Wong’s,” I said, the moment Althea picked up the phone. We’d spent the last day or so confined at the hotel and I was bored. We were still at the Himalaya Hotel and I was going out of my mind. The bombing of the government building and the destruction of the properties around had thrown everyone into a tizzy. I considered myself lucky, having escaped with some minor cuts and bruises. “Think you’re up for it?”
Althea’s laughter pealed through the earpiece. “Girl, if it means getting out of this room, the answer is a resounding yes.”
“Good. Madeline’s invited all of us to her home.”
“That was nice of her. Is this some fancy dress-up occasion?”
“Just look decent. She’s the fabulous woman who’s my benefactor and who helped me land this assignment. A car’s being sent for us. Can you be ready in an hour?”
“Absolutely.”
It turned out being inside the SUV—and the air bag—actually saved me from severe bodily harm. The brick building I hit was near the government office building I had just been in. And the bomb went off right when I lost control of the SUV.
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