Dangerous Journey (7 page)

She concentrated hard on packing her bags, with Darius helping as best he could, and she trying but failing miserably to ignore him.

She fastened the locks on the suitcase, then looked up.

Darius sat on a chair and took out a cigarette. He lit it, leaned back, and watched the smoke spiral toward the ceiling.

“So tell me,” he said finally, his arm on his knee, his wrist bent loosely as the cigarette dangled between his long fingers, “how does Miss C.J. Perkins spend her time when she’s not chasing down thieves and missing relatives?”

Glad to get her mind off its dangerous path, she began putting and cosmetics and toiletries into a tote bag. “I paint,” she said.

“Paint? You mean houses, or pictures?”

“Pictures.”

“Really?” He sounded interested. “Have you had any shows?”

“No.”

“Oh?” He hesitated. “Your work is all commissioned, then?”

She paused. “In a sense. Yes, you could say that.”

“Must be a very rich patron. A man?”

Was he insinuating what it sounded like? If so, he was even more deluded about her than she had imagined. “Good God, no.” She shoveled more into her bag, eager to be off.

“But you did say you make a living doing this?”

“It’s rather difficult to explain.” He said nothing, but she could see the curiosity in his eyes. She paused, took a deep breath, then said, “I paint scenery. Mainly natural, garden scenes. Little ponds, the flora and the fauna—you know?”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t sell. Not at all. Not a single one.” He nodded. ‘‘So I put some people in the scene. Potential customers gave them a second look, at least. So then I tried couples—a man and a woman, obviously in love. I even sold a few.”

He smiled slightly, took one more puff and then stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.

She faced him, her back straight. “Then one day I heard one fellow say to another while looking at one of my paintings, ‘What are they doing?’ The other guy fellow, and said, ‘Nothing.’ Then they walked away. That got me to thinking.”

One eyebrow lifted. “Yes?”

She shrugged, and in a clipped, curt voice explained, “Now my couples ‘do’ something. Or, I should say,
suggest
that something’s going to occur shortly. And the paintings sell. I do live in Los Angeles, after all.”

“You mean they’re…”

“Slightly erotic.”

He grinned. She looked at him, studying him, not sure what he thought. “C.J.,” he said, “that’s wonderful!” Then he laughed.

She turned back to her packing. She’d been through this before, yet, even as she tried to ignore his laughter, she couldn’t help but glance his way. His gaze caught hers, and in his eyes she saw he wasn’t laughing
at
her, but at the way she explained her work. The incongruity of someone like her creating erotic art…that was worth a chuckle. Slowly, her lips upturned into a smile. “At least they put food on the table. They’re sensual, but no more graphic than the cover of a paperback romance.”

“Oh? That risqué?” he teased.

He crossed the room to stand beside her, his gaze searching her too-serious face. “I imagine they would sell. Somehow, I’m sure they’re very good. And what’s most important is that you’re doing what you love. To do the thing that’s important to you—that’s what makes you feel good just to be alive.”

“Maybe.”

He remained silent. She finished packing, and zipped her tote shut. She could feel his eyes on her, studying her. She wasn’t sure how to react. Finally she looked at him. “What is it?”

“You. I don’t understand you, Clarissa. Not at all.” Something in his gaze as he spoke made her uneasy.

“Me? I’m just a simple, middle American girl.”

“Simple? You’re a complete contradiction! A fascinating, warm, open contradiction, I’ll admit.”

“Oh, sure!” She saw herself as being as straightforward as the proverbial Mom and Apple Pie.

“You’re a very proper, mid-western lady, with a bold-as brass exterior, and an interior that’s soft, loving and shy. You yell at policemen, take home strangers off the street—”

“I never—”

“And”—his gaze caught hers and held—“I’m sure you aren’t one to casually make love to a man you share a mutual attraction with, which is something that about ninety percent of the unengaged women in this town would do, by the way. Yet you paint and sell suggestive pictures.”

Her face reddened. She decided not to touch his comment about making love and concentrate on her paintings. “They aren’t suggestive.”

“Oh? Explicit, then?” He grinned.

“Maybe we should call them…
warm
.” The corners of her mouth turned upward. They both broke into laughter, then looked at each other in surprise as the laughter faded and the realization that something more had developed between them, something that went beyond pleasant understanding, something that went beyond words.

She decided to double check the room, to make sure she was leaving nothing behind…anything to brush off the unsettling feeling he caused her. “Anyway, now you know my deep dark secret.”

“Why a secret?” he asked.

Good question, she thought. She walked to the window and concentrated on the view—windows and views were her usual place of escape when she didn’t want to face questions, people, or situations right under her nose.  She placed a hand on the frame. Looking out, she said, “At times…sometimes…I feel like a failure. I wanted to be a great artist. I really did. To walk through the Museum of Modern Art and see my own work, a picture I had created. But it takes talent. I worked hard, and, technically, I’m up there with the best of them. But some things just can’t be learned, no matter how dedicated you are.”

“Not everyone can be Picasso.” His words were quiet, sincere.

“You, on the other hand,” she gazed at him as she remembered the beauty, emotion and perfection of his music, “you have talent.”

His features hardened. “But no technique.”

Jimmy’s words about an accident came back to her, about the “flaws” in his ability. “I’m no judge, Darius, but for me, your playing was magical.” She rubbed her hands together. “Anyway, I’ve lived with my shortcomings for a long time, and I accept them. But still, I like being able to create, even if it is just ‘suggestive’ little oils.”

He folded his own hands and looked at them for a long time, then raised his eyes to hers. He stood, their gazes holding.

She took a step towards him, then another.

A loud rap on the door made her jump. “Police! Open up!” The pounding began again.

C.J.’s eyes were wide as she turned to Darius.

He winked, walked to the window, crawled out, and a second later was gone.

“Open this door!”

Her breath caught as she looked from the door to the window. Running to the latter, she leaned out over the sill. There was no fire escape, only a frighteningly narrow ledge along the side of the building. And they were four stories up!

She studied the darkened courtyard below, her heart in her throat. Darius was nowhere to be seen, but he hadn’t fallen...she hoped.

Her hands shaking, she headed towards the door just as it was opened by the hotel’s manager.

Standing with him in the hallway were two strangers in gray flannel suits. “May I help you?” she asked. “Is there a problem?”

A tall man, middle-aged, with thinning sandy brown hair and blue eyes, stepped into the room flashing his ID.

“Gilles, British Intelligence. Leaving?” he asked, looking at her suitcase.

“Is that a crime?”

“It all depends. My concern is the man with you. Where is he?”

She swallowed hard. “Are you talking about my brother?”

“We know he’s not your brother.”

“Of course he is! Ask the Luchow police.”

“Alan Perkins was arrested this morning in San Francisco. He’s being investigated in connection with the White Dragon theft.”

The whole room swayed. C.J. reached out, grabbing the edge of the door, not wanting to believe what she had just heard. “Alan is in San Francisco?” she whispered.

“That’s right. We have a few questions to ask of you and the man posing as your brother.”

She shook her head. “My brother is no thief.”

“That’s for us to decide.”

The other gray-suited man opened doors to the bathroom and closet. “He’s not here, sir.”

Gilles’ eyes narrowed as he faced C.J. “Where is he?”

“Who?” She had no idea what to do or say.

“We suspect the man who was with you is Darius Kane. He’s wanted in Macao. We wish to speak with him.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” she replied, not meeting Gilles’s eyes.

“Please get your coat. I find it necessary to ask you to accompany us to the police station.”

C.J. couldn’t believe any of this was happening. Was she being arrested like Alan? And why? Because of Alan, or because of Darius? She picked up her jacket and purse and walked, like someone in a trance, between the two men. They led her out of the hotel to a police car. The hotel manager stood aside, his gaze reflecting his bafflement.

At the Kowloon Central Police Station, C.J. was placed in a small room with two wooden chairs, a desk covered with papers, an overflowing ashtray, and the remnants of tea and Chinese almond cookies. The smell of ash mixed with cold tea and stale cookies was nauseating. She pushed the food to one end of the desk, and sat as far from it as possible. She waited there for what felt like hours. It’s all a ploy, she thought. They want to scare me so I’ll tell them everything.

She was afraid just might work.

Finally an older man entered. He was of medium height, thin, with white hair and kindly blue eyes. So they think they’re going to charm this out of me, she thought, steeling her resolve to say nothing. Although, she admitted, charm was certainly better than the alternative.

Jaw set, she glared at the man. Her hands shook so badly that even clasping them together didn’t help.

“Miss Perkins, my name is Robert Davis. I work for the British government. I’m sorry for this inconvenience.”

“I’ll leave and save your conscience.”

He didn’t reply, but instead sat on the chair behind the desk. “First, my dear, we must talk.’’

She hated people who called her “my dear” almost as much as those who called her by her first name.

He coughed slightly, then handed her a picture. “Do you know this man?” It was Darius.

“Why?”

“You do, then.”

“I didn’t say that.” She returned the picture to him.

“Help us locate him.”

“Why?”

“We need to ask him a few questions.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” she said.

Davis rose from the chair and paced around the room.

Suddenly he perched on the edge of his desk and leaned toward her. Tossing Darius’s picture on the desk, he jabbed at it with his finger as he spoke. “If this is the man who was with you, his name is Darius Kane. He is an international bounty hunter. Do you know what that means?”

She felt her eyes widen at the news, and shook her head.

“Well, you should be shocked. It means he is the sort of man a decent young woman should have nothing to do with. It means he goes about the world capturing people, art objects, anything, for the reward they’ll bring him. He doesn’t do it for humanitarian reasons, and he doesn’t do it like the police, because it’s a job he can be proud of. He does it for his own selfish profit. He’ll do anything, Miss Perkins, anything for a dollar.” Davis stopped, and she was uncomfortably aware of his scrutiny.

“This man, Miss Perkins,” he said, standing again, and looking down at her, “this man will even get to know an attractive woman and use her, play with her emotions, as a ploy to track down her brother. Then he can turn the brother over to the police and collect the reward. Of course, this sort of man always leaves on the next plane out.”

C.J. felt dizzy, her stomach churning, as his words hit. She folded her arms tightly. “Why tell me this? I don’t know him.”

“We need to know what Kane knows about the theft. If he has proof Alan Perkins is behind it, we want that proof immediately.”

“No!”

He put his hands on the desk and leaned over her. “Miss Perkins, of course your brother stole the White Dragon. Why else would Kane be with you now?”

“He’s not with me!” She choked on the words. Hot, angry tears threatened, but she held them back, furious at his deception of her, and embarrassed at her sappy, sickening response to him. What an idiot she was!

Robert Davis walked to the door and held it open for her. His voice was subdued, almost gentle. “You can leave now, Miss Perkins. Thank you for informing us of Mr. Kane’s involvement.”

She looked at him in shock, then grabbed her purse and ran from the office.

Chapter 6

C.J. couldn’t appreciate the beauty of San Francisco as she gazed out the window of the plane circling the city, awaiting clearance to land. The water was blue below her, but the only color she could see was green: the lush green of Asia; the green of the tall ferns of Sarawak; the green of a pair of eyes....

Forget him, C.J.
, she commanded.
The man used you; he never believed in Alan’s innocence. You were a pawn for him, an avenue to get to his real target—the reward for finding the White Dragon.

Oh well, it was better than being thrown over for another woman. Her self-deprecating joke fell flat, not even the slightest hint of a smile played across her lips. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the window as the pilot droned on about mild temperatures and fair skies.

She took a bus from the airport to downtown San Francisco. At the bus terminal she got a map and tourist book to gain some idea of the section of the city where she should stay. Next she found a talkative cab driver, and he readily recommended hotels, restaurants, places to see and how best to get around town.

She chose a moderately priced hotel near the very expensive Fairmont. The first thing she did after checking in was to locate Alan and learn when she could visit him in jail. Next she made a collect call to Columbus, Ohio to let her parents know what was happening. At least she could tell them where their son was, although they were anything but thrilled by the news. C.J. assured them that it was all a misunderstanding, and that Alan would be free in no time.