Dangerous Journey (9 page)

Suddenly the words of the British inspector warning her against him drummed in her ears.

When she had been hurt and frightened by the burglars, Darius had comforted her. Yet the inspector had told her not to trust him. How well she remembered Darius’ arms supporting her, his smile, that boyish grin that could make her heart melt or drive her to fury, his captivating eyes. But always, always, she thought of the inspector’s warning, that Darius would do anything for money, including spending time with the sister of a thief.

She sat upright. “Take me to my hotel. The Golden Gate.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Leave me alone!” she shouted. ‘‘Let me out of here!”

The driver started to slow down.

“No.” Darius leaned forward in the seat to speak to the driver. “She’s just upset. The Mark, please.” He turned back to C.J. and took her hands. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong? Everything!” She freed her hands and clenched them as she spoke. “Why did you stop me from seeing Mr. Yeng? That man would have helped Alan. But you don’t want that, do you? I don’t want to see you. Not ever!”

She leaned forward toward the driver. “Stop this cab!”

The driver glanced back in his mirror and started to slow down again.

“She’s my wife. Ignore her,” Darius said to the man.

The driver nodded and sped up.

“What!” she cried, looking at Darius in horror.

“C.J., listen to me.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him.

“No.” She tried to push him away.

“Why?” he whispered, his grip tightening. “What’s wrong? What have I done? Tell me, please.”

His voice was soft, his eyes pleading. Such a good actor, she thought, a real pro. She glared at him. “I don’t want anything to do with you. Is that clear enough?” But her voice was soft when it should have been harsh, weak when it should have been strong.

“Don’t you?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head and looked away, her hands still against his chest.

“Then look at me.”

She wanted to say something, anything, to prove to him how she felt, but no words came. Instead, she raised her eyes to his. As soon as she did, she realized her mistake.

Had she really forgotten how intensely he could look at her, and how his look could penetrate to her very core?

No longer did she hear the taxi’s engine, feel the movement of the car; the only world that existed for her was Darius.

The cab pulled into the driveway of the Mark Hopkins, and the driver sat calmly, engine running, waiting for them to pay their fare.

As Darius paid, C.J. got out of the cab and waited until he joined her. “We need to talk, Darius,” she said with conviction.

An eyebrow rose, but instead of answering, he led her across the elegant lobby to the elevator and up to the fourteenth floor. He opened the door and switched on the lights.

She walked halfway across the large room then stopped. She needed to face him, to talk, but the intimacy of the room and her memory of the way he had been there to stop her from walking—if she could believe him—into danger, made her heart thrum. She quickly continued on to the windows and forced herself to concentrate on the view.

San Francisco was breathtaking, its array of lights diffused and softened by the fog and mist. She felt as if she were high in the sky, in a strange never-never land with Darius.

“May I take your jacket?” he asked.

She faced him as his words broke into her reverie. “I’m only staying a minute. But I have so many questions…”

“Fine. I’ll fix us drinks. Make yourself comfortable.” He held out his hand until she gave up the jacket, then hung it up and mixed them each a brandy and soda.

She sipped her drink, the strong brandy warm and soothing, as she checked out his room. It was, in fact, a suite. Besides the bedroom, there were also a small sitting room, a dressing room and, of course, the bath. Some of the furniture appeared to be genuinely antique. A room like this must cost a fortune, she thought, as she settled into a tapestry-upholstered wing chair. She gazed at Darius, trying to figure him out.

“Did you rob a bank since I saw you last?” she asked.

“You never asked me about my finances, you know, before you lured me off to your hotel room. Maybe if I tell you now that I have money you won’t be so eager to send me out of your sight.”

“Don’t bank on it.” Her mouth twisted into a frown.

“You’re right. You’re not that kind of woman. I don’t think you’d ever use someone like that. Not even if you needed to.” He sat on an easy chair across from her, holding his glass with casual grace. “What can I do to interest you?”

“Tell me about Mr. Yeng.”

“I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

“Actually,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Good.” He grinned, and she felt her reaction to his smile in the fluttering in her breast. It took ail her concentration to remain businesslike. She drank more before she said, “What I want to know first is what you’re doing here. Why are you in San Francisco?”

He swirled his drink around, then put it on the end table and leaned back in the chair as he studied her. “Would you believe me if I told you I know a sweet kid—no, not a kid, a woman—a warm, affectionate, beautiful woman, who’s in way over her head and doesn’t even know it? She’s got a brother who’s a real jerk—”

“Now wait—”

“He’s an amateur playing against the pros.” He leaned forward. “There’s only one ending in this for him, unless he’s really lucky. And I don’t want to see the same thing happen to her.”

Her jaw tightened. “If you told me that was your reason for being here, no, I would not believe you!”

His eyes flamed as his anger grew to match hers. He stepped up to her and placed one hand on each arm of her chair, then leaned down to face her. “I will assume that your brother is so addled over his thoughts of riches that he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. If I thought he knew the kind of man Yeng is and still sent you there, don’t think a mere jail would stop me from tearing him limb from limb.”

She pressed herself against the back of her chair, trying to stay as far from him as possible. She refused to listen to his words. He was only trying to sweet-talk her; to use her. “Sure you would!” She spat out the words. “You have a lot of nerve trying to make me think your overwhelming concern for me brought you here! For one thing, you don’t even know me! But I know you, Mr. Darius Kane. I know all about you. I know what you do for a living—if you can call it that! The British police told me. I know why you got out of that Hong Kong hotel room so fast. A bounty hunter! That’s why you’re here. It’s not for me! The only thing I am to you is a link to Alan. And Alan, you think, gives you a link to the White Dragon. Well, you’re wrong!”

He stood upright, letting go of her chair. “The British told you all that nonsense?”

“Nonsense? You told me yourself about the counterfeiters in Macao. Now it all makes sense!”

He stepped back from her, his expression strangely vulnerable. “C.J. . . .“

“What!” She stood up, too.

He gave a slight shake of the head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Arms folded, her eyes narrowed slightly.

He turned his back to her. “You’re obviously exhausted. You probably didn’t sleep on the plane, and when you got to the city, I suspect you immediately ran off to see that fool brother of yours. Now you have jet lag and you’re hysterical.”

Furious, she marched around him and looked him straight in the eye. “Hysterical? I am never, do you hear, never hysterical! I want to know what’s going on! Who are you? What is your interest in all this?”

Hands in his pockets, he paced the room, then returned to his chair and sat, his eyes dark and thoughtful. “I know how it must sound,” he said calmly.

She sank into the large chair again, her emotions topsy-turvy. She finished her drink as the silence spread between them, the minutes slowly, languorously ticking by. She didn’t know whether she should believe anything he said; she knew only that she wanted to. She leaned back against the headrest as the liquor numbed her exhausted body. The longer she sat, the more that the fatigue she had fought against all day gripped her, the heavier her eyes felt.

“How did you find me?” she finally asked, her voice groggy even as she struggled to remain alert.

“Yeng’s reputation and his lust for Chinese artifacts are well-known in Hong Kong—at least in Jimmy Lee’s circle. Nothing happens in or around the Orient without that group knowing it, so, when I missed you at the jail, I decided to see if Alan would send you to Yeng’s. Obviously he did.”

Her eyelids kept shutting as Darius spoke, and she could barely hold her head up any longer. “No,” she murmured. “Alan wouldn’t…”

Darius placed a blanket over her lap and legs and lifted the glass from her fingertips. “Don’t worry about it now, Carolina. Just rest.”

She felt suddenly warm and cared for, as if a burden she had been carrying alone was now being shared. “Can’t rest,” she whispered. “There’s no time…”

Then she sank into sleep.

Chapter 7

C.J. rolled over onto her back and stretched her arms before opening her eyes. The long night’s sleep had been so welcome, so—
Oh, my God!

She was in bed. She quickly tossed aside the blanket and stood. Shoes off, clothes on.

“Darius?” she called.

No answer.

Walking to the bathroom door, she called again, but received the same lack of response. The sitting and dressing rooms were also empty. Then she saw a piece of paper propped up on the night stand. She picked it up.

Dear Cleopatra Jasmine,

Sleep well, love, and don’t worry. Wait for me here— you’ll be safe. Trust me.

Darius

Wait for him? Trust him? If only she could! But with Alan needing her help, it was impossible for her not to go to her brother as soon as she could. She was halfway across the room when a word from the note sprang to mind, stopping her. “Love,” he had written.

She shook off the thought, deciding it was probably just a Britishism he had learned in Hong Kong. But her gaze turned back toward the piece of paper. It would be so easy just to wait there and let Darius do the planning and the worrying for a while. But that would mean she had to trust him, and, logically, she couldn’t. And one thing about C.J. Perkins: she was always logical. Painfully logical.

She quickly got ready to leave his room. At the door, though, she hesitated, then ran back to the night stand to pick up the note. She folded it carefully, put it in a zippered compartment in her purse so it wouldn’t get crumpled, and then hurried out the door.

Back in her own hotel room, she discovered that a shower and breakfast could do wonders for one’s well-being, even though she also realized, halfway through her omelet, that she never had gotten Darius to explain why he thought Yeng was a danger, or about the other man in the alley.

Bah!
she cried silently. Why should she care what Darius Kane thought? He was there for one reason only—the White Dragon. Time to go see Alan. She put on a white blouse and peach skirt. Balancing on heels higher than she usually wore, she grabbed her huge bag and set out for the jail.

It took over an hour for officials to decide that she be allowed to speak to her brother again. When she entered the visiting area, he was already there.

“How did it go?” he asked first thing.

She sat down. “Are they treating you all right here?”

“Yes, yes. Now tell me about Yeng. What did he say? What was his reaction?” He looked ready to burst with expectation.

This was going to be harder than she had anticipated. “I’m afraid I didn’t get to see him.”

His face fell. “You didn’t? Why not? Who did you see?”

“I, um, didn’t see anyone yet.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “Too tired after your trip, I guess.”

“No. I went there, but… Alan, tell me about Mr. Yeng. I’ve heard things.”

“What do you mean, you went there, ‘but’? But what? What have you heard about Yeng? Who have you been talking to?” He was angry, shouting at her.

“Calm down, Alan.” She glanced nervously toward the guard, but he made no move. “I’ll tell you all about it. I met a man in Hong Kong named Darius Kane who knows something about what’s going on, and about the theft. I asked him to help me. I didn’t know what to do, Alan, not even where to begin to find you.”

“Wait a minute. You were in Hong Kong?”

“Of course. How else do you think I found you?”

“I sent a telegram to your apartment in Los Angeles!”

“Mom and Dad got a message from Sarawak that you had disappeared. I went to Sarawak then Hong Kong. British Intelligence told me you were here.”

“I see…” He let all that sink in before he spoke again. “Okay, so you met this guy in Hong Kong. What does that have to do with Yeng?”

“Darius Kane is here. He stopped me from going to Yeng’s. He said Yeng is a dangerous criminal.” She searched Alan’s eyes for a reaction, but the only one she saw was irritation.

His jaw set, and his tone became sneering. “How well do you know this guy?”

‘‘Not well.”

“Then why, in God’s name, do you believe him? He’s some stranger, and I’m your own brother! What’s he doing following you from Hong Kong? It’s not a cheap little jaunt, you know. It’s not Oakland to San Francisco, or New York to Philly. How can you trust him? You shouldn’t! He’s after something, believe me. Maybe he wants me to stay here. Maybe that’s why he told you tales about Yeng.”

Alan’s words reflected her own tormented thoughts perfectly. Why did she trust Darius Kane? Hadn’t the British warned her? And now, Alan. She had always trusted Alan. Always.

But because of some stranger, she hadn’t followed Alan’s wishes. She was disgusted with herself. “Alan, who is Yeng? No one will tell me!”

Alan sat back in the chair and took several deep breaths before speaking in a much calmer voice. “Yeng is a very powerful businessman who knows many influential people. It’s in his interest to keep relations between Hong Kong and Communist China peaceful, and that’ll be even more important when the day comes that the Chinese take over Hong Kong…if it ever really happens. Anyway, Chan Li is a good friend of his, and through Chan Li he can learn that I am innocent. Mr. Yeng is powerful enough to see to my release.” His speech finished, he folded his arms.