Dragon Moon (5 page)

We stand frozen for a few moments — her hand growing warm in my grasp, her eyes holding mine captive, her mouth slightly parted. I don't doubt, should I lean forward, she'd accept my kiss.

Father told me once that after I'd been with one of my own kind, I'd have no interest in ordinary women. Oh, how he'd be disappointed in me today. I breathe in deeply, think of Chloe and attempt to slip my hand away.

Rita holds on, pulls me a little closer.

I know many women find me attractive. I'm no stranger to their attentions. It's my fault really. Father always teased me for being so vain as to model my features on those possessed by some of Hollywood's most popular matinee idols.

Those features served me well when I was interested in human women — when they could tempt me. But I want no such temptations now. “Rita,” I say, before she can make any advance, my tone businesslike, “Arturo and Ian are waiting for me.”

“I know Mr. DelaSangre,” she whispers, her voice anything but seductive. “But I think you might want to hear about something I recently found out.” She glances around, looks into my eyes again. “When I was hired, Mr. Tindall told me to never volunteer any information to you. He said you had no interest in anything that went on at the office, but ...”

A man wearing a shirt and tie, someone from accounting I think, Benny something or other, walks past us and Rita lets go of my hand, backs up a little.

Arching an eyebrow, I wonder what devious scheme Ian Tindall has cooked up now. Not that anything a Tindall does could ever surprise me.

The woman turns her eyes from me to my son. Her dress hugs her, rides up to her mid-thigh as she crouches next to Henri. I look away from her long legs, her slightly too thick thighs.

“Aren't you a handsome young man,” she says to Henri, then looks up at me and smiles. “Of course, anyone could tell this apple didn't fall very far from its tree.”

“Papa,” Henri says. He backs up, hugs my left leg with one arm, studies his feet. “When can we go?”

I grin. “We just got here, Henri. I still have to meet with Arturo and Ian. ...”

Then looking at Rita, I say, “Don't mind the boy. This is his first time around people. He's just shy.”

Rita stands, stares into my eyes and smiles. “I certainly hope his father isn't,” she says. She walks to her desk, scribbles on a small piece of paper, folds it and offers it to me. “I'd like to talk more with you sometime ... away from the office.”

“I'm sure something can be worked out,” I say taking the note, pocketing it, then adopting a more businesslike tone. “Please tell Gomez and Tindall to meet me in my office as soon as they can.”

3

Ian Tindall appears at the doorway to my office just moments after I sit down in the big leather chair behind my mahogany desk. He knocks on the door frame, waits for me to acknowledge his presence. His Brooks Brothers suit hangs loose on his bony frame, the black wool material accentuating the pallor of his too white skin. Except for his obvious youth, his full head of black hair, I think it could be his father come back from his watery grave. I motion him in.

Behind me, Henri, intent on staring out the window, concentrates his attention on the ground far beneath us, the marina and the bay beyond it. He pays no attention to the man whatsoever. “Papa!” the child says. “I can see our boat.... It looks so small. Like when we're up in the air.”

Before I can answer him, Tindall plops into one of the chairs in front of my desk, slouches and says, “About time you got here.” He puts his hands together, interlaces his long skeletal fingers, studies the empty surface of my desk. “I hope I'm not keeping you from any important work.”

I scowl at his sarcasm, spit out my words. “Work is what I pay you to do.”

A pink flush blossoms on Ian's sunken cheeks, but he's wise enough to change the subject. “Arturo will be around in a few minutes,” he says.

Nodding, I wonder, not for the first time, whether the Tindall family's services are worth having to endure their company. Father always insisted they were. “There are only two types of humans you should employ,” he told me years ago. “Honorable men and scoundrels. The honorable ones, like the Gomez family, believe in loyalty. They'll never betray you unless you forsake them. You can trust them with your life. The scoundrels, like the Tindalls, believe in nothing — but you can count that, as long as their self-interest is served, they will do anything you want.”

“But,” I'd argued, “there's never been a generation of Tindalls that hasn't tried to cheat us in some way.”

Father had chuckled. “We need lawyers who are willing to bend the law to our purposes. Do you expect that type of attorney to be anything but a scoundrel? Only greed and fear motivate the Tindalls. Just remember to reward them well for their services and punish them severely for their transgressions.”

As my lawyer, and as chief legal counsel for LaMar Associates, Ian is rewarded very well indeed. Still, it amazes me that he could overlook the fatal punishment both his father and brother have received at my hands. I go over Rita's words in my mind, wonder if Tindall is plotting some sort of revenge or betrayal. I shake my head. Surely, I think, the deaths of two other Tindalls have taught him the foolhardiness of such acts. The man couldn't be that greedy or that stupid.

“Peter! Henri!” Arturo Gomez's voice breaks the silence in the room.

Henri turns from the window as Arturo enters the room, smiles at him, holds up one hand showing four fingers. “I'm four,” he says.

“And a big boy you certainly are,” Arturo says. I look from one man to the other and grin at the contrast between them. Where Tindall is skin and bones, Gomez is thick and muscular. As usual, the Latin's gray-streaked, black hair is slicked back perfectly in place, his sun-darkened skin sports the telltale reddish tinge of a fresh tan and his open-mouthed smile shows off a set of expertly capped, bright white teeth. He sits in the chair next to Tindall, nods toward him, says, “Ian.”

I wince at the overpowering scent of Aramis cologne that follows Arturo into the room and immediately permeates the office's air. Sometimes I find I wish there were a way I could dull my sense of smell.

Arturo shifts in his chair, the gray silk of his Armani suit so perfectly tailored to his body's bulk that it barely wrinkles as he moves. He opens a black leather portfolio, takes out a manila folder, hands it to Tindall. He then produces another manila envelope, slides it across the desk to me.

I cock an eyebrow.

“Jamaica,” he says.

Tindall opens his folder. “Jamaica?” he says, examining the brochure inside, the papers that accompany it.

“Peter had me buy some property for him in Jamaica ... a while ago,” Arturo says. He takes another folder from the portfolio, opens it, hands me three large photographs. He looks in the folder. “The Bartlet Great House, built in 1735, constructed of cut stone, on ten acres near Windsor, thirty miles inland of Montego Bay — ”

“Seven hundred fifty thousand dollars?” Tindall looks up from his papers. “What the hell for?”

“I want to stay at my own place when I visit,” I say.

“Last time you went to Jamaica, you just borrowed my father's boat.”

“The last time I didn't plan to stay there very long.”

“So how long are you planning for this time?”

“I don't know if that's any of your business, Ian,” Arturo says, then turns to me. “Get this, two stories, six thousand square feet under air conditioning, four bedrooms, six baths, a great room and four other common rooms, plus a wraparound veranda and pool ... cottages too. You could use them for servants' quarters.”

I shake my head. “No. I only want day help. I want Henri and me to be left alone in the evenings.”

Arturo shrugs.

Turning my attention to the pictures Arturo handed me, I admire the lines of the house, the high-pitched, stone-shingle roof. Henri crowds next to me, examines the photos too.

“Where's the water?” he says.

Grinning, I tousle Henri's hair. The child's lived his life within feet of both the ocean and the bay. To him it's only natural to expect the same everywhere. “There isn't any water near it.”

“Actually,” Arturo says, “the Martha Brae River runs right through the property.”

“That's not the type of water Henri meant.” I pick up one photo that shows a hint of mountains in the background of the picture. “And Cockpit Country?” I say.

Arturo nods. “According to the real estate agent, not very far at all.”

Ian frowns. “What the hell's going on? If you wanted to go to Jamaica for a few months you could have rented a condo — or a house. You certainly don't need an estate like that. I'm your attorney for Christ's sake! I should have been consulted before you committed to something as big as this. ...”

I sigh. “Damn it, Ian. You should be consulted when I want you to be. Anyway, this was done after your father died — before you were up to speed here. I told Arturo to find me someplace private, away from tourists, where Henri and I can live for a while ... maybe for a year or more, maybe not.”

“That's a long time to be away,” Ian says.

“I just spent four years without coming to the office once. I think LaMar will do fine without me.”

From the look of concentration on the thin man's face, I'm sure he's trying to calculate what opportunities might arise from my absence. “Sure,” he says. “But I still don't get why you want to go there.”

“And I care about that?” I say. “You don't have to understand. I want the house furnished and ready in two months. I want you to buy me a Land Rover too. Make sure someone will bring it to the airport whenever Henri and I decide to go.”

After Tindall leaves the office, Arturo says, “You really going to leave in two months?”

I shrug, lift Henri, put him on my lap, hug him. “That depends on this one. If he shows he can behave on the mainland, then I think we'll be able to chance an airplane flight.... I was thinking I'd see how he does in crowds today, maybe take him toy shopping. Would you like that, Henri?” I say.

Intent on stuffing the brochure and pictures back into the manila envelope on my desk, Henri bites on his tongue, absentmindedly nodding his head, yes.

Arturo eyes the boy, rubs his right forearm.

I look at the Latin, think of my conversation with Rita. “Anything going on with Ian? You seeing anything suspicious?”

Arturo shakes his head, says, “He's a Tindall. I never trust him. But you know I always have some of my people watching him. They haven't reported anything irregular — no dramatic changes in his checking or savings, no new cars or houses, no meetings with people we don't know about. ...”

“Something might be going on,” I say. “I want you to watch out.”

Arturo grins. “Sure. It'll be my pleasure. But you know, if I find something, you're going to have to think about what you want done this time.”

“Because?” I ask.

The Latin's grin grows larger. “Because there are no more brothers, no cousins you can hire. Ian has no children yet. If something happens to him, there won't be any more Tindalls working for your family anymore.”

I don't say it out loud, but honestly, I think, worse things could happen.

It's late afternoon before Henri and I return to the boat. The child falls asleep only moments after we get underway, slumping to his side, his head resting on my left thigh, one ear of a large, pink, toy rabbit clutched in his right hand. I set the throttle just a few notches above idle and steer the boat toward the main channel with one hand while I rest my other hand on my son's shoulder.

I smile, marvel at the warmth he throws off when he sleeps, and envy his ability to fall asleep in an instant. I certainly can't fault the boy for running out of steam. This has been a big day for him, visiting the mainland for the first time, meeting so many new people, riding in a car, shopping for the first time.

A yellow-and-black Seatow boat crosses our bow and I hold on to Henri as I guide the Grady White over its wake, trying to minimize any pitching and bobbing of our craft. Henri shifts his position only slightly, releases the pink rabbit, lets it drop to the deck.

I lean over, pick it up and wonder why, with all the thousands of more exciting toys at the store to choose from, my son chose this one. I wedge it on the seat next to him, breathe in the salt smell freshening the air the farther we travel from the marina.

If I could, I would lie down beside my son and sleep too. There's something so restful about being on the water near the end of the day. I look out across the bay, check for other boats, see only a sailboat far to our south and the Seatow boat speeding toward Key Biscayne, most probably to rescue some stranded boater floating on the ocean just beyond it.