He raised his cup of coffee to his lips. “Besides, Parliamentfunkadelic says you can’t be cool without your shades.”
Skepticism colored her tone once more. “Parliamentfunkadelic.”
“You know, Sir Nose. George Clinton. The P-funk?”
She wondered how many women melted on the spot under his golden, unshaven good looks. He was insane, but gorgeous. “I know who they are.”
“Good.” He had the nerve to grin.
Her heart had the nerve to skip a beat. Angry at herself for softening to a man who’d snatched her off the street and was holding her against her will, she asked, “Is there any juice?”
He observed her for a long moment. “In the fridge. Stuff gives me hives, but help yourself.”
Glad to put some distance between herself and him, even if for just a few seconds, Narice slid from the stool. Opening the fridge she took out the slim, still sealed carton and poured herself a small glass. She took a deep swallow. The orange juice was cold and refreshing; just what she needed to put herself back in control.
Saint ate his breakfast and silently watched her. Earlier, dressed in her expensive suit and shoes, she’d been the CEO headmistress. Now she looked a lot more regular dressed in the jeans and the blouse; if you ignored the little silk jacket draped over her chair. The short-heeled mules on her feet were probably as pricey as the jacket, but she seemed more approachable; less formal in spite of the flawless makeup, the perfectly arched eyebrows, and the laid, short-cut perm.
When she bent to put the juice back into the fridge, he found himself viewing her from another angle. She was well put together. The dossier on her said she was thirty-seven, but her body was still fit. It was a woman’s body and had a curvy thing going on that definitely pleased a brother’s eye. And the sister could run. He was going to have to keep a close eye on this one.
Narice returned to the counter with her glass of juice. “You know, when I don’t show up in Baltimore in a few days, my friends are going to start to worry and then call the police.” It was spring break for her school.
“And?”
“And people are going to start looking for me.”
“Good for them.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Good friends are hard to find.”
Narice’s lips tightened. She didn’t like being patronized. “Well, since you think I’m such a fashion plate, I’ll make sure I wear my best suit to your trial.”
“You do that,” he said, giving her another male grin. Getting to his feet, he picked up their plates and walked the short distance to the sink. “You should get your suitcase. Soon as I put this stuff in the dishwasher, we’re outta here.”
He then looked her way and said, “I know this has been hard—you just buried your father and now all this drama.”
She didn’t respond.
“I’m on your side. Believe that.”
Narice wasn’t convinced. “Put yourself in my place. Would you trust you?”
Saint didn’t lie. “Probably not, so how can I prove it? Have I hurt you in any way?”
“No.”
“Threatened you with a weapon?”
“No. Ridley did, though.”
“Then, how about I show you my ID?”
“ID can be forged. I had two students who got in big trouble last year for making fake five-dollar bills on their computers, but let me see it.”
He went over to his coat and fished his wallet out of one of his many pockets. He handed it to her.
Narice compared the face in the photo to the man standing next to her. They were the same. When Narice first opened her school, the daughter of the then vice-president had been one of her students, so Narice had become very familiar with Secret Service ID and Saint’s certainly looked real. She handed it back.
Saint waited for her to say something, and when she didn’t, he asked, “So?”
“So, what?”
“Do you believe me now?” Saint found her to be an exasperating challenge of a woman.
She shrugged. “At this point, I don’t know what to believe, but let’s go and see this queen of yours.”
Saint watched her head up the stairs to retrieve her suitcase and all he could think was God, she is fine. A woman with a body and face like that could make a man sell out his country. Under the circumstances, she appeared to be holding up well and he found that impressive. Even more impressive—no tears, no hysterics. He wished he could tell her more, though. She’d earned it.
A few minutes later, they left the room and he put her suitcase in the car’s small trunk.
Narice said, “How much money would it take for you to let me walk away? You can just say I escaped.”
He closed the trunk. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
He chuckled, “And ruin my reputation. No thanks.”
He opened the car door for her. She stared up. He lifted an eyebrow. Sighing aloud, the thwarted Narice got in.
The highway signs led them into downtown Grand Rapids, the state’s second largest city. When he eased the car into the valet parking lane of a large stately hotel, she didn’t know what to think. The red-coated doormen politely held open the door and the man she knew as Saint escorted her inside. The lobby had frescos painted on the high ceilings, ornate cherrywood furniture and a sedate air that exuded old money. He led her past the highly polished desk where smiling scrubbed faces greeted arriving and departing guests, and over to the bank of elevators. Narice had a thousand questions but kept them to herself because evidently hell would freeze over before he gave her any real answers.
They emerged onto the twelfth floor and stepped out into a carpeted hallway that was as hushed as it was elegant. Lush green plants in foot-high planters lined the hallway walls. The carpet was so thick she couldn’t hear her own footsteps. At the far end of the hall were two burly men dressed in blue business suits, standing on either side of the last door. Both were brown-skinned men with foreign features that reminded Narice of the Ethiopian uncles of one of her students.
As Narice and Saint approached, one of the men smiled, showing beautiful white teeth, “Welcome back, Mr. St. Martin. Is this the lady?”
Her escort nodded. “The bad guys almost beat me to her, though.”
“They are like cockroaches,” the man answered with disdain, “but I’m sure The Majesty will be pleased that you played the role of champion.”
The man then turned his attention to Narice. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” she replied warily. She now had more questions than ever. It was obvious that English was not his native language, but he smiled at her as easily as if she were kin. What did this all mean? And who in the world was The Majesty? She thought the proper title for a ruler would be Her or His Majesty.
Once again she was ushered forward with her questions unanswered. The expansive suite had the rich exotic smell of incenses and perfumes. Amidst the hotel’s conservative cherrywood furniture, pillows brocaded in striking ethnic patterns were spread about the carpeted floor like vivid desert flowers.
Areas of the room were shrouded behind gossamer-thin veils hemmed in silk. Bearded old men with brown skin and wearing sandals moved about silently. A few of them met her eyes but dropped them immediately and withdrew. Narice shot Saint a puzzled look, but the sound of a gong drew her attention away.
The deep note resonated in the air for a long moment before fading away. As the silence returned, a small group of men, also dressed in white, processed in.
Narice couldn’t say if these were the same men she’d seen in the room earlier, but they certainly looked old enough. She’d be willing to bet a few of them had to be over a hundred.
When the procession halted, two younger men entered carrying a large gilded chair. It was opulently upholstered in bold purple velvet and embroidered with a large black griffin on the chair’s back. The old men parted like the Red Sea so the chair could be placed between them. Then a man and a veiled woman e
ntered. The woman had her hand resting gracefully upon her escort’s arm. He was robed in white. Her robes were purple and underskirted with black. The purple and black scarf covering her hair flowed to her waist and had the sheen of polished silk. She looked old, but determining her true age was impossible. The veil revealed only that her skin was brown and her eyes, the color of gold.
The woman took a seat in the gilded chair, and the escort moved back to stand with the other men. Narice realized she’d been holding her breath and that her heart was pumping. Taking in a deep breath she calmed herself and prayed nobody could see her shaking.
At first, the woman didn’t say anything at all, spending the moment studying Narice as if measuring her for something. Seemingly satisfied she turned away and focused her golden eyes on Saint. “It is good to see you again, Mr. St. Martin.” Her voice radiated quiet power.
He responded by bowing solemnly. “It’s good to see you again too, Majesty.”
He’d removed the shades and Narice was mildly impressed by his show of respect.
He then settled his green eyes on Narice. “May I present, Narice Jordan. She is the daughter of the Keeper.”
The queen inclined her head. “Ms. Jordan. I was saddened to learn of your father’s death. My condolences.”
Narice had no idea how this woman knew her father or why he was being referred to as the Keeper, but she responded genuinely, “Thank you.”
“Let me also apologize for bringing you here under such mysterious circumstances. I’m sure you must be wondering what this is all about?”
Narice didn’t lie. “Yes.”
“Well, soon you will know all. For now, you are my guest. With your permission, my ladies will make you comfortable. I have some things I must discuss with Mr. St. Martin first and then you will join us. It will not be long.”
Narice could see the old men assessing her. One man, the escort, had outright skepticism on his hawk-nosed face. Narice turned away from his burning gaze and refocused her attention on the woman in the chair. “Do I have a choice in any of this?”
Although Narice couldn’t see beneath the veil, she sensed the woman smile. “Certainly you have a choice,” she said. “You can stay and be my guest, or opt to leave, in which case you will be killed.”
Narice stiffened. Her eyes flew to Saint, but his were trained on The Majesty.
The woman explained in a kind yet steel-edged voice, “We’re not playing a child’s game here, Ms. Jordan. The people who murdered your father are my enemies as well, and they will stop at nothing to attain their goals. If you leave here and fall into their hands, they can use you against me. If you are dead, they cannot.”
It was if Narice had fallen down the rabbit hole and awakened in a North African version of Wonderland. On the throne sat the Red Queen, and Narice had the misfortune of being Alice. Narice had no idea what this knowledge The Majesty referred to consisted of, or the identities of the people responsible for her father’s death, but in order to find out, Narice needed to be alive. “Then I will be honored to be your guest.”
The Majesty nodded. “I knew you had the mettle for this journey, Ms. Jordan, though some around me had their doubts.”
The last few words were obviously a jab at someone because it set off a lot of tight jaws amongst the men in white, especially the escort with the hawk’s face. This is not a sister to be messed with, Narice thought.
The Majesty clapped her hands and a young woman wrapped in emerald green robes appeared from behind the thin curtains. She bowed respectfully to The Majesty, who said in return, “Fulani, take Ms. Jordan and make her comfortable. I will call for her in time.” The Majesty spoke then to Narice. “You are in good hands.”
Fulani, who appeared to be in her twenties, then turned and said to Narice. “Please follow me, Ms. Jordan.”
Narice gave Saint a questioning look. He nodded almost imperceptibly, so she followed Fulani through the fluttering transparent draping and deeper into the suite.
Once there, she was shown into a bedroom that had a large adjoining bath complete with an onyx Jacuzzi tub.
Fulani said, “It is our custom to bathe before having an official audience with The Majesty, so I will draw you a bath.”
Narice had showered this morning, but after her harrowing adventures, the prospect of a long soak in a Jacuzzi was just what the doctor ordered. Being the head of a school whose pupils came from all over the globe, Narice was very cognizant of custom and the value in respecting different cultures. If she had to bathe in order to get the information she needed about why her father was killed and to keep the Red Queen from screaming, “Off with her head!” then she would take a bath. “Why is your Queen called The Majesty and not Her Majesty,” Narice asked Fulani.
“Our title has no gender. The ruler is The Supreme, The All, The Anointed. The Majesty,” she said simply.
Narice thought she understood now. “How long have you been with the queen?”
“Fourteen years. I began service when I was six. The Majesty has made it possible for girls like me to attend school. At home, girls are forbidden.”
“So, she has been good to you?”
“Yes, she has. Now, I must see to the bath.”
And what a glorious bath it turned out to be. After sipping on a cup of herbal tea, Narice eased into the warm scented water and just knew she had died and gone to heaven. The temperature was perfect, the scents relaxing. She leaned her head back on the little terry pillow Fulani supplied and closed her eyes.
On the other side of the wall, Saint lay on his stomach on the bed. The towel over his butt was all he had on in order to facilitate the oiling and massaging of his now clean but tired body by two of The Majesty’s female servants. The years of sneaking and hiding and running and skulking were starting to catch up with him physically. The leg he’d broken in Tibet ten years ago now ached every time the weather changed. His left shoulder, dislocated five years ago in a bar fight in Mexico, had been set, but was never the same since. On his thirty-six-year-old body were knife wounds from Jamaica, stitches from Portugal, and the remnants of a bullet he’d taken in Thailand to go along with an international collection of long-ago healed bruises and contusions. Saint was a mercenary. His specialty—intelligence. He began his career as member of the U.S. Army and had climbed the ranks to the top of his field by way of the many-acronymed clandestine agencies that operated under the official government radar. Eight years ago, he officially retired, taking with him his reputation for stealth, discretion, and success. He was now a highly paid freelancer; hired by governments, the U.S. included, multinational corporations, and private citizens for shadowy jobs big and small. It was a life Saint enjoyed and still got a rush from, even if he did sometimes feel like he was getting too old. Like now.
When the call came in about this job for The Majesty, he’d had been in the jungles of Belize tracking a band of grave robbers on behalf of the Belize Antiquities Ministry. The thieves had made off with the treasures found in a newly discovered Mayan temple, and the Ministry wanted them back. Saint and a small band of the country’s soldiers found the men, but not before suffering through ten days of sleeping on the ground, eating bad food and fighting insects the size of pigeons.
Now, less than twenty-four hours later, he was here, the tiredness of the Belize jungles being stroked away by soft female hands and his body responding in typical male fashion. He shifted his position a little to accommodate his arousal. He’d given The Majesty the letter sent to her by the President, and afterwards, she’d made it clear that the women were at his disposal, but he’d have to take a rain check on the offer; the President and his advisors were sure The Majesty had a mole in her entourage reporting her every move back to the generals ruling her country, so he needed to be clearheaded in order to assess the players in this drama. Knocking boots with the two doe-eyed lovelies now working their hands slowly up and down the backs of his thighs and legs would leave his senses dulled and lazy.
He also had the curvy Ms. Jordan to keep an eye on. He wondered what it would be like to have her hands giving him this massage. He imagined her hands would be firm yet soft. In his mind’s eye he could feel the way she’d knead, then stroke him. The arousal resulting from that fantasy made him adjust his position again. He had no intentions of turning the fantasy into reality, though. Had he met her under different circumstances he might not mind exploring the intricacies of Narice Jordan, but this was a job and he took his work seriously. She was hard not to think about, however. The question she’d asked The Majesty about choices hadn’t really surprised him. He already knew that Narice Jordan was no shrinking violet. For a woman who’d been kidnapped twice last night, she’d shown steel beneath all that designer wear. On the other hand, The Majesty’s answer to Narice’s question hadn’t been a surprise either. Of course, he wasn’t going to allow anyone to take Narice’s life, but The Majesty had been correct about the ruthlessness of the other side. If Narice were to fall into their hands, they’d get the information they were after, then kill her.
So, as tired as he was, Saint was about to embark on another adventure, this time with a curvy headmistress he had no business fantasizing about.
Dressed in a traditional dress that Narice thought looked very much like a sari, she followed Fulani to the room where the audience would be held. The dress was drab brown, but Narice could smell the rich scents of the oils and perfumes the women had worked into her skin. They’d covered her hair with a long cotton scarf the same shade of the dress. Fulani had even supplied Narice with a pair of soft black shoes. Narice looked like a wren on the outside but beneath her clothing, all the pampering and oiling made her feel like a Bird of Paradise.
Narice saw that The Majesty, and the hawk-faced escort were already seated on the brocaded pillows that covered the floor of the large room. Fulani exited silently. Beside The Majesty was a small table. On it sat a sparkling white china tea service. Saint was there too, wearing his dark glasses and dressed in a simple brown tunic and a matching pair of loose-fitting trousers. Narice noted his brown socks as she sat on one of the pillows near him. She wondered what he and The Majesty had talked about.
The Edge of Dawn Page 3
