Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Linda supervised purchases for another hour until they had Karen outfitted from head to toe. As the clerk was ringing up the shocking bill, Linda appeared carrying a pair of beige cotton twill slacks with a tan silk blouse and a pair of espadrilles.

  “What are those?” Karen asked fearfully.

  “Well, darling, you don’t propose to wear that black tango number back home on the plane, do you? The pilot will have a heart attack and miss the runway and you’ll end up in the marshlands.”

  “The Meadowlands, Linda, but I get the idea. Just throw that stuff on the counter; I won’t even look at the tags.”

  “You’re learning,” Linda replied, satisfied.

  They left with several large bags stuffed with goodies, and as they lurched back to the elevator, Linda noticed that the beauty salon was still open. Karen was grateful that there wasn’t time for her to get her hair done, but Linda did manage to slip inside and wheedle a bottle of nail polish out of the manicurist. It was obvious that she had also hit the salon hard earlier in the day; the manicurist followed her into the hall and waved merrily as they got onto the elevator.

  “Charming girl,” Linda commented as they rose to the second floor, this time accompanied by a Venezuelan businessman and a bossa nova band on the intercom. “I did have a bit of a communications problem with her, though. All I wanted was a bottle of rosewood nail polish, one such as a mute could buy at Harrods in thirty seconds, but this afternoon she kept coming up with these flaming reds, totally inappropriate for my coloring. I don’t think subtlety is their long suit around here.”

  The elevator doors slid open soundlessly and they bustled into Karen’s room.

  “Now you just hop into the bath,” Linda instructed, “and Mother will set out all your things neat and tidy. Too bad we don’t have those wonderful American rollers that you heat up; they give you such lovely curls in, and for, ten minutes.”

  “I never set my hair,” Karen said as she undressed. “It’s too heavy and it just pulls out all the curl.”

  “Yes, indeed, that must be a terrible problem,” Linda replied sarcastically. “Speaking as one who is practically bald, I can give you very little sympathy, I’m afraid.”

  Linda busied herself unpacking their purchases as Karen took a shower and emerged, dripping, a few minutes later. The new clothes were set out valet style on the bed, the shoes lined up next to each other like tin soldiers on the floor.

  “Now into those duds, and Bob’s your uncle,” Linda said, picking up the phone. “I’ll order up some tea to my room. Shopping always makes me parched. With the service in this place it should arrive long after you’re gone.”

  Karen slipped the expensive garments on, loving the feel of the rich material next to her skin. She bent and fastened the straps of the shoes around her ankles and then straightened, smoothing the dress over her hips as she did so.

  “Now isn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king,” Linda said with relish, watching her. “Or the Yank, in this case.” She rubbed her palms together, chortling. “Now sit in this chair, my darling, and we’ll put the finishing touches on the chocolate souffle.”

  “You make me sound like a dessert,” Karen said, giggling, as she sat at the marble vanity table in the bathroom.

  “You look edible in that outfit. Unless I mistake my American adventurers, he’ll think so, too.”

  Linda brushed Karen’s black hair as Karen applied liner and mascara to her dark brown eyes and lipstick to her full mouth. Then Linda did Karen’s nails with the recently acquired polish, a Venezuelan brand named “Tentacion” in a shade called “Rojo Prohibido” (Forbidden Red). At last they realized it was ten minutes to eight, and Karen didn’t have any perfume.

  “Forget it,” Karen said. “I’ll do without it.”

  Linda was horrified. “You can’t see a heavy duty number like Colter and not wear any scent. It would be like leaving off your... skirt.”

  “Not quite, Linda.”

  “Stay right there,” she said to Karen as if the latter were about to take off for parts unknown. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  She returned in seconds with an ornate bottle equipped with a glass atomizer. “I bought it this afternoon,” she said, displaying her treasure. “Eight hundred bolivares an ounce. Couldn’t resist it.”

  It seemed like Linda couldn’t resist much. She sprayed the air and Karen sniffed appreciatively.

  “What’s it called?” Karen asked.

  “Encantadora,” Linda replied. “Enchantress. Don’t you love it?”

  “It’s very nice.”

  “Hold out your hands,” Linda said.

  Karen obeyed, and she sprayed the back of Karen’s wrists, then behind her knees.

  “Won’t do to wear too much,” she said to Karen, putting down the bottle. “Can’t have you smelling like a Covent Garden tart.” She glanced at the clock on the nightstand and grabbed her purse. “I must fly, don’t want to be here when he arrives. Though I would love to see him out of those tacky fatigues.”

  “I wonder what he looks like in a dinner jacket,” Karen said.

  “No, darling, out of the fatigues and out of everything, if you take my meaning,” Linda drawled.

  Karen laughed. “Linda, you’re awful.”

  “Yes, I know.” She hugged Karen briefly. “I haven’t had so much fun since I was at school. You look a perfect peach in that outfit. I only hope he doesn’t pass out at your feet when he sees you.” She went to the hall and called back as she left, “Tell me all about it in the morning.”

  Once Karen was left alone in her room she began to fidget. She opened the empty closet and threw all the wrappers and bags from her purchases onto the floor, slamming the door closed behind them. Out of sight, out of mind. She slipped her new lipstick and other cosmetics into the black embroidered envelope purse she was carrying and checked her hair in the mirror. It fell in a loose shining arc to her shoulders, and she patted it routinely. She was as attractive as she could make herself under such impromptu conditions, but she still felt the quivering of butterflies in her stomach, the attack of nerves that always presaged an important event in her life. She hadn’t realized until this moment how very much she wanted Steve Colter to respond to her. She’d never felt such an instant, total attraction to any other man, and the feeling both exhilarated and frightened her.

  The knock came at her door at two minutes after eight.

  “Who is it?” Karen called. Her voice sounded funny, trembly and uncertain. Annoyed, she resolved to steady it.

  “Colter,” came the response. By contrast he sounded cool and very sure of himself.

  She opened the door, and he froze on the threshold of her room, staring at her.

  “Wow,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “That’s quite a transformation.”

  “I could say the same of you,” Karen replied, pleased that he appreciated her efforts.

  He was dressed in an eggshell linen jacket with an off- white shirt, dark slacks, and a striped silk tie. His thick blond hair had been recently cut and styled, and he was clean shaven, shorn of the light beard he’d had when they met. His blue eyes held hers with unwavering interest and she felt as if he were seeing her for the first time.

  “The dress is a knockout,” he said, his gaze traveling downward from her face, over her body to her legs, and then back up again. Her skin grew warm; she felt as if he’d undressed her.

  “It isn’t too much?” she asked worriedly.

  “I’d like to see a little less of it,” he replied, grinning. Her flush intensified, spreading over her cheeks and neck.

  “I mean that I didn’t know where we were going and I was afraid I’d be overdressed.” Then she realized that this was worse, and she closed her eyes, mortified.

  When she opened them again he was leaning against the wall, laughing silently.

  “You look perfect,” he said, putting her out of her misery. He straightened and extended his arm. She slipped her han
d through it.

  “How did you know where to find me?” Karen asked as she locked her door behind her and put the key in her purse.

  “I have a contact at the embassy. He told me where they’d taken you,” he replied.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “At a friend’s apartment,” he answered vaguely.

  “I guess you come to Caracas often enough that you know people in town,” Karen suggested.

  “I pass through now and again,” he said.

  His evasiveness was maddening, but nothing short of a rude inquisition would elicit more direct information so Karen changed the subject.

  “Is the restaurant near here?” she asked as they emerged from the elevator into the rococo lobby, filled with scrolled mirrors and heavily upholstered brocade furniture.

  “Just a walk across the square,” he said.

  “What do you call that decorating style?” Karen said, nodding backward as they passed through the revolving door into the warm, late summer night.

  “Reign of Terror?” he said, casting her a sidelong glance.

  Karen laughed. “I don’t know, but I can’t get used to it.”

  “I can see why,” he said. “You probably feel like Boris Karloff is going to jump out of a closet and hand you a severed head.”

  “It does sort of look like one of those overdone mansions in horror movies,” she said, smiling. “Have you ever been to the Miramar before?”

  “Nah,” he said dismissively. “It’s a tourist trap.”

  “Oh.”

  They were walking across a Spanish style square with a splashing fountain in the middle, surrounded by adobe brick buildings crenellated along the top and fronted by Moorish arches.

  “The Caribbean Sea is right back there,” Colter said, pointing to the rear of the hotel they’d just left.

  “I can smell it,” Karen said, inhaling deeply.

  “The settlers used to post lookouts on the roofs facing the water,” he added, indicating the open spaces between the battlements. “There was a lot of piracy in those days; the Caribbean coast of Venezuela was the famous Spanish Main.”

  They were approaching a softly lit restaurant. As they passed through the ivy covered front door Karen read above it, in fancy script, La Casa Americana.

  “Does the name mean we can get American food here?” she asked Colter hopefully.

  “No, they called it that because they serve only Tasmanian food,” he replied soberly.

  She looked at him, and he smiled.

  “Would you tease a starving woman?” she asked him archly.

  “Never. You can get American, Spanish, or Carib Indian dishes. They serve all three.”

  “Oh, good.”

  The maitre d’ greeted Colter by name and led them up a flight of steps to a rooftop terrace overlooking the ocean. They were seated at a table for two next to a half wall made of native fieldstone. It was decorated with clusters of bougainvillea, the showy pink and white flowers giving off a heady, heavenly fragrance. The waves soughed against the sand below them, and Karen could see the froth of white caps in the distance. Above them the night sky was slightly overcast, with a three-quarter moon hiding behind a cover of shifting, diaphanous clouds.

  “What a lovely spot,” Karen said as Colter held her chair and she sat in it.

  “It’s the prettiest sight in Caracas, for my money,” Colter replied. He sat across from her and signaled the steward to come to their table.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “I don’t know... whatever you’re having,” Karen replied.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I’m having a double margarita.”

  “Oh, no, in that case...” She stopped, nonplussed.

  “Double margarita for me and white wine for the lady,” he said in Spanish to the waiter. He turned to Karen. “Is that all right?”

  “Fine,” Karen said, relieved.

  “Most of the staff here understand English,” Colter said to her, “but I find you get better service if you speak to them in Spanish.” He shrugged. “They hate the tourists.”

  “I can’t blame them,” Karen said, sighing.

  A waiter approached them and lit the hurricane lamp sitting in the middle of their table, then stood at attention, waiting to take their order.

  “I don’t see a menu,” Karen whispered to Colter, leaning across the table.

  He grinned. “There isn’t one. You just ask for what you want and they tell you if they can make it.”

  “That’s original.”

  “How about a prawn cocktail to start?” he asked her.

  “Prawn?” she said doubtfully.

  “They’re like shrimp but they gravitate to warmer waters.”

  “Okay.”

  He ordered and the waiter scribbled.

  “Y dos melones con carne,” Colter added.

  “That’s like a honeydew, hollowed out with a meat filling,” he explained to Karen. “It’s good—you’ll like it.”

  She nodded.

  “And for the main course?” Colter asked.

  “Scallops?” she said wishfully.

  “Ondas con migas de pan,” Colter told the waiter. “Breaded scallops, sauteed in butter,” he said to Karen.

  “Wonderful,” she said.

  Colter ordered vegetables and a main dish for himself while Karen studied the view and, covertly, him. He was very fluent in Spanish, conversing with the waiter like a native, and she wondered how many other languages he could speak as well. For all his cosmopolitan air there was a certain rootlessness about him that disturbed her; it was as if he worked at remaining aloof and uninvolved, in the world but hot of it.

  “So,” he said, when the waiter left, “I guess you got off the boat okay this morning?”

  “Yes, but I wondered where you were when I woke up and found you gone.”

  “I had things to take care of in town,” he said, “and I knew the embassy people would look after you.”

  She wondered if the “things” he had to take care of involved collecting his fee for delivering the Almerians to Caracas. “I have your jacket and that other vest thing in my room,” she said.

  “Is that an invitation?” he asked lazily.

  “No, I just meant to remind me to give them to you,” she said hastily.

  He let that pass, but his intense gaze scorched her, conveying a message he didn’t have to send in words.

  The steward arrived with their drinks. Colter took a bite of his lime slice, then licked the salt from the rim of his glass as he took a deep swallow of the liquor.

  “Are you from Florida originally?” Karen asked brightly, taking a sip of her wine, desperate to distract him.

  “I guess so,” he replied.

  That baffled her into silence, but she recovered momentarily and said, “Your parents lived in Florida, then?”

  “I don’t know where my parents lived, Karen. I was a foundling and I was raised in an orphanage,” he said flatly.

  She stared at him, her throat closing. She could have cut out her tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally managed to whisper. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t, and you needn’t look so upset. It was a long time ago. I just thought I’d better tell you up front so we could skip the chitchat.”

  “The orphanage was in Florida?” she murmured.

  “That’s right. It was the Colter Street Children’s Home in Crescent Beach, Florida, and the janitor who found me in the vestibule was named Steve. Now are there any further questions, or can we get by my tragic past and talk about something more interesting?”

  Karen couldn’t think of anything more interesting than his background, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to discuss it. She was saved from having to reply by their waiter, who brought the prawn cocktails. Instead of the red sauce that usually garnished shrimp at home a spicy mustard relish was served with the shellfish, and Karen found it d
elicious. She looked up from a bite of the delightful dish and found that Colter was watching her with obvious enjoyment.

  “Was it the right choice?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, it’s wonderful. What’s in the sauce, do you know?”

  He grinned. “I know, but I don’t think I’d better tell. It’s a Carib recipe and liable to shock you.”

  Karen chewed with somewhat less enthusiasm and he chuckled.

  “What do you mean?” she asked warily.

  “Are you sure you want to hear?”

  She stared at him balefully.

  “All right. One of the main ingredients is clay.”

  Karen coughed and put down her fork. “Clay? As in dirt?”

  “That’s right, but take it easy. The Indians have been eating it for centuries so I don’t think it’s going to poison you.”

  Karen pushed the crystal dish a little further away from her on the table. “You won’t mind if I don’t take that chance, will you?”

  He shrugged. “Chicken.”

  Karen folded her arms on the table. “Steven Colter, you don’t mean to sit there and tell me you think it’s a good idea to consume mud.”

  “You thought it tasted fine until I told you what was in it.”

  “That’s beside the point. It can’t be healthful.”

  “I’m told the Indians around here live to be over one hundred,” he said in reply.

  The waiter came to clear and Karen indicated that she was finished. When the melons arrived seconds later, she surveyed her portion cautiously and said, “Is there anything I should know about this before I eat it?”

  “The filling is just chopped beef,” Colter said, smiling. “Nothing that you wouldn’t encounter in your average American hamburger.”

  “And the melon? Anything weird involved there?”

  “Does it look like a honeydew?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “Does it smell like a honeydew?”

  She sighed.

  “Well,” he said, spreading his hands, “you know the old expression; if it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck...”

  “All right, all right,” she muttered, taking a bite.

  It was, of course, delectable.

  “Well? Any shooting pains? Nausea? Double vision?” Colter inquired.