Chyna Stone Adventures: First Three Novels

by K. T. Tomb

Fatma Maulidi would be leaving to go back to Damascus in the morning. The museum board had decided to close the property down until the city was returned to some form of stability and she would have to ensure that the process of closing down the operation went smoothly. Ted would be returning to New York for work, Anthony would go back to Izmir. In a few weeks, even Oscar and Lana would be heading back to the States and then it would be Sirita and Chyna; of course, occasionally they would see Rashid.

  It was a wonderful way to get started on their new venture in the Middle East; being surrounded by friends and colleagues who shared in their happiness. It was something Chyna had felt strongly about doing since she had returned from Sweden. She had taken the trip to Stockholm with Sirita, Oscar and Lana to return the golden falcon to its rightful home and also to have the chance of seeing the other one.

  Inga had spent a week preparing the exhibit to receive it. She had even gone to the lengths of having reproductions of the ancient standards of the Drammen Jarls made to attach to flagpoles and the great falcon finials attached to the tops. When Chyna visited the exhibit on her last day in Stockholm, she was surprised that they had received such a place of honor. The Swedish History Museum was known for having the largest collection of Viking artifacts in the world and Chyna could think of no better place for the falcon.

  The entryway to the Viking exhibit was magnificent. The colossal doorways framed the view of the prow of a giant Viking ship that was taken from a burial mound found on a farm in rural Sweden. The ship was magnificent and beautifully preserved; the wood was as black as night and intricately carved on every piece of trim. The falcon flagpoles had received the place of an honor guard one at each side of the main door, arranged with their heads looking towards the enormous ship.

  ***

  Chyna snuggled closer to Anthony’s warmth as the sun started to peep through the drapes. It felt wonderful to be in his arms again and she still didn’t know how she would be able to tell him that she didn’t want him to leave again. It felt selfish and wrong; it wasn’t what they had always been about; the fundamentals of their long standing relationship. It had worked for them for over fourteen years; who was she to want to change it? Who knew if he wanted anything between them to change at all? For Chyna it was better to sadly let him go, knowing she was definitely going to be with him again, than to confess to him that she wanted him to stay and watch him run for the hills. No! She would be satisfied and wait. She had made the first move by bringing her work and her life closer to him, if he wanted something more than that right away, he would have to man up and tell her.

  She felt his hands come around her waist and knew that he was rousing from his sleep. He loved to rest his hand in the cradle of her waist and stroke the soft skin between her hip and her breast while he woke up. Chyna loved that, it was one of the things she missed the most on the days when she woke up in an empty bed. She had no idea how long they would have together now, but at least she wouldn’t be leaving and this time when he did, he would be a lot less far away. She took his hand in hers and touched his fingers for a while before sighing and throwing back the covers.

  “It’s time to get up, sleepy head,” she said.

  Chyna had a full day ahead of her, and so did Anthony, whether he wanted to admit it or not. They were going apartment hunting today. The fastidious Shakira Mendes had sent over a list of about fifteen different apartments and houses which she thought would suit Chyna. There was no way that she wouldn’t be able to find a place to live today. In fact, Chyna had so much faith in Shakira, after the offices she had selected for Found History, that she already knew that her house was one of the top three on Shakira’s list. She wouldn’t be searching for long, so she had decided that they would go shopping for her furniture immediately afterwards. She hopped out of the bed and walked around the bed to the bathroom door.

  As lazy as he was feeling, Anthony poked his head out from under the covers as soon as Chyna was out of the bed. He loved to watch her cross the room in the morning and head for the bathroom. She was magnificent in the morning. Whether she was in her standard black or white cotton bikinis and tank top or completely naked; seeing how confidently she moved when she should have been completely vulnerable always set the blood rushing through his veins. He heard the shower turn on and he smiled. Quickly, he called room service, ordered them some breakfast then he sprang out of bed and went to join her under the hot water.

  When he stepped in behind her, Chyna turned and threw her arms around his magnificent shoulders. She leaned in and kissed him passionately, pressing her wet body against his. The water flowed over her shoulders and down her body in gentle hot streams that had started to drive him crazy with sensation. She pushed him up against the shower wall and kissed him more hungrily. Her leg went up his thigh and around his waist as she waited for him to make his move. As he leaned back against the wall he lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist, Anthony Stewart could help but think to himself, Now this is what I call a damned good morning.

  ***

  “You’re the most thoughtful man in the world,” Chyna said, completely surprised.

  The breakfast items had been arranged perfectly on the dinette table in the living room. Everything was perfect right down to the black, white and yellow pansies in the vase, her favorites. There was semolina porridge which she had realized was very indigenous to the Middle East; she rarely got it anywhere else in the world. It had slivered almonds, dried cranberries and raisins spooned on top. A little jug of honey sat nearby. Eggs were being kept hot under a steel platter cover as well as crispy bacon and savory sausages. Pancakes and toast were on another covered platter and surrounded by tiny ramekins of different syrups, jams and jellies; it all looked delicious. With a pour of honey over her semolina, Chyna dug in hungrily. After a few mouthfuls, she looked up to see Anthony nibbling on a piece of bacon and staring at her.

  “What is it?” She asked, laughing a little.

  “Nothing,” he replied turning his attention to buttering a slice of toast and pouring them both some coffee.

  “It’s not nothing. Come on, tell me, Babe. What are you thinking?”

  “Okay, I’m just gonna come out and say it. If you don’t like the idea, I’ll understand so don’t worry about hurting my feelings or anything. I was just going with my gut here.”

  “Out with it, Mister.”

  “Okay, Babe, jeez. I applied for a transfer two weeks ago and I think they’re going to approve it,” he blurted out and cringed slightly waiting for her response.

  Oh, my goodness, she thought. He’s going back to the States and I’m going to get stuck in Turkey on my own.

  “Transfer? Transfer to where?”

  He immediately saw his misstep and jumped in to reassure her.

  “No, no, it’s not to go back home; I’m not ready to leave here yet. I requested a transfer from the attachment to the agency in Izmir to the consulate here in Istanbul and I think I’m going to get it. I go in to talk to the Consular General today.”

  “My goodness, Babe! That’s the best news I’ve ever heard! I’m so happy.”

  She stretched around to hug him tightly, relieved and pleasantly surprised. He pulled away enough to look at her and then he kissed her.

  “When I boarded that plane at JFK a few weeks ago, it suddenly hit me that I never wanted to find myself leaving you again and not really knowing I would see you next. I’m tired of feeling like that Chyna. I’ve always known where in the world you were but now I want to know that I’m coming home to that place at the end of the day too.”

  “I feel the same way, Babe. I really do. I want you there to hold me at the end of a hard day and rest your hand on my waist in the morning.”

  “Hey, is that your way of asking me to move in with you?”

  She paused and smiled at him.

  “Is that your way of telling me that you want to?”

  He reached for her again and kissed her passionately.

 
“Yes, Chyna,” he replied. “Yes, it is.”

  The End

  Thank you for reading

  The Chyna Stone Trilogy

  I hope you enjoyed it.

  Chyna Stone returns in:

  The Babylonian Basilisk

  A Chyna Stone Adventure #4

  Available now!

  Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Amazon AU

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Also available:

  Drums Along the Hudson

  An adventure novel

  by K.T. Tomb

  (read on for a sample)

  Prologue

  Manhattan Island in New York City is a place that is associated with wealth, fashion, power and enjoys a rich history in the eyes of many across the world. Manhattan represents a kind of apex. As Frank Sinatra crooned; ‘If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere’. It conjures up images like Times Square and skyscrapers rising from the asphalt like daisies in early spring. It’s a place of intrigue; one that for tourists and residents alike conjures images of the New York Yankees, Central Park and the television show “Sex and the City.”

  Peter Minuit is not the first name that comes to mind when considering Manhattan. There is a subway station named in his honor but it is one of over 400 such stations in the city. Battery Park has a flagstaff named after him and there is a Peter Minuit Plaza near the Staten Island Ferry terminal. Still, most have no idea that he was the Dutchman who purchased the famous island from the Canarsee band of Indians of the Algonkuin-Delaware Federation in 1626 for $24, beads and chatskas.

  It would be a story of how a white man got the island for a bargain from the unsuspecting Indian tribe. Details may prove otherwise. A hasty note in a logbook was the only evidence of the sale and the British who came after the Dutch never received official documentation of the transaction; but according to Canarsee legend, there was never a sale. The Indians leased the land to Minuit for $2.40 per year and received an advance payment of twenty-four dollars for the first ten years. Compounded annually at 7.5%, the city of New York owed the Canarsee Indians about seven trillion dollars in back rent. It would take more than seventeen Donald Trumps to pay off the debt or an unacceptable and next to impossible tax hike for New Yorkers. To say the least, New York City was unfathomably delinquent on the rent payments. So much so that, in the event that evidence of Peter Minuit’s transaction with the Canarsee were ever to be found, they would have to give up quite a delectable chunk of the Big Apple just to satisfy the possible claims that would come against the city from the remaining members of the tribe .

  Does the fabled lease exist as many believe? If it does, can it be found?

  Chapter One

  Meet the Mayor of New York City, Vincent Patch

  Mayor Vincent Patch sat behind his stately oak desk. It was a knock-off of the ‘Resolute’ desk used in the oval office by the President of the United States, although the seal was different. Though Patch thought that it could have used some ergometric adjustments, it was the one the City provided. Paperwork surrounded him, stacked in piles that took up all the space around him, and all in urgent need of his attention. To some it would appear to be a huge mess but he viewed it as organized chaos. Staff assistants swarmed around him as they awaited his coveted signature, which coincidentally was no more than a scribble; his elementary school teacher would have given him an “F” for that penmanship.

  He turned his gaze to one document in particular. It was from New York University’s School of Native American Studies. He knew the seal well and briefly remembered his days living in Greenwich Village. It was when he had fallen in love for the first time and becoming mayor was still only a dream. Quickly, he snapped himself out of his reverie.

  “Central Park?” he stated emphatically. “What is in Central Park?”

  A bleary-eyed assistant answered.

  “Maybe she has the wrong park, Sir.”

  “Well, maybe if she’s looking for sacred heroin needles, it could be; but if there’s some nefarious reason behind this request, it’s not getting beyond my desk. She’ll need to come up with more specifics before I allow anyone to go tearing up an otherwise fine park. We just started to get a handle on that place.”

  Patch picked up his stamp marked “Denied” and pounded it on the application. The pile for those matters towered over the papers which had been passed for approval. Patch continued with business, which was fast-paced and dynamic in the mayor’s office. Many had referred negatively to his open door policy and there were certainly times that he wanted to slam it shut. He carried on in stride, effective as always.

  He always appeared to be handling his duties effortlessly. It was a part of his reputation, his persona. By remaining calm, he put those around him at ease. As usual, there was a throng of press waiting for him at the entrance to City Hall, but Patch considered himself to be a man of the people, so whenever possible he exited through the formal portico. It gave the reporters access and his security staff absolute fits. Reporters were forced to stay on the steps; post 9/11 getting inside the building had gotten tricky. A throng of news media clamored around him and asked for his comments on the current police strike. Amid the chaos, Patch noticed a raven-haired beauty. She was dressed in professional business attire. Black heels gave way to lovely legs and a sensibly cut skirt. She was asking about her recent request for an anthropological dig and the reason for its denial.

  “I assume that you’re the anthropologist?”

  Somehow, he couldn’t ignore her. Her beauty took him off-guard; he hadn’t expected that.

  “That would be me. If you would listen to my request personally, I’m sure I could convince you that the project has vital historical importance.”

  For a moment, Patch forgot about the mob and focused on her. Her hair was long and pin straight; olive-skin that was flawless. Her almond-shaped eyes were laser focused, missing nothing. She dressed conservatively in a perfectly tailored blue wool suit accented by minimal jewelry. It was obviously hand-carved one of a kind stuff. She did not wear a wedding ring, he noted.

  “Look,” he said.

  He didn’t use her name; he didn’t know it.

  “I can’t have some scientist prowling around Central Park with a shovel. As far as I am concerned, whatever is buried there can stay buried. Who knows, maybe you’ll start a trend and we will end up with a heap of dirt in the center of the city. Sorry, but I cannot help you. I’m very busy.”

  Patch pushed past the woman. In the bustle, he grazed her hip with his, which unexpectedly caused him to blush. He came across as rude but he was merely being efficient. She was infuriated as she watched Patch leave.

  ***

  Patch stepped into his penthouse suite. The massive dwelling was home but it had never felt like one. He lived alone except for his loyal golden retriever Spike. His dog had never resembled the perfect specimen of its breed often shown in the hunting magazines; posed expertly with a duck in its mouth. Spike was a city dog; slightly out of shape and tonight he held a leash in his mouth. Patch collapsed on a chaise in the foyer as he thumbed through his mail. Most of what he received at home was junk mail since the majority of his correspondence went to City Hall or the post office box he used to keep the lunatics at bay. There was a fat envelope from his ex-wife with photographs of his seven-year old daughter. He paused for a moment and sighed deeply as he considered how much she had grown. The letter from his ex, Juliet, was unpleasant; they always were, and once again Patch found himself wondering why she didn’t just send him an email. She railed on about Hillary. She accused him of having no time for her and blamed that for the breakup of their marriage. Being the wife of the mayor took commitment and a unique mindset, just as the position of mayor made him a busy person. Juliet had been self-consumed at the best of times and when he had taken office, it had become clear that she was not well suited to being a helpmate. The epistle of complaints ended with the usual request for more money.

  Patch grumbled,
“What else is new?”

  He put the photographs of Hillary aside and crumpled up the paper. The stationery was expensive, made of fine parchment embossed with an ornate monogram. It was a “P” for Patch. She enjoyed the benefits of his last name.

  “Only the best for Juliet,” he said to himself, as he scratched Spike on the head.

  The fluffy dog was patiently waiting for his walk. Patch was six feet tall and particularly handsome with prematurely graying hair playing at the sides of his head. He was quite recognizable around the city so he always went incognito when out on his own. He pulled on a Mets baseball cap, which would help a little to conceal his identity.

  One of the prerequisites of office was the location of his penthouse not far from Central Park. He and Spike headed down Seventh Avenue, which had recently gone through rehabilitation. It had been a predominantly gay neighborhood. It still was but previous mayors had made the area more family-friendly. It was good PR to have his residence in an emerging neighborhood. Naturally, he and Spike headed to the ice cream shop.

  Once at the shop, which had a heated patio for patrons with dogs, they caught the attention of a group of women. Patch was flattered until he realized it was Spike garnering the attention.

  “Geez, what’s your secret boy?”

  He gave Spike the last lick of his cone. Spike was on cloud nine after the treat and getting more attention than he had during the day in the penthouse. A trail of drool hung from the dog’s mouth along with his tongue.

  “Don’t suppose that look would work for me.”

  Soon they were back on the street ambling around the perimeter of the park; best friends taking a stroll enjoying the hum of the city. It was noticeably quieter than during the day but there was still palpable action. They passed by some of the city’s less desirable residents; the winos, drug addicts and misfits. Spike growled as they walked by the strangers, they in turn kept their distance. His mind wandered back to the pretty anthropologist who had proposed a dig in the park. What an absolutely absurd notion. Patch shook his head. They wandered into the park, against his better judgment. He, more than anyone, knew the crime statistics for Central Park after dark.