ALIAS SMITH AND JONES

by Kylie Brant

  Weary of her inner turmoil, she directed her attention to the matter at hand. Scanning the dense thicket of vegetation, she thought of Sam hiding in there somewhere. Almost definitely injured. Maybe even badly. But whatever shape he was in, he had to be looking for a way off the island. How was she going to help him with that if she had no way of knowing where he was?

  "What are you looking for?"

  The sleep-roughened voice startled her. Jerking around, she saw Jones at her side, watching her with an enigmatic expression on his face.

  "No one." It took a moment before she realized what she'd said, and she hastened to cover. "I mean, nothing. I was just wondering … do they sell jungle tours?"

  "Probably." He hadn't donned his shoes, she noted. Except for the damp denim shorts he wore, he was completely bare. "I wouldn't recommend one unless you were fully inoculated before coming here. It's not worth the risk."

  She didn't care to reveal that inoculations of any kind had been the last thing she'd worried about before making arrangements for the trip. Somehow the dangers of contracting malaria didn't seem as real as her fears for her brother. "I don't want one of those touristy kinds," she said. "I'd rather go deeper, see more…" Her voice trailed off under his unswerving scrutiny.

  "If I tell you how incredibly stupid that idea is, am I going to get written down in your little book of grievances again?"

  "It was just a thought," she said sulkily. And upon closer consideration, probably not a very good one. What were the chances she'd find Sam's hiding place even if she could enlist someone to help her search? And there was no way she could conduct such an exploration with an islander's help without running the risk of her actions being discovered by the government.

  The frustration she felt sounded in her voice. "You know, I'm surprised you have any customers if you constantly insult their intelligence."

  "With most of my customers I don't find it necessary."

  "Of course, you probably don't get many repeats, either," she muttered. She lengthened her strides as she walked the shoreline. It was maddening that he didn't need to adjust his own to keep up with her.

  "What is it with you, anyway?" His voice sounded genuinely curious. "What's with this constant need to flit from one adventure to another? Do you just not have anything better to do with your time? Or more money than sense?"

  This time he must have been prepared, because the elbow she sent into his gut didn't seem to faze him. The knowledge rankled almost as much as his words. "I never flit."

  "From where I'm standing, you look like a world-class flitter. Island hopping, meeting friends in the tropics, jungle tours … not to mention cozying up to a world-class sleaze like Shala. Maybe it's time you got a bit of focus."

  The message, the faint note of condemnation in his voice, summed up her growing restlessness with her life a little too neatly. She whirled on him. "Where do you get off judging me? You? As near as I can tell you're a dropout from society making a living by taking money from rich tourists. At least I have a real job."

  "Doing what?"

  Belated caution tempered her response. It wouldn't do to blurt out her sensitive work for Tremaine Technologies. "I work for a software company." The vague answer didn't hint at the highly confidential nature of her assignment for the encryption/decryption security division. The job was challenging. But it didn't stem her growing dissatisfaction.

  And because that dissatisfaction circled, threatened to swamp her, she lashed out. "So what about you? Is that scar on your back the reason you're hiding out in the middle of nowhere?"

  He stilled, was silent for a time. "I guess you could say that," he surprised her by saying finally. "There's something about a bullet in the back that makes you reevaluate your choices."

  He seemed as startled as she by the revelation. She was silent, mulling over what he'd revealed. It hadn't taken a bullet to convince her that her life needed examining. Trouble was, the questions never seemed to bring any answers. How did she discover who Analiese Tremaine was without leaving everything she held dear, everyone she loved?

  Sometimes she wondered if leaving Tangipohoa Parish wasn't her only option. There she was merely a compilation of others' perceptions, expectations. The trouble with the insulation she experienced at home was that it shielded her from making the kind of decisions, even the mistakes, that others learned from. Jones would never known how close his casual assessment had come to the truth.

  Tired of the all-too-familiar path her thoughts were taking, she shifted her thoughts back to him, taking advantage of his unusual verbosity. "Who shot you? A pirate?"

  "No, my partner."

  He wheeled around then, started back toward their blanket. She was left to stare after him, unable to follow. She didn't know what to say to him, anyway, after that disclosure. His tone had been flat, with no hint of the emotion that would have had to accompany such an event. She had vivid experience with memories that haunted in the night. Ana wished she hadn't pressed Jones to reveal his.

  * * *

  She felt an unusual trepidation as she came up on deck that evening, dressed for her date with Shala. The feeling intensified when she saw Jones sprawled out in a lounger, beer in his hands, dark glasses covering his eyes. Although she couldn't see his gaze, she could feel it as it traveled over her form clad in the pale yellow silk dress. It warmed her skin more thoroughly than the rapidly sinking evening sun.

  Distracting herself from the sensation, she asked, "Who was that?"

  "Who?"

  She pointed at the man who was even now scurrying away from the ship. "Him."

  "Just someone with a message for me."

  It was clear that he wasn't going to offer more information. With a great deal of effort, she prevented herself from asking for any, and focused on the conversation ahead.

  Steeled for another argument about her plans for the evening, she was nonplussed when he reached into the small cooler beside him.

  "Beer?"

  "I … no thanks." She did sit down in the chair he lazily shoved toward her, though, watching him carefully as she sat on its edge. "You seem … relaxed."

  And he did. Obscenely so. Compared to the tense, terse mood that had enveloped him since his cryptic words on the beach, right now he looked about as energetic as a sloth.

  Oddly enough, the pose had her instincts heightening. Nerves danced down her vertebrae. "Well, I'm leaving now."

  Tipping the beer to his lips, he took a long swallow before lowering it and nodding. "Figured. I got you a cab."

  Startled, she turned and gazed down the pier. "That wasn't necessary. Icanno was going to send a car for me." As if in response to her words, a black limo cruised to a halt next to the waiting taxi.

  Jones gave a negligible shrug. "No problem. I can cancel the taxi."

  Something was definitely off here. He was entirely too laid-back. She watched him suspiciously. "You're going to stick to our agreement, right?"

  Again the bottle was raised to his lips, and when he finished drinking, he lowered it to his chest. She followed its descent with her gaze, noted the way the condensation from the bottle transferred to his bare skin. Inexplicably her throat tightened.

  "And what agreement might that be?"

  Senses oddly scattered, she replied, "No interference in my plans."

  "You've got your plans for this evening—" he reached over lazily and indicated the cooler "—and I've got mine."

  With difficulty she tore her eyes away from the moisture collecting on his chest. "Good. Great, then."

  "You'd better go." Although the dark glasses shaded his eyes, she had the distinct impression he'd closed them. "Your driver's waiting."

  Shala's driver. She took a deep breath, and her grip tightened on the handle of the oversize bag she carried in lieu of a purse. She'd be much better served if she focused on the upcoming evening and how to elicit information from Shala while evading his lecherous moves, than by focusing on the lone drop of condensation tr
acing a lazy path down Jones's torso. Not that she noticed that sort of thing as a general rule, but the man was the picture of sexy male indolence. So it was difficult to say why she had the impression of a lazy male panther ready to pounce.

  Jerkily she rose, turned away. She was imagining things. Jones clearly had nothing more in mind than drinking himself into oblivion tonight. Which would fit beautifully with her own plans. At least she wouldn't have to worry about dealing with him once she'd eluded Shala at the end of the evening.

  But making her way off the ship and down the dock, she couldn't shake the feeling that the man at her back was even more of a danger than the one she was about to meet.

  * * *

  The little government function that Shala had described proved to be something a bit more formal. The silent driver took Ana to the heart of the city, to a tall narrow white building flanked on either side by equally nondescript structures. When the guards checked the driver's ID and waved them through the iron gates, the car progressed up a curved, crushed-shell drive and pulled to a stop before the wide expanse of stone steps.

  Icanno Shala descended the steps as a white-jacketed servant opened the door for Ana. "Miss Smith," Shala said, ducking to take her hand and help her from the car. "It is a pleasure to see you again."

  "And you, Icanno." She made sure her smile didn't waver when he failed to relinquish her hand. "I feel a little disoriented. It occurred to me on the way over here that I had no idea where I was going."

  The man at her side gave an indulgent laugh and tucked her hand beneath his arm. "Welcome to my country's capitol building. My offices are upstairs, as are many others. We are hosting a foreign dignitary this week, and this function is in his honor."

  Foreign dignitary. Ana's senses sharpened. Despite her queasiness at Shala's attentions, the evening could prove to be more filled with opportunities than she'd hoped.

  Shala led her into the open-air foyer of the building and through a series of hallways. The quarters were narrow, but opulently decorated. She recognized examples of native art interspersed with portraits. She would have liked to stop and examine them further, but Shala was propelling her in the direction of voices.

  Ana found herself in a space large enough to swallow its hundred or so occupants. It was the first room she'd seen in the place without open-air windows. An effort, she supposed, at security.

  She slowed, feigned uncertainty. "Icanno, are you sure I'm dressed appropriately?" The dress wasn't traditionally formal. Shala was wearing a dark suit and sedate tie, as were most of the men in attendance. The women, though, were dressed in brightly colored cocktail dresses that made Ana's look like nun attire.

  His hand tightened around hers. "You are a vision, Ann. I promise our stay here will be brief. I am selfish enough to want you all to myself."

  Smiling up at him, she said, "I certainly understand that a man of your standing must have pressing duties. I don't mind waiting until you've fulfilled your obligations here."

  They were greeted then by a cluster of people, and Shala made introductions. As he reeled off the names, she wished she'd done more research on the island government. Boswi Awano, Serpitei Agahei, Teril Montai … within moments Ana's head was whirling. Shala didn't bother with anything other than the names, so it was impossible for her to tell what the other guests' functions in the government were.

  "Are you enjoying your visit on our island, Miss Smith?" Awano's English, unlike Shala's, was slow and halting. He was shorter than Ana, with walnut-colored eyes almost hidden in a deeply wrinkled face.

  "Very much," she assured him. "Despite a rather frightening experience last night, Icanno has assured me it is quite safe here."

  "She stumbled on some rather rough characters," Shala put in smoothly. "I assured her that our local police force would take care of them."

  From the grip on her hand, Ana had the distinct impression that he didn't want her to discuss the matter in more detail. Her supposition was realized when he excused himself and steered her toward another group of people.

  "I'm sorry, Icanno," she said, sotto voce. "I'm afraid I wasn't thinking. Would you prefer I didn't mention those two I ran into last night?"

  "I am probably being overly cautious, but there is no reason to risk sensitive details of our investigation getting out," he said smoothly.

  "I'm sure you're right." She gazed up at him, wide-eyed. "You must have a great deal of experience in matters like this."

  "Dealing with unpleasantness is a small but necessary part of my job." She started when his hand rose to cup her bare shoulder, where it lay, heavy and moist. "But I am very committed to seeing to my country's continued well-being. The rewards far outweigh the challenges."

  They drifted from one group to another for a while, engaging in small talk. It didn't escape her notice that he walked by one cluster in a corner of the room without stopping, and she glanced at the people standing there. All seemed to he listening to the man in the center of the group. She wondered if he was the dignitary Shala had spoken of. But as the moments passed, the question lessened in importance as Ana's nerves strung even tauter. Maybe her growing unease stemmed from the fact that Shala rarely let an opportunity go by without touching her. A stroke of her arm, a hand resting proprietarily at the small of her back … it was getting increasingly difficult to smile and pretend she was unaffected by it. And equally difficult to shake the feeling that his behavior masked a certain watchfulness.

  Ana focused on smiling, answering when needed, laughing on cue, while she puzzled over Shala's behavior. If she hadn't been observing him so closely, she might not have noticed that his gaze went again and again to the doorway. Or the way he stiffened a fraction when a man came in, nodded in his direction, before moving toward the refreshments.

  Senses alert, she wasn't at all surprised when he bent forward, murmured in her ear, "I am anxious for us to leave here and spend the rest of the evening alone. Would you mind one more introduction before we go?"

  "No, not at all." She turned to accompany him and desperately hoped that her frayed nerves didn't show. "I have to admit to being a bit hungry myself."

  Forcing her limbs to relax was made harder by the possessive hand he stroked down her spine, before settling on her hip. "Soon we will take care of our … appetites. First there is someone I'd like you to meet."

  They moved down the hallway and turned, mounting some stairs. Ana noted her surroundings surreptitiously. Rows of closed doors dotted the hallways, making her believe she was being led to the office area of the building. They turned and mounted another set of stairs, and she pretended to listen as Shala pointed out the artwork that adorned the walls, featuring portraits of ancestors of the royal family. She would have liked to stop and study the one of Owahano Bunei, the prince who'd recently wiped out his entire family before taking his own life, but she was guided past it and down the marble hall before Shala stopped and rapped on a door, announcing himself.

  Opening the door, he ushered her inside a huge richly decorated room. It seemed as much living area as office. Couches and chairs were scattered at one end, while an acre-wide desk of polished walnut stretched across the opposite wall.

  It was the man behind the desk who commanded Ana's attention now. Tall and exceedingly thin, he had the still, watchful air that reminded her, fleetingly, of Jones. There the similarity ended, however. This man's cheekbones were prominent above sunken cheeks, giving him a cadaver-like appearance. When he rose, he towered over her by at least a foot.

  "Our Royal Highness, Osawa Bunei." Shala bowed his head. "Please meet Miss Ann Smith."

  The king extended a hand. "How good of you to come."

  Ana managed a properly awed smile as the king's cool, dry palm closed over her own. But inside the adrenaline was pumping. "It is an honor, Your Highness."

  He indicated for both of them to take a seat before his desk. "Minister Shala has informed me of your unfortunate episode yesterday evening. I trust you were not injured?"


  Mind rapidly working, she replied smoothly, "No, I was shaken up, but Icanno … Minister Shala has convinced me of my safety here on your island."

  A look flashed between the two men. "As well he should. Although not completely without crime, our country has a low tolerance for criminals. Rest assured that the man who attacked you will be brought to justice very soon. We do, however, feel badly about your misfortune."

  "I hold no lasting fears about your wonderful country. Icanno has assured me that the scene I witnessed is very rare."

  "He is correct." The king reached out one long, narrow hand to pick up the gold pen on his desktop. Twirling the pen between his slender fingers, he noted, "And I am quite pleased to hear that your fears have been allayed. The tourism industry is becoming more and more important to our economy. We wouldn't want anything to negatively impact our future in that area."

  Nerves were rapping at the base of her skull. "I can assure you that my lasting impressions of your country will center on its beauty and the charm of the people."

  "Good." He gave a slight wave of his hand, and a servant sidled forward with a tray of drinks. Ana accepted one, wondering when the woman had entered the room. She'd been so engrossed in the scene playing out that she hadn't noticed.

  "Although I've been to your country, I am afraid I have never visited Georgia. Is Atlanta a large city?"

  Tension spiked through her limbs. Because even as she answered the question, she was certain that Shala had already briefed the king on her background. And much like the minister had the night before, the man used the seemingly congenial conversation to extract more information from her. No, this wasn't her first trip abroad, she answered, once, remembering Ann Smith's phony passport documents. But she'd never been to this country before. Yes, this was the first time she'd witnessed a crime. She'd been quite shaken by the experience.

  "In your fright, Miss Smith, did you recognize what type of transaction you had stumbled on?"

  Truth, as much as she could afford, seemed the most reliable option. "It looked like a drug transaction, Your Highness. Our papers in the States are full of accounts of successful busts. I recognized the bars of cocaine."