by Karen Leabo
No, this couldn’t be Jacob Talbert. Impossible! This man was too small, too slender, too young.
As air dragged into her constricted lungs, she reined in her spiraling dismay. Of course this wasn’t the captain of the Shinjiro. Although Talbert’s origins were a secret known only to himself, the newspaper story clearly indicated he was of European or American descent.
The Japanese man backed away—thank goodness he had the presence of mind not to turn around—still clutching the cloth while he gathered a pile of neatly folded clothes into his other arm. Pausing in a narrow doorway, he bowed.
Meg curtsied automatically. Then he was gone.
She opened her mouth. A little squeak came out. She closed it again with a click of her teeth. Oh, mercy, she’d just curtsied to a man who wore little more than when he’d emerged from his mother’s womb!
Meg shoved back her hood, speared her hands into her hair, and pressed cool palms to her flaming cheeks.
The seconds ticked away in hot, humiliating silence, marked off by the steady drip-drip of water from the leaky pipe into the tub. Ten … fifteen seconds, though it seemed like a damned eternity. The steam was intolerable. She plucked free the tie at her throat, anxious to escape the choking sensation, then wrenched off the cloak.
Wadding up the fine wool garment, she threw it into a corner. She’d been duped! Boone was walking away with her gold, and she had nothing to show for three days of effort and desperate hope.
A whisper of sound came from the tub.
A man’s dark head and broad shoulders sliced slowly, cleanly through the surface, causing barely a ripple. Long, water-slicked hair reflected the flicker of the gas wall sconces, reminding Meg of the sheen of firelight on black satin.
Meg froze and pressed her fist to the base of her trembling ribs. The row of buttons up the front of her blue shirtwaist dug into her knuckles.
He’d been in the tub all along, submerged. Had it really been only a minute or two since she’d stumbled into this exclusively male domain?
His eyes were closed … deep-set western eyes. Water streamed across a straight nose, cleanly defined lips, and a square jaw. A broad forehead and high cheekbones boasted of aristocratic bloodlines. The serene expression on his strong face, as he enjoyed the soft caress of the water, declared him a sensual creature who sought out pleasure. Swarthy skin and the thin line of a scar across the arch of his left cheekbone branded him a man who flirted with the dangerous side of life.
A shiver raced down Meg’s back. This was what the black sheep of every noble family of Europe throughout the centuries must have, or should have, looked like.
He was attractive, but in a brash, piratical fashion she found dark and disturbing. This man was a creature of the shadows, unlike the blond beauty of the men she typically admired, the handsome, charming sons of San Francisco’s most wealthy and influential families.
He certainly fit the reputation.
This was a disaster. Jacob Talbert was nothing like the crude sailor she’d imagined, counted on. As if that weren’t destructive enough to her plans, he opened his eyes and fixed her with a steely gaze. His eyes were the clear gray of hammered silver, intelligence swirling in their depths like the perilous tidal undercurrents off the coast. How could she expect to control this man?
Wisdom demanded a quick retreat, but it was already too late. She had set things in motion that would profoundly affect Talbert’s business, his life. If she didn’t face him now, he would only hunt her down.
And he was her only hope.
“The women’s bathhouse is in the building directly behind us.”
She tried to ignore the way his deep voice jarred along her nerves like the explosive flight of a flock of doves. “Are you Captain Jacob Talbert?” she demanded, seeking confirmation, although she felt the affirmative answer in her bones.
His expression grew shuttered. “I am.”
“Then I’m in the right place, sir. You needn’t imply that I’m lost.”
“Aren’t you a bit late?” He leaned back against the side of the tub and stretched out his arms along the rim. Shoulder and bicep muscles bulged. The edge of the water swayed across his bronzed chest, showing teasing glimpses of flat brown nipples. Tiny, translucent black pearls of water shimmered on his eyelashes and chest hair.
“Late? For … for what?” Meg managed to force past a suddenly dry throat. Had the man no modesty? Then she detected the dance of amusement in his eyes. He was enjoying her discomfiture, nay, deliberately causing it! Anger restored her poise. She countered sarcastically, “What are you waiting for, Captain? Someone to scrub your back?”
“Are you volunteering?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
He inclined his head toward the abandoned bucket and soap. “Actually, I’ve already scrubbed my own back. The Japanese custom is to wash before entering the tub.”
“Then what, exactly, am I supposedly late for? Surely you didn’t know I was coming.”
“Why not? No fewer than half a dozen women approached me yesterday, after that damn article in the Alta California made me appear like some bloody knight in shining armor.”
“What were the women after?” she asked, stunned at the idea of possible competition. “Your protection?”
His brows rose. “Something like that, plus services of a more personal nature.”
Heat swept up Meg’s neck as his meaning sank in. “They must have been women of … of very questionable virtue. I resent your categorizing me—” Her righteous indignation choked off as the sound of feminine giggles drifted over the partition behind the tub. Crossing her arms beneath her breasts, Meg added coldly, “More of your besotted admirers, Captain?”
“No, thank goodness,” he muttered, scowling. A wave of his hand drew her attention to the pipe. “Attendants with more hot water. Don’t worry, they know better than to intrude on a man in the privacy of his bath.”
Before Meg could think of a suitable retort to his latest reprimand, he started to rise.
More skin appeared, striking her speechless. The surface of the water reached the base of his ribs, then his waist, receding as he stretched upward. When his hand reached the spigot, he stopped. Meg felt a contrary, utterly foolish twinge of disappointment.
He opened the spigot. A slender waterfall cascaded into the tub. Fresh steam rose, adding an aura of unreality to an already bizarre situation. Loose tendrils of her hair curled tighter, adding to her irritation.
Cutting off the flow, he sat back, resuming his former position … the one that did a disturbingly good job of showing off his muscular arms and chest.
“I never asked for ‘besotted admirers,’ as you put it. The whole thing has proven a damned nuisance. I’d like to get my hands on that nosy reporter.”
“Well, rest assured I’m not one of those women anxious to fling herself on your person. You’re safe from my unwanted attentions.”
One corner of his mouth kicked up. “So, you don’t want anything from me. You just dropped in for a cozy little chat.”
“Well, I—” Of course she wanted something from him. A stab of guilt, combined with a sudden fixation on the roguish tilt of his mouth, stole Meg’s ability to speak coherently.
“You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Meghan McLowry,” she said automatically. The sound of her own voice resurrected her sense of purpose. The name McLowry was synonymous with wealth and influence in San Francisco society. She lifted her chin and stated clearly, “I wish to hire you as a bodyguard.”
His cool gaze wandered slowly down her figure, assessing every inch of her blue gown and what lay beneath. Somehow, the lack of interest in his expression irritated her more than the naked lust she was accustomed to seeing in the men of San Francisco.
“Whose body would I be guarding?” he drawled. “Yours?”
She snapped, “Not me! My father, Douglass McLowry. There have been two attempts on his life in the past three weeks. The attackers
were Asian. I believe they were members of a Chinese Tong.”
“Why should I be interested?”
“I am willing to pay you a great deal of money.”
“I’m not for sale. My. ship and cargo are my first priorities, and the Shinjiro sets sail in two days.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, Captain.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“There has been a recent outcry against the opium trade, ever since two young white men were found dead in a Chinatown den. Coincidentally, you frequently sail from China and the Far East. All it takes is a word of warning in the right ear and you will find your ship searched, your cargo confiscated.”
She would do anything to ensure his cooperation. He was her best, perhaps only, hope of saving her father.
“You’re bluffing.” His knuckles whitened on the rim of the tub.
“No, I guarantee you I am not. I’ve already seen to it personally. Only I can see it undone. The chief of police is one of my father’s oldest and dearest friends.”
“I don’t deal in opium. They wouldn’t find anything aboard.”
“They wouldn’t have to. It’s the inconvenience associated with a very lengthy investigation that you might wish to avoid, Captain. A significant delay would result in a comparable loss of profit.”
“Is this how you always get what you want, Miss McLowry?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “If you can’t buy cooperation, you coerce it with threats?” The water swayed, rising higher and higher against the sides of the tub, as if he gathered momentum to launch himself at her throat.
Meg’s heart pounded a warning, but that was secondary to her mounting desperation. All her plans were beginning to crumble. Fear of failure added an infuriating tremor to her voice when she insisted, “My father needs someone with your skills. He refuses to acknowledge the danger to himself, even though I know it’s real. Whoever is trying to harm him has the mystery of the ancient Chinese arts on their side. I don’t understand their world. Our normal security is proving inadequate. I need someone who knows how to walk among them and not be afraid.”
He watched her intently for several moments. Meg held her breath.
“Forget it. You’ve got the wrong man.”
He was still saying no, even after she’d pleaded with him. She made a point of never revealing her vulnerability to anyone! Frustration and rage blazed a caustic trail through her bloodstream.
“Apparently so,” she snapped. “I was hoping to find a man with compassion and courage.”
A muscle ticked under his scar. “Then you should have given more thought to where you looked.”
“Damn you!” Giving full rein to her temper, Meg strode forward and turned the spigot on full blast. She then pivoted on her heel, swept up her cloak, and stalked out of the room.
Talbert’s shout of outrage—and hopefully pain—thundered behind her. Water sloshed like crashing surf as he leaped out from under the scalding flow from the pipe. She heard the slap of his feet against the wooden floor and tried not to picture what else was bare.
Meg derived a surprising degree of satisfaction from her impulsive act, considering that she’d just ruined her best chance at protecting her father.
Read on for an excerpt from Adrienne Staff and Sally Goldenbaum’s
Kevin’s Story
One
“Oooh, why does it have to be so hot?” Suzy Keller plucked at her new silk dress. “Why today?”
“Because it’s August and it’s Kansas City,” her younger sister replied as she drove north on the interstate, leaving behind the big homes and fancy shops of the Country Club Plaza. “And because I can’t afford to have the crack fixed in my air conditioner. Want to pitch in, sis?”
Suzy grinned. “If I get this job, Nikki, I will personally finance a new air conditioner for you. Maybe a whole new car! All you have to do is keep your fingers crossed and pray. Deal?”
“You bet. It’s wonderful to have a soon-to-be-rich, soon-to-be-famous sister.” Nikki changed lanes and concentrated on finding the right turn-off for the warehouse district, which was located on the banks of the Missouri River.
Suzy’s nervous laughter floated out the window and disappeared on a hot, humid breeze. Soon to be famous? she repeated silently. Her? Suzy Keller? Her gaze lit on a giant billboard advertising a radio station and her heart skipped a beat. The images blurred before her eyes, then disappeared, and she saw herself up there, Suzy Keller, smiling out at the freeway drivers, enticing them to covet, not just her, but the boxes and boxes of cookies upon which she sat so alluringly.
She smiled at the vision and closed her eyes to concentrate on her appointment—and her plan of attack. Her head was a clutter of strategies and hopes, rehearsals, bits of conversation guaranteed to impress. Leaning forward, she tipped up her chin and flipped down the visor mirror. Smiling, she showed a white flash of perfect teeth and a darling dimple.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Ross,” she said to her reflection. “How nice to meet you. Why, you’re much younger than I expected for a man of your accomplishments.” Pause. Smile. A toss of her blazing red hair.
“Good grief, sis, what are you doing?” Nikki asked, glancing over at Suzy.
“Practicing!” Suzy said, frowning.
“You don’t have to practice. You’re perfect!”
“Uh-uh. Christie Brinkley’s perfect. Cybill Shepherd.”
“You’re as perfect as they are!” Nikki said, and laughed. “The world just hasn’t seen as much of you yet. Besides, if you ask Mom, no one’s perfect except Suzy Parker, and you’re about to follow in her footsteps.”
“Sure, Nikki. And if you ask Mom, Dad’s a combination of Lee Iacocca and Paul Newman and you’re Mother Theresa! Ohhh,” Suzy groaned. “Maybe I should forget it, or at least wait until Lorraine comes back on Monday.”
“Don’t be silly, Suz! You’ve gone to interviews without your agent before. And as you said, if you wait, someone’s liable to beat you out and become the ‘one and only, sure to be famous’ Kevin’s Kookies girl, and you will miss this golden opportunity, this next rung up on the ladder of success, and lovely Lorraine will wring her hands, and—”
“Enough! I give! Just tell me, do I look all right?”
“Gorgeous! You’ll knock his socks off!”
Suzy’s mouth twitched up at the corners. “Great, and what if he has hairy feet?”
“Well, you’ll soon find out, kiddo. Here’s your exit.”
In minutes they were parked in front of a square, squat dusty-red brick warehouse. No frills. No flashy sign. This building meant business, all business. And what about the man who owned it? What would he be like? Suzy wondered. Would he like her? Would she project the right image, match that fantasy in his head? Would he hire her?
“Go for it, sis,” Nikki said. “Good luck … and break a leg!”
“Wrong business, but thanks anyway.” Grinning, Suzy stepped out of the car, slipped her portfolio and its cache of publicity pictures from the backseat, then leaned over to her sister. “ ’Bye, Nikki.”
“Sure you don’t want me to wait?”
“No, you go buy your water bed. I’ll grab a cab to celebrate! See you later.”
Moving like bright water in her silk dress, Suzy walked slowly to the front door. She hesitated there, her hand on the old wooden knob, feeling the hot sun on her shoulders and the backs of her legs. Another minute and her hair would begin to curl ever so slightly across the nape of her neck, and that wouldn’t do at all. Not now.
She blew a puff of air up under her heavy bangs. Mid-August and hot in Kansas City, and hot and still here in the warehouse district, the heat shimmering off the pavement. The fish market across the street was locked, the shades drawn. But the telltale smell of salmon and swordfish, flounder, snapper, and catfish clung to the street. Nearby, the stalls in the farmers’ market were empty, everyone having fled by noon. It was quiet, so quiet she could hear her own breathing, the nervous rat-a-
tat-tat of her heartbeat. With bold determination Suzy squared her shoulders, knocked once for formality’s sake, and pulled open the heavy wooden door.
The noise hit her like a splash of ice water in the face. Conveyor belts, motors, timers, bright yellow fork-lifts hustling boxes across the wide floor. Doors swung open and banged shut again. The ceiling, latticed with steel beams, caught all the noise and threw it right back down at her.
Suzy flinched and covered her ears with both hands. Her portfolio thumped to the floor and she let it lay there. She could feel the noise right through to her bones. How could these people work like this? she wondered, shocked.
She looked around at the bustling activity. There were people everywhere—lifting, stacking, sealing, pulling and pushing boxes of cookies. And no one at all seemed bothered by the din. No one but Suzy.
“Hello?” She tried calling, lowering one hand in a faint little wave. “Hello? Is Mr. Ross around?”
No one turned, no one waved back, no one noticed Suzy Keller at all. So much for first impressions! she thought. Retrieving her portfolio, she picked her way around a stack of unsealed cartons and over to the nearest workman.
“Hi,” she said, then louder, “Hi! Excuse me, I’m looking for Mr. Ross. Sir …?”
She tapped him on the shoulder and he spun toward her, knocking a carton off the conveyor belt as he turned. Forty-eight boxes of chocolate chip cookies slid across the floor.
“Oh … oh, no! I’m so sorry!” Suzy exclaimed, horrified. “I—I was looking for Mr. Ross’s office. I am so sorry!”
The man’s initial anger vanished and his bushy mustache twitched as he smiled. He patted her once on the arm, winked, and pointed toward the rear of the warehouse.
By then two younger men, eyes glued to Suzy in rapt adoration, were busy picking the cookie boxes up from around her ankles. They stuffed them back into the carton, then stood there, staring at Suzy like lovesick pups.
