Always (2 page)

As he crossed the lushly carpeted foyer of the
reception area, he made an effort to relax the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Len Berthold he was tired. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours today on the long flight from Los Angeles to this tiny island in the Bahamas. L.A. had been a blind alley, too, dammit, he thought. Baldwin had gone underground without a ripple. Oh, well, if he couldn’t find the rat’s bolthole, he’d wait patiently until that rodent ventured out to nibble at his favorite delicacy, namely Lisa Landon.

The cafe was small and darkly intimate, like a thousand others he’d seen over the years. Postage-stamp-sized tables were covered with white damask cloths; candles in translucent cylinders cast half shadows over the faces of the guests speaking in quiet tones over drinks and hors d’oeuvres. A trio was playing soft, evocative jazz on the tiny stage at the far end of the room, and Clancy paused a moment in the doorway to listen. He’d always liked jazz. That fact had never failed to surprise Alex, and he could understand why. Jazz was the most lazily
sensual and mellow music on the face of the earth, and laziness, mellowness, and sensuality were qualities that were absent in his personality. He was highly sexed and required women fairly frequently, but it was always just a hunger to be appeased and then forgotten. Sensuality required softer, gentler emotions, the kind his profession had allowed little time to cultivate. Still, he did like jazz, and this trio was surprisingly good.

“Clancy?”

His head swiveled quickly to the left. Galbraith.

“John.” Clancy nodded in acknowledgment to the man standing close to him. Galbraith was dressed in impeccable evening clothes and blended into his elegant surroundings with the adaptability of a chameleon. His features were handsome, but not too handsome. His brown hair was cut in a trendy but not avant-garde style, and his smile was as deceptively cheerful and wholesome as a college boy’s. Not that college kids were more wholesome than anyone else these days, Clancy thought wearily. Childhood
didn’t last much past puberty in a world as crisis-shadowed as this one. “Do you have a table?”

Galbraith gestured. “Ringside. I usually sit toward the back when I’m doing surveillance, but I thought you’d prefer to have a closer look at her. You said on the phone that you were going to talk to her, anyway.” He turned and led the way through the thickly clustered tables. He dropped into a chair at the ringside table he’d indicated and picked up a half-empty highball glass. His eyes, set deep in his round, tanned face, were as bright and inquisitive as a squirrel’s. “You look really beat, Clancy. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?”

“The usual.” Clancy sat down and shook his head at the waiter who paused to look at him inquiringly. He wanted to keep a clear head, and he was too tired to risk even the slightest alcohol haze. “No sign of Baldwin?”

“Not one. She’s made no telephone calls since she’s been here. She takes long walks on the beach every day, but she doesn’t speak to anyone.” He shrugged. “Or no one important.
She stopped this afternoon and helped a little kid build a sand castle. Then she came back to the hotel, rehearsed with the trio, and had dinner in her room. She does two shows a night here and then goes back to her room. No men since she’s arrived on the island.”

“Not off the island, either,” Clancy said slowly: “Odd. It could mean she’s still carrying a torch for Baldwin.” His lips twisted. “Or maybe she’s frigid and that’s the challenge she poses for him.”

“No,” Galbraith said quickly and with utmost certainty. Then, as Clancy looked at him in surprise, he muttered sheepishly, “I mean, I can’t imagine her being cold to anyone she cared about.”

“She seems to have impressed you,” Clancy said. “Is the lady that much of a femme fatale?”

Galbraith shifted uncomfortably. “No. Hell, you know I’ve never had a thing for older women.”

“And she’s all of thirty-seven. Practically ancient,” Clancy said dryly. “She must be very
beautiful to make you overlook her rapidly advancing decrepitude.”

“No.” Galbraith was frowning abstractedly and Clancy doubted if he even caught the sarcasm. “At least, I don’t think she is. It’s hard to tell.” He made a little gesture with one hand. “She’s just got something.…”

“That’s what Berthold said.” Clancy smiled faintly. “I’m beginning to be a bit curious about this singer who makes tough bastards like the two of you inarticulate. Does this phenomenon have a decent voice, or shall I put on my ear plugs?”

“She’s damn good,” Galbraith said. “Too good for a place like this. She reminds me a little of Streisand.”

Clancy lifted a brow. “Praise indeed. I can hardly wait to hear the lady and formulate my own definition of that special ‘something’ you think she has.”

“Well, you won’t have to wait long.” Galbraith nodded at the pianist, who had pulled a stool in front of the microphone and was carefully adjusting it. “She’s on right now.”

The introduction by the pianist was straightforward and without fanfare, and so was the woman who walked gracefully to the microphone and sat down on the stool. She was dressed in an elegantly tailored, long-sleeved white silk blouse and an ankle-length black evening skirt that had a vaguely Edwardian air except for the long center slit that reached midthigh. She was tall, Clancy noticed, and gracefully fine-boned instead of sexy as he had expected. Her long hair was a shade somewhere between light brown and honey and was drawn cleanly away from her face and fastened in back with a barrette. It was difficult to make out her features in the dimness of the cafe, but they didn’t appear exceptionally attractive. Then the spotlight came on.

Warmth. Gentle warmth in wide-set brown eyes. Her face held a touch of sadness in repose, but then she smiled. Sensitive, beautifully shaped lips smiled suddenly at the audience with such loving kindness that it made Clancy feel oddly breathless. “Hello, I’m Lisa. I have a few songs I’m going to sing for you tonight.”
She spoke with a casual intimacy as if to a room filled with old friends. “Then I’m going to take requests.” She made a face. “Please, no opera. Madame Butterfly I’m not.” She chuckled in delight as she heard the whisper of laughter around the room, and Clancy felt again a queer half-aching tug at his emotions. What the hell was happening to him? “Ready?” She nodded at the pianist, who started the introduction. “Here we go.”

During the next forty-five minutes Clancy realized that Galbraith and Berthold were right: Lisa Landon
was
good. Her clear, bell-like notes held a hint of power skillfully restrained, and the emotion she conveyed was amazing. But he could scarcely appreciate her talent because his attention was focused on the woman, not the singer. The nervous, graceful hands that moved in impulsive gestures. The line of her creamy throat that rose from the stark white of her blouse. What a beautiful throat. Camellia soft, yet breathing, pulsing with life as no flower ever could. And that smile … His lips curved in a self-mocking grin
as he realized how poetic he was waxing. When aroused he was usually more interested in breasts and hips than throats and smiles. And there was no question that he was aroused now. There was an aching in his groin that was bewildering in its intensity and filled him with a faint sense of anger. It was a totally illogical reaction. The woman wasn’t even that attractive. She was too thin and her mouth was a little large. Her legs were lovely, he admitted grudgingly, and heaven only knew that she was showing enough of them in that slit skirt.

Possessiveness. Damn, the emotion had slipped into his thoughts without his even being aware of it. When had he ever felt possessive about any woman? And this woman was a complete stranger.

The round of requests had ended now and Lisa Landon slipped from the stool and smiled again. Then she was gone from the stage as quickly as she had come.

Galbraith leaned forward and grinned at Clancy. “Well, have you defined the ‘something’ the lady’s got?”

Me. She’s got me
. The answer emerged swiftly and instinctively from the jumble of emotions that was whirling within Clancy. He rejected the thought as quickly as it came. “Character,” he said lightly. “And maturity. I can see how a boy like you would be dazzled by those qualities. The pretty dolls I’ve seen you squiring around have a few years to go before they begin acquiring them.”

“The pretty dolls are entertaining,” Galbraith drawled. “And I think that old poker face of yours slipped enough so that I could see you were dazzled by the qualities of the lady.”

“You’re getting fresh, John.” Clancy pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Remind me to slap you down the next time you annoy me. It will do wonders for your own character development.”

Galbraith grimaced. “I won’t have to remind you. You remember everything. Unfortunately. I suppose you’re going backstage. Do you want me to wait and continue surveillance?”

Clancy hesitated. “No,” he said slowly. “I’ll take care of it.”

Galbraith’s brows lifted in surprise. “Really? It must be years since you did any chore as plebeian as surveillance. Are you sure you remember how?”

“Fresh.” Clancy enunciated the word distinctly. “Very fresh. I assure you I’ll muddle through.”

Galbraith’s cheeky grin faded as he silently cursed himself. It wasn’t safe to bait Clancy who, when he lost patience, could turn and mete out punishment efficiently. Galbraith held up his hands. “Joking.” He smiled. “I’m no fool, Clancy. I know what you are.”

“It’s nice that you’re so confident of your perceptiveness,” Clancy said with a slightly enigmatic smile. “There are times when I’m not at all sure that I know.” He turned and walked swiftly across the tiny dance floor to the arched doorway through which Lisa Landon had disappeared.

The knock on the dressing room door was brisk and authoritative.

Lisa tensed, then consciously forced herself to relax. It couldn’t be he. She’d seen no sign of Martin since she’d arrived here. She mustn’t let her imagination run wild just because a knock on the door was demanding instead of politely perfunctory. She reached for a tissue and began wiping the cream from her face. “Come in.”

“For God’s sake, didn’t anyone ever tell you that you don’t leave your door unlocked and invite just anyone who’s on the other side to come in?” The man who stood in the doorway was frowning and his voice was harsh. “For all you knew, I could have been Jack the Ripper.”

Her eyes widened in surprise as she turned away from the mirror to look at him. “You’re not Jack the Ripper,” she muttered. The man did look dangerous though. He stood well over six feet with the broad shoulders and the deep chest of a longshoreman. His features were rough and craggy, with broad cheekbones and a nose that had been broken at some time or other. He had the golden tan of a man who lived in the hot sun of the tropics, and his hair might once have been raven dark but was now
flecked with silver. He gave the impression of a man fully mature, fully in control, and very used to having his own way. She found herself instinctively rebelling against him. She’d had her fill of men who wanted their own way. She lifted her chin. “It’s true you could be just as disreputable as Jack the Ripper. So perhaps you should leave.”

His expression didn’t change, but she had the impression she’d surprised him. Suddenly he smiled with a beguiling warmth. The transformation of his rough-hewn face gave her a little shock.

“I was rude, wasn’t I? You’ll have to forgive me.” There was the faintest trace of a brogue in his deep voice. “I’ve always been too blunt. It’s one of my greatest faults. My name is Clancy Donahue, Miss Landon. I’d like to talk to you, if I may.” His blue eyes were suddenly twinkling. “I’ll let you search me if it will make you feel any safer. I’m totally without weapons of any sort.”

She doubted that. There was nothing in the least defenseless about Clancy Donahue. His
wickedly appealing smile caused her to smile in return. “I’ll trust you. Come in, Mr. Donahue. What can I do for you?” She resumed wiping the cream from her face.

He closed the door and the size of the dressing room seemed to shrink. “I want your cooperation.” He came forward to stand before her. “You’ve missed a spot. Here, let me.” He took the tissue and carefully wiped the blob of cream from her temple. For someone with such large hands, he was very gentle. It was an intimate gesture performed with surprising matter-of-factness. “There. That does it.” He tossed the tissue on the vanity. “I like you better without makeup. Your skin is really quite extraordinary.” He spoke almost abstractedly. “So white and soft. Like a camellia. I was thinking that while I was watching you sing tonight.”

“You were in the audience?” She couldn’t hide her surprise as she glanced at his casual jeans and navy crew-neck sweater. She had known the headwaiter for only a few days, but she was aware that Monty was snobbish and rigid about his precious dress code.

Clancy’s lips twisted. “I have friends in high places.”

“You must.” Lisa wished he’d move away from her. She could feel the heat emanating from his big body even though he was no longer touching her, and she was conscious of the clean scent of soap and an after shave that smelled vaguely minty. She’d been shockingly aware of the physical presence of the man since he’d walked in the door, and she wasn’t sure she liked having her composure disturbed. She had fought too long, and too hard to gain that composure. Nodding, she gestured to the chair across the room. “Won’t you sit down?” He moved away at once and she let her breath out in a little rush. How stupid to feel threatened because he was a virile male and she was merely experiencing a very natural sexual chemistry. “You said something about cooperation?”

He dropped into the chair she’d indicated. “In my search for Martin Baldwin,” he said bluntly. “I think you can deliver him to me.”

She stiffened. “You’re a policeman?”

He shook his head. “I’m with the Sedikhan Security Service. Your ex-husband and his ‘company’ have been running guns to a group of terrorists based across the border from Sedikhan in Said Ababa.” His expression hardened. “I don’t like men who make money off of that terror any more than I like the terrorists themselves. I want very much to find Baldwin.”