Dragon Moon (25 page)

I gasp and pull my hands away.

The blonde guffaws and collapses against me laughing as I slip away from her. The woman says between whoops of laughter, “Peter, it's me! It's me, Chloe!”

But the yellow hair that cascades on me is soft and silky with none of the wiry body of Chloe's hair. The skin is creamy white, without any hint of ever having been exposed to the sun. Chloe sits back up, still straddling me, cups her breasts in both hands and laughs again. “I thought I should change before we left for Kingston,” she says, swiveling from side to side, exposing her breasts, fluffing her blond hair, modeling her new appearance for me. “Don't you think Virgil Claypool would find it odd that Charles and Samantha Blood have a black daughter?”

I know she's right but still she looks too much like a cross between a Barbie doll and a younger edition of her mother for me to be comfortable with her new look. Touching her breasts again, I say, “Did you think Mr. Claypool would be put off with your own breast size too?”

Chloe puts her hands on top of mine and giggles. “I just thought these went better with the blond hair.”

“You are going to change back after we leave Claypool's, aren't you?” I say.

“That depends on you,” Chloe says, moving her body against mine, touching me until I grow hard again. “Show me how much you want me to be back to my old self.”

 

We stop in Falmouth long enough to shop on Market Street for fresh clothes for me and a new outfit to show off Chloe's new, more ample body — a green silk dress, she decides, with a plunging neckline.

After the bumpy, slow country roads of the interior, the A1, the modern highway that runs along the coast, is a pure delight. It's still early enough in the day for the road to be relatively uncongested and we speed along past Runaway Bay and Ocho Rios without incident. But once the highway curves inland at Port Maria, traffic thickens with cars packed with passengers and trucks full of produce and other cargo, all heading for Kingston.

Drivers jockey for position, shouting, cursing at each other, beeping their horns. At an intersection where I seem to be the only driver unwilling to creep through a red light, Chloe loses patience. “Let me drive,” she says. I shrug and change places with her.

“Our women are the true warriors among us,”
my father used to say, chuckling.
“None of us would dare be as reckless as they.”
Chloe is no exception. She accelerates into traffic and weaves around a Toyota compact, swerving just in time to barely miss an oncoming pickup truck.

She turns, flashes a wide smile. “I love this!” she says. I nod, make sure my seat belt is properly fastened.

Just before Annoto Bay, Chloe turns onto the A3, driving through the center of the country, climbing the foothills of the Blue Mountains. “Look,” I say to Chloe and point at the beauty around us, but she stares forward, her jaw set, intent on the road and the competing drivers.

We reach Kingston well before noon, descend from the mountains with the whole city laid out beneath us. “We're going to New Kingston,” Chloe says. “Derek talks about it all the time. Claypool's offices are at the top of the Garvey Building at the intersection of Halfway Tree and Hope Road. Derek says it's the tallest building around and the only all white one.”

I point to a white rectangular building, inelegant in its simplicity, surrounded by smaller but much better designed office buildings. “That must be it,” I say.

Chloe nods and maneuvers the Land Rover through traffic that suddenly is as intense as in any other large city. It takes us thirty minutes before we finally find a parking spot in a lot across the street from the Garvey Building. Once Chloe turns off the ignition, she looks at me. “Please let me do the talking when we get up there,” she says.

Claypool and Sons offices may be on the top floor of a major office building, but they possess neither the size nor the elegance of LaMar Associates. We enter through a poorly finished wood door, marked only with the suite number, 1512, and a small brass plaque proclaiming: CLAYPOOL AND SONS, EXT. 1715.

The receptionist, an elderly Jamaican woman, thin, very light skinned, her face and hands textured with wrinkles, sits at a mica desk in the middle of the room, four folding wooden chairs lined up against the wall facing her. All the walls are dull white, marred and bare, obviously in need of a new coat of paint. The woman looks up at us as we enter. “Yes?” she says. “May I help you?”

“We'd like to see Virgil Claypool,” Chloe says.

“Do you have an appointment?”

Chloe makes a show of examining the empty room, the empty chairs. “My name is Chloe Blood. I'm Charles and Samantha Blood's daughter,” she says, her tone suddenly aristocratic, tinged with a hint of disdain. “I think Mr. Claypool will want to see me
if
he isn't too busy.”

“One minute,” the Jamaican woman says. She motions for us to sit.

“We'd rather stand,” Chloe says, shaking her head.

The receptionist nods, goes through an inner door to another office.

I look around the office while we wait. “Why does your family use these people?” I whisper. “It looks like they can barely afford their rent.”

Chloe shrugs. “Pa's always used them. His father used them before that. They've always done whatever we needed.”

Virgil Claypool comes through the door, followed by his receptionist. He's even lighter complexioned than she, his face sporting the nonspecific features of generations of intermarriage and the tautness of a recent facelift.

His well-tailored black silk suit, his gold Rolex watch and his three jeweled rings — one diamond, one emerald, one ruby — all contradict the first impression of impoverishment his front office made on me.

“Chloe,” he says, grinning a wide, white-toothed smile. “Your family's women don't ordinarily grace us with your presence. Most often I have to make do with your brother and we both know he has nowhere near the beauty that you do.” He extends a manicured hand to her. “Please come into my office.”

As we follow him into the office, I mindspeak to Chloe,
“How old is he?”

“Derek says he's at least sixty-five and”
— she looks back and grins at me —
“he's the son in Claypool and Sons.”

Virgil's office is as elegant as the front office is bare. The desk is a rich mahogany, the seats leather, the oakpaneled walls covered with pictures of a younger Virgil Claypool playing cricket and sailing on his yacht with his light-skinned family. Other pictures show him posed with various Jamaican politicians — Seaga, Manley and others. A large frame holds an obviously prized photo of Virgil and Bob Marley, both men grinning as if they had just shared a joke. The window behind Virgil's desk offers a panorama of downtown Kingston — all the way down to the harbor.

Virgil grins as I examine everything and then says, “And you are?”

Before I can answer, Chloe says, “This is my fiancé, John Ames. He's visiting from the U.S.”

Claypool cocks an eyebrow, motions for us to be seated, sits himself after Chloe does. “Derek didn't mention you were engaged.”

“John?”
I mindspeak.
“You couldn't come up with a more original name?”

“Live with it,”
Chloe says.

She motions with one hand, as if to wave Virgil's question away, says to the man, “He wouldn't know. Johnny just asked me, a few days after Derek left.”

The Jamaican nods, leans back in his chair. “And how can I help you today?”

“Pa asked us to come by and pick up any news you've received from Derek. He's anxious to hear how everything's going in Miami.”

“I've been anxious to hear from your father. I was worried I'd have to hire a helicopter soon and fly out to see him. You know how much Charles hates to be visited. And there's always a problem of what to do with the pilot when we return.” Virgil chuckles then pauses, looks at me. “Will your pa be comfortable with us discussing all this in front of him?”

“Look at his eyes, Virgil,” Chloe says. “Johnny's family too. My second cousin. There's nothing he can't hear.”

“Of course. Please excuse the suspicions of an old man. Caution, I fear, sometimes gets the better of me.” Virgil opens a side drawer on his desk, rifles through some papers. “Here,” he says, pushing three sheets of paper across the desk. “I'm afraid these are all the faxes I've received so far.”

Chloe scans them, then says, “I assume you've talked to my brother too.”

“Yes.” The man nods his head, smiles. “Not very often, but enough. Fortunately, his people are much better communicators. We're all very excited.”

“About?” Chloe says.

Virgil Claypool's eyes narrow. “The merger, of course.”

“Of course,” Chloe says, “When will it all finally be done?”

“Ian Tindall, from LaMar Associates, is due here in two weeks. Actually, I was beginning to worry I wouldn't hear from your father in time. Please tell him we need his presence here two weeks from next Monday. By then all the papers will be drawn and ready for his signature.”

“I'm sure he'll be pleased,” Chloe says.

It takes all of my self-control to sit still and show no emotion.
“What the hell is going on?”
I mindspeak to Chloe.

“You know as much as I do,”
Chloe says.

“Oh,” Chloe says to the Jamaican, “did Derek mention my nephew Henri? He has him in his care.”

Virgil nods and chuckles. “I think the boy's been a bit of a trial for him. But Derek said to tell your father that they've reached an accommodation. The boy now knows better than to defy him.”

“Good,” Chloe says. “I'm fond of him but I'm afraid he's been very spoiled.”

“Not anymore. Derek was quite specific about the boy learning to behave.”

“But Henri's well?” I say.

The Jamaican frowns at my interruption. “From what Derek has told me, except for possibly a sore rear end, the young man is perfectly fine.”

I want to reach across the desk and grab Virgil Claypool, beat him until he tells me everything he knows about Derek's trip to Miami. Then I want to beat him again for being so blasé about the treatment Henri must be receiving.

Chloe surprises me by standing up. “I appreciate your time, Virgil.” She rolls up the faxes. “With your permission, I'll bring these to Pa.”

The Jamaican nods.

“We need to leave now to make it home by dark,” Chloe says.

My bride ignores me. “I'm sure Pa will be just as excited as you are about the news.”

Virgil Claypool grins. “I know how much Charles has been worried about money. Without the gold he sent me five years ago, I doubt we'd have been able to keep the government away from Morgan's Hole. Tell him, once the merger's done, we'll have more than enough assets to protect his home for as long as any of us can imagine.”

As soon as we leave the building, I say, “Why the hell did we leave? We could have forced him to tell us everything. . . .”

Chloe whirls around, faces me, “And then what? Kill him and his receptionist?”

“Why not? How could anyone trace their deaths to us? No one knows us here. Hell, we'll probably be gone from this island long before the police even start investigating. And killing Virgil would certainly stop any possibility of a merger.”

“And it would serve as a warning to Derek that something has gone wrong here. This way there's a decent chance no one in Miami will know we're coming. Besides,” she says, frowning, her eyes turning moist, “my family needs Claypool and Sons.”

“My son needs me.”

“Damn it!” Chloe stamps one foot. “I'm going to do everything I can to bring us all together. I've chosen you, Peter. I'll love you. If necessary, I'll die for you. But I have no wish to destroy my parents and my brothers. No matter how they've wronged you — they're still my family. Didn't you hear what Claypool said?”

“About the money?”

“That's why they turned on you. They needed your money to survive.”

“If they had asked, I would have helped them. I have more than enough.”

Chloe shakes her head. “Charles Blood never asks for anything. The only thing he knows is to take what he needs.”

“Well, he can't have my son or my wealth.”

“No, of course not. But, Peter” — my bride stares into my eyes and I want to take her in my arms and kiss the hurt away from her face — “they gave birth to me. They raised me. Please don't do anything to make me sorry I married you.”

“Once this is over,” I say, “if this gets over, we'll see what we can do.”

23

At the car, Chloe hands me Derek's faxes and gets in on the driver's side. “I could drive if you want,” I say.

She shakes her head, motions for me to sit on the passenger's side. Having seen how intense Jamaican traffic can get, I'm just as glad to let her cope with it. Chloe's temperament seems far better suited for it than mine.

We drive out of Kingston, neither of us speaking. Chloe, lost in her thoughts and concentrating on maneuvering the Land Rover through traffic, seems not to notice me studying her, admiring her.

She surprised me today. My fault really. I've thought of her for years as the bright, precocious thirteen-year-old I met when I wed Elizabeth. I'd always assumed she'd retain her enthusiasm for human things, her delight in gathering new experiences, but I never considered how she would be grown up, never wondered about the other aspects of her personality.