Touch of the White Tiger (11 page)

I stripped down to my undies and a cranberry satin teddy and curled up on my double bed while the sun set. I watched dust motes dance in the fading skylight until dusk teetered at
the edge of darkness. My house creaked and moaned as it settled for the night.

That’s when I heard Marco’s voice in the garden. The last time I’d heard him, he was savagely betraying me on television.

I sat up slowly, like a snake uncoiling from the center of its body. My hibernation, induced by emotional pain, came to an abrupt end as I focused on the one thing I could control in my life.

There were many reasons to toss Marco out on his ear, but chief among them was the desire to prove to myself that I didn’t need anybody, and I’d sooner reject the one person I wanted most than admit I really was as vulnerable as he was proving me to be.

I don’t remember running down the porch stairs or striding across the garden to where Marco chatted with Mike, scarcely dressed in my teddy and undies. Like in an out-of-body experience, I seemed simply to have arrived. Meanwhile, adrenaline had pumped me up. When I grabbed Marco’s arm and spun him, he felt unusually pliant. I was either stronger than I realized or he was letting me have my way.

“Get out,” I said and shoved his chest with both hands. Marco staggered back, but didn’t register so much as an iota of fear or anger. Not even surprise. He regained his balance and regarded me serenely.

“Hello, Angel. How are you?”

“Don’t you ‘hello Angel me,’ you traitor.” I let hard-boiled rage roll through me like a tidal wave and shoved him again like the aggressor in a wrestling ring. “Come on, you son of a bitch, fight back. I don’t want any of this zenlike psychoanalytical bullshit. You stabbed me in the back today, Detective, and I want you out of here. If you won’t go, then you’d better be prepared to fight.”

“Angel, please do not do this,” Mike said.

“Whose side are you on, Mike? Were you plotting against me with Detective Marco?”

“Of course not. He is helping me find my lost brother. You are not the only one with problems, Baker.”

That stung. Because I was thinking only of myself. I’d promised Mike I’d help in the search, but I’d been too busy ever since Lin had arrived. Was that why Marco was being so helpful? To make me look bad?

“How convenient,” I said sarcastically, “that the good detective comes to advise you in the middle of my murder investigation.”

“Marco has been advising me for weeks,” Mike said in a tone utterly neutral, yet I could still read the indictment between the lines.

I looked back and forth between the men and sensed a bond I hadn’t noticed before. My God, I had been self-absorbed. I had brought them together and thought I was the common denominator, but instead I’d been left out of the equation. Now I could add jealousy to the mix of emotions already seething in my throat.

“You can work with anyone you want, Mike. But not here. Not now.”

“Come on, Angel,” Marco said in a soothing voice as he reached out to give my shoulder a cajoling pat. “You’re not mad at Mike. It’s me you want to throttle.”

I knocked his hand aside and held my own in a praying mantis pose, daring either of them to make a move. “Don’t touch me. I don’t trust either of you. And I don’t need you.”

“Angel—”

“No, Mike, it’s too late. I want you both out of here. My life is hanging in the balance. I can’t afford to be betrayed by anyone. Marco, you get out now. Mike, you have until the end of the day.”

I spun on my heel, enjoying the rush of indignation. But the pleasure faded as reality sunk in. I’d just evicted the best lover and the best friend I’d ever had. But there was no turning back now. As I stomped toward the balcony stairs, certain I had burned my last bridge, I wondered if I could assume something more drastic than a fetal position when I reached my bedroom. Could I temporarily withdraw from the human race? Perhaps induce a temporary coma?

Yes, a coma would do nicely.

A Sigh Is Still a Sigh

“A
ngel!” Marco called. I heard his feet fall on the path behind me and quickened my pace past the beds of ivy and Japanese lanterns that dotted the garden.

“Angel, stop this instant!” Marco’s shouted. The deep, demanding voice penetrated the thick fire-door to my brain. A coil of caution twisted to life in the logical left side—which admittedly wasn’t in control at the moment.
Listen to what he has to say
, my better judgment urged me, but pride controlled my feet and wasn’t about to buckle under the threat of his anger.

I had just about grabbed hold of the wooden stair railing when my body jerked back. My feet momentarily lifted off the slab of concrete as he twisted me around, my arm painfully imprisoned in his grip. I’d never seen Marco this strong—or this pissed.

Throwing my weight into the flow, I regained my balance and landed in fighting position. I lunged forward and punched my right fist hard into his gut, but he tightened his abs at the last moment and curled his back like a cat’s, avoiding the worst of my blow.

“Well done, Detective! I see my kung-fu master has shared his secrets with you as well.”

“Stop it, Angel!” Marco roared.

“Make me,” I countered in one of my less articulate moments.

I swung my left leg up in a roundhouse kick so fast it made a whooshing sound. To my surprise, he ducked. I rebounded with a double punch, fists slamming into his chest, knocking him backward.

“Damn it!” he choked out, arms flailing as he tripped backward over a chair. He stumbled against the big elm that lorded over the garden like an old tree god. I didn’t see him reaching for the tiny but deadly ultrasound saber in his jogging pants as he regained his balance.

The size of an old-fashioned lady’s pistol, the lethal device had a trigger but served the function of a knife, severing significant internal organs without cutting the skin or leaving a trace of evidence. For that very reason, U-sabers were favorites among assassins. You could leave an enemy completely paralyzed and unable to speak with a shot to the cerebral cortex.

Or, if you preferred to snuff out your enemy, a jolt of silent ultrasound could slice open a carotid artery as easily as a surgeon’s scalpel, but without external bleeding. No muss, no fuss. At least for the assassin. If you were caught with one on your person, though, it was an instant no-excuses, ten-year sentence without parole.

Marco extended his arm as he aimed the U-saber, taking wide, steady strides toward me until the weapon’s tiny snout pressed against my forehead. His muscular chest heaved for
breath in the silence. He smelled of sweat, fury, even a hint of desperation. Finally, he had me where he wanted me—completely at his mercy.

“Why am I not surprised by this?” I asked rhetorically, careful to stand very still. I didn’t want his finger accidentally pulling the trigger. “And how could I have been so damned wrong about you? You’re an assassin, aren’t you? Naturally, you have an assassin’s weapon.”

His eyes fluttered as rage swelled in them. “Shut the fuck up, Angel.”

“Too close to the mark?” I asked, unable to keep my bloody mouth shut. “Go ahead and shoot me, Marco. You’ll be doing us both a favor.”

He smiled grimly. “That would be too easy.”

“For you?”

“For both of us.”

For the first time, fear began to pound unsteadily in my chest. I shouldn’t be playing with fire when he had just poured the equivalent of gasoline all around us. Just because I’d made love with this man didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill me. In fact, I’d lay odds that he was planning on it. Pulling this weapon was tantamount to an admission of his true profession. He would have nothing to lose if all his covers were blown.

“Are you going to kill me?” I whispered through my tight throat, afraid to look in his eyes.

“No. I just wanted you to let me talk.”

“Then lower the gun. I promise I’ll be quiet, for once in my life.”

When he did, I heaved a huge sigh of relief and looked around to see Mike’s reaction. He was gone. He’d retreated to his shed. Damn him! Why did he always have faith in Marco? I just didn’t get it.

“Angel,” Marco began, shaking his head as he searched for the right words, “I’m not an assassin. I never have been.”

I crossed my arms, my body language more than adequately expressing my doubt.

He tossed the weapon on the ground. “I picked that up earlier today when I made an arrest.”

“Do you always pocket the contraband that you apprehend in arrests?”

“Okay, I didn’t make the arrest. It was my cousin. I just frisked him, confiscated his weapon and sent him home.”

“How comforting. Did you also pat him on the head and give him cookies and milk?”

“He’s family, Angel.”

“And that makes it okay to be an assassin? Is Vladimir Gorky family, too?”

“No.”

His face went intriguingly dead, and I sensed I was close to the heart of what made this elusive man tick. “What exactly is your relationship with Gorky?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I most certainly do. I also want to know why you betrayed me in that television interview.”

“I was speaking for my committee, Angel. I didn’t say anything in public that I haven’t already said to you in private. My opposition to your profession has nothing to do with you.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Even if I had wanted to mince words, it would raise suspicion in the police department. You need me on your murder case.”

“Oh, yeah, you’ve done wonders for me so far.”

His eyes glinted with a suppressed smile. “You’re damned stubborn, you know that?”

I suppressed a smile in return. “Thanks.”

He reached out and ran his fingers through my hair, spiking it up on top. “There. You can’t look too tame. It would ruin your reputation.”

I endured the coiffing with a stoic frown, refusing to acknowledge the delicious tickling sensation his touch sent cascading down my arms.

Satisfied, he crossed his arms and regarded me with perplexity. “You know, Miss Baker, that you’re being awfully one-sided in this whole matter.”

“How so?”

“Don’t I get any credit for the good I’ve done in my profession?” He loomed over me with a dangerous
I want to make love
look. He cupped a cheek, brushing my moist lips with a thumb.

I gently but firmly pulled his hand away. “Which profession would that be? Psychologist? Cop? Assassin?”

He wasn’t listening. He focused with unusual intensity on my mouth. Now cupping both cheeks, he dipped his head down, kissing me softly, almost reverently, like a bee paying homage to the flower. Could an assassin kiss this tenderly? I wondered. Or was kissing this tenderly just part of his cover?

His hands skimmed down my shoulders, arcing down my silken teddy until they reached the small of my back. His electric fingertips inched beneath the waistband of my low-rise briefs, hot against my flesh. That sizzling gesture brought all my senses to a peak and my breathing went shallow.

I
so
wanted him to reach lower and cup my derriere, but he was tantalizingly circumspect. I was practically panting. What more invitation did he need? Could he doubt my desire? It was possible. So I gave him a kiss that left no questions unanswered.

He groaned appreciatively, then pulled away, seemingly unable to take any more.

“Ah, you’re good, Angel Baker. Very good,” he murmured
in my ear as he intimately lifted one of my arms over his shoulders, then the other. “But let me ask you something.”

“Yes?” I said breathlessly. I wrapped my arms tight around his neck and nuzzled against his square, whiskered jaw. “Ask me what?”

He reached under my loose teddy and ran his hands slowly up my sides. They molded over my ribs until they cupped my breasts. Lifting, he kneaded the full flesh in his warm palms, thumbs rotating erotically over the beaded nipples, all the while eyeing me intensely. “What profession do you think I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know,” I said on a moan as I tossed my head back and dug my nails into his shoulders.

“Is there anything I could do to make you stop wanting me?”

I shook my head, heedless of the moral implications. I had to tell him the truth. If he didn’t make love to me now, I’d go mad. “No. I want you. I thought I’d made that more than clear.”

“You want me no matter what?”

“Yes, damn it.” I gripped his head in my hands and glared at him. “What do you want? A signed affidavit?”

Chuckling deeply, he cocooned me in his arms and fused to me with a hot, deep kiss. He kissed with his whole body, including his slowly rocking pelvis and a hard-on that wouldn’t quit, straining like a tent pole against his thin, military green jogging pants. It was a heady experience. The musky scent of him alone was enough to make me drunk, like a sniff of potent brandy.

Marco was all over me in his uniquely skilled way—caressing all the right curves, laving all the right indentations, scratching my tender skin with his five-o’clock shadow, then soothing with his tongue. I didn’t want to know how many women this man had made love to. I was just grateful he was putting all that practice to good use on me.

Finally,
finally
, he reached down and slipped a hand inside my briefs, inching down until his skillful touch found the swollen, moist firecracker that was ready to explode. He smiled as he began to rub.

“I believe you do want me, Angel Baker,” he murmured in my ear. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

“I’m gla—” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. My own personal Fourth of July fireworks exploded in early September this year, and it was well worth the wait.

“Give me a whiskey,” Marco said two hours later to the bartender at Rick’s Café Americain, the reality bar down the street from Angel’s two-flat.

“We have a special on Vivante tonight, sir,” the polite, neatly dressed man behind the smoky bar said. Marco couldn’t tell if he was a compubot or an actor. Either way, he looked like the bartender in the movie
Casablanca
. “Every Vivante is a double tonight, sir.”

Vivante was a clear alcohol engineered to assume the taste of whiskey or any other liquor that Marco cared to imagine. But somehow he doubted it would burn his throat enough to suit him tonight. He aimed to get seriously drunk, with all that that entailed, including the punishing hangover in the morning. So he was more than willing to pay ten times the price for the real thing.

Marco pulled out a paychip and slapped the small square plastic on the counter. “Thanks, but not tonight. I want your best. And leave the bottle.”

The bartender turned to his rows of old-fashioned liquor bottles—there was Black Jack, Beefeaters, and Glenlivet. He returned with an amber-colored bottle, uncorked it and poured two fingers of the powerful liquid into the glass. Marco lifted it to his nose and inhaled. The scent nearly scorched his nostrils.

“Perfect.” He raised the glass in a salute. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure, sir.” The bartender reached for the paychip, but a strong and graceful hand interceded, gripping his wrist.

“That won’t be necessary,” came a familiar, unsentimental voice. “Detective Marco’s money is no good here.”

Marco looked up at the Humphrey Bogart compubot that had just spoken. Angel called him Bogie, but the patrons knew him as Rick Blaine. Every night Rick and Ilsa Laszlo, played by an Ingrid Bergman compubot, played out various scenes in no particular order from the classic 1940s film. The bar and restaurant perfectly replicated the movie’s sultry and tense setting in Nazi-occupied French Morocco, which was the backdrop to their doomed but noble love affair.

“Whatever he drinks is on the house,” Bogie said to the bartender.

Marco tossed back the whiskey in one shot, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “I can afford it.”

“I know you can. That’s not the point,” Bogie replied. He added in an unemphatic, rat-a-tat rejoinder, “Look, Detective, I think we understand each other rather well. I don’t like you and you don’t like me. But I like to think we respect each other. And we certainly respect Angel Baker.”

Marco poured another three fingers of whiskey. He’d only spoken with this compubot once before, when Angel was flirting with it to make him jealous. Marco had thought it was absurd and said so at the time. Angel had thought Marco was being rude to the compubot, which was even more absurd.

“You’re right,” Marco said at last. “I don’t like you.”

Bogie gave him a tight, short smile and pulled a cigarette from a flat holder in his tuxedo jacket. He offered one to Marco, who shook his head, then lit up. Compubots were exempt from the antismoking laws.

“But I don’t dislike you, either,” Marco added. “I have no feelings for a mechanized computer that has no feelings.”

Sam, a robust, black compubot, began to play the piano and sing “As Time Goes By.”

“I had feelings for Angel Baker,” Bogie said morosely. “But she ended our affair. For you.”

Marco slanted him a grudging look. Compubots didn’t need sleep, and this one had moonlighted after hours as Angel’s lover. Nice of him to rub it in.

“Right now she has Jimmy Stewart in her apartment,” Marco said morosely.

Bogie’s tough-guy demeanor melted momentarily as he registered surprise. “You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not,” Marco said with an ironic smile. “But I don’t think we have much to worry about with him. He’s…disabled.”

“Rear Window?”
Bogie asked.

Marco nodded.

“Poor sap. He’s got to get another gig,” Bogie replied. He took a long drag on his unfiltered Turkish cigarette. “Detective, I can tell you still have feelings for Angel, too. You just won’t admit it because old-time heroes don’t talk about their feelings. Am I right?”

He was right about Marco’s feelings for Angel. The way she’d given herself to him tonight had reminded him just how human he was. That he needed love, and his life was empty without it. Angel was unlike any woman he’d ever met. She accepted him, though her instincts knew better, asking so little in return. She was willing to risk it all for him. But if he gave her the one thing she needed most—commitment—she’d be forced to learn everything about him, including his past. And the reality of that would be far worse than anything she’d imagined so far.