“Calm down,” he said in a tightly controlled voice. Kash bit the inside of his cheek. Her righteous nonsense had worn thin. “At the moment I don’t care whether you’re an angel or not. Unless you’re damned good at surviving in the wildest section of one of the most notorious cities in the world, you need me. A woman like you wouldn’t get far on the street.”
She shoved him again. “Read my lips. I don’t need your help. Leave.”
“I don’t like violence. Or naive stupidity. Stop it.”
Rebecca had never struck a person in anger before, not even as a child, but she drew back a fist and punched him in the chest. It wasn’t a coy tap; it was a roundhouse slug, and it made a deep whump.
Santelli’s reaction was fast, so fast that she guessed he had trained reflexes that could have easily warded off her punch, if he’d wanted to. He sprang forward, encircled her in his arms, and flattened her on the bare gray mattress. Her feet dangled on the floor. One of his went between them, accompanied, farther up, by his leg. She felt his knee settle between her own, at the mattress’s edge. The rest of him lay intimately on top of her.
His face was livid. She glared up into his eyes and was frozen by their intense emotions. Their directness mesmerized her.
“You are not as tough as you think you are,” he told her, speaking in a low, fierce voice. “And regardless of whether you despise me or not, I’m the only help you have right now. You can’t wear your respectable little Sunday-school manners like a badge and assume they’ll scare off the rest of the world.”
She writhed under him, but his weight held her down. “I don’t need this kind of help.”
“You may not have noticed, Ms. Brown, but you’ve got a female body. That alone is enough to get you in serious trouble in this part of Bangkok. Unfortunately, your particular female body is attractive and comes with a pretty face. There are plenty of men who’d pay to have you on this bed wearing nothing but your exceptionally smooth pink hide, Ms. Brown, and they wouldn’t care if you wanted to be here, or not. They wouldn’t even care if you were conscious. You’re in luck, because as unpleasant and dastardly as you think I am, I’m not that kind of man. But believe me, my annoying, ignorant Ms. Brown, I know all about brothels and what happens to people in them. Now will you quit fighting me and cooperate in getting yourself out of here?”
She felt muscles straining in her neck. She realized that she had bared her teeth at him. He’d nearly reduced her to snarling, like a cornered cat. Her violent reactions to him frightened her a little. Rebecca licked her lips and tried to speak in a calm voice. “I’ll do anything that will keep you from mashing me to death or giving me another lecture.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
He let go of her abruptly and, breathing lightly, rolled off her and sat up. She frowned at him thoughtfully as she sat up also. She put a clammy hand over her torn dress, picturing the red marks his shirt buttons must have pressed into her breasts.
“Here,” Santelli said, now using a gruff, sympathetic tone. She refused to acknowledge him as he unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. He draped it around her shoulders. Wordlessly she grasped the sides and pulled them closed. Her gaze was drawn rebelliously to his bare chest. It was no less beautiful than she’d imagined—golden and muscular, with fine, curly black hair. She looked away hurriedly, even though she knew her staring had been obvious.
“It’s perfectly all right,” he said quaintly. “You can admire mine, since I’ve already admired yours.” His tone was so exaggerated that she broke into a weary laugh. He lifted one of her hands to his chest, held it flat against the furry, warm surface, then pushed it away dramatically. “Stop that,” he said deadpan. “Stop, or I’ll scream.”
She laughed again and, bending forward, put her head in her hands. The laugh trailed off into a hiccup, then a soft sound of distress. He stroked her shoulder.
“I only want to meet Mayura Vatan,” she said doggedly. “If I have to hire my own bodyguard, I will. You can think whatever you want to about me. I don’t trust you any more than you trust me. But if you really had nothing to do with this incident tonight, then I appreciate your getting me out of it.”
“How did they hurt your neck?”
“They tore my necklace off.”
“Do you have any idea why?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” She slid to one side to avoid him, then pushed herself off the bed. Standing shakily, she remembered through a dull fog of shock that they’d tossed her purse in one corner. She stumbled and braced her hand on the wall as she bent to retrieve it. It was empty; she thought of her passport, traveler’s checks, and wallet, the extra battery for her hearing aid, her small notepad with its sketches of Thai scenes, her Thai phrase book. For the first time she felt alone and helpless in an alien place. “It’s all gone,” she said in soft anguish. “Everything that makes me feel safe is gone.”
Sickly pinpoints of light burst in front of her eyes. She stumbled. Abruptly Santelli was in front of her, picking up the purse. He took her firmly by one arm as she straightened.
“After what you’ve been through, you’re allowed a little wooziness,” he said.
“I’m not a fainter, just a stumbler. Stumbling is part of my personality.”
“You’re good at it, then.”
“Let go of my arm.”
“You’ll fall down. I’d rather you not pass out in this particular establishment. Have a little class, Ms. Brown. Pass out in a better grade of brothel.”
His teasing was unexpected and absurdly effective. Her head cleared a little. “Brothel is such a quaint, old-fashioned word.”
“There’s nothing quaint about it. I can be blunt, if you want.”
“No need. I’m well aware of what goes on in places like this.”
“Oh?” He was holding her up with his grip on her arm but also with his throaty, taunting tone. “How would you know?”
“Even in Iowa, we’re hip to decadence.”
“Hip to decadence? I think not, Ms. Brown. You haven’t the faintest idea.” She blinked at him. “Bad choice of words,” he amended, frowning. “Don’t faint.”
“I’m not a fainter, I told you.”
“As soon as your face is more pink than white, I’ll take you outside.” He gently pushed her against a wall. She leaned gratefully. “Breathe. Slowly.”
Rebecca focused on his face, but looking up at him only made her head swim. He was one tall, gorgeous mystery, and she was going crazy trying to decide how dangerous he was. Her gaze flicked past him to the lurid wall paintings.
“Well, something is making you pink again, thank God,” he said sardonically. Following her line of vision, he glanced over at the wall. For several seconds they studied the paintings in silence. She was too numb to be embarrassed, titillated, or even disgusted. “Some of those positions look uncomfortable,” she heard herself say. “And I suspect the proportions are all wrong.” She didn’t believe her own mouth, but she must be speaking, because he shot her a startled look.
He cleared his throat and said solemnly, “Exaggeration makes for good erotica but bad self-comparison.”
“Exaggeration makes for a big ego.”
“There are some large egos in these paintings, then.”
“Male egos,” she said dryly.
“Yes, these were probably painted by a man.”
“This is a man’s place,” she agreed, looking around. “The women are only property.”
“This is not a man’s place,” he corrected, with an odd edge in his voice. “It’s where the filth of the world settles to the bottom. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
His vivid distaste for the brothel struck her as respectable. A man who disliked brothels couldn’t be all bad. Some compliment, she thought grimly. Still, she voluntarily wobbled along beside him up a hallway where Thai women—some of them no more than girls—peeked out of doorways. Some wore only panties, and a couple wore less than that. Rebec
ca couldn’t think of anything better to do, so she smiled at them and nodded politely. They smiled and nodded back. “You’re an extraordinarily friendly person,” Santelli said drolly. “None of them would have lifted a finger to stop what was happening to you.”
“They’re afraid. I can see it in their eyes. They probably do what they’re told.”
“You’re right. I’m impressed with your intuition.” He added silently, And your compassion.
“You never accused me of being callous, remember? Just naive and stupid.”
“You must be feeling better. You’re recovering that wicked Iowa wit.”
Outside, in an alley strewn with garbage, he guided her toward a large dark sedan of some European make. Rebecca took a deep breath of hot night air and stopped. “What makes you think I’ll get into that car with you?”
Two well-dressed but disheveled Thai men rounded a distant corner in the alley and came toward them. Rebecca took a wary step back. “They’re my assistants,” Santelli said quickly. “Relax.”
“They’re big enough to be Sumo wrestlers.”
“Sumo wrestlers are Japanese, not Thai.”
“They should move to Japan.”
“Please get in the car. You can’t wait on the street for a taxi. You’re in one of the seediest sections of the city. I’ll take you back to your hotel room. Look, Ms. Brown, I’ve already passed up my chance to ravish you, so put your mind at ease.”
“Around you? Forget it.”
“The lady has a sharp wit, but she’s leaning toward the car. A good sign. Look, her feet are moving when I push her a little. She refuses to speak, but she’s agreeing to my wishes. For once, she’s cooperating. Amazing.”
By the time he finished badgering her, he had the car’s back passenger door open, and she was wearily nodding her consent. It hardly seemed likely that he’d saved her from something treacherous just to harm her himself. At least, not tonight.
When she was seated on the plush cushions, he leaned in and brushed her bangs back from her forehead. Rebecca shot him a rebuking look, but it faded when she saw the admiration in his eyes. Quickly he pulled his hand back, and his eyes became shuttered. “I’ll be right back,” he told her. Then, adding a slight, mocking smile, “With my Sumo wrestlers in tow.”
When they arrived at her hotel, one of Bangkok’s modern, Western-style high rises, she sighed with relief. For the moment her notions of adventure were dulled with the knowledge that her life was tangled with that of Kashadlin Santelli, a man who’d made her feel furious, afraid, excited, and safe—all in the first day she’d known him. After covering his torso in a loose cotton undershirt he’d borrowed from one of his assistants, he accompanied her to her room with the calm, confident air of a man who considered the day pretty ordinary. For someone such as him, it probably was.
Her head throbbed with fatigue, and each time she glanced at Santelli during their walk down the hall to her room, she had the light-headed sensation of whirling in place. She was involved with the most exotic, intriguing, but antagonizing man on this or any continent. Her exhausted mind sluggishly tried to understand him, and failed. Even her vivid imagination failed her. She struggled to picture what might happen next between her and Santelli. Probably full-scale war.
But when she stepped into her room and flicked on the light, he was the one who cursed softly on her behalf, expressing the shock that left her speechless. Dresser drawers hung open. A chair was overturned. There was no sign of the clothes or other belongings she’d left scattered around the room.
The absurdity of the day’s bad luck made her give a short, anguished laugh. “Pardon me for asking, Mr. Santelli,” she said finally, “but did you have me robbed?” Kash looked heavenward and simply shook his head. She nodded. “I’m going to take a big leap of faith and believe you.”
Kash put a hand over his heart. “The world just stopped turning,” he said, deadpan. “Oh, how can I ever thank you for this honor?”
“Do you believe in fate?” she asked, staring up at him glumly.
“Yes.”
“Then I think you’re stuck with me. I’m not budging until I find out who did this.”
He sighed grandly. “You’ve sealed your destiny.” The words rang true to him, more than he’d admit.
Three
Kash fought a strong desire to put his arm around her. Whatever her deceptions, right now she was undeniably forlorn as she walked to the center of her room. Turning in a slow circle, she pointed to the neatly made bed. “I left my satchel there with the pictures of my father inside.” Then she gestured at the top of the sleek, contemporary dresser. “My green scarf was there. And a little jade Buddha I bought from a street vendor.”
With his shirt hanging on her slender body like a tent, and her glossy brunette hair raggedly pushed back from her ashen face, Kash could believe she was a harmless, helpless tourist, and a very innocent one. He subdued the sentimental idea and reminded himself that he had a lot to learn about her before he’d consider giving up his suspicions. Her story about being Mayura Vatan’s half sister had no supporting evidence, plus Mayura’s five aunts and uncles had provided Kash with photos and letters of the British officer who had been Mayura’s father.
“Ms. Brown?” he called softly. She was so distracted that she didn’t hear. “Rebecca?” he amended, liking the gentle sound of it.
She lifted surprised eyes to him. “Yes?”
“If the men who kidnapped you and did this to your room work for the Nalinat family, it’s a point in your favor. You’re obviously not spying for them.”
“Oh? So instead of accusing me of spying on Mayura Vatan, you’re now just accusing me of being a con artist who wants to wrangle money from her?”
“We’re making progress, at least.”
Kash frowned as he watched Rebecca walk woodenly toward the bathroom. He stopped her and went in first. It was empty. When he waved her in, his discovery must have shown in his face, because she mumbled, “Don’t tell me they took everything in there too.” He could see her distressed blue eyes focus blankly on the marble vanity top.
Kash took her gently by one arm. “Come and sit down. I’ll order something from room service. A stiff glass of milk, or whatever an Iowa minister’s daughter claims to like.”
Emotion brought a flush to her cheeks and made her eyes glitter. Her expression shifted with the myriad feelings passing through her. He couldn’t read them, but was fascinated. Looking down at her with increasing appreciation, he caught his breath. And for the first time since he’d met her—had it only been earlier that day?—he couldn’t ignore the desire that coursed through him, tightening him even now.
Suddenly he realized that she was searching his eyes, probably trying to find out about his emotions. “You really didn’t have anything to do with this?” she asked grimly. “I mean, what would be the point of stealing my toothbrush? Or cartoons and old photos?”
“Perhaps you’re less ordinary than you think. But no, I didn’t rob you.”
“Exactly what were you planning to do to me, then? Or rather, what are you planning? What happened to your big, bad threat from this afternoon?”
He studied her in exasperation, but kept a cool mask on his face. “I assure you, if you cause me or my client any trouble, you’ll regret it.”
“Would you do something worse than this, or use a different kind of torture and intimidation?” Sarcasm cut through her voice.
“Really, Ms. Brown, we villains prefer to keep our strategy to ourselves.”
“What could be worse than this? Being beaten up? Sold into slavery? Forced to eat liver and onions? I really hate liver and onions.”
“You don’t seem too worried about my intentions.”
“I’m not certain why you’re playing Sir Galahad, that’s all.”
He gestured toward his hooded eyes and tawny skin. “Sir Galahad? There’s nothing English about this face.”
“Exactly where are you from?”
> “Virginia. I have what’s known as a Tidewater southern accent. Very old and proper. Why, don’t I look as if I belong among the magnolias and the peaches?”
“No, you look like you belong in a desert tent with your harem. Or in a pagoda with your concubines.”
He laughed shortly, a little stunned by her perception—not the harem and concubines part, but the cultural connection. “My mother was half Egyptian and half Vietnamese. My father was an American Army adviser assigned to Saigon before the Vietnam War started. I was told that he was from New Jersey. And obviously of Italian heritage, with a name like Santelli.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. Whether she approved of his mixed heritage or not, he couldn’t tell. “You never knew him?” she asked.
“No.” The reasons behind that weren’t something he cared to discuss. He’d already told her more than he revealed to most people. Worse, he couldn’t believe that he’d so easily confided personal information to her, a woman he hardly knew.
He closed his hand around her upper arm and tried not to be distracted by the firm, sleek feel of it under his shirtsleeve. “Why are we standing here chatting like two accountants who’ve just met at a singles bar? You’ve been robbed of everything you own. You should be weeping and tearing your hair out—something I, as a typical villain, could sneer at.”
“There’s nothing typical about you. If I’m not hysterical, it’s because I’m not the hysterical type. I tend to become stubborn and make dumb jokes when life gets rotten. And when I’ve got a decision to make.”
“What is that?”
“I’m going to call the Bangkok police and report everything that’s happened to me today. Then I’ll call the American embassy. Your name will figure prominently in everything I say.”
“I love compliments.”
“Don’t count on them, bub.”
He motioned toward the other room. “Can we sit down and hold a civilized argument?” He glanced around. “I never conduct important discussions in boudoirs smelling of cinnamon bath soap. Very interesting, though. Do you think of yourself as a cinnamon bun, a cookie, or a steaming cup of hot, spiced cider?”