The Doll Brokers (26 page)

“Huh?” She looked at him as if she'd forgotten he was there. “Oh—nothing. Emeril Lacey just wants us to know that your mother is not concerned.”

They walked another block and a half before Jonathan said, “Ann, what happens to you personally if Hart Toy folds?”

“I'll have let down the one person who matters most to me.”

She said it without hesitation or guile. And Jonathan found himself believing her. But that wasn't the point he was making. “Could you get another job?” he asked.

“I don't know. Probably. But it wouldn't be the same.”

He cocked his head quizzically, listening for more.

“Felicia taught me this business. I wouldn't be comfortable anywhere else.”

“What I'm trying to get at here is that you're not likely to go personally bankrupt any time in the near future. Nor is my mother. You'll both survive if there's a crash.”

“Financially, maybe. But emotionally?”

He ignored that. “Charles Ling has a lot more to lose—or gain, as the case might be. Think what you know about the working class of China.”

Ann had a sudden, vivid flash of one of her first trips to Hong Kong with Felicia. Edmund Chow had taken them to one of his factories. She remembered traveling a dirt road that led to a cramped alleyway. The air had smelled of desperation. Too many people jammed helplessly and hopelessly into tiny dwellings. The ‘factory' had been housed in one of those, with wooden, unpainted support beams, and gaping windows void of glass. At least a dozen people—men, women, crying children—bellied up to a table like thirsty drunks in a bar, fingers plucking, snapping, flashing, as pieces of plastic came together. The image of a stoic, arthritic old woman forcing her hands to cooperate, soundless tears streaming down her
cheeks, flashed through her mind. The sweltering heat in the room had been unbearable.

Ann doubted that Charles Ling was in those dire straits—and she realized that working conditions had vastly improved since then—but she got Jonathan's point. If they were desperate to find him, he must be just as desperate to find them. But would he even know where to look?

“I'm not going to claw him out of one cent,” she said quietly, “not because of our own misfortune, not because we're already down a million-five.”

“No,” Jonathan said. “I don't want that either. If we find him, then we pay him what we were willing to pay Chow.”

All this talk was making Ann anxious to talk to Felicia. She looked at her watch. Thirteen hours difference meant it was 9:30 the night before in New York. She punched numbers into the cell phone and Felicia answered herself, sounding groggy. “Okay, get rid of the male strippers,” Ann said lightly, wondering if Cal was still feeding her medication. “We need to talk business.”

“Ann?” A confused pause. “Are you back home, dear?”

“No, I'm still in Hong Kong.”

“Is Jonathan there?”

Ann frowned. Felicia knew they were making this trip together. “Yes. Would you like to talk to him?”

“I've been so worried,” she fretted. “I've been trying to reach him.”

Ann's heart cramped. “He's fine, Felicia. We're working to straighten this mess out, remember?”

“Sidney's here,” she said by way of response.

“Who? Oh—” Greenspan, Ann remembered. Jonathan had said something about him dropping by for phone duty.

“He says to tell you—wait.” Felicia seemed to move her mouth away from the phone for a moment. “He says he told you so. And he called our doll a nasty name. Oh, Sidney, really,” she chided.

She was absolutely vacant, Ann thought. The Felicia she knew would never wander through aimless conversation when important business was at hand. “Can I speak to him?” Ann asked suddenly.

“To Sidney? Of course.”

After a moment, Greenspan's voice ricocheted into the line, a roar that pinged and echoed. Ann held the phone slightly away from her ear.

“She doesn't sound good,” she said to him. She felt Jonathan shift his weight quickly, suddenly, beside her.

“Old girl's got some miles in her yet,” Greenspan boomed.

“Does Cal have her sedated?”

“The doc? Been here, gone. He should be back in a couple of hours. Want me to have him call you?”

That probably meant yes, Ann thought—but Felicia hadn't caught on to it yet. “Please. In the meantime, do me a favor. If you get a somewhat lucid moment with her, tell her that the Hong Kong authorities are not proceeding with the charges against Patrick at this time. They just want him for questioning.”

There was a pause. “I'll tell her,” Greenspan said. “Is there anything else?”

“No. Thank you, Sidney.” She disconnected.

“Felicia sounded horrible,” Ann told Jonathan. “Cal must still be slipping things into her drinks. She forgot you were here, then she didn't remember she wanted to talk to you.”

“Maybe she knows I'm in good hands.”

Ann was about to comment when she felt Jonathan's fingers at the nape of her neck, kneading out tension there. In spite of all the reasons not to, she leaned back with a soft groan and let herself enjoy it. “Stop it,” she said in a small voice.

“Here's what we're going to do,” he said, ignoring her protest. “We're going to grab a bottle of champagne from the bar and celebrate.”

“It's mid-morning. And there's nothing to celebrate.”

“Not yet there isn't. But my intuition tells me there soon will be. We can hit the pool at the hotel,” he went on. “They'll probably have a Jacuzzi or whirlpool, or something good like that.”

“You want to blow off the rest of the day?” Ann straightened away from his hand reluctantly.

“We'll have the phone with us. Captain Tang said he'd call us before the day is out.”

“I don't have a swimsuit.”

“We could use the tub in my room.”

It rolled over her in a slow ache. Needing. Wanting. Wishing. “Try again.”

“All right. I'll buy you one.”

“A tub?” she asked, purposefully dense.

“A swimsuit.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. Why would you need one anyway?” His face was deadpan.

They arrived at their hotel and Jonathan led the way inside.

I'm going to do this
, Ann realized.
I really am.
She was going to drink champagne in the middle of the day and probably end up in bed with him. But she'd never been swept away in her life. Mad Dog had seen to that when he had taken what she had never intended to give. So sex had always been a difficult decision for her. And it was the same now, but the decision was somehow accompanied by an unfamiliar sense of elation.

Jonathan guided her to the gift shop, pausing at the rack of swimsuits. “What's your favorite color?” he asked.

Ann focused on him. He was standing at a skinny rack of bikinis. “White.”

“Won't work. You're too pale.” He paused. “I know. Blue.” He pulled a suit off the rack.

Ann grabbed it out of his hand. “I'm paying for it,” she said.

“You're not going to try it on first?” he asked.

“If it's a size six, it'll fly.” She wasn't going to be in it long anyway, she thought giddily. And her pulse quickened. She paid and headed towards the lobby, clutching the bag as Jonathan made for the elevators.

“Last chance to weasel out,” he said, grinning back at her over his shoulder.

“If I did, would you leave me standing here like an idiot?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I'd come back for you.”

J
onathan watched her push through the door to her room. A flash of common sense intruded on his thoughts and erased the image of Ann in the blue bikini. If there was any chance of stopping it, now was the time. Was this a mistake?

It would—beyond a doubt—be utterly complicated. And there would, most certainly, be some kind of fall-out. From Pat, from his mother. They would know. His chemistry with Ann would inevitably change, their mark on each other lingering long after their goodbyes.

Then there was the issue of Matt, he thought. Flames, death, bitterness and broken promises. All that should matter, too. But it didn't. Why? He would leave the answer to that question until tomorrow … or the day after.

Jonathan went on to his own room. He found gym shorts—good enough—and he changed. Then he called down to room service for a bottle of Taittinger.

After the champagne was delivered, he stepped into the hall at the precise moment Ann came through her own doorway. He expected to see that blue bikini and nothing else, but she wore white cotton drawstring pants and a short red top over it. Her blond hair was loose now. Her eyes seemed clearer.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice remarkably mild.

In response, she headed for the elevator and pushed the down button.

They exited at the bubble-domed pool area, looking for the hot tub room. The first door they opened revealed two men with Buddha bellies in a sauna, sweat pouring off them. Jonathan muttered something apologetic and backed out.

The second door led to the steam room, air thick with eucalyptus. Inside there was a brunette in a black thong bottom and a top that wouldn't quite hold her. Ann closed that door faster than Jonathan had closed the first.

Third door. Nowhere left to go. She eased it open.

The hot tub was empty. For the moment, anyway. Ann sat down and put her feet in the water.

Jonathan couldn't keep his eyes off her. Those long, long legs. Yellow-blond hair spilling forward, hiding part of her face. Hands clasped together in her lap. The tiny swatch of blue bathing suit barely covering her breasts. The suit fit. Well.

He closed the door behind him and—eureka—it had a lock. Privacy, he thought. He turned the knob and waited for the audible click.

She looked up, her eyes the color of a cloudless sky. “You forgot glasses,” she said.

He looked down at the bottle of champagne in his hand. “Ah. Right. So sorry.”

One corner of her mouth curled.

It hit him with almost debilitating force. He had never wanted a woman more than he wanted Ann right now. Maybe it was the month of teasing that had created such a rush of anticipation. Or maybe the sense of taboo. Or was it the memory—a tall, pretty girl walking away from him on the beach, her long skirt gathered in her hands, making him feel randy and grateful that she would not exchange vows with his brother.

Somehow, Jonathan managed to maintain his dignity and took his place beside her. He put the bottle between them and dropped his legs into the scalding water, wincing at the shock of it.

Ann picked up the bottle and poked a fingernail into the wire mesh holding the cork.

“I'll take that,” he said, and snagged the bottle from her hands.

Her eyes went pale and wide.

She was in an evident state of panic, he realized. The best thing would be to give her no time to think. He adeptly popped the cork, tipped the bottle and slugged from it. Then he poured a splash straight down her cleavage.

Ann gasped at the cold. Her eyes skirted to his, slid away, came back. It was all the time he needed to put the bottle down and lean into her.

She thought he was going to aim for her mouth. She was ready for that. In some murky inner place, she knew this had pended for far, far too long.

That was why there would be no finesse, she thought. No gentle playing. Just something finally breaking free. And she could handle that.

His mouth slid over her collar bone, diving to her breasts. Ann knew one moment, one nearly shattering moment, of terror. Then it was gone. Her fingers were in his hair, holding his head against her, and she thought no more at all.

His tongue found her skin, sliding where the champagne had flowed. Then it traced over the edge of the bikini top, hot, rough, licking, teasing. Ann felt herself sliding off the edge of the tub, into the steaming water. He went with her, then he brought his head up.

She saw his eyes through the fog rising off the surface. She told herself not to look. She had to close her own eyes and go with this in some deep internal place. That way it would be safe. But he never did anything the way he was supposed to. Nothing
in the kind of order she could categorize. And he wouldn't let her hide.

“Ann,” he said. “Look at me.”

She moaned and opened her eyes. Then his mouth finally took hers. His kiss was nothing like before. This was hard and devastating, pushing her lips apart so she'd meet his tongue. Just when she thought they would play at that for a while, she felt his thumb at her hip. He dragged at the scrap of blue bikini bottom. Down, strangling her thighs.

Ann told herself to get this back onto ground she was used to, where she was in control. But she felt herself kicking the bottoms off frenziedly, her own hands moving all the while, plucking and tugging at the shorts he wore. Suddenly frantic. Hurrying. Now, now, now, she thought.

Now, right now, need screamed inside her. For an immediate sense of fullness. To have him there, where he belonged. They floated together until her back was against the edge of the tub. She lifted her legs and wrapped them around him. She felt him probing, almost gentle at first. Then with a sound like his soul was being torn apart, he drove into her.

They sank beneath the surface.

Breathing was the furthest thing from Jonathan's mind. He moved inside her, because that was pure instinct. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer still. Too soon, too suddenly, she arched backwards and came. And he thought that if he lived another fifty years, he'd forever see the bubbles rise from her mouth, forever hear her soundless cry, as her eyes flew open then closed, as she floated back to him, connecting one more time.

R
age was alive inside Vincent when he rapped his knuckles against the apartment door. Frustration was an animal that moved just under his skin, with painful scales and vicious claws.