Danger Zone (6 page)

“I don’t see a menu,” Karen whispered to Colter, leaning across the table.

He grinned. “There isn’t one. You just ask for what you want and they tell you if they can make it.”

“That’s original.”

“How about a prawn cocktail to start?” he asked her.

“Prawn?” she said doubtfully.

“They’re like shrimp but they gravitate to warmer waters.”

“Okay.”

He ordered and the waiter scribbled.

“
Y dos melones con carne,
” Colter added.

“That’s like a honeydew, hollowed out with a meat filling,” he explained to Karen. “It’s good—you’ll like it.”

She nodded.

“And for the main course?” Colter asked.

“Scallops?” she said wishfully.

“
Ondas con migas de pan
,” Colter told the waiter. “Breaded scallops, sauteed in butter,” he said to Karen.

“Wonderful,” she said.

Colter ordered vegetables and a main dish for himself while Karen studied the view and, covertly, him. He was very fluent in Spanish, conversing with the waiter like a native, and she wondered how many other languages he could speak as well. For all his cosmopolitan air there was a cert
ain rootlessness
about him that disturbed her; it was as if he worked at remaining aloof and uninvolved, in the world but hot of it.

“So,” he said, when the waiter left, “I guess you got off the boat okay this morning?”

“Yes, but I wondered where you were when I woke up and found you gone.”

“I had things to take care of in town,” he said, “and I knew the embassy people would look after you.”

She wondered if the “things” he had to take care of involved collecting his fee for delivering the Almerians to Caracas. “I have your jacket and that other vest thing in my room,” she said.

“Is that an invitation?” he asked lazily.

“No, I just meant to remind me to give them to you,” she said hastily.

He let that pass, but his intense gaze scorched her, conveying a message he didn’t have to send in words.

The steward arrived with their drinks. Colter took a bite of his lime slice, then licked the salt from the rim of his glass as he took a deep swallow of the liquor.

“Are you from Florida originally?” Karen asked brightly, taking a sip of her wine, desperate to distract him.

“I guess so,” he replied.

That baffled her into silence, but she recovered momentarily and said, “Your parents lived in Florida, then?”

“I don’t know where my parents lived, Karen. I was a foundling and I was raised in an orphanage,” he said flatly.

She stared at him, her throat closing. She could have cut out her tongue.

“I’m sorry,” she finally managed to whisper. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t, and you needn’t look so upset. It was a long time ago. I just thought I’d better tell you up front so we could skip the chitchat.”

“The orphanage was in Florida?” she murmured.

“That’s right. It was the Colter Street Children’s Home in Crescent Beach, Florida, and the janitor who found me in the vestibule was named Steve. Now are there any further questions, or can we get by my tragic past and talk about something more interesting?”

Karen couldn’t think of anything more interesting than his background, but it was obvious that he didn’t want to discuss it. She was saved from having to reply by their waiter, who brought the prawn cocktails. Instead of the red sauce that usually garnished shrimp at home a spicy mustard relish was served with the shellfish, and Karen found it delicious. She looked up from a bite of the delightful dish and found that Colter was watching her with obvious enjoyment.

“Was it the right choice?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, it’s wonderful. What’s in the sauce, do you know?”

He grinned. “I know, but I don’t think I’d better tell. It’s a Carib recipe and liable to shock you.”

Karen chewed with somewhat less enthusiasm and he chuckled.

“What do you mean?” she asked warily.

“Are you sure you want to hear?”

She stared at him balefully.

“All right. One of the main ingredients is clay.”

Karen coughed and put down her fork. “Clay? As in dirt?”

“That’s right, but take it easy. The Indians have been eating it for centuries so I don’t think it’s going to poison you.”

Karen pushed the crystal dish a little further away from her on the table. “You won’t mind if I don’t take that chance, will you?”

He shrugged. “Chicken.”

Karen folded her arms on the table. “Steven Colter, you don’t mean to sit there and tell me you think it’s a good idea to consume mud.”

“You thought it tasted fine until I told you what was in it.”

“That’s beside the point. It can’t be healthful.”

“I’m told the Indians around here live to be over one hundred,” he said in reply.

The waiter came to clear and Karen indicated that she was finished. When the melons arrived seconds later, she surveyed her portion cautiously and said, “Is there anything I should know about this before I eat it?”

“The filling is just chopped beef,” Colter said, smiling. “Nothing that you wouldn’t encounter in your average American hamburger.”

“And the melon? Anything weird involved there?”

“Does it look like a honeydew?”

“Yes, but...”

“Does it smell like a honeydew?”

She sighed.

“Well,” he said, spreading his hands, “you know the old expression; if it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck...”

“All right, all right,” she muttered, taking a bite.

It was, of course, delectable.

“Well? Any shooting pains? Nausea? Double vision?” Colter inquired.

“Very funny,” Karen said darkly.

“I’ll bet you were one of those kids who made your mother cut the crusts off sandwich bread and wouldn’t eat tomatoes unless the seeds were removed,” he said, grinning.

“I am not a fussbudget,” she said defensively. “Any normal, thinking person would object to swallowing stuff that should be part of an adobe hut.”

He shook his head. “You can take the girl out of New Jersey, but you can’t take...”

“Oh, shut up,” Karen said, interrupting him.

They both glanced around as music began behind them. A guitarist accompanied a singer dressed in a long skirt and a colorful off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. She began a tune so laden with sorrow that, even though Karen couldn’t quite understand her, it was clear the song was detailing a ruined love affair or an insurmountable loss of some kind.

“That isn’t Spanish but it sounds familiar,” Karen whispered.

“Portuguese,” he answered quietly. “If you listen closely you can probably make out some of it.”

The woman continued her song. Karen found the mournful notes so disturbing that she sat in silence for several seconds after the singer had finished and retired. The diners applauded politely.

“She’s a
fado
singer,” Colter clarified, when Karen met his glance. “
Fado
means ‘fate.’ They sing about the sorrows of a life ruled by relentless, remorseless destiny man can neither control nor avoid.”

Karen shuddered. “No wonder she sounded so sad.”

“Sad, but true,” he said as the waiter took away the fruit and brought the main course.

“Do you believe that?” Karen asked him soberly. “That we’re all in the grip of some predetermined fortune and have no power over our own lives?”

“Seems that way, doesn’t it?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I’ll never accept that. And I must say it seems a strange philosophy for you to espouse. Aren’t you the man who rescued me from a bunch of terrorists? Weren’t you trying to intervene in my fate then?”

“I was trying to collect a paycheck,” he said harshly. “Don’t confuse the issue.”

“But why do you do it at all?” Karen asked, unable to stop herself.

“What?”

“The mercenary work. Why do you do it?”

“Got to do something,” he answered evenly. “I’m in the habit of eating.”

“But surely you could find another job, a man like you.”

They were staring at each other across the dimly lit table, their food, and their surroundings, forgotten.

“What do you mean,” he said curtly, “a man like me. You don’t even know me.”

“I can tell that you’re intelligent and capable; you don’t have to...”

“Sell myself to the highest bidder?” he suggested.

“I didn’t say that,” Karen backtracked hastily.

“But you thought it. Maybe I like it, did you consider that? Maybe I like seeing the world, being in a different place every couple of months. Can you really picture me sitting in an office in a pinstriped suit peering at a calculator all day?”

“But you wouldn’t have to do that,” Karen protested. “There are lots of jobs you could take without risking your life all the time for money.”

“That’s what bothers you, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “That I risk my life, not for a noble ideal or a country, but for money.”

“You have no loyalties, no allegiance. If you fight it should be for a cause other than yourself, shouldn’t it?”

“If you say so. As for me I’m the best cause I know,” he answered.

He threw down his napkin and stood up. “Spare me the speech, I’ve heard it. Stargazers like you are always full of idealistic jargon. What do you know about anything, anyway? All your life you’ve had your parents, then your husband, and now your sister to hold your hand. Just let me live my way and you live yours.” He turned and strode off the terrace, descending an exterior stairway that took him out of sight.

Karen sat frozen in abject misery, almost at the point of tears. How on earth had their lovely dinner degenerated into such an ugly scene? And when was she ever going to learn to keep her big mouth shut? He was perfectly correct; she had no right to badger him about his choices, and that knowledge did not make her feel any better.

She remained motionless, staring at the flickering candle inside the glass bell of the hurricane lamp, until the waiter came up to her and pointed to the exit.

“What is it?” she said, startled.

“Mr. Colter, he is down on the beach,” he said in English, because she had spoken in that language. “Do you want me to show you?”

Karen hesitated, then nodded. The very least she owed Colter was an apology.

The waiter took her to a flight of stairs that led directly to the strand below the restaurant. Karen removed her shoes and crept onto the sand in her stocking feet, walking toward the shadowy outline of a man she could see in the distance.

Colter was leaning against the sea wall, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the ocean. He turned at her approach.

“I thought you had left,” he said softly, watching her come closer.

“Steven, I’m sorry,” she said hastily, before he could go on. “You’re right. We just met and your career is none of my business. In fact I should be grateful you’ve chosen your line of work; you probably saved my life back on Almeria. Please forgive me.”

He waited so long to reply that she thought he was dismissing her and she almost turned to leave. Then he said quietly, “You know, I didn’t think you would go out with me tonight.”

Karen stared at him. “What?”

She saw the lift and fall of his shoulders in the darkness. “I thought that when I got to your hotel there would be a message saying you were otherwise engaged or something. I was surprised when you answered your door and you were dressed and ready.”

“Why?” she asked softly.

“Oh, we were sort of trapped together on the boat, and you were still scared and eager for company. But I figured once the worst was over you would take stock and realize that you didn’t owe me a social occasion.”

“I owe you my life, Steven,” she said quietly. “So does everyone else who was held hostage in Government House.”

“Is that why you came with me tonight?” he asked quietly. “Out of gratitude?”

“No, of course not,” she said, shaking her head. “Why would you even think that?”

He lifted his hand expressively, and the cigarette he held made a fiery arc against the night sky. “You’re a nice girl. It’s been a long time since I spent an evening with a nice girl, as you may have gathered from my behavior tonight. In my line of work I don’t get to meet too many of them.”

“Who do you meet?” Karen whispered, taking a step closer to him.

He laughed shortly. “Good timers, bar girls, hustlers of various types. The opposite side of my own coin, you might say. A lot of people are quick to make judgments. They regard men like me as little better than whores.” He tossed his cigarette away. “Upstairs I thought you were one of the judges.”

“Oh, Steven, no,” she said, reaching out to him, and in the next instant she was in his arms.

He held her tightly against his shoulder for a few seconds, and over the washing of the surf behind them she heard him say in her ear, “Karen, forget the way I sounded off at dinner. I didn’t mean it. I was just...”

“Hurt?” she suggested, looking up at him.

He didn’t reply, but she could read the answer in his face. He looked into her eyes for a long moment, then bent his head and kissed her.

His lips held a faint taste of salt from the margarita and the bitter tinge of tobacco. They were firm and cool on hers. Strands of Karen’s hair lifted and blew against his face as he pulled her closer, slipping one arm around her and drawing her against his body. His mouth took hers more hungrily as the embrace deepened, and Karen wound her arms about his neck, hanging on him while his tongue probed hers. She could feel the tension increase in his large frame.

Colter made an involuntary sound of pleasure as his free hand roamed down her back, past her waist, forcing her into the cradle of his hips. Karen gasped against his mouth and pulled back.

He released her instantly, turning to the side, not looking at her.

Neither of them spoke as he lit a cigarette. “I guess I got carried away,” he finally muttered. “Do you want to go back to the terrace?”

Karen nodded, glad of an excuse to rejoin the other diners. It was dangerous to be alone with him. They went back toward the stairs and she stumbled trying to walk in the damp sand. Without a word he took the shoes she was holding and put one in each of his pockets, then scooped her up and carried her to the landing.