Shadow Play (5 page)

Chapter Three

Night was coming, presaged by a blinding orange sun piercing a fragmented wall of clouds to the west. There would be rain by midnight.

Sarah stood on the veranda, watching the sea turn from blue to violet to gold in the space of minutes. She listened for the sound of Kan's footsteps, her every muscle tense with anticipation.

Where was the American? He was half an hour late.

She paced.

She must have been insane to believe he'd accept her invitation to dinner. She must have been crazy to extend such an offer after the fiasco of last evening. But Morgan Kane was her only hope. Somehow she had to convince him to go to Japura Her future depended on it.

While in London she had fine-tuned her coquetry to an art, plying it just enough to titillate the imagination with perhaps a flick of her skirts to expose a flash of ankle, or a tip of her chin so that she peered at her admirer through the fringe of her lashes. But only so much charm could be expended on a man like Kane. One had to tread carefully where

ne'er-do-wells were concerned; the game could be- come dangerous. Americans were not noted for their
savoirvivre.

Kane was a hero to the natives of this country. Even now her own servants were scurrying about as if in preparation for royalty. Kan had dressed resplendently in the uniform he wore for state dinners, a green coat with scarlet facings and lapels. A crimson sash fit snugly about his flat stomach. The effect was somewhat diminished by the heavy black hair spilling over his shoulders and the large hoop ring dangling from his left ear. But all in all, he looked rather dignified. The women, on the other hand, could be heard giggling and whispering in the hallways. Even they had taken pains with their appearance, donning their finest uniforms and adding beads and flowers to their hair. However, much to their displeasure, the menservants vowed to banish the maids to the kitchen the moment Kane arrived.

He was, after all, the
boto.

Upon first learning from Kan of the American's infamous reputation as the mythical lover, Sarah had scoffed. Surely these people, who had lived under Great Britain's influence for a hundred years, had grown beyond such superstition. Yet she'd discovered that customs died hard among the people she had grown to love and respect. They believed in the
boto.
They revered it in every way imaginable, down to selling its potent powders in the marketplace. For a very high price one could purchase the left eye of the pink dolphin. Dried and grated into a woman's food, it was believed to make her mad with desire. The left eye socket of the
boto
could be shaped into a ring which, when a man viewed a woman he desired through it, made her immediately attracted to him.

Only once in a century did the
boto
actually leave the sanctuary of the Amazon River and take on human form. When he did, no maiden was safe on the streets at night. One look in his eyes and her body and soul were his.

Frowning and thinking of Morgan Kane, Sarah couldn't imagine him seducing anyone of rational sensibility. Then she recalled her own quickened pulse when she'd watched him make love to the beautiful, exotic woman the night before. Surely her body had responded as it had because of the forbidden thrill of secretly witnessing such a private, passionate act, and not because she found him remotely appealing.

Not in the least.

She didn't care for sweat and unshaven faces, or brooding lips and eyes. His body was too hard, his skin too brown, his hair too black. She preferred fair men like her fiance" ... blond hair, blue eyes...

"Missy Sarah."

Startled, she spun around. Kan stood at the veranda door, his eyes intense as he watched her.

"He has come," he said quietly.

She didn't speak. Her heart was racing too fast.

"Shall I show him here?" Kan asked.

She nodded, unable to release her breath until Kan had disappeared. Only then did she notice how quiet her surroundings had become. The maids had stopped their tittering. The night creatures had ceased their whirring. There wasn't a hint of a breeze. Even the air seemed to crackle with anticipation as she awaited the American's arrival.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned against the low wall surrounding the veranda and steeled herself for their confrontation. The sky had grown dark. She wondered if the light streaming from the house was adequate enough to display her gown. She had prayed for her father's forgiveness when she'd replaced her mourning, garb with a lavish creation she had purchased in London for a dinner honoring her engagement to Norman. In it, her ice-blue satin bodice, tiny waist, and soft, slender, flower-wreathed shoulders rose up out of a crinoline skirt of ivory gros de Naples with an overskirt of gauze trimmed in white and swagged at the back in a bustle adorned with bouquets of pink primroses.

Her gold curls were adorned with more primroses, and be- hind her right ear she had fixed a miniature orchid. Every- thing had to be perfect if she was to succeed at her plan.

Briefly she closed her eyes, until she heard a noise. She turned toward the house.

He moved into the doorway and stopped. The outline of his body was as detailed as a silhouette, the light from behind splashing over his broad shoulders and momentarily blinding her. She threw up her hand and blinked. When she looked again he had not moved, but stood as still as the banyan tree at her back. One knee was bent in an arrogant show of masculinity, throwing his hip slightly off center.

"Mr. Kane?" For a moment her question hung in the air.

He did not respond, but stepped onto the porch, disappearing and then materializing from the light as if by magic. She shrank toward the wall as he stopped before her.

"Mr. Kane?" she repeated, stunned by his heart-stopping image.

He smiled. It wasn't an altogether pleasant smile, but his voice remained level. The drawl that she had detected the night before was now more pronounced.

"Miss St. James."

"You came."

"So I did."

"You're also late."

"So I am." He smiled again and shrugged. He handed her an orchid whose silken petals were beaded with moisture. "A peace offering," he told her.

Her cheeks warmed. Accepting the flower, she twirled it in her fingers while she moved away and did her best to collect her thoughts. This could hardly be the same man who had so rudely and indecently accosted her the evening before. Gone was the stubbled beard; the stench of whiskey, cigar smoke, and sweat. The man was immaculate in white linen. The only thing slightly out of place about his appearance was the fringe of black hair spilling over his brow.

"I'm happy you could join me," she said.

"So am I."

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. It was inexcusable."

He leaned against the wall and his suit coat spilled open, exposing a white silk shirt. He gazed out past the banyan leaves to the ocean beyond. The hard smile on his mouth told her that he didn't, not for a moment, accept her apology. "This invitation to dine wouldn't have anything to do with your trying one last time to convince me to go to Japura, would it, Miss St. James?"

A gust of wind blew in from the sea and drove a swirling cloud of dust across the veranda. It ruffled Sarah's hair, and she shivered. The shiver, however, had more to do with the mesmerizing vision the American made standing half in and half out of the dark than with the breeze. She could not seem to take her eyes off him, and the silly idea occurred to her that she was acting like a woman bewitched. Her mind cried out its shame over her response—what decent woman would feel this way in a man's presence?—but her body was suddenly a stranger to her, frighteningly eager to believe in the tales of this legendary lover, to experience—

"I must confess, sir, that I had hoped to discuss the matter rationally. I fear that, in the throes of my grief, I acted hastily and unduly harshly during the course of our conversation."

"Conversation? Was that what it was?" His lips formed a lazy smile. "I've seen two scorpions go at each other with less vehemence, Miss St. James."

"Yes... well..." She cleared her throat and forced her- self to look away. "If you'll excuse me, I'll check on dinner. In the meantime, shall I have Kan bring you a drink?''

"Whiskey would be fine."

Nodding, she quit the veranda, putting the American at a safe distance behind her. She was standing in the hallway staring at the flower in her hand when Kan joined her.

"Dinner is served," came his voice, dragging her thoughts back to reality.

"Very well. Please see Mr. Kane to the dining room. I'll join him in a moment.''

"Is something wrong, Missy?" he asked.

"No." She shook her head, laughing silently at the lie. When Kan didn't move she faced him again. His eyes were black as jet, his mouth a stern line. "I'm fine—just a little shaky, is all," she assured him with a smile and placed a hand on his arm. Only then did he leave her to get her guest.

She fled to her father's office.

Why had she run and closeted herself with her memories when her last hope for survival stood waiting for her on the veranda? Because—dared she admit it?—she felt afraid.

She was not accustomed to dealing with men like Kane. One look at that dark face and she felt overwhelmed. She was skilled at banter and innocent flirtations with gentlemen of her class, but this American knew nothing of etiquette. He wasn't even gracious enough to pretend he didn't know her reason for inviting him here.

There must be some other way.

Again she imagined herself writing her fiance and explaining the circumstances of her father's indebtedness, then again dismissed the idea. It simply wouldn't work. The letter would take weeks to reach Norman, and besides, even a hint of scandal would send the Sheffields into a panic.

Twisting her hands together, she walked the length of the room. Around her, crates were piled toward the ceiling, each packed with her father's belongings—all she had left of his life and achievements. Already plans were in motion to place the furnishings in a warehouse where they would await shipment back to England. And for what? Even these meager articles would be gone as soon as the investors learned of her father's bankruptcy.

She had no choice.

She must convince the American... somehow.

The night was hot and still, the silence interrupted only by an occasional rumble of thunder that tinkled the crystal prisms of the chandelier overhead. They ate without conversation. Sarah could not find the courage to bring up the subject of Japura\ and the American seemed content to drink his whiskey, pick at his food, and study his surroundings at length.

He appeared most interested in the portrait of Sarah that hung on the wall behind her. He would stare at it for minutes, then watch her for such an excruciating long time that it made her uneasy.

When it became apparent that neither of them was particularly hungry, she suggested that he might prefer to finish his drink on the veranda, where it was cooler. He agreed, asked Kan for another whiskey, and escorted her from the room.

Even out of doors there was little relief to be found from the pressing heat and humidity—or the tension that was mounting between them. The American still refused to speak, just stood at the veranda wall and watched a spot of light from a ship on the horizon. He reached into his coat and withdrew a cigarette, slid it between his lips, then dug for a match in his pocket; he struck it on the wall. Sarah watched the yellow light dance upon his features as he cupped his hands around it and touched it to the cigarette. His brows drew together as he threw back his head with a heavy exhalation; then he tossed the matchstick into the darkness, looked at her, and grinned.

"Isn't it about time we get down to business, Miss St. James?"

She sat on the edge of her chair, as stiff as marble.

The American laughed and leaned one hip upon the wall ledge, allowing his leg to swing

back and forth. His hand rested on his thigh, cigarette apparently forgotten for

the moment. "You want me to risk my neck to go back into Japure and confront King."

She remained motionless, her body tense, her eyes captured by the hand on his leg. It was brown and long-fingered, a hand capable of strength and gentleness. Suddenly she recalled him caressing the woman the night before, first roughly, then tenderly.

"Miss St. James."

She turned her gaze to his.

"I believe you were about to make me a sizable offer to go to Japura\" he said.

"Sizable?"

He flicked the butt of his cigarette with his thumb, spilling ashes to the floor. "A journey involving such risks would demand a sizable prize."

"Such as?"

A shaft of dread sliced through her as one corner of his mouth tipped up in something just short of a smile. His eyes grew darker, shadowed by his lowered lashes.

"That would depend," came his quiet reply.

"On?" She wet her lips and wondered if Kan was close by.

"Some rewards are richer than money for a man, Miss St. James."

"Just what are you asking?" she said.

"What's it worth to you?"

She looked at him without flinching. "Everything I own."

"Everything?" The smile flashed again. She yearned to slap it from his face; then, recalling the sting of her palm against his cheek the night before, she felt hot. She glanced at the punkah overhead and longed for a hankie to blot the dampness from her brow. She wished she'd never set eyes on Morgan Kane kissing that woman with his tongue. It made her flustered and confused and angry every time she thought about it. The very idea was indecent. Imagine a woman allowing such a thing.

Hands gripped in her lap, she took a deep breath and released it slowly. In a voice that sounded level and deter- mined, she said, "Name the price, Mr. Kane. But I must warn you, I haven't much money. There is little left beyond the furnishings you see here. Perhaps I can sell some of the silver pieces—they are quite old, I think—but most of the furniture belongs to the government. We have a town house in London. Those furnishings will bring a nice sum, but that would take a great deal of time..."