Paradise Burning Page 6

  To allow a woman to drive was against the law’s of nature. As his feet thumped the hard-packed dirt road back to the old house in the woods, Karim Shirazi no longer bothered to restrain his disgust. Women did not belong behind the wheel. Look at the female at the gate—driving down a private road clearly marked, “Private, No Trespassing.” Indeed, women were fools. She’d sat there, staring at him. At a man. Like some low-class whore in a marketplace.

  Had she no shame, no fear? Did she think a few steel bars would stop him if he chose to challenge her? To ask why she could not read? Why she was sitting there, making no effort to run away?

  Perhaps—Karim’s scowl lightened, grew speculative—perhaps she was looking for a job. He had not been rude like the American female—he had not stopped and stared—but he had looked. And, no, she would not do. Too old, too . . . ordinary. And any woman who could drive a car was much too independent for his purposes.

  So what was the American female doing there? Invading his territory? Was she lost? Or merely snoopy. If the latter, he would have to check into it, find out who she was. Security—that’s what they paid him for. And Karim Shirazi was good at his job.

  “Have you heard anything about a safe house on the other side of the river?” Although Mandy’s tone was casual, she kept a sharp eye on Peter’s profile as he accelerated into the fast-moving traffic on I-75.

  Peter didn’t so much as blink at the odd question. “If I’d heard about it, it wouldn’t be very safe, now would it?”

  “Well, it’s the only reasonable explanation I can think of for the man I saw over there this morning.”

  “How so?” Peter’s response reflected her own attitude, calm and cryptic, but Mandy knew she’d caught his full attention.

  “He was Middle Eastern, possibly Iranian. Unlike anyone I’ve seen in Golden Beach. Like a lighthouse pulsing with energy in a sea of pale-faced senior citizens.”

  “How the hell could you tell if he was Iranian?”

  “Well . . . I spent a week there once. At least I think that’s where I was. No one ever told me.” That got a reaction, Mandy noted with satisfaction as Peter’s knuckles whitened around the wheel.

  “Jeff would never let you anywhere near Iran.”

  “It was mother actually. Daddy was in Argentina at the time.”

  “Shit!” Though ejected through tightly clenched teeth, the word echoed satisfactorily between them. Peter, angry on her behalf, was a novel experience.

  “Are you sure it was Iran?” Peter prodded. “Not even Eleanor . . . I mean the damned country’s on the Interdict list.” Peter’s unfinished thought confirmed what neither was ready to say aloud: it was within the realm of possibility that Eleanor Kingsley had placed AKA’s reputation and profit margin not only above the laws of the U. S. but above the welfare of her only child.

  “I assumed that’s why we went the long way round,” Mandy agreed calmly. “I read enough Cyrillic to know I was switched from Aeroflot to a chartered LearJet in Tashkent.”

  “Tashkent. You mean the Russians were in on it too?”

  “The Uzbeks. The Russians are history in that part of the world, remember?”

  “You must have been some place in what used to be Soviet Central Asia, Mouse.” Peter Pennington at his most positive. And patronizing. “Baikonur, maybe. Not Iran.”

  “I’ve been to Baikonur, Peter. And Samarkand. And Cairo. Believe me, the men were totally different.”

  “You noticed?”

  “I noticed.” What did he think she was? A nun? Just because she lived like one . . . “When the men look like they just stepped out of illustrations in some ancient and exotic Persian text,” Mandy purred, “believe me, I know I’m not in Kansas.”

  “It must have been a great week.”

  “Oh, it was,” Mandy confirmed, matching Peter’s sarcasm. “They threw this black tent-like veil over me the minute I got off the plane. Every time I sat at the keyboard, I had to hold the damn veil in place with my teeth. And when I wasn’t working, I was in this really ugly tin shack with three women who didn’t speak a word of English. I mean, you’d think they could have at least provided the comforts of a harim—a little cool tile, a fountain, gardens, maybe a eunuch or two . . .”

  Peter cut her fantasy short. “Did it ever occur to you they were probably trying to protect you? Keep people from knowing you were American? Or maybe just shielding you from all those men you had to work with? Those sinfully exotic types who might consider an unveiled woman fair game?”

  Peter’s jaw tightened. Even in profile Mandy recognized his mulish look at its most intransigent. Her breath hissed out between her teeth. “No, I never thought of that,” she murmured. And she hadn’t. She’d been so angry at having her international adventure turned into solitary confinement that all she had thought of was finishing the job and going home.

  “I still can’t believe Eleanor let you go to Iran.”

  “Danny was down with the flu, and I was the only other person who could handle this particular assignment. When I guessed where I was, I assumed it was a case of the enemy of my enemy is my friend. This was several years ago—before the nuke problem sent things downhill. I figured we were probably giving Iran one of those off-the-record, under-the-table helping hands. I mean”—Mandy shot Peter an anxious glance—“I don’t think even Eleanor would involve AKA in something treasonable.”

  For an awful moment silence hung between them, then Peter gave an abrupt shake of his head. “You’re right, she wouldn’t. It was probably one of those left-handed government things. God knows I did enough of them myself.”

  Mandy scowled at the Florida scenery zipping by outside the car window. She had to say it, even if it sounded absurd. “Peter?”

  “Um?”

  “You don’t think I stumbled onto a terrorist cell, do you? I mean, an eight-foot security fence with barbed wire is pretty extreme.”

  “Too obvious.” Peter, always so sure of himself.

  “Right.” Mandy heaved a sigh.

  Peter, driving a steady seventy in the left lane, passed an eighteen-wheeler. “Okay, I admit your Iranian is definitely weird—we’ll need to check it out—but at the moment I have to brief you on the interview.”

  “You’ve located a brothel,” Mandy ventured. “Oh, goody.”

  Peter winced. “Not quite, but the power of your perspicacity constantly amazes me.”

  “On second thought, I’d be a fifth wheel in a whorehouse. Really cramp your style.”

  Peter exited the interstate, braking at the stoplight that marked the road into the heart of Manatee Bay. What aspect of the truth was least likely to keep Mandy from making a fast exit and calling a taxi to take her home? “You’re my protection, Mouse. If I went alone, the ladies might figure I was out for more than an interview.”

  “You’re actually interviewing hookers?”

  “You got a problem with that?” Silence. “Look, Mouse, I figured if I was going to investigate forced prostitution, I had to have first-hand knowledge of the whole field, so I made a few calls . . .”

  “You set up dates with whores,” Mandy stated flatly.

  “Sort of,” Peter mumbled. “I paid them twice the going rate just to talk.” He shot Mandy a quick look. “Just talk, Mouse. They seemed happy enough to have an hour’s rest, but . . . I suspect one of the girls is spinning me the tale she thought an author wanted to hear, or maybe her story is the standard issue she feeds her johns. And the other girl . . .”

  Peter stumbled to a halt. How could he tell Mandy the other girl hadn’t wanted to talk at all? That she’d taken one look at him and developed a sudden enthusiasm for her job? “She–uh–didn’t work out. She wasn’t much of a talker.” Maybe he should explain that she was stoned. Which had the distinct advantage of being the truth.

  “More into action, right?”

  “I declined,” Peter ground out. “Politely, of course. Anyway, I decided I needed to change my approach. Maybe arrange a nice lun
ch, have a female accompany me . . . you know . . . someone who might be able to negotiate the maze and separate truth from fiction.”

  And provide protection for the great Peter Pennington. If Mandy weren’t so annoyed, and just a wee bit possessive—okay, jealous—she might get a good laugh out of this. Amanda Armitage of the Boston Brahmin Kingsleys was about to have lunch with a hooker. Eleanor would have a fit.

  “How many?” she demanded.

  “Today? Three. The girl off the streets, a dancer from a topless club, and a girl from an Escort Service who’ll probably be as mad as you are that I invited a ho.”

  A topless dancer, a girl from an Escort Service, and a street whore. For a moment Mandy pictured a hidden camera video with tape she could send back to headquarters. Look, mom, it’s me! She turned her face toward the passenger window to hide a grin. “I’m not mad. Just . . . a bit surprised,” she told Peter, making a valiant stab at nonchalance. “Actually, it’s considerably more interesting than hovering over the interlibrary computer screen with the reference librarian.”

  Mandy didn’t question how Peter was able to produce the key for a spacious apartment above a downtown restaurant whose food quality was attested to by the number of lunch-hour patrons standing in line out on the street. Adventures of this nature took plenty of know-how and bundles of cash, and Peter Pennington had an ample supply of both.

  As they went through an anonymous door to the left of the restaurant’s plate glass window and trudged up an equally bland staircase, Mandy wondered what they would find at the top. Somehow she had gotten the impression that living above a business had gone out with black and white movies. Then again, what did a girl raised in a brownstone across the street from Harvard Yard and a sprawling estate in the Massachusetts countryside know about the real world?

  Peter turned the key in the lock, threw open the door. “Voilà, Madame.” He waved her in ahead of him.

  Ah . . . nice. Comfortable furniture in bright Florida colors. Ivy drooped from white plastic pots hanging in front of two large southern windows. An eclectic collection of posters splashed against cheerful yellow walls in a surprisingly attractive mismatch of angles and colors. At the far end of the room a dining table with a daffodil yellow tablecloth was set for five. A centerpiece of fresh flowers—yellow, gold, and white—hovered next to a cheeseboard barely visible under a pristine white napkin. Two bottles of wine jutted up from a silver bucket filled with ice.

  Once again, Peter Pennington at his adept and tasteful best. The apartment was attractive, but not so elegant it might intimidate the women who had been invited to lunch. It also provided privacy far beyond anything offered by a restaurant or a hotel suite. Mandy choked over a vision of a parade of hookers wandering into the luxurious lobby of Manatee Bay’s internationally famous waterfront resort hotel. She had to give Peter credit. Although some of his plans tended toward the Machiavellian, this time he had demonstrated sensitivity as well as good taste.

  He’d even remembered to bring along protection. Namely, a wife.

  Was this, perhaps, why he had recalled that he had one? How many interviews had he planned?

  Oh-oh. Mandy stared at the pass-through into the kitchen. The empty, foodless kitchen. “I see why you brought me,” she quipped. “Lunch for five on the count of three. Sorry, I left my magic wand at home.”

  Peter took his time getting his state-of-the-art recorder out of its case. He had always enjoyed bandying words with his Mandy Mouse. Flashing insights and ideas, humorous one-liners, irreverent comments on everything from the latest international debacle to why Danny and Lisa had never made it legal. Brilliant words, silly words . . . sometimes just treasured moments of nothing more than the companionable silence of two people who were so perfectly attuned they didn’t need to fill the void with static.

  But not this kind of sarcasm. The Mandy of old hadn’t had a cynical bone in her body. Until she met Peter Pennington. Until he’d tossed away everything AKA had done for him. Including a young, sensitive, gifted wife. Not that he hadn’t tried to take Mandy with him. He’d been Eleanor Kinglsey’S fair-haired boy, the stud hand-picked to carry on the line. But when he’d wanted to take Mandy away, Eleanor had turned vicious. Had she been protecting her baby or AKA’s most talented technoferret? For whatever reason, the CEO of Armitage, Kingsley & Associates had had enough vitriol to spew out over the whole organization. Peter left. Mandy stayed. And developed a tongue all too much like her mother’s.

  “I pre-ordered lunch,” Peter finally responded. “When the girls are all here, we call downstairs, and that’s it.”

  “Fine.” With an exaggerated sigh of relief Mandy sank down onto a sofa covered in a sea of flowers so brilliant they almost hurt her eyes. “Tell me, am I merely a chaperon, or do I get to ask questions?”

  “Be my guest.” Peter gave a negligent wave of his hand. “If you want to expand your horizons, learn a new trade, that’s okay by me.”

  “Shoes pinching a bit this morning?” Mandy inquired sweetly.

  “Damn it, Mouse! I wish I had one of those chadors so you’d have to hold it in your teeth. If this is the new you, let me tell you I don’t find it attractive . . .”

  Peter broke off as the doorbell sounded, hastening across the room to buzz the visitor in. Mandy debated whether or not she should stand up to greet their guest, opted for slinking farther down into the bower of flowers. Curiosity, however, sparked in her gold-flecked green eyes, overlaid with a lingering glint of belligerence. She’d been reading real life hooker stories, courtesy of the local library. The idea of Peter and hookers did not sit well at any time, but after what she’d read . . .

  Mandy’s spark of hostility faded into oblivion as she took in the vision in the doorway. Dejection swallowed her whole. Not all the pizzazz of her new wardrobe, not all the cosmetics in the world, would ever make her look remotely like the gorgeous creature whose confident professional poise flashed into dazzling come-on mode as soon as Peter opened the door.

  Escort Service, Mandy assessed, trying not to wince. This was the kind of girl demanded by men of discriminating taste. And whether businessmen, tourists, or retirees, the citizens of Manatee Bay tended to have standards as high as their pockets were deep. If it was possible to sink any farther into the sofa’s comfortable pillows, Mandy would have done it.

  The young woman—probably in her late twenties—was tall, though not as awkwardly tall as herself, Mandy judged. Perfectly layered blond hair fell below her shoulders, dangling artistically over a turquoise linen dress short enough to reveal shapely legs that seemed to go on forever. Her makeup was flawless, her purse small and tasteful. So small, Mandy thought sourly, if the girl had sense enough to carry condoms, she must have taken them out of the box.

  “I’m Jade,” the young woman pronounced. Suddenly, her eyes moved past Peter to Mandy. Her smile disappeared. There was no doubt Jade had spotted a menace. “I don’t do threesomes,” she announced, her lush voice hardening into steel. “And if you get your kicks from watching girl on girl, you can forget it. I don’t do kinky.”

  Mandy came off the sofa in one swift move, cutting off Peter’s attempt to explain. Every jot of her stern professional training was drowned in shock, distaste, and a hot wave of pure female jealousy. “That’s sick!” she spit out, fists clenched. “How dare you imply . . .?”

  ”Man-dy!” Peter groaned.

  She never took her eyes off Jade who was just standing there, poised, glamorous, sexy as hell, and, worse yet, now faintly amused. Mandy ground her teeth. Trust Peter to find a bimbo, however superior.

  “Now look, ladies . . .” Peter cajoled.

  “Miss Missionary Hooker,” Mandy mocked. “Sorry, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Men don’t pay for what they can get for free. They go to hookers for what they can’t get at home. Stick to straight sex and you starve.”

  Since Jade was wearing four-inch heels, she managed to look down on the tall, thin girl with the high society clothes and old
money face. Who did the bitch think she was? “I can, and I do,” she asserted, standing her ground against what she now saw was the thing she most despised—a woman born to wealth and privilege. A woman who’d been given it all without having to soil so much as her little pinkie. Hell, she bet the silly bitch was giving it away to Mr. Gorgeous. If he liked ‘em lean and lanky.

  Jade’s pale blond hair flew in an arc as she tossed her head. “Men like uncomplicated, girl. No courtship, no obligation. I do straight sex two afternoons a week, That’s all I do, and I make more than any of my frumpy little neighbors with their you-have-to-wear-a-slip-to-work nine-to-five jobs.” A smirk crossed Jade’s classically beautiful face as she added the coup de grâce: “And I don’t do drugs. I’m saving for my kids’ college education.”

  Mandy actually felt the rigid lines of fury in her face dissolving as her quivering balloon of righteous indignation deflated. Every instinct screamed that Jade was telling the truth. Mandy had to face the fact that Jade was beautiful enough men would pay just to be seen with her.

  But if Jade had children, there was probably a husband. Did he know about his wife’s afternoons as a high-priced callgirl? Mandy tucked the question away for later.

  “This really is just lunch and an interview, Jade,” Peter was saying to the accompaniment of his book-signing smile. “And, as I promised, at twice your going rate. No one goes into the bedroom unless you have to powder your nose.”

  “Honey,” Jade drawled, giving Peter’s cheek a little pat before seating herself on the sofa as far from Mandy as possible, “not even straight sex has to be done in bed.”

  Once again, the doorbell rang. Mandy felt Peter’s palpable relief, which matched her own.

  Jade shot to her feet as the new arrival entered the room.

  “I don’t do anything—not talking, eating or fucking—in the same room with some ho off the streets,” she declared.

  Chapter Five

  The newcomer—no more than sixteen or seventeen, Mandy guessed—struck a pose, slender dark hands silhouetted against lime green spandex that hugged her hips and stopped just south of the arrest line. A cloud of black billowed about a round face slashed with eyeshadow that was too light and lipstick that was too bright. Shapely legs shone deep chocolate between the lime green ultra-mini and an elaborate pair of sparkling white patent leather boots. Mandy realized, with sudden insight, that the girl had made a special effort to dress for the occasion.