Intent to Kill Read online

  She looked out into the dusk settling slowly over the veranda. “He mentioned that they need help returning antiquities to Thailand.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Cambodian. Thick hands, longer hair slicked back kind of Elvis style, thin lips. He was maybe a centimeter or two—” She laughed. “Sorry, couple of inches taller than me and muscular. That’s the best I can do.” Her delicate hands rose in the air. “He had questions about you.” She took his hand, stroking his palm. “Your lifeline worries me. You must be careful.”

  “What did you tell him?” He pulled his palm away.

  “Nothing, but I get the impression he thinks you have something that he wants.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Nothing specific.” She smiled. “Other than the reference to smuggling. I’d watch out, Simon.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, another thing. Claire . . .”

  He tensed. “How do you know about her?”

  “This isn’t a big place, Simon. Anyway, I haven’t met her but . . .” She traced a finger teasingly down his arm. “I sense that you’re interested. Watch out for her. I think he’s interested as well.”

  “Does he have a name?” His mind went back to the man who had approached Arielle. The description had his attention, and he hoped he was wrong.

  “Richard.”

  Simon stood up as one hand fisted. “Arielle, stay clear of him. The man is dangerous.” Richard, he thought as his teeth clenched and his jaw jutted. Another character he’d like to see dead. Unfortunately, that desire was dangerous in this business. Control was what kept one alive. Tomorrow they’d arm themselves. The stakes had gone up too much.

  “I’m meeting with him tomorrow,” she replied sweetly and stood up.

  “Sit,” he commanded.

  Twenty minutes later Arielle was looking pale.

  “You may need me for cover,” she said.

  “Definitely not.”

  “You’ve been redeployed, haven’t you?”

  Simon held up his hand. “Enough, Arielle, please.”

  “Fair enough. And I won’t ask any more questions or get involved. Unless, of course, I have to.”

  “Christ!” That was all Simon could think to say. Now there was only Claire, the loose cannon that was in immediate danger.

  Only Claire.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Look, Simon, you’ve got to tell her,” Arun said as they talked by phone the next day. He was again waylaid in Phnom Penh. “The evidence is here. Christ, man, her uncle is Khmer Rouge and worked with Samnang. We can only guess where this is going but we know it’s nowhere good.”

  He looked behind him, where one of the smaller temples of Angkor Wat’s sprawling domain made its presence known over nine centuries after its glory days. Beyond that he could see Claire heading over to a tour bus. Probably more questions. He shook his head. “The story is important to her. Career making. Despite what’s happened, even with this, I’m sure she’ll think that she can ride out the danger.” He clutched the phone like that would solve the problem. In an effort to keep her safe, he’d blown off an afternoon to take her sightseeing.

  He grimaced. Blown off, wasted time, and yet, it had been none of those things. He wanted to be with her. “I’ll think of another angle.”

  “Simon,” Arun interrupted. “Get over it. The story has her rooted here. The hint, the reality, either one has her curiosity in overdrive. She’s not going anywhere. Not . . .”

  Simon glanced up and saw Claire speaking animatedly to a young man near the temple. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  • • •

  After Simon had stepped away, obviously seeking privacy for his phone call, Claire had noticed a bus unloading. Fascinated by the overall age of the senior passengers, she’d considered the human interest story of seeing Cambodia in one’s golden years. She filed that thought for another time and continued to watch the bus unload until all that remained besides the driver was a Cambodian man wearing a T-shirt that marked him as a guide. He stood with his hands in his pockets, apparently enjoying a break from his charges, who now converged excitedly on the temple.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she approached him. “My name is Claire Linton. I’m here to write a story about Cambodia.”

  “A reporter?” he asked in flawless English.

  “Yes. Do you have a minute?”

  He glanced at his group, who milled easily around the site. “A minute, not much more. They’ll be asking questions shortly. All the way from Canada with an average age of eighty—if you can believe that.”

  “Slight exaggeration?” She smiled.

  “Maybe. Hope I have the same spirit when I’m that age.” He smiled easily and his hands slid into his back pockets. “What’s your story? Not how to tour Cambodia at eighty?”

  “No.” Her smile was brief. “It began with smuggling but it seems to have branched out.”

  “Don’t they all?” The young man chuckled. “Of course, my only experience was the high school paper.”

  “Actually I had some questions about the killing fields.”

  The humor slipped from the man’s face. “I’m too young to know much about that. I know the usual stories, the elders talk.”

  “You’ve heard of the accidents—deaths around Angkor Wat lately?”

  The man worried his lip and glanced away. “Of course, it was in the news and I heard rumors.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “I’d rather not say, and besides, it’s preposterous.”

  “Some truths begin like that. I’ve heard modern-day Khmer Rouge myself,” she persisted.

  Even beneath the midday sun, a pallor seemed to reflect in his face. “Many have never seen justice,” he whispered. “I can’t see that it’s possible but . . .”

  “But?”

  “One of my group found the Khmer krama near one of the smaller digs outside Angkor Wat yesterday.”

  “Where exactly?” Her heart pounded at the thought of what that might mean.

  It was seconds before the connection was made and Claire knew. Knew that a red krama had been found at Simon’s dig. A red krama, so tightly tied to the Khmer Rouge, was now tied with Simon. She took a deep breath, trying to collect her thoughts. Why had they left it there—she knew immediately that it hadn’t been Simon but rather someone who wanted the connection known.

  “There have been rumors among many of my friends. They’re guides too. We’ve seen things around these temples lately that . . .” He hesitated. “Well, it’s not normal. Lights at night, flashlights, you know—things like that.”

  He paused.

  “Go on, please.”

  “There’s an older woman that I see around here. She’s a grandmotherly type, a foreigner. Seems to have some strange affection for her purse. I’ve seen her speaking to some of the tourists, young women usually, and in one instance I saw them exchange a package.”

  “A package.” Claire stopped, the pen poised in midair. “Did you report it?”

  “Report what?” The young man frowned. “It was a good-sized package, nothing else. And an old woman who likes to hang around historical monuments, there’s nothing wrong about that.” He glanced over at his group. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “If I want to speak to you again, where do I find you?”

  “Any day, same time.” He smiled. “I’ll be here.”

  “Thanks,” Claire replied. “One other thing. Do you know of anyone else I could speak to?”

  “No one. Not off the top of my head.” The young man shrugged and turned away.

  She watched him go and considered the fact that past and present might be about to collide.

  Simon came up to her. “Who was that?”

  “Guide from the bus. Interesting man.” She frowned. She looked at him, considering if now was the time to ask him about the krama she suspected had been on his site or . . .

  He glanced at his wa
tch. “We missed lunch. It’s past four o’clock. It’ll take us half an hour to get to town. An early supper?”

  The ride to town on his motorbike was quick. She hardly noticed the noise, bumpiness and obstinate jerking. But she did notice his slim waist and muscle-firm back, and the thump of his heart that seemed to match hers.

  “Do you want to freshen up first?” he asked as they arrived in Siem Reap.

  She wiped her dusty brow and took a deep, steadying breath. “I’d love that.”

  “One hour enough?”

  “Sure.” She swung off the bike and handed the helmet back to him. “And I don’t mind walking. It’s a short walk and it’s still light.”

  Thirty minutes later she emerged and he was waiting for her. She smiled without comment and together they left the bike and walked the short way to the restaurant.

  Their meals arrived quickly and this time Claire tried the amok. A traditional Khmer dish, it consisted of a kind of catfish steamed in a coconut curry sauce.

  The mouthwatering meal made for easy and light conversation as Claire focused more on the taste of her food than any questions she might have for Simon. It was only later as they strolled along the sidewalk to her hotel that he broached other topics.

  “So what’s next for you?” he asked, and there was a note of caution in his voice, a warning of something to come.

  “Don’t you already know?” She didn’t keep the accusation from her voice. “You must know all my secrets. After all, you’ve been through my things.”

  “Ah, Claire. Don’t still hold that against me.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  He grabbed her hand before she could walk away and turned it palm up. His fingers trailed along her palm, driving away any attempts at logical thought as sensual thrills spun up her arms and lodged somewhere much more intimate.

  “What’s in Phnom Penh?” he asked even as he continued to trace lines along her palm.

  She smiled. “Finally an admission of guilt, if not an apology.”

  “You write down everything.” It was more statement than question as the tension slipped from between them.

  “To answer your question, a good friend.”

  “And you’re heading there next?”

  “I am. I’ll be out of here anyway.”

  “True,” he said thoughtfully and dropped her hand as they began walking again.

  For a moment she could only feel unsettled. She didn’t want to leave, even temporarily, but the roots of the Khmer Rouge were elsewhere.

  The night’s quiet hum was only occasionally broken by the noise of a passing motor scooter. Her shoulder brushed comfortably from time to time against his arm as they walked. Around them the night air was warm and mellow, and she wished the walk would go on forever.

  But when she looked up, she saw that they stood just outside her hotel. She turned to face him.

  “Look, Claire, I didn’t mean to be heavy-handed when I went into your room. I wouldn’t have done it except, well, the opportunity presented itself.” He hesitated. “I don’t know where your plans for this story will take you and that scares me. People have died for less.” He shrugged. “You know I’d help you in another situation, but as it is . . .”

  She sighed. “If it were just the story, I would consider leaving. I know the stakes have gone up. But it’s everything else, Simon. It’s family.”

  “Your uncle?”

  And she told him in greater detail the stories her uncle had told her, stories of mass graves, of the killing fields and of unspeakable horrors he had witnessed. “So you see, Simon, as you know, it was a genocide that was too briefly in the news, and only in the last few years has attention turned back to it. But it’s not enough. It was Cambodia’s holocaust and I want to put a face on it.” She shivered despite the warm air. “For my uncle.”

  “And the smuggling, the criminal element—the danger?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s part of the story.”

  He took her hand. “Are you sure your uncle told you everything?”

  “What are you suggesting?” They stood beneath a streetlight that bathed the shadows and highlighted the doubt in his eyes.

  “Nothing.” He paused. “You weren’t wrong about the modern-day Khmer Rouge. There’s a small group that have put their stamp on crimes.”

  “The murders of those tourists?”

  He nodded as his attention drifted to the quiet street and then back to her. “Definitely suspect. I really can’t say more.”

  “I suppose I can’t ask for more. For now.”

  “For now,” he said as his lips met hers.

  The kiss melted into the warm tropical night, just as she melted into him. “Would you like to come to my room?” What the hell was she saying? He’d been through her things, he didn’t trust her, he . . .

  His arms tightened around her, his hand at the back of her head. His lips lingered lightly brushing across hers, a gentle kiss.

  Claire found herself deposited outside the door of her hotel room, a final kiss tingling across her still warm lips, and Simon vanishing down the corridor.

  Well, that’s that, she thought. The door shut with a decisive click. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t the type for a brief affair. She would have regretted it in the morning. He had only done her a favor.

  She leaned against the door and jumped as the door thudded and vibrated against her back. Someone was knocking.

  “Who’s there?” she asked, trying to keep fear from her voice.

  “Simon.” The rugged voice was muffled.

  “Simon?” She unlocked the door. “What did you forget?”

  “You,” he said simply and stepped across the threshold, closing the door firmly behind him.

  The space that separated them seemed to pulse with an energy that made her quiver.

  His kiss ended all thought as she was drawn against him, her body pressed against his, her arms wrapped around his neck, her heart beating against his.

  “I wish it were different,” she murmured when they parted. “That we’d met at another time.”

  “The end is never guaranteed,” he murmured against her forehead, as if she’d spoken her doubts about him, about this relationship, about everything.

  She loved that about him, his pragmatic nature. She loved so much about him, including the feel of his lips on her skin, the touch of his hand feathering over her breast as he undid her blouse buttons by feel. She wanted to melt into him. She did melt into him.

  They continued to kiss, fevered, demanding as their hands and clothing flew. Hers, his, the clothing and the hands, mixed and muddled until they were both naked.

  “Simon,” she murmured as her hands tangled in the lush thickness of his hair. His lips trailed down her neck, pressing love bites even as his hands filled with her breasts.

  She trailed her hands over his tanned, smooth skin. And when his tongue teased over her heated flesh she could only moan and rise up, demanding he end the sweet torment now. And with a groan he entered her.

  It was hot and furious, over quickly and begun again just as quickly. Hours later, exhausted, they slept.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sunlight streamed across the bed.

  She was alone. Her body was still sensitive from his caresses. She lingered there for a while before starting her day, remembering the feel of that passion.

  Once she was up and showered, she spent a few hours jotting notes as she surfed the web. There was another article regarding a Spanish tourist who had recently died after a fall near one of the outer temples of Angkor Wat. She jumped as the phone rang.

  “Claire?”

  “Yes?” Her fingers tightened on the phone. She didn’t recognize the man’s voice.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. It’s Sakda.”

  “Sakda?” Claire gripped the phone. Her fingers ached and her throat constricted. Samnang!

  “I was doing business in Siem Reap and I had a colleague at the Riverfront.” He chuc
kled.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Quite the coincidence. I was surprised to see your name on the register. But when I did, I thought I’d call.”

  “Really?” Her tone was cool, her knuckles white.

  “I’m staying just down the street—a short walk away. I’d like to meet for lunch.”

  “I’m not sure.” She stumbled on her words as she analyzed the threat and the opportunity. “I’d rather . . .”

  “Not,” he finished. “I understand. I’m a stranger. But I would like to meet with you. It’s important.” He paused as if unsure. “In the Riverside restaurant?”

  How could she not talk to him? Sweat prickled her palms. Good stories weren’t without risk. And the hotel restaurant was safe enough.

  “Fine, lunch. Twelve thirty, here.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see you then.”

  Less than an hour later she was in the lobby when he strode in.

  “Claire.” Samnang’s smile appeared genuine and his handshake was firm. “I’m so glad we meet again.”

  Her smile was guarded as they settled into deep bamboo armchairs.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to keep the name Sakda in her mind so she didn’t involuntarily call him Samnang.

  “Business, as I said earlier.” His tone was genial.

  “Do you come here often?”

  “Recently, yes.” He smiled and he lifted his thick hands expansively.

  Thug hands, Claire thought as she fingered the cocktail menu, but she noted that his fingers were long and delicate, an incongruous combination.

  “I can’t imagine traveling so far,” Samnang said after regaling her for a few minutes with stories of the sights of Cambodia.