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Intent to Kill Page 7
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Page 7
“Yeah, some plan,” Simon growled. “We don’t have much time.”
“Probably right.” Arun’s tone was grave. “It’s the best we can do. Samnang has shaken up the game. Look, for one, Samnang isn’t going by his real name. For two, he’s holed up in Bangkok. And Ella Malone, his right-hand man, or woman . . .” Arun laughed dryly.
“Is here,” Simon finished. “What the hell is going on? Samnang was supposedly gathering forces here but we had to follow him back to Bangkok. That’s the intelligence head office has?”
“Oh, and don’t forget Claire.”
“How can I?” Simon sighed.
Arun laughed. “Use your charm, lover boy.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“A little romance wouldn’t go wrong right now. Carry on where you left off. Better than chasing her away.” His laugh was dry. “On second thought, you might want to rewind to that kiss.”
“Are you nuts?” And even as he said that he knew what Arun suggested was exactly what he wanted to do and exactly what he shouldn’t.
“How important is bringing it all home? Making this mission a success? You know . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Arun, this isn’t Mission Impossible.”
“No? Then it isn’t you who agreed to go in for the second time? You, caught hiding in the middle of nowhere waiting for the smoke to clear. No.” He chuckled. “Maybe that was someone else. Maybe . . .”
“This is impossible. I can’t do it.”
“She’s under your skin.”
He could hear Arun’s chuckle even after the connection was severed and his attention was caught by glossy mahogany hair in the crowded street that was converging on the open market. Her dress seemed to shimmer around her slim body and her hips swung in a subtle, provocative way. Simon’s gaze locked on her until she was again lost in the crowd.
He waited all of two minutes before getting up to follow Claire.
“Damn it!” He berated himself as he strode through the crowd in the direction she had gone. He didn’t do holiday romance. He didn’t do romance at all unless he meant every overture he offered. He’d offer friendship. That at least would be true and no one would be hurt.
Who was he kidding? He wanted to keep her safe, never let her go, and he was terrified that one might preclude the other.
Chapter Twelve
Open-faced wood stalls lined the dirt track that served as a road into the market. Everything except the produce was gray with dust. Claire breathed in the earthy taste of humid tropical air laced with dust and spiced with the scents of unknown delicacies barbecued on open spits.
“Pork’s delicious.”
The voice was bone-tingling familiar. The camera slipped from her hand, caught only by the wrist strap. She swung around and blinked once in the sun’s glare. The glorious stomach-rumbling smells were overridden by his presence, by the fresh spice of the soap he must have recently used.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” The words flew from her mouth and she immediately regretted them as they were words of defense, not welcome. “Simon, hi. I’m sorry. I . . .”
His hand brushed her wrist and it was all she could do not to draw closer. She pulled a strand of hair back from where it had fallen from her ponytail. She looked up and met his mellow gaze and her heart seemed to skip and skid.
“Are you going to try it?” he drawled.
“What?” she asked. Her head whirled and for a split second she was weak-kneed. The crowd? The heat? Someone shouted and she was jostled from behind, and a strong hand on her upper arm held her back as a bicyclist maneuvered through the crowd, hemming in a clutch of women who pushed too close as they chattered among themselves and ignored everything else. He held her tight against him as the last of the women crowded by and the biker narrowly skirted all of them. It was the second bicyclist this morning.
“You’ve got to watch it,” he said in a low growl. “Nothing is strictly safe for pedestrians, everything is a hazard, open grates, bicyclists, even the pedestrians themselves.”
“I . . . you’re right. Thank you,” she stuttered as her heart seemed to speed up. She was caught in memories of the motorcycle in Bangkok and by the push at Angkor Wat, and it all combined with the thrill of his arrival and even her earlier anxiety. It was all too much. She shifted from his side, hoping he wouldn’t sense her unease.
“Thanks.” She swallowed back her confusion. “That brought back memories.”
“Of Bangkok—not quite the same. But all the same, you’ve got to be careful, everywhere. For different reasons, of course.”
There was something in his look, like . . . she let the thought drop. It was impossible, or was it? Was it possible that what happened in Bangkok had not been accidental?
“You think they meant to kill me in Bangkok?” She blurted out the question with more heart than thought.
“I’m not saying that. Just be careful. This isn’t the States. For a woman alone, it’s just not safe.”
She glanced up and their looks meshed, and hot desire flared for an instant.
She remembered his kiss and the promise of how much more it could be. And she reminded herself of how much it shouldn’t be. She was on a deadline. She had a job and responsibilities in the States and only a limited amount of time to prove herself here. And she didn’t know much about him except that he’d been in two places that suspiciously put him in the middle of a story that was just taking shape.
She stepped away from him. She couldn’t afford to be caught in nebulous feelings of attraction. She strolled along as if she were alone, as if she couldn’t feel him just behind her as she walked past stands of fruits and vegetables mixed in amid hibachis cooking seafood, pork and chicken. The smell of the sizzling meat blended with smoking charcoal and wove temptingly into the warm air.
“Try the squid.” His voice was right beside her. Then his hand settled on her shoulder as he turned her toward the woman barbecuing on an open spit.
She shook her head and moved away. Yet the feel of his hand was vivid and alive on her heated skin. She hesitated. The smell was tempting. The woman smiled, holding a skewer up, offering it to her.
“One, please.” She glanced at him. “Two.”
The squid was succulent and messy. “Great idea.” She smiled, finally giving in to the company of an attractive man and the pleasure of the moment.
“You have squid . . .”
She reached up to wipe it from her lip.
“No, let me.”
Before she could stop him or even realize what he had planned, his head lowered. His lips met hers. The tropical sun cooled as her lips heated and her heart triple-timed.
She took a step back. He was little more than a stranger and yet she’d kissed him twice. She’d kiss him again—easily.
She brushed a calming hand through her hair as a shadow seemed to flit behind them, a sense really that they were not alone, and yet that was ridiculous. People swarmed around them.
There was a momentary distraction in his eyes that forewarned her. She was focused on him, following his lead in the determined hardening of his lips and the way his hand went to his side, as if he might have a weapon there.
“Simon?”
“Follow me.” He had her hand as they veered left through the crowd and behind a vending shack. The crowd pulsed around them. A woman let out a shriek of surprise, fright—Claire didn’t know which.
“What’s going on?”
“We need to get out of here,” he said without turning to look at her. Their pace increased as the earthy scent of vegetables on one stand mixed with the rich smell of coconut on another and through it all laced the unwelcome smell of exhaust. Danger seemed to breathe around them. She could feel it in the tension, the tight grip of his hand. A heavy smell of sewer seemed to lift from the drainage grates. A gecko posed motionless on a utility poll, its hard, cold eyes seemingly focused on them.
“Hurry,” he hissed as he pushed forward.
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She suspected that if she didn’t he just might tuck her under one arm and run her through the crowded marketplace. Except here it wasn’t so crowded, here even she knew that whatever the danger was, it was compounded in this quiet spot out of the hustle and bustle of the main market.
She ran to keep up as he looped behind two more vendors before emerging onto the main walk. He glanced over his shoulder, and following his gaze she saw the taut profile of a man whose oily black hair gleamed in the intense morning sun. There was something familiar about him. She stopped, pulling Simon to a stop.
“I’ve seen him before.”
Simon nodded tersely. “Let’s go.”
But the pace he set was again almost a run. She had to trot to keep up. She tried to pull her hand away. “Simon? What’s going on?”
“Just go.”
“Why?” She hurried to keep up without really a choice. He had an iron grip on her hand. “This is outrageous.” But she wondered if it really was. Her heart pounded at the thought of an unknown threat, at the thought of the man and his similarity to the one she’d seen in Bangkok.
“Quiet and keep going,” he hissed.
She glanced behind her as the man’s hand went to his belt, or maybe the pocket of his jeans, as if he were reaching for something.
“Run.” The word was grated out, and before she could process the command she was yanked, forced to run or be dragged.
“What the hell . . . ?” She struggled to keep up, struggled to free her hand. He was holding her up and keeping her moving by sheer strength, his over hers.
Then he had her around the waist and pulled her against him as he moved backward behind a vegetable stall. Dust lifted from a tarp that hung to one side and the smell of earth and dust rose to meet her.
“Stay down.” His hand was hot and relentless on her back, his other arm around her waist. There was no choice but to do as he commanded.
“What? Why?” she hissed.
“Not now,” he gritted.
Her heart was pounding loud enough it seemed for anyone nearby to hear it.
What the hell was going on?
He turned as if he could read her thoughts. “It’s okay. Please. Just keep behind me and keep quiet.”
A crack echoed through the cluttered, people-tight market. Then another.
“Gunshots,” she whispered as her heart threatened to leap free and run by itself. She was sure the next breath wouldn’t come.
“Quiet,” he hissed as he stood in a half crouch, looking around. They were on the edge of the market. Behind them the latest pop song began blasting through tinny speakers and a vendor bickered with an elderly woman, who slapped a bill on the gray wood counter and stood back with a satisfied smirk as behind her two toddlers wrestled in the dust. A man slipped around the playing children, moving quickly forward and toward where they stood in the shadows.
“Come on,” Simon gritted.
Claire brushed past one woman and was yanked almost off balance by Simon’s grip on her hand. He hadn’t released her since this had begun.
“Simon. Stop, please, I’m exhausted.”
He let go of her hand five minutes later in a little alcove where a merchant’s cart hovered almost protectively a few feet away. For the moment they were alone.
“What was going on back there? I heard shots.” Her voice trembled. And she wondered how many times she’d have to repeat that disturbing fact before he gave her an answer. Her attention lifted to his face but stopped, caught on the sleeve of his beige polo shirt. “You’re bleeding.”
“Fine. Leave it.” He pushed her hand away. “Scraped my shoulder on a nail.”
Tetanus, she thought. “Not shot,” she said instead, and there was a world of relief in those words. Her imagination was threatening to run away with her. “No gun?”
“I know it sounded like gunshots. Fortunately, it wasn’t. Only firecrackers I’d imagine. Maybe some kids. Who knows.”
“Fortunately?”
“He was packing.”
“Packing? As in carrying a gun?” She bit her lip. The unreality of it all again brought back the reality of Angkor Wat, the pressure on her back, the feeling that someone had meant to push her. And her doubts compounded with the headline that seemed to replay and wouldn’t leave her mind—Woman Dies at Angkor Wat. Except now, it was women, not woman. Had she been targeted as the next? Was that what the shove was about? Somehow all that made the idea of being shot possible.
“Claire?” His look was oddly questioning and in the flow of chaos they’d just left, like a temporary balm.
“I’m sorry.” She pushed the thoughts and doubts to the background. She rubbed her arms and shivered. “What the hell is going on?” She dragged in a shaky breath. “I don’t get any of this. Who are you?”
Simon was silent. A minute passed and then two. All the while his attention was on the market behind them. Finally she could take it no longer.
“I don’t get it,” she repeated as she swung around, looking back at the distant blur of activity where the market was crowded and in full swing, as if nothing had happened.
“I’m sorry, Claire. It appeared we were being followed.”
“Yeah, I got that. But the question is why. You dragged me through the market. That man—he was obviously a threat of some sort.”
“A known criminal entity,” he said with an authoritative tone.
“And he was following us, why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Is there something that you’re not telling me?”
“Me?”
“Look, Claire, if you’ve read the news lately, there’s been a couple of deaths. Female tourists.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“That man—well, I’ve seen him around. And I didn’t like how he was tailing us. And yes, I suspected he might be armed.” His thumb briefly caressed her chin before he dropped his hand. “This isn’t a safe place to be, Claire.”
“Criminal entity,” she repeated as she mulled over everything else he had said before turning to look at him head-on. “Who are you, Simon?”
“What do you mean?” He looked flustered at her question. His gaze went back to the market. “It seems for whatever reason our shadow has given up.”
She bit back a sigh as she looked back at the market before turning to him again. “Archeologists don’t use terms like criminal entity or packing.”
“Don’t they?”
“Simon?”
“You’re right.” His hand covered hers. “I am an archeologist but I also worked with Interpol once, a long time ago. They attempted to trap some antiquity smugglers using my dig.”
“What happened?” she asked, wondering at the sadness she heard in his voice.
“Nothing. It fell through. The smugglers escaped.”
“So, you have nothing to do with Interpol now?”
“I’ve spent the last year in Laos,” he said, but there was a distance in his voice. “The artifacts there are unique. More untouched.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Am I?”
“You are. But thank you.”
“For what?”
“For saving me—I think.” And she stood on tiptoes, in a manner that was completely unprecedented for her, and kissed him. She had never treated a man like this. It was a mistake, and even as she thought that, he claimed the kiss, his lips exploring hers. And in that moment, she knew that this was a man she wanted nothing to do with and possibly one, given time, she could never let go.
Chapter Thirteen
“She’s a journalist,” Ella Malone’s voice puffed through the receiver, out of breath as usual, but no less grating than if she were in the room.
“Slow down,” Samnang commanded in a voice carefully modulated over the years and only recently slowed and deepened by the drugs. “Who?”
“Claire Linton, the woman who took the antiquity for Niran. She’s a journalist and she’s writing about smuggling antiquit
ies. She’s asked me questions.” The words ran together in her haste. “I steered her toward Trent.”
“Ah, Trent. How is that going, his little dig?” He laughed. It wasn’t unanticipated. As much as Trent frustrated him, he admired him. Someone like Trent would have done well working for him. He smiled, slow and controlled.
He was in a good humor today. He’d read more of Claire’s notes. It was interesting, rather like fiction—another life. The life Jack had imagined. But it also let him get to know Claire and oddly, despite Jack, he liked her. He could see the empathy in her words, the loyalty she gave to her family, small as it was. And the dedication she had to furthering her career.
“I hear that there was a problem. That you acted without my authorization,” Samnang said, his soft, controlled tone only hinting at his anger.
“I meant to kill her.”
“You stupid bitch,” he snapped. His left hand fisted, imagining how he could rearrange her heavy-featured face. He took a breath and dropped his hand. “You failed and alerted her that she’s in danger.”
“It was a mistake.” Her accent was thick, almost hot with shame and something Samnang didn’t like, a touch of aggression. He’d learned over the years that when one of his people became too cocky, they also became untrustworthy.
Samnang considered whether Ella was losing her edge. Anything was possible as the pressure rose and the end of a game was in sight. A year ago, the bitch had killed Trent’s love interest. If that hadn’t happened, Trent might not be causing him grief now. He might have just resigned. He smiled grimly. The problem was getting worse. Ella had a penchant for killing women needlessly, especially beautiful women. And it had started again, although the first one hadn’t been her fault. That first tourist he had ordered killed. She had been trouble from when they had first recruited her. The other was different.
“Exactly,” she puffed. “What are we going to do?”