Belladonna, page 17
No one before him had ever made her feel these things. She was exposed and vulnerable and not sure she liked it. But then his eyes met hers and, as if he’d zapped it away by magic, her uneasiness fled. Her trembling, rooted in uncertainty seconds earlier, became a shudder born of desire. She wanted him inside her. She wished she could crawl inside him, through his pores and straight to his heart.
His breath on her face was warm and unsteady, but he took his time, caressing her with infinite tenderness, suckling first on one nipple, then on the other. Emotions like none she’d ever experienced swelled in Bella’s throat. Feeling needful more than bold, she closed her fingers on the vital, throbbing part of him.
Her lashes fluttered down as something jumped wildly in her chest. Malone was pinning her to the pallet with his weight. She could have escaped, but it never crossed her mind that she might want to. No, this above all things felt right.
The horror and the nightmares receded until they were nothing but a blur. Radio music and the distant sounds of Chinatown enhanced the darkness. Bella felt a mood, an indescribable sense of mystery and mysticism, of past and present mingling in the colorful City by the Bay, of gumshoes and gambling dens, Chinese healers and shanghaied sailors….
Shanghai. Now there was a word that conjured up all manner of shady horrors. And yet in the heat of her current passion, Bella had trouble retaining that image of horror, especially with Malone’s mouth doing the most amazing things to her equilibrium.
He stroked her, caressing her with his hands, his mouth and his tongue, exploring her body inch by exquisite inch. Prompted by his touch, she moved on top of him, hesitantly at first, then, when she witnessed the response of his body, with increasing fervor. But it wasn’t until she put her mouth on him that she realized how much he truly wanted her. He hissed, drawing in a quick breath, arching his hips and reaching for her in the same instant.
A delighted smile curved her lips. Maybe he did love her a little at that.
Moonbeams dappling the polished attic floor created an atmosphere of magic. A moan escaped her throat as Malone drew her upward and positioned her gently but firmly on top of him. His hands steadied her hips, raising her slightly so that she could fit herself against him. She felt a tiny stab of pain and then… Euphoria, maybe, though no word could accurately describe the host of sensations that shot through her.
“Slowly, Bella,” Malone said. “The night’s plenty long.”
But Bella didn’t want to go slow. She wanted him, now, and she knew—she could feel—that he wanted her just as badly.
Unwilling to break the spell of her desire, she moved first to the rhythm of his body, then with increasing energy to the demands of her own.
His skin was slick with perspiration. She allowed her fingers to run over the satin-smooth expanse of his shoulders, through the dark patch of hair on his chest, then down to where it narrowed into a tantalizing V below his stomach.
Her back and hips arched as she and Malone moved together. Her head fell backward; her eyes closed. She heard the ragged sound of his breathing coupled with her own. It was heaven, and the silvery darkness and the scent of sandalwood merely completed the picture.
A shudder swept through her. She had to lean forward with her palms on his shoulders in order to recover. But it was a slow thing, a beautiful moment that made her feel at once safe and loved—and excited all over again.
When at last she opened her eyes, it was to find Malone staring up at her. He said nothing, just stared. Then, in one deft movement, he brought her down and tucked her in beside him, dragging a blanket over both of them.
Bella wanted to say something, but what it was she couldn’t fathom. Maybe later, she reflected sleepily. Snuggling happily against the solid warmth of Malone’s body, she fell into a deep, blissfully dreamless sleep.
TIME MOVED in inexorable patterns, the woman thought, gazing around the quiet pier. So, she supposed, did life. New Year’s Eve eve, and here she was in San Francisco on a semiclear night, gazing on one hand at the Golden Gate Bridge and on the other at Alcatraz.
She saw him and had no doubt that he also saw her. Of course he would come to a place like this; she’d had only to search inside herself, to dredge up that long-buried part of her nature that allowed her to do such things, to know where he’d be.
She drew nearer, her heels clicking on the wet pavement. Stopping, she pushed her hands into the pockets of her raincoat. A raven swooped silently, landing close to him. “Why did you do it, Hobby?”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle, just sat there on the waterlogged pylon and gazed calmly over the darkened bay. “If I told you, you wouldn’t understand,” he replied.
She bristled, but hid the fact. “You always say that, but how do you know what I feel, what I’m capable of underst anding?”
His gaze flicked to her bloodied hair, then returned to the water. “You haven’t changed in all these years. I find it hard to believe you ever will.”
The woman absorbed his words like blows. She should leave this to Charmaine, she knew, but spite had been a longtime part of her nature. She retaliated stridently, “I have feelings, too, Hobby. So does Charmaine. We trusted you, and you turned on us. How do you think Robert would feel if he knew what you’d done? You were his brotherwell, half brother—and now you’re jeopardizing everything that he built and I built upon.”
A sad smile crossed Hobby’s mouth. “You really are a mad little thing, aren’t you?”
“I am not mad,” she declared hotly.
He gave his head a small shake. “You don’t even realize what you just said.”
She hesitated. “Which part?”
He shook his head again, but didn’t explain. Instead he said, “Robert didn’t build the business alone, not by a long shot. And while we’re on the subject of friends and relatives turning on each other, what gives either you or Charmaine the right to preach? Think about it. Yes, you trusted me, but Robert trusted you and Charmaine just as much, and where is he now? Dead.”
“Missing,” the woman corrected automatically.
For the first time in her life, she saw anger flash in Hobby’s eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. That’s the official lie. We all know what really happened that night. Amanda—”
“Is also quite dead,” another female voice interjected. “Dead and gone twenty years ago. Is that a raven?”
Hobby sighed. “Hello, Charmaine. I can guess how she found me, but not you. Intuition’s never been your strong suit.”
The woman was tempted to laugh. Talk about an idiot. Charmaine had hovered on the outer fringes of the business for several years now, becoming involved only when the need arose. She herself preferred to be in London. That made San Francisco Hobby’s territory. Hong Kong and the rest of the Orient was also under his jurisdiction. He’d gained so much from Robert’s death, and yet here he was playing with a loaded gun. Might as well pull the trigger and be done with it.
As was her wont these days, Charmaine ignored the gibe, or appeared to. Moving closer, she studied the raven. “What an intriguing bird. If it makes you feel good to be right, Hobby, the answer is I followed her, because, as you say, intuition never has been my strong suit. With that in mind, I now find myself wondering how many other times you’ve deceived us over the years.”
The woman’s heart gave an unexpected thump. She prided herself on her suspicious mind; however, the possibility of an earlier act of treachery by Hobby hadn’t occurred to her. Dammit, Charmaine would have to come along and one-up her. Well, she’d just have to even the score, wouldn’t she? Use her authority to put this particular situation to rights.
As usual, Hobby gave no indication as to the veracity of Charmaine’s remark. But the suggestion had merit, nauseating though it might be to admit that.
Poking Charmaine, the woman whispered discreetly, “I’ll take care of him. Let me do it. Alone.”
Did a poignant little smile flicker across Hobby’s lips? Well, he must know, mustn’t he, that payment had to be extracted for his treason? And she’d try to be quick if she could. No pain, nothing along the lines of what she had planned for Bella.
Charmaine’s gaze strayed to the raven, which was ruffling its feathers. “Yes, all right,” she agreed at length.
The woman wished she could read the expression in her eyes, but there were times when Charmaine Parret took on the characteristics of a chameleon. God knew she had a complex nature. She’d be one way one minute, completely different the next. You couldn’t predict people like her; you could only hope to stay one step ahead of them in all things.
The woman adopted a pleasant smile that didn’t fool Hobby for a minute. She started to fiddle with her hair, but caught herself and fingered the razor-sharp edges of her concealed pink weapon instead. With her head, she made a motion away from Fisherman’s Wharf. “Why don’t you and I take a little walk?” she suggested.
Chapter Fourteen
Six a.m. God, was he really doing this? Malone pulled the hair out from under his jacket collar as he walked the misty city streets toward the Haight-Ashbury District. Hippietown turned human hodgepodge. And one of those “podges” just happened to be his father.
Douglas Malone lived and worked on Haight Street. He’d gone into partnership ten years ago with Ronnie’s father in a pub-style restaurant that suited the trendy area to perfection.
So the retired schoolteacher was now a restaurateur. Offthe-wall in both professions, Douglas was quirky to the point of eccentricity. Not that Malone didn’t love him, but they had little in common these days, only the address of the woman they both kept in touch with in Dublin and, of course, their last name.
He entered the restaurant through the kitchen door. The latch barely made a click, yet his father’s shaggy white head immediately popped up from behind a counter. “Malone? Is that you, lad? What on earth are you doing here at this hour-of the morning? Are you dying?”
“Not as far as I know.” Highly skeptical, Malone glanced at the stove. “Is that coffee fresh?”
“Brewed it myself ten minutes ago.”
Douglas stood, patting the slight paunch visible beneath his baggy black jacket. He sported the same bowler hat he’d worn in England, along with his suspenders, checkered pants and bow tie. His hair was longer now than before—in fact, it brushed his shoulders, side and back—and he had a three-day growth of stubble on his chin. But those changes were minor. A character he’d been and a character he would stay, despite the longtime nagging of Malone’s mother, who was thankfully now Douglas’s ex-wife.
Father peered closely at son. “Is that a twinkle in your eye, lad?” he demanded, unbelieving.
“No, it isn’t,” Malone snapped. “It’s concern.”
“Ah… For whom?”
“You don’t know her.”
“So there’s a ‘her’ at last, is there?” Chuckling, his father tossed him a warm crumpet. “My, my, things are looking up.”
Malone suppressed a heavy sigh. “That depends on your point of view. Someone’s trying to kill her.”
His father’s hands stilled. “Why? Is she a gangster?”
“I doubt it, but she might be connected to one.” Malone leaned against the chopping table. “Have you ever heard of the Birds?”
“Hell, yes. To call them a bad bloody lot would be high praise. You tangled up in one of their webs, lad?”
Masking a smile, Malone returned, “You’re mixing your metaphors, Da. And, yes, I am. Indirectly.”
“Through this woman about whom you’re concerned?”
“Yes, well, I don’t know that I’d call it concern, exactly.”
“No?” Douglas sent him a shrewd look. “Would love be closer to the mark? Oh,” he chortled at Malone’s affronted reaction, “this one I simply must meet.” He shook a vegetable knife accusingly in his son’s face. “You never bring your female friends around to see me—and don’t say you do because you don’t. And don’t say it’s because you’ve never dated any of them more than two or three times, either. That’s bunk.”
“I wasn’t—”
“If there’s a female alive who can put a sparkle in those cynical eyes of yours, I not only want to meet her, I also want to shake her hand. ‘No marriage for me,’ you used to swear. ‘Noway. I’ve no time for vipers.’ Oh, your ma’s doing fine, by the way. Sent her love in her last letter.”
“I can imagine,” Malone muttered uncharitably.
“Now, now, that’s just her way. She has a fiery temper.”
“And an icy heart. Don’t make excuses for her, Da. I remember the fights. I learned from them.”
“Not the right lesson, obviously.”
Malone allowed his head to drop forward. His father, lovable though he could be, was also one of the most exasperating people he knew. His father and Bella. If he had half a brain, he’d see her safe, then turn and walk away from any further complications. Except that it was too late to turn, let alone walk, and the complications were already carved into his heart. God, what kind of a mess had he gotten himself into?
With an effort, he brought his mind back and his head up. “Robert Swift, Da?” he said somberly. “Have you ever heard of him? Or Romaine? Or Chen-Li?”
“Chen-Li rings a bell. No to the other two.”
“Who is he?”
“Chen-Li?” Douglas screwed up his round face. “Some in Chinatown call him a prophet, but I think mystic is closer to the mark. As you know—” he speared a chunk of carrot with his knife “—I do a lot of restaurant business in that area. Chen’s out and about some days. Old as the hills, I’m told, but still razor sharp up here.” He tapped his forehead. “How’d you come to meet him?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Does it involve this woman of yours?”
“Yes—no. Look, she’s not my woman. Her name’s Bella—well, Belladonna, actually. She’s a victim of childhood amnesia. She doesn’t remember anything about the first nine years of her life, and frankly, I’m having one hell of a time turning up information. She’s connected somehow to Charmaine Parret, Hobson Crowe and the mysterious third Bird.”
Douglas thrust his bottom lip forward in contemplation. “She couldn’t have been too involved in the business when she was nine years old. Did she see something?”
“I think so. She has nightmares about pink knives and parrots—”
“That last thing could be representative, of Charmaine Parret.”
“Yes, I thought of that, but the connection isn’t clear. Are you sure you’ve never heard of Robert Swift? He must have been a Bird once.”
“Swift, Parret, Crowe.” His father scratched his head. “They’re types of birds, all right—spelled differently, of course, but the sound’s the same. Have you tried variations?”
The coffee tasted like mud. His father never had gotten the hang of making this particular beverage. “Variations of what?” Malone shuddered, set the cup aside and reached for the teapot.
“Bird names, lad. I find it a trifle coincidental that all their names should just happen to belong to birds.”
Malone studied his crumpet. “It crossed my mind,” he admitted, “but there are a lot of variations. Besides which, for all we know, their names could be made up. Except for Robert Swift’s. His is in the Scotland Yard and Interpol files. Not much on him, though.”
“There wouldn’t be. The Birds are secretive in the extreme. But it’s a good bet that Hobson and Charmaine are their real first names. Why don’t you put the variance to your computer? Use those first names, then question the surname, based on what you have. That being Crowe and Parret.”
Malone frowned. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Because Bella had his head so screwed up that he could hardly think in a straight line, let alone with the wobbles necessary for invention. “It’s an idea,” he conceded.
“Oh, well, I’m full of those.” Douglas grinned. “Just don’t know what to do with them is all.”
Malone drained his teacup. “Put them in fortune cookies and open a stall in Chinatown,” he suggested, pokerfaced. “You’d make a bomb.” God, he was slipping back into the old North-of-England dialect, he realized with a shiver of distaste. First the dialect, next the life-style.
Most of his parents’ friends had had marriages like his mother and father’s, with a lot of shouting and nagging and general grating on nerves. He wasn’t open to that kind of a life, not for anything or with anyone. He wanted to love and be loved. He wanted, he reflected bleakly, Bella. Amnesia, Birds and all.
“Damn her….” The declaration came out with a soft sigh that caused his father to raise his brows. Malone didn’t explain, and Douglas didn’t press him. But the wily old codger smiled. His lips twitched before he bowed his white head.
“If it’s information you’re wanting, you’d be as well to take your direction from Chen-Li. He knows what goes on in Chinatown, even if the police don’t want to recognize the manner in which he obtains his knowledge.”
“Which is?” Malone asked, highly doubtful.
“Not by shank’s mare, lad.” Again Douglas tapped his forehead.
The action earned him an even deeper sigh from Malone. A mystic, for God’s sake. How could someone like that help him? He needed facts, not Chinese fantasies.
“Thanks anyway, Da,” he said, pushing off from the table. “But a man who babbles about ravens being omens—” and guesses young women’s last names, he reminded himself silently “—isn’t the answer I’m looking for.”
Douglas shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I do.” At the door, Malone hesitated. Glancing back, he said reluctantly, “I might bring her around sometime—-if she wants to come, that is.”
“Just don’t let her become Bird feed.” A smile quirked his father’s lips. “Or yourself, either for that matter. Take care, lad.”
Malone regarded him solemnly for a moment, this colorful, good-natured man who was his father. Then he nodded and, letting his mouth twitch into a vaguely rueful smile, left the kitchen.
