Belladonna, page 9
She knew how to run, he’d give her that. Her stride was long and smooth, like a gazelle’s, he supposed, though he’d never actually seen one. Under less-harrowing circumstances, he would have enjoyed the sight of her.
It wasn’t the only thing he could have enjoyed where Bella was concerned, but this was hardly the time for fantasies. Tock burst through the door behind them with a snarl and a squeeze of his trigger-happy forefinger.
“Get down!” Malone shouted to Bella, who, luckily, had the reflexes of a cat, because she ducked and shoved the second door open in the same motion. “Go. Go!” he whispered tersely, then swore as Tock fired another bullet.
Bella’s vengeful exclamation, “I wish that stupid gun would blow up in his face,” brought a reluctant smile to Malone’s lips; unfortunately, he couldn’t afford to be amused. They’d entered the ship’s pantry. That left only one option: the kitchen, dead ahead. Thank God they still looked like part of the staff.
“Quiet,” he said in her ear. Keeping her pressed to his side, he added in a low voice, “Act nonchalant.”
He felt the tremor that rippled through her. In a terse undertone, she whispered, “There must be twenty chefs in here, Malone. They’re going to notice us.”
“Yes, well, just so long as Tock doesn’t. Try to blend in.”
“With what? The busboys?”
He didn’t answer, merely smiled briefly at one of the junior chefs as he propelled Bella through a sea of staff and equipment.
Dinner was about to be served. The kitchen was in chaos, with white-coated cooks and chefs rushing to and fro from stove, sink and fridge. The air was redolent with the scents of chicken, garlic, clams, curried beans and onions.
“Soup starter,” one of the chefs demanded above the clatter of china and metal. “Nuke those chicken strips and
drain the pasta…. Hey, wait a minute, what are you doing
here?”
The question was fired at Malone, who, after setting Bella aside, proceeded to shoo her forward with a subtle motion of his hand.
“Ms. Parret sent me to deliver a message,” he lied.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“No cream sauce on her chicken.”
The man snorted. “What are you, a joker? Lady Parret packs it away like a horse.” He stuck his florid face in Malone’s. “And it just so happens that my white-wine sauce is her favorite.”
“Mine, too,” Bella said unexpectedly from behind. She smoothed her hair with a nervous hand and summoned a smile. “It’s true, though, what he said. No sauce for Lady Parret tonight.”
The charade screeched to a halt when the kitchen door flew open and Tock rushed in, stabbing a dirty finger at her. “Stop that woman! Stop them both!”
The chef had been softening, dammit. Another few seconds and he’d have been putty in Bella’s hands. They could have walked out and taken the hourly cruiser back to shore.
Of the kitchen staff, only two responded to Tock’s order, and then only to scurry across the floor and out of his way.
“Come on!” Malone grabbed Bella’s hand and ran. He had to shove the flushed sauce chef aside, as well as a taller one who didn’t seem to know where to go. Bella banged her elbow on one of the soup pots, twisted out of harm’s way, then suddenly froze. Eyes wide, she pointed at Tock, who was charging down the narrow aisle between stove and countertop, knocking over pots, pans and skillets as he went.
Malone spotted the danger as she did. “Don’t, Tock!” he shouted, but his warning came too late. The hit man thrust aside one of the chefs, and in doing so, knocked himself off-balance. He collided with a fryer full of hot oil, tipped it onto the burner, then jumped sideways with a dumbfounded expression as flames burst out beside him.
Bella stared. “My God!” she exclaimed softly.
“Fire!” the head chef screamed. “Salt, baking soda, hurry!”
Malone was amazed at the furor that erupted around them. The flames appeared to sprout legs and leap across every gap in the kitchen. Within seconds, the entire room was consumed. The fire extinguishers did nothing, and no one ever did locate the salt.
“Malone!” Bella tugged on his arm. “lock’s still coming.”
“What?”
Incredible though it seemed, she was right. Like a creature possessed, Tock was barreling through the wall of flames toward them.
“Abandon ship!” someone shouted.
Malone suddenly couldn’t see, so thick had the smoke grown in the past minute. He squinted through it. “Where’s Tock?”
“I don’t know—” Bella choked, broke off, then, to Malone’s horror, pulled away from him.
He caught her by the apron strings. “Where are you going?” he demanded. “lock’s still got his gun, you know.”
A strident ringing filled the air. “Fire alarm,” Bella answered, coughing. “Which way do we go?”
“Wherever Tock isn’t.”
She waved at the smoke. “I don’t see him.”
“You won’t until his gun’s in your face. Are you claustrophobic?”
“No—yes. I’m not sure. Why?”
He yanked open a small door. “Get in.”
“What?” She backed off in horror. “No way, Malone. You’re crazy. I’m finding a regular door.”
“They’re blocked, Bella. This is a dumbwaiter. We can hoist ourselves to an upper deck.”
“We’ll suffocate in there.”
“Maybe, but we’ll die in here. Now get in.”
“But I-”
He abandoned reason and, snatching her up by the waist, plunked her inside. “Legs,” he ordered.
She glared at him through the smoke and confusion. “You’re a maniac, Malone. I hate maniacs.”
“Yes, but do you hate hit men, too? Tock’ll be on us in a minute.”
With a final, resentful look, she pulled her legs inside. Just in time.
Tock’s round, scowling face appeared through the smoke like a thundercloud. “Gotcha, bastard,” he growled, flashing a broad, toothy smile.
Why did psychotics always love their work?
Malone was sizing up his chances of kicking the burly thug in the chest when a pair of chefs jostled Tock’s arm as they ran past, distracting him long enough for Malone to haul himself through the dumbwaiter door and for Bella to yank it closed. She made a tiny sound of fright but swallowed it and, at Malone’s instructions, tugged on the wires that ran in two taut lines beside her.
“Keep it level,” he ordered, pulling on his own side.
She let out a tight breath, but said nothing.
Through the wooden walls, he heard the boisterous sound of cancan music and laughter. The guests were having a great time, it seemed.
The fire alarm wasn’t ringing up here, he noticed. That would be Rudge’s doing if, as he’d said, he’d had to sneak on board. Why sneak? Malone wondered distantly.
The billowing smoke reached the dining room moments before he and Bella did. The music stopped, instruments clattered, feet began to thunder on the polished plank floors. Women screamed, men shouted, then several men began screaming, too.
Teeth gritted, Bella said, “You know, just once I’d like to go somewhere and not wind up in the middle of a stampede.”
“Pull,” Malone responded unrelentingly.
“Aren’t we there yet?”
“Just pull, Bella.”
“I am. Look, why don’t we just get out and use the stairs?”
“You obviously don’t understand grease fires. They spread faster than any other kind, and they’re spasmodic. The kitchen will be an inferno by now.”
“So it’s better that we suffocate in here?”
Malone glared at her. Someone yelled for help as he secured the line and kicked open the dumbwaiter door. “It’s the end of the road, anyway.”
“My God,” a man shouted. “The file’s between us and the lifeboats!”
“Figures,” Malone muttered. “Are you all right?” he asked Bella.
“Never better.” Ignoring his hand, she jumped out—and a second later was nearly bowled over by a three-hundredpound man in a tux.
“Watch it,” Malone snapped, then immediately wished he’d left well enough alone, because the man rounded on him, grabbing him by the vest and dragging him upward.
“Where are the boats?” he demanded.
Bella circled swiftly, pointing. “That way. You have to go up the stairs.”
The man dropped Malone the way a child might discard an unwanted toy. Malone felt Bella’s hands on him but couldn’t hear her voice. His head spun. Had he hit it on something or was the smoke just incredibly thick up here?
A blurry face with shorn blond hair swam into view. Malone swore sharply. “They’re everywhere.” He caught Bella’s hand. “We have to get to the upper deck.”
“But the lifeboats—”
“Aren’t accessible through the fire.”
“What about that man?”
“He’ll get out. I’m not so sure about us. Rudge is here.”
“So is either Lady P. or Lady S. Crowe, too, Malone. We’re cut off.”
“Not quite. There’s still the outside ladders.” Malone wedged open a port window. “How are you at climbing?”
“Lousy.”
“You go first, then.”
She glanced doubtfully into the darkness above, then drew back. “I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“Look, isn’t there—”
“No, there isn’t. Go, Bella. Now.”
She hated being ordered about. Temper flared briefly in her smoky eyes. But there were tongues of flame licking at the entry curtains, and Rudge was searching through the fleeing people, trying to find them. She had no choice, and she knew it.
It took five precious minutes for them to reach the upper deck. Even there, smoke poured through the portholes. Below them, in the water, people splashed and kicked and cried for help. The hourly cruiser had picked up some of them, but it couldn’t hold everyone.
“Oh, God,” Malone said heavily. “We’ll have to swim for it. Take off your clothes.”
“Go to hell, Malone.”
With the deck heating up beneath them, he glared at her and then started to do it for her. His deft fingers undid three of her uniform buttons before she slapped them away.
“All right, all right,” she said through her teeth.
Irritated, but too aware of the danger now to ignore it, she stripped down to a navy blue teddy with antique-lace trim. Malone suppressed a groan. That scrap could have passed for an extremely sexy bathing suit. Sheer panty hose, no bra, legs that went on forever… his blood couldn’t have boiled faster if the fire had had him surrounded.
But the fire was only one of many problems. No doubt Rudge and Tock were still on board and hunting for him.
Malone tugged off his vest and shirt. “Jump,” he ordered Bella.
A cloud of smoke and fog obscured her body for a moment, but he saw her nod. Swinging her legs over the rail, she paused briefly, then took a deep breath and dove.
Twenty feet away, Rudge hauled himself onto the deck. He had his gun, but didn’t raise it even after he spotted his quarry.
“I won’t give up, Malone, you can count on it,” he shouted above the furor. “I’ve got my orders, and Tock’s got his. And you’d better hope to hell that I win, because Mick Tock’s orders are sweet and simple. Shoot to kill.”
THE WOMAN KEPT A REIN on her temper long enough to reach their Chinatown headquarters. Hobby’s rat hole, she called it. She made a sound like a snarl. London was her home. She didn’t like it when they had to visit San Francisco, wouldn’t have come here now if Hobby’s ambitious, eagle-eyed assistant hadn’t, one cold, pre-Christmas afternoon, happened to spot Bella Conlan in a fifties-style nightclub near the bay.
The man was a brownnoser. Not that the woman minded people who groveled, but this one tended to spit when he talked.
“I saw her, I did, saw her plain as day,” he’d gushed, first to Hobby, then two days later, after they’d flown in pell-mell from London, to her and Charmaine. “I knew it was her— I mean, it had to be. But, you know, it was crowded and I lost her and no one there knew her last name. It’ll be okay, though, because I’ve heard of this guy called Rudge. He’ll track her down. All he needs is a picture….”
“All he needs is a picture,” the waterlogged woman mimicked, marching up the dingy staircase. “I’m thinking that what he really needs is a good swift kick in the butt.” She waited until she’d reached the top and stomped into her office before shaking herself like a dog. “I hate being wet!”
“Don’t we all.” Charmaine’s dry retort emanated from the corner. “Still, better wet than roasted alive. Did Hobby deal with the authorities?”
“Yes.” The woman pointed to where Charmaine sat, shoes off, on the only piece of furniture she liked, the greenand-blue silk sofa. “You’re soaking the cushions. Get off or get a towel.” She turned, then gasped in horror. “Oh, my God, look at my hair.” Shocked, she stared at herself in the ornate wall mirror. “I look like a drowned cat. What’s that music?” she interrupted herself to snap. “You know I hate Gilbert and Sullivan, Charmaine.”
“I know you have no taste.” Calmly, Charmaine spread a red-and-black blanket over the sofa cushions. “Robert used to say the same thing. He had no taste either.”
If the woman hadn’t been so appalled by her bedraggled appearance, she would have argued the matter—but dear God, what a fright she looked. Her hair stuck up like purplish porcupine quills. It shouldn’t do that, wet or not. Her idiot stylist must have used a bad brand of color. Who’d have thought Burgundy No. 4 would have side effects when mixed with salt water? Didn’t manufacturers prepare for contingencies anymore?
“Is the ship a write-off?” Charmaine asked when the woman, still horrified, didn’t speak.
“I guess—yes, I’d say so. Of course, you wouldn’t know, seeing as you were one of the first people to jump.”
Charmaine shrugged and sipped the Dubonnet she’d poured for herself. “Hobby jumped. So did Tock. It seemed the smart thing to do.” Eyes lowered to her ruby red drink, she added casually, “I thought I saw Rudge on board tonight.”
The woman could be coy, too, even if she did currently resemble an electrified duck. “Really? I didn’t notice. Not that I’d have minded, since I hired him to find—” she paused, emphasizing the word “—Bella.”
Charmaine smiled. “I see. Shall we play clever games then or talk straight?”
“That’s up to you.”
Charmaine regarded her, unflinching. “I had Rudge locked away. He’s a leech. He also saw my face. I wanted him out of the picture.”
The woman turned. “I know. I had him released. All bounty hunters are leeches. And if he saw your face, it’s your own fault. He hasn’t seen mine.”
“So you think. He’s very cunning, to say nothing of slimy.”
“His job requires sliminess. And you needn’t worry. I’m paying him enough to feign blindness. He’s a talented leech, and I want him in the picture.” Her expression grew grim. “She’s mine, Charmaine. I want her alive.”
Charmaine stood. “Belladonna is mine,” she countered evenly.
“I have more right to handle this than you do.”
“Don’t be absurd. Think who you’re talking to.”
A tremor she strove to conceal ran through the woman. She refused to show fear to Charmaine. Why should she? She could be just as dangerous as her, more so if necessary. She’d watched Robert operate. She knew the moves. She knew a lot of things, actually. For a moment, her fingers caressed the sleeve where she kept the slender pink weapon, her memento.
Eyes cold, she retorted, “Rudge stays.”
Charmaine studied her, then said calmly, “So does Tock. However,” she added, when the woman opened her mouth to object, “I will agree to leave Rudge alone.”
The woman didn’t trust her for a minute. But neither did she pursue the subject. Better to wait, and watch and plot…. And fix her damned hair, she thought, noting her reflection once again. Yes, absolutely, destruction of Belladonna was imperative. But first she must see to her hair.
Chapter Eight
Romaine, Romaine, Romaine... The name buzzed in Bella’s head. By midnight Sunday, soaked to the skin and wearing nothing except her damp teddy under the plaid blanket Malone had thankfully located in the trunk of his car, she found everything was buzzing, even Malone’s voice.
She huddled in the front seat as he wound his way through the eerie veil of San Francisco fog.
Veil... Now there was a word. So, she had a name—-Romaine—and now a word. She’d seen an invoice signed “Romaine” and two female Birds wearing veils of heavy black tulle. Who were these people chasing her?
Whoever they were, they’d murdered Lona. And they’d known her mother—at least Hobson Crowe and Lady Parret had.
At a stoplight, she became aware of Malone watching her. “Are you awake?” he asked.
Opening her eyes a fraction, Bella surveyed him in profile. God, he really was handsome. And trustworthy, she had to admit. He’d proved it several times that night.
“No,” she answered, then added, “The boat sank, didn’t it?”
“It will.”
“Do you think anyone died?”
“There was enough warning. I doubt it.” A frown marred his forehead as she suddenly sat up straight. “What’s wrong?”
“This isn’t the same place as last night. Where are we?”
“The Noe Valley.”
Bella looked around, intrigued. She should have guessed. The crowded old Victorians lining the street needed repair—at least the one rising up like a foggy black giant before her did. And yet it had certain old-world charm, mostly from the excessive amount of gingerbread trim on the front.
“Who lives here?” she asked as he reached across to open her door.
“Ronnie.” His hair brushed against her cheek and mouth, making her shiver. “Are you cold?”
She forced back the rush of desire that shot through her. “I’m… impressed. Is he home?”
Malone almost smiled. “I doubt it. Ronnie prefers the night shift.”
