You’d better get on with that work.”
The documents were broadly based, without specificsmere lists of suggestions. After translating them, Mariel took them up to the minister’s suite, where she read them through to him, Nicholas and a couple of other men. The older one she recognized with a clutch of foreboding to be a senior diplomat, now retired, whose speciality was Asian affairs. Although he would have known her parents, he showed no signs of identifying her.
That evening each mission was eating separately, no doubt discussing tactics, so her services weren’t required. After dinner and a swim in the pool, she spent a couple of hours or so in her room trying to relax, but the shadowy phantoms of her past pressed closer and closer, robbing her of any hope of rest, let alone sleep.
Finally she gave up the effort and crossed to her window and looked out. The moon hung half-blown in the sky, shedding a pale, hazy sheen over the grounds; lights blazed forth from the hotel, but although the paths were still lit by fairy lamps, no one trod between the trees.
She chose tan slacks and a cool cream T-shirt, slipped a soft cream-and-tan sweater over her shoulders and pulled espadrilles onto her feet, then walked outside, wondering just what restless compulsion drove her into the scented darkness.
Urged on by something primal and heartfelt, an unknown goad, she headed toward the beach, remembering other beaches she’d seen, other coasts, other seas far removed from this—seas that beat against rockbound coasts in Norway, seas that lapped blinding coral sands in turquoise lagoons off Fiji, the wild west coast of New Zealand where waves had half the world to gather and build before they fell savagely onto the cliff-bound rim of land.
Odd that New Zealand should come to mind when usually she avoided all thoughts of it.
Well, no, not odd; the image of a face, all aggressive angles, and a lean, disciplined body that moved with predatory grace had been hovering just behind her eyes ever since she’d first seen Nicholas Leigh.
Even as she shivered he appeared, coalescing out of the darkness on the edge of the woods, his head turned to watch her arrive. Not for a moment did she mistake him for anyone else; she had the unsettling feeling that he had brought her there, called her with a primitive, magical lure that had nothing to do with the mundane.
He didn’t make any of the usual greetings. As though he had expected her, he held out his hand, and as though he had the right, she gave him hers, this time braced for the jolt of pure awareness that raced through her at his touch.
“You can’t see the Southern Cross from here,” he said.
“So?”
She caught the quick flash of white as he smiled.
“I was born under the Southern Cross,” he said. “I hope to die under it one day.”
“Born under it literally?”
“Literally. My parents were sailing when I arrived, too suddenly for them to get back to land. My mother insisted on being on deck. My father said that I looked at the sky as I was born.”
Fascinated, she said, “Perhaps you were imprinted like a baby bird.”
He laughed softly. “Perhaps. Where were you born, Mariel?”
“In Kashmir,” she said, and gave a startled little laugh. “Oddly enough, on a houseboat. I was a month premature.”
She kept her eyes on the beach that spread out before them, white in the vaporous moonlight, but she felt his gaze, keen and piercing as a lance of crystal. It kindled an untamed exultation because his reaction was written in his features, and it was just as helpless, just as wild, as hers.
“So you were born on a boat, too.”
“Quite a coincidence.” Following his lead, she strove to sound matter-of-fact, repressing the astounded excitement that made her feel her whole world was tumbling, racing, shattering, and all she could call on to protect her were the small weapons of her character and willpower.
“A sign, do you think?”
Her attempt at a laugh was blocked somewhere in the region of her heart. “Of what?” she asked. “Careless parents?”
Beneath the amusement in his answering laugh prowled an elemental possessiveness that sent a shiver down her spine. “Perhaps,” he said. “A link, anyway.”
And because she couldn’t allow this, couldn’t let him forge connections between them, she said briskly, “Well, both events occurred a long time ago. I’m more interested in the present. Tell me, what happens tomorrow morning? Any possibility of a few exchanges of opinion about trade or barriers or tariffs? I thought they’d be settling into earnest discussions by now.”
“Let’s sit for a while,” he suggested, turning off the hard-packed strand onto the soft powdery sand by the low dunes.
Relieved, she removed her hand from his to sit down, and by doing so felt that in some symbolic way she’d regained a fraction of her autonomy.
Perhaps recognizing the small declaration of independence, he didn’t attempt to touch her; instead, he leaned back and looked at the stars. “This is just a preliminary sortie. It’s possible that nothing important will actually be discussed this time.”
Although he’d followed her change of subject, Mariel detected a note of indulgence in his words, as if he had consciously decided to allow her a breathing space.
“Then why are you all here?” she asked. “This holiday is costing each country a fortune, and all the ministers are doing is running around showing off to each other!”
His smile was brief and ironic. “Both of these men are new to their jobs—they haven’t met before. As they’re going to be working together, it will make things much simpler if they understand how the other thinks.”
“So that’s why all the macho posturing,” she said with exasperation. “Golf and target shooting. Honestly, when are you men going to give over the world to women and spend all your time playing your childish games without having the affairs of the world hinge on them? That way you wouldn’t do nearly so much damage.”
To her astonishment he laughed again. “Oh, I agree heartily, but diplomacy is conducted along different lines.”
With eyes adjusted to the night, Mariel looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t sound as though you buy into the ethos.”
His smile remained, the amusement in his expression didn’t alter, but she knew as plainly as if she’d seen it that her words had struck some hidden tender spot.
“I’m a diplomat, so I must,” he said evenly. “I agree it can be slow and sometimes infuriating, but often it works. Building a personal bridge can help.”
Recognizing the evasion, she decided to pin this irritatingly elusive man down. “What exactly is your part in all this posturing?”
“My area of expertise is trade.”
Of course, he was a diplomat, and they were experts at avoiding the issue. “So what,” she demanded, “beyond finding out that Mr. Watanabe is the better golfer and Mr. McCabe the better shot, do any of you expect to learn from this expensive
