was sweet to watch white-haired senior citizens dancing cheek to cheek. It was also about as close to “romance” as she wanted to get, Kyra thought briskly as she screwed a pair of small gold hoops into her ears.
As far as she was concerned, the cruise advertisement had put things into exactly the right perspective. Adventure and excitement came first. There’d be plenty of time for romance somewhere down the line, but not for a long, long time.
Some women didn’t agree, and that was their privilege. Lots of girls she’d grown up with were engaged to be married. She knew that most of them hadn’t led lives as restricted as hers, but even so, as far as she could see, they’d simply traded their new freedom for chains of their own making.
Kyra brushed her hair, then put a white baseball cap on her head and adjusted the brim low over her eyes. Men—even her brothers—just seemed to be proprietorial as a breed. Of course, none of the men she’d ever known would be anywhere near as proprietorial as that good-looking Spaniard.
She could imagine what he’d be like! Expecting a woman to drop everything and come running if he crooked his finger, demanding her total attention be centered on him, jealous every moment she was out of his sight.
Not that there wouldn’t be compensations. Kyra’s breath hitched as she remembered the banked fires smoldering in his blue eyes, the harsh, almost cruel sensuality of his mouth. A man like that would know how to please his woman when she was in his bed at night. She’d lie beneath him eagerly, her lips parted, waiting for the brush of his lips, the touch of his hand…
Color poured into Kyra’s cheeks.
“Honestly,” she said, scowling into the mirror, “what on earth is wrong with you?”
Weeks had passed since that embarrassing night at the Arts Center. Why should she waste even a minute thinking about that horrible man? He certainly wasn’t anybody to fantasize about, not unless you were interested in setting feminism back a couple of centuries.
She swung briskly away from the mirror, looped the strap of her white purse around her wnst, and made her way out of her cabin.
Mr. and Mrs. Schiller, the elderly couple in the cabin next to hers, were just locking the door. Mrs. Schiller looked up and smiled.
“Good morning, dear. Don’t you look charming!”
Kyra smiled back at the white-haired woman. “Isn’t this exciting?” she said. “We get to spend almost a whole day in Caracas!”
Mr. Schiller nodded. “Excellent city, Caracas.”
Mrs. Schiller took her husband’s arm as the little group started toward the elevators
“Won’t you join us for breakfast, Kyra? There’s still half an hour before the bus leaves.”
“Thank you, but I’m not taking the tour. I thought I’d see the city on my own.”
Mrs. Schiller looked uncertain. “Are you sure you’ll be all right alone in a strange city, dear?”
“Big city, Caracas,” Mr. Schiller said, shooting Kyra a look from beneath his bushy white brows. “Got to keep your wits about you, young woman.”
Kyra smiled politely. “Thank you for the advice. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”
Like all the other ships that listed Caracas as a destination, Empress of the Caribbean actually docked at a port called La Guaira. It was grimy and unattractive, but no one—least of all Kyra—cared. A short ride in a taxi, and she was in the center of the bustling, modern capital of Venezuela.
She’d planned her day carefully, using a guidebook and the brochures she’d picked up on ship. A cable-car ride up Mount Avila first for a breathtaking view of the Caribbean coastline, and then brunch at the Humboldt Hotel. After that, she would head down into the city and pack as much sight-seeing as she could into the remaining hours.
By midafternoon, Kyra was weary but happy. She had zigzagged Caracas on foot and by taxi; she’d seen almost everything on her list, from the beautiful gardens and fountains of La Casona to the cobbled streets and tiled roofs of the old city near the church of La Pastora. She’d even managed to spy a slow-moving sloth in the trees at Plaza Bolivar.
Now, as the sun began angling across the sky, she glanced at her watch. It was getting late, but she had at least an hour to browse the shops, and to see what she could add to her growing collection of souvenirs. Just thinking of them made her smile. Nothing she’d bought had been costly and most of the things were probably foolish but each had been fun to choose and would forever remind her of this trip in a way that expensive items from faceless hotel gift shops couldn’t.
That was something her father had not understood, Kyra thought as she headed for a stretch of shops the purser had recommended. She still remembered the look on his face when she’d handed him a tiny replica of Windsor Castle that played “God Save the Queen” when you moved a switch set into one of its turrets after her semester in England.
“How…how nice,” he’d said.
She’d almost explained that it wasn’t “nice” at all, that it was tacky and funny and that was why she’d bought it—but then she’d thought that if she had to explain all that, it wasn’t worth the effort and so she’d smiled and said yes, it was, and actually, she’d bought it for herself.
“Oh,” he’d said with obvious relief, and Kyra had taken back the little castle, handed him the very proper cashmere scarf she’d bought at Harrods, and listened while he praised her for her good taste.
Nobody was liable to praise her for showing good taste now, she thought, smiling as she made her purchases. An oversize straw bag in the shape of a donkey for Stella, a papier-mâché parrot for herself, an assortment of silly T-shirts for her brothers…the gifts were fun to buy and would be fun to give.
And that was what this trip was all about, she reminded herself as she came out of the souvenir shop. Fun…
Kyra sucked in her breath as a clock in a window across the street caught her eye. Was that really the right time? She shifted her packages to the crook ot her arm and checked her watch.
“Damn,” she muttered, and hurried to the curb.
“Taxi,” she called, lifting her hand—the hand that so invitingly dangled the strap of her pocketbook. ”Hola! Taxi!”
Later, she would remember seeing it happen in a terrible kind of slow motion. The approaching motorbike, the grubby hand reaching out, the fingers closing tightly around the strap…
But at that moment, all Kyra knew was that a motorbike came whizzing past, something tugged sharply at her hand, and before she had time to react, it was all over.
The thief, the motorbike and her pocketbook were gone.
For a second, she couldn’t believe it. She stood staring after the bike while the sounds of the street faded; all she could hear was the thump of her own heart, and then she felt her knees turn liquid.
How could such a thing have happened? This was the middle of the day, the sidewalks were jammed with people…people intent on their own business, as they’d have been in any city back
