hair, disheveled from the pillow. He took off the hair elastic and let his hair fall down his back.
Absently, while the coffee was brewing, he ran a brush through it. Probably he should have it cut completely off, he was thinking as he looked at himself in the mirror. He’d worn it that way for years, partly out of nonconformity, partly because he shared some beliefs with ancient cultures that there was good medicine in long hair. He’d been superstitious about cutting it. But he looked like a renegade, and he didn’t want to. Not tonight. He was going hunting, for lovely prey. Perhaps cutting his hair might show Tat that he was changing. That he was different.
* * *
He postponed his flight for five hours and had Domingo take him to an exclusive hair salon. He had his hair cut and styled. He was impressed with the results. It had a natural wave, which fell out when his hair was halfway down his back. The wave was prominent. The cut made him look distinguished, debonair. It also made him look amazingly like K.C., he thought, and chuckled as he studied himself in the mirror.
Domingo raised both eyebrows when he walked out of the salon.
“You look very different,” he said.
Rourke nodded.
Domingo smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. He opened the door of the limo for Rourke, and then climbed in under the wheel.
“What’s bugging you?” Rourke teased.
“It is that you have cut your hair,” he remarked. He laughed self-consciously. “I’m sorry.”
“You think I’ve damaged my ‘medicine,’” Rourke said with pursed lips and a twinkling eye.
Domingo flushed over his high cheekbones. “I am a superstitious man. What can I say? But you are a modern man, senhor,” he laughed. “You do not believe in such things, I am sure. Now we go to the airport, yes?”
Rourke was feeling something similar to Domingo’s apprehension as he ran a hand through his short, thick hair. In all the years he’d been a merc, there had been precious few close calls. He’d been shot a few times, never anything serious, except for the loss of his eye. He’d always felt that his hair had something to do with that. It was a primitive superstition, though. He was sure he was just being dumb.
“Yes, Domingo,” he said, and smiled. “To the airport. I have a busy day ahead.” And a busier night, he was hoping, if he could coax Clarisse into bed with him.
His hand felt in his pocket for the ring. It was still there. He knew she wasn’t going to be easy to convince, especially about the bed thing. But he had an ace in the hole. He was going to propose first.
He hoped he wasn’t going to have to go back to Nairobi alone. But, then, whatever it took, he was going to do it. If he had to follow her back to Manaus and court her like a schoolboy, he would. He was never going to let her get away from him. Never.
* * *
Medina, Barrera’s capital, was like most other South American cities, cosmopolitan and remote at the same time. The people were a mixture of races, and the official language was Spanish.
There was a regional airport and a bus terminal. There were no limousines here. Not yet. The general was only beginning to repair the damage to the infrastructure that Sapara had caused. The usurper had done a lot of damage during the time he’d been in power. Most of the money had gone into his own pockets and he’d spent lavishly on himself. The presidential mansion was worth many millions. Machado had wanted to tear it down, but the grateful populace, much of which he’d rescued from Sapara’s prisons, wouldn’t hear of it. Powerful foreigners would come here to help rebuild the country, one of his advisers had said. A luxurious presidential residence would reinforce the notion that Barrera was worth aid.
He didn’t agree at first, but he finally gave in. If he demolished it, he’d have to spend the money to rebuild it. He did, however, have all the solid gold fixtures that Sapara had imported melted down and minted. That had earned him much praise, especially in light of the social programs he’d implemented to give free health care to the poor. Machado was a good man.
Rourke checked into the only luxury hotel in the city. He wondered if Tat would be staying here, too. He hoped so.
He put his suitcase down and unpacked his dinner jacket. He smiled as he thought of the evening ahead. It was going to be the best night of his life.
* * *
Five doors and a floor away, Clarisse Carrington was looking at the dark circles under her eyes as she thought about the night to come. Rourke’s name was on the list of honorees, but she was certain that he wouldn’t show up. He hated society bashes, and he was a modest man. He wouldn’t be interested in having people make him out to be a hero, even though he was one.
Clarisse had hero-worshipped him from the age of eight, admired his courage, loved him to the point of madness. But Stanton Rourke hated her. He’d made it crystal clear for years, even without the horrible things he’d said to her when he got her out of Ngawa.
He was never going to love her. She knew that. But she couldn’t help the way she felt about him. It seemed to be a disease without a cure.
She studied her face in the mirror. The bullet wound had left evidence of its passage in her scalp, but a little careful hair-combing hid it well. The scars on her left breast were less easy to camouflage. Sapara’s henchman, Miguel, had put a knife into her, over and over again while trying to make her tell about General Machado’s offensive. She hadn’t talked. That was why she was getting a medal tonight. For bravery. Because she’d survived the torture and rescued not only herself, but two college professors, as well. They said she was a heroine. She laughed without humor. Sure.
She was standing there in a long slip. It would go under the elegant white gown she’d bought from a boutique for the event. It had simple lines. It fell to her ankles. The bodice wasn’t even suggestive. It was high enough to cover the scars on her breast. It had puff sleeves that reminded her somehow of a gown she’d seen in a period movie about the Napoleonic era. She looked good in white.
She thought how Stanton would have laughed to see her in the color. He would think it should be scarlet. He thought she was little better than a call girl. That was ironic, and it would have been amusing except that it was tragic.
She’d never been with a man in her life. She’d never been intimate with anyone, except Stanton, one Christmas Eve long ago, when she was seventeen. She’d loved him then and every day since, despite his antagonism, his mockery, his taunting.
She knew he hated her. He’d made it obvious. It didn’t seem to make any difference, though. She couldn’t get him out of her mind, any more than she could permit any other man to touch her.
She’d made a play for Grange, the leader of Machado’s insurgent troops. But that had been an act of desperation, and mainly due to antianxiety drugs that she’d taken after the tragic deaths of her father and her little sister, Matilda. Her life had been shattered.
Rourke had come running, the minute he heard about it. He’d handled the funeral arrangements, organized the service, done everything for her while she walked around numb and brokenhearted. He’d put her to bed, holding her while she sobbed out her heart. He’d called a doctor, her doctor, Ruy Carvajal, and had him sedate her when the crying didn’t stop.
She thought of Ruy and
