on the door. She sat up straight and called out, “Who is it?”
“Room service.”
“There must be a mistake. I didn’t order anything.”
There was no response. Sighing, she pulled on a robe and padded over to open the door.
Guy grinned at her from the darkness. “Well?” he inquired. “Have you thought about it?”
“Thought about what?” she snapped back.
“You and me. Working together.”
She laughed in disbelief. “Either you’re hard of hearing or I didn’t make myself clear.”
“That was two hours ago. I figured you might have changed your mind.”
“I will never change my mind. Good night.” She slammed the door, shoved the bolt home and stepped back, seething.
There was a tapping on her window. She yanked the curtain aside and saw Guy smiling through the glass.
“Just one more question,” he called.
“What?”
“Is that answer final?”
She jerked the curtain closed and stood there, waiting to see where he’d turn up next. Would he drop down from the ceiling? Pop up like a jack-in-the-box through the floor?
What was that rustling sound?
Glancing down sharply, she saw a piece of paper slide under the door. She snatched it up and read the scrawled message. “Call me if you need me.”
Ha! she thought, ripping the note to pieces. “The day I need you is the day hell freezes over!” she yelled.
There was no answer. And she knew, without even looking, that he had already walked away.
CHANTAL GAZED AT THE bottle of champagne, the tins of caviar and foie gras, and the box of chocolates, and she licked her lips. Then she said, “How dare you show up after all these years.”
Siang merely smiled. “You have lost your taste for champagne? What a pity. It seems I shall have to drink it all myself.” He reached for the bottle. Slowly, he untwisted the wire. The flight from Bangkok had jostled the contents; the cork shot out, spilling pale gold bubbles all over the earthen floor. Chantal gave a little sob. She appeared ready to drop to her knees and lap up the precious liquid. He poured champagne into one of two fluted glasses he’d brought all the way from Bangkok. One could not, after all, drink champagne from a teacup. He took a sip and sighed happily. “Taittinger. Delightful.”
“Taittinger?” she whispered.
He filled the second glass and set it on the rickety table in front of her. She kept staring at it, watching the bubbles spiral to the surface.
“I need help,” he said.
She reached for the glass, put it to her trembling lips, tasted the rim, then the contents. He could almost see the bubbles sliding over her tongue, slipping down that fine, long throat. Even if the rest of her was sagging, she still had that beautiful throat, slender as a stalk of grass. A legacy from her Vietnamese mother. Her Asian half had held up over the years; the French half hadn’t done so well. He could see the freckles, the fine lines tracing the corners of her greenish eyes.
She was no longer merely tasting the champagne; she was guzzling. Greedily, she drained the last drop from her glass and reached for the bottle.
He slid it out of her reach. “I said I need your help.”
She wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “What kind of help?”
“Not much.”
“Ha. That’s what you always say.”
“A pistol. Automatic. Plus several clips of ammunition.”
“What if I don’t have a pistol?”
“Then you will find me one.”
She shook her head. “This is not the old days. You don’t know what it’s like here. Things are difficult.” She paused, looking down at her slightly crepey hands. “Saigon is a hell.”
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