had a chance to talk to any woman but Atlanta. In the three years since he’d met her and Bill, she’d become like a sister to him, closer than his own sister, Jo, whom he hadn’t seen for years.
One difference—in his exchange with Atlanta he hadn’t gotten the sexual buzz he felt now. Part of him wished he were able to grant Chelsea her wish and take her with him—and not just because of the amount of money involved. Sure, he was practically broke, but he had broad shoulders and knew how to work. He’d be all right someday.
She pulled her hand from his, lifted her glass to her lips and spoke over the rim. “What kind of food?”
“Strips of barbecued lamb and some flat bread to wrap it up in. I thought that would be more filling than kebabs.”
“Great. I seem to have been hungry ever since I arrived in Nepal.” She sipped some more whiskey. He’d bet the shudder went right down to her toes. “Must be all the clean air.”
He found another smile and gave it to her with genuine pleasure as he looked around the smoky room. “You’re easily satisfied.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not one bit satisfied. I won’t be until I get up that mountain and recover my sister’s body.”
He heard undertones of poor-little-rich-girl in the ringing echoes of her empty glass as she slapped it down on the wood.
Bill had been a good friend to Kurt. A rich man in his own right without the added advantage of his wife’s money, he had never made himself out to be better than anyone else. And listening to Chelsea, he didn’t like the fact that she almost never used his name. “I notice it’s always your sister you mention when you talk about retrieving the bodies. What about her husband? Where does Bill’s body figure in your scheme?”
Was she that obvious? Had Kurt looked into her psyche and seen the grudge she’d carried for fifteen years? “All right, you got me. I never liked Bill.”
Kurt drew back and sat up in his chair, as if to get away from her. “What’s not to like? He was a great guy, never harmed anyone.”
“It’s not that I want to leave him up there. It’s just that Bill’s the reason for the gulf between Atlanta and me. Aided and abetted by my father, of course.”
Although Kurt had distanced himself, no longer stretching his legs out under the table at ease, she felt relieved when he propped his elbows on the table and nursed his glass between his hands. “You’ve lost me. Start at the beginning, for we seem to be talking about two different guys. Bill was one of the kindest people I ever met.”
Just as she opened her mouth to begin, Chelsea had a lightbulb moment. She licked her lips, but the words refused to come. In a blinding flash Chelsea had seen how she must appear to Kurt, and the picture wasn’t pretty. She pointed at the bottle. “Can I have another shot?”
“You don’t think you ought to wait until the food arrives?”
“No. I need it now.” She held out her glass.
As he poured, he lifted his eyes so they clashed with hers, and it was as if he could read her mind and knew all her secrets, but all he said was, “Dutch courage?”
“Something like that.” She took a mouthful and threw it back, the burn mellowing the more she drank. Or maybe the first few sips had cauterized her nerve endings. Whatever it was, the whiskey slid down easily.
She’d heard you could tell a stranger things you wouldn’t dare tell a friend. In another moment of revelation, she realized she didn’t have a lot of friends who wouldn’t make some use of her confession if it were told to them. Which didn’t say much for her taste in friends. A pity Kurt didn’t look like a priest. It would make this a whole lot easier.
“You’ve got to remember I was only thirteen—”
She broke off to regroup her thoughts. Had that sounded like an excuse or what? She needed to tell it straight and start at the beginning. “Atlanta would have been four when my mother married Charles Tedman. They had a very short courtship, and I guess she was already pregnant and that hurried things along, because I was a seven-pound premature baby—though who gives a damn about how close the wedding is to the birth these days. Except maybe if you are Argentine, and come from a proud family like my mother did.
“I think I fell in love with Atlanta from the moment I opened my eyes and was able to see her. Even then I recognized our differences. She was so pink, white and gold like a china doll.”
“You’re not without top-notch qualities yourself.”
Chelsea smiled as the memory brought up an image from her childhood. “She was like my little mom, always there when I woke up. My mother was a horsewoman who traveled the world riding in the top events. She was better at schooling horses than children.”
“So, who brought you up? Did you have a nanny?” He reached out and tucked back the strands of black hair that were blocking her view of him, and vice versa, and she wished he hadn’t. Bad enough spilling her guts without catching his expressions of sympathy or otherwise.
Suck it up, Chelsea, she told herself, but as he ran the tip of his index finger around the curve of one ear, his touch made her quiver.
She felt her color deepen, and lowered her eyelids as if that would hide her reaction to him. “No, just a housekeeper and Atlanta. By the time I started kindergarten she was ten and used to boss me around, but at the same time she always made sure no one picked on me. I was the black moth in a field of butterflies, too exotic for most of the cool New England blondes I went to school with. Atlanta had no problem. Her mother had been one of them and Father had loads of money, even if he was a self-made man.”
She flashed a smile meant to say But look at me now—I got by, but sensed that Kurt saw through her bravado.
“How many did you beat up?” he asked.
“Not too many. Remember I had Atlanta.”
“I have a twin. That made fighting our battles easy. Besides which we’re identical and it was difficult to know which of us to blame. Of course, if the crime was too bad, Grandma Glamuzina punished us both.”
“Poor you,” she teased.
“Don’t get me wrong—the punishment rarely fit the crime. But this is your story. What happened when you were thirteen?”
“Atlanta married Bill. She was only eighteen and Bill was almost thirty. God, I’ll be thirty myself soon, but to me he looked like an old man and I couldn’t see how she could love someone that old. I blamed it on my father. He’d made two profitable matches himself, and I knew that if Bill had been poor my father wouldn’t have let him through the door.”
Chelsea laughed as she remembered something else. Another swig of whiskey eased her throat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked so much straight up. “You should have seen Father when he discovered Bill had decided to give up making money and live on what he had. He went apoplectic. I don’t think my father took a day off work in his life, except to get married. Though I guess you could say that was all part of business. Thank God neither of us took after him. Cousin Arlon is the nearest thing he had to a son.”
Her stomach curdled as she remembered what had brought her to Namche Bazaar, and this
