Carter waited, sipping the weak drink, then dropped a bill on the bar and followed. The blonde was waiting just inside the curtains.
“This way, through our dressing room.”
Carter moved in behind her down the dark hall and through another set of curtains. The redhead, still more or less naked, sat with her feet up on her makeup table, reading a magazine and drinking a Coke. She never looked up as Carter came through.
“This door leads to the alley behind the club.” She opened it and pressed a piece of paper into his hand. “You ever need anything else, the name is Gila.”
“Thanks.”
Carter stepped into the alley and the door closed behind him. He started to throw the slip of paper away, then thought, You never know, and pocketed it.
He walked in a wide circle to the rear of the hotel. Just in case they had another watcher in the lobby, he might as well confuse them all the way.
The freight elevator operator took him up to his floor, after Carter explained that he was in a hurry and didn’t want to go around to the front entrance. The operator accepted the excuse and a tip with a good-humored smile.
His key was at the desk, so he prowled up and down the corridor, calling softly for the maid. Finally she popped out of a tiny closetlike room, blushing and rubbing her eyes sleepily. She unlocked his door, smiling oddly now, and when she strolled away the grin lingered on her full, handsome face.
Carter shrugged, pushing open the door, and then he realized that the lights were on and smelled the tang of fresh cigarette smoke.
She was sitting in a low armchair, her slender legs resting on an ottoman. She uncoiled and moved toward him, her hand held out.
From her neck to the soles of her feet, she was covered in smoky black chiffon, so thin it was almost as if the pigmentation of her skin had darkened and she was nude. Her long golden hair was done up in two thick braids and wound around her head like a moujik on market day. A gold chain was slung low around her hips, and dangling from it was a large gold medallion encrusted with semiprecious stones which, when it wasn’t swinging, served as an impromptu fig leaf.
“You never called me.” Her voice was husky, low, the accent Slavic.
“I’ve been busy,” Carter said in Huzel’s thick accent, his body tense as he took her hand.
“I am Verna Rashkin.”
Carter relaxed, dropped her hand, and stripped off his jacket. “How the hell did you get in?”
“I told the maid I was your friend.”
That explained the grin, Carter thought. “What can I do for you?”
She took a cigarette from her bag and fitted it into a holder. “I would like to propose a merger.”
“What kind of a merger?” Carter asked. She waved the holder around a bit, and when Carter didn’t produce his lighter she lit the cigarette herself, making a production out of it.
“It is stupid for the three of us to bid wildly against each other for Bolivar’s gems.”
“Three of us?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know Bourlein is here.”
“I didn’t,” Carter lied.
“Who else but the three of us could handle a buy like this?”
“True,” Carter said.
She moved forward until the tips of her breasts almost touched his shirt. “As long as the two of us are bidding together, we can outflank Bourlein.”
“What if it’s a closed bid, one time only?”
“Then we find out what Bourlein’s bid is.”
“How do we do that?” Carter asked.
“There are ways,” she answered languidly. “The important thing is that we don’t run the bid up on each other. Once the gems go to one of us, we split with each other.”
“I don’t like partners.”
Her arms came around his neck and the hard points of her breasts pressed his chest. “Don’t be a fool,” she whispered. “We can be more than partners.”
The kiss started off slowly enough, but it soon became feverish. Her lips were soft, knowing, insistent, drawing his tongue to meet hers in a flame-flicking duel. Her small teeth were sharp, playful; they caught his lip for an instant and he tasted blood. He bit back and she broke the kiss.
“You play rough,” she whispered. She leaned back and looked at him from eyes that were eager. Her tongue darted out to lick a drop of bright scarlet from her lip.
“I’ll play any way you want. Just lay down the rules and fill me in on them.”
“I like it rough.” She nipped at his earlobe and laughed when he pulled away. “Is that too rough for you?”
“Not at all.” Carter looked straight into her eyes and closed one hand over her breast. He purposely squeezed it harder than was necessary. “How about you?”
“The rougher the better.” She closed her hand over his so that the pressure increased. Then her nails raked the back of his hand and came away tipped with his blood.
With casual cruelty, Carter slapped her open-handed across the face. It left a red mark on her cheek. Her eyes glowed briefly and then closed. “Again!” she sighed. “Do it again!”
“No,” Carter growled. “You like it too much.”
“Bastard!”
She swung, but Carter caught her wrist. With his other hand he picked up her purse and guided her to the door.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
“Showing you the door, lady. Bolivar’s no idiot. He sniffs collusion between us, we’d never see home again.”
He opened the door and showed her into the hallway.
“You’re a fool,” she fumed.
Carter slammed the door and checked his shirt. A few drops of blood — hers or his, or both — had stained the front of it.
“Bitch,” he hissed, and peeled out of it. In the bath he got his bleeding lip to clot and then pulled on a fresh shirt. He was retying his tie when the phone rang. “Yes?”
“Herr Huzel?” The voice spoke German with a heavy French accent. Carter could hear a peculiar background noise, a whirring, mechanical sound.
“Yes.”
“I would like to meet with you.”
“Oh?” Carter’s voice was tentative.
“I believe I can be of great use to you.”
“In what way?”
“I can help you. In your business.”
Carter frowned. “What do you know about my business?”
There was a tense laugh from the voice at the other end. “I know all about your business, I’m afraid.”
“I see. You have a villa to sell?”
There was a roaring laugh from the other end of the line. “A villa? Dear me, you are an amusing man. Shall we say, Hernando’s at eight?”
The line went dead. Carter hung up, shaking his head.
It didn’t take a genius to guess that the man on the phone had been Ravel Bourlein. Another good guess was that Bourlein, like Verna Rashkin, wanted to make a deal.
Nice little group of people, he thought. Then thought again. Or a nest of vipers.
Ten
Hernando’s occupied the basement of a condo high-rise overlooking the ocean. It came with a canopy over the sidewalk and a doorman who resembled a solemn bear in a heavy coat with brass buttons.
He bowed Carter into a small gilt-and-red-velvet lobby. There was a leather-padded door leading to the inside of the restaurant.
Carter was surprised to find the place was large and comfortably appointed. There were round white tables scattered around the room, and the chairs were upholstered in the same red velvet as the lobby. The subdued lighting came from recessed ceiling fixtures. Taken as a whole, the room seemed rather French and was somehow soothing.
The maître d’ was instantly at Carter’s side. “Table for one?”
“I’m with a party. My name is Huzel.”