“Hmm. For a small-time dance contest? I don’t think this has anything to with that. Whoever it was bellowed, ‘Die, bastard, die!’ in such visceral hoarse tones it didn’t sound human, the rage was so intense.”
“How could you evoke that emotion in anyone, Matt?”
“Maybe it’s not me personally. Maybe it’s what I represent.”
“An ex-priest? A radio shrink. That’s pretty far-fetched. Still, you really shouldn’t perform the tango tonight,” she said. “It’s only twelve hours away, and it makes you a target again.”
“The police and hotel security are determined to end this tonight. As for the dance, we all rehearsed steps from all the dances the previous week before the competition. Each number is just ninety seconds. Tatyana will figure out a way to help me memorize the steps without walking through them full tilt over and over.”
“I know you can do it, but should you? Other performers have been attacked, maybe not as obviously, and they’re real celebrities. In fact, if you think of it, several of them have been celebrities behaving badly. I wonder—”
He was following his own new line of thought.
“The loaded prop pistol incident was just before me, and that was the most serious so far. Until now. Olivia’s broken heel could have been a repaired shoe that malfunctioned, or minor sabotage, and Keith Salter’s illness could have been ordinary food poisoning.”
“It’s escalated from a sabotaged dancing slipper to a sickened performer to a drugged one, to a shot one, all onstage during the dances. You were lured here to your attack, alone, at night. That was one-on-one with a deadly weapon. You must have done a heroic job of fighting off a surprise assault like that.”
“Amazing how the life force kicks in. Whoever it was should have some pretty good body bruises. Once I had the . . . person—can’t say ‘bastard’ back, could have conceivably been a woman—temporarily disarmed by rolling ‘Zorro’ up in that curtain,’ I did my best to disable the attacker with martial arts blows. But I was already weakening.”
“So if it’s another dancer, he or she might move a bit stiffly.”
“Wandawoman was a victim herself,” he objected, going back to the earlier suggestion.
“Self-administering too many antianxiety meds would put her out cold and remove suspicion. And she could control the timing.”
“I suppose you’re going to suggest the Cloaked Conjuror as a suspect too.”
“Good idea. Just because we know him a little . . . who can tell what size and build he is under that costuming?”
“He doesn’t need a mask for something like this, though. Going maskless would be a better disguise.”
“True. Brilliant, in fact,” she said. “Apparently you have plenty of blood to the brain despite it all.”
“Yeah. Other places too.”
“Oh?” Temple looked deliciously wicked at the moment. “Maybe I’m as good as Tatyana at figuring out a way to help you go through the steps without having to go over and over it again. But I’m aiming at a bit more than ninety seconds.”
Last Tango in Zurich
Humid warmth wafted from the small-by-American-standards bathroom when Revienne opened the door thirty-five minutes later, her pink skirt and the suspected black garter belt over one arm.
Max’s automatic inventory was part investigation, part self-indulgence.
The black camisole was really a thigh-brushing teddy. If she’d ever worn a bra in this escape escapade, it wasn’t on her now. Not that she needed one. Probably never had worn one. She was French. Whew.
“I can’t stand another moment in that suit! Okay with you?” she asked.
“I’m sometimes an idiot, but not now.”
“You Americans. All for sex but so ignorant of sensuality. I suppose you will stay fully dressed, wearing that tight belt, although it is Versace, those nice new shoes, that silk tie with the subtle but expensive tack.”
“Good tailoring is as comfortable as pajamas.”
“Well said. I know you are rich, but rich Americans usually go for the obvious. How did you escape that?”
She settled in the other upholstered chair, like Venus curling into her clamshell, her bare legs tucked under. They were shaved, but a slight stubble caught the light. Whether there was anything under that slip of a skirt was up to the imagination of the beholder.
“Is seduction a part of your therapeutic technique?” he asked.
“Not usually, but thank you for noticing. I have been through hell for you, Mr. Randolph. I am going to enjoy the first few decent hours I’ve had in days. I am clean, I am not wearing the same clothing, I have a cool drink coming and a handsome man hanging on my every . . . word. I plan to enjoy it. I also plan to strip your psyche down to the bare neuroses, whether you intend to let me or not.”
“Fair enough.”
He settled into his chair, enjoying sinking his bone-tired frame into a cradle of goose-down upholstery. This psychic striptease was not going to be a one-way street. His chair was placed to observe both the door and the windows. And even if there was any “consummation devoutly to be wished” tonight, he’d be fully clothed and ready to fight, flee, or some other appropriate f word.
“I’ll buy you some new clothes in the morning and a ticket to wherever you need to go,” he told her. “I owe you much more, but that’ll have to wait until I’m far away from your friends in the Mercedes and their ilk.”
“They weren’t very friendly.”
As she lifted a hand to push back her dampened hair he saw the bracelet of bruises on her pale wrist.
“I see that.”
“What?” Her eyes followed his gaze. “Oh.” She turned the wrist and looked at the other one, also marked. “Didn’t know that showed. I didn’t just hitch a ride, as you put it, with them. Although, once they produced their firearms I admit I cooperated. I wouldn’t make a good Bond girl, would I?”
“In that outfit, maybe. But you’re too cerebral.”
“Cerebral?” English wasn’t her first language and some words weren’t in most textbooks.
“Smart.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You like that in a woman?”
“No.” He’d surprised her, as he’d meant to. “I require that in a woman.”
“‘Require.’ That is a demanding word. Are you demanding, Mr. Randolph?”
“Of myself.” He stirred uneasily.
“I see you don’t like that in yourself.”
“What? Why? How?”
“Your restless body language.”
He laughed. “My ‘restless body language’ isn’t giving away my inner state. It’s because my ‘banged-up’ body can’t stand any position for too long at the moment, no matter how cushy.”
“You can’t stand?” She sat forward, alarmed. “Just a few minutes ago you did, and walked quite well.”
“‘Stand’ is an expression. It means I can’t tolerate”—she still looked blank—“endure”—she nodded—“the same position long.”
A soft knock came on the door. “Room service,” he said, starting to struggle out of the chair softer than quicksand.
She leapt up to anticipate him.
“You can’t answer the door in that,” he said. “That’s why I stayed fully dressed.”
“I can, but I’ve a feeling you wouldn’t . . . stand . . . for it.”
He threw her a grin. By then he had used the cane to get him to the door. He nodded to the bathroom, and she ducked inside.
He used the peephole, then opened the door to admit a waiter rolling in a room service cart. He laid the cane atop the cart as he signed the bill and indicated the tip. His curled left hand concealed a roll of coins from a money exchange kiosk in the street, his only weapon besides the cane.