Robert Asprin's Dragons Run (17 page)

“I
could have eaten three of those chocolate-mousse things,” Mike said, as they waited in line to pick up their wraps at the coat-check window. “Good thing I didn’t. I might have fallen asleep behind the wheel.”

Val eyed him with mock alarm. “Should I drive back?”

“No, I’m under the legal limit for chocolate. Sometime when you feel like real indulgence, my secretary said she visited a place about six miles from here that serves a chocolate buffet she loved.”

“Sounds great,” Val said. “As long as you don’t call me a ‘gour-moo’ again. In my condition, that sounds like an insult.”

Mike pleaded innocence. “It’s not a judgment, I swear. It’s a classification. It just means you like milk chocolate. Since you haven’t read
Chocolate, the Consuming Passion
, I’ll find you a copy.”

Behind the wooden half door, a small Asian-looking woman in a vest and bow tie accepted the hexagonal plastic claim check and a folded bill from Mike. In moments, she brought out the correct hanger with his coat and Val’s pashmina hanging from it. She handed Mike his jacket but came out of the cloakroom to help Val on with her shawl.

“Thanks,” Val said, pulling the soft folds tighter over her shoulders. She felt something crisp in her palm. As Mike swung his coat around, she peeped into her hand. A note, folded small, was hidden there. Val frowned, but the woman gave her an urgent look of entreaty. Val shoved it into her purse and let Mike take her arm. They went out into the chilly night air.

Who was that woman, and why did she need to pass Val a message? Val was certain she was a stranger. Was there something about her date that she needed to know? Was Mike a known lecher or something more sinister? She couldn’t look at the note without his seeing it. Mike respected her silence as they rode back to the house.

He ran around to help her out of the car and escorted her up the front steps.

“You’re probably pretty tired,” he said. “May I call you tomorrow?”

Val pulled herself out of her fog to smile at him.

“I’d like that,” she said. “Sorry to flake out on you there.”

“No problem,” he said. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I really enjoyed the evening.”

Val started to ask him about the coat-check girl, when the door opened, and Marcella peered out at them.

“Me, too,” Val said. She returned the peck and hurried inside. The austere housekeeper took the shawl from her shoulders.

“Mrs. Wurmley called an hour ago. She wanted to know where you were. Would you like to speak to her?” Marcella asked, leading her up the double staircase toward her room.

“Sure,” Val said, suddenly weary.

“I will put the call through to your room.”

“Thanks.”

Val trudged up the steps, no longer feeling like Cinderella but an actor in some weird, avant-garde drama. She realized once again that she had forgotten to look at the license plates while they were driving. She still didn’t really know where she was. Henry always gave her a supercilious glance when she asked, and none of the others even did that much. It wasn’t as if she could run off. There was only a ten-dollar bill and some change in her wallet. She didn’t have her credit card with her; it was inside a package of frozen spinach in her refrigerator at home. She gave Griffen credit for one “I told you so.” Not that she felt as if she were in prison, but she felt under constant scrutiny. She hated being judged. Mike was the only one who didn’t seem to be evaluating her all the time, but now she wondered what she had missed figuring out about him.

The phone rang even before she closed the door. Val picked it up. The strident voice blared in her ear.

“Valerie? How are you feeling? Are you keeping your salt intake down? You don’t want to risk pre-eclampsia.”

“I had rack of lamb tonight. It was divine,” Val countered.

“At Benoit’s? That is the best—organically raised, homegrown rosemary. Good choice. Listen, Valerie, have you given up on a yellow nursery? I found an adorable purple quilt for the crib.”

“Fine,” Val said. “That would be nice.”

“So you’re going with purple?”

“No. I still like yellow.”

“But it will clash!”

“The baby won’t care. I certainly don’t. By the time he’s old enough to notice, he’ll hate everything I ever picked out anyway. His room will end up papered in rock posters and skateboard decals.”

“His? Is it a boy?” Melinda demanded.

Val groaned. She sat down and peeled off the Weitzmans. Her feet were ridged with red lines where the straps had crossed them. She wiggled her toes.

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

Her dismissive tone finally got through to the older woman. “Whatever. So, did you have a nice time with Michael Burns?”

Val felt a resurgence of the pleasure of the evening. “Yes, I did.”

“He’s a very nice man. He has a great future, and his family is very wealthy.”

Val looked at the receiver, shocked. “Melinda, are you trying to fix me up with him?”

“Why not? You’re a great catch. I could tell he liked you from the first moment he spoke to you. He respects you. He’d be a fabulous mate for you. Almost your equal.”

She felt her heart sink into her feet.

“Are you saying he’s a dragon, too?” she demanded.

“Of course! So were most of the single men who were at the party. I thought you would like to meet some men of your own class—well, almost. You outrank all of them, but each of them has his good points. Michael is my cousin. A good boy. He has excellent prospects. Since you don’t want to continue with my son. I’ll admit Nathaniel likes things his own way . . .”

Val fumed. Nathaniel’s “own way” had been virtual rape. “I’ll pick out my own boyfriends, thanks,” she said shortly.

“Whatever,” Melinda said again, and changed the subject. “Henry tells me you’re a quick study. I’d like you to look over some vendors for PrepPro and pick out the best prospects. I’ll call you tomorrow night and get your opinion.”

“Melinda, I don’t work for you.”

“And you have so much else to do in the meantime? I would appreciate your input. And you might learn something. How bad could that be?”

“All right! I’ll take a look at them. Melinda, when can I . . . ?”

“Thank you, sweetie. I’ll be back there in a week, and we’ll go on that shopping trip I have been promising you. You are going to adore Paris. Talk to you tomorrow. Bye!”

Val threw the shoes against the wall. Melinda drove her crazy. She was manipulative and pushy. It took all her self-control to keep the older woman from taking over her life. She would accept only the gifts and assignments she wanted. After all, what would be so bad about learning more about business? She really didn’t want to tend bar all her life.

Melinda’s other revelation put a whole new light on the evening. Mike Burns was a dragon? Was that what the coat-check girl was trying to warn her about? How would she know? Val couldn’t tell humans from dragons, or any of the other weird creatures that her brother had been hanging out with in the French Quarter. Until they changed, or did something magical, she didn’t know the difference. Had the girl seen Mike do something wrong? Could he be dangerous to her?

She dove for her purse and retrieved the folded slip of paper. Before she opened it, she padded over to her door and locked it. For good measure, she lowered the window shades. Val hated to feel so paranoid, but there was so much going on under the surface appearance of normalcy that she was overwhelmed.

The note had been hand-printed neatly in heavy black ink, similar to the kind Mai liked to use on birthday and Christmas cards, though it didn’t look like her writing. Mai usually employed a flowing script like Western letters transposed into Chinese calligraphy. Val, an average student of the Palmer school of penmanship, had always envied her skill. Mai could have printed the note to disguise her handwriting.

“Valerie McCandles. Request a private conversation with you tomorrow evening. If you will allow, fold this note and place it inside your window frame tonight.” The message was unsigned. The formal wording didn’t sound like Mai. Who was it from? Val was certain no one had any idea where she was. None of her friends or family had returned any of her calls, and she couldn’t put a return address on a letter since she didn’t know what it was. How strange that Henry and the others conspired to prevent her from determining her location, as if it were a trade secret.

She vowed not to let that last piece of information remain unknown any longer. The next day she was going to demand answers. In the meantime, she wondered who wanted a “private conversation.” It might be a pretense to get close enough to attack her, but she was pretty certain she could take care of herself. If she had any trouble, she could scream for help. The mystery creeped her out somewhat, but she was intrigued as well.

Before she went to bed, she tucked the note, folded into a tiny wad, into the wooden sash. The corner just peeped up above the frame.

All right, whoever you are. Let’s talk.

In the morning, the slip of paper was gone.

Griffen
frowned at his cell phone.

“What do you mean, ‘politicians are like that’?” he demanded, his voice rising. “That’s absurd. She’s dangerous.”

The other patrons in the Irish pub glanced at him but kept their faces neutral. If he was having an argument on the phone, he wasn’t in imminent peril of getting into a fight. If he wanted help, he could ask for it. Griffen lowered his voice. They went back to their drinks and conversation.

“Penny Dunbar is canny, not dangerous.” Malcolm’s voice was calm. “Griffen, you called me out of an important meeting. Please give me a summary of your concerns.”

Griffen had dialed his uncle’s office number with every intention of being patient, but the dismissive tone roused his righteous indignation.

“Penny lied to Fox Lisa to get her out of the room the other night so she could hit on me.”

He could hear the smile in Malcolm’s voice. “I have never before heard of an occasion when you rejected female companionship, Griffen.”

“This was not an ordinary pass. When I turned her down, she threatened to expose Fox Lisa by dragging her in front of the public with me on trumped-up charges of illegal gambling operations. I’ll take responsibility for my own actions, but I refuse submit to blackmail of an innocent person. I just wanted you to know that I quit.”

“Griffen, please! I cannot drop everything and take over protecting Miss Dunbar at this moment. I implore you to continue as you have been doing.”

Griffen glared at the phone.

“She’s eating up all my spare time. She’s not even nice about it. Every time I tell her I can’t go with her to an appearance, she drags out her vague threats. This last thing was the tipping point. I’m through.”

“And has she?”

Griffen blinked.

“Has she what?”

“Has she summoned the authorities or called a press conference as she warned?”

“No. I walked out. I haven’t heard from her since.”

“And no hue and cry has been raised over either of you, has it?”

“No.”

“I believe you have your answer, then. Her bark is far worse than her bite.”

Griffen crouched over the phone, trying not to snarl.

“Uncle Malcolm, I’m done with helping her, if you call it that. I still haven’t found Val. I’ve got a business to run. I want my girlfriend to stay out of jail, and I’d like to stay out myself.”

“Griffen, Ms. Dunbar would not do that. She knows how much she requires your help. And mine.”

“I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw her,” Griffen said. “If it came down to a minute of publicity versus five years in jail for me, I’d better hire a lawyer now.”

“The fact is that she would not cause you any permanent distress.”

“The fact is,” Griffen said, enunciating as clearly as possible in as low a voice as he thought would be audible on the other end, “that if she causes my girlfriend any problems, I will kill her myself, and to hell with whatever it is you hope to accomplish getting her into the governor’s mansion.”

“Please, Griffen, Ms. Dunbar needs you. Don’t make hasty decisions.”

The spark of fire that resided in Griffen’s belly danced up and down, pleading to get out and cause havoc. Griffen tamped it down with difficulty.

“I’m not acting hastily. It’s been weeks since you asked for my help. She’s a nightmare to deal with. I’ve seen her use blackmail on a number of people already. My business may skirt the law, but I don’t stoop that low.”

Malcolm chuckled. “I never thought that I would be lectured on ethics by you.”

That stung, but Griffen ignored it.

“Yes, well, things change.”

“Indeed they do. Griffen, I am certain you can find a way to remain involved. Be diplomatic.”

“I’m not a diplomat,” Griffen said. “It’s your turn. I was doing you a favor. I’m through with that. She’s trouble. There’s no way I could ask anyone to vote for her. I can’t imagine what kind of problems she would cause if she actually became governor.”

“Penny is part of a much larger picture, Griffen. I apologize for not taking the time to lay it out for you. We need fellow dragons in positions of power. She is willing, hardworking, and cognizant of the rough-and-tumble aspects of politics. Not many of our kind wish to put themselves into the public spotlight.”

“Believe me, she revels in it.”

“So I perceived. Griffen, I am in a bind. My time is limited . . . as I know yours is. Please continue to assist us.”

“Nothing happens to her! She engineered the only trouble she’s been in.”

“The car accident?”

Griffen hesitated. “I’m not sure about that. She could have.”

“For what reason?”

“Headlines. She’ll do anything to get in front of a camera. But those two events looked staged. She probably did it for the publicity.”

“I’m afraid that does not set her aside in any way from other candidates. Such things are common in hard-fought political races. I will make a bargain with you, Griffen. Give me another week to complete my current business. I will come down myself, and I will see if I can broker peace between you.”

Griffen wasn’t satisfied, but it was as much of a concession as he was going to get.

“All right,” he said. “She’s got a debate at the end of the week. I’ll go, but I’ll let you know if she chooses the nuclear option with me.”

Malcolm’s voice was dryly sardonic.

“I fancy that I will see that for myself on the evening news. Thank you, Griffen. Good-bye.”