“I know,” he said. “I was just . . . I don’t know. Trying to be an asshole, I guess.”
“Well, you can stop trying. You succeeded.”
Ken actually smiled. “Yeah, I’m told that’s something I’m particularly good at. Come on. I better get checked in.”
“I’ll wait here,” she said.
“No.” Ken shook his head. “Starting right now, you’ve got to get used to sticking close to me. Once we’re in Jakarta—once we hit Hong Kong for that matter—you’re not going to go anywhere without me making like your little shadow. You’re not going into the ladies’ room alone. I’m going to be inches from you, twenty-four-seven, and if we’re in a crowd or a situation where I don’t feel like I’m in complete control, I’m going to have to touch you. I’m going to have to hold your wrist or arm or hand or the waistband of your skirt, whatever—or if I need two hands free, you’re going to have to hold onto me. Do you understand?”
She did. And she understood, too, what he’d meant when he’d spoken about not being the only one uncomfortable.
This was really going to suck.
Jones found himself standing stupidly outside of Molly’s tent.
What the hell was he doing here?
He’d intended to pack up and leave despite the fact that his airfield—his by squatters’ rights only—was a sweet little gem. It was the perfect base of operations, except for the fact that it was too damn close to the village where Molly Anderson and her friends were messing things up the way only true do-gooders could mess things up.
But instead of packing, he lay down for a couple of minutes and took a nap. He hadn’t slept much last night, and a couple of minutes quickly turned into the entire afternoon.
When he awoke, he found he’d made up his mind. He didn’t want to leave. He wasn’t going to leave. But he was going to make damn sure he didn’t run into Molly ever again. He’d stay far from the village, and if she came up to see him, he’d hear her coming and lose himself in the jungle.
How hard could that be?
Grimly happy with his decision, he thought about making himself dinner. But the next thing he knew, he was in the shower. Shaving.
And when he dressed, he not only put on clean clothes, he put on new clothes. A silk shirt in a deep shade of blue he’d picked up in Hong Kong. A pair of pants he’d been saving for a special occasion.
Like he was ever going to have a special occasion. What did he really think? That his mother was going to come visit him or something? She didn’t even know he was still alive.
He even cleaned off his boots before he put them on.
It was then, with the rag in his hand, that he knew. He was completely fucked. He had been from the first moment he’d caught sight of Molly, right after he’d found the airfield.
He couldn’t stay away from her. He’d tried, and failed.
Miserably.
He sifted through the boxes of supplies he’d brought back from the city until he found what he was looking for. Three books—a mystery, a romance, and some old lady’s autobiography. All three were on the New York Times list as of two weeks ago, and they’d cost him a small fortune.
He knew without a doubt that Molly was going to like the romance best. So he’d save it for last. He took the nonfiction book, wrapped it in rice paper, and tied it with a piece of twine.
It looked nearly as ridiculous as he did.
Jones slipped his handgun into the back of his pants, and, pathetic gift in hand, he headed down the trail to the village, cursing himself every step of the way.
He didn’t stop walking until he got to Molly’s tent. And then he stood there, recognizing the total insanity of what he was about to do. Maybe Molly had been right about him having a—what did she call it? A Jesus complex. Maybe some part of him actually wanted to die this year.
She opened the flap and stepped outside before he could walk away.
“I thought I heard someone out here.” Her hair was down around her shoulders and she was wearing a sarong-style skirt that flowed around her as she moved. Her feet were bare, save for the pink nail polish. The smile she gave him was glowing. “Good evening, Mr. Jones. What a wonderful, wonderful surprise. Have you come for a cup of tea?”
He wanted tea about as much as he wanted to be struck by lightning, and she knew it. She knew what he really wanted, and she knew he was going to do whatever it took to get it. To get her. But that seemed to be okay with her. In fact, she seemed pretty damn happy about it.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she continued. As she touched the sleeve of his shirt, her fingers brushed his arm, and it was crazy the way his heart pounded. What was he, in high school again? “You clean up nicely, don’t you?”
“Don’t be fooled,” he murmured. “Rotting wood looks great with a fresh coat of paint.”
“Hmmm,” she said, her eyes dancing. “That’s very profound. And quite noble of you to try to warn me.”
Noble? Not a chance. “Are you going to invite me in, or what?” Jones caught himself. “Please, may I come in.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Language!” Molly said.
“Sorry.”
Jones turned to see one of the missionaries—a tall, lanky, long-haired man with a beard, whose name was Bobby or Jimmy or something equally gee-whiz—stomping toward them, scowling. His scowl was aimed unerringly at Jones.
“Mr. Jones is here for a cup of tea,” Molly announced. “Have you two met? Mr. Jones, this is Bill Bolten. Billy’s with the mission.”
“Yeah,” Jones said. “I noted his warm Christian greeting.”
Billy was carrying a bouquet of flowers and he gave them to Molly with a kiss. He would have planted it on her lips if she hadn’t turned her head at the last minute.
“I’m glad you’re back safely,” he told Molly, gazing meaningfully into her eyes.
Oh, come on. Billy couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. Did he really think he had a chance with a mature woman like Molly?
Except she was smiling back at him, with real warmth in her eyes. She brought the flowers to her nose. “Mmmm, thank you. These are lovely.”
Shit. He should have brought flowers instead of some stupid-ass book. Books weren’t romantic. Books didn’t say “I want to do you,” quite the same way flowers did.
He was on his way to shifting, so that he could hide the book behind his back, but it was too late. She’d already seen it.
“Is that for me, too?” she asked him.
So he handed it over.
And great. She was opening it right in front of Jesus’s angry little brother.
“It’s a book,” she said, feeling it through the paper. “Please let it be a book . . .” She took the paper off as if it were a precious resource as valuable as the gift inside. “Yes!” She quickly scanned the back cover. “This looks fabulous.” She hugged it to her chest as she gazed at him. “Thank you so much.”
Jones wanted her to hold him the way she was holding that book. And if Billy hadn’t been standing there, he would’ve reached for her and made an attempt to kiss her. But no way was he going to give the kid the satisfaction of seeing him bounce one off of her cheek the way he had done.
“Come in,” she said. “Both of you. I’ll put on a kettle.”
The dead last thing Jones wanted was to go into Molly’s tent with Billy. But if he left, that meant Billy would be going inside alone.
So Jones went into the tent.
Billy followed on his heels, jockeying for position.
It was pretty big for a tent, with a wooden floor and flaps that could be raised to let the breeze in and lowered for privacy. Molly opened all the flaps as Billy sat down at the table one of the villagers had made for her.
There were only two chairs, so Jones headed for her bed. Before he sat, he took out his gun and set it on the crate she used as a bedside table, next to her lantern. That was where he’d kept it while he was sick.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Billy said. “Did you ask Molly if you could bring a gun in here?” He looked at Molly. “Did you know he was armed?”
“Everyone here is armed,” she replied evenly as she filled a real tea kettle—with a whistle and everything—from a container of bottled water. “You, me, Colin, Angie, and Father Bob are the only people on this entire mountain who don’t carry a gun. You know that.”
Yeah, Billy. Don’t be stupid. Except, oops, guess you can’t help it. Being stupid comes naturally to guys like you.
Jones leaned back on Molly’s bed, supporting himself with his elbows, enjoying Billy’s obvious discomfort. He watched Molly light a can of Sterno and set the kettle above the flame while Billy watched him.
“I have Mr. Jones to thank for flying me home this afternoon,” Molly told Billy. “He didn’t have to wait for me, but he did.”
“It wasn’t that big a deal.” Jones gazed at Molly’s ass with undisguised admiration as she moved to a cabinet to get out a tea strainer and a tin of tea. “I used the time to take on a load of cargo.”
“Oh, yeah?” Hostility dripped from Billy’s voice. “What did you carry?”
Jones shrugged as he turned his attention back to the younger man. “The usual. You know.”
“No, I don’t know. What’s the usual for you, Jones? Drugs?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Jones told him. “I loaded the Cessna with heroin and cocaine and headed on home.”
“And you invite this man into your tent . . . ?” Billy sputtered.
“He’s kidding,” Molly told him. “Think about it, Bill. The drugs come down off the mountain, into the cities, where they can be distributed.”
“Guns are a different story,” Jones said helpfully. “Guns go up into the mountains. Guns go up, drugs go down. D, drugs, down. That’s how I remember it.”
Molly shot him a don’t-be-mean look.
He smiled at her. This was actually kind of fun. He liked leaning back on her bed, fantasizing that instead of sitting across from Billy at that little table, she would join him here. She’d lie down beside him, so soft in his arms, her head against his shoulder, and . . .
“And how many guns were in the cargo hold of your plane this afternoon, Mr. Jones?” she asked.
Jones pretended to think about it. “None,” he admitted.
“Your usual cargo is, in fact . . . ?”
“Canned goods, fresh vegetables, and the ever popular toilet paper. I am, in fact, the Indonesian King of Toilet Paper. Although I think I’m onto something that’s going to make me even more money. That book cost nearly as much as a four week supply of TP. I think I’m going to fly to Hawaii, buy a couple crates of books and finally make my fortune.”
“A flying bookstore.” Molly smiled at him. “Be still my heart.”
“So you’re saying you’ve never carried illegal drugs or guns in your plane?” Billy was a pit bull in his determination to prove to Molly that Jones was in league with Satan.
“No,” Jones said. “I’m not saying that.”
“Then you have carried—”
Enough of this bullshit. “It was nice meeting you, Billy,” Jones said. “Too bad you have to go now.”
“Fuck you, scumbag. I’m not going anywhere.”
Them was fightin’ words, but Jones didn’t let himself move an inch. Every muscle in his body had tensed, but the key was in continuing to look—and sound—relaxed. “Watch your mouth around the lady, junior,” he drawled. “Do yourself a favor and say good night and go.”
“Not on your life—”
Jones did his own version of a fast draw, reaching for his handgun as he got to his feet all in one quick, smooth motion. He knew from the look in Billy’s eyes that the kid had barely seen him move. One minute he was on the bed and the next, he had his gun pointed at the kid’s head. “How about on your life?” he asked softly.
“Okay,” Molly said, clapping her hands to get their attention. “That’s it. Both of you. Out.”
She stepped directly in front of the gun as she pointed at the door, and Jones pulled it up and put the safety back on.
“Why are you kicking me out?” Billy protested. “I’m not the one who pulled the gun.”
Molly put her hands on her hips and blasted him. “Maybe not, but you were rude beyond belief. This is my home. You don’t come into my home, insult my friends, and use that kind of language—which, by the way will cause real problems for you in the seminary. I’m a dedicated pacifist, but I nearly pulled a gun on you myself for being such a jerk.” She turned to Jones. “And you. Wipe that self-satisified little smile off your face.”
“What?”
“I’m certainly not on your side, so stop looking as if you’ve won. How dare you bring this kind of violence into my home?” She was really mad.
“Hey, I wasn’t really going to shoot him.”
“And on top of that, you’re a hypocrite! ‘Watch your mouth around the lady . . . ”? After what you said to me this afternoon, sewer-man? Give me a break!”
“Yeah, about that. I was hoping to get a chance to apol—”