Read Online Touch of Magic by M Ruth Myers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M Ruth Myers
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enough snatches of conver sation to realize something had gone wrong. A re sort employee was dead, not the Stuart woman.
The scuttling officials were calling it an accident. Their main concern was keeping the incident from their guests. He was safe for the moment at least, he thought angrily, resuming his place at the bar and ordering another drink, which he did not touch. Still, he was annoyed. This was what came of depending on someone else. The group in Paris had forced an assistant on him. Now she had failed where he would not have. The important question, he thought, resisting an impulse to rub at his chin and betray inner tension, was whether she'd recov ered the tape.
He wouldn't make contact tonight. She had bungled and she might be under surveillance. Some thing in her inexperience might have aroused suspi cion. He'd have to wait until morning -- and plan.
Of course, he could pull out. A car with the key hidden under its license plate had been left along the road for him -- just as one had been left on a street in Los Angeles. In case he'd arrived and sensed problems, there'd been that provision for escape. At dawn, if he hadn't taken the car, it would be reclaimed. Once past that time, there would be no further opportunity to scrap this assignment. He'd be committed to seeing things through, sending only a brief message to alert those waiting on the other end when and where to pick him up.
Ballieu didn't intend to pull out. That would be defeat. He would begin now to weave a net of safety for himself.
His eyes scanned the crowd.
It took ten minutes to select an appropriate woman: plump, pleasant-looking. In a dress that was slightly too girlish for her. And alone. It took an equal amount of time to establish visual contact with her several times.
Finally, as she ventured a hopeful yet circum spect peek, Ballieu moved in. He smiled first, with a little nod, then stirred from his place at the circular bar and walked toward her.
"It's a terrible thing to watch a show like this alone," he murmured, stopping at her table. "May I join you, or are you waiting for a jealous lover?"
She laughed with embarrassed delight at the compliment of his latter words -- as he'd known she would.
"I'm not waiting for anyone," she said. She was blond, artificially so, and older than Ballieu himself. Several good-sized diamonds glinted on her hands as she made a nervous gesture to the chair facing hers.
"Harry Cardwell." Ballieu reached his own hand across the table to take hers in introduction. He let his fingers linger. She looked pleasantly flustered.
"Mildred Farrow," she whispered over the vocal duet that was starting on stage.
"You're not really here alone?" asked Ballieu with pretended disbelief.
"Well ... yes ...."
She seemed a bit hesitant. Ballieu sat back, taking care not to crowd her. He must go easily, he saw now. She'd be put off by too much charm.
"May I offer something to drink? You're so kind, sharing your table."
He'd let himself sound vaguely European. It ap pealed to women. Her round face relaxed.
There was a pampered gullibility about Mildred Farrow that reminded Ballieu of his aunt, who had suffered him and his mother to occupy a spot in her household as poor relations, obligated for the crumbs they received. His aunt had been a dull woman, never questioning the luck that had left her comfortable and others poor, just accepting it as her due. Looking down on those who were less fortu nate. Judging. Giving orders.
Ballieu smiled. He spoke the rhetoric of the bourgeoisie now. It allowed him to fit in and better serve his cause. But he felt for the woman across from him the same contempt he'd felt for his aunt.
"I'm afraid I'm not very good at the bachelor life," Ballieu said, launching into easy fabrication of how his wife had died. He had realized long ago that women saw a widower as safer, somehow, than a bachelor.
Having a woman on the string was insurance. It was sometimes a source of useful
The scuttling officials were calling it an accident. Their main concern was keeping the incident from their guests. He was safe for the moment at least, he thought angrily, resuming his place at the bar and ordering another drink, which he did not touch. Still, he was annoyed. This was what came of depending on someone else. The group in Paris had forced an assistant on him. Now she had failed where he would not have. The important question, he thought, resisting an impulse to rub at his chin and betray inner tension, was whether she'd recov ered the tape.
He wouldn't make contact tonight. She had bungled and she might be under surveillance. Some thing in her inexperience might have aroused suspi cion. He'd have to wait until morning -- and plan.
Of course, he could pull out. A car with the key hidden under its license plate had been left along the road for him -- just as one had been left on a street in Los Angeles. In case he'd arrived and sensed problems, there'd been that provision for escape. At dawn, if he hadn't taken the car, it would be reclaimed. Once past that time, there would be no further opportunity to scrap this assignment. He'd be committed to seeing things through, sending only a brief message to alert those waiting on the other end when and where to pick him up.
Ballieu didn't intend to pull out. That would be defeat. He would begin now to weave a net of safety for himself.
His eyes scanned the crowd.
It took ten minutes to select an appropriate woman: plump, pleasant-looking. In a dress that was slightly too girlish for her. And alone. It took an equal amount of time to establish visual contact with her several times.
Finally, as she ventured a hopeful yet circum spect peek, Ballieu moved in. He smiled first, with a little nod, then stirred from his place at the circular bar and walked toward her.
"It's a terrible thing to watch a show like this alone," he murmured, stopping at her table. "May I join you, or are you waiting for a jealous lover?"
She laughed with embarrassed delight at the compliment of his latter words -- as he'd known she would.
"I'm not waiting for anyone," she said. She was blond, artificially so, and older than Ballieu himself. Several good-sized diamonds glinted on her hands as she made a nervous gesture to the chair facing hers.
"Harry Cardwell." Ballieu reached his own hand across the table to take hers in introduction. He let his fingers linger. She looked pleasantly flustered.
"Mildred Farrow," she whispered over the vocal duet that was starting on stage.
"You're not really here alone?" asked Ballieu with pretended disbelief.
"Well ... yes ...."
She seemed a bit hesitant. Ballieu sat back, taking care not to crowd her. He must go easily, he saw now. She'd be put off by too much charm.
"May I offer something to drink? You're so kind, sharing your table."
He'd let himself sound vaguely European. It ap pealed to women. Her round face relaxed.
There was a pampered gullibility about Mildred Farrow that reminded Ballieu of his aunt, who had suffered him and his mother to occupy a spot in her household as poor relations, obligated for the crumbs they received. His aunt had been a dull woman, never questioning the luck that had left her comfortable and others poor, just accepting it as her due. Looking down on those who were less fortu nate. Judging. Giving orders.
Ballieu smiled. He spoke the rhetoric of the bourgeoisie now. It allowed him to fit in and better serve his cause. But he felt for the woman across from him the same contempt he'd felt for his aunt.
"I'm afraid I'm not very good at the bachelor life," Ballieu said, launching into easy fabrication of how his wife had died. He had realized long ago that women saw a widower as safer, somehow, than a bachelor.
Having a woman on the string was insurance. It was sometimes a source of useful
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