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"That's between you and my boss. My orders are to make the delivery and pick up the prearranged payment. Otherwise the stones stay with me." |
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Cyrus strolled with feigned indifference to the sliding glass door. He kept his eyes on the water and his back to the door, but he kept his ears trained on the conversation. The smell of tension in the air was as strong as the odor of burning leaves. |
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"Look, Ms. Rand . . . Kyna, why not just leave the shipment with me. After I make the sale, I'll send London the payment." |
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"No can do," Kyna replied tersely. |
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Cyrus turned around, stretched and strolled back into the living room. He smiled and nodded to Dessotti as he walked to the rolling bar cart and took a can of diet soda from the ice bucket. When he looked up, Dessotti was staring at him. |
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"Your friend seems a little nervous," Dessotti said. |
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Kyna glanced at Cyrus and gave him a reassuring smile. "Not nervous. Just, shall we say, cautious. Look," she said, getting to her feet. "I'll be leaving in the morning. You call London and work things out with my boss. If he says it's okay for me to leave the shipment, fine. He can call me and I'll meet you. For now, I'll have to take it with me." |
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The bedroom door opened and two men stepped into the living room. One man had dressed right out of the Spiegel catalog: loose gray slacks and a black cashmere polo shirt. The other man seemed to prefer the NRA catalog. He had on brushed jeans, a plaid shirt and an M-16 rifle. |
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When Kyna saw the men, she paled. "You don't want to do this, Mr. Dessotti." |
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Dessotti got up out of the chair, walked around the table and ran a finger down the side of Kyna's arm. His touch raised goose bumps all the way to her toes. |
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"I don't know, Ms. Rand. Maybe we can work out a new and more . . . friendly arrangement." |
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Cyrus stepped away from the beverage cart and the barrel of the M-16 moved to cover him. The man in the black shirt pulled a snub-nosed .38 from the back of his waistband and |
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