She had the most compelling eyes he’d ever seen. They were light, but beyond that, he couldn’t decide on their color. The irises seemed to shift from gray to pale blue to turquoise to yellow-green and deep emerald, with a hundred shades in between.

  “It’s so nice to see you. Do you mind if I join you?”

  She spoke with a slight accent. So she wasn’t English, after all. And she knew Remo’s name. He racked his brains trying to remember who she was, but nothing registered.

  “Uh—I’d be delighted,” he said, rising.

  No, he didn’t know her, he decided. There was no way he could have forgotten those eyes.

  When the waiter had gone, she said, “I hope you don’t mind my barging in on you like this. I hate to dine alone. Don’t you?”

  And a mind-reader, too, he thought. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

  “Yes,” she said appreciatively. “I imagine you have.”

  The wine steward came over with a list. Remo asked the woman if she felt like something to drink, hoping she knew enough about wine to make her own selection. It had been so long since Remo had touched alcohol that he’d forgotten the names on the labels.

  “I’ll have vodka,” the woman said.

  The waiter nodded. “A martini?”

  “A bottle. And a water glass.”

  The unflappable waiter left. Remo smiled. “We’ve never met,” he said.

  “No.”

  “How did you know my name?”

  “I guessed.”

  What kind of a con is this, he thought. “What’s yours?”

  “What would you like it to be?”

  He sighed. A call girl. “I’ve got fifty-two dollars,” he said flatly. “That’s it.”

  “Good for you.”

  He was embarrassed. “I only meant—”

  The waiter showed up with the vodka and a large tumbler, which he filled to the brim.

  “Have you decided on a name for me yet?” she asked, raising her glass.

  “How about Sam?” he asked drily. “I knew a guy named Sam once who drank vodka by the bucket.”

  “Sam it is, then.” She downed the glass in one draught.

  “Who are you?” Remo asked.

  “I thought we just decided on that.”

  “Come off it. My guess is you’re some kind of bored society dame acting cute with the hoi-polloi—”

  She laughed. “Not at all. I’m new in London. I walked in here alone, saw you, and sat down. Does everything have to be so complicated?”

  “Have it your way,” Remo said. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Figures.” He eyed the prices on the menu. His fifty-two dollars might stretch as far as one meal and two bottles, all for her. Another breakfast of berries along the side of the road.

  “I’d like fish,” she said. “Raw.”

  He sat still for a moment, then leaned over toward her. “How much do you know about me?”

  “Why should I know anything about you? Are you famous?”

  “The fish.”

  “It’s much better raw. You ought to try it.”

  Well, maybe it was just a coincidence, he said to himself. He sat back, trying frantically to remember where he might have met her before. It was useless. “All right,” he said.

  The waiter set down their platter of raw fish at arm’s length, regarding his two customers as if he expected them to jump wildly onto the tables at any moment.

  The woman sent him away with a haughty stare. She picked up a sliver of fish with her fingers and slid it delicately into her mouth.

  “Do you have something against silverware?” Remo asked.

  “Useless,” she said, offering a piece to Remo. Her nails were short and unpainted. She wore no makeup. And those eyes of hers were driving Remo crazy.

  “What color are they?” he blurted.

  “My eyes?” She shrugged. “Blue. Gray. Green. They change.”

  “Really strange,” he muttered.

  “How flattering. You’ve encountered your share of strange people, I suppose?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I think I do.” She downed another tumbler of vodka. “Get some rice for yourself. That’s what you eat, isn’t it?”

  He threw his napkin on the table. “Okay. Come clean. What are you doing here?”

  “Calm down, Remo.”

  “Bulldookey!”

  “Bulldookey?”

  “There’s no way you could have guessed my name.”

  “You sound like Rumpelstiltskin. Eat your fish. You must be exhausted.”

  “I am exhausted. But you don’t have any business knowing that.”

  She leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth. Stunned, he felt as if his spine had just turned into an electric eel. The temperature in the room seemed to rise to the level of a pizza oven. When their lips finally broke away, he noticed that people all over the restaurant were staring at them. “What was that for?” he asked, dazed. “Not that I minded. Maybe you’d like to try it again for practice.”

  “Later,” she said, resuming her meal.

  “Later,” Remo grumbled. She was playing some kind of game, but he was too tired to figure it out. And why bother, anyway, he decided. She was nuts, end of discovery. Still, kissing her beat eating restaurant rice at a table for one any day.

  “I’m staying at Claridge’s. Will you come with me?”

  He gulped, standing up instantly. “Twisted my arm,” he said.

  Inside the doorway of her darkened room, she put her arms around him. He tried to gear himself up for the fifty-two steps to ecstasy, but something was different. Her touch was warm, electrifying, comforting. There was no naughty boom-boom about this girl. Even without speaking, he felt as if he had known her all his life, this girl whose name he didn’t even know.

  Remo had loved many women in his time. And yet none of them had felt like this one. There was something sure about it, as if their flesh belonged together, and always had. But he was being an idiot, he told himself. Any woman who wouldn’t even give her name to a man she was going to spend the night with wasn’t exactly in the market for true love.

  “I suppose you’re being so mysterious just so you can avoid talking to me if we ever bump into each other again.”

  She let her arms fall from around his neck. “Your ways are too worldly for me to understand,” she said simply. “I cannot tell you who I am because I cannot. That is all there is to know. And I wish to make love with you because my body longs for you. Is it not enough?”

  Strange bird. Even in the darkness he could see the changing tones of her eyes. Remo kissed her gain. “It’s enough,” he said. And for some reason he didn’t understand, going to bed with this woman seemed to be more important to him than breathing.

  He made love to her like a schoolboy, frightened, delighted, surprised at his own artlessness. He forgot everything about the sexual techniques that worked with other women, because this nameless girl was like no other woman he had ever been with. They laughed together and played and wrestled and touched each other like incalculably precious things, and Remo told her stories about the orphanage where he’d grown up, and she sang him lewd Viking songs about the glories of raping and looting in the land of the Francs, and when they finally came together, it was as if he’d never made love to anyone before.

  He held her close until she slept.

  “Sam?”

  She didn’t answer. Her breathing was slow and regular.

  “I think I love you,” he whispered, shocked at his own words, grateful that she hadn’t been awake to hear them.

  Her mouth curved into a smile.

  “You faker!” he muttered, pushing her away. He could feel himself blushing.

  She entwined herself around him and found his lips again. “Bulldookey,” she said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HE SHOOK HER AWAKE. “Sam. I’ve got to go.”

  She squinted, turning toward the window. The first red streaks of dawn showed. “Where?”

  “Wales,” he said.

  She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her hair was still in its knot, dangling down the side of her neck. She was so pretty that Remo was half afraid to look at her. He knew that the more time he spent with her, the more he would want to stay. He got up and dressed quickly.

  “Can I go with you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I say so.”

  “Oh.” She sounded hurt.

  “Hah. It hurts when the shoe’s on the other foot, doesn’t it?”

  “What shoe?”

  “It’s just an American expression. What country are you from, anyway? Ah-ah-ah, just testing. I know you aren’t going to tell me.”

  She stretched herself like a cat. The sight of her naked body in daylight gave Remo a pang of sadness. He dropped his shoe and stood for a few moments, watching her, wondering if he would ever see her again.

  “Let’s quit this,” he said, disgusted.

  “What’?”

  “This secrecy crap. I want us to see each other again. Tell me how I can reach you.”

  “I’ll follow you,” she said.

  He shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to talk.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “You can’t, that’s all. Not where I’m going.”

  “Oh, I see. You think I’m too frail and delicate for your rowdy life.”

  “You’re about as frail as a Sherman tank.” He slipped on his T-shirt. It smelled of her.

  She walked over to him and took his hands.

  “Don’t, okay?” He broke away from her, suddenly angry. “You can’t go, and I can’t tell you why, and this is the last time I’m going to see your funny face because, for some reason, you want us to keep on being strangers. So don’t make it any harder than it already is.” He walked to the door.

  “Remo…” She came to him and kissed him. And again, it felt as if she had been with him all his life.

  “Tell me who you are,” he whispered. “I don’t care if you’re on the run from somebody, or married, or whatever. I don’t even care how you know about me. I just want to be able to find you when I get back.”

  She gazed at him for a long time. Then, frowning, she lowered her eyes.

  He waited in silence for what seemed an eternity. Finally he spoke, burning with shame. “Just asking,” he said bitterly.

  “Please—”

  “Hey. No need to make excuses. Believe me, I don’t want any strings, either. It was a swell one-night stand.”

  He ran down the hotel steps, hot-wired the first unguarded car he saw, and laid a strip of rubber a mile long.

  “Bitch,” he muttered, speeding out of the city. He was never going to get mixed up with women again. He would limit himself to tarts and dumbbells. If no tarts or dumbbells were available, he’d settle for cold showers.

  What was so special about what’s-her-name, anyway, he asked himself. He’d just been lonesome and horny. As a matter of fact, she was as ordinary as they came. Couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. And her nose was crooked. Didn’t even know how to use a fork.

  She was freaking weird, when it came right down to it. Eyes that kept changing colors, like a kaleidoscope. Muscles like a damned stevedore under that silky skin. Probably lifted weights on her lunch hour. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was a dyke. Or worse. One of those Scandinavian sex-change jobs. By God, that was why she wouldn’t give him her name! Call me Harry, darling. Hell, he was glad to be rid of her.

  But oh, the taste of her lips.

  Forget it. What was done was done. Even if it never started.

  He made it to Wales in record time. Stopping at a village to buy some gas with all the money he had left, he considered buying a map of the area, but discarded the idea. Michelin didn’t include places like the Valley of the Forest Primeval on its maps. He was too embarrassed even to ask directions to such a ridiculous-sounding place, even if Chiun did insist that it was the correct address.

  He headed north. It seemed like the more primeval route. By the time the roads changed from stone to earth, and the rickety wooden signposts touted places like Llanfairfechan and Caernarfon as major metropolises hundreds of kilometers distant, the late afternoon mist was beginning to settle along the mossy banks where he drove. The trees were huge here, lush pines stretching to the clouds. Insects and hidden forest animals seemed to be everywhere, chattering endlessly. The air was thick and sweet.

  Remo drove the car down the narrowing road, overgrown almost to invisibility by grass, until the road petered off into a footpath and then, in the distance, disappeared altogether.

  “Great,” Remo said out loud. “Just freaking great.” He must have come fifty miles on that road. “Valley of the Forest Primeval. I’ve got to be out of my gourd.”

  He slammed the gears into reverse and backed up. “Look on the bright side,” he explained to the steering wheel. “The one good thing about having a rotten day is that after a certain point it doesn’t get any worse, right?”

  He was looking over his shoulder when the rock smashed his windscreen.

  “Wrong,” he muttered, getting out of the car.

  There was a rustling somewhere in the forest. He ran toward it.

  Nothing. Everything was still once he reached the shadows of the pines. The chipmunks and squirrels kept up their angry chatter.

  Must have been a freak accident, he decided, coming back to the road. A rock that got spun up by the tires…

  He closed his eyes, hoping it was all a bad dream, then opened them again. No dream. All four tires were flat.

  He examined one. A puncture. A very neat puncture, executed by a sharp metal instrument. The others were the same.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said. He’d always thought of vandalism as an urban problem. But there wasn’t even a road here, and his tires had been slashed by a knife. He looked around. Not a footprint.

  Where did they come from? Maybe the people out here imported hoodlums, like oranges. Maybe somewhere in Llanfairfechan there was a company that brought gang members from Chicago or New York by the truckload, snarling and slashing at travelers to make sure the area didn’t get overrun by tourists.

  He leaned against the car and slid down to a sitting position. He hadn’t seen a house for thirty miles, and he’d passed the last garage four hours ago.

  Hell, what was he thinking about? He didn’t have any money to pay for tires even if he found them. There was nothing he could do now except wait it out till morning and then carry on on foot.

  Maybe it was for the best, he thought sleepily. He hadn’t gotten much rest the night before, what with squandering his one evening of relaxation on a girl. It wouldn’t hurt to catch forty winks. He closed his eyes.

  Ping.

  “Wazzat,” he said, leaping to his feet. On the car’s fender, just beside the place where his head had been, was a small dent. From the angle of the mark, its trajectory had been from above.

  He looked up at the trees. “Okay, you little bastards,” he yelled.

  Ping.

  He caught it with a slap of his hand. A pebble. And another, whizzing through his hair.

  He stalked through the forest, crouching, moving so that his feet didn’t disturb the leaves beneath them. About fifty yards away, he caught sight of a pair of short, skinny legs in ragged pants shinnying down the trunk of a tree. A little torso covered by a leather jerkin followed, and two arms, one of them clutching a homemade slingshot. The last part down was a tiny, dirt-smeared face, its eyes wide and alert, searching in all directions.

  “Graaagh,” Remo yelled, snatching the boy by the scruff of the neck.

  The boy screamed and kicked, his grimy limbs dangling in midair. “Let me down, you great filthy beast.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Remo said. “They can smell you in Albuquerque.”

  “Fight me fair, and I’ll kill you, Chinee.” He looked at Remo, puzzled. “You are the Chinee, aren’t you?”

  Remo lifted him until his face was level with his own. “How Chinee do I look?”

  The boy’s mouth set defiantly. “Well, you musta used magic to cover yourself up, like. Swine of a yellow Chinee, I know who y’are. Set me down and fight like a man.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Remo said. He dropped the boy, who rolled a few feet in the moss like a dirty leather ball, then righted himself, his fists high. “Go on, fight me, villain.”

  Remo tapped him on the stomach with one finger.

  “Oof.” The boy fell backward. “Lucky punch, that was. Do it again. Dare you, pig.”

  Remo tweaked his leg. The boy somersaulted onto his back.

  “I’m not down yet, Chinee,” he panted, staggering to his feet. He blew a lock of unruly black hair off his forehead.

  “Look, before we continue this fight to the death, suppose you tell me why you threw that rock into my windshield and cut up my tires.”

  “Fool. Had to get you to stop, didn’t I?” He put up his fists.

  “You could have asked.”

  The boy snorted. “And let you run away from me like the ruddy yellow coward y’are?”

  “We all have to take our chances,” Remo said. “How do you think I’m going to get out of this place?”

  “You’re not leaving alive, if that’s what you have in mind.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You’re going to finish me off here and now.”

  “That’s right. There’s nought but one winner in the Master’s Trial.”

  “What?”

  “Prepare to die.”

  The boy lunged. Remo swept him up under his arm. Now things had really gone too far. Fighting a dwarf had been bad enough. But if Chiun expected him to murder a ten-year-old kid, he could take his traditions and shove them up the old archives.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

  “By the gods…” The boy was flailing for all he was worth. Remo let him wear himself out. After a long, wild bout, the boy drooped exhausted, suspended by his midsection, twitching occasionally and sniffling. “By the gods, you’ll not kill my father,” he squeaked.

  Remo set him down.

  The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I will fight ya,” he said, his tears cutting little white rivulets down his cheeks. “Just need a minute to get m’strength back.”