“That I’m a plain old tourist.” She shook her head and laughed. “I’m on the deluxe private tour. Six cities in two weeks.”

“That’s what one has to do in Asia. You don’t confront the issues. You dance around them.” He looked at his watch, a clear signal that the interview had come to an end.

They rose to their feet. As they shook hands, she felt him give her one last, appraising look. His grip was brisk and matter-of-fact, exactly what she expected from an old war dog.

“Good luck, Miss Maitland,” he said with a nod of dismissal. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He turned to look off at the mountains. That’s when she noticed for the first time that tiny beads of sweat were glistening like diamonds on his forehead.

GENERAL KISTNER WATCHED as the woman, escorted by a servant, walked back toward the house. He was uneasy. He remembered Wild Bill Maitland only too clearly, and the daughter was very much like him. There would be trouble.

He went to the tea table and rang a silver bell. The tinkling drifted across the expanse of veranda, and seconds later, Kistner’s secretary appeared.

“Has Mr. Barnard arrived?” Kistner asked.

“He has been waiting for half an hour,” the man replied.

“And Ms. Maitland’s driver?”

“I sent him away, as you directed.”

“Good.” Kistner nodded. “Good.”

“Shall I bring Mr. Barnard in to see you?”

“No. Tell him I’m canceling my appointments. Tomorrow’s, as well.”

The secretary frowned. “He will be quite annoyed.”

“Yes, I imagine he will be,” said Kistner as he turned and headed toward his office. “But that’s his problem.”

A THAI SERVANT IN A CRISP white jacket escorted Willy through an echoing, cathedral-like hall to the reception room. There he stopped and gave her a politely questioning look. “You wish me to call a car?” he asked.

“No, thank you. My driver will take me back.”

The servant looked puzzled. “But your driver left some time ago.”

“He couldn’t have!” She glanced out the window in annoyance. “He was supposed to wait for-”

“Perhaps he is parked in the shade beyond the trees. I will go and look.”

Through the French windows, Willy watched as the servant skipped gracefully down the steps to the road. The estate was vast and lushly planted; a car could very well be hidden in that jungle. Just beyond the driveway, a gardener clipped a hedge of jasmine. A neatly graveled path traced a route across the lawn to a tree-shaded garden of flowers and stone benches. And in the far distance, a fairy blue haze seemed to hang over the city of Bangkok.

The sound of a masculine throat being cleared caught her attention. She turned and for the first time noticed the man standing in a far corner of the reception room. He cocked his head in a casual acknowledgment of her presence. She caught a glimpse of a crooked grin, a stray lock of brown hair drooping over a tanned forehead. Then he turned his attention back to the antique tapestry on the wall.

Strange. He didn’t look like the sort of man who’d be interested in moth-eaten embroidery. A patch of sweat had soaked through the back of his khaki shirt, and his sleeves were shoved up carelessly to his elbows. His trousers looked as if they’d been slept in for a week. A briefcase, stamped U.S. Army ID Lab, sat on the floor beside him, but he didn’t strike her as the military type. There was certainly nothing disciplined about his posture. He’d seem more at home slouching at a bar somewhere instead of cooling his heels in General Kistner’s marble reception room.

“Miss Maitland?”

The servant was back, shaking his head apologetically. “There must have been a misunderstanding. The gardener says your driver returned to the city.”

“Oh, no.” She looked out the window in frustration. “How do I get back to Bangkok?”

“Perhaps General Kistner’s driver can take you back? He has gone up the road to make a delivery, but he should return very soon. If you wish, you can see the garden in the meantime.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose that’d be nice.”

The servant, smiling proudly, opened the door. “It is a very famous garden. General Kistner is known for his collection of dendrobiums. You will find them at the end of the path, near the carp pond.”

She stepped out into the steam bath of late afternoon and started down the gravel path. Except for the clack-clack of the gardener’s hedge clippers, the day was absolutely still. She headed toward a stand of trees. But halfway across the lawn she suddenly stopped and looked back at the house.

At first all she saw was sunlight glaring off the marble facade. Then she focused on the first floor and saw the figure of a man standing at one of the windows. The servant, perhaps?

Turning, she continued along the path. But every step of the way, she was acutely aware that someone was watching her.

GUY BARNARD STOOD AT THE French windows and observed the woman cross the lawn to the garden. He liked the way the sunlight seemed to dance in her clipped, honey-colored hair. He also liked the way she moved, the coltish swing of her walk. Methodically, his gaze slid down, over the sleeveless blouse and the skirt with its regrettably sensible hemline, taking in the essentials. Trim waist. Sweet hips. Nice calves. Nice ankles. Nice…

He reluctantly cut off that disturbing train of thought. This was not a good time to be distracted. Still, he couldn’t help one last appreciative glance at the diminutive figure. Okay, so she was a touch on the scrawny side. But she had great legs. Definitely great legs.

Footsteps clipped across the marble floor. Guy turned and saw Kistner’s secretary, an unsmiling Thai with a beardless face.

“Mr. Barnard?” said the secretary. “Our apologies for the delay. But an urgent matter has come up.”

“Will he see me now?”

The secretary shifted uneasily. “I am afraid-”

“I’ve been waiting since three.”

“Yes, I understand. But there is a problem. It seems General Kistner cannot meet with you as planned.”

“May I remind you that I didn’t request this meeting. General Kistner did.”

“Yes, but-”

“I’ve taken time out of my busy schedule-” he took the liberty of exaggeration “-to drive all the way out here, and-”

“I understand, but-”

“At least tell me why he insisted on this appointment.”

“You will have to ask him.”

Guy, who up till now had kept his irritation in check, drew himself up straight. Though he wasn’t a particularly tall man, he stood a full head taller than the secretary. “Is this how the general normally conducts business?”

The secretary merely shrugged. “I am sorry, Mr. Barnard. The change was entirely unexpected…” His gaze shifted momentarily and focused on something beyond the French windows.

Guy followed the man’s gaze. Through the glass, he saw what the man was looking at: the woman with the honey-colored hair.

The secretary shuffled his feet, a signal that he had other duties to attend to. “I assure you, Mr. Barnard,” he said, “if you call in a few days, we will arrange another appointment.”

Guy snatched up his briefcase and headed for the door. “In a few days,” he said, “I’ll be in Saigon.”

A whole afternoon wasted, he thought in disgust as he walked down the front steps. He swore again as he reached the empty driveway. His car was parked a good hundred yards away, in the shade of a poinciana tree. The driver was nowhere to be seen. Knowing Puapong, the man was probably off flirting with the gardener’s daughter.

Resignedly Guy trudged toward the car. The sun was like a broiler, and waves of heat radiated from the gravel road. Halfway to the car, he happened to glance at the garden, and he spotted the honey-haired woman, sitting on a stone bench. She looked dejected. No wonder; it was a long drive back to town, and Lord only knew when her ride would turn up.