Ginger playfully pushed Greer back into the chair — he could tell she was already going into her regular act — and ran her hands across his chest and onto his shoulders. She unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, while Greer, who knew the usual rules, sat back passively, with his hands resting on the arms of the chair.
“Oooh,” she cooed, as if she’d never laid eyes on him before. “You are so… sexy. You make me want to come, and we haven’t even got started yet.”
Greer put his head back against the chair; the fabric was still warm from the last guy’s head.
“Do I make you want to come?” she whispered, leaning in so close her lips actually brushed his. Was that, Greer wondered, part of the special service he was going to get? He could taste something sweet — left over from that green stuff she was drinking — on his own mouth.
“Yeah,” he said, just to keep things rolling along, “you sure do.”
“That’s good, ’cause what I want is for us to come together.”
Greer wondered if anybody ever fell for this nonsense. Even in his present state — with a few drinks in him and several pharmaceutical products still percolating through his veins — he was well aware that he was being played. Ginger rubbed her cheek against his—“oh, it’s rough,” she said, “I like rough”—and then she playfully nipped at his ear. Only she really got it between her teeth and gave the lobe a sharp little tug.
“I call that my Mike Tyson,” she said, giggling.
Greer had to smile. Despite himself, he was starting to get into it. She had a very tight little body, and she knew how to use it. Her fingernails, painted different colors, were a few inches long, and she used them to rake his forearms and his pecs. Her breath was warm and her lips were sticky; she planted another little kiss on his chest, in the space where she’d opened his shirt. “You really do turn me on, Derek,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
He was momentarily confused. The use of his name wasn’t supposed to be part of the game; he had just gotten used to the fact that she was playing him — and he was okay with that — and now she had to go and make things personal. He wished she hadn’t.
“I’ve wanted to do this,” she said, “ever since Stan brought you in here that first time.”
She kissed him again, lower down, then whipped herself around. Her ass, straining against the black panties, gyrated in front of him. His hands wanted to reach out and grab her, but he knew the rules.
She was doubled over at the waist, moving her ass, and looking back at him now. “You want to touch it?” she said.
Greer didn’t have to answer.
She glanced over at the entryway — the burly guy was talking to somebody just outside — and, pulling the panties up so that only a tiny strip of fabric ran right up the middle, she said, “Go for it.”
He lifted one hand and cupped her butt cheek. The skin was smooth and taut; she pushed her ass back against his hand, and it was just then that Greer happened to glance over at the entry.
Sadowski was standing there, still talking to the burly guy, and watching the whole thing. When their eyes met, Sadowski laughed, gave him a thumbs-up, and went on talking.
Greer felt his own temperature drop about ten degrees. He took his hand back, and Ginger said, “I told you, he doesn’t mind.” She turned around again and, propping herself on the arms of the chair, leaned into him. “You’re white, aren’t you?”
Yeah, she was right about that. But it still wasn’t until Sadowski stepped back outside that Greer could really focus on Ginger again. It had been years since Iraq, but something in him still felt as if he’d just betrayed one of his soldiers — even though the soldier himself clearly didn’t give a damn. Ginger, perhaps sensing his diminished involvement, exerted herself doubly hard.
Greer let her do her stuff, but his thoughts had gone back to other matters. He was back on that al-Kalli business, and he suddenly saw what it was he should do. Sadowski, of all people, had shown him the way.
He should go back out on patrol!
Why was he worrying about writing letters and making shakedown demands? The first thing to do — had the army taught him nothing? — was to reconnoiter the terrain, to figure out where your enemy was, what he had in his own arsenal, and what you could do to defeat him. Maybe he could even find out what had been in that damn box he’d retrieved. Once he thought of that, once he knew that he had a plan, however rudimentary, Greer was finally able to focus again on the urgent business at hand.
“We’ve only got till the end of this song,” Ginger warned him, “and then you get charged all over again.”
Greer had no intention of being overcharged.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Mr. al-Kalli has arrived,” Mrs. Cabot said excitedly, popping her head in the door of Beth’s office. “Security is showing him upstairs.”
Beth was just on the phone to Robin — who was telling her that little Joey had eaten two big bowls of applesauce — but she nodded her head in a serious fashion and continued to pretend that she was on a business call. “That’s very interesting,” she said to Robin, “and I would like to hear more about the acquisition.” Robin was used to this kind of charade and would surely catch on. “May I call you back for more details? Thanks so much.”
She hung up the phone and said, “He’s bringing the book with him? The bestiary?”
“Why else would he be here?” Mrs. Cabot said. “Are you prepared?”
Beth wondered what exactly that meant. She’d studied illuminated manuscripts, among other things, for nearly ten years. If that didn’t do it…
“I think so,” she said evenly. But then, just to show some effort, she lifted a pile of monographs off the top of her blond wood desk and put them out of the way on the window ledge. Way down below, she could see the cars on the freeway, gleaming in the hot sun.
“Perhaps we should call in one of the conservators,” Mrs. Cabot said with a look of concern.
“I think that can wait a bit,” Beth said, slanting the blinds so that no direct sunlight might fall on the manuscript when it arrived.
Mrs. Cabot pursed her lips, still debating. But by then it was too late — Beth could hear footsteps approaching, and voices in the hall.
Beth stood up behind her desk as Mr. al-Kalli stopped to greet Mrs. Cabot. He was wearing a cream-colored suit today, with a scarlet pocket square, and his right-hand man, in funereal black, stood just behind him, holding a cumbersome, antique iron box.
“Would you like to put that down?” Beth asked, indicating the broad expanse of her cleared desk. “It looks heavy.”
The man waited until al-Kalli said, “Yes, Jakob, go ahead.”
Jakob came in and lowered the box like a baby onto the desk; even so, it made a pronounced thump. The box was still closed, with huge, rusty hasps. At a glance, Beth estimated the box alone, like others she had seen, was as much as a thousand years old.
Jakob stepped back silently and hovered in the open door, as al-Kalli turned to Beth. “Just as I promised,” he said, shaking her hand across the desk. His skin was as smooth and dry as silk. He sat down in one of the guest chairs, taking care to pluck up the knee of his trouser leg, and Mrs. Cabot — a bit to Beth’s surprise — commandeered the chair beside him.
“I wanted to see where my precious one would be,” he said, surveying her office. “Is this where you do your work?”
“Some of it,” Beth replied, sitting back down. “The research library is actually in the institute, which is just across the plaza. The conservation work is done in what’s called the East Building.”
“So many different buildings,” al-Kalli observed.
“Yes,” Beth conceded, “the Getty can be confusing at first.” She remembered her own introduction to the place, and having to learn just where various collections were housed in the cluster of galleries and pavilions that made up the sprawling complex.
“But
