'Hardly,' she said. 'It isn't important what you do with her when we're not together. But when we are, I want you here. Thinking about me.'
'Arcadia,' he said, 'let's not argue.'
'I'm not arguing.'
'Then let's not continue with whatever sort of conversation we're having. I've been under a great deal of pressure lately. That's all there is to it.'
She looked at him, easing closer over the mattress, the bare white flesh of her breasts against his shoulder.
'Okay,' she said, taking him into her hand, tightening her fingers around him beneath the sheet. 'Usually, though, it's pressure that gets you going.'
He lay there on his back, very still, staring past her face at the ceiling. What was he supposed to say? That his dealings with Nga had taken him over a line he'd never expected to cross? That he'd been coerced into ordering the murder of Roger Gordian — and Lord knew who else would be on that plane — and would soon have blood on his hands? Would that help her understand why he wasn't feeling especially aroused?
'Stop,' he said abruptly. 'It isn't happening.'
'I've come two thousand miles from New York to be with you,' she said.
'Nobody twisted your arm.'
Her eyes widened. She pushed away from him, her hand retreating from where she'd had it, grabbing the sheet, tugging it up over her chest.
'You son of a bitch,' she said.
Caine threw his legs over the side of the bed and strode naked across the room to the chair on which he'd put his clothing. He kept his back to her as he silently got dressed.
'Aren't you going to say anything?' Arcadia said. She had sat up against the headboard.
He waited until he was fully clothed before turning to answer.
'Yes,' he said. 'I'm thinking that you're right. I should be honest about what's bothering me. You deserve honesty.'
She looked at him.
He didn't know why he said what next came out of his mouth, other than that it made him feel better, released some of his pent-up anxiety and frustration.
'You're lovely, Arcadia. First-class. But you've walked a long road from the streets of Argentina, and I like my women younger,' he said. 'The simple fact is that you don't excite me anymore.'
Her mouth actually dropped open. She looked as if she'd been slapped.
It occurred to Caine that he might have gone further than he'd intended, that there was little chance she would ever want to see him again after this ugly scene.
Once more over the line, he thought. Yet strangely, it didn't seem to matter… although why it didn't was a question he'd have to consider later on.
'Don't bother yourself about the hotel tab, I'll take care of it,' he said.
And turned from her shocked face, opened the door, and left the room.
Chapter Nineteen
'Local traffic, Learjet Two Zero Nine Tango Charlie, ready to go off Runway Two at the east end,' Gordian was saying into his mike, informing any nearby multicom users of his departure. The small private airfield UpLink shared with a handful of other Silicon Valley firms had no ground radio facilities, but the nationwide advisory frequency of 122.9 was often monitored by pilots, and his practice was to broadcast his takeoff and landing intentions as a courtesy to them and a hedge against unwanted — and potentially disastrous — midair encounters.
Not that it looked as if there would be anything but smooth flying today. With a clear blue sky, high ceiling, and gentle winds, Gordian was anticipating a takeoff into ideal weather conditions. His only fillip of concern, and very slight concern at that, had come when he'd lowered his flaps while taxiing and noticed the hydraulic-pressure gauge drop off a hair more readily than normal.
This was something a less cautious pilot probably wouldn't have detected, nor found of much interest if he had, and quite understandably so. Gordian himself couldn't see any reason to worry. Though the aircraft's flaps, speed brakes, and landing gear all operated on the same hydraulic line, they would continue to respond properly, if perhaps a bit slowly, with the fluid level on the low side. Further increasing his confidence was the knowledge that his engine instrument-and-crew-alerting system — or EICAS — annunciators would flash a warning to indicate a problem with the circuit, serious or otherwise. And they had remained dark.
Still, he couldn't help but feel disappointed in Eddie, who'd inspected the plane the day before, and was usually an even bigger stickler for safety than he was… too thorough to let even a minor abnormality slip past his attention.
But later for that, he thought. As always in the moments before going airborne, Gordian could feel the sky exerting an almost physical pull. Moving the throttles forward, he concentrated on the EFIS panel in front of him, his eyes shifting between its flat-screen primary flight displays — arranged in the same 'standard T' of old-fashioned analog instruments — and the bars of his ITT gauge, which measured the internal temperature of the turbofans. A hot start could lead to engine failure within seconds, making the ITT readout one to watch carefully.
Nothing to trouble him on that score; the turbos were operating well within standard limitations.
Its compressors whining and sucking in air, its wheels rumbling over the tarmac, the Learjet rolled up the centerline straight as an arrow. Gordian felt the shove of acceleration, and then the excitement that had accompanied each of the hundreds of takeoffs he'd flown over the past thirty years. He snapped his eyes to the window and quickly observed the distance markers along the runway— a feature as rare to civilian fields as it was common to military ones, and emplaced at Gordian's direction as a nod to his fighter-jock days.
Returning his attention to the EFIS, Gordian saw his virtual airspeed bug indicate that he had reached 104 knots, go-or-no-go speed. He conducted a last-minute check of the crucial displays. Everything was running smoothly, the bank of caution lights still out, his system readings A-okay. Go.
He released the stick, gripped the yoke with both hands, and rotated the jet to a seven-point-five-degree nose-up angle for liftoff. There was a slight jolt and another familiar tingle of excitement as his wheels left the pavement. His hands on the control column, Gordian increased his pitch to ten degrees and continued his ascent.
After several seconds he again looked outside to confirm what the altimeter and his own physical sensations had already told him. He had reached a positive rate of climb, the ground rapidly dwindling beneath him, the undivided blue of the sky pouring into his windshield.
His gear and flaps up, Gordian accelerated to two hundred KIAS, or over three hundred miles per hour. At a thousand feet he would very gradually trim airspeed until he attained cruising altitude.
Right now, though, it was time for an announcement to his passengers.
He switched on the cabin intercom.
'Vince, Megan, Rich, we're on our way,' he said. 'ETA in D. C. is nine o'clock. So make yourselves comfortable and try not to discuss business. There'll be plenty of time for that later.' He reached for the 'off' switch, thought about the chattery teeth Scull inevitably got when he flew, and added a few words for his benefit. 'There's a bottle of Glenturret in the wet bar for anyone who wants it. Courtesy of your captain. Later, folks.'
Smiling a little, feeling easier with himself than he had in weeks, Gordian cut the intercom and settled back into his pilot's chair for the trip.
In a drawing room at the Leominster country club in Southampton, Reynold Armitage was gazing out the window at the ocean. It was a drab, chill day in eastern Long Island, and the threat of rain had driven the gulls close to shore. They wheeled in erratic circles, their wings tearing ragged holes in the stationary film of mist that had settled over the beach and jetties. Distantly across the water, Armitage could see a lighted buoy twinkling
