Chapter 24

 

Clint Holbrook stood at the window of the small office Tong Chen Enterprises owner, Rudy Tong, had allotted him for the duration of the job. He’d visited the work site within hours after arriving in Shanghai, felt the excavation work was moving along slowly and had a come-to-Jesus meeting—or come-to-Confucius or whoever it was they talked to over here—with the phase-one foreman.

The office here in the Laogangzhen high-rise was a nice perk—a couple of furnished rooms including a locking door to separate his own space from that of a secretary. He’d envisioned being stationed in a trailer or mobile building on the jobsite and, as wet as the damn weather was proving to be around here, a leaky metal building was no treat. If the rainy season didn’t end soon, he could see the construction stretching out far longer than anticipated.

So far, Tong had provided secretaries, a different one each day, Chinese women who were fairly adept at English. When he could make himself understood, the women had proved helpful in showing him the ropes—how to work the ultra-modern coffee maker, for instance. He’d not asked them to type correspondence, and he had no intention of letting them touch his computer where it would be too easy for someone who was being paid to spy to get hold of his financial data.

He turned away from the view—miles of nearly identical high-rises—and glanced at his laptop on the desk. He’d started it up when he arrived, but it was taking forever this morning to get an internet connection. He needed to verify that a payment from Tong Chen had reached his construction bank account, then he wanted to move it quickly—to a new account he’d set up days before leaving the U.S. He clicked his browser button and was pleased to see a connection. Rudy Tong had assured him all online equipment in the entire building was completely secure, so he logged onto his accounts.

With the funds transfer complete, next he visited his insurance company to take care of a few details, then on to place an order for lumber to build the foundation forms. A ping sounded and he clicked over to his email. The new message came from Kaycie.

Will you be free for lunch, HB? Heard of a great restaurant we should try. xoxo

She’d added some dippy little smiley faces, the kind that made him cringe.

Lunch with the wife. He couldn’t seem to get her to understand he was here to work. What had he been thinking when he suggested she come to China with him? Hot sex—that’s what he’d been thinking. Kaycie and her lingerie collection in a hotel in a foreign country. They’d gone at it like rabbits the first two days, until he’d absolutely had to spend time at the office. The client wouldn’t keep paying him unless they saw him actually working.

He typed a quick reply: Sorry, baby. Swamped here at the office.

He hit Send before he realized maybe he shouldn’t have admitted where he was. She might pick up some box of exotic who-knows-what and show up, determined to feed him. That was another thing—finding a great steak had so far been impossible in this city. What was it with all the food being freaking Chinese? The place was supposed to be a mecca of international business. Did everybody eat this vegetable stuff all the time?

He grumbled a little and closed the lid on the laptop. If he beat it out of here quickly, he could legitimately be at the job site when and if Kaycie showed up at the office. As he jammed the computer into its leather case he looked out the window again. Across the way he saw the shimmer of wet leaves on the trees in the median and realized there were raindrops on his window, as well. Shit. More rain.

He grabbed a slicker, a crappy lightweight, baby-blue thing the job foreman had given him the first day. The man had seemed amused Clint would arrive in China without rain gear. Didn’t the guy have a clue that people who live in desert climates don’t even own such things? Clint slung the flimsy plastic jacket over his arm and picked up his computer bag. He should get the secretary du jour to order him a car. Waiting on the curb for a taxi, he discovered, was usually frustrating.

Another new girl sat at the desk, her back partially toward him. She was a tiny thing just like most all these girls here. The striking difference was her hair, which she wore pulled away from her face and tied with a cloth band at the crown of her head. He’d not seen any of the Asian girls with such curls. These looked like the natural, springy curls of someone with black or Mediterranean heritage.

“Hello …” he said tentatively, with no clue how much English she spoke.

“Hi,” she said in a perky voice. She turned and looked up at him. “You must be Mr. Holbrook?”

“You’re American. Well, you sound American.”

“I am. San Francisco, born and raised.” She gave a dazzling smile full of lovely, even teeth.

Too bad about the heavy-rimmed glasses. He would have loved to see those dark eyes more clearly.

“I … I’m heading out to the job site and need a car. Do you know how to order me one?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holbrook.”

“Clint. You might as well call me Clint, since we’re the only two Americans in the place.”

The smile again. No comment.

She picked up the desk phone and punched a series of numbers. “Qǐng sòng chē qù Zhōngguó wáng yīsìwǔ.”

The only word he recognized in the exchange was Zhōngguó, the name of the street.

“The car will be here in ten minutes,” she told him.

He couldn’t think of a witty response that wouldn’t come out in a schoolboy stammer. “Thanks. You’re very good at that. I’ll just wait downstairs. Um, will you be here later?”

She gave him a coolish look.

“I just meant they’ve given me a different secretary each day, and so far you’re the only one I could actually understand.”

She graced him with another dazzling smile and one petite shoulder raised slightly. “I don’t know. The agency just gives me an assignment each day. I can ask, though.”

He felt the goofy grin on his own face. “Yeah, if you could, that would be great.”

He stood straighter and sucked in his stomach while he told her he would be at the job site if anyone needed him. He provided his cell number, which she dutifully wrote on a small scratchpad.

She pretended not to notice when he bumped into the doorframe on his way out. He caught himself whistling that old Tony Bennett tune as he rode the elevator to the ground floor.