Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty: Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty. Tess Gerritsen

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, honeycolored 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 honeycolored 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.

      What the hell, he thought, starting toward her. He could use some company.

      She seemed to be deep in thought; she didn’t look up until he was standing right beside her.

      “Hi there,” he said.

      She squinted up at him. “Hello.” Her greeting was neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

      “Did I hear you needed a lift back to town?”

      “I have one, thank you.”

      “It could be a long wait. And I’m heading there anyway.” She didn’t respond, so he added, “It’s really no trouble.”

      She gave him a speculative look. She had silver-gray eyes, direct, unflinching; they seemed to stare right through him. No shrinking violet, this one. Glancing back at the house, she said, “Kistner’s driver was going to take me…”

      “I’m here. He isn’t.”

      Again she gave him that look, a silent third degree. She must have decided he was okay, because she finally rose to her feet. “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

      Together they walked the graveled road to his car. As they approached, Guy noticed a back door was wide open and a pair of dirty brown feet poked out. His driver was sprawled across the seat like a corpse.

      The woman halted, staring at the lifeless form. “Oh, my God. He’s not—”

      A blissful snore rumbled from the car.

      “He’s not,” said Guy. “Hey. Puapong!” He banged on the car roof.

      The man’s answering rumble could have drowned out thunder.

      “Hello, Sleeping Beauty!” Guy banged the car again. “You gonna wake up, or do I have to kiss you first?”

      “What? What?” groaned a voice. Puapong stirred and opened one bloodshot eye. “Hey, boss. You back so soon?”

      “Have a nice nap?” Guy asked pleasantly.

      “Not bad.”

      Guy graciously gestured for Puapong to vacate the back seat. “Look, I hate to be a pest, but do you mind? I’ve offered this lady a ride.”

      Puapong crawled out, stumbled around sleepily to the driver’s seat and sank behind the wheel. He shook his head a few times, then fished around on the floor for the car keys.

      The woman was looking more and more dubious. “Are you sure he can drive?” she muttered under her breath.

      “This man,” said Guy, “has the reflexes of a cat. When he’s sober.”

      “Is he sober?”

      “Puapong! Are you sober?”

      With injured pride, the driver asked, “Don’t I look sober?”

      “There’s your answer,” said Guy.

      The woman sighed. “That makes me feel so much better.” She glanced back longingly at the house. The Thai servant had appeared on the steps and was waving goodbye.

      Guy motioned for the woman to climb in. “It’s a long drive back to town.”

      She was silent as they drove down the winding mountain road. Though they both sat in the back seat, two feet apart at the most, she seemed a million miles away. She kept her gaze focused on the scenery.

      “You were in with the general quite a while,” he noted.

      She nodded. “I had a lot of questions.”

      “You a reporter?”

      “What?” She looked at him. “Oh, no. It was just…some old family business.”

      He waited for her to elaborate, but she turned back to the window.

      “Must’ve been some pretty important family business,” he said.

      “Why do you say