Meet Phoenix. Marcia King-Gamble

I called on the Lord for patience. What I really wanted to do was throttle Damon.

      My barb was apparently lost on the driver, who was out of his element. In a desperate attempt to move things along, I whipped out a copy of the newspaper article I’d been saving. I pointed to the picture of the future Buddha, patted my chest, and pointed to the letter again.

      This served to elicit more excited conversation.

      “Talk to me,” Damon said to our driver. “What’s happening?”

      “They’re thinking of arresting both of you,” our driver explained. “You, for illegal possession of the Dalai Lama photographs, and her for obstructing justice.”

      “This can’t be happening, Phe,” Damon snapped.

      No point in getting into it with him, or telling him it was his fault. I needed to come up with a plan. I looked over at Althea and she looked scared stiff and silent.

      I raced over to the area where the luggage was strewn. Two of the security police followed, guns trained on me. I riffled through my knapsack and dumped the remaining contents on the ground. Finding what I needed, I turned back to them.

      These were men. I was a woman. In their minds I served no useful purpose, except one.

      My voice became sweet and seductive as I spoke to our driver. “Tell them I have a very special present, something I brought all the way from America.”

      I began passing around the cigars I held. The remaining one I stuck in my mouth.

      “Got a light?” I asked Beefy, stroking his arm and making a motion with my fingers, indicating I needed a match.

      Beefy smiled and produced matches. He stuck his cigar into his mouth while his eyes roamed over me. Then he lit his before mine. The other officers followed his lead and began lighting up.

      Sucking on that smelly thing, I batted my eyelashes at Beefy, then tilted my head back and exhaled a perfect smoke ring. The officers tried to imitate me, but didn’t quite make it. I exhaled again, pouting my lips.

      Nice lips, I’d often been told.

      “Now,” I said to the driver. “Can you tell Handsome I think he’s hot? And if it’s okay with him I’d like to go. He can visit with me if he’d like.”

      There was a gleam of admiration in the driver’s eye as he nodded and began speaking with Beefy, who kept his eyes on me the whole time. Finally he jerked a thumb in the direction of the minivan.

      I signaled to the crew and raced toward the vehicle. There would be fat chance of that man ever seeing me again. Not if I could help it.

      Damon cleared his throat as we climbed back into the bus. I ignored him. He should be thanking me for saving his miserable butt. He should be drawing my bath and kissing my toes.

      But knowing my ex, he would never acknowledge that I’d saved the day. Pride and machismo had always been his undoing.

      “Thank you, Phe,” he said, surprising me. “That was quick thinking on your part.”

      I almost swallowed my tongue but managed a nod in his direction. Him, thanking me, was unheard of. Maybe, he’d changed.

      Nah, best not to go there. Damon had his own agenda.

      And I had mine.

      Chapter 3

      “What do you mean there’s been a holdup on the project? Why didn’t anyone call me?” I asked Xiong Jing, our project manager, when I met with him in the lobby the next morning.

      “These things happen, madam. You are to enjoy your stay at the hotel until you hear otherwise.”

      I was ready to go to work. A delay would mean my bonus was in jeopardy, the one I’d foolishly agreed to split. Turning my brown-eyed gaze on Xiong Jing, I said, “I’m Phoenix, not madam. I’d appreciate it if you’d remember that.”

      He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “As you wish.”

      Xiong Jing, our project manager, was an Oxford-educated man in his late thirties. I’d disliked him on sight and I got the feeling the sentiment was mutual. There was something about the way he refused to look me in the eye.

      His behavior hadn’t fazed Damon one bit. He’d shrugged, dismissing the man’s aloof body language as a cultural thing. But I thought there was more to it than that. I was certain Xiong Jing disliked females and black females at that.

      So why hadn’t he told me there was a problem last evening when he’d called and arranged this meeting?

      I studied the elaborate chandelier in the hotel lobby and prayed for patience—not one of my better virtues. That little problem had cost me an assignment or two.

      I’d convinced my travel companions to sleep in, reminding them that this might be their one night in the lap of luxury. Future accommodations would be at the monastery in refurbished monks’ and nuns’ cells. Luxuries such as comfortable beds didn’t come with that territory.

      “I can arrange tours of our beautiful city for you and your group, madam,” Xiong Jing offered, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

      “Why don’t you just tell me what’s happening?” I asked, trying my best to tamp down on my irritation. What I really wanted to do was reach over, grab the man’s chin, and force him to look at me.

      “Security’s been increased around the monastery,” Xiong Jing answered through an almost-closed mouth. “Rumor has it there was a bomb threat.”

      “I guess it would make some serious statement, blowing up the Deprung Monastery where the Maitreya is being housed.”

      He didn’t seem that perturbed at the thought. “We live in an era of terrorism,” Xiong Jing said. “The discovery of Maitreya—considered ‘the future’—is bound to cause unrest. If you have political or social changes there are always disbelievers. Humans will sacrifice themselves for the cause.”

      Was there a hidden meaning behind this? I didn’t have time to interpret double entendres, if that’s what it was. I’d reflect on Xiong Jing’s words later.

      “So what do we do?” I asked. “Sit at this hotel and twiddle our thumbs until you contact us?”

      “Madam, you can, or you can go on one of our tours and learn something about my country. That might be the smart thing to do until things calm down.”

      I didn’t like his tone or the implication that I knew very little about his country. I also didn’t like it that he was perfectly accepting of the delay.

      “Surely there’s someone else I can talk to,” I fumed. “Where is Liu Bangfu, the Minister of Religion and Culture? Will he not be meeting with us?”

      “The minister is busy dealing with the police and such,” Xiong Jing responded smoothly. “I promised him I would take very good care of you. And I will.”

      I took a step toward the smarmy project manager. A muscle in his jaw flickered. He stepped back, keeping an acceptable space between us. He probably wasn’t used to anyone getting in his face, especially a woman.

      “Why don’t you take me to the police?” I asked, softening my tone a bit. “I’d like to hear what they’re doing about this bomb threat.”

      “Madam, I can’t.”

      “Why not?”

      “Phe, are you badgering our project manager?” Damon’s amused voice came from behind me.

      I turned to find him only feet away, so close I could smell the combination of body heat and musk, his characteristic scent. He’d been jogging. His silver-streaked curls were plastered to his head and sweat trickled down his solar plexus. In some ways, I’d once thought he was the best-looking man I knew. I still did.

      Raising