"The Watergate Hotel," the girl who answered to the name of Cynthia said quickly.
"Watergate it is," the driver muttered. To Remo's relief, he was silent during the rest of the ride.
Remo made small talk as he took stock of "Cynthia."
Seen closer, she struck him as younger than he had thought. Her body was certainly mature. But her face, under expert makeup that included a purplish-yellow eye shadow, seemed girlish. She had that dewy look.
"Yellow must be your favorite color," Remo suggested.
"I worship yellow," Cynthia said, fingering her scarf. "It's so . . . eye-catching." She laughed. Even her laugh sounded pure. Remo wondered how someone with that kind of high-school laugh could strangle ten people.
He would remember to ask her that-before he took her out.
At the Watergate lobby, Cynthia turned to Remo and said, "Why don't you relax? I'll check you in."
"Thanks," Remo said, putting down his luggage. He watched her saunter over to the front desk. She had a nice walk. A little slinky. She walked in her high heels as if driving tacks with them.
As Remo watched, she leaned over the counter, startling the clerk with her ample bosom. "Any messages?" she whispered.
The clerk's "No" was a croak. His eyes were on her bosom as if it snarled and snapped at him like a pair of pit bulls.
Cynthia thanked him and palmed a key from her yellow purse as she turned.
Remo smiled tightly. His acute hearing had picked up the exchange. And the palming, though slick, was made obvious by Cynthia's body language.
She was taking him to a room she had preregistered. Either her own, or to one that was a convenient dumping ground for victims.
Either way suited Remo Willams just fine. If she was an acolyte of Kali's, he'd soon know where his mortal enemy was hiding. He could decide whether to run or strike, depending on the answer.
Cynthia joined him. "I don't see a bellboy," she said, frowning. A bellboy hovered out of sight. Obviously paid to ignore anyone Cynthia brought in.
"I can carry my own bags," Remo said quickly.
"Great. I hate waiting."
Once they stepped on the elevator, the mood changed. Cynthia stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. Her yellowtipped fingers went to her neck scarf. This time they plucked at the fabric nervously. The loose knot slipped apart. When Cynthia brought her hand down, the scarf floated with it.
This time Remo suppressed his smile completely.
The elevator came to a stop.
"After you," Cynthia offered, her voice cool and tight.
Remo picked up his bags. This was the critical moment. His hands were encumbered. Would she take him before he stepped off the elevator, or wait until they were in the room itself?
He stepped out into the corridor, feeling Cynthia's warm presence trail after him. Her body heat registered on the back of his bare arms. A temperature change of only a few degrees would indicate an impending attack.
But the attack didn't come. Instead, Cynthia got in front and opened the door for him. It was pitch-dark inside.
Remo slipped in, tossing his bags down. He snapped on the light switch. Before he could turn, it snapped off again. The door slammed. The room went totally black. He was not alone. Remo skipped the mock protestations. He shifted to one side as his visual purple adjusted to the blackness. As a Master of Sinanju, he could not exactly see in the dark, but he could detect shadowy motion within the blackness.
In the dark, he grinned in fierce anticipation.
And in the dark, the yellow scarf settled over his throat with a silken snap.
Casually Remo reached up. A supersharp fingernail raked the smooth fabric. The scarf tightened. It parted with an angry snarl.
"Sorry," Remo said. "Yellow isn't my color."
A hiss answered him, low and feline.
Remo snagged a soft, thin wrist. He gave it a twist.
"Oww! You're hurting me!" It was Cynthia.
"Not what I had in mind," Remo said, collecting the scratching fingers of Cynthia's hand in one fist. He pushed the hand back, exposing the wrist.
With his other hand, Remo found the girl's wrist and tapped it once, sharply.
"Oh!" said Cynthia. It was a very surprised "Oh." Remo tapped again. This time her exclamation was dreamy and moist.
As he tapped, Remo drew Cynthia to the light switch. He nudged it with an elbow, without breaking the building rhythm of his manipulations.
In the light, Cynthia looked up into Remo's dark, obsidianchip eyes. There was no anger there. No hate. Just a kind of wondrous fear that caused her pink lips to part. She ran a deeper pink tongue over her lips, moistening them further.
"They call this the thirty-seven steps to bliss," Remo explained in a low, earthy growl. "How do you like it so far?" "Oh," said Cynthia, as if impaled on a delicious pin. Her eyes went from Remo's cruel face to her wrist as if trying to fathom how this ordinary man could reduce her to squirming helplessness with only one intermittently tapping finger. "I don't understand," she said in a surprise-twisted voice. "What are you doing to me?"
"Let's start with your name."
"Kimberly. It's Kimberly," Kimberly said, panting a little. She squeezed down as if cramping. Her thick eyebrows gathered together, forcing her innocent blue eyes into narrow slits of bright cerulean:
"Good start. This, by the way, is only step one."
Kimberly's eyes popped open. "It is?"
Remo's smile was arch. "Honest. Would I kid a blond that had just tried to throttle me in the dark?"
"I don't . . . know."
"I wouldn't. It's such a rare experience. So, tell me. Why'd you waste the Iraiti ambassador?"
"She told me to."
"She?"
'Kali."