else.â
âSo everyone tells me.â Willy shoved a hank of wind-blown hair off her face and wished heâd stop talking about her father. Thatâs how itâd been, as far back as she could remember. When she was a child in Vientiane, at every dinner party, every cocktail gathering, the pilots would invariably trot out another Wild Bill story. Theyâd raise toasts to his nerves, his daring, his crazy humor, until she was ready to scream. All those stories only emphasized how unimportant she and her mother were in the scheme of her fatherâs life.
Maybe thatâs why Guy Barnard was starting to annoy her.
But it was more than just his talk about Bill Maitland. In some odd, indefinable way, Guy reminded her too much of her father.
The tuk-tuk suddenly hit a bump in the road, throwing her against Guyâs shoulder. Pain sliced through her arm and her whole body seemed to clench in a spasm.
He glanced at her, alarmed. âAre you all right?â
âIâmââ She bit her lip, fighting back tears. âItâs really starting to hurt.â
He yelled at the driver to slow down. Then he took Willyâs hand and held it tightly. âJust a little while longer. Weâre almost thereâ¦.â
It was a long ride to the hotel.
Up in her room, Guy sat her down on the bed and gently stroked the hair off her face. âDo you have any pain killers?â
âThereâsâthereâs some aspirin in the bathroom.â She started to rise to her feet. âI can get it.â
âNo. You stay right where you are.â He went into the bathroom, came back out with a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin. Even through her cloud of pain, she was intensely aware of him watching her, studying her as she swallowed the tablets. Yet she found his nearness strangely reassuring. When he turned and crossed the room, the sudden distance between them left her feeling abandoned.
She watched him rummage around in the tiny refrigerator. âWhat are you looking for?â
âFound it.â He came back with a cocktail bottle of whiskey, which he uncapped and handed to her. âLiquid anesthesia. Itâs an old-fashioned remedy, but it works.â
âI donât like whiskey.â
âYou donât have to like it. By definition, medicineâs not supposed to taste good.â
She managed a gulp. It burned all the way down her throat. âThanks,â she muttered. âI think.â
He began to walk a slow circle, surveying the plush furnishings, the expansive view. Sliding glass doors opened onto a balcony. From the Chaophya River flowing just below came the growl of motorboats plying the waters. He wandered over to the nightstand, picked up a rambutan from the complimentary fruit basket and peeled off the prickly shell. âNice room,â he said, thoughtfully chewing the fruit. âSure beats my diveâthe Liberty Hotel. What do you do for a living, anyway?â
She took another sip of whiskey and coughed. âIâm a pilot.â
âJust like your old man?â
âNot exactly. I fly for the paycheck, not the excitement. Not that the payâs great. No money in flying cargo.â
âCanât be too bad if youâre staying here.â
âIâm not paying for this.â
His eyebrows shot up. âWho is?â
âMy mother.â
âGenerous of her.â
His note of cynicism irritated her. What right did he have to insult her? Here he was, this battered vagabond, eating her fruit, enjoying her view. The tuk-tuk ride had tossed his hair in all directions, and his bruised eye was swollen practically shut. Why was she even putting up with this jerk?
He was watching her with curiosity. âSo what else is Mama paying for?â he asked.
She looked him hard in the eye. âHer own funeral arrangements,â she said, and was satisfied to see his smirk instantly vanish.
âWhat