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imagined—goldenand muscular, with fine, curly black hair. She looked away hurriedly, even though she knew her staring had been obvious.
    “It’s perfectly all right,” he said quaintly. “You can admire mine, since I’ve already admired
yours.
” His tone was so exaggerated that she broke into a weary laugh. He lifted one of her hands to his chest, held it flat against the furry, warm surface, then pushed it away dramatically. “Stop that,” he said deadpan. “Stop, or I’ll scream.”
    She laughed again and, bending forward, put her head in her hands. The laugh trailed off into a hiccup, then a soft sound of distress. He stroked her shoulder.
    “I only want to meet Mayura Vatan,” she said doggedly. “If I have to hire my own bodyguard, I will. You can think whatever you want to about me. I don’t trust you any more than you trust me. But if you really had nothing to do with this incident tonight, then I appreciate your getting me out of it.”
    “How did they hurt your neck?”
    “They tore my necklace off.”
    “Do you have any idea why?”
    “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” She slid to one side to avoid him, then pushed herself off the bed. Standing shakily, she remembered through a dull fog of shock that they’d tossed her purse in one corner. She stumbled and braced her hand on the wall as she bent to retrieve it. It was empty; she thought of her passport, traveler’s checks, and wallet, the extra battery for her hearing aid, her small notepad with its sketches of Thai scenes, her Thai phrase book. For the first time she felt alone and helpless in an alien place. “It’s all gone,” she said in soft anguish. “Everything that makes me feel safe is gone.”
    Sickly pinpoints of light burst in front of her eyes. She stumbled. Abruptly Santelli was in front of her, picking up the purse. He took her firmly by one arm as she straightened.
    “After what you’ve been through, you’re allowed a little wooziness,” he said.
    “I’m not a fainter, just a stumbler. Stumbling is part of my personality.”
    “You’re good at it, then.”
    “Let go of my arm.”
    “You’ll fall down. I’d rather you not pass out in this particular establishment. Have a little class, Ms. Brown. Pass out in a better grade of brothel.”
    His teasing was unexpected and absurdly effective. Her head cleared a little. “
Brothel
is such a quaint, old-fashioned word.”
    “There’s nothing quaint about it. I can be blunt, if you want.”
    “No need. I’m well aware of what goes on in places like this.”
    “Oh?” He was holding her up with his grip on her arm but also with his throaty, taunting tone. “How would you know?”
    “Even in Iowa, we’re hip to decadence.”
    “Hip to decadence? I think not, Ms. Brown. You haven’t the faintest idea.” She blinked at him. “Bad choice of words,” he amended, frowning. “Don’t faint.”
    “I’m not a fainter, I told you.”
    “As soon as your face is more pink than white, I’ll take you outside.” He gently pushed her against a wall. She leaned gratefully. “Breathe. Slowly.”
    Rebecca focused on his face, but looking up at him only made her head swim. He was one tall, gorgeous mystery, and she was going crazy trying to decide how dangerous he was. Her gaze flicked past him to the lurid wall paintings.
    “Well, something is making you pink again, thank God,” he said sardonically. Following her line of vision, he glanced over at the wall. For several seconds they studied the paintings in silence. She was too numb to be embarrassed, titillated, or even disgusted. “Some of those positions look uncomfortable,” she heard herselfsay. “And I suspect the proportions are all wrong.” She didn’t believe her own mouth, but she must be speaking, because he shot her a startled look.
    He cleared his throat and said solemnly, “Exaggeration makes for good erotica but bad self-comparison.”
    “Exaggeration makes for a big ego.”
    “There are some