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the Magic Dragon was. He kept asking me over and over. So I told him.”
    “You told him?”
    “Puff was under the bed. I told him so.”
    “Who the hell is Puff?”
    “My cat. I named him Puff, as in ‘Puff the Magic Dragon.’ That lunatic in there—Rostov?—was waving mybook around and demanding that I tell him where the Magic Dragon was. So I told him.”
    There was a moment’s silence. Then, “Tell me precisely what happened. Everything.”
    Clara did, from the moment the man knocked on her kitchen door to her escape. When she finished, the man was silent. Clara dared a quick look over her shoulder. The moon cast an odd silvery light over his face. In that split second she saw that he wasn’t handsome at all. His face was broad-jawed and pugnacious, with a crooked nose and thin lips quirked now in what was almost a smile. Black hair that was too short for her taste gleamed blue in the moonlight. But what caught her attention was the extraordinary color of his eyes. In the moonlight, they glittered as brightly green as emeralds.
    “So Rostov drove all the way down here on the strength of a dedication in a book, did he?” Although she was no longer looking at him, she could swear he was grinning. “He must have found it in my apartment. My girlfriend reads that romantic trash all the time. She must be a fan of yours. What did you say your name is?”
    “Clara. Clara Winston. But I write under the name of Claire Winston.” She was willing to disregard his slander to her profession under the circumstances.
    He shook his head. “So you wrote a book about a spy and called it The Magic Dragon, huh? And dedicated it to the real Magic Dragon, with love?” There was no mistake this time. He actually chuckled. “Well, you certainly succeeded in laying a false scent, I’ll give you that.”
    He straightened suddenly, standing up and thrusting the gun into his belt. Looking up at him, Clara saw that his shoulders were very broad while his waist was narrow and his legs were long and muscular. He was clad in a blacksweatshirt and jeans, and towering over her like that he looked very menacing, despite the fact that he’d put the gun away.
    “Let me give you some advice. Miss Winston,” he said softly. “Find someplace to go for a couple of weeks. Rostov thinks you know where I am, and he wants to find me very, very badly. And he is not the type to take no for an answer. So take a vacation. He’s gone for now—he and his men drove off shortly after you ran into the fields. But believe me, if he doesn’t find what he’s looking for soon, he’ll be back. And I mean to see that he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.”
    “Who are you?” The whispered question was involuntary. She didn’t really expect a reply, which was just as well, because she didn’t get one.
    Instead, he turned and melted away through the tobacco. Only the rustling of the tall stalks as he passed told her that he was real, that she hadn’t just imagined the whole thing. Shaken, she continued to crouch in the mud without moving for a long time. But gradually it began to dawn on her that she was alone, and safe—for now at least—and the rain was starting up again. Standing, she peered warily between the rows of tobacco toward her little house. The kitchen door swung wide, and every window blazed with light. No one was about. Could she really take that man’s word that Rostov and his thugs were gone? Who was he, anyway? He’d said Rostov wanted him. Could he have some connection with the mysterious dragon Rostov was searching for? From his reaction to her story, she rather thought he did. What in the world had she gotten involved in?
    A familiar round gray shape stalked into view, framed by the light spilling from the kitchen door. Seating himself on the stoop, Puff began to wash his face. That settled onequestion, Clara thought, stepping shakily forward. There was no one in or near the house. Puff was better than any watchdog at