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a regular fan," he said. "In fact, it was because of your work on the show that the boss decided to seek your advice."

"Oh," Annja said, thinking that one of the world's richest men watching her show on a regular basis was just a bit…weird. She couldn't quite wrap her head around it.

That little voice in the back of her head spoke up. Maybe he's watching it for some other reason, it said.

Almost as if he were reading her mind, Mason said, "Gotta tell ya, though. I don't care much for that other host. Kristen? Kathy?"

"Kristie. Kristie Chatham."

"Right. I mean, my Lord, could they hire a bigger bimbo? She can't even string three coherent sentences together and the wardrobe malfunctions became tiring after the first time or two. Do we really need one every other episode?"

Mason was banking the chopper, paying attention to the controls rather than looking her way, and so he missed the expression of shock on her face, shock that quickly turned to delight as he went on.

"Do they think every guy watching the show is a complete moron?"

Yes, Annja thought, but didn't say. She decided right then and there that she and Mason Jones were going to be very good friends.

"Tell me more," she said with a smile.

By the time he set the chopper down on the landing pad at Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City about forty minutes later, they were on a first-name basis.

A car was waiting for them when they disembarked, a uniformed chauffeur standing beside the open door.

Mason introduced Annja to the driver, whose name was José, and told her that José would take her to her hotel so that she could freshen up prior to her dinner with Davenport.

"What about you?" Annja asked.

Mason jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the helicopter behind them. "Someone has to put away the toys," he said.

Satisfied that she was in good hands and things were proceeding the way they were supposed to, something she had learned the hard way not to take for granted, she climbed into the air-conditioned vehicle and let José drive her to where she needed to go.

The hotel turned out to be the Four Seasons on the Paseo de la Reforma, or, as the locals called it, Reforma, just a few blocks from Chapultepec Park—the oldest national park in North America—as well as the National Museum of Anthropology and History. The hotel staff was expecting her, José obviously having called ahead, and she was quickly whisked away to a luxury suite on one of the hotel's upper floors. The porter who carried her bag upstairs and deposited it in the walk-in closet passed on the message that all gratuities had been taken care of and that the car would be back for her at six. He shut the doors softly as he exited the room, leaving Annja to take in her posh surroundings.

The suite consisted of a spacious living room area, complete with a wet bar, a flat-screen TV, a stereo and DVD player, all carefully arranged amid the couch and several armchairs. The bedroom contained a king-size bed and another television artfully mounted on the wall, as well as a walk-in closet and private dressing area. But it was the master bath, with its oversize soaking tub, that did it for her. Annja wasted no time in filling it with hot water and scented bath oil, then stripped off her dust-covered clothing and settled in to enjoy a long soak.

When she had scrubbed away the last of the dirt and grime of the jungle and her muscles had unknotted enough that she was again feeling human, she rose from the water and slipped into the thick terry-cloth robe the hotel provided its guests. She sat in the dressing area and brushed out her long hair, then, noting it was almost five-thirty, decided she had just enough time to get dressed for her meeting with Davenport.

But when she stepped into the closet to retrieve her bag, she found a selection of quality clothing of different colors and styles hanging on the racks.

She whistled long and low.

A peek confirmed her suspicions—all of them