After a hesitation, her fingers picked up the photograph and he felt the weight of her shadow go away. He eased in a shaky breath.

From the doorway, Carling said, “I need you, Marty. I need people I can trust, and right now those people are few and far between. You call my office and let me know when you’re ready.”

She’d left a business card by his elbow. It had A. L. CARLING in raised black letters, and a phone number. Washington exchange.

He crumpled it up and threw it on the floor.

When he looked up, she was gone. He crossed his arms on the table and laid his head down, like a third-grader at quiet time.

Now, when he didn’t want to remember, he felt her skin on the palms of his hands, tasted her lips.

After a long time, he bent and picked up her business card, smoothed it out, and put it in his jacket pocket.

As she’d known he would, of course.

She picked up the phone herself. He plugged his left ear with a finger and pressed his right closer to the receiver.

“Carling?” he shouted.

“Marty.” He lost part of her reply in the blare of a loudspeaker. “—airport?”

“I’m at the airport,” he agreed. “My flight’s in fifteen minutes.”

The line fluttered like a sheet in the wind. Silence went on so long, he thought they’d been disconnected.

“You’re going back to Dallas.”

“I think I have to.” He twisted around to look at the flashing yellow message on the flight board.

“Then why are you wasting my time?” Offended. It was an act, he was certain.

“Because I wanted to tell you something,” he replied. “Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a bitch. I’m going home to get the data, all my files, everything. I’ll be back tomorrow with it.”

She said, “I’ll meet you at the airport. Marty?”

“Yeah?”

The loudspeaker blared again, calling him to board. He thought she said, “Be careful.”

Chapter Nineteen

Ming

Ming closed her eyes and let the braided leather of the whip glide through her fingers; smooth, flexible, warm as human flesh. She’d known a man in Singapore who’d had a whip made out of his favorite women. She often wondered what had happened to him.

“You want to know about Velvet,” she said aloud. Her fingers found the cutting tip of the lash. “Why?”

When she opened her eyes, the client was staring at her with a strange expression. He had come to her door with no references, no history—but a convincing sum of money. Mundane tastes, so far. A little domination, mostly threat, but a little pain. He liked to keep his clothes on, a decision of which she approved. Naked men were so often disappointing.

“I heard she was good,” he said hoarsely.

“From whom?” Ming touched the whip to her lips. His smile looked forced.