told them I wanted the ring guards in sapphire. To match your eyes.”
She pondered that gruff comment all the way across the Pacific.
Hong Kong was everything she remembered from shopping excursions during her assignment to Beijing. And more. So much more.
As their plane swooped in for a landing, Jilly saw dozens of new skyscrapers crowding the harbor on both Hong Kong Island and the Kowloon Peninsula on the mainland. Contrary to the dire predictions when the British relinquished their hold on the territories known collectively as Hong Kong, their teeming economy hadn’t collapsed. Instead, it was exploding.
Gillian soon discovered that the traffic she recalled from previous visits had exploded, as well. Their limo driver added frequent blasts of his horn to the cacophony rising from taxis, trucks and Japanese-made vehicles of every sort. Masses of humanity, most with cell phones jammed against their ears, thronged streets with signs in both English and Chinese. Narrow alleys radiated from avenues with names left over from the British occupation. Sheng Tung Street bisected Waterloo Road. Kam Lam ran into Argyle. Tak Shing, Kan Su and Nanking all converged on the shopaholic’s mecca, Nathan Road.
Jilly almost salivated as the Rolls-Royce limo glided past shop after shop. She would have loved to put herself into the eager hands of tailors who could take her measurements and deliver an entire collection of suits and shoes and ball gowns to her hotel the next day. Or the jewelers who could craft an exquisite pair of diamond earrings or a ruby slide to her specifications within hours.
Then there were the designers. Prada, Chanel, Versace and Kate Spade all had boutiques on Nathan Road, as well as in the high-end malls scattered throughout the city. Too bad the Gucci suitcases stowed in the trunk of the Rolls-Royce made those boutiques and jewelry stores superfluous. Not to mention the ring on her left hand.
She snuck a glance at the sparkling stones. She hadn’t gotten used to their weight yet. Or the odd sensation that came with even a pretend marriage to a man like Hawk.
Women always sat up and took notice when he entered a room. Their admiring glances had never bothered Jilly before. So she couldn’t explain her annoyance with the redhead who’d almost tripped over her own feet while ogling Hawk at the airport. Or her irritation when a certain flight attendant became a little too attentive.
“That’s the Peninsula ahead, sir.”
The uniformed chauffeur pulled up at a red light and tipped his head toward the venerable hotel dominating the next block.
“Unfortunately, construction of the new subway line has temporarily blocked vehicle access to our main entrance. I’ll have to let you out at the side entrance.”
Well, darn! The Peninsula was one of Hong Kong’s most revered institutions. Jilly had wanted Hawk to see the front portico with its massive white pillars, liveried doormen and fleet of Rolls-Royces at the ready. On impulse, she grabbed the door handle.
“Let’s walk from here. The driver can drop off our bags at the side entrance. I want you to get the Peninsula’s full effect.”
The noise of a large and vibrant city hit them the moment they emerged from the Rolls. Car horns honked. Street vendors hawked their wares. Jackhammers and cranes added their signature sounds to the solid mass of humanity that thronged the streets. And above the din, Jilly caught the whistle of an arriving Star Ferry.
“You have to see this.”
With a quick change in direction, she joined the crowd crossing the street. A short flight of steps led to the wide promenade that circled the Kowloon side of the Victoria Harbor.
Across the gray-green waters were the towering skyscrapers of Hong Kong Island. Victoria Peak rose above the columns of glass and steel, her summit wreathed in hazy mist. And there, just pulling into the terminal, was one of the distinctive green-and-white ferries that still served as a primary means of transportation.
Smiling at the sight, Jilly leaned her arms on the promenade’s rail and breathed in the mingled scent of salt water and diesel fumes.
“They built a high-speed tunnel to connect Kowloon and Hong Kong some years ago,” she told Hawk, “but I always take the ferries when I’m here. They’re crowded, noisy and swarming with pickpockets, but they’re quintessential China.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Hawk obviously had more important matters on his mind as he shot back his cuff and checked his Rolex. “We’d better get settled in at the hotel, then call on Mr. Wang.”
Jilly gave the magnificent skyline across the bay a last look and pushed away from the rail. Hawk put a hand to the small of her back to turn her toward the stairs. She shouldn’t have felt his touch through layers of Hermès and Emanuel Ungaro. Shouldn’t have but did. The skin under those layers tingled even as she issued another stern reminder.
Cover, girl! It’s just cover!
Preoccupied with both the thought and the touch, she didn’t see the pint-size street vendor in pink sneakers and T-shirt who’d approached them. Neither did Hawk until his abrupt turn brought them into direct contact.
“Ai-ah!”
The girl—she couldn’t have been more than four or five—landed on her bottom. The wooden cage she was carrying also hit the concrete. The cage door flew open, and the canary inside made its escape.
With another cry, the girl scrambled to her feet and tried to catch the bird, but it was already soaring on the stiff breeze off the bay. Jilly would have bet the thing would soon be gull bait if she hadn’t witnessed a similar performance during a previous visit to Hong Kong. That one had involved caged crickets, but the theatrics were the same.
Sure enough, the little girl’s shoulders slumped pathetically. When she turned back to face them, tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, kid.” Hawk reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of Hong Kong dollars he’d purchased at the airport. “I’m really sorry.”
“You might want to wait on that,” Jilly advised.
“I bowled her over. How much should I give her for the bird? Five? Ten?”
“What you do to Mei Lin?”
The indignant query came from the boy who charged up the promenade stairs two at a time. He was older than the girl. Nine, maybe ten. Like her, he wore jeans and a faded T-shirt of indeterminate origin. But his AirMax Nikes, Jilly noted, looked brand-new.
“What you do?” he demanded again, but didn’t wait for an answer. Waving his skinny arms, he launched into a tirade of broken English. “You hurt little sister. You break cage. She lose bird, lose money. Lose face with Grandfather.”
The girl’s tears continued to flow, and the boy’s accusations were starting to attract attention.
“Here, kid. Will this save your sister’s face?”
No fool, the boy took the twenty and held it up to the sunlight. Counterfeit money was as pandemic in China as bootlegged DVDs and Prada knockoffs.
The boy didn’t lose his angry scowl, but his message to the girl held smug triumph. “We plucked a fat goose,” he said in swift Cantonese. “Come, we’ll buy hot dumplings to take to Grandfather.”
Jilly said nothing while he scooped up the empty wooden cage. The two took off without another word and disappeared behind the oleanders separating the section of the promenade from the next.
Obviously relieved that the fracas was over, Hawk pocketed the rest of his money. “Let’s go.”
“Hang on a sec.”
“Why?”
“Just listen. Yep, there it is.”
The chirpy trill carried clearly over the hubbub of the harbor. A moment later, a flash of yellow nose-dived into the oleanders.
The