Page 11 of Blood Stone
Chapter Three
“Surely, it cannot be...Morana? Little Morana Knezevic. It cannot be!”
Winter forced herself to keep walking, even though the woman’s voice just to her right and the words in clear Serbian were damning enough. She had been recognized.
“Morana!” the woman called again.
Winter quickened her pace, keeping her gaze straight ahead as she headed east along Hollywood Boulevard. She could still bluff this out.
“Morana, wait!” English, this time.
Then a hand gripped her arm just above the elbow and yanked.
Winter made herself react like an innocent stranger. “What the hell!” she exploded, pulling her arm out of the woman’s grip. People were stepping around them, making annoyed sounds.
The woman was in her fifties, with dark eyes and dark marks beneath them — from long term tiredness, perhaps. She wore a Muslim head cloth, but pushed back on her head so that her hair showed beneath. The hair was shot with grey. And she wore light trousers and a simple short-sleeved shirt. It was nearly ninety-five degrees and not quite noon...the shirt was a compromise. She also wore flat sandals.
She nodded. “You’re Morana,” she said in Serbian.
“Excuse me?” Winter replied.
“You’ve forgotten your own language?” the woman asked in English. “It cannot have been that long. Come, Morana, you may not remember me, but the speech of your birth?” She shook her head. “I used to bounce you on my knees when you had the colic,” she said in Serbian. “It made you stop crying, when nothing your mother could do would work. I used to babysit you and your brothers, Boro and Dejan. I lived next door to you, Morana. I would know your face anywhere. You have forgotten me? Finka?”
Winter stepped back a pace. “I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else, lady,” she said as coolly as she could. Her heart was thundering, making her feel sick with tension. She reached inside herself to flood her body with calming endorphins to counteract the shock. She drew in a steadying breath, using the oxygen it gave her to help restore calm.
Finka blinked. “Morana!” she protested.
“I am not Morana,” Winter said levelly. She turned and walked away as swiftly as she could, and as soon as a she spotted a place to duck out of sight, she did.
She pushed open the door and found herself facing a reception podium and a hostess. She looked around, taking off her sunglasses. Chilled air wafted over her, a reminder of how warm it was on the street. A dim interior, lots of small tables and a buffet to one side. Only three of the tables had diners. It was an up-market lunch bar.
“A table for one,” Winter told the hostess. She glanced over her shoulder at the door to the street behind her. “Preferably at the back of the room.”
The hostess, all legs and teeth and skimpy black cocktail dress, smiled as she picked up a menu. “I’m sure I can arrange that,” she promised.
* * * * *
“Is that a Ben & Jerries just down there?” Garrett asked, tapping on the frame next to the driver.
“I believe so, sir,” the driver replied.
“Pull over, will you? I’ve got a sudden craving for some Dublin Mudslide.”
MacDonald snorted. “We’ll be late for the Sumitomo Mitsui meeting. And when did you sell out to the Irish?”
“The Irish are as Celtic as a good Scot, I’ll have you know,” Garrett said, as the limousine veered over to the sidewalk. He glanced at his watch. “And they know nearly as much about a fine drop of whiskey as the Scots do.”
“Nearly,” MacDonald qualified. “Well, it’s your meeting you’re putting in jeopardy for the sake of ice-cream.”
“That’s right,” Garrett agreed, and pushed the door open. Immediately, a blast of arid heat beat about his face, radiating up from the sidewalk and fanning into the car from the motion of the opening door. He drew in a breath of surprise. “I’ll make this fast,” he told MacDonald over his shoulder as he shut the door.
He hurried into the ice-cream store and ordered the double scoop of Dublin Mudslide, plus a spoon, and headed over to the chrome stools and high counter at the back of the store, where the air-conditioning was blasting. The stools ran along both sides of the wide counter, and a line of toppings and napkin holders marched down the middle.
Garrett settled onto one of the stools and pushed the tub of Mudslide across the counter to the man with sea green eyes who sat on the other side. “Did it have to be Irish crap, Sebastian? I had to justifying selling out my Scots ancestors to my lawyer.”
Sebastian grinned as he picked up the spoon and tucked into the ice-cream. “You could have told him you were getting Chunky Monkey or something.” He swallowed a spoonful with obvious relish.
Garrett watched, fascinated. “Is it as good as it looks?” he asked, curiously.
