than before, she heard the tiny scraping sounds the Japanese made when they gave up their vigil, clambering back through the succession of chambers into the more familiar corridor.
Tori's lips touched Ariel's neck, and together they rose from the dead.
Ariel and Tori were standing on one of the two terra-cotta tile balconies of Ariel's magnificent house on Russian Hill in San Francisco. One hundred years ago Ambrose Bierce, Bret Harte, and Mark Twain frequently met in a cool salon atop this nearly vertical hill.
It was not quite forty-eight hours since the incident in the eighteenth century Jesuit tunnels. Ariel, who had been returning home, had invited Tori to accompany him, and she had accepted because she found that she had lost her taste both for Buenos Aires and solitude. Besides, though she was reluctant to admit it, Ariel intrigued her. Reluctant, because for so long she had gone out of her way to avoid even a hint of a relationship or complication with a man. But she had been presented with an enigma: what was a pair of Japanese Yakuza assassins doing in the tunnels beneath Buenos Aires, and how did Ariel Solares, the man who had told her so glibly that his life was prosaic, know they would be there?
Tori looked down. Below them, the city of hills swept away to the foot of Hyde Street and, beyond, the gray bay, dotted now with ships, where, no doubt, unseen dolphins played. The house's other terrace overlooked Lombard Street as it wound its serpentine way down to North Beach.
Behind them, filling up Ariel's vast living room, were mementos of the ancient civilizations of South America: painted pottery, carved stone statues of women and animals, diminutive wooden weapons set with blackened iron tips Tori knew had once been dipped in poison.
" 'Through the years,' " Ariel Solares said, " 'a man peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdohis, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, tools, stars, horses and people.' " He was quoting a fragment of Jorge Luis Borges that Tori knew.
"This is the perfect spot," she said. "Away from everyone, above everything.''
"My only regret," Ariel said, "is that I'm not here nearly enough." He turned to her, refilled her glass with more champagne. "Are you familiar with San Francisco?"
"Not really." Tori drank. "I'm afraid I have the native Los Angelino's reflexive distaste for it.''
"It's not bad as American cities go," Ariel said. "I'd prefer Paris, but I've got to work."
• 'Don't the French need beef?''
"Not as much as we Americans. And they're a bitch to deal with. Very picky about imported meat. I'd rather deal with the Japanese." He laughed, then shivered as a cool breeze ruffled his hair. The sun had gone down minutes ago. "Let's go in, shall we?"
She had never particularly liked San Francisco, but she was wild about Ariel's house. She had never actually been up to Russian Hill; it was like living along the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. There was a peace, an apartness, in the height and the vistas, that appealed strongly to her.
Inside, he stood so that the purple sky was reflected in his coffee-colored eyes. He seemed about to say something, then turned away.
"What is it?" Tori asked.
For a time Ariel said nothing. He looked casual and relaxed in a white sport shirt, black slacks, a natural jacket of flax and silk. He seemed genuinely disconcerted. "I want to ask you to go to bed with me, but I know I shouldn't."
Tori laughed. "Well, that's a new one-a new line, I mean."
"It isn't. At least, I didn't intend it to be." He seemed so uncomfortable that Tori considered cutting right to the heart of the matter. But then she thought that he would have to learn his lesson sometime, and that in the end he might be better off learning it from her.
"Look, you've made it obvious from the moment we met that you're attracted to me," she said seriously. "I appreciated your candor. I'm here, aren't I? Don't tell me you can't feel how attracted I am to you. What I
Tori's lips touched Ariel's neck, and together they rose from the dead.
Ariel and Tori were standing on one of the two terra-cotta tile balconies of Ariel's magnificent house on Russian Hill in San Francisco. One hundred years ago Ambrose Bierce, Bret Harte, and Mark Twain frequently met in a cool salon atop this nearly vertical hill.
It was not quite forty-eight hours since the incident in the eighteenth century Jesuit tunnels. Ariel, who had been returning home, had invited Tori to accompany him, and she had accepted because she found that she had lost her taste both for Buenos Aires and solitude. Besides, though she was reluctant to admit it, Ariel intrigued her. Reluctant, because for so long she had gone out of her way to avoid even a hint of a relationship or complication with a man. But she had been presented with an enigma: what was a pair of Japanese Yakuza assassins doing in the tunnels beneath Buenos Aires, and how did Ariel Solares, the man who had told her so glibly that his life was prosaic, know they would be there?
Tori looked down. Below them, the city of hills swept away to the foot of Hyde Street and, beyond, the gray bay, dotted now with ships, where, no doubt, unseen dolphins played. The house's other terrace overlooked Lombard Street as it wound its serpentine way down to North Beach.
Behind them, filling up Ariel's vast living room, were mementos of the ancient civilizations of South America: painted pottery, carved stone statues of women and animals, diminutive wooden weapons set with blackened iron tips Tori knew had once been dipped in poison.
" 'Through the years,' " Ariel Solares said, " 'a man peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdohis, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, tools, stars, horses and people.' " He was quoting a fragment of Jorge Luis Borges that Tori knew.
"This is the perfect spot," she said. "Away from everyone, above everything.''
"My only regret," Ariel said, "is that I'm not here nearly enough." He turned to her, refilled her glass with more champagne. "Are you familiar with San Francisco?"
"Not really." Tori drank. "I'm afraid I have the native Los Angelino's reflexive distaste for it.''
"It's not bad as American cities go," Ariel said. "I'd prefer Paris, but I've got to work."
• 'Don't the French need beef?''
"Not as much as we Americans. And they're a bitch to deal with. Very picky about imported meat. I'd rather deal with the Japanese." He laughed, then shivered as a cool breeze ruffled his hair. The sun had gone down minutes ago. "Let's go in, shall we?"
She had never particularly liked San Francisco, but she was wild about Ariel's house. She had never actually been up to Russian Hill; it was like living along the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. There was a peace, an apartness, in the height and the vistas, that appealed strongly to her.
Inside, he stood so that the purple sky was reflected in his coffee-colored eyes. He seemed about to say something, then turned away.
"What is it?" Tori asked.
For a time Ariel said nothing. He looked casual and relaxed in a white sport shirt, black slacks, a natural jacket of flax and silk. He seemed genuinely disconcerted. "I want to ask you to go to bed with me, but I know I shouldn't."
Tori laughed. "Well, that's a new one-a new line, I mean."
"It isn't. At least, I didn't intend it to be." He seemed so uncomfortable that Tori considered cutting right to the heart of the matter. But then she thought that he would have to learn his lesson sometime, and that in the end he might be better off learning it from her.
"Look, you've made it obvious from the moment we met that you're attracted to me," she said seriously. "I appreciated your candor. I'm here, aren't I? Don't tell me you can't feel how attracted I am to you. What I
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