Fontanas Trouble Read Online Free PDF

come dressed as Rick or Laszlo? In the hours since he’d
been chased from her room by the robot, she’d vacillated between tracking him
down and settling for what he’d already given her. Curiosity had gotten the
better of her—curiosity and the fact that she’d been unable to locate the robot
that had broken in on them.
    The hotel directory listed Brent
as staying at the Hong Kong Hilton. She wasn’t sure if the fact he was a guest
at the hotel meant he wasn’t one of the planet’s escorts. Her heart fluttered.
Had he fucked her because he found her attractive, or was he looking for some
rich bitch to bankroll him? The resort charged exorbitant rates, and he didn’t
know the Corps had paid her bill.
    His check-in and check-out dates
were set to private, which didn’t confirm anything. With a deep breath, Fontana
punched up a connection to his hotel room and got his video mail.
    “Brent. It’s Fontana.” She
paused, surprised how fast her heart was beating. She should have set her side
to voice-only so he couldn’t see the unease she was sure showed on her face.
All she was doing was calling some guy.
    You’re thirty-two years old.
You can pursue a man.
    Anxiety quivered in her stomach.
“I was thinking.” Her voice wavered. “I’m going to be at Rick’s Café tonight,
if you’re interested in meeting for a late supper. Around eight?”
    Now what?
    “Hope to see you there.” She hung
up, feeling even more inept than when Daniel Tanner had given her her first
adult kiss at the age of sixteen. Had being without a man this last year turned
her into a quivering virgin? She grinned. Not if this morning was any
indication.
    Remembering the dress Ingrid wore
when she and Bogie had danced, Fontana switched the display to wardrobe and
said, “White chiffon.” She paused. She might not be in the dress long, but she
wanted Brent to salivate to get her out of it. “Casablanca, Ingrid Bergman,
ankle-length white skirt, blazer, tailored collar, circa 1942—synthetic,” she
added. Synthetics were complimentary as part of the all-inclusive package.
“Sheer white scarf,” she added. “Floor length.” Ingrid looked damned sultry
with that scarf draped around her hair. Had Ingrid worn anything beneath the
blazer? Hell yes, but Fontana wasn’t going to.
    Confirmation came that the outfit
would be delivered to her closet in five minutes. Fontana grimaced. How many
other Ingrid Bergmans would be there? She shrugged. As long as Brent saw only
her, who cared?
    Rick’s was only two blocks away,
close enough to walk in heels, but she had tokens, so she ordered a cab to pick
her up at 8:15 p.m., fashionably late. She could make a grand appearance,
stepping out of the cab, one long gam at a time, in case he waited for her
outside.

 
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
    By 8:30 p.m., Fontana sat on a
barstool at Rick’s, an old-fashioned in a tumbler and a pack of reproduction
Pall Mall filterless cigarettes resting by her elbow. A smoky haze hung in the
air, but she detected no real smoke.
    Rick’s was comprised of three
vast rooms, one with a bar where she sat, another with tables and an upright
piano where a guest had been playing As Time Goes By with one finger when
she walked in, and a third room with a clicking and clattering roulette wheel
where people were placing their bets. Waiters in white suits bustled between
tables. Actors in French police period uniforms prowled the room. The only
things that broke the movie-quality spell were the four Ingrid Bergman
look-alikes, six Humphrey Bogarts, and two Paul Henreids playing Victor Laszlo.
Evidently, nobody wanted to play the part of Claude Rains, the corrupt French
official.
    Fontana loved Casablanca ,
but it wasn’t Bogie’s best. To Have and Have Not took that honor.
    “Of all the gin joints in all the
towns…” Brent’s voice drifted over her left shoulder.
    She glanced in the mirror behind
the bar. He wore a white suit and shirt and a black bow tie. Handsome.