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bodies.”
    “There's nowhere better I'd want to fly away to right now,” he said.
    He had moved very close. She felt his breath on her neck. She was shocked to hear herself whimper with pleasure as his lips brushed gently against the soft skin of her throat.
    She had known from the moment she had seen him what would happen between them. Perhaps he was right, our destiny is written in our hands. The night closed around them, the chirruping of the jungle insects grew to a cacophony. He pushed her gently back onto the stone. "I am going to turn your life into a raging storm,” he said.
    She stared at the vaulted shadows of the pavilion, the nagas dancing along the eaves, the geckos rustling in the roof, hunting for lust. She breathed in the male smells of sandalwood and tobacco, felt the hardness of his body, the phi whispering from the darkness, spirits good and bad. She felt her own spirit being coaxed away. This was what you wanted, she reminded herself. You could not be daddy's good little girl forever.
     
     
     

Chapter 6
     
    W HEN he first arrived in Asia over ten years before, Rocco Bonaventure had quickly adopted the daily routine of the French colonialists; he rose at eight, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and never conducted any business before ten o'clock. After lunch he rested during the hottest part of the day, and concluded the day's affairs by six o'clock. The evening was the time to drink aperitifs .
    It was now his habit, at this l'heure d'aperitif , to sit in the upper storey room he used as a study, and watch the sunset. Tonight Marcel Rivelini kept him company during his vigil. Bonaventure reached for the bottle of Pernod and refilled two glasses, one for himself, and one for Rivelini.
    “They say there has been more fighting on the border,” Rivelini said.
    Bonaventure nodded. “Yes, Colonel Ky told me about it.”
    “Damned Communists.”
    “N 'inquiète-toi . The Americans will not let them take over in Laos, Marcel. They saw what happened in Eastern Europe and they won't let it happen here.”
    “I hope you're right, Rocco.”
    “Of course I am.”
    Bonaventure added a little water to his Pernod, and the golden liquid immediately turned the colour of milk. The monsoon had begun, and the twilight was grey, even the gilded stupas looked drab. The banana palms in the garden wilted under the assault of the rain.
     
    ***
     
    Rocco looks so smug, Rivelini thought, here in his retreat, bookshelves filled with leather bound books he has never read, bronze statues of the Buddha and Hanuman on his polished teak desk. A pirate of such culture and refinement. Such a shame to prick his balloon.
    But I will.
    “How is Noelle?'
    That jarred Bonaventure from his complacency, as he knew it would. He frowned. “She is well, as far as I know. Why, Marcel?'
    Rivelini affected an air of discreet concern. “It is just, well ... one hears things. I would hate to see her hurt.”
    “How could she get hurt, Marcel?'
    “Rocco, I apologise. Perhaps one should not listen to idle rumours.”
    “What rumours? Stop talking in riddles.”
    “It is just I do not like to be the one to repeat them, but I suppose you should know. There is talk that she has been seen in the company of a certain - I hesitate to call him a gentleman - while you were in Saigon. It is not good for her reputation to be so careless.”
    “What's his name?'
    ' Baptiste‚ Baptiste Crocé ‚.”
    The glass cracked in his fist. Dark red blood welled through the knuckles and dripped onto his white linen trousers, mixing with the milky Pernod. Impressive, Rivellini thought. Better than I had hoped.
    Bonaventure fumbled in his pocket with his uninjured hand for a clean linen handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand to soak up the blood. Then he pulled out his Gauloises and his lighter. He lit the cigarette one-handed, his fingers shaking.
    “Rocco? Are you all right?'
    “What else did you hear?' he snapped.
    “They were only rumours,