"It's supposed to represent the Garden of Paradise. The door itself is bronze that's been heavily gilded with gold." She frowned. "But it still cost us far too much money."

The blasted door had caused her a mountain of trouble as well as money, and lately she had not been able to look at it with the appreciation it deserved. Now she found herself seeing it through Ruel's eyes.

Two flowering trees framed either side of the door on which intricately carved tropical blossoms draped the branches and burst in luxuriant profusion over the entire golden surface. Through the screen of flowers glimpses could be caught of a tiger and gazelle romping playfully together before a sari-clothed woman. The woman was gazing at herself in a hand mirror and completely ignoring the beasts.

"The workmanship is superb. Who did it?"

"Just a local craftsman." She asked quickly, "Have you seen enough?"

"No." His gaze suddenly focused on the bole of the tree on the left side of the door. "What's this?" He started to laugh. "Good God, it's a serpent."

She had hoped he wouldn't notice the serpent coiled around the bole of the tree. "Isn't there always a serpent in paradise?"

"So I've heard." He smiled curiously. "But never one this cleverly presented."

His absorption in the snake made her uneasy, and she tried to distract him. "I thought the tiger was done quite beautifully."

"Very nice." His gaze was still on the serpent. "An exquisite abomination," he murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing." To her relief, his stare finally left the serpent and shifted to her face. "May I see inside the car?"

"Of course." She quickly pulled out the ring of keys from her pocket, then hesitated as she remembered what lay beyond that door. "There's nothing unusual about the furnishings. Haven't you seen enough?"

He studied her. "What's in there that you don't want me to see?"

"I'm tired and hungry." She gestured impatiently. "You wished to see the door and you've seen it. This is a waste of time."

"Why?" he asked again.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." She unlocked the heavy door and flung it open. "Look, if you like. I don't care."

"Thank you, I shall." He entered the car. "Coming?"

"I've seen it all before." When he merely stood looking at her, she moved reluctantly forward to stand beside him. "Hurry."

"Oh yes, I remember, you're hungry." He lifted the lantern and glanced around the car. The light played over crimson-velvet-cushioned divans, polished teakwood tables, tasseled curtains draping mother-of-pearl inlaid windowsills. He lifted the lantern higher, and his gaze fell on the eight pictures gracing the walls. He whistled long and low. "I think I'm beginning to develop an appetite myself."

"They were the maharajah's choice," she said quickly. "He had the paintings brought from the palace."

"The concubine quarters, no doubt. Kama Sutra . . ."

"Kama what?"

He stepped closer, examining the painting directly in front of him. "These are really quite well done. Zabrie showed me some paintings in a book, but they were all concerned more with inciting than depicting emotion. Notice the tender expression on the man's face?" He raised the lantern nearer to the painting. "And the texture of the woman's buttocks looks as smooth and plump as peach halves. This position is fairly pleasurable if the angle is done right. . . ."

She found she wasn't looking at the painting but at the play of light on the finely molded line of his cheekbones. Though they weren't touching, she could feel the heat of his body and was acutely aware of the earthy fragrance of salt, soap, and sweat surrounding him. She was finding it hard to breathe. The intimacy of the car seemed to be smothering her, weakening her. "Shall we go now?"

He glanced curiously at her. "Are you blushing? I wouldn't think a woman who frequents Zabrie's would find anything shocking in these paintings."

"I'm not blushing." She knew the heat in her cheeks belied the words and deliberately made her tone brusque. "I don't find them shocking, merely unbelievable. Men don't . . . There's no gentleness. It's not like that picture."

His gaze narrowed on her face. "No? What is it like?"

"Hard and fast," she said baldly.

He chuckled. "I can't deny it's hard. You should—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not? I'm finding the discussion fascinating. Tell me more,"

"You're making fun of me."

"Perhaps. Your experience must be somewhat limited."

"You're wrong," she said fiercely. "I spent the first twelve years of my life in a whorehouse. I know all about—" She stopped abruptly. Then she turned on her heel and strode toward the door. "I've had enough of this nonsense."

"A whorehouse?" The strange thickness in his voice caused her to glance at him over her shoulder. All humor had disappeared from his expression and he was tensed, arched like a cat about to spring. "Is that where Reilly found you?"

"Yes."

"It seems I misjudged him. I wouldn't have guessed his tastes run to children. I'm beginning to find the sot not quite so tolerable."

"It wasn't like that— I have to get back to the bungalow."

"That's right, you mustn't be late." Stinging ferocity underlay the silken tone, and his light eyes glittered through half-closed lids. "I'm sure your Patrick is desolate if you keep him waiting for even a moment."

"Be quiet!" Her hands clenched into fists. "Patrick may not always be sober, but he doesn't mock or try to hurt people. He's not cruel like you are." She turned and threw open the door.

"Jane!" He muttered a curse and was suddenly beside her, his hand grasping her arm.

She tried to pry his fingers from her arm. "Damn you, let me go."

He immediately released her and held up his hands. "See, I'm not touching you. Now may I say something?"

She glared at him.

"I admit I did try to hurt you. I felt the flick of the whip and instinctively struck back."

"I wasn't striking out at you. I don't even know what you're talking about."

"I'm trying to apologize." He grimaced. "And obviously doing it very badly. I suppose that's to be expected since I can't remember the last time I so humbled myself. God knows, we all have to do what we must to survive. I had no right to judge you. Will you forgive me?"

She felt her anger ebbing away. "You're a strange man."

"Without doubt." He took a step back and gestured for her to precede him. "Go on. I'm feeling a little savage at the moment and it would be better if you weren't around me. I'll see you in the morning."

"Is there any point in suggesting once again that you give up on laying track for the railroad?" she asked haltingly.

"None." He didn't look at her as he moved past her and down the steps to the platform. "It's too late for that. We have to get on with it and finish it."

"On with what?"

"I used to know," he said harshly. "Now I'm not so sure anymore."

A moment later he had mounted his horse and trotted off toward town.

"Li Sung isn't in Narinth," Ian said. "He hasn't been there since he visited the town some two months ago with Jane Barnaby."