Danger Zone by Doreen Owens Malek Read Free Book Online

light beard he’d had when they met. His blue eyes held hers with unwavering interest and she felt as if he were seeing her for the first time.
    “The dress is a knockout,” he said, his gaze traveling downward from her face, over her body to her legs, and then back up again. Her skin grew warm; she felt as if he’d undressed her.
    “It isn’t too much?” she asked worriedly.
    “I’d like to see a little less of it,” he replied, grinning. Her flush intensified, spreading over her cheeks and neck.
    “I mean that I didn’t know where we were going and I was afraid I’d be overdressed.” Then she realized that this was worse, and she closed her eyes, mortified.
    When she opened them again he was leaning against the wall, laughing silently.
    “You look perfect,” he said, putting her out of her misery. He straightened and extended his arm. She slipped her hand through it.
    “How did you know where to find me?” Karen asked as she locked her door behind her and put the key in her purse.
    “I have a contact at the embassy. He told me where they’d taken you,” he replied.
    “Where are you staying?” she asked.
    “At a friend’s apartment,” he answered vaguely.
    “I guess you come to Caracas often enough that you know people in town,” Karen suggested.
    “I pass through now and again,” he said.
    His evasiveness was maddening, but nothing short of a rude inquisition would elicit more direct information so Karen changed the subject.
    “Is the restaurant near here?” she asked as they emerged from the elevator into the rococo lobby, filled with scrolled mirrors and heavily upholstered brocade furniture.
    “Just a walk across the square,” he said.
    “What do you call that decorating style?” Karen said, nodding backward as they passed through the revolving door into the warm, late summer night.
    “Reign of Terror?” he said, casting her a sidelong glance.
    Karen laughed. “I don’t know, but I can’t get used to it.”
    “I can see why,” he said. “You probably feel like Boris Karloff is going to jump out of a closet and hand you a severed head.”
    “It does sort of look like one of those overdone mansions in horror movies,” she said, smiling. “Have you ever been to the Miramar before?”
    “Nah,” he said dismissively. “It’s a tourist trap.”
    “Oh.”
    They were walking across a Spanish style square with a splashing fountain in the middle, surrounded by adobe brick buildings crenellated along the top and fronted by Moorish arches.
    “The Caribbean Sea is right back there,” Colter said, pointing to the rear of the hotel they’d just left.
    “I can smell it,” Karen said, inhaling deeply.
    “The settlers used to post lookouts on the roofs facing the water,” he added, indicating the open spaces between the battlements. “There was a lot of piracy in those days; the Caribbean coast of Venezuela was the famous Spanish Main.”
    They were approaching a softly lit restaurant. As they passed through the ivy covered front door Karen read above it, in fancy script, La Casa Americana .
    “Does the name mean we can get American food here?” she asked Colter hopefully.
    “No, they called it that because they serve only Tasmanian food,” he replied soberly.
    She looked at him, and he smiled.
    “Would you tease a starving woman?” she asked him archly.
    “Never. You can get American, Spanish, or Carib Indian dishes. They serve all three.”
    “Oh, good.”
    The maitre d’ greeted Colter by name and led them up a flight of steps to a rooftop terrace overlooking the ocean. They were seated at a table for two next to a half wall made of native fieldstone. It was decorated with clusters of bougainvillea, the showy pink and white flowers giving off a heady, heavenly fragrance. The waves soughed against the sand below them, and Karen could see the froth of white caps in the distance. Above them the night sky was slightly overcast, with a three-quarter moon hiding behind a