Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

She let him catch his breath, then made a move to extricate herself. “Up, up, Mr. Bell,” she said cheerily. “Let’s check for that forwarding address.”

“Must we leave so soon?”

“Easy come, easy go,” she joshed, and reached for her panties.

Feeling energized by her early-morning sexual workout and by the ultimately helpful assistance of the obliging Evan Bell, Honey returned to Dirk’s loft in lower Soho, letting herself in with her own key. She was eager to relay the information she had tracked down-including Barnabas Havelock’s forwarding address. The large space was disturbingly silent, and no one answered her calls. On the message board by the phone, Dirk had pinned a note that read, Honey, play back tape on deck .

Perplexed, she located the tape recorder, switched it on, and hit the play button. Dirk’s excited, boyish voice boomed out over the speakers high in the corners, “Honey, sorry I’m not here. I heard from a photographer pal of mine whoe saw my snap of the girl in the park. He swears on his mother’s grave that there is an exact double of the girl dancing in a nightclub in Cartagena, Colombia. I know it sounds as weird as hell, but since we’ve no other leads, I’ve got to follow it up. Leave a message here and let me know where you’ll be. I’ll be in touch soonest. Love ya, Honey. You’re the best. ‘Bye for now.”

The tape fell silent and she switched it off, fighting the flood of disappointment and the bubble of anger pushing up her throat. Damn, of all the rotten timing. She punched the record button and spoke crisply into the built-in condenser mike: “Dirk, honestly, at least you could’ve waited until you heard from me. All I could find out is that the girl is traveling with her father, who was registered as Barnabas Havelock, supposedly some sort of reclusive mega-millionaire. But I made a quick check with Standard and Poors, and there is no one of that name registered on their worldwide directories. Sounds fishy, no? Anyway, his forwarding address is the Taj Ganges Hotel in Varanasi, India. You’re lucky I’ve never been there, or you’d have to take it from here. I’ll leave word with your lawyer as soon as I’ve learned anything. I love you too, baby brother. Ta-ta…”

She arrived in Varanasi, India, exhausted by the long flight from New York to New Delhi and the short hop by a local airliner to the ancient city once known as Benares. Located midway between New Delhi to the northwest and Calcutta on the Bay of Bengal, to the southeast, Varanasi sat on the banks of the sacred Ganges River like a patient dowager empress.

As it was Honey’s first visit to Varanasi, her energy level picked up considerably on the frantic taxi ride from the small airport through the teeming city streets, alive with masses of people. By the time she reached the Hotel Taj Ganges, all her senses were once again alert, stimulated by the exotic, strange sights. New locales always affected her in this manner, and her sparkling blue eyes swept expectantly over the grand entrance to the hotel, as if at any moment something so extraordinary would occur that she would be swept away, eagerly propelled into a new adventure.

Striding purposefully into the old-fashioned, Victorian-influenced lobby, she was only minimally conscious of the stir she was creating among the staff and occupants sipping their afternoon tea in the lobby’s high, fan-backed chairs. White women traveling by themselves were rare in this off-the-tourist-path city, let alone white women with alabaster skin and deep red hair. Her smart Ralph Lauren traveling suit of raw aqua silk set off her striking coloring and clung tightly to her voluptuous body. Dark eyes followed her with unabashed interest as she swept to the desk clerk and politely asked for a room.

She was informed that, alas, there were none available. Instantly she regretted that her trip had been so quickly planned that she had not had time to wire ahead for reservations. She smiled graciously at the dark-skinned, middle-aged clerk. “Surely there must be something available,” she said, and extracted a fifty-dollar bill from her green leather purse. Discreetly she laid it on the counter next to the registration book. “I would be most indebted if you could locate accommodations for me. If not here, perhaps elsewhere in the city.”

He folded the bill out of sight and replied in perfect English, “I will see what I can do.”

“You are most kind,” she said. “Meanwhile, I am trying to find a dear friend of mine-Barnabas Havelock. I have strong reason to believe he is here in this hotel.”

“Barnabas Havelock,” the clerk repeated, as if mystified. “We have no one of that name registered.”

“Are you sure? He is traveling with his lovely young daughter.” Quickly, Honey pulled out of her purse Dirk’s photo of the girl, and displayed it.

Immediately the clerk’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he pulled himself up formally. “So sorry, I am unable to help you.”

Smelling deception, she studied the man. His whole manner had changed; only moments before, he had been politely deferential. Now he was coldly efficient. She turned on her considerable charms, flashing a disarming, genuine smile. “You do recognize her, don’t you? It’s desperately urgent that I locate her and her father.”

“I have never encountered her,” he said crisply. “Now excuse me, I will see to finding you accommodations.” He turned and disappeared through a swinging door into an office behind the check-in desk.

Her instincts told her the man was lying through his dazzling white teeth. The registration book caught her eye, and as the desk was unattended, she turned the large book around and hurriedly scanned the signatures. There was no Barnabas Havelock registered. Keenly disappointed, she righted the book and walked back to her bags, which the uniformed doorman had deposited near the front entrance.

With one eye on the front desk, she signaled the doorman outside the large glass-and-iron doors. The turbaned man entered with a subservient smile. “May I be of service?”

“I do hope so,” she said, and handed him the photo of the young blonde. “Is this girl staying here?”

“I cannot say…”

“Can not or will not?” she asked, her voice tinged with vexation.

“Perhaps if you inquire at the front desk?” He gave back the photo with an apologetic shrug.

At the moment the desk clerk reemerged from the back room and spotted her receiving the photo from the doorman. Immediately the desk clerk frowned darkly and dashed around the counter toward them. The doorman shrank from her and ducked outside the doors like a cowering puppy.

“I must request you to leave our premises at once,” the desk clerk huffed officiously.

“Leave? Aren’t you finding me a room?” she asked in surprise.

“There are no vacancies.”

“And the other hotels?”

“Check for yourself,” he replied, and handed back her fifty dollars. Before she could protest, he spun on his heel and marched away. Her anger bubbling just underneath the surface, she snatched up her bags and exited the hotel.

The city was bathed in the saffron glow of the fast-sinking sun as Honey went from hotel to hotel, only to receive the same reply: “Sorry, we’re booked solid.” With growing consternation she pressed her search through the narrow, crowded streets. No amount of bribery or cajolery produced any results, even at the smallest, grimiest places of public lodging. Not believing her misfortune, and appalled to be in a strange city with no place to stay and the night fast approaching, Honey strengthened her resolve, determined that the next place would have a vacancy. Unfortunately, it too was full, according to the clerk on duty.