Madeline Harper - Tall, Dark And Deadly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Bonnie, Debra and Connie, intrepid guides on the journey into new and unexplored territory.

Porte Ivoire, the Lomawl River and the Bonsuko Swamp are entirely fictional. However, Pygmy tribes like the Mgembe still survive in Central Africa and their depiction is based upon first-person accounts of travelers and explorers. “The Congo” in this book refers to the People’s Republic of Congo. The former Belgian Congo is now known as Zaire.

Dana Baldwin—Craving adventure, she signs up for an exotic river cruise and finds herself in the middle of a murder plot.

Alex Jourdan—The handsome and enigmatic Frenchman offers to break Dana out of jail, but she can’t believe what he wants in return.

Louis Bertrand—Suave, sophisticated and world-weary, he is on a mission of deception.

Millicent Kittredge—The British expatriate is an expert guide, but this is the first time one of her tours has ended with murder.

Betty Weston—Alex’s ex-lover has her own reasons for warning Dana about the charismatic Frenchman.

Mac McQuire—Is it coincidence or cunning that sets the Irish tracker onto the trail of Alex and Dana?

Yassif Al-Aram—Brooding and belligerent, he seems to be Betty’s new lover, but he’s keeping a vital secret from them all.

Maurice Longongo—The meek civil servant is Alex’s longtime enemy with a dangerous agenda of his own.

Jean-Luc Kantana—Investigating the murder of a tourist, the ambitious police sergeant follows his leads directly to Dana.

Father Theroux—When the help he promises never materializes, Dana knows that even the good priest believes she’s guilty.

Prologue Prologue Brazzaville. City of half a million in the African Congo. Its waterfront is always busy; government complexes rise above streets crowded with local markets where merchants will sell anything to the customer willing to pay. Sometimes legally, often not. A melting pot of Congolese, French colonials and expatriates from all over the world, Brazzaville is the place to stake a claim in oil, timber, coffee, diamonds or gold. An elegant chateau on the edge of the city almost hidden by lush tropical plants that creep around the building, climb its walls and insinuate into its most secret places. Laughter. The pop of corks and flow of wine, the strains of a string quartet. Above it all, in a darkened room, a wooden box lined with purple velvet is opened, revealing its contents. A gloved hand reaches in and removes the prize.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Brazzaville. City of half a million in the African Congo. Its waterfront is always busy; government complexes rise above streets crowded with local markets where merchants will sell anything to the customer willing to pay. Sometimes legally, often not. A melting pot of Congolese, French colonials and expatriates from all over the world, Brazzaville is the place to stake a claim in oil, timber, coffee, diamonds or gold.

An elegant chateau on the edge of the city almost hidden by lush tropical plants that creep around the building, climb its walls and insinuate into its most secret places. Laughter. The pop of corks and flow of wine, the strains of a string quartet. Above it all, in a darkened room, a wooden box lined with purple velvet is opened, revealing its contents. A gloved hand reaches in and removes the prize.

Alex Jourdan leaned back in an old rattan chair on the veranda of his hotel and surveyed the river. The Congo Queen was a day late. After five years in Porte Ivoire, Alex wasn’t surprised. No doubt the steamer left Brazzaville on schedule, but by the time it hit the far reaches of the Congo River anything could have happened.

He balanced the chair on its two back legs and propped his feet on the porch rail, his routine at this time of day, and one he was getting pretty tired of. He had an ache for something else, something far from Porte Ivoire, far from Brazzaville, and he didn’t even know what it was.

“Damn,” he swore aloud as he swatted at a mosquito. He was having trouble getting rid of the hotel, but there was another possibility on the horizon. If it worked, he’d be out of here. But would that be enough? The nagging ache persisted, but before he could respond to it, a familiar sound drifted toward him. It was the steamer, downriver, approaching port. The middle of the afternoon was a hell of a time for tourists to arrive, but he wasn’t complaining. It meant a night at his hotel for at least a handful of passengers. And if he was any judge, from the sound of the Congo Queen ’s engine, they might be around for more than one night.

Alex took a long, cold sip of beer and watched the Congo Queen limp into port. Same scene, different day. And yet that unexplainable something persisted inside of him.

The old boat docked, and Alex watched as the passengers disembarked. Louis Bertrand was first. Alex meant to watch the Frenchman carefully, but his eyes moved inadvertently to the woman behind him.

Louis stopped, turned and offered his hand to her. Alex’s eyes narrowed with interest. Louis always knew how to find a good-looking woman, even on a decrepit old scow like the Queen a couple of thousand miles up the Congo.

When Louis stepped aside and the woman disembarked, Alex caught his breath. The Frenchman had found himself one hell of a good-looking female. Blond hair, shining in the sun, pulled back from her face. She was tall and athletic-looking but with rounded breasts and curving hips under her pale violet shirt and beige shorts. And nice long legs. He liked leggy blondes. So he watched her, and he was somehow relieved to see that as soon as Louis helped her off, he moved away. Only polite, not attached, Alex realized.

As she stopped at the wharf to wait for her luggage, Alex tore his eyes away to check out the rest of the guests.

Millicent Kittredge, a frequent visitor at the hotel and leader of innumerable tours of the river, moved along the dock giving orders to the waiting porters. She often recommended tourists to Alex’s hotel. For a price. Well, that was okay. Whatever it took.

Millicent was followed by Father Theroux, Porte Ivoire’s mission priest. Alex let his eyes drift along the dock until he sighted the blonde again. He got a sensual pleasure from resting his gaze on her cool beauty. The ache inside seemed to dissipate as he drank in her long, lean form.

Reluctantly, he went back to his survey of the other passengers on the debarking plank. Suddenly he sat up straighter and planted his feet on the porch floor. Betty Weston! Now, that was a surprise. He hadn’t seen her since...well, for a long time. And she wasn’t alone. A muscular young man walked down the plank beside her. Alex smiled knowingly. Betty wouldn’t be without the companionship of a man for long.

The last passenger off the boat was another familiar face, whom Alex glanced at briefly. Maurice Longongo was a minor government official and major pain in the ass. He was probably checking up again on some imagined violation of an obsolete law that he suspected Alex of breaking at the Stanley Hotel. Frowning, Alex looked at the man again, trying to read his body language. Trouble with the government was to be avoided, especially now.