Scalpdancers Read Online Free Page B

friend,” Chiang Lu said. He bent down, retrieved the pouch, and opened it. “Curious,” he purred as he removed a large brass key. He was immaculately trimmed, and his graceful hands deposited the gold pouch in the folds of his cobalt-blue silk coat. The gold-stitched dragons adorning his sleeves seemed to wink as he tucked the key away. The Chinaman loved to gamble and loved a mystery even more.
    â€œThe key unlocks the warehouse at Tung Wan Pier. You will find a shipload of furs and fine pelts within,” Morgan said.
    His wager was immediately repeated in several different languages.
    â€œA most interesting wager,” Chiang Lu replied, eyeing Morgan’s fighting cock. “I am told your pelts are always of the finest quality.”
    â€œThen match their worth in gold and bring your best gamecock,” Morgan challenged.
    Temp Rawlins sighed in relief. The wagering hadn’t gotten out of hand—yet. He anxiously eyed the bill of ownership jutting from the wide black leather belt circling the captain’s solid waist. Morgan had held the bark as a last resort if his bluff hadn’t worked. But Chiang Lu had accepted and now Temp could only groan to think of the consequences if Morgan lost. There’d be hell to pay if Chiang Lu tried to collect his winnings. A fire in the hold of the Hotspur had damaged most of the cargo during a squall in the South China Sea. But Morgan Penmerry wasn’t a man to take a loss lying down—not while his good-natured, larcenous self could formulate a plan to transform disaster into a tidy profit.
    Morgan Penmerry was young and brash and too damn confident for his own good. True, his shoulders were broad enough and, yes, he was as quick and agile as a dolphin at play. But Temp felt the young captain lacked the cool, calm head that a man in his profession needed.
    Chiang Lu was as shrewd and dangerous as any man Temp Rawlins had ever known. And this crowd, of every nationality, was armed to the teeth with knives and pistols, and there were several rifle-bearing bodyguards. Chiang Lu’s own private entourage, the Blue Wing Dragons, were black-clothed henchmen armed with kris—wavy-bladed daggers of Malaysian origin—and handguns. Their heads were shaved, their impassive faces devoid of pity.
    â€œWe cling to life. Even when every breath is agony,” Chiang Lu remarked and called for a servant. The servant bowed to his master, Chiang Lu whispered in his ear. The servant nodded and hurried back up the steps to the place Chiang Lu had reserved for himself among the spectators. There upon a dais carved of stone a teakwood chest had been set alongside a thronelike chair. The servant touched a hidden latch and a panel in the chest swung open. The servant retrieved a white silk pouch embroidered with brightly colored blossoms and green lily pads.
    â€œIt is a mystery, do you not agree?” Chiang Lu continued.
    â€œWhat are you getting at, Chiang Lu?” asked Morgan.
    â€œBut what is life without mystery?” the Chinese warlord said. He lifted a delicate hand and indicated a couple standing at the entrance to the arena. Morgan lifted his gaze and saw an older man, garbed in black frock coat, black trousers, and cleric’s collar. He was a portly middle-aged man.
    The young woman standing alongside the reverend was a nubile lass of about twenty—if that old. Comely as a well-trimmed clipper, Morgan thought. Even better looking—for what ship could boast of auburn tresses and cream-colored skin and such an appealingly well-rounded bosom and derriere?
    Her dress was buttoned to the throat. She wore a charcoal-gray shawl about her shoulders in an attempt to conceal what nature had endowed her with. Such an attempt was doomed to failure with a girl like this cleric’s daughter, if indeed that was her relationship to the older man.
    â€œThat is the Christian Missionary Emile Emerson and his daughter, Julia. I have