The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1) Read Online Free

now. I don’t care if your dog had a litter of puppies, you can deal with that bitch later. No, I wasn’t talking about you, Mrs. Midgarden.”
    Ken sighed, realizing the moment had come and gone. He got up and walked to door. “Red, you’re going to make some man very happy one day.”
    “So will you, Blondie,” she said, dialing in MOrningside 7-2363. “Hey, what was it you wanted to talk about?”
    Ken smiled wanly. “Not important. Let me know if he needs us.”
    “When doesn’t he?” she grinned.
    • • •
    Cigarette smoke hung over the Cafe Society nightclub like a cloud, yellowish white, seeping into the walls. The lights were dimmed, the shadows thick and velvety. The band was coming back from their break, fiddling with their instruments in a cacophony that was both lurid and maddening. Herald-Tribune reporter Betty Dale grimaced at the sound, fidgeting uncomfortably in her chair as she waited for her subject to return to his seat. Despite his celebrity, she had spent the better part of the last month trying to track him down, finally finding him here in a jazz lounge off Christopher. What kind of respectable millionaire would come here, of all places? It made her uncomfortable, feeling like a bright white beacon that cried, “I don’t belong.” But she was known for doing almost anything for a story. She’d be able to handle a night on the other side of the tracks.
    She wasn’t sure what her editor would say once she handed him the finished article—there would probably be a lot of screaming—but there was no doubt in her mind that it would make the front page. She checked her watch as the hands moved past one o’clock and dangerously toward two. She drummed her fingers against her notepad as the trumpeter played his first notes and the rest of the band followed along.
    “Thank you for meeting me so late, Miss Dale,” Jethro Dumont said with a smile, handing her a Manhattan as he sat down across from her, a glass of whiskey for himself. He loosened his tie as he sat down across the table, running a hand through his ruffled brown hair, his blue-grey eyes studying Betty. There was no denying that Dumont was handsome—though Betty had known more attractive men—looking significantly younger than his thirty-five years. Perhaps it was due to his time spent in Tibet, but that wasn’t why she hunted him down, at least not directly. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, of course, but Joan’s still enjoying her post-divorce days and insisted we have one more dance. I wasn’t about to refuse.”
    “Then I suppose I should be thanking you for taking time out your busy schedule,” she said dryly.
    Dumont’s smile broadened. “No rest for the wicked.”
    “Yes, well, it took me so long to get in touch with you, I was beginning to think you were nocturnal,” she said, pushing a lock of golden hair out of her eyes.
    “That’s because I am, Miss Dale,” Dumont said, raising a devilish eyebrow. “Or very near close to it.”
    “Or you’re just still on Tibet time?” she suggested.
    Dumont chuckled. “If that were so, I’d be chanting, unless you count this as ceremony,” he said, rattling his glass.
    “A glass of whiskey isn’t what I would normally consider sacrament, but I’m sure I can find a few people who’d convert for you.” She sipped her drink, finding it much more bitter than she cared for. “Needless to say, I’m not sure I’ve conducted many interviews in such an… interesting setting.”
    “Don’t like jazz, Miss Dale?”
    “Not my cup of tea, Mr. Dumont. Guess you can call me old fashioned.”
    His eyes roamed over her. “Girl young as yourself, I’d say that’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”
    Betty gave him a thin smile as she fished a cigarette holder out from her purse. “Don’t you smoke, Mr. Dumont?”
    “Not anymore, no,” he said. Betty couldn’t help but notice the tinge of distaste in his tone. What kind of man didn’t