"James Rollins - Subterranean" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

"Your pleasure, sir?"

"Whiskey and a beer back." He leaned his elbow on the black Naugahyde padding that edged the bar
and watched the room. It was not his kind of crowd. No loud laughs, no spilled drinks, no angry drunks.
Boring. After dumping the whiskey straight into his stomach, he slapped down his shot glass, squeezing
the burn, then settled in with his beer.

From behind him, he heard a woman's voice. "Whiskey. Neat, please."

He turned to see who had a similar taste in beverages. Whiskey-drinking women were as scarce as
hen's teeth. He wasn't disappointed.

She toyed with the drink set before her, long fingers, short nails, polished. No rings. No wedding
bandтАФgood. She stood as tall as him, surprising for a woman. Her skin was bronzed, a coppery rich hue
that spoke of days under the sun. But what most caught the breath in his throat was her black hair, trailing
in lazy curls to her waist.

"Can I buy you another?" he asked, stressing his Aussie accent. That always won a lady's attention.

She lifted her left eyebrow. "They're free," she said. "It's a hosted bar."

His roguish smile swelled. "In that case, how about two?"

She just stared at him with green eyes.

He thrust out a hand. "Ben Brust. From Sydney."

"I could've guessed from your accent," she said with a ghost of a smile. "But the drawl sounds more like
western Australia than the New South Wales territory."

"Well," he said, lowering his arm and stumbling for cover, "Iactually was raised on my daddy's sheep
station outside Perth. Western Australia. But most people don't know Sydney fromтАФ"

"I thought so." Collecting her drink, she began to turn away. "The meeting should be starting soon."

Before she left, he begged for at least one bone. "And you are?"

"Ashley Carter." She slipped past him.

Ben watched her walk away. No professor's stroll, that. He swallowed the dregs of his beer while
appreciating her exit.
 THREE
Buenos Aires, Argentina

ASHLEY CROSSED TO THE YOUNGSPANISH GENTLEMAN, who checked her identification.
Nodding, he opened the door. The room was lined with some fifty seats, only a quarter occupied. An
usher guided her to a reserved seat in the front row, then vanished. Shivering in the light skirt and jacket
she wore, she wished they'd turn up the thermostat.