Thirty hours to Singapore via Detroit and... what? Harris wanted to say Seoul. Not that it mattered to him where his second layover was, since he barely had the energy to space out in the waiting area.

Since his plane touched down in Singapore, Harris' chin dipped to his chest with an irresistible need to sleep. His foggy mind sent him in circles for two torturous hours before he found his bus terminal... where he stared at his ticket. Wednesday? He left Milwaukee on Sunday. He had travelled for two days. But here it was, the stamp that said three days had passed since his departure. Damn time difference was so screwy, it made him even queasier. What turned his gut even worse was that his week off work was running out so fast, with nothing to show for it yet.

What if he didn't get to Agatha on time to stop Oliver from hurting her? What if he didn't get to her at all? Not the most comforting thought with twelve hours to Kuala Perlis ferry ahead of him. Downright torturous as the ferry chugged toward Langkawi island, Malaysia, through soggy heat. Liters of water he had drunk on the bus only left him with the desire to twist out of his skin and wring it out.

As much as he wanted to stuff himself in some corner and sleep until they got there, unnoticed, he couldn't. If he stood up, his head would stick up above the crowd. If he sat down, his elbows and legs impeded everyone else. When he rented the scooter in Pantai Cenang, he had to fold his legs, for chrissake, as if he needed a reminder he shouldn't be here at all.

But, tilting up his chin, Harris gave the scooter more gas. Lanky or not, he was here, and Agatha needed him to do this... he was almost positive she did.

After taking merely two wrong turns, the road brought Harris to the terraced villa. Still astride the scooter, he set his legs down and wiped the sweat pouring down his face. A deep breath in, a slow exhale, and a quick look around. Because, if he knocked on the door of the wrong villa after all that... fuck.

A crowd of masts to the east of him hedged a private marina. Low hills, so overgrown by tropical greenery that they reminded shaggy rags of a bygone era, crowded in from all sides. They marched on as far as the eye could see, only interrupted by coves. The island paradise whispered to his battered, sticky body to shelter in the shade, bathe in the turquoise sea... but he squared his jaw. He wasn't like every other American tourist who made it this far. He came here to save someone.

After one more failure to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, Harris straightened his t-shirt, smoothened his hair and found an intercom next to a security camera on the villa's gates.

It is the right place. Has to be.

A deep sigh in—and he pressed down the intercom's button. The villa's grounds were too extensive for him to hear the buzz. However, after only a minute, the doors of the house opened up, and a sturdily built, round-featured local marched toward him. The guard—it had to be a guard—opened a smaller door by the gates. He had a short-sleeved, impossibly crisp white shirt on, tucked into crease-free black slacks, and polished shoes. His glossy black hair was in a neat bun. Deodorant barely even wafted from him, let alone the scent of sweat.

This spiffy guard asked him a question in Malay, and Harris shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, only English."

Travel worn, dusty, and riding a scooter, he looked far more like a delivery boy than a visitor. Heck, he wouldn't have been guest-material for a villa like that even on a good day. Today... yeah, he was a disgrace.

If the guard thought something like that, he didn't show it. "Sir," he asked Harris in an accented, fluent English. "Sir, what brings you here?"

Chasing a villain, like some damn superhero. A hysterical chuckle rattled Harris, and he crunched his empty, pitted plastic bottle between his fingers to get it under control. "Could you tell Mrs. Ang that I would like to speak to her on behalf of Miss Agatha Leung?"

The guard's reflective sunglasses stared emptily. "And you are, Sir?"

The only rule about business cards was to have them, but Harris had never experienced the need to possess one before now. He had his passport, though. Harris found its corner by touch in the outer pocket of his backpack. His gaze didn't leave the guard's reflective sunglasses while he inserted it into the guard's hand.

The man studied Harris' passport. It used to be so new that it refused to open when Harris showed it at the Canadian border three years ago. Now, its cover was dog-eared, and the pages were more disheveled than Harris himself, if that was even possible. Crossing four borders in half as many days proved hard on passports.

Harris tried not to think about how suspicious his trip would appear to the guard. "I'm a friend of Miss Leung, the heiress to Leung's hospitality corporation. She's engaged to be married to Mr. Oliver Appleby, and I just hope for a few minutes of Mrs. Ang's time to shed light on his former business dealings."

Heart almost stopped in his chest with an acute sense of doom descending on him. What if the guard hands him back his passport, tells him to beat it, shutting down his attempt to rescue Agatha from Oliver's clutches?

The guard flipped through the passport way too slowly for Harris' racing pulse, made a snapshot of the ID page with his phone before returning it to Harris. "I'll check with Madame."

The door started to close, but Harris thrusted his bottle through the crack. "Please, some water?"

The guard nods with a welcome sympathy. "Wisconsin, USA, must be a cooler place than us."

And the understatement of the year award goes to—

"Yes." Harris ruffled his hair, which curled with redoubled vigor from the humidity. Unpleasantly hot to the touch. He should have worn a hat, even a cliche baseball cap. Anything. "Can't get used to the heat here yet."

Hold that award, judges!

"Okay." The guard took his bottle, disappeared, then reappeared with a refill.

"Bless you, Sir." Harris gulped half of the cool liquid in one go and washed his face and neck with the rest, then rolled the bottle across his forehead, pretending it was still cool.

Finally, the guard returned. He opened the door wide this time, not just a sliver. "Madame will see you now. Follow me, Mr. Sarkisian."

Harris shot a glance at his rented scooter—and the guard already opened the gates. The entrance seemed absurdly grand for the two-wheel machine, but Harris led it through by the horns.

This close to his destination, the grit that carried him this far ebbs away, leaving him slumping like a wax candle in the sun. Heck, whenever the pathway ducked from under the shade of some unknown trees, he expected the soles of his feet to glue to the paving stones. At the threshold of the mansion, sweating like crazy in the scorching heat of the afternoon, a shiver crawled down his spine—this was too easy. What if this is a trap?

The insides of the villa chilled his cheeks with AC'd air. An orgasmic sigh lifted his chest. No, this couldn't be a trap. This was his nirvana.

Shivering again, this time with pleasure, Harris basked in the hermetically sealed space with its windows veiled by gauze and pumped full of cool air. The tourists could rave about the beaches! He'd exalt the goodness of the terracotta tiles when he'd discarded his sandals and touched their smooth surface. And these streamlined teak-wood furniture with minimal cushions. The showers, probably hiding somewhere in the depths of this mansion, would be the top sight on his list.

The guard walked Harris to a room that served as a nook for reading or card games and some office stuff. A waist-high printer, a writing desk, topped with a computer screen, and a bamboo filing cabinet. The window showed a garden and a corner of a pond. It was far less Zen than a Japanese garden, but so carefully tended that Harris felt a twinge of envy. If only he had more time to work in their backyard at home...

Mrs. Ang waited on a loveseat by the bookshelves.

She had an untouched glass of wine on a low table in front of her and a small laptop. Harris expected a lit cigarette on an ashtray to go with this elegant set up, but there were neither cigarettes nor ashtray on the table. He was sure Mrs. Ang's perfectly black hair and smooth skin weren't all natural. Her penetrating eyes simply didn't belong on a young face, only on a youthful one. Years of living bought her that dress, those pearls, the whole works. The effect was low-key calming. Good.

"Mrs. Ang, thank you for meeting me."

Her eyebrows flicked upwards slightly. "Mr. Sarkisian, when have you landed? Pardon me for saying so, but you have a look of someone who's just arrived from overseas, all hot and bothered."

She didn't invite him to sit, but he wouldn't anyway, for fear of falling asleep in this comfortable room. The ringing in his ears became so loud, he had to massage his temples to get rid of the noise. "Yesterday, I think," he said. "I came straight here from Singapore. That's where I've landed originally. From Milwaukee. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. That's in the USA. Then I took an express bus... no, ferry, then bus. Or was it the other way? Ah..."

Ah... the end?

Should he jump straight to the reasons for his visit? Wait till she asks him? Or express her opinion about his adventures?

Mrs. Ang tapped keys on her laptop during the pause while he was racking his brain for how to start.

"Siwoo, could you stop by for a minute?" she said.

Siwoo—a maid?—appeared on soundless feet. Her youth and prettiness shone through, even in her simple uniform. Just like the guard at the gates, she wore a black breeches and a white shirt, except hers had pleats in the front for her baby bump.

"Siwoo, please show Mr. Sarkisian to a guest room and get him a change of clothes—"

A mutter of protest escaped Harris, and Mrs. Ang switched mid-sentence to speaking to him. "Mr. Sarkisian, I've never had a man faint in my study in forty-five years of doing business. I don't want to create such a precedent. You'll refresh yourself, change and come down to dinner. We'll discuss what brought you here from Wisconsin then."

After that, there was nothing for him to do but surrender and feel like a complete idiot.

By six, Harris showered, scrubbed, put on his spare khaki shorts with a crisp white shirt—the villa's offering. It fit after he unfastened one too many buttons than was proper. But to hell with the rakish look! The freshly laundered shirt made him feel more human than even the shower. Another welcome change was the faint citrusy fragrance from the soap and the absence of drowsiness. Yeah, it was a good thing he didn't run straight to Agatha after hopping off the plane! Now he was awake and ready to take on Oliver.

Ready to take on the world if he had to!

In three, two...

Harris took in another deep breath, smiled in the mirror and set off to find the dining room and Mrs. Ang.