To some, Shangri-La signified a mysterious land of eternal life. To others, it was simply the name of the hottest nightclub in Cuzco, a crossroads of wealth and desperation, shining lights and shadowy corners, merriment and showdowns, beautiful faces and the ugly hearts beneath them. To the aforementioned club's equally infamous British proprietor, it was both.

Not as young as he'd once been, though certainly not dead, at 44 years old Jonathan Carnahan was the most successful entertainer and restaurateur in the greater Cuzco area. His adventure days were a thing of the past, and every night he prayed for them to stay that way. Business kept him busy enough as it was; the last thing he needed or wanted was another O'Connell call to action. This was not to say that he didn't care deeply for the well being of his dear, sweet, baby sister, her husband, and her offspring, but isolation punctuated by the occasional telegram or holiday phone call suited him just fine.

It was the fourteenth of September 1949, the two-year anniversary of Shrangri-La's grand opening, and Jonathan was holding a gala to celebrate the auspicious occasion. Everyone in the upper echelon of Peruvian society was there: socialites, politicians, academics, and wealthy expatriates dominated the room. They glided across the bamboo dance floor, swayed on their way to and from the ornate (and notably well-stocked) bar, and chatted quietly in the more shadowy booths and corners.

"Glorious, isn't it?" mused Jonathan to no one in particular, sipping from a glass of scotch and taking in the beauty of the dark, vaulted ceiling, brightly lit stage (not to mention the gorgeous red-head singing on it), multicolored Chinese paper lanterns, and thematically decorated walls, including an enormous papier-mâché dragon suspended over the main entrance to the building.

"It certainly is," replied a cool feminine voice with a faintly Londonian accent. Surprised, Jonathan spun around, almost spilling what was left of his drink on the vision that had just appeared before him. The woman was about five-foot-six with long blond hair, ivory skin, light brown eyes, and lusciously red lips—had he not been fairly experienced in dealing with lovely women (both as a playboy and as the owner of a club), the Englishman probably would've begun stuttering like a 12-year-old.

"Do I know you?" he inquired, sure that he would've remembered such a face/figure combination, especially the way it was highlighted by her long, fire engine-red dress and glittering white stole. The young woman, she must have been in her early twenties, grinned and shook her head lightly. Her light, wavy hair vaguely reflected the different colored lights in the room, giving the effect that she was part of the room itself.

"I don't suppose you do, Mister Carnahan, but--"

"Please, please," Jonathan interjected, waving his hands dismissively, not bothering to wonder how she knew his name. Everybody around here knew Jonathan Riley Carnahan."Call me Jon... speaking of which, I don't think you've mentioned your name, Miss..."

"Liles. My first name is unimportant, Jon," she replied sweetly, offering him a gentle smile and tilting her head just so. "The only important thing is this."

With that, she reached into her black, leather pocketbook and withdrew a smoothly folded piece of parchment stamped with the label "10x28x41s76x26x51w." A confused look invaded his features, and he took the paper hesitantly, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were about to explode in his hand. An ominous silence filled the space between him and Miss Liles, and Jonathan suddenly had a bad feeling about what would appear to anyone else as an innocent letter.

"What... is... this..." he asked slowly, carefully, acknowledging the mood's new gravity.

Miss Liles seemed to understand his apprehension, and said simply, "Don't open it. Not here... Alex will understand."

Before Jon could fully comprehend those baffling words, she'd disappeared into the crowd. Although he could've sworn he saw a flash of red and white near the back door, the whole situation was incapacitatingly confusing, and he hadn't the initiative to follow her. "Alex will... what?" he muttered, stuffing the parchment into his inside jacket pocket and taking a long drink of scotch. "This can not be good."

Author's Note: Sorry about all these short chapters!! I'm just trying to publish whenever I feel finality with a scene, so that it doesn't drag on forever while I try to turn three scenes in to one chapter. Thanks to everyone for reading and for your wonderful, encouraging reviews. XoXo Liz