Hot Ice - Nora Roberts

[Dalyia]

I thought Doug was a wonderful character. He was smart, handsome, intriguing and very real. Though Whitney's character sometimes grated on my nerves a bit with her occasional spoiled rich girl attitude and her annoying little account book, for the most part, I was able to overlook her flaws and see the sensitive and strong woman beneath. Whitney and Doug undeniably make a great team, and their amazing adventure kept me glued to the pages.

Overall, "Hot Ice" was a very enjoyable read. The story never stops, and is filled with thrilling suspense and red-hot romance. I am extremely glad I decided to take a chance and buy this book when I found it, because otherwise I would have missed out on some great entertainment. So don't believe everything you read, buy this book today and form an opinion for yourself, I most certainly did not regret it

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[Dalyia]

C H A P T E R
1

He was running for his life. And it wasn’t the first time. As he raced by Tiffany’s elegant window display he hoped it wouldn’t be his last. The night was cool with April rain slick on the streets and sidewalk. There was a breeze that even in Manhattan tasted pleasantly of spring. He was sweating. They were too damn close.

Fifth Avenue was quiet, even sedate at this time of night. Streetlights intermittently broke the darkness; traffic was light. It wasn’t the place to lose yourself in a crowd. As he ran by Fifty-third, he considered ducking down into the subway below the Tishman Building—but if they saw him go in, he might not come back out.

Doug heard the squeal of tires behind him and whipped around the corner at Cartier’s. He felt the sting in his upper arm, heard the muffled pop of a silenced bullet, but never slackened his pace. Almost at once, he smelled the blood. Now they were getting nasty. And he had the feeling they could do a lot worse.

But on Fifty-second Street were people—a group here and there, some walking, some standing. Here, there was noise—raised voices, music. His labored breathing went unnoticed. Quietly he stood behind a redhead who was four or five inches taller than his own six feet—and half again as wide. She was swaying to the music that poured out of her portable stereo. It was like hiding behind a tree in a windstorm. Doug took the opportunity to catch his breath and check his wound. He was bleeding like a pig. Without giving it a thought, he slipped the striped bandana out of the redhead’s back pocket and wrapped it around his arm. She never stopped swaying—he had very light fingers.

It was more difficult to kill a man outright when there was a crowd, he decided. Not impossible, just harder. Doug kept his pace slow and faded in and out of the packs of people while he kept his eyes and ears open for the discreet black Lincoln.

Near Lexington he saw it pull up a half block away, and he saw the three men in trim dark suits get out. They hadn’t spotted him yet, but it wouldn’t be long. Thinking fast, he scanned the crowd he’d merged with. The black leather with the two dozen zippers might work.

“Hey.” He grabbed the arm of the boy beside him. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for your jacket.”

The boy with pale spiked hair and a paler face shrugged him off. “Fuck off. It’s leather.”

“A hundred then,” Doug muttered. The three men were getting closer all the time.

This time the boy took more interest. He turned his face so that Doug saw the tiny tattooed vulture on his cheek. “Two hundred and it’s yours.”

Doug was already reaching for his wallet. “For two hundred I want the shades too.”

The boy whipped off the wraparound mirrored sunglasses. “You got ′em.”

“Here, let me help you off with that.” In a quick move, Doug yanked the boy’s jacket off. After stuffing bills in the boy’s hand he pulled it on, letting out a hiss of breath at the pain in his left arm. The jacket smelled, not altogether pleasantly, of its previous owner. Ignoring it, Doug tugged the zipper up. “Look, there’re three guys in undertaker suits coming this way. They’re scouting out for extras for a Billy Idol video. You and your friends here should get yourselves noticed.”

“Oh yeah?” And as the boy turned around with his best bored-teenager’s look on his face, Doug was diving through the nearest door.

Inside, wallpaper shimmered in pale colors under dimmed lights. People sat at white linen-covered tables under art-deco prints. The gleam of brass rails formed a path to more private dining rooms or to a mirrored bar. With one whiff, Doug caught the scent of French cooking— sage, burgundy, thyme. Briefly he considered hustling his way past the maitre d’ to a quiet table, then decided the bar was better cover. Affecting a bored look, he stuck his hands in his pockets and swaggered over. Even as he leaned on the bar, he was calculating how and when to make his exit.

“Whiskey.” He pushed the wraparound shades more firmly onto his nose. “Seagram’s. Leave the bottle.”

He stood hunched over it, his face turned ever so slightly toward the door. His hair was dark, curling into the collar of the jacket; his face was clean-shaven and lean. His eyes, hidden behind the mirrored glasses, were trained on the door as he downed the first fiery taste of whiskey. Without pausing, he poured a second shot. His mind was working out all the alternatives.

He’d learned to think on his feet at an early age, just as he’d learned to use his feet to run if that was the best solution. He didn’t mind a fight, but he liked to have the odds in his favor. He could deal straight, or he could skim over the finer points of honesty—depending on what was the most profitable.

What he had strapped to his chest could be the answer to his taste for luxury and easy living—the taste he’d always wanted to cultivate. What was outside, combing the streets for him, could be a quick end to living at all. Weighing one against the other, Doug opted to shoot for the pot of gold.

The couple beside him were discussing the latest Mailer novel in earnest voices. Another group tossed around the idea of heading to a club for jazz and cheaper booze. The crowd at the bar was mostly single, he decided, here to drink off the tension of a business day and show themselves to other singles. There were leather skirts, three-piece suits, and high-topped sneakers. Satisfied, Doug pulled out a cigarette. He could have chosen a worse place to hide.

A blonde in a dove gray suit slid onto the stool beside him and flicked her lighter at the end of his cigarette. She smelled of Chanel and vodka. Crossing her legs, she downed the rest of her drink.

“Haven’t seen you in here before.”

Doug gave her a brief look—enough to take in the slightly blurred vision and the predatory smile. Another time, he’d have appreciated it. “No.” He poured another shot.

“My office is a couple of blocks from here.” Even after three Stolichnayas, she recognized something arrogant, something dangerous in the man beside her. Interested, she swiveled a little closer. “I’m an architect.”

The hair on the back of his neck stood up when they walked in. The three of them looked neat and successful. Shifting, he looked over the blonde’s shoulder as they separated. One of them stood idly by the door. The only way out.

Attracted rather than discouraged by his lack of response, the blonde laid a hand on Doug’s arm. “And what do you do?”

He let the whiskey lie in his mouth for just a moment before he swallowed and sent it spreading through his system. “I steal,” he told her because people rarely believe the truth.

She smiled as she took out a cigarette, then handed him her lighter and waited for Doug to flick it on for her. “Fascinating, I’m sure.” She blew out a quick, thin stream of smoke and plucked the lighter from his fingers. “Why don’t you buy me a drink and tell me all about it?”

A pity he’d never tried that line before since it seemed to work so well. A pity the timing was all wrong, because she filled out the little suit neater than a CPA filled out a 1099. “Not tonight, sugar.”

Keeping his mind on business, Doug poured more whiskey and stayed out of the light. The impromptu disguise might work. He felt the pressure of a gun barrel against his ribs. Then again, it might not.

“Outside, Lord. Mr. Dimitri’s upset that you didn’t keep your appointment.”

“Yeah?” Casually, he swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Thought I’d have a couple of drinks first, Remo— must’ve lost track of time.”

The barrel dug into his ribs again. “Mr. Dimitri likes his employees to be prompt.”

Doug downed the whiskey, watching in the mirror behind the bar as the two other men took position behind him. Already the blonde was backing off to look for an easier mark. “Am I fired?” He poured another glass and figured the odds. Three to one—they were armed, he wasn’t. But then, of the three of them, only Remo had what could pass for a brain.

“Mr. Dimitri likes to fire his employees in person.” Remo grinned and showed perfectly capped teeth under a pencil-thin moustache. “And he wants to give you real special attention.”

“Okay.” Doug placed one hand on the whiskey bottle, the other on the glass. “How about a drink first?”

“Mr. Dimitri doesn’t like drinking on the job. And you’re late, Lord. Real late.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s a shame to waste good booze.” Whirling, he tossed the whiskey into Remo’s eyes and swung the bottle into the face of the suited man at his right. With the impetus of the swing, he ran headlong into the third man so that they fell backward onto the dessert display. Chocolate soufflé and rich French cream flew in a symphony of high-caloric rain. Wrapped around each other like lovers, they rolled into the lemon torte. “Terrible waste,” Doug muttered and pushed a handful of strawberry mousse into the other man’s face. Knowing the element of surprise would wear out quickly, Doug used the most expeditious means of defense. He brought his knee up hard between his opponent’s legs. Then he ran.

“Put it on Dimitri’s tab,” he called out as he pushed his way through tables and chairs. On impulse, he grabbed a waiter, then shoved him and his loaded tray in Remo’s direction. Roast squab flew like a bullet. With one hand on the brass rail, he leapt over and scrambled for the door. He left the chaos behind him and broke into the street.

He’d bought some time, but they’d be behind him again. And this time, they’d be mean. Doug headed uptown on foot, wondering why the hell you could never find a cab when you needed one.

Traffic was light on the Long Island Expressway as Whitney headed into town. Her flight from Paris had landed at Kennedy an hour behind schedule. The back seat and trunk of her little Mercedes were crammed with luggage. The radio was turned up high so that the gritty strains of Springsteen’s latest hit could ricochet through the car and out the open window. The two-week trip to France had been a gift to herself for finally working up the courage to break off her engagement to Tad Carlyse IV.

No matter how pleased her parents had been, she just couldn’t marry a man who color-coordinated his socks and ties.

Whitney began to sing harmony with Springsteen as she tooled around a slower-moving compact. She was twenty-eight, attractive, moderately successful in her own career while having enough family money to back her up if things got really tough. She was accustomed to affluence and deference. She’d never had to demand either one, only expect them. She enjoyed being able to slip into one of New York’s posher clubs late at night and find it filled with people she knew.

She didn’t mind if the paparazzi snapped her or if the gossip columns speculated on what her latest outrage would be. She’d often explained to her frustrated father that she wasn’t outrageous by design, but by nature.

[Dalyia]

She liked fast cars, old movies, and Italian boots.

At the moment, she was wondering if she should go home or drop in at Elaine’s and see who’d been up to what in the past two weeks. She didn’t feel jet lag, but a trace of boredom. More than a trace, she admitted. She was nearly smothered with it. The question was what to do about it.

Whitney was the product of new money, big money. She’d grown up with the world at her fingertips, but she hadn’t always found it interesting enough to reach for. Where was the challenge? she wondered. Where was the—she hated to use the word—purpose? Her circle of friends was wide, and from the outside appeared to be diverse. But once you got in, once you really saw beneath the silk dresses or chinos, there was a sameness to these young, urbane, wealthy, pampered people. Where was the thrill? That was better, she thought. Thrill was an easier word to deal with than purpose. It wasn’t a thrill to jet to Aruba if you only had to pick up the phone to arrange it.

Her two weeks in Paris had been quiet and soothing— and uneventful. Uneventful. Maybe that was the crux. She wanted something—something more than she could pay for with a check or credit card. She wanted action. Whitney also understood herself well enough to know she could be dangerous in this kind of mood.

But she wasn’t in the mood to go home, alone, and unpack. Then again, she wasn’t feeling much like a club crowded with familiar faces. She wanted something new, something different. She could try one of the new clubs that were always popping up. If she liked, she could have a couple of drinks and make conversation. Then, if the club interested her enough, she could drop a few words in the right places and make it the newest hot spot in Manhattan. The fact that she had the power to do so didn’t astonish her, or even particularly please her. It simply was.

Whitney squealed to a halt at a red light to give herself time to make up her mind. It seemed like nothing was happening in her life lately. There wasn’t any excitement, any, well, zing.

She was more surprised than alarmed when her passenger door was yanked open. One look at the black zippered jacket and wraparound glasses of the hitchhiker had her shaking her head. “You aren’t keeping up with fashion trends,” she told him.

Doug shot a look over his shoulder. The street was clear, but it wouldn’t be for long. He jumped in and slammed the door. “Drive.”

“Forget it. I don’t drive around with guys who wear last year’s clothes. Take a walk.”

Doug stuck his hand in his pocket, using his forefinger to simulate the barrel of a gun. “Drive,” he repeated.

She looked at his pocket, then back at his face. On the radio the disk jockey announced a full hour of blasts from the past. Vintage Stones began to pour out. “If there’s a gun in there, I want to see it. Otherwise, take off.”

Of all the cars he could’ve picked… Why the hell wasn’t she shaking and pleading like any normal person would’ve done? “Dammit, I don’t want to have to use this, but if you don’t throw this thing in gear and get moving, I’m going to have to put a hole in you.”

Whitney stared at her own reflection in his glasses. Mick Jagger was demanding that someone give him shelter. “Bullshit,” she said, her diction exquisite.

Doug gave a moment’s consideration to knocking her cold, dumping her out, and taking the car. Another glance over his shoulder showed him there wasn’t much time to waste.

“Look, lady, if you don’t get moving, there’re three men in that Lincoln coming up behind us that’ll do a lot of damage to your toy here.”

She looked in the rearview mirror and saw the big, black car slowing down as it approached. “My father had a car like that once,” she commented. “I always called it his funeral car.”

“Yeah—get it in gear or it’s going to be my funeral.”

Whitney frowned, watching the Lincoln in her rear-view mirror, then impulsively decided to see what would happen next. She threw the car into first and zipped across the intersection. The Lincoln immediately picked up the pace. “They’re following.”

“Of course they’re following,” Doug spat out. “And if you don’t step on it, they’re going to crawl into the back seat and shake hands.”

Mostly out of curiosity, Whitney punched the gas and turned down Fifty-seventh. The Lincoln stayed with her. “They’re really following,” she said again, but with a grin of excitement.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?”

She turned the grin on him. “Are you kidding?” Before he could respond, she gunned the engine and was off like a shot. This was definitely the most interesting way to spend the evening she could imagine. “Think I can lose them?” Whitney looked behind her, craning her neck to see if the Lincoln was still following. “Ever see Bullitt? Of course, we don’t have any of those nifty hills, but—”

“Hey, watch it!”

Whitney turned back around and, whipping the wheel, skimmed around a slower-moving sedan.

“Look.” Doug gritted his teeth. “The whole purpose of this is to stay alive. You watch the road, I’ll watch the Lincoln.”

“Don’t be so snotty.” Whitney careened around the next corner. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Look where you’re going!” Doug grabbed the wheel, yanking it so that the fender missed a car parked at the curb. “Damn idiot woman.”

Whitney lifted her chin. “If you’re going to be insulting, you’ll just have to get out.” Slowing down, she swung toward the curb.

“For God’s sake don’t stop.”

“I don’t tolerate insults. Now—”

“Down!” Doug hauled her sideways and pulled her down to the seat just before the windshield exploded into spiderweb cracks.

“My car!” She struggled to sit up, but only managed to twist her head to survey the damage. “Goddamn it, it didn’t have a scratch on it. I’ve only had it for two months.”

“It’s going to have a lot more than a scratch if you don’t step on the gas and keep going.” From his crouched position, Doug twisted the wheel toward the street and peered cautiously over the dash. “Now!”

Infuriated, Whitney stepped hard on the accelerator, moving blindly into the street while Doug held on to the wheel with one hand and held her down with the other.

“I can’t drive this way.”

“You can’t drive with a bullet in your head either.”

“A bullet?” Her voice didn’t crack with fear, but vibrated with annoyance. “They’re shooting at us?”

“They ain’t throwing rocks.” Tightening his grip, he spun the wheel so that the car bumped into the curb and around the next corner. Frustrated that he couldn’t take the controls himself, he took a cautious look behind. The Lincoln was still there, but they’d gained a few seconds. “Okay, sit up, but keep low. And for Chrissake keep moving.”

“How’m I supposed to explain this to the insurance company?” Whitney poked up her head and tried to find a clear spot in the broken windshield. “They’re never going to believe someone was shooting at me and I’ve already got a filthy record. Do you know what my rates are?”

“The way you drive, I can imagine.”

“Well, I’ve had enough.” Setting her jaw, Whitney turned left.

“This is a one-way street.” He looked around helplessly. “Didn’t you see the sign?”

“I know it’s a one-way street,” she muttered and pressed harder on the gas. “It’s also the quickest way across town.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Doug watched the headlights bearing down on them. Automatically he gripped the door handle and braced for the impact. If he was going to die, he thought fatalistically, he’d rather be shot, nice and clean through the heart, than be spread all over a street in Manhattan.

Ignoring the screams of horns, Whitney jerked the car to the right, then to the left. Fools and small animals, Doug thought as they breezed between two oncoming cars. God looked out for fools and small animals. He could only be grateful he was with a fool.

“They’re still coming.” Doug turned in the seat to watch the progress of the Lincoln. Somehow it was easier if he didn’t watch where he was going. They bounced from side to side as she maneuvered between cars, then with a force that threw him against the door, she turned another corner. Doug swore and grabbed for the wound on his arm. Pain began again with a low, insistent thud. “Stop trying to kill us, will you? They don’t need any help.”

“Always complaining,” Whitney tossed back. “Let me tell you something, you’re not a real fun guy.”

“I tend to get moody when somebody’s trying to kill me.”

“Well, try to lighten up a bit,” Whitney suggested. She barreled around the next corner, skimming the curb. “You’re making me nervous.”

Doug flopped back in his seat and wondered why, with all the possibilities, it had to end this way—smashed into unrecognizable pulp in some crazy woman’s Mercedes. He could’ve gone quietly with Remo and had Dimitri murder him with some ritual. There’d have been more justice in that.

They were on Fifth again, moving south at what Doug saw was better than ninety. As they went through a puddle, water slushed up as far as the window. Even now, the Lincoln was less than a half block behind. “Dammit. They just won’t shake lose.”

“Oh yeah?” Whitney set her teeth and gave the mirror a quick check. She’d never been a gracious loser. “Watch this.” Before Doug could draw a breath, she whipped the Mercedes around in a tight U-turn and headed dead-on for the Lincoln.

He watched with a kind of fascinated dread. “Oh my God.”

Remo, in the passenger seat of the Lincoln, echoed the sentiment just before his driver lost courage and steered toward the curb. The speed took them over it, across the sidewalk, and with an impressive flourish, through the plate-glass window of Godiva Chocolatiers. Without slackening pace, Whitney spun the Mercedes around again and cruised down Fifth.

Dropping back in his seat, Doug let out a series of long, deep breaths. “Lady,” he managed to say, “you got more guts than brains.”

“And you owe me three hundred bucks for the windshield.” Rather sedately, she pulled into the underground parking of a high rise.

“Yeah.” Absently, he patted his chest and torso to see if he was all in one piece. “I’ll send you a check.”

“Cash.” After pulling into her space, Whitney turned off the ignition and hopped out. “Now, you can carry my luggage up.” She popped the trunk before she strolled toward the elevator. Maybe her knees were shaking, but she’d be damned if she’d admit it. “I want a drink.”

Doug looked back toward the entrance of the garage and calculated his chances on the street. Maybe an hour or so inside would give him the chance to outline the best plan. And, he supposed, he owed her. He started to haul out the luggage.

“There’s more in the back.”

“I’ll get it later.” He slung a garment bag over his shoulder and hoisted two cases. Gucci, he noted with a smirk. And she was bitching about a lousy three hundred.

Doug walked into the elevator and dumped the two cases unceremoniously on the floor. “Been on a trip?”

Whitney punched the button for the forty-second floor. “A couple of weeks in Paris.”

“Couple of weeks.” Doug glanced at the three bags. And she’d said there were more. “Travel light, do you?”

“I travel,” Whitney said rather grandly, “as I please. Ever been to Europe?”

He grinned, and though the sunglasses hid his eyes, she found the smile appealing. He had a well-shaped mouth and teeth that weren’t quite straight. “Few times.”

They measured each other in silence. It was the first opportunity Doug had had to really look at her. She was taller than he’d expected—though he wasn’t altogether sure just what he’d expected. Her hair was almost completely hidden under an angled white fedora, but what he could see was as pale as the punker’s he’d stopped on the street, though a richer shade. The brim of the hat shaded her face, but he could see a flawless ivory complexion over elegant bones. Her eyes were round, the color of the whiskey he’d downed earlier. Her mouth was naked and unsmiling. She smelled like something soft and silky you wanted to touch in a dark room.

She was what he’d have termed a stunner, though she didn’t appear to have any obvious curves beneath the simple sable jacket and silk slacks. Doug had always preferred the obvious in women. Perhaps the flamboyant. Still, he didn’t find it any real hardship to look at her.

Casually, Whitney reached in her snakeskin bag and drew out her keys. “Those glasses are ridiculous.”

[Dalyia]

“Yeah. Well they served their purpose.” He took them off.

His eyes surprised her. They were very light, very clear, and green. Somehow they were at odds with his face and his coloring—until you noticed how direct they were, and how carefully they watched, as if he were a man who measured everything and everyone.

He hadn’t worried her before. The glasses had made him appear silly and harmless. Now, Whitney had her first stirrings of discomfort. Who the hell was he, and why were men shooting at him?

When the doors slid open, Doug bent to pick up the suitcases. Whitney glanced down and noticed the thin stream of red dripping down his wrist. “You’re bleeding.”

Doug looked down dispassionately. “Yeah. Which way?”

She hesitated only a moment. She could be just as cavalier as he. “To the right. And don’t bleed on those cases.” Breezing past him, she turned the key in the lock.

Through annoyance and pain, Doug noticed she had quite a walk. Slow and loose with an elegant sort of swing. It made him conclude that she was a woman accustomed to being followed by men. Deliberately he came up alongside her. Whitney spared him a glance before she pushed open the door. Then, flicking on the lights, she walked inside and went directly to the bar. She chose a bottle of Remy Martin and poured generous amounts into two glasses.

Impressive, Doug thought as he took stock of her apartment. The carpet was so thick and soft he could be happy sleeping on it. He knew enough to recognize the French influence in her furnishings, but not enough to pin down the period. She’d used deep sapphire blue and mustard yellow to offset the stunning white of the carpet. He could spot an antique when he saw one, and he spotted quite a few in this room. Her romantic taste was as obvious to him as the Monet seascape on the wall. A damn good copy, he decided. If he just had the time to hock it, he could be on his way. It didn’t take more than a cursory glance to make him realize he could fill his zippered pockets with handfuls of her fancy French whatnots to pawn for a first-class ticket that would get him far away from this burg. Trouble was, he didn’t dare deal in any pawnshop in the city. Not now that Dimitri had his tentacles out.

Because the furnishings weren’t of any use to him, he wasn’t sure why they appealed. Normally he would have found them too feminine and formal. Perhaps after an evening of running, he needed the comfort of silk pillows and lace. Whitney sipped her cognac as she carried the glasses across the room.

“You can bring this into the bathroom,” she told him as she handed him his drink. Negligently she tossed the fur over the back of the sofa. “I’ll take a look at that arm.”

Doug frowned while he watched her walk away. Women were supposed to ask questions, dozens of them. Maybe this one just didn’t have the brains to think of them. Reluctantly he followed her, and the trail of her scent. But she was classy, he admitted. There was no denying it.

“Take off that jacket and sit down,” she ordered, running water over a monogrammed washcloth.

Doug stripped off the jacket, gritting his teeth as he peeled it from his left arm. After carefully folding it and laying it on the lip of the tub, he sat on a ladder-back chair anyone else would have had in their living room. He looked down and saw the sleeve of his shirt was caked with blood. Swearing, he ripped it off and exposed the wound. “I can do it myself,” he muttered and reached for the cloth.

“Be still.” Whitney began to wipe away the dried blood with the soapy warm cloth. “I can’t very well see how much damage was done until I clean it up.”

He sat back because the warm water was soothing and her touch was gentle. But while he sat back, he watched her. Just what kind of woman was she? he wondered. She drove like a nerveless maniac, dressed like Harper’s Bazaar, and drank—he’d noticed she’d already knocked back her cognac—like a sailor. He’d have been more comfortable if she’d shown just a touch of the hysteria he’d expected.

“Don’t you want to know how I got this?”

“Hmmm.” Whitney pressed a clean cloth to the wound to slow the new bleeding. Because he wanted her to ask, she was determined not to.

“A bullet,” Doug said with relish.

“Really?” Interested, Whitney removed the cloth to get a closer look. “I’ve never seen a bullet wound before.”

“Terrific.” He swallowed more cognac. “How do you like it?”

She shrugged before she slid back the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. “It’s not terribly impressive.”

Frowning, he looked down at the wound himself. True, the bullet had only nicked him, but he had been shot. It wasn’t every day a man got shot. “It hurts.”

“Aw, well we’ll bandage it all up. Scratches don’t hurt nearly so much if you can’t see them.”

He watched her root through jars of face cream and bath oils. “You’ve got a smart mouth, lady.”

“Whitney,” she corrected. “Whitney MacAllister.” Turning she offered her hand formally.

His lips curved. “Lord, Doug Lord.”

“Hello, Doug. Now, after I fix this up, we’ll have to discuss the damage to my car and the payment.” She went back to the medicine cabinet. “Three hundred dollars.”

He took another swallow of cognac. “How come you know it’s three hundred?”

“I’m giving you the low end of the scale. You can’t fix a spark plug in a Mercedes for less than three hundred.”

“I’ll have to owe you. I spent my last two hundred on the jacket.”

“That jacket?” Amazed, Whitney twisted her head and stared at him. “You look smarter.”

“I needed it,” Doug tossed back. “Besides, it’s leather.”

This time she laughed. “As in genuine imitation.”

“What d’you mean, imitation?”

“That zippered monstrosity didn’t come off any cow. Ah, here it is. I knew I had some.” With a satisfied nod, she took a bottle from the cabinet.

“That little sonofabitch,” Doug mumbled. He hadn’t had the time or the opportunity to look too closely at his purchase before. Now, in the bright bathroom light, he saw it was nothing more than cheap vinyl. Two hundred dollars’ worth. The sudden fire in his arm had him jerking. “Goddamn it! What’re you doing?”

“Iodine,” Whitney told him, smearing it on generously.

He settled down, scowling. “It stings.”

“Don’t be a baby.” Briskly, she wrapped gauze around his upper arm until the wound was covered. She snipped off tape, secured it, then gave it a final pat. “There,” she said, rather pleased with herself. “Good as new.” Still bent over, she turned her head and smiled at him. Their faces were close, hers full of laughter, his full of annoyance. “Now about my car—”

“I could be a murderer, a rapist, a psychopath for all you know.” He said it softly, dangerously. She felt a tremor move up her back and straightened.

“I don’t think so.” But she picked up her empty glass and went back into the living room. “Another drink?”

Damn, she did have guts. Doug grabbed the jacket and followed her. “Don’t you want to know why they were after me?”

“The bad guys?”

“The—the bad guys?” he repeated on an astonished laugh.

“Good guys don’t shoot at innocent bystanders.” She poured herself another drink, then sat on the sofa. “So, by process of elimination I figure you’re the good guy.”

He laughed again and dropped down beside her. “A lot of people might disagree with you.”

Whitney studied him again over the rim of her glass. No, perhaps good was too concise a word. He looked more complicated than that. “Well, why don’t you tell me why those three men wanted to kill you.”

“Just doing their job.” Doug drank again. “They work for a man named Dimitri. He wants something I’ve got.”

“Which is?”

“The route to a pot of gold,” he said absently. Rising, he began to pace. Less than twenty dollars in cash nestled with an expired credit card in his pocket. Neither could buy his way out of the country. What he had carefully folded in a manila envelope was worth a fortune, but he had to buy himself a ticket before he could cash it in. He could lift a wallet at the airport. Better, he could try rushing on the plane, flashing his fake ID, and play the hard-bitten, impatient FBI agent. It had worked in Miami. But it didn’t feel right this time. He knew enough to go with his instincts.

“I need a stake,” he muttered. “A few hundred—maybe a thousand.” Thoughtfully, he turned back and looked at Whitney.

“Forget it,” she said simply. “You already owe me three hundred dollars.”

“You’ll get it,” he snapped. “Dammit, in six months I’ll buy you a whole car. Look at it as an investment.”

“My broker takes care of that.” She sipped again and smiled. He was very attractive in this mood, restless, anxious to move. His exposed arm rippled with muscle that was subtle and lean. His eyes were lit with enthusiasm.

“Look, Whitney.” He came back and sat on the arm of the sofa beside her. “A thousand. That’s nothing after what we’ve been through together.”

“It’s seven hundred dollars more than what you already owe me,” she corrected him.

“I’ll pay you back double within six months. I need to buy a plane ticket, some supplies…” He looked down at himself, then back at her with that quick, appealing grin. “A new shirt.”

An operator, she thought, intrigued. Just what did a pot of gold mean to him? “I’d have to know a lot more before I put my money down.”

He’d charmed women out of more than money. So, confidently, he took her hand between his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. His voice was soft, compelling.

[Dalyia]

“Treasure. The kind you only read about in fairy stories. I’ll bring you back diamonds for your hair. Big, glittery diamonds. They’ll make you look like a princess.” He skimmed a finger up her cheek. It was soft, cool. For a moment, only a moment, he lost the thread of his pitch. “Something else out of a fairy story.”

Slowly, he removed her hat, then watched in astonished admiration as her hair tumbled down, over her shoulders, over her arms. Pale as winter sunlight, soft as silk. “Diamonds,” he repeated, tangling his fingers through it. “Hair like this should have diamonds in it.”

She was caught up in him. Part of her would have believed anything he said, done anything he asked, as long as he continued to touch her in just that way. But it was the other part, the survivor, who managed to take control. “I like diamonds. But I also know a lot of people who pay for them, and end up with pretty glass. Guarantees, Douglas.” To distract herself, she drank more cognac. “I always want to see the guarantee—the certificate of value.”

Frustrated, he rose. She might look like a pushover, but she was as tough as they came. “Look, nothing’s stopping me from just taking it.” He snatched her purse off the sofa and held it out to her. “I can walk out of here with this or we can make a deal.”

Standing, she plucked it out of his hands. “I don’t make deals until I know all the terms. You’ve got a hell of a nerve threatening me after I saved your life.”

“Saved my life?” Doug exploded. “You damn near killed me twenty times.”

Her chin lifted. Her voice became regal and haughty. “If I hadn’t outwitted those men, getting my car damaged in the process, you’d be floating in the East River.”

The image was entirely too close to the truth. “You’ve been watching too many Cagney movies,” he tossed back.

“I want to know what you have and where you intend to go.”

“A puzzle. I’ve got pieces to a puzzle and I’m going to Madagascar.”

“Madagascar?” Intrigued, she turned it over in her mind. Hot, sultry nights, exotic birds, adventure. “What kind of puzzle? What kind of treasure?”

“My business.” Favoring his arm, he slipped on the jacket again.

“I want to see it.”

“You can’t see it. It’s in Madagascar.” He took out a cigarette as he calculated. He could give her enough, just enough to interest her and not enough to cause trouble. Blowing out smoke, he glanced around the room. “Looks like you know something about France.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Enough to order escargots and Dom Pérignon.”

“Yeah, I bet.” He lifted a pearl-crusted snuffbox from the top of a curio cabinet. “Let’s just say the goodies I’m after have a French accent. An old French accent.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He’d hit a button. The little snuffbox he was tossing from hand to hand was two hundred years old and part of an extensive collection. “How old?”

“Couple centuries. Look, sugar, you could back me.” He set the box down and walked to her again. “Think of it as a cultural investment. I take the cash, and I bring you back a few trinkets.”

Two hundred years meant the French Revolution. Marie and Louis. Opulence, decadence, and intrigue. A smile began to form as she thought it through. History had always fascinated her, French history in particular with its royalty and court politics, philosophers and artists. If he really had something—and the look in his eyes convinced her he did—why shouldn’t she have a share? A treasure hunt was bound to be more fun than an afternoon at Sotheby’s.

“Say I was interested,” she began as she worked out her terms. “What kind of a stake would be needed?”

He grinned. He hadn’t thought she’d take the bait so easily. “Couple thousand.”

“I don’t mean money.” Whitney dismissed it as only the wealthy could. “I mean how do we go about getting it?”

“We?” He wasn’t grinning now. “There’s no we.”

She examined her nails. “No we, no money.” She sat back, stretching her arms on the top of the sofa. “I’ve never been to Madagascar.”

“Then call your travel agent, sugar. I work alone.”

“Too bad.” She tossed her hair and smiled. “Well, it’s been nice. Now if you’ll pay me for the damages…”

“Look, I haven’t got time to—” He broke off at the quiet sound behind him. Spinning around, Doug saw the door handle turn slowly—right, then left. He held up a hand, signaling silence. “Get behind the couch,” he whispered while he scanned the room for the handiest weapon. “Stay there and don’t make a sound.”

Whitney started to object, then heard the quiet rattle of the knob. She watched Doug pick up a heavy porcelain vase.

“Get down,” he hissed again as he switched off the lights. Deciding to take his advice, Whitney crouched behind the sofa and waited.

Doug stood behind the door, watching as it opened slowly, silently. He gripped the vase in both hands and wished he knew how many of them he had to go through. He waited until the first shadow was completely inside, then lifting the vase over his head, brought it down hard. There was a crash, a grunt, then a thud. Whitney heard all three before the chaos began.

There was a shuffle of feet, another splinter of glass— her Meissen tea set if the direction of the sound meant anything—then a man cursed. A muffled pop was followed by another tinkle of glass. A silenced bullet, she decided. She’d heard the sound on enough late-night movies to recognize it. And the glass—twisting her head she saw the hole in the picture window behind her.

The super wasn’t going to like it, she reflected. Not one bit. And she was already on his list since the last party she’d given had gotten slightly out of hand. Dammit, Douglas Lord was bringing her a great deal of trouble. The treasure—she drew her brows together—the treasure better be worth it.

Then, it was quiet, entirely too quiet. Over the silence all she could hear was the sound of breathing.

Doug pressed back into the shadowy corner and held on to the .45. There was one more, but at least he wasn’t unarmed now. He hated guns. A man who used them generally ended up being on the wrong end of the barrel too often for comfort.

He was close enough to the door to slip through it and be gone, maybe without notice. If it hadn’t been for the woman behind the couch, and the knowledge that he’d gotten her into this, he’d have done it. The fact that he couldn’t only made him furious with her. He might, just might, have to kill a man to get out. He’d killed before, was aware he was likely to do so again. But it was a part of his life he could never examine without guilt.

Doug touched the bandage on his arm and his fingers came away wet. Damn, he couldn’t stand there waiting and bleeding to death. Moving soundlessly, he edged along the wall.

Whitney had to cover her mouth to hold back all sound as the shadow crouched at the end of the sofa. It wasn’t Doug—she saw immediately that the neck was too long and the hair too short. Then she caught the flicker of movement to her left. The shadow turned toward it. Before she had time to think, Whitney pulled off her shoe. Holding the good Italian leather in one hand, she aimed the three-inch heel at the shadow’s head. With all the strength she could muster, she brought it down.

There was a grunt, then a thud.

Amazed at herself, Whitney held up her shoe in triumph. “I got him!”

“Sweet Jesus,” Doug muttered as he dashed across the room, grabbing her hand and dragging her along with him.

“I knocked him cold,” she told Doug as he streaked toward the stairway. “With this.” She wiggled the shoe that was crushed between his hand and hers. “How did they find us?”

“Dimitri. Traced your plates,” he said, enraged with himself for not considering it before. Streaking down the next flight of stairs he started making new plans.

“That fast?” She gave a quick laugh. Adrenaline was pumping through her. “Is this Dimitri a man or a magician?”

“He’s a man who owns other men. He could pick up the phone and have your credit rating and your shoe size in a half hour.”

So could her father. That was business, and she understood business. “Look, I can’t run lopsided, give me a couple of seconds.” Whitney pulled her hand from his and put on her shoe. “What’re we going to do now?”

“We’ve got to get to the garage.”

“Down forty-two flights?”

“Elevators don’t have back doors.” With this he grabbed her hand and began to jog down the steps again. “I don’t want to come out near your car. He’s probably got somebody watching it just in case we get that far.”

“Then why’re we going to the garage?”

“We still need a car. I’ve got to get to the airport.”

Whitney slung the strap of her purse over her head so that she could grip the rail for support as they ran. “You’re going to steal one?”

“That’s the idea. I’ll drop you off at a hotel—register under some other name, then—”

“Oh no,” she interrupted, noting gratefully that they were passing the twentieth floor. “You’re not dumping me in any hotel. Windshield, three hundred, plate-glass window, twelve hundred, Dresden vase circa 1865, twenty-two seventy-five.” She retrieved her purse, dug a notebook out of it, and never missed a beat. The minute she caught her breath, she’d start an accounting. “I’m going to collect.”

“You’ll collect,” he said grimly. “Now, save your breath.” She did, and began to work out her own plan.

By the time they’d reached the garage level, she was winded enough to lean breathlessly against the wall while he peered through a crack in the door. “Okay, the closest one is a Porsche. I’ll go out first. Once I’m in the car, you follow. And keep down.”

He slipped the gun back out of his pocket. She caught the look in his eye, a look of—loathing? she wondered. Why should he look down at a gun as though it were something vile? She’d thought a gun would fit easily into his hand, the way a gun did for a man who hung out in dim bars and smoky hotel rooms. But it didn’t fit easily. It didn’t fit at all. Then he went through the door.

Who was Doug Lord really? Whitney asked herself. Was he a hood, a con, a victim? Because she sensed he was all three, she was fascinated and determined to find out why.

Crouched, Doug took out what looked like a penknife. Whitney watched as he fiddled with the lock for a moment, then quietly opened the passenger door. Whatever he was, Whitney noted, he was good at breaking and entering. Leaving that for later, she crept through the door. He was already in the driver’s seat and working with wires under the dash when she climbed inside.

“Damn foreign cars,” he muttered. “Give me a Chevy any day.”

Wide-eyed with admiration, Whitney heard the engine spring to life. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

Doug shot her a look. “Just hold on. This time, I’m driving.” Throwing the Porsche into reverse, he peeled out of the space. By the time they reached the garage entrance, they were doing sixty. “Got a favorite hotel?”

“I’m not going to a hotel. You’re not getting out of my sight, Lord, until your account has a zero balance. Where you go, I go.”

“Look, I don’t know how much time I have.” He kept a careful eye on the rearview mirror as he drove.

“What you don’t have any of is money,” she reminded him. She had her book out now and began to write in neat columns. “And you’re currently in to me for a windshield, an antique porcelain vase, a Meissen tea set—eleven-fifty for that—and a plate-glass window—maybe more.”

“Then another thousand isn’t going to matter.”

“Another thousand always matters. Your credit’s only good as long as I can see you. If you want a plane ticket you’re taking on a partner.”

“Partner?” He turned to her, wondering why he didn’t just take her purse and shove her out the door. “I never take on partners.”

“You do this time. Fifty-fifty.”

“I’ve got the answers.” The truth was he had the questions, but he wasn’t going to worry about details.

“But you don’t have the stake.”

He swung onto FDR Drive. No, dammit, he didn’t have the stake, and he needed it. So, for now, he needed her. Later, when he was several thousand miles from New York, they could negotiate terms. “Okay, just how much cash have you got on you?”

“A couple hundred.”

“Hundred? Shit.” He kept his speed to a steady fifty-five now. He couldn’t afford to get pulled over. “That won’t take us farther than New Jersey.”

“I don’t like to carry a lot of cash.”

“Terrific. I’ve got papers worth millions and you want to buy in for two hundred.”

“Two hundred, plus the five thousand you owe me. And—” She reached into her purse. “I’ve got the plastic.” Grinning, she held up a gold American Express card. “I never leave home without it.”

Doug stared at it, then threw back his head and laughed. Maybe she was more trouble than she was worth, but he was beginning to doubt it.

The hand that reached for the phone was plump and very white. At the wrist, white cuffs were studded with square sapphires. The nails were buffed to a dull sheen and neatly clipped. The receiver itself was white, pristine, cool. Fingers curled around it, three elegantly manicured ones and a scarred-over stub where the pinky should have been.

“Dimitri.” The voice was poetry. Hearing it, Remo began to sweat like a pig. He drew on his cigarette and spoke quickly, before exhaling.

“They gave us the slip.”

Dead silence. Dimitri knew it was more terrifying than a hundred threats. He used it five seconds, ten. “Three men against one and a young woman. How inefficient.”

Remo pulled the tie loose from his throat so he could breathe. “They stole a Porsche. We’re following them to the airport now. They won’t get far, Mr. Dimitri.”

“No, they won’t get far. I have a few calls to make, a few… buttons to push. I’ll meet you in a day or two.”

Remo rubbed his hand over his mouth as his relief began to spread. “Where?”

There was a laugh, soft, distant. The sense of relief evaporated like sweat. “Find Lord, Remo. I’ll find you.”

[Dalyia]

C H A P T E R
2

His arm was stiff. When Doug rolled over he gave a little grunt of annoyance at the discomfort and absently pushed at the bandage. His face was pressed into a soft feather pillow covered by a linen case that had no scent. Beneath him, the sheet was warm and smooth. Gingerly flexing his left arm, he shifted onto his back.

The room was dark, deceiving him into thinking it was still night until he looked at his watch. Nine-fifteen. Shit. He ran a hand over his face as he pushed himself up in bed.

He should be on a plane halfway to the Indian Ocean instead of lying around in a fancy hotel room in Washington. A dull, fancy hotel room, he remembered as he thought of the fussy, red-carpeted lobby. They’d arrived at one-ten and he hadn’t even been able to get a drink. The politicians could have Washington, he’d take New York.

The first problem was that Whitney held the purse strings, and she hadn’t given him a choice. The next problem was, she’d been right. He’d only been thinking of getting out of New York, she’d been thinking of details like passports.

So, she had connections in D.C., he thought. If connections could cut through paperwork, he was all for it. Doug glanced around the high-priced room that was hardly bigger than a broom closet. She’d charge him for the room, too, he realized, narrowing his eyes at the connecting door. Whitney MacAllister had a mind like a CPA. And a face like…

With a half grin he shook his head and lay back. He’d better keep his mind off her face, and her other attributes. It was her money he needed. Women had to wait. Once he had what he was going for, he could swim neck-deep in them if he wanted.

The image was pleasant enough to keep him smiling for another minute. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, plump, thin, short, and tall. There was no point in being too discriminating, and he intended to be very generous with his time. First, he had to get the damn passport and visa. He scowled. Damn bureaucratic bullshit. He had a treasure waiting for him, a professional bone breaker breathing down his neck, and a crazy woman in the room next door who wouldn’t even buy him a pack of cigarettes without marking it down in the little notebook she kept in her two-hundred-dollar snakeskin bag.

The thought prompted him to reach over to pluck a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand. He couldn’t understand her attitude. When he had money to spend, he was generous with it. Maybe too generous, he decided with a half laugh. He certainly never had it for long.

Generosity was part of his nature. Women were a weakness, especially small, pouty women with big eyes. No matter how many times he’d been taken by one, he invariably fell for the next. Six months before, a little waitress named Cindy had given him two memorable nights and a sob story about a sick mother in Columbus. In the end, he’d parted company with her—and with five grand. He’d always been a sucker for big eyes.

That was going to change, Doug promised himself. Once he had his hands on the pot of gold, he was going to hold on to it. This time he was going to buy that big splashy villa in Martinique and start living his life the way he’d always dreamed. And he’d be generous with his servants. He’d cleaned up after enough rich people to know how cold and careless they could be with servants. Of course, he’d only cleaned up after them until he could clean them out, but that didn’t change the bottom line.

Working for the wealthy hadn’t given him his taste for rich things. He’d been born with it. He just hadn’t been born with money. Then again, he felt he’d been better off being born with brains. With brains and certain talents you could take what you needed—or wanted—from people who barely noticed the sting. The job kept the adrenaline going. The result, the money, just let you relax until the next time.

He knew how to plan for it, how to plot, how to scheme. And he also knew the value of research. He’d been up half the night going over every scrap of information he could decipher in the envelope. It was a puzzle, but he had the pieces. All he needed to put them all together was time.

The neatly typed translations he’d read might have just been a pretty story to some, a history lesson to others— aristocrats struggling to smuggle their jewels and their precious selves out of revolution-torn France. He’d read words of fear, of confusion, and of despair. In the plastic-sealed originals, he’d seen hopelessness in the handwriting, in words he couldn’t read. But he’d also read of intrigue, of royalty, and of wealth. Marie Antoinette. Robespierre. Necklaces with exotic names hidden behind bricks or concealed in wagon-loads of potatoes. The guillotine, desperate flights across the English Channel. Pretty stories steeped in history and colored with blood. But the diamonds, the emeralds, the rubies the size of hen’s eggs had been real too. Some of them had never been seen again. Some had been used to buy lives or a meal or silence. Others had traveled across oceans. Doug worked the kinks out of his arm and smiled. The Indian Ocean—trade route for merchants and pirates. And on the coast of Madagascar, hidden for centuries, guarded for a queen, was the answer to his dreams. He was going to find it, with the help of a young girl’s journal and a father’s despair. When he did, he’d never look back.

Poor kid, he thought, imagining the young French girl who’d written out her feelings two hundred years before. He wondered if the translation he’d read had really keyed in on what she’d gone through. If he could read the original French… He shrugged and reminded himself she was long dead and not his concern. But she’d just been a kid, scared and confused.

Why do they hate us? she’d written. Why do they look at us with such hate? Papa says we must leave Paris and I believe I will never see my home again.

And she never had, Doug mused, because war and politics go for the big view and trample all over the little guy. France during the Revolution or a steamy pit of a jungle in Nam. It never changed. He knew just what it felt like to be helpless. He wasn’t going to feel that way ever again.

He stretched and thought of Whitney.

For better or worse, he’d made a deal with her. He never turned his back on a deal unless he was sure he could get away with it. Still, it grated to have to depend on her for every dollar.

Dimitri had hired him to steal the papers because he was, Doug admitted honestly as he sucked in smoke, a very good thief. Unlike Dimitri’s standard crew, he’d never considered that a weapon made up for wit. He’d always preferred living by the latter. Doug knew it was his reputation for doing a smooth, quiet job that had earned him the call from Dimitri to lift a fat envelope from a safe in an exclusive co-op off Park Avenue.

A job was a job, and if a man like Dimitri was willing to pay five thousand for a bunch of papers, a great many with faded and foreign writing, Doug wasn’t going to argue. Besides, he’d had some debts to pay.

He’d had to get by two sophisticated alarm systems and four security guards before he could crack the little gem of a wall safe where the envelope was stored. He had a way with locks and alarms. It was—well, a gift, Doug decided. A man shouldn’t waste his God-given talents.

The thing was, he’d played it straight. He’d taken nothing but the papers—though there’d been a very interesting-looking black case in the safe along with it. He never considered that taking them out to read them was any more than covering his bets. He hadn’t expected to be fascinated by the translations of letters or a journal or documents that stretched back two hundred years. Maybe it had been his love of a good story, or his respect for the written word that had touched off his imagination as he had skimmed over the papers. But fascinated or not, he would have turned them over. A deal was a deal.

He’d stopped in a drugstore and bought adhesive. Strapping the envelope to his chest had just been a precaution. New York, like any city, was riddled with dishonest people. Of course, he’d arrived at the East-Side playground an hour early and had hidden. A man stayed alive longer if he watched his ass.

While sitting behind the shrubbery in the rain, he’d thought over what he’d read—the correspondence, the documents, and the tidy list of gems and jewels. Whoever had collected the information, translated it so meticulously, had done so with the dedication of a professional librarian. It had passed through his mind briefly that if he’d had the time and opportunity, he’d have followed up on the rest of the job himself. But a deal was a deal.

Doug had waited with every intention of turning over the papers and collecting his fee. That had been before he’d learned that he wasn’t going to get the five thousand Dimitri had agreed on. He was going to get a two-dollar bullet in the back and a burial in the East River.

Remo had arrived in the black Lincoln with two other men dressed for business. They’d calmly debated the most efficient way to murder him. A bullet in the brain seemed to be the method agreed on, but they were still working out the “when” and “where” as Doug crouched behind bushes six feet away. It seemed Remo had been fussy about getting blood on the Lincoln’s upholstery.

At first Doug had been angry. No matter how many times he’d been double-crossed—and he’d stopped counting—it always made him angry. Nobody was honest in this world, he’d thought as the adhesive pulled a bit at his skin. Even while he’d concentrated on getting out in one piece, he had begun to consider his options.

Dimitri had a reputation for being eccentric. But he also had a reputation for picking winners, from the right senator to keep on the payroll to the best wine to stock in the cellar. If he wanted the papers badly enough to snip off a loose end named Doug Lord, they must be worth something. On the spot, Doug decided the papers were his and his fortune was made. All he had to do was live to claim it.

In reflex he touched his arm now. Stiff, yes, but already healing. He had to admit crazy Whitney MacAllister had done a good job there. He blew smoke between his teeth before he crushed out the cigarette. She’d probably charge him for it.

He needed her for the moment, at least until they were out of the country. Once he got to Madagascar, he’d ditch her. A slow, lazy grin covered his face. He’d had some experience in outmaneuvering women. Sometimes he succeeded. His only regret was that he wouldn’t get to see her stomp and swear when she realized he’d given her the slip. Picturing those clouds of pale, sunlit hair he thought it was almost too bad he had to double-cross her. He couldn’t deny he owed her. Even as he sighed and began to think kindly of her, the connecting door burst open.

“Still in bed?” Whitney crossed to the window and pulled open the drapes. She waved a hand fussily in front of her face in an attempt to clear the haze of smoke. He’d been up for a while, she decided. Smoking and plotting. Well, she’d been doing some figuring herself. When Doug swore and squinted, she merely shook her head. “You look terrible.”

He was vain enough to scowl. His chin was rough with a night’s coarse growth of beard, his hair was unruly, and he’d have killed for a toothbrush. She, on the other hand, looked as though she’d just walked out of Elizabeth Arden’s. Naked in the bed with the sheet up to his waist, Doug felt at a disadvantage. He didn’t care for that sensation.

“You ever knock?”

“Not when I’m paying for the room,” she said easily. She stepped over the tangle of jeans on the floor. “Breakfast is on its way up.”

“Great.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Whitney made herself at home by sitting on the bottom of the bed and stretching out her legs.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Doug said expansively.

Whitney only smiled and shook back her hair. “I got in touch with Uncle Maxie.”

“Who?”

“Uncle Maxie,” Whitney repeated, giving her nails a quick check. She really needed a manicure before they left town. “Actually, he’s not my uncle, I just call him my uncle.”

“Oh, that kind of uncle,” Doug said, a half sneer on his face.

Whitney spared him a mild glance. “Don’t be crude, Douglas. He’s a dear friend of the family’s. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Maximillian Teebury.”

“Senator Teebury?”

She spread her fingers for a last examination. “You do keep up with current events.”

“Look, smartass.” Doug grabbed her arm so that she tumbled half into his lap. Whitney only smiled up at him, knowing she still held all the aces. “Just what does Senator Teebury have to do with anything?”

“Connections.” She ran a finger down his cheek, clucking her tongue at the roughness. But roughness, she discovered, had its own primitive appeal. “My father always says you can do without sex in a pinch, but you can’t do without connections.”

“Yeah?” Grinning, he lifted her up so that her face was close to his and her hair streamed down to the sheets. Again he caught the drift of her scent that meant wealth and class. “Everybody has different priorities.”

“Indeed.” She wanted to kiss him. He looked rough and restless and disheveled, the way a man might after a night of wild sex. Just what kind of a lover would Douglas Lord be? Ruthless. She felt her heart thud a little faster at the thought. He smelled of tobacco and sweat. He looked like a man who lived on the edge and enjoyed it. She’d like to feel that clever, interesting mouth on hers—but not yet. Once she’d kissed him she might forget that she had to stay one step ahead of him. “The thing is,” she murmured, letting her hands stray into his hair when their lips were only a breath apart, “Uncle Maxie can get a passport for you and two thirty-day visas to Madagascar within twenty-four hours.”

“How?”

Whitney noted with amused annoyance just how quickly his seducing tone became businesslike. “Connections, Douglas,” she said blithely. “What’re partners for?”

He shot her a considering look. Damn if she wasn’t becoming handy. If he wasn’t careful, she’d be indispensable. The last thing a smart man needed was an indispensable woman who had eyes like whiskey and skin like the underside of petals. Then it hit him that they’d be on their way by that time the next day. Letting out a quick whoop, he rolled on top of her. Her hair fanned over the pillow. Her eyes, half-wary, half-laughing, met his.

“Let’s find out, partner,” he suggested.

His body was hard, like his eyes could be, like his hand as it cupped her face. It was tempting. He was tempting. But it was always vital to weigh advantage against disadvantage. Before Whitney could decide whether to agree or not, there was a knock at the door. “Breakfast,” she said cheerfully, wiggling out from under him. If her heart was beating a bit too fast, she wasn’t going to dwell on it. There was too much to do.

Doug folded his arms behind his head and leaned back on the headboard. Maybe desire was eating a hole in his stomach, or maybe it was just hunger. Maybe it was both. “Let’s have it in bed.”

Whitney gave her opinion of his suggestion by ignoring it. “Good morning,” she said brightly to the waiter as he wheeled in the tray.

“Good morning, Ms. MacAllister.” The young, square-built Puerto Rican didn’t even glance at Doug. His eyes were all for Whitney. With considerable charm, he handed her a pink rosebud.

“Why, thank you, Juan. It’s lovely.”

“I thought you’d like it.” He flashed her a quick grin, showing a mouthful of strong, even teeth. “I hope your breakfast’s okay. I brought up the toiletries and the paper you asked for.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Juan.” She smiled at the dark stud of a waiter, Doug noted, with a lot more sweetness than she’d bothered to show him. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Oh, no, never for you, Ms. MacAllister.”

Behind the waiter’s back, Doug silently mimicked his words and soulful expression. Whitney only arched a brow, then signed the check with a flourish. “Thank you, Juan.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a twenty. “You’ve been a big help.”

“A pleasure, Ms. MacAllister. You just call me if there’s anything else I can do.” The twenty disappeared into his pocket with the speed and discretion of long practice. “Enjoy your breakfast.” Still smiling, he backed his way out the door.

“You love them to grovel, don’t you?”

Whitney turned a cup right side up and poured coffee. Casually, she waved the rosebud under her nose. “Put some pants on and come eat.”

“And you were damn generous with the little bit of cash we’ve got.” She said nothing, but he saw she was drawing out her little notepad. “Just hold on, it was you overtipped the waiter, not me.”

“He got you a razor and a toothbrush,” she said mildly. “We’ll split the tip because your hygiene’s of some concern to me at the moment.”

“That’s big of you,” he grumbled. Then, because he wanted to see just how far he could push her, he climbed slowly out of bed.

[Dalyia]

She didn’t gasp, she didn’t flinch, she didn’t blush. She merely gave him one long, measuring survey. The white bandage on his arm was a stark contrast against his dark-toned skin. God, he had a beautiful body, she thought as her pulse began a slow, dull thud. Lean, sleek, and subtly muscled. Naked, unshaven, half-smiling, he looked more dangerous and more appealing than any man she’d ever come across. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

Without taking her eyes from him, Whitney lifted her coffee cup. “Stop bragging, Douglas,” she said mildly, “and put your pants on. Your eggs are getting cold.”

Damn, she was a cool one, he thought as he grabbed up his jeans. Just once, he was going to see her sweat. Flopping down in the chair across from her, Doug began to stuff himself with hot eggs and crisp bacon. At the moment, he was too hungry to calculate what the luxury of room service was costing him. Once he found the treasure, he could buy his own damn hotel.

“Just who are you, Whitney MacAllister?” he demanded over a full mouth.

She added a dash of pepper to her own eggs. “In what way?”

He grinned, pleased that she wouldn’t give easy answers. “Where do you come from?”

“Richmond, Virginia,” she said, lapsing so quickly into a smooth Virginia accent one would’ve sworn she’d had one all along. “My family’s still there, on the plantation.”

“Why’d you move to New York?”

“Because it’s fast.”

He reached for toast, scrutinizing the basket of jellies. “What do you do there?”

“Whatever I like.”

He looked into her sultry, whiskey-colored eyes and believed it. “Do you have a job?”

“No, I have a profession.” She lifted a piece of bacon between her fingers and nibbled. “I’m an interior designer.”

He remembered her apartment, the feeling of elegance, the melding of colors, the uniqueness. “A decorator,” he mused. “You’d be a good one.”

“Naturally. And you?” She poured them both more coffee. “What do you do?”

“A lot of things.” He reached for the cream, watching her. “Mostly I’m a thief.”

She remembered the ease with which he had stolen the Porsche. “You’d be a good one.”

He laughed, enjoying her. “Naturally.”

“This puzzle you mentioned. The papers.” She tore a piece of toast in two. “Are you going to show them to me?”

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How do I know you have them? How do I know that if you do have them they’re worth my time, not to mention my money?”

He seemed to consider a moment, then offered her the basket of jellies. “Faith?”

She chose strawberry preserves and spread them on generously. “Let’s try not to be ridiculous. How’d you get them?”

“I—acquired them.”

Biting into the toast, she watched him over it. “Stole them.”

“Yeah.”

“From the men who were chasing you?”

“For the man they work for,” Doug corrected her. “Dimitri. Unfortunately, he was going to double-cross me, so all bets were called off. Possession’s nine-tenths of the law.”

“I suppose.” She considered for a moment the fact that she was breakfasting with a thief who was in possession of a mysterious puzzle. She supposed she’d done more unusual things in her life. “All right, let’s try this. What form is this puzzle in?”

Doug considered giving her another nonanswer, then caught the look in her eyes. Cool, unflappable determination. He’d better give her something, at least until he had the passport and a ticket. “I’ve got papers, documents, letters. I told you it went back a couple hundred years. There’s enough information in the papers I have to lead me right to the pot of gold, a pot of gold nobody even knows is there.” When another thought occurred to him, he frowned at her. “You speak French?”

“Of course,” she said, and smiled. “So some of the puzzle’s in French.” When he said nothing she steered him back again. “Why doesn’t anyone know about your pot of gold?”

“Anyone who did is dead.”

She didn’t like the way he said it, but she wasn’t about to back off now. “How do you know it’s genuine?”

His eyes became intense, the way they could when you least expected it. “I feel it.”

“And who’s this man who’s after you?”

“Dimitri? He’s a first-class businessman—bad business. He’s smart, he’s mean, he’s the kind of guy who knows the Latin name for the bug he’s picking the wings off. If he wants the papers, they’re worth a hell of a lot. One hell of a lot.”

“I guess we’ll find that out in Madagascar.” She picked up the New York Times Juan had delivered. She didn’t like the way Doug had described the man who was after him. The best way to avoid thinking about it was to think of something else. Opening the paper she caught her breath, then let it out again. “Oh, shit.”

Intent on finishing his eggs, Doug gave her an absent “Hmmm?”

“I’m in for it now,” she predicted, rising and tossing the open paper onto his plate.

“Hey, I’m not finished.” Before he could push the paper aside, he saw Whitney’s picture smiling up at him. Above the picture was a splash of headline.

ICE-CREAM HEIRESS MISSING

“Ice-cream heiress,” Doug muttered, skimming down to the text before he fully took it in. “Ice cream…” His mouth fell open as he dropped the paper. “MacAllister’s ice cream? That’s you?”

“Indirectly,” Whitney told him, pacing the room as she tried to work out the best plan. “It’s my father.”

“MacAllister’s ice cream,” Doug repeated. “Sonofabitch. He makes the best damn fudge ripple in the country.”

“Of course.”

It hit him then that she wasn’t just a classy decorator but the daughter of one of the richest men in the country. She was worth millions. Millions. And if he was caught with her, he’d be up on kidnapping charges before he could ask for his court appointed lawyer. Twenty years to life, he thought, dragging a hand through his hair. Doug Lord sure knew how to pick ′em.

“Look, sugar, this changes things.”

“It certainly does,” she muttered. “Now I have to call Daddy. Oh, and Uncle Maxie, too.”

“Yeah.” He scooped up the last forkful of eggs, deciding he’d better eat while he had the chance. “Why don’t you figure out my bill, and we’ll—”

“Daddy is going to think I’m being held for ransom or something.”

“Exactly.” He grabbed the last piece of toast. Since she’d figure out a way for him to pay for the meal, he might as well enjoy it. “And I don’t want to end up with a cop’s bullet in my head either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Whitney dismissed him with a wave of the hand while she refined her plan of approach. “I’ll get around Daddy,” she murmured. “I’ve been doing it for years. I should be able to get him to wire me some money while I’m at it.”

“Cash?”

She shot him a long, appraising look. “That certainly got your attention.”

He set the toast aside. “Look, gorgeous, if you know how to get around your old man, who’m I to argue? And, while the plastic’s nice, and the cash you can get with the plastic’s nice, a little extra of the green stuff would help me sleep a lot easier.”

“I’ll take care of it.” She walked to the connecting doors, then paused. “You really could use a shower and a shave, Douglas, before we go shopping.”

He stopped in the act of rubbing his chin. “Shopping?”

“I’m not going to Madagascar with one blouse and one pair of slacks. And I’m certainly not going anywhere with you wearing a shirt with only one sleeve. We’ll do something about your wardrobe.”

“I can pick out my own shirts.”

“After seeing that fascinating jacket you had on when we met, I have my doubts.” With this, she closed the door between them.

“It was a disguise,” he yelled at her, then stormed off toward the bathroom. Damn woman always had to have the last word.

But he had to admit, she had taste. After a two-hour shopping whirlwind, he was carrying more packages than he cared to, but the cut of his shirt helped conceal the slight bulge of the envelope that was again strapped to his chest. And he liked the way the loose linen felt against his skin. The same way he liked the way Whitney’s hips moved under the thin white dress. Still, there was no use being too agreeable.

“What the hell am I going to do with a suit tramping around in a forest in Madagascar?”

She glanced over and adjusted the collar of his shirt. He’d fussed about wearing baby blue, but Whitney reaffirmed her opinion that it was an excellent color for him. Oddly enough, he looked as though he’d been born wearing tailored slacks. “When one travels, one should be prepared for anything.”

“I don’t know how much walking we’re going to have to do, sugar, but I’ll tell you this. You’re carrying your own gear.”

She tipped down her new signature sunglasses. “A gentleman to the last.”

“You bet.” He stopped beside a drugstore and shifted the packages under one arm. “Look, I need some things in here. Give me a twenty.” When she only lifted a brow, he swore. “Come on, Whitney, you’re going to mark it down in your damn account book anyway. I feel naked without any cash.”

She gave him a sweet smile as she reached in her purse. “It didn’t bother you to be naked this morning.”

Her lack of reaction to his body still irked. He plucked the bill from her hand. “Yeah, we’ll take that up again sometime. I’ll meet you upstairs in ten minutes.”

Pleased with herself, Whitney crossed to the hotel and breezed through the lobby. She was having more fun annoying Doug Lord than she’d had in months. She shifted the smart leather tote she’d bought to her other hand and pushed the button for her floor.

Things were looking good, she decided. Her father had been relieved that she was safe and not displeased that she was leaving the country again. Laughing to herself, Whitney leaned back against the wall. She supposed she had given him a few bad moments in the past twenty-eight years, but she was just made that way. In any case, she’d spun fact and fiction together until her father had been satisfied. With the thousand dollars he was wiring to Uncle Maxie that afternoon, she and Doug would be on solid ground before they took off for Madagascar.

Even the name appealed to her. Madagascar, she mused as she strolled down the hall toward her room. Exotic, new, unique. Orchids and lush greens. She wanted to see it all, experience it, as much as she wanted to believe the puzzle Doug talked about led to that pot of gold.

It wasn’t the gold itself that drew her. She was too accustomed to wealth to have her heartbeat quicken at the thought of more. It was the thrill of looking, of finding, that attracted her. Oddly enough, she understood better than Doug that he felt the same.

She was going to have to learn a great deal more about him, she decided. From the way he’d discussed cut and material with the salesclerk, he wasn’t a stranger to the finer things. He could’ve passed for one of the casually rich in a classic-cut linen shirt—unless you looked at his eyes. Really looked. Nothing casual there, Whitney thought. They were restless, wary, and hungry. If they were going to be partners, she had to find out why.

As she unlocked her door, it occurred to her that she had a few minutes alone, and that maybe, just maybe, Doug had stashed the papers in his room. She was putting up the money, Whitney told herself. She had every right to see what she was financing. Still, she moved quietly, keeping an ear out for Doug’s return as she crossed to the connecting doors. She caught her breath, then with a hand to her heart, laughed.

“Juan, you scared me to death.” She stepped inside, looking beyond where the young waiter sat to the still-littered table. “Did you come to pick up the breakfast dishes?” She didn’t have to put off her quick search because of him, she decided and began to poke through Doug’s dresser. “Is the hotel busy this time of year?” she asked conversationally. “It’s cherry-blossom time, isn’t it? That always brings in the tourists.”

Frustrated that the dresser was empty, she scanned the room. Maybe the closet. “What time does the maid usually come in, Juan? I could use some extra towels.” When he continued to stare silently at her she frowned. “You don’t look well,” she told him. “They work you too hard. Maybe you should…” She touched a hand to his shoulder and slowly, bonelessly, he slumped to her feet, leaving a smear of blood on the back of the chair.

[Dalyia]

She didn’t scream because her brain and her vocal cords had frozen. Eyes wide, mouth working, she backed up. She’d never seen death before, never smelled it, but she recognized it. Before she could run from it, a hand clamped over her arm.

“Very pretty.”

The man whose face was inches from hers held a gun under her chin. One cheek was badly scarred, jagged, as from a broken bottle or a blade. Both his hair and his eyes were the color of sand. The barrel of the gun was like ice on her skin. Grinning, he skimmed the gun down her throat.

“Where’s Lord?”

Her gaze darted down to the crumpled body inches away from her feet. She could see the red stain spread over the white back of his jacket. Juan would be no help, and he’d never spend the twenty-dollar tip she’d given him only hours before. If she wasn’t careful, very, very careful, she’d end up the same way.

“I asked you about Lord.” The gun pushed her chin up a little higher.

“I lost him,” she said, thinking fast. “I wanted to get back here and find the papers.”

“Double-cross.” He toyed with the ends of her hair and made her stomach roll. “Smart too.” The fingers tightened, jerking her head back. “When’s he coming back?”

“I don’t know.” She winced at the pain and struggled to keep her mind clear. “Fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour.” Any minute, she thought desperately. He could walk in any minute and then they both would be dead. Another glance at the body sprawled at her feet and her eyes filled. Whitney swallowed hard, knowing she couldn’t afford tears. “Why did you kill Juan?”

“Wrong place at the wrong time,” he said with a grin. “Just like you, pretty lady.”

“Listen…” It wasn’t difficult to keep her voice low, if she’d tried to speak above a whisper her teeth would have chattered. “I don’t have any allegiance to Lord. If you and I could find the papers, then…” She let the sentence trail off, moistening her lips with her tongue. He watched the gesture before he ran his gaze down her body.

“Not much tit,” he said with a sneer, then stepped back, gesturing with the gun. “Maybe I should see more of what you’re offering.”

She toyed with the top button of her blouse. She’d gotten his mind off killing her for the moment, but this wasn’t much of a bargain. Inching back as she moved to the next button, she felt her hips bump into the table. As if to steady herself, she rested a palm on it, keeping her gaze on his sand-colored eyes. She felt cool stainless steel brush her fingertips.

“Maybe you should help me,” she whispered and forced herself to smile.

He inclined his head as he set the gun on the dresser. “Maybe I should.” Then his hands were on her hips, moving slowly up her body. Whitney gripped the handle in her fist and plunged the fork into the side of his throat.

Blood spurting, squealing like a pig, he jumped back. As he reached for the handle himself, she picked up the leather tote and swung it with all the force she had. She didn’t look to see how deep she’d driven the prongs into him. She ran.

In high good humor after a brief flirtation with the checkout girl, Doug started to swing into the lobby. Running full steam, Whitney barreled into him.

He juggled tottering packages. “What the hell—”

“Run!” she shouted, and without waiting to see if he took her advice, raced out of the hotel.

Swearing and fumbling with packages, he drew up alongside her. “What for?”

“They’ve found us.”

A glance over his shoulder showed him Remo and two others just hustling out of the hotel. “Ah, shit,” Doug muttered, then grabbing Whitney’s arm, he dragged her through the first door he came to. They were greeted by the quiet strains of harp music and a stiff-backed maitre d’.

“You have a luncheon reservation?”

“Just looking for friends,” Doug told him, nudging Whitney along.

“Yes, I hope we’re not too early.” She batted her eyes at the maitre d’ before scanning the restaurant. “I do hate being early. Ah, there’s Marjorie now. My, my, she’s put on weight.” With Whitney leaning conspiratorially toward Doug, they moved past the maitre d’. “Be sure to compliment her on that horrid outfit, Rodney.”

Skirting through the restaurant, they made a direct line for the kitchen. “Rodney?” he complained in undertones.

“It just came to me.”

“Here.” Thinking fast, he shoved the boxes and bags into Whitney’s tote, then slung the whole business over his shoulder. “Let me do the talking.”

In the kitchen they made their way around counters and ranges and cooks. Moving as quickly as he thought prudent, Doug aimed for the back door. A white-aproned bulk, three feet wide, stepped in front of him.

“Guests are not permitted in the kitchen.”

Doug looked up at the chef’s hat at least a foot above his own head. It reminded him how much he hated physical altercations. You didn’t get so many bruises when you used your head. “One minute, one minute,” Doug said fussily and turned to the pot simmering at his right. “Sheila, this has the most divine scent. Superb, sensuous. Four stars for the scent.”

Catching on, she drew her pad out of her bag. “Four stars,” she repeated, scribbling.

Picking up the ladle, Doug held it under his nose, closed his eyes, and sampled. “Ah.” He drew the word out so dramatically Whitney had to choke down a giggle. “Poisson Véronique. Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent. Definitely one of the top contenders in the contest. Your name?” he demanded from the chef.

The white-aproned bulk preened. “Henri.”

“Henri,” he repeated, waving a hand at Whitney. “You’ll be notified within ten days. Come, Sheila, don’t dawdle. We have three more stops to make.”

“My money’s on you,” Whitney told Henri as they walked out the back door.

“Okay.” Doug gripped her arm hard when they stood in the alley. “Remo’s only half-stupid so we’ve got to get out fast. Which way to Uncle Maxie’s?”

“He lives in Virginia, Roslyn.”

“All right, we need a cab.” He started forward, then pushed Whitney back against the wall so quickly she lost her breath. “Dammit, they’re already out there.” He took a moment, knowing the alley wouldn’t be safe for long. In his experience, alleys were never safe for long. “We’ll have to go the other way, which means going over a few walls. You’re going to have to keep up.”

The image of Juan was still fresh in her mind. “I’ll keep up.”

“Let’s go.”

They started out side by side then swerved to the right. Whitney had to scramble over boxes to make it over the first fence and her leg muscles sang out in surprise on the landing. She kept running. If he had a pattern to his flight, she couldn’t find it. He zigzagged down streets, through alleys, and over fences until her lungs burned from the effort of keeping the pace. The floaty skirt of her dress caught on chain link and tore jaggedly at the hem. People stopped to look at them in surprise and speculation as they never would’ve done in New York.

Always, he seemed to have one eye looking over his shoulder. She had no way of knowing he’d lived that way most of his life and had often wondered if he’d ever live any other way. When he dragged her down the stairs toward Metro Center, she had to grip the rail to keep from plunging head first.

“Blue lines, red lines,” he muttered. “Why do they have to screw things up with colors?”

“I don’t know.” Breathless, she leaned against the information board. “I’ve never ridden the Metro before.”

“Well, we’re fresh out of limos. Red line,” he announced and grabbed her hand again. He hadn’t lost them. Doug could still smell the hunt. Five minutes, he thought. He only wanted a five-minute lead. Then they’d be on one of those speedy little trains and gain more time.

The crowd was thick and babbling in a half dozen languages. The more people the better, he decided as he inched his way along. He glanced over his shoulder when they stood at the edge of the platform. His gaze met Remo’s. He saw the bandage on the tanned cheek. Compliments of Whitney MacAllister, Doug thought and couldn’t resist tossing back a grin. Yeah, he owed her for that, he decided. If for nothing else, he owed her for that.

It was all timing now, he knew, as he pulled Whitney onto the train. Timing and luck. It was either with them or against them. Sandwiched between Whitney and a sariclad Indian woman, Doug watched Remo fight his way through the crowd.

When the doors closed, he grinned and gave the frustrated man outside a half salute. “Let’s find a seat,” he said to Whitney. “There’s nothing like public transportation.”

She said nothing as they worked their way through the car, and still nothing when they found a space nearly big enough for both of them. Doug was too busy alternately cursing and blessing his luck to notice. In the end, he grinned at his own reflection in the glass to his left.

“Well, the sonofabitch might’ve found us, but he’s going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to Dimitri about losing us again.” Satisfied, he draped his arm over the back of the bright orange seat. “How’d you spot them anyway?” he asked absently while he plotted out his next move. Money, passport, and airport, in that order, though he had to fit in a quick trip to the library. If Dimitri and his hounds showed up in Madagascar, they’d just lose them again. He was on a roll. “You’ve got a sharp eye, sugar,” he told her. “We’d’ve been in a bad way if there’d been a welcoming committee back in the hotel room.”

Adrenaline had carried her through the streets. The need to survive had driven her hard and fast until the moment she’d sat down. Drained, Whitney turned her head and stared at his profile. “They killed Juan.”

“What?” Distracted, he glanced over. For the first time he noticed that her skin was bloodless and her eyes blank. “Juan?” Doug drew her closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The waiter? What’re you talking about?”

“He was dead in your room when I went back. There was a man waiting.”

“What man?” Doug demanded. “What’d he look like?”

“His eyes were like sand. He had a scar down his cheek, a long, jagged scar.”

“Butrain,” Doug mumbled. Some of Dimitri’s excess slime and as mean as they came. He tightened his grip on Whitney’s shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”

Her eyes, dark as aged whiskey, focused on his again. “I think I killed him.”

“What?” he stared at the elegant, fine-boned face. “You killed Butrain? How?”

“With a fork.”

“You—” Doug stopped, sat back, and tried to take it in. If she hadn’t been looking at him with big, devastated eyes, if her hand hadn’t been like ice, he’d have laughed out loud. “You’re telling me you did in one of Dimitri’s apes with a fork?”

“I didn’t stop to take his pulse.” The train pulled up at the next stop and, unable to sit still, Whitney rose and pushed her way off. Swearing and struggling through bodies, Doug caught up with her on the platform.

“Okay, okay, you’d better tell me the whole thing.”

“The whole thing?” Abruptly enraged, she turned on him. “You want to hear the whole thing? The whole bloody thing? I walk back into the room and there’s that poor, harmless boy dead, blood all over his starched white coat, and some creep with a face like a road map’s holding a gun to my throat.”

Her voice had risen so that passersby turned to listen or to stare.

“Keep it down,” Doug muttered, dragging her toward another train. They’d ride, it didn’t matter where, until she was calm and he had a more workable plan.

“You keep it down,” she shot back. “You got me into this.”

“Look, honey, you can take a walk any time you want.”

“Sure, and end up with my throat slit by someone who’s after you and those damn papers.”

The truth left him little defense. Shoving her down into a corner seat, he squeezed in beside her. “Okay, so you’re stuck with me,” he said under his breath. “Here’s a news flash—listening to you whine about it gets on my nerves.”

“I’m not whining.” She turned to him with eyes suddenly drenched and vulnerable. “That boy’s dead.”

Anger drained and guilt flared. Not knowing what else to do, he put his arm around her. He wasn’t used to comforting women. “You can’t let it get to you. You’re not responsible.”

Tired, she let her head rest on his shoulder. “Is that how you get through life, Doug, by not being responsible?”

Curling his fingers into her hair, he watched their blurred twin images in the glass. “Yeah.”

They lapsed into silence with both of them wondering if he was telling the truth.

[Dalyia]

C H A P T E R
3

She had to snap out of it. Doug shifted in his first-class seat and wished he knew how to shake the grief out of her. He thought he understood wealthy women. He’d worked for—and on—plenty of them. It was just as true, he supposed, that plenty of them had worked on him. The trouble was, had always been, that he invariably fell just a little bit in love with any woman he spent more than two hours with. They were so, well, feminine, he decided. Nobody could sound more sincere than a soft-smelling, soft-skinned woman. But he’d learned through experience that women with big bank accounts generally had hearts of pure plastic. The minute you were about ready to forget the diamond earrings in favor of a more meaningful relationship, they dumped all over you.

Callousness. He thought that was the worst failing of the rich. The kind of callousness that made them step all over people with the nonchalance of a child stomping on a beetle. For recreation, he’d choose a waitress with an easy laugh. But when it was business, Doug went straight to the bank balance. A woman with a hefty one was an invaluable cover. You could get through a lot of locked doors with a rich woman on your arm. They came in varieties, certainly, but generally could be slapped with a few basic labels. Bored, vicious, cold, or silly came to mind. Whitney didn’t seem to qualify for any one of those labels. How many people would have remembered the name of a waiter, much less mourned for him?

They were on their way to Paris out of Dulles International. Enough of a detour, he hoped, to throw Dimitri off the scent. If it bought him a day, a few hours, he’d use it. He knew, as anyone in the business knew, of Dimitri’s reputation for dealing with those who attempted to cross him. A traditional man, Dimitri preferred traditional methods. Men like Nero would have appreciated Dimitri’s flare for slow, innovative torture. There had been murmurs about a basement room in Dimitri’s Connecticut estate. Supposedly it was filled with antiques—the sort from the Spanish Inquisition. Rumor had it that there was a top-grade studio as well. Lights, camera, action. Dimitri was credited with enjoying replays of his more gruesome work. Doug wasn’t going to find himself in the spotlight in one of Dimitri’s performances, nor was he going to believe the myth that Dimitri was omnipotent. He was just a man, Doug told himself. Flesh and blood. But even at thirty thousand feet, Doug had the uneasy sensation of a fly being toyed with by a spider.

Taking another drink, he pushed that thought aside. One step at a time. That’s how he’d play it, and that’s how he’d survive.

If he’d had the time, Doug would have taken Whitney to the Hotel de Crillon for a couple of days. It was the only place he stayed in Paris. There were cities he’d settle for a motel with a cot, and cities where he wouldn’t sleep at all. But Paris. His luck had always held in Paris.

He made it a point to arrange a trip twice a year, for no other reason than the food. As far as Doug was concerned no one cooked better than the French, or those educated in France. Because of that, he had managed to bluff his way into several courses. He’d learned the French way, the correct way, to prepare an omelette at the Cordon Bleu. Of course, he kept a low profile on that particular interest. If word got out that he’d worn an apron and whisked eggs, he’d lose his reputation on the streets. Besides, it would be embarrassing. So he always covered his trips to Paris for cooking interests with business.

A couple of years back, he’d stayed there for a week, playing the wealthy playboy and riffling the rooms of the rich. Doug remembered he’d hocked a very good sapphire necklace and paid his bill in full. You never knew when you’d want to go back.

But there wasn’t time on this trip for a quick course in soufflés or a handy piece of burglary. There would be no sitting still in one place until the game was over. Normally he preferred it that way—the chase, the hunt. The game itself was more exciting than the winning. Doug had learned that after his first big job. There’d been the tension and pressure of planning, the rippling thrill and half terror of execution, then the rushing excitement of success. After that, it was simply another job finished. You looked for the next. And the next.

If he’d listened to his high-school counselor, he’d probably be a very successful lawyer right now. He’d had the brains and the glib tongue. Doug sipped smooth scotch and was grateful he hadn’t listened.

Imagine, Douglas Lord, Esquire, with a desk piled with papers and luncheon meetings three days a week. Was that any way to live? He skimmed another page of the book he’d stolen from a Washington library before they’d left. No, a profession that kept you in an office owned you, not the other way around. So, his IQ topped his weight, he’d rather use his talents for something satisfying.

At the moment, it was reading about Madagascar, its history, its topography, its culture. By the time he finished this book, he’d know everything he needed to know. There were two other volumes in his case he’d save for later. One was a history of missing gems, the other a long, detailed history of the French Revolution. Before he found the treasure, he’d be able to see it, and to understand it. If the papers he’d read were fact, he had pretty Marie Antoinette and her penchant for opulence and intrigue to thank for an early retirement. The Mirror of Portugal diamond, the Blue Diamond, the Sancy—all fifty-four carats of it. Yeah, French royalty had had great taste. Good old Marie hadn’t rocked tradition. Doug was grateful for it. And for the aristocrats who had fled their country guarding the crown jewels with their lives, holding them in secret until the royal family might rule France again.…

He wouldn’t find the Sancy in Madagascar. Doug was in the business and knew the rock was now in the Astor family. But the possibilities were endless. The Mirror and the Blue had dropped out of sight centuries before. So had other gems. The Diamond Necklace Affair—the straw that had broken the peasants’ back—was riddled with theory, myth, and speculation. Just what had become of the necklace that had ultimately insured Marie of not having a neck to wear it on?

Doug believed in fate, in destiny, and just plain luck. Before it was over, he was going to be knee-deep in sparkles—royal sparkles. And screw Dimitri.

In the meantime, he wanted to learn all he could about Madagascar. He was going far off his own turf—but so was Dimitri. If Doug could beat his adversary in anything, he prided himself on being able to top him in intelligent research. He read page after page and tallied fact after fact. He’d find his way around the little island in the Indian Ocean the same way he went from East-Side to West-Side Manhattan. He had to.

Satisfied, he set the book aside. They’d been at cruising altitude for two hours. Long enough, Doug decided, for Whitney to brood in silence.

“Okay, knock it off.”

She turned and gave him a long, neutral look. “I beg your pardon?”

She did it well, Doug reflected. The ice-bitch routine peculiar to women with money or guts. Of course, he was learning that Whitney had both. “I said knock it off. I can’t stand a pouter.”

“A pouter?”

Because her eyes were slits and she’d hissed the words, he was satisfied. If he made her angry, she’d snap out of it all the quicker. “Yeah. I’m not crazy about a woman who runs her mouth a mile a minute, but we should be able to come up with something in between.”

“Should we? How lovely that you have such definite requirements.” She took a cigarette from the pack he’d tossed on the arm between them and lit it. He’d never known the gesture could be so haughty. It helped amuse him.

“Let me give you lesson one before we go any further, sweetie.”

Deliberately, and with a quiet kind of venom, Whitney blew smoke in his face. “Please do.”

Because he recognized pain when he saw it, he gave her another minute. Then his voice was flat and final. “It’s a game.” He took the cigarette from her fingers and drew on it. “It’s always a game, but you go into it knowing there are penalties.”

She stared at him. “Is that what you consider Juan? A penalty?”

“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he told her, unknowingly echoing Butrain’s words. But she heard something else. Regret? Remorse? Though she couldn’t be sure, it was something. She held on to it. “We can’t go back and change what happened, Whitney. So we go on.”

She picked up her neglected drink. “Is that what you do best? Go on?”

“If you want to win. When you have to win, you can’t look back very often. Tearing yourself up over this isn’t going to change anything. We’re one step ahead of Dimitri, maybe two. We’ve got to stay that way because it’s a game, but you play it for keeps. If we don’t stay ahead, we’re dead.” As he spoke, he laid a hand over hers, not for comfort, but to see if it was steady. “If you can’t take it, you’d better think about backing off now because we’ve got a hell of a long way to go.”

She wouldn’t back off. Pride was the problem, or the blessing. She’d never been able to back off. But what about him? she wondered. What made Douglas Lord run? “Why do you do it?”

He liked the curiosity, the spark. As he settled back he was satisfied she’d gotten over the first hump. “You know, Whitney, it’s a hell of a lot sweeter to win the pot at poker with a pair of deuces than with a flush.” He blew out smoke and grinned. “One hell of a lot sweeter.”

She thought she understood and studied his profile. “You like the odds against you.”

“Long shots pay more.”

She sat back, closed her eyes, and was silent so long he thought she dozed. Instead, Whitney was going back over everything that had happened, step by step. “The restaurant,” she asked abruptly. “How did you pull that off?”

“What restaurant?” He was studying the different tribes of Madagascar in his book and didn’t bother to look up.

“In Washington, when we were running for our lives through the kitchen and that enormous man in white stepped in front of you.”

“You just use the first thing that comes to your mind,” he said easily. “It’s usually the best.”

“It wasn’t just what you said.” Unsatisfied, Whitney shifted in her seat. “One minute you’re a frantic man off the streets, and the next a snooty food critic saying all the right things.”

“Baby, when your life’s on the line, you can be anything.” Then he looked up and grinned. “When you want something bad enough, you can be anything. Usually I like to case a job from the inside. All you have to do is decide if you’re going in the front door or the servants’ entrance.”

Interested, she signaled for another drink for each of them. “Meaning?”

“Okay, take California. Beverly Hills.”

“No, thanks.”

Ignoring her, Doug began to reminisce. “First you have to decide which one of those nifty mansions you want to take. A few discreet questions, a little legwork, and you hone in on one. Now, front door or back? That might depend on my own whim. Getting in the front’s usually easiest.”

“Why?”

“Because money wants references for servants, not from guests. You need a stake, a few thousand. Check into the Wilshire Royal and rent a Mercedes, drop a few names—of people you know are out of town. Once you get into the first party, you’re set.” With a sigh, he drank. “Boy, they do like to wear their bank accounts around their necks in the Hills.”

“And you just walk right in and pluck them off?”

“More or less. The tough part is not to be greedy—and to know who’s wearing rocks and who’s wearing glass. Lot of bullshit in California. Basically, you just have to be a good mimic. Rich people are creatures more of habit than imagination.”

“Thanks.”

“You dress right, make sure you’re seen at the right places—with a few of the right people—and nobody’s going to question your pedigree. The last time I used that routine, I checked into the Wilshire with three thousand dollars. I checked out with thirty grand. I like California.”

“Sounds to me like you can’t go back anytime soon.”

“I’ve been back. I tinted my hair, grew a little moustache, and wore jeans. I pruned Cassie Lawrence’s roses.”

“Cassie Lawrence? The professional piranha who disguises herself as a patron of the arts?”

A perfect description. “You’ve met?”

“Unfortunately. How much did you take her for?”

From the tone, Doug decided Whitney would’ve been pleased he’d had quite a haul. He also decided not to tell her he’d had a breeze casing the inside because Cassie had enjoyed watching him weed her azaleas without a shirt. She’d practically eaten him alive in bed. In return, he’d lifted an ornate ruby necklace and a pair of diamond earrings as big as Ping-Pong balls.

“Enough,” Doug answered at length. “I take it you don’t like her.”

“She has no class.” It was said simply, from a woman who did. “Did you sleep with her?”

He choked on his drink, then set it down carefully. “I don’t think—”

“So you did.” A bit disappointed, Whitney studied him. “I’m surprised I didn’t see the scars.” She studied him another moment, thoughtful, quiet. “Don’t you find that sort of thing demeaning?”

He could’ve strangled her without a qualm. True, there were times he slept with a mark and enjoyed himself— and made certain the mark enjoyed herself as well. Payment for payment. But as a rule, he found using sex as close to ugly as he wanted to get. “A job’s a job,” he said briefly. “Don’t tell me you’ve never slept with a client.”

She lifted a brow at him, the way an amused woman could. “I sleep with whom I choose,” she told him in a tone that stated she chose well.

“Some of us weren’t born with choices.” Opening his book again, he stuck his nose in it and fell silent.

She wasn’t going to make him feel guilty. Guilt was something he avoided more scrupulously than the police or a furious mark. The minute you let guilt start sucking at you, you were finished.

Funny, it didn’t seem to bother her a bit that he stole for a living. It didn’t bother her that he stole particularly from her class. She’d never blinked an eye at that. In fact, it was more than likely that he’d relieved some of her friends of excess personal property. She wasn’t the least concerned.

[Dalyia]

Just what kind of woman was she anyway? He thought he understood her thirst for adventure, for excitement and taking chances. He’d lived his life on little else. But it didn’t fit those cool, moneyed looks.

No, she hadn’t missed a beat when he’d told her he was a thief, but she’d looked at him with derision, and yes, dammit, pity, when she’d discovered he’d slept with a West-Coast shark for a handful of glitter.

And where had the glitter gotten him? Thinking back, Doug remembered he’d dumped the rocks on a fence in Chicago within twenty-four hours. After a routine haggle over price, a whim had taken him to Puerto Rico. Within three days, Doug had lost all but two thousand in the casinos. What had the glitter gotten him? he thought again, then grinned. One hell of a weekend.

Money just didn’t stick to him. There was always another game, a sure thing at the track or a big-eyed woman with a sob story and a breathy voice. Still, Doug didn’t consider himself a sucker. He was an optimist. He’d been born one and remained one even after more than fifteen years in the business. Otherwise, the kick would have gone out of it and he might as well be a lawyer.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars had passed through his hands. The operative words were passed through. This time would be different. It didn’t matter that he’d said so before, this time would be different. If the treasure was half as big as the papers indicated, he’d be set for life. He’d never have to work again—except for an occasional job to keep in shape.

He’d buy a yacht and sail from port to port. He’d head for the south of France, bake in the sun, and watch women. He’d keep one step ahead of Dimitri for the rest of his life. Because Dimitri, as long as he lived, would never let up. That, too, was part of the game.

But the best part was the doing, the planning, the maneuvering. He’d always found it more exciting to anticipate the taste of champagne than to finish the bottle. Madagascar was only hours away. Once there he could start applying everything he’d been reading along with his own skills and experience.

He’d have to pace himself to keep ahead of Dimitri— but not so far ahead he ran into Dimitri on the other end. The trouble was that he wasn’t sure how much his former employer knew about the contents of the envelope. Too much, he thought, absently touching a hand to his chest where it was still strapped. Dimitri was bound to know plenty because he always did. No one had ever crossed him and lived to enjoy it. Doug knew if he sat still too long he’d feel hot breath on the back of his neck.

He’d just have to play it by ear. Once they were there… He glanced over at Whitney. She was kicked back in her seat, eyes closed. In sleep she looked cool and serene and untouchable. Need stirred inside him, the need he’d always had for the untouchable. This time he’d just have to smother it.

It was strictly business between them, Doug mused. All business. Until he could talk her out of some cold cash and gently ditch her along the way. Maybe she’d been more help than he’d anticipated so far, but she was a type he understood. Rich and restless. Sooner or later, she’d become bored with the whole scheme. He had to get the cash before she did.

Certain he would, Doug pressed the button to release his seat back. He shut the book. What he’d read he wouldn’t forget. His gift for recall would have breezed him through law school or any other profession. He was satisfied that it helped in the career he’d chosen. He never needed notes when he cased a job because he didn’t forget. He never hit the same mark twice because names and faces stayed with him.

Money might slip through his fingers but details didn’t. Doug took it philosophically. You could always get more money. Life would be pretty dull if you put it all in stocks and bonds instead of on the wheel or the horses. He was satisfied. Because he knew the next few days would be long and hard, he was even better than satisfied. It was more exciting to find a diamond in a garbage heap than in a display cabinet. He was looking forward to digging.

Whitney slept. It was the movement of the plane beginning its long descent that woke her. Thank God, was her first thought. She was thoroughly sick of planes. If she’d been traveling alone, she’d have taken the Concorde. Under the circumstances, she hadn’t been willing to pick up the extra fare for Doug. His account in her little book was growing, and while she fully intended to collect every penny, she knew he fully intended she wouldn’t.

To look at him now, you’d think he was as sincere as a first-year Boy Scout. She studied him as he slept, his hair mussed from travel, his hands closed over the book on his lap. Anyone would’ve taken him for an ordinary man of some means on his way to a European vacation. That was part of his skill, she decided. The ability to blend in with any group he chose would be invaluable.

Just what group did he belong to? The sleazy, hard-edged members of the underworld who dealt in dark alleys? She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d asked about Butrain. Yes, she was sure he’d seen his share of dark alleys. But belong? No, it didn’t quite fit.

Even in the short time she’d known him she was certain he simply didn’t belong. He was a maverick, perhaps not always wise, but always restless. That was part of the appeal. He was a thief, but she thought he had a certain code of honor. A court might not recognize it, but she did. And respected it.

He wasn’t hard. She’d seen in his eyes when he spoke of Juan that he wasn’t hard. He was a dreamer. She’d seen that in his eyes when he spoke of the treasure. And he was a realist. She’d heard that in his voice when he spoke of Dimitri. A realist knew enough to fear. He was too complex to belong. And yet…

He’d been Cassie Lawrence’s lover. Whitney knew the West-Coast diamond ate men for breakfast. She was also very discriminating about whom she chose to share her sheets. What had Cassie seen? A young, virile man with a hard body? Perhaps that had been enough, but Whitney didn’t think so. Whitney had seen for herself that morning in Washington just how attractive Doug Lord was, from head to foot. And she’d been tempted. By more than his body, she admitted. Style. Doug Lord had his own style, and it was that, she believed, that helped him over the threshold of homes in Beverly Hills or Bel Air.

She’d thought she understood him until he’d been embarrassed by her remark about Cassie. Embarrassed and angry when she’d expected a shrug and an offhand remark. So, he had feelings, and values, she mused. It made him more interesting and likable if it came to that.

Likable or not, she was going to find out more about this treasure and soon. She had too much money invested to move much further blindly. She’d gone with him on impulse and stayed through necessity. Instinctively she knew she was safer with him than without. Safety and impulse aside, Whitney was too much a businesswoman to invest in unnamed stock. Before too much more time had passed, she’d have a look at what he hoarded. She might like him, even understand him to a point, but she didn’t trust him. Not an inch.

As he drifted awake, Doug came to the same conclusion about Whitney. He was going to keep the envelope close to his skin until he had the treasure in his hand.

As the plane began its final descent, they brought their chair backs up, smiled at each other, and calculated.

By the time they’d struggled with luggage and passed through customs, Whitney was more than ready to be horizontal in a stationary bed.

“Hotel de Crillon,” Doug told the cab driver and Whitney sighed.

“I apologize for ever doubting your taste.”

“Sugar, my problem’s always been twenty-four-carat taste.” He brushed at the ends of her hair more in reflex than design. “You look tired.”

“It hasn’t been a restful forty-eight hours. Not that I’m complaining,” she added. “But it’s going to feel marvelous to stretch out for the next eight.”

He merely grunted and watched Paris whiz by. Dimitri wouldn’t be far behind. His network of information was every bit as extensive as Interpol’s. Doug could only hope the few curves he had thrown would be enough to slow down the chase.

As he thought, Whitney struck up a conversation with the driver. Because it was in French, Doug couldn’t understand, but he caught the tone. Light, friendly, even flirtatious. Odd, he reflected. Most of the women he knew who’d grown up with portfolios never really saw the people who served them. It was one of the reasons he’d found it so easy to steal from them. The rich were insular, but no matter how often the less endowed said so, the rich weren’t unhappy. He’d bullshitted his way into their circle often enough to know that money could buy happiness. It just cost a bit more every year.

“What a cute little man.” Whitney stepped onto the curb and breathed in the scent of Paris. “He said I was the most beautiful woman to sit in his cab in five years.”

Doug watched her pass bills to the doorman before she breezed into the hotel. “And earned himself a fat tip, I’ll bet,” he muttered. The way she tossed money around, they’d be broke again before they landed in Madagascar.

“Don’t be such a cheapskate, Douglas.”

He ignored that and took her arm. “You read French as well as you speak it?”

“Need some help reading the menu?” she began, then stopped. “Tu ne parles pas français, mon cher?” While he studied her in silence, she smiled. “Fascinating. I should have caught on before that everything wasn’t translated.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle MacAllister!”

“Georges.” She sent the desk clerk a smile. “I couldn’t stay away.”

“Always a pleasure to have you back.” His eyes lit again as he spotted Doug over her shoulder. “Monsieur Lord. Such a surprise.”

“Georges.” Doug met Whitney’s speculative look briefly. “Mademoiselle MacAllister and I are traveling together. I hope you have a suite available.”

Romance bloomed in Georges’s head. If he hadn’t had a suite, Georges would have been tempted at that moment to vacate one. “But of course, of course. And your papa, mademoiselle, he is well?”

“Very well, thank you, Georges.”

“Charles will take your bags. Enjoy your stay.”

Whitney pocketed her key without glancing at it. She knew the beds in the Crillon were soft and seductive. The water in the taps was hot. A bath, a little caviar from room service, and a bed. In the morning she’d have a few hours in the beauty salon before they took the last leg of the journey.

“I take it you’ve stayed here before.” Whitney slipped into the elevator and leaned against the wall.

“From time to time.”

“A profitable place, I assume.”

Doug only smiled at her. “The service is excellent.”

“Hmmm.” Yes, she could see him here, sipping champagne and nibbling pâté. Just as she could see him running through alleys in D.C. “How lucky for me we’ve never crossed paths here before.” When the doors opened, she strolled out ahead. Doug took her arm and steered her to the left. “The ambience is important, I suppose, in your business,” she added.

He allowed his thumb to brush over the inside of her elbow. “I have a taste for rich things.”

She only gave him an easy smile that said he wouldn’t sample her until she was ready.

The suite was no less than she expected. Whitney let the bellman fuss a few moments, then eased him out with a tip. “So…” She plopped down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “What time do we leave tomorrow?”

Instead of answering, he took a shirt from his suitcase, balled it up until it wrinkled, then tossed it over a chair. As Whitney watched, he took various articles of clothing out and draped them here and there throughout the suite.

“Hotel rooms are so impersonal until you have your own things around, aren’t they?”

He mumbled something and dropped socks on the carpet. It wasn’t until he moved to her cases that she objected.

“Just a minute.”

“Half the game’s illusion,” he told her and tossed a pair of Italian heels into a corner. “I want them to think we’re staying here.”

She grabbed a silk blouse out of his hands. “We are staying here.”

“Wrong. Go hang a couple of things in the closet while I mess up the bathroom.”

Left with the blouse in her hands, Whitney tossed it down and followed him. “What are you talking about?”

“When Dimitri’s muscle gets here, I want them to think we’re still around. It might only buy us a few hours, but it’s enough.” Systematically, he went through the big, plush bath unwrapping soap and dropping towels. “Go get some of your face junk. We’ll leave a couple bottles.”

“Oh no we won’t. What the hell am I supposed to do without it?”

“We ain’t going to the ball, sugar.” He went into the master bedroom and tumbled the covers. “One bed’ll do,” he muttered. “They wouldn’t believe we weren’t sleeping together anyway.”

“Are you padding your ego or insulting mine?”

He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and blew out smoke, all without taking his eyes off her. For a moment, just a moment, she wondered what he was capable of. And if she’d like it after all. Saying nothing, he strode back into the next room and began to rifle her cases.

“Dammit, Doug, those are my things.”

“You’ll get them back, for Chrissake.” Choosing a handful of cosmetics at random, he started back to the bath.

“That moisturizer costs me sixty-five dollars a bottle.”

“For this?” Interested, he turned the bottle over. “And I thought you were practical.”

“I’m not leaving this room without it.”

“Okay.” He tossed it back to her and dumped the rest on the vanity. “This’ll do.” As he passed through the suite again, he stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and lit another. “We’ve got just about enough,” he decided as he crouched down to close Whitney’s case. A little swatch of lace caught his eye. He lifted out a pair of sheer bikini briefs. “You fit in these?” He could see her in them. He knew better than to let his imagination go in that direction, but he could see her in them and nothing else.

She resisted the urge to snatch them out of his hand. That was easy. The pressure that formed low in her stomach as he brushed his fingers over the material wasn’t as easily controlled. “When you’ve finished playing with my underwear, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“We check in.” After a moment, Doug tossed the little excuse of lace back in her bag. “Then we take our bags down the service elevator and get back to the airport. Our flight leaves in an hour.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

He snapped her bag closed. “Didn’t come up.”

“I see.” Whitney took a stroll around the suite until she thought her temper might hold. “Let me explain something to you. I don’t know how you worked before, and it isn’t important. This time”—she turned back to face him— “this time, you’ve got a partner. Whatever little plans you have in your head are half mine.”

“You don’t like the way I work, you can back out right now.”

“You owe me.” When he started to object, she took a step closer, drawing her book from her purse as she moved. “Should I read off the list?”

“Screw your list. I’ve got gorillas on my ass. I can’t worry about accounting.”

“You’d better worry about it.” Still calm, she dropped the book back into her purse. “Without me you’ll go treasure hunting with empty pockets.”

“Sugar, a couple hours in this hotel and I’d have enough money to take me anywhere I wanted to go.”

She didn’t doubt it, but her gaze remained level with his. “But you don’t have time to play cat burglar and we both know it. Partners, Douglas, or you fly to Madagascar with eleven dollars in your pocket.”

Damn her for knowing what he had, almost to the penny. He crushed out his cigarette, then picked up his own bag. “We’ve got a plane to catch. Partner.”

Her smile came slowly, and with such a gleam of satisfaction he was tempted to laugh. Whitney slipped on her shoes and picked up a tote bag. “Get that case, will you?” Before he could swear at her, she was moving to the door. “I only wish I’d had time for a bath.”

Because of the ease with which they rode the service elevator down and walked out of the hotel, Whitney imagined he’d used that escape route before. She decided she could drop a letter to Georges in a few days and ask him to store her things until she could pick them up. She hadn’t even had a chance to wear that blouse yet. And the color was very flattering.