Hot Ice

  should have expected no less from a man of Dimitri’s reputation. On the outside, it was elegant, almost feminine, white and clean with wrought-iron balconies that would provide a lovely view of the bay. The grounds were spacious and well kept, rich with the ornate tropical flowers of the region and shaded with palms. She studied it with a sick, creeping dread.

  Remo stopped the car at the end of the crushed white gravel drive. Her courage had begun to fail her, but Whitney fought to find it again. A man who could acquire a place like this had brains. Brains could be dealt with.

  It was Barns, with his black, greedy eyes and eager grin who worried her.

  “Well, I must say this is preferable to the hotel.” With the air of someone preparing to go to a dinner party, Whitney alighted from the car. She plucked a hibiscus and strolled to the front door twirling it under her nose.

  At Remo’s knock, the door was opened by another dark-suited man. Dimitri insisted on a neat, businesslike appearance in his employees. Every one would wear a tie with their blunt-nose .45. When the man smiled, he showed a badly chipped front tooth. Whitney had no idea he’d acquired it when he’d smashed through the window of Godiva Chocolatiers.

  “So you got her.” Unlike Remo, he looked at the chipped tooth as an occupational hazard. He had to admire a woman who could drive with such nerveless lunacy. But he didn’t feel the same tolerance toward Doug. “Where’s Lord?”

  Remo didn’t even glance at him. He only answered to one man. “Keep an eye on her,” he ordered and went to report directly to Dimitri. Because he carried the treasure, he walked quickly, with the air of a man in charge. The last time he’d reported in, he’d nearly crawled.

  “So what’s the story, Barns?” The dark-suited man cast a long look at Whitney. Nice-looking lady. He figured Dimitri had some interesting plans for her. “You forget Lord’s ears for the boss?”

  Barns’s giggle brought a chill to Whitney’s skin. “She killed him,” he said cheerfully.

  “Oh yeah?”

  She caught the interested look, then brushed back her hair. “That’s right. Any way to get a drink in this place?”

  Without waiting for an answer she walked down the wide white hall and into the first room.

  It was obviously a formal parlor. Whoever had decorated it leaned toward the ornate. Whitney would have chosen something a great deal breezier.

  The windows, twice as tall as she, were festooned in scarlet brocade. As she strolled across the room, she wondered if it would be possible for her to open them and escape. Doug would be back at the hotel by now, she calculated as she ran her fingertip along an intricately carved drum table. But she couldn’t count on him to come charging in like the Seventh Cavalry. Whatever move she made, she made on her own.

  Knowing both men were watching her every step, she walked to a Waterford decanter and poured. Her fingers were numb and damp. A little shot of courage wouldn’t hurt, she decided. Especially since she didn’t yet know what she was up against. As if she had all the time in the world, she sat in a high-backed Queen Anne chair and began to sip some very smooth vermouth.

  Her father had always said you could negotiate with a man who stocked a good bar. Whitney drank again and hoped he was right.

  Minutes passed. She sat in the chair and drank, trying to ignore the terror that built inside of her. After all, she reasoned, if he was simply going to kill her, he’d have done so by now. Wouldn’t he? Wasn’t it more likely he’d hold her for ransom? It might not sit well with her to be exchanged for a few hundred thousand dollars, but it was a far better fate than a bullet.

  Doug had spoken of torture as though it were Dimitri’s hobby. Thumbscrews and Chaucer. She swallowed more vermouth, knowing she’d never keep her wits if she thought too deeply about the man who now had her life in his hands.

  Doug was safe. At least for the moment. Whitney concentrated on that.

  When Remo came back she tensed all over, muscle by muscle. With deliberate care, she lifted the glass to her lips again.

  “It’s terribly rude to keep a guest waiting more than ten minutes,” she said casually.

  He touched the scar on his cheek. She didn’t miss the movement. “Mr. Dimitri would like you to join him for lunch. He thought you’d like to bathe and change first.”

  A reprieve. “Very considerate.” Rising, she set her glass aside. “However, I’m afraid you rushed me away without my luggage. I simply haven’t a thing to wear.”

  “Mr. Dimitri’s seen to that.” Taking her arm, a little too firmly for comfort, Remo led her into the hall and up the sweeping stairs to the second floor. It wasn’t just the hallway that smelled like a funeral parlor, she realized, but the entire house. He pushed open the door. “You got an hour. Be ready, he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Whitney stepped inside and heard the lock turn behind her.

  She covered her face with her hands a moment because she couldn’t stop the shaking. A minute, she told herself as she began to breathe deeply. She only needed a minute. She was alive. That was the point to concentrate on. Slowly, she lowered her hands and looked around.

  Dimitri wasn’t stingy, she decided. The suite he’d given her was as elegant as the outside of the house had promised. The sitting room was wide and long, with porcelain vases of fresh flowers in abundance. The colors were feminine, roses and pearly grays on the silk wallpaper, picking up the tones in the Oriental rug on the floor The daybed was a deeper, duskier hue, plumped with hand-worked pillows. All in all, she decided professionally, a neat, stylish job. Then she was at the windows, wrenching them open.

  One look told her it was hopeless. The drop was nearly a hundred feet from the ornate little balcony. There’d be no nimble leaping out as there’d been in the coastal inn. Closing the windows again, Whitney began to explore the suite for other possibilities.

  The bedroom was perfectly lovely, with a large, polished Chippendale bed and delicate china lamps. The rosewood armoire was already open, showing her a selection of clothes no red-blooded woman would turn her nose up at. She fingered the sheer ivory silk of a sleeve and turned away. It would appear Dimitri expected her to be in residence for some time. She could take it as a good sign, or she could worry about it.

  Glancing over, Whitney caught a look at herself in a cheval mirror. She walked closer. Her face was pale, her clothes streaked and rent. Her eyes, she saw, were frightened again. Disgusted, she began to pull off her blouse.

  Dimitri wasn’t going to see some tattered quivering female over lunch, she determined. If she could do nothing else at the moment, she could take care of that. Whitney MacAllister knew how to dress for any occasion.

  She checked every door leading to her suite and found them all firmly locked from the outside. Every window she opened led her to the realization that she was well and truly trapped. For now.

  Because it was the next logical step, Whitney gave herself to the luxury of a bath in the deep marble tub scented generously with the oils Dimitri had provided. On the vanity was makeup, from foundation to mascara, all in the brand and shades she preferred.

  So, he was thorough, Whitney told herself as she made use of it. The perfect host. A bottle of amethyst crystal held her scent. She brushed her freshly shampooed hair, then drew it back from her face with two mother-of-pearl combs. Another gift from her host.

  Going to the closet, she gave her choice of outfit all the care and deliberation a warrior might have given to his choice of armor. In her position, she considered it every bit as important. She chose a mint green sundress with yards of skirt and no back, giving it a bit of flare with a silk scarf wound and knotted at her waist.

  This time when she looked in the full-length mirror, she gave a nod of satisfaction. She was ready for anything.

  When the knock sounded on the door of the sitting room, she answered it boldly. She gave Remo the cool ice-princess look Doug admired.

  “Mr. Dimitri’s waiting.”

  Without a word she sw
ept by him. Her palms were damp, but she resisted the urge to curl her hands into fists. Instead, she ran her fingers lightly over the banister as she descended the stairs. If she was walking toward her execution, she thought, at least she was walking toward it in style. Pressing her lips together only briefly, she followed Remo through the house and out onto a wide, flower-bordered terrace.

  “Ms. MacAllister, at last.”

  She wasn’t certain what she’d expected. Certainly after all the horror stories she’d lived through and heard, she expected someone fierce and cruel and larger than life. The man who rose from the smoked-glass and wicker table was pale and small and unimpressive. He had a round, mild face and a thinning thatch of dark hair swept back from it. His skin was pale, so pale it looked as though he never saw the sun. She had a quick, giddy flash that if she poked her finger into his cheek it would collapse like soft, warm dough. His eyes were nearly colorless, a light, watery blue under dark, inoffensive brows. She couldn’t decide if he were forty or sixty, or somewhere in between.

  His mouth was thin, his nose small, and his round cheeks, unless she missed her guess, had been lightly tinted with blusher.

  The white, rather dapper suit he wore didn’t quite disguise his paunch. It might’ve been tempting to pass him off as a foolish little man, but she noticed the nine thinly glossed nails and the stub of his pinky.

  Against the chubby, glossy appearance, the deformity clashed and rattled. He held his hand, palm out, in greeting so that she could see where the skin had grown thick and tough over the ridge. The palm was as smooth as a young girl’s.

  Whatever his appearance, it wouldn’t do to forget that Dimitri was as dangerous and shrewd as anything that slithered out from the swamp. The breadth of his power might not have been apparent on the surface, but he dismissed the lean, rangy Remo with no more than a look.

  “I’m so pleased to have you join me, my dear. There’s nothing so depressing as lunching alone. I’ve some lovely Campari.” He lifted yet another piece of Waterford. “Can I persuade you to try some?”

  She opened her mouth to speak and nothing came out. It was the glint of pleasure in his eyes that had her stepping forward. “I’d love it.” Whitney swept up to the table. The closer she came, the more the fear built. It was irrational, she thought. He looked like someone’s pompous little uncle. But the fear built. His eyes, she realized, never seemed to blink. He just stared and stared and stared. She had to concentrate on keeping her hand steady as she reached for the glass. “Your house, Mr. Dimitri, is quite a showpiece.”

  “I take that as a high compliment from someone with your professional reputation. I was fortunate to find it on short notice.” He sipped, then dabbed at his mouth delicately with white linen. “The owners were—gracious enough to give it over to me for a few weeks. I’m rather fond of the gardens. A pleasant respite in this sticky heat.” In a courtly gesture he walked over to hold her chair. Whitney had to repress a surge of panic and revulsion. “I’m sure you must be hungry after your journey.”

  She looked over her shoulder and forced herself to smile. “Actually I dined quite well last evening, again due to your hospitality.”

  Mild curiosity crossed his face as he walked back to his own chair. “Indeed?”

  “In the jeep Douglas and I acquired from your— employees?” At his nod, she continued. “There was a lovely bottle of wine and a very enjoyable meal. I’m rather fond of beluga.”

  She saw the caviar, black and shiny, heaped on ice beside her. Whitney helped herself.

  “I see.”

  She wasn’t certain if she’d annoyed or amused him. Taking a bite, she smiled. “Again, I must say your pantry’s well stocked.”

  “I hope you’ll continue to find my hospitality to your liking. You must try the lobster bisque, my dear. Let me serve you.” With a grace and an economy of movement she wouldn’t have expected, Dimitri dipped a silver ladle into the soup tureen. “Remo informs me you’ve disposed of our Mr. Lord.”

  “Thank you. It smells marvelous.” Whitney took her time, sipping at the soup. “Douglas was becoming a bit of a bother.” It was a game, she told herself. And she’d just begun to play. The little shell she wore swung lightly on its chain as she reached for her glass. She was playing to win. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Indeed.” Dimitri ate slowly and with delicacy. “Mr. Lord’s been a bother to me for some time.”

  “Stealing the papers from under your nose.” She saw the white, manicured fingers tighten on the soupspoon. A nerve, she thought. He wouldn’t take kindly to being made a fool of. She resisted the urge to swallow and smiled instead. “Douglas was clever, in his own fashion,” she said easily. “A pity he was so crude.”

  “I suppose one must concede his cleverness to a point,” Dimitri agreed. “Unless I blame my own staff for ineptitude.”

  “Perhaps both are true.”

  He acknowledged this with the slightest of nods. “Then again, he had you, Whitney. I may call you Whitney?”

  “Of course. I admit I did help him. I believe in watching how the cards fall.”

  “Very wise.”

  “There were several times when…” She trailed off, going back to her soup. “I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, Mr. Dimitri, but Douglas was often rash and illogical. However, he was easily led.”

  He watched her eat, admiring the fine-boned hands, the glow of healthy young skin against the green dress. It would be a pity to mar it. Perhaps he could find certain uses for her. He thought of her installed in his house in Connecticut, dignified and elegant over meals, submissive and obedient in bed. “And young and roughly attractive, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Oh yes.” She managed another smile. “He was an intriguing diversion for a few weeks. On the long run, I prefer a man with style rather than physicality. Some caviar, Mr. Dimitri?”

  “Yes.” As he accepted the dish from her, he let his skin rub hers and felt her stiffen at the brush of his deformed hand. The small show of weakness excited him. He remembered the pleasure it brought him to watch a praying mantis capture a moth—the way the lean, intelligent insect drew the frantic prey closer, waiting patiently while the struggles slowed, weakened, until at last it devoured the bright, fragile wings. Sooner or later, the young, the weak, and the delicate always submitted. Like the mantis, Dimitri had patience and style and cruelty.

  “I must say I find it difficult to believe a woman of your sensitivity could shoot a man. The vegetables in this salad are quite fresh. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” As he spoke he began to toss the lettuce in a large serving bowl.

  “Perfect for a sultry afternoon,” she agreed. “Sensitivity,” Whitney continued, studying the liquid in her glass, “becomes secondary to necessity, don’t you think, Mr. Dimitri? After all, I am a businesswoman. And as I said, Douglas was becoming a bit of a bother. I believe in opportunities.” She lifted her glass, smiling over the rim. “I saw the opportunity to be rid of a nuisance and to have the papers. I merely took them. He was, after all, only a thief.”

  “Precisely.” He was beginning to admire her. Though he wasn’t completely convinced her cool demeanor was fact, there was no denying breeding. Born the illegitimate son of a religious fanatic and an itinerant musician, Dimitri had a deep-rooted respect and envy of breeding. Over the years, he’d had to make do with the closest thing to it. Power.

  “So you took the papers and found the treasure yourself?”

  “It was simple enough. The papers made it clear. Have you seen them?”

  “No.” Again she saw his fingers tighten. “Only a sample of them.”

  “Oh well, they’ve done the job now in any case.” Whitney dipped into her salad.

  “I still haven’t seen all of them,” he said mildly, his eyes on hers.

  She thought fleetingly that they were tucked away again in the jeep with Doug. “I’m afraid you never will,” she told him, letting the satisfaction of the truth ease her nerves. “I destroyed th
em after I’d finished. I don’t care for loose ends.”

  “Wise. And what did you plan to do with the treasure?”

  “Do?” Whitney glanced up in surprise. “Why enjoy it, of course.”

  “Exactly,” he agreed, pleased. “And now I have it. And you.”

  She waited a beat, meeting his eyes directly. The salad nearly stuck in her throat. “When one plays, one must accept the prospect of losing, no matter how distasteful.”

  “Well said.”

  “Now I’m dependent on your hospitality.”

  “You see things very clearly, Whitney. That pleases me. It also pleases me to have beauty within arm’s length.”

  The food rolled uncomfortably in her stomach. She held out her glass, waiting until he’d filled it to within an inch of the rim. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I ask for how long you intend to extend me your hospitality?”

  He topped off his own glass and toasted her. “Not at all. For as long as it pleases me.”

  Knowing if she put anything else in her stomach, it might not stay down, she ran a fingertip around the rim of the glass. “It occurred to me that you might be considering demanding a ransom from my father.”

  “Please, my dear.” He gave her a light smile, touched with disapproval. “I don’t consider such things proper luncheon conversation.”

  “Just a thought.”

  “I must ask you not to worry about such things. I’d much prefer you to simply relax and enjoy your stay. I trust your rooms are adequate?”

  “Lovely.” She found she wanted to scream now much more than she’d wanted to when she’d turned and faced Barns. His pale eyes stayed steady and open, like a fish’s. Or a dead man’s. Briefly she lowered her lashes. “I haven’t thanked you for the wardrobe, which as it happens, I was in desperate need of.”