Hot Ice

  “Think nothing of it. Perhaps you’d like a stroll through the gardens.” He rose, coming over to draw back her chair. “Afterward, I imagine you’d like a siesta. The heat here in midafternoon is oppressive.”

  “You’re very considerate.” She laid her hand on his arm, forcing her fingers not to curl.

  “You’re my guest, my dear. A very welcome one.”

  “A guest.” Her smile was cool again. Her voice, though she was amazed she accomplished it, was ironic. “Do you make it a habit to lock up your guests in their rooms, Mr. Dimitri?”

  “I make it a habit,” he said, lifting her fingers to his lips, “to lock up a treasure. Shall we walk?”

  Whitney tossed her hair back. She’d find the way out. Smiling at him, she promised herself she’d find the way out. If she didn’t—she still felt the cold brush of his lips on her skin—she’d be dead. “Of course.”

  C H A P T E R

  15

  So far so good. It wasn’t a very positive statement, but it was the best Whitney could do. She’d gotten through the first day as Dimitri’s “guest” without any problems. And without any bright ideas of how to check out—in one piece.

  He’d been gracious, courteous. Her slightest whim had been at her fingertips. She’d tested it by expressing a mild craving for chocolate soufflé. It had been served to her at the end of a long, extraordinary, seven-course meal.

  Though she’d wracked her brain during the three hours she’d been locked in her rooms that afternoon, Whitney had come up blank. There was no breaking through the doors, no jumping out the window, and the phone in her sitting room was only good for in-house calls.

  She might have considered making a break for it during the afternoon stroll in the gardens. Even as she’d been working out the details, Dimitri had plucked her a blush pink rosebud and confided in her how distressing it was for him to have to arrange for armed guards around the perimeter of the grounds. Security, as he put it, was the burden of the successful.

  As they’d reached the edge of the garden, he’d casually pointed out one of his staff. The wide-shouldered man had worn a trim, dark suit, sported a natty moustache, and carried a small, deadly Uzi.

  Whitney had decided she’d prefer a more subtle means of escape than a wild dash across the wide-open grounds.

  She tried to think of one during her afternoon confinement. Sooner or later her father would become concerned by her prolonged absence. But it might take another month before that came to pass.

  Dimitri would want to leave the island at some point. Probably soon, since he had his hands on the treasure. Whether she went with him or not—and was afforded more opportunities for escape—was dependent on his whim. Whitney didn’t care for having her fate rest on the whim of a man who wore blusher and paid others to kill for him.

  So she paced the suite through the afternoon, thinking up and rejecting plans as basic as tying the sheets together and climbing out the window, and as complicated as carving her way through the walls with a butter knife.

  In the end, she dressed in the sheer ivory silk that clung to every subtle curve and glittered with tiny seed pearls.

  For the better part of two hours, she faced Dimitri across a long, elegant mahogany table that gleamed dully under the light of two dozen candles. From the escargot to the soufflé and Dom Pérignon, the meal was exquisite in every detail. Chopin floated quietly in the background while they spoke of literature and art.

  There was no denying that Dimitri was a connoisseur of such things, and that he would have fit into the most exclusive club without a ripple. Before it was over, they’d dissected a Tennessee Williams play, discussed the intricacies of the French impressionists, and debated the subtleties of the Mikado.

  As the soufflé melted in her mouth, Whitney found herself yearning for the sticky rice and fruit she’d shared with Doug one night in a cave.

  While her conversation with Dimitri ran smoothly, she remembered all the arguments and sniping she’d had with Doug. The silk lay cool on her shoulders. She’d have traded the five-hundred-dollar dress in a heartbeat for the stiff cotton sack she’d worn on the road to the coast.

  Under the circumstances, with her life on the line, it might have been difficult to say she was bored. She was, miserably.

  “You seem a bit distant this evening, my dear.”

  “Oh?” Whitney brought herself back. “It’s an excellent meal, Mr. Dimitri.”

  “But the entertainment is perhaps a bit lax. A young, vital woman demands something more exciting.” With a benevolent smile, he pressed a button at his side. Almost instantaneously, a white-suited Oriental entered. “Ms. MacAllister and I will have coffee in the library. It’s quite extensive,” he added as the Oriental backed out of the room. “I’m pleased you share my affection for the written word.”

  She might have refused, but the idea of seeing more of the house could lead to finding some route of escape. It never hurt to have an edge, she decided. She smiled and nudged her dinner knife into the open evening bag she’d placed by her plate.

  “It’s always a pleasure to spend the evening with a man who appreciates the finer things.” Whitney rose, clipping the bag shut. She accepted his arm and told herself she would, without compunction, stick the knife into his heart at the first opportunity.

  “When a man travels as I do,” he began, “it’s often necessary to take certain things of import along. The right wine, the proper music, a few volumes of literature.” He walked smoothly through the house, smelling lightly of cologne. The formal white dinner jacket fit without a wrinkle.

  He was feeling benevolent, tolerant. Too many weeks had passed since he’d had a young, beautiful woman to dine with. He opened the tall double doors of the library and ushered her inside. “Browse if you like, my dear,” he told her, indicating the two levels of books.

  The room had terrace doors. That was something she made note of immediately. If there was any way to get out of her room during the night, this might be the method of escape. All she’d have to do then would be to get past the guards. And the guns.

  One step at a time, Whitney reminded herself as she skimmed a fingertip over leather-bound volumes.

  “My father has a library like this,” she commented. “I always found it a cozy place to spend the evening.”

  “Cozier with coffee and brandy.” Dimitri poured the brandy himself while the Oriental entered with the silver service. “Do give Chan your knife, my dear. He’s very particular about the washing up.” Whitney turned to see Dimitri watching her with a small smile and eyes that reminded her of a reptile—flat, cold, and dangerously patient.

  Without a word she took out the knife and handed it over to the servant. All the oaths that were on her tongue, the temper tantrum she barely held back, weren’t going to help her out of this one.

  “Brandy?” Dimitri asked when Chan left them alone.

  “Yes, thank you.” As cool as he, Whitney crossed the room and held out her hand.

  “Did you think to kill me with your dinner knife, my dear?”

  She shrugged, then downed brandy. It rolled in her stomach, then settled. “It was a thought.”

  He laughed, a long, rumbling sound that was indescribably unpleasant. He was again thinking of the mantis, and the struggles of the moth. “I admire you, Whitney. I really do.” He touched his glass to hers, swirled brandy, and drank. “I imagine you’d like to get a good look at the treasure again. After all, you hadn’t much time for it today, had you?”

  “No, Remo was in quite a hurry.”

  “My fault, my dear, truly my fault.” He touched a hand lightly to her shoulder. “I was impatient to meet you. To make amends, I’ll give you all the time you’d like right now.”

  He walked to the shelves along the east wall and drew back a section of books. Whitney saw the safe without surprise. It was a common enough camouflage. She wondered only a moment how he’d happened to learn of its presence from the owners. Then she tipped b
ack her brandy again. She was certain there was no aspect of the house they hadn’t told him of before they’d… given it over to him.

  He made no attempt to hide the combination from her as he spun the knob. Damn sure of himself, Whitney decided as she memorized the sequence. A man that sure of himself deserved a good kick in the ass.

  “Ah.” The sound was like a sigh over the smell of rich food as he drew out the old box. He’d already had it cleaned so that the wood shone. “Quite a collector’s piece.”

  “Yes.” Whitney swirled the brandy. It was as smooth and warm as any she’d ever tasted. She wondered what good it would do to toss it in his face. “I thought the same thing myself.”

  He cradled it in his hands carefully, almost hesitantly, like a new father with an infant. “It’s difficult for me to imagine someone with such delicate hands digging in the ground, even for this.”

  Whitney smiled, thinking what her delicate hands had been through over the last week. “I haven’t much aptitude for manual labor, but it was necessary.” She turned her hand over, studying it critically. “I will admit, I’d planned on a manicure before Remo issued your—invitation. This little venture’s been death on my hands.”

  “We’ll arrange for one tomorrow. In the meantime”— he set the chest down on the wide library table—“enjoy.”

  Taking him at his word, Whitney moved over to the box and tossed back the lid. The gems were no less impressive now than they’d been that morning. Reaching in, she drew out the necklace of diamonds and sapphires Doug had admired. No, gloated over, she recalled with a half smile. She’d take her cue from that.

  “Fabulous,” she breathed. “Utterly fabulous. One can grow so weary of neat little strands of pearls.”

  “You hold approximately a quarter of a million dollars in your hand.”

  Her lips curved. “A pleasant thought.”

  His heart beat a little faster as he watched her holding the jewels close, as the queen might have done, not too long before her humiliation and death. “Such gems belong against a woman’s skin.”

  “Yes.” With a laugh she held them up against her. The sapphires glowed like dark, brilliant eyes. Diamonds shivered excitedly. “It’s lovely and undoubtedly expensive but this…” She dropped the strand back into the box and chose the many-tiered diamond necklace. “This makes a statement. How do you suppose Marie managed to get it from the comtesse?”

  “So, you believe it’s the infamous necklace of the Diamond Affair?” She’d pleased him again.

  “I prefer to.” Whitney let the necklace drip through her fingers and catch the light. It was, as Doug had once said of the Sydney, like holding heat and ice at the same time. “I like to believe she was clever enough to turn the tables on the people who’d tried to use her.” She tried a ruby bracelet on for size, considering it. “Gerald Lebrun lived like a pauper with a queen’s ransom under his floor. Odd, don’t you think?”

  “Loyalty’s odd, unless it’s enhanced by fear.” He took the necklace from her, examining it. For the first time, she saw the greed without the polish. His eyes glowed, very much as Barns’s had when he’d pointed a gun at her kneecap. His tongue came out slowly to run over his lips. When he spoke again, his voice had the resonance, the fervor of an evangelist. “The Revolution itself, a fascinating time of upheaval, death, retribution. Can’t you feel it when you hold these in your hands? Blood, despair, lust, power. Peasants and politicians overthrowing a centuries-old monarchy. How?” He smiled at her with the diamonds gleaming in his hands, and the fever burning in his eyes. “Fear. What more appropriate name than the Reign of Terror? What more suitable spoils than a dead queen’s vanity?”

  He relished it. Whitney could see it in his eyes. It wasn’t simply the jewels, but the blood on them he coveted. She felt her fear die under waves of revulsion. Doug had been right, she realized. It was the winning that counted. She hadn’t lost yet.

  “A man like Lord would’ve fenced all this for a fraction of its value. Peasant.” She lifted her snifter again. “A man like you would have different plans.”

  “Perceptive as well as beautiful.” He’d married his second wife because her skin had been as pure as fresh cream. He’d gotten rid of her because her brain had been about the same consistency. Whitney was becoming more intriguing. Calmer, he ran the necklace through his hands. “I plan to enjoy the treasure. The cash value means little. I’m a very rich man.” It wasn’t said offhandedly, but with relish. Being rich was as important as virility, as intellect. More, he thought, because money could cushion the lack of either.

  “Collecting”—he skimmed a finger over the bracelet and onto her wrist—“things has become a hobby. At times, an obsessive one.”

  He could call it a hobby, she thought. He’d killed time and time again for the box and its contents, yet it meant no more to him than a handful of brightly colored rocks to a young boy. She fought to keep the revulsion off her face and the accusation from her voice.

  “Would you think me a poor sport if I told you I wish you hadn’t managed this particular hobby quite so well.” Sighing, she ran a hand over the glittering jewels. “I’d grown rather fond of the idea of owning all this.”

  “On the contrary, I admire your honesty.” Leaving her beside the chest, Dimitri walked over to pour the coffee. “And I understand you worked very hard for Marie’s treasure.”

  “Yes, I—” Whitney broke off. “I’m curious, Mr. Dimitri, just how did you learn of the treasure?”

  “Business. Cream, my dear?”

  “No, thank you. Black.” Fighting to hold back her impatience, Whitney crossed the room to the coffee service.

  “Did Lord tell you about Whitaker?” asked her host.

  Whitney accepted the coffee then forced herself to sit. “Only that he’d acquired the papers and then decided to put them on the market.”

  “Whitaker was a bit of a fool, but at times he was clever enough. He’d been, at one time, a business partner with Harold R. Bennett. You recognize the name?”

  “Of course.” She said it easily while her mind began to work frantically. Hadn’t Doug mentioned a general once? Yes, there’d been a general who’d been negotiating with Lady Smythe-Wright for the papers. “Bennett’s a retired five-star general and quite a businessman. He’s had some dealings with my father—professionally and on the golf course, which almost amounts to the same thing.”

  “I’ve always preferred chess to golf,” Dimitri commented. In the ivory silk, she shimmered so much that she might have replaced the glass queen that was in shards now. He remembered how well it had fit his hand. “So you know of General Bennett’s reputation.”

  “He’s well known as a patron of the arts, and a collector of the old and unique. A few years ago he led an expedition in the Caribbean and discovered a sunken Spanish galleon. He recovered somewhere around five and a half million in artifacts, coins, and jewels. What Whitaker pretended to do, Bennett did. And very successfully.”

  “You’re well informed. I like that.” He added cream and two generous teaspoons of sugar to his own coffee. “Bennett enjoys the hunt, shall we say. Egypt, New Zealand, the Congo, he’s looked for and found the priceless. According to Whitaker he was in the first stages of working out a deal with Lady Smythe-Wright for the papers she’d inherited. Whitaker had his connections, and a certain amount of charm where women were concerned. He slipped the deal from under Bennett’s nose. But unfortunately, he was an amateur.”

  With a weak heart, Whitney remembered. “So you learned from him where the papers were kept, and hired Douglas to steal them.”

  “Acquire them,” Dimitri corrected delicately. “Whitaker refused, even under duress, to tell me the contents of all the documents, but he did inform me that Bennett’s interest stemmed primarily from the cultural value of the treasure, its history. Naturally, the idea of acquiring a treasure that had belonged to Marie Antoinette, whom I admired particularly for her opulence and ambition, was irresistible.”
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  “Naturally. If you don’t plan to sell the contents of the box, Mr. Dimitri, what do you plan to do with it?”

  “Why, have it, Whitney.” He smiled at her. “Fondle it, gaze upon it. Own it.”

  While Doug’s attitude had frustrated her, at least she understood it. He’d seen the treasure as a means to an end. Dimitri saw it as a personal possession. A dozen arguments sprang up in her mind. She repressed them. “I’m sure Marie would have approved.”

  As he considered this, Dimitri gazed toward the ceiling. Royalty was another of his fascinations. “She would have, yes. Greed is looked on as one of the seven deadly sins, but so few understand its basic pleasure.” He dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin before he rose. “I hope you’ll forgive me, my dear, I’m accustomed to retiring early.” He pressed a small button that was worked cleverly into the carving on the mantel. “Perhaps you’d like to choose a book before you go up?”

  “Please don’t think you have to entertain me, Mr. Dimitri. I’ll be quite happy on my own, just browsing.”

  With another smile, he patted her hand. “Perhaps another time, Whitney. I’m sure you need your rest after your experiences of the last few weeks.” There was a quiet knock at the door. “Remo will show you to your room. Sleep well.”

  “Thank you.” She set down her coffee cup and rose, but had taken no more than two steps when Dimitri’s hand clamped over her wrist. She looked down at the lightly polished nails, and the stub. “The bracelet, my dear.” His fingers pressed hard enough to rub against bone. She didn’t wince.

  “Sorry,” she said easily, holding her hand out.

  Dimitri unhooked the gold and rubies from her wrist. “You’ll join me for breakfast, I hope.”

  “Of course.” Whitney swept toward the door, pausing as Dimitri opened it. She stood trapped between him and Remo. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Whitney.”

  She held to cool silence until the door of the sitting room