Hot Ice

  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 be
en 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.

  All in all it seemed like a waste of time to her, but she was willing to humor Doug, for the moment. Besides, in the mood he was in they were better off in a plane than sharing a suite. And she wanted some time to think. If the papers he had, or some of them at any rate, were in French, then it was obvious he couldn’t read them. She could. A smile touched her lips. He wanted to ditch her, she wasn’t fool enough to think otherwise, but she’d just made herself even more useful. All she had to do now was persuade him to let her do some translating.

  Still, she wasn’t in the best of moods herself when they pulled up at the airport. The thought of going through customs again, of boarding another plane, was enough to make her snarl.

  “It seems we could’ve checked into a second-class hotel and had a few hours.” Sweeping back her hair, she thought of the bath again. Hot, steamy, fragrant. “I’m beginning to think you’re paranoid about this Dimitri. You treat him as though he’s omnipotent.”

  “They say he is.”

  Whitney stopped and turned. It was the way he said it, as though he half believed it, that made her flesh crawl. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Cautious.” He scanned the terminal as they walked. “You’re better off walking around a ladder than under it.”

  “The way you talk about him, you’d think he wasn’t human.”

&n
bsp; “He’s flesh and blood,” Doug murmured, “but that doesn’t make him human.”

  The shiver skimmed along her skin again. Turning toward Doug, she jolted into someone and dropped her bag. With an impatient mutter, she bent to pick it up. “Look, Doug, no one could possibly have caught up with us already.”

  “Shit.” Grabbing her arm, he yanked her into a gift shop. With another shove, she was up to her eyes in T-shirts.

  “If you wanted a souvenir—”

  “Just look, sweetheart. You can apologize later.” With a hand on the back of her neck, he steered her head to the left. After a moment, Whitney recognized the tall, dark man who’d chased them in Washington. The moustache, the little white bandage on his cheek. She didn’t need to be told that the two men with him belonged to Dimitri. And where was Dimitri himself? She caught herself sliding down lower and swallowing.

  “Is that—”

  “Remo.” Doug mumbled the word. “They’re faster than I thought they’d be.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth and swore. He didn’t like the feeling that the web was widening at Dimitri’s leisure. If he and Whitney had strolled another ten yards, they’d have walked into Remo’s arms. Luck was the biggest part of the game, he reminded himself. It was what he liked the best. “It’ll take them a while to track down the hotel. Then they’ll sit and wait.” He grinned a little, nodding. “Yeah, they’ll wait for us.”

  “How?” Whitney demanded. “For God’s sake how could they be here already?”

  “When you’re dealing with Dimitri, you don’t ask how. You just look over your shoulder.”

  “He’d need a crystal ball.”