Hot Ice

  “Politics,” Doug said. “Remember what your old man told you about connections? If you had one in the CIA and you made a call, pushed a button, you could be on top of someone without leaving your easy chair. A call to the Agency, to the Embassy, to Immigration, and Dimitri had a handle on our passports and visas before the ink was dry.”

  She moistened her lips and tried to pretend her throat hadn’t gone dry. “Then he knows where we’re going.”

  “You bet your ass. All we have to do is stay one step ahead. Just one.”

  Whitney let out a little sigh when she realized her heart was thumping. The excitement was back. If she gave herself time it would smother the fear. “Looks like you know what you’re doing after all.” When he turned his head to scowl at her she gave him a quick, friendly kiss. “Smarter than you look, Lord. Let’s go to Madagascar.”

  Before she could rise, he caught her chin in his hand. “We’re going to finish this there.” His fingers tightened briefly, but long enough. “All of this.”

  She met him look for look. They had too far to go to give in now. “Maybe,” she said. “But we have to get there first. Why don’t we catch that plane?”

  Remo picked up a silky bit of fluff Whitney would have called a nightgown. He balled it into his fist. He’d have his hands on Lord and the woman before morning. This time they wouldn’t slip through his fingers and make him look like a fool. When Doug Lord walked back in the door he’d put a bullet between his eyes. And the woman—he’d take care of the woman. This time… slowly he ripped the gown in half. The silk tore with hardly a whisper. When the phone rang, he jerked his head, signaling the other men to flank the door. Using the tip of his thumb and finger, Remo lifted the receiver. When he heard the voice, his sweat glands opened.

  “You’ve missed them again, Remo.”

  “Mr. Dimitri.” He saw the other men look over and turned his back. It was never wise to let fear show. “We’ve found them. As soon as they come back, we’ll—”

  “They won’t be back.” With a long, smooth sigh, Dimitri blew out smoke. “They’ve been spotted at the airport, Remo, right under your nose. The destination is Antananarivo. Your tickets are waiting for you. Be prompt.”

  C H A P T E R

  4

  Whitney pushed open the wooden shutters on the window and took a long look at Antananarivo. It didn’t, as she’d thought it would, remind her of Africa. She’d spent two weeks once in Kenya and remembered the heady morning scent of meat smoking on sidewalk grills, of towering heat and a cosmopolitan flare. Africa was only a narrow strip of water away, but Whitney saw nothing from her window that resembled what she remembered of it.

  Nor did she find a tropical island flare. She didn’t sense the lazy gaiety she’d always associated with islands and island people. What she did sense, though she wasn’t yet sure why, was a country completely unique to itself.

  This was the capital of Madagascar, the heart of the country, city of open-air markets and hand-drawn carts existing in complete harmony and total chaos alongside high-rise office buildings and sleek modern cars. It was a city, so she expected the habitual turmoil that brewed in cities. Yet what she saw was peaceful: slow, but not lazy. Perhaps it was just the dawn, or perhaps it was inherent.

  The air was cool with dawn so that she shivered, but didn’t turn away. It didn’t have the smell of Paris, or Europe, but of something riper. Spice mixed with the first whispers of heat that threatened the morning chill. Animals. Few cities carried even a wisp of animal in their air. Hong Kong smelled of the harbor and London of traffic. Antananarivo smelled of something older that wasn’t quite ready to fade under concrete or steel.

  There was a haze as heat hovered above the cooler ground. Even as she stood, Whitney could feel the temperature change, almost degree by degree. In another hour, she thought, the sweat would start to roll and the air would smell of that as well.

  She had the impression of houses stacked on top of houses, stacked on top of more houses, all pink and purple in the early light. It was like a fairy tale: sweet and a little grim around the edges.

  The town was all hills, hills so steep and breathless that stairs had been dug, built into rock and earth to negotiate them. Even from a distance they seemed worn and old and pitched at a terrifying angle. She saw three children and their dog heedlessly racing down and thought she might get winded just watching them.

  She could see Lake Anosy, the sacred lake, steel blue and still, ringed by the jacaranda trees that gave it the exotic flare she’d dreamed of. Because of the distance, she could only imagine the scent would be sweet and strong. Like so many other cities, there were modern buildings, apartments, hotels, a hospital, but sprinkled among them were thatched roofs. A stone’s throw away were rice paddies and small farms. The fields would be moist and glitter in the afternoon sun. If she looked up toward the highest hill, she could see the palaces, glorious in the dawn, opulent, arrogant, anachronistic. She heard the sound of a car on the wide avenue below.

  So they were here, she thought, stretching and drawing in the cool air. The plane trip had been long and tedious, but it had given her time to adjust to what had happened and to make some decisions of her own. If she was honest, she had to admit that she’d made her decision the moment she’d stepped on the gas and started her race with Doug. True, it had been an impulse, but she’d stick by it. If nothing else, the quick stop in Paris had convinced her that Doug was smart and she was in for the count. She was thousands of miles away from New York now, and the adventure was here.

  She couldn’t change Juan’s fate, but she could have her own personal revenge by beating Dimitri to the treasure. And laughing. To accomplish it, she needed Doug Lord and the papers she’d yet to see. See them she would. It was a matter of learning how to get around Doug.

  Doug Lord, Whitney mused, stepping away from the window to dress. Who and what was he? Where did he come from and just where did he intend to go?

  A thief. Yes, she thought he was a man who might lift stealing to the level of a profession. But he wasn’t a Robin Hood. He might steal from the rich, but she couldn’t picture him giving to the poor. Whatever he—acquired, he’d keep. Yet she couldn’t condemn him for it. For one, there was something about him, some flash she’d seen right from the beginning. A lack of cruelty and a dash of what was irresistible to her. Daring.

  Then, too, she’d always believed if you excelled at something, you should pursue it. She had an idea that he was very good at what he did.

  A womanizer? Perhaps, she thought, but she’d dealt with womanizers before. Professional ones who could speak three languages and order the best champagne were less admirable than a man like Doug Lord who would womanize in all good humor. That didn’t worry her. He was attractive, even appealing when he wasn’t arguing with her. She could handle the physical part of it

  Though she could remember what it was like to lie beneath him with his mouth a teasing inch above hers. There’d been a pleasant, breathless sort of sensation she’d have liked to explore a bit further. She could remember what it was like to wonder just how it would feel to kiss that interesting, arrogant mouth.

  Not as long as they were business partners, Whitney reminded herself as she shook out a skirt. She’d keep things on the practical sort of level she could mark down in her notebook. She’d keep Doug Lord at a careful distance until she had her share of the winnings in her hand. If something happened later, then it happened. With a half smile, she decided it might be fun to anticipate it.

  “Room service.” Doug breezed in, carrying a tray. He checked a moment, taking a brief but thorough look at Whitney, who stood by the bed in a sleek, buff-colored teddy. She could make a man’s mouth water. Class, he thought again. A man like him had better watch his step when he started to have fantasies about class. “Nice dress,” he said easily.

  Refusing to give him any reaction, Whitney stepped into the skirt. “Is that breakfast?”

  He’d break through that cool
eventually, he told himself. In his own time. “Coffee and rolls. We’ve got things to do.”

  She drew on a blouse the color of crushed raspberries. “Such as?”

  “I checked the train schedule.” Doug dropped into a chair, crossed his ankles on the table, and bit into a roll. “We can be on our way east at twelve-fifteen. Meantime we’ve got to pick up some supplies.”

  She took her coffee to the dresser. “Such as?”

  “Backpacks,” he said, watching the sun rise over the city outside. “I’m not lugging that leather thing through the forest.”

  Whitney took a sip of coffee before picking up her brush. It was strong, European style, and thick as mud. “As in hiking?”

  “You got it, sugar. We’ll need a tent, one of those new lightweight ones that fold up to nothing.”

  She drew the brush in a long, slow stroke through her hair. “Anything wrong with hotels?”

  With a quick smirk, he glanced over, then said nothing at all. Her hair looked like gold dust in the morning light. Fairy dust. He found it difficult to swallow. Rising, he paced over to the window so that his back was to her. “We’ll use public transportation when I think it’s safe, then go through the back door. I don’t want to advertise our little expedition,” he muttered. “Dimitri isn’t going to give up.”

  She thought of Paris. “You’ve convinced me.”

  “The less we use public roads and towns, the less chance he has of picking up our scent.”

  “Makes sense.” Whitney wound her hair into a braid and secured the end with a swatch of ribbon. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  “We’ll travel by rail as far as Tamatave.” He turned, grinning. With the sun at his back he looked more like a knight than a thief. His hair fell to his collar, dark, a bit unruly. There was a light of adventure in his eyes. “Then, we go north.”

  “And when do I see what it is that’s taking us north?”

  “You don’t need to. I’ve seen it.” But he was already calculating how he could get her to translate pieces for him without giving her the whole.

  Slowly, she tapped her brush against her palm. She wondered how long it would be before she could translate some of the papers, and keep a few snatches of information to herself. “Doug, would you buy a pig in a poke?”

  “If I liked the odds.”

  With a half smile, she shook her head. “No wonder you’re broke. You have to learn how to hang on to your money.”

  “I’m sure you could give me lessons.”

  “The papers, Douglas.”

  They were strapped to his chest again. The first thing he was going to buy was a knapsack where he could store them safely. His skin was raw from the adhesive. He was certain Whitney would have some pretty ointment that would ease the soreness. He was equally sure she’d mark the cost of it in her little notebook.

  “Later.” When she started to speak again, he held up a hand. “I’ve got a couple of books along you might like to read. We’ve got a long trip and plenty of time. We’ll talk about it. Trust me, okay?”

  She waited a moment, watching him. Trust, no, she wasn’t foolish enough to feel it. But as long as she held the purse strings, they were a team. Satisfied, she swung her handbag strap over her shoulder and held out her hand. If she was going on a quest, she’d just as soon it be with a knight who had some tarnish on him. “Okay, let’s go shopping.”

  Doug led her downstairs. As long as she was in a good mood, he might as well make his pitch. Companionably, he swung an arm around her shoulder. “So, how’d you sleep?”

  “Just fine.”

  On their way through the lobby, he plucked a small purple blossom from a vase and tucked it behind her ear. Passionflower—he thought it might suit her. Its scent was strong and sweet, as a tropical flower’s should be. The gesture touched her, even as she distrusted it. “Too bad we don’t have much time to play tourist,” he said conversationally. “The Queen’s Palace is supposed to be something to see.”

  “You have a taste for the opulent?”

  “Sure. I always figured it was nice to live with a little flash.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “I’d rather have a feather bed than a gold one.”

  “‘They say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I now know that they meant money.’”

  She stopped in her tracks and stared at him. What kind of a thief quoted Byron? “You continue to surprise me.”

  “If you read you’re bound to pick up something.” Shrugging, Doug decided to steer away from philosophy and back to practicality. “Whitney, we agreed to divide the treasure fifty-fifty.”

  “After you pay me what you owe me.”

  He gritted his teeth on that. “Right. Since we’re partners, it seems to me we ought to divide the cash we have fifty-fifty.”

  She turned her head to give him a pleasant smile. “Does it seem like that to you?”

  “A matter of practicality,” he told her breezily. “Suppose we got separated—”

  “Not a chance.” Her smile remained pleasant as she tightened her hold on her purse. “I’m sticking to you like an appendage until this is all over, Douglas. People might think we’re in love.”

  Without breaking rhythm, he changed tactics. “It’s also a matter of trust.”

  “Whose?”

  “Yours, sugar. After all, if we’re partners, we have to trust each other.”

  “I do trust you.” She draped a friendly arm around his waist. The mist was burning off and the sun was climbing. “As long as I hold the bankroll—sugar.”

  Doug narrowed his eyes. Classy wasn’t all she was, he thought grimly. “Okay then, how about an advance?”

  “Forget it.”

  Because choking her was becoming tempting, he broke away to face her down. “Give me one reason why you should hold all the cash?”

  “You want to trade it for the papers?”

  Infuriated, he spun away to stare at the whitewashed house behind him. In the dusty side yard, flowers and vines tangled in wild abandon. He caught the scents of breakfast cooking and overripe fruit.

  There was no way he could give her the slip as long as he was broke. There was no way he could justify lifting her purse and leaving her stranded. The alternative left him exactly where he was—stuck with her. The worst of it was he was probably going to need her. Sooner or later he’d need someone to translate the correspondence written in French, for no other reason than his own nagging curiosity. Not yet, he thought. Not until he was on more solid ground. “Look, dammit, I’ve got eight dollars in my pocket.”

  If he had much more, she reflected, he’d dump her without a second thought. “Change from the twenty I gave you in Washington.”

  Frustrated, he started down a set of steep stairs. “You’ve got a mind like a damn accountant.”

  “Thanks.” She hung on to the rough wooden rail and wondered if there were any other way down. She shielded her eyes and looked. “Oh look, what’s that, a bazaar?” Quickening her pace, she dragged Doug back with her.

  “Friday market,” he grumbled. “The zoma. I told you that you should read the guidebook.”

  “I’d rather be surprised. Let’s take a look.”

  He went along because it was as easy, and perhaps cheaper, to buy some of the supplies in the open market as it was to buy them in one of the shops. There was time before the train left, he thought with a quick check of his watch. They might as well enjoy it.

  There were thatch-roofed structures and wooden stalls under wide white umbrellas. Clothes, fabrics, gemstones were spread out for the serious buyer or the browser. Always a serious buyer, Whitney spotted an interesting mix of quality and junk. But it wasn’t a fair, it was business. The market was organized, crowded, full of sound and scent. Wagons drawn by oxen and driven by men wrapped in white lambas were crammed with vegetables and chickens. Animals clucked and mooed and snorted in varying degrees of complaint as flies buzzed. A few dogs milled around, sniff
ing, and were shooed away or ignored.

  She could smell feathers and spice and animal sweat. True, the roads were paved, there were sounds of traffic and not too far away the windows of a first-class hotel glistened in the burgeoning sun. A goat shied at a sudden noise and pulled on his tether. A child with mango juice dripping down his chin tugged on his mother’s skirt and babbled in a language Whitney had never heard. She watched a man in baggy pants and a peaked hat point and count out coins. Caught by two scrawny legs, a chicken squawked and struggled to fly. Feathers drifted. On a rough blanket was a spread of amethysts and garnets that glinted dully in the early sun. She started to reach out, just to touch, when Doug pulled her to a display of sturdy leather moccasins.

  “There’ll be plenty of time for baubles,” he told her and nodded toward the walking shoes. “You’re going to need something more practical than those little strips of leather you’re wearing.”

  With a shrug, Whitney looked over her choices. They were a long way from the cosmopolitan cities she was accustomed to, a long way from the playgrounds the wealthy chose.

  Whitney bought the shoes, then picked up a handmade basket, instinctively bargaining for it in flawless French.

  He had to admire her, she was a born negotiator. More, he liked the way she had fun arguing over the price of a trinket. He had a feeling she’d have been disappointed if the haggling had gone too quickly or the price had dropped too dramatically. Since he was stuck with her, Doug decided to be philosophical and make the best