Hot Ice

  of the partnership. For the moment.

  “Now that you’ve got it,” Doug said, “who’s going to carry it?”

  “We’ll leave it in storage with the luggage. We’ll need some food, won’t we? You do intend to eat on this expedition?” Eyes laughing, she picked up a mango and held it under his nose.

  He grinned and chose another, then dropped both in her basket. “Just don’t get carried away.”

  She wandered through the stalls, joining in the bargaining and carefully counting out francs. She fingered a necklace of shells, considering it as carefully as she would a bauble at Cartier’s. In time, she found herself filtering out the strange Malagasy and listening, answering, even thinking in French. The merchants traded in a continual stream of give and take. It seemed they were too proud to show eagerness, but Whitney hadn’t missed the marks of poverty on many.

  How far had they come, she wondered, traveling in wagons? They didn’t seem tired, she thought as she began to study the people as closely as their wares. Sturdy, she would have said. Content, though there were many without shoes. The clothes might be dusty, some worn, but all were colorful. Women braided and pinned and wound their hair in intricate, timely designs. The zoma, Whitney decided, was as much a social event as a business one.

  “Let’s pick up the pace, babe.” There was an itch between his shoulder blades that was growing more nagging. When Doug caught himself looking over his shoulder for the third time, he knew it was time to move on. “We’ve got a lot more to do today.”

  She dropped more fruit in the basket with vegetables and a sack of rice. She might have to walk and sleep in a tent, Whitney thought, but she wouldn’t go hungry.

  He wondered if she knew just what a startling contrast she made among the dark merchants and solemn-faced women with her ivory skin and pale hair. There was an unmistakable air of class about her even as she stood bargaining for dried peppers or figs. She wasn’t his style, Doug told himself, thinking of the sequins-and-feathers type he normally drifted to. But she’d be a hard woman to forget.

  On impulse he picked up a soft cotton lamba and draped it over her head. When she turned, laughing, she was so outrageously beautiful he lost his breath. It should be white silk, he thought. She should wear white silk, cool, smooth. He’d like to buy her yards of it. He’d like to drape her in it, in miles of it, then slowly, slowly strip it from her until it was only her skin, just as soft, just as white. He could watch her eyes darken, feel her flesh heat. With her face beneath his hands, he forgot she wasn’t his style.

  She saw the change in his eyes, felt the sudden tension in his fingers. Her heart began a slow, insistent thudding against her ribs. Hadn’t she wondered what he’d be like as a lover? Wasn’t she wondering now when she could feel desire pouring out of him? Thief, philosopher, opportunist, hero? Whatever he was, her life was tangled with his and there was no going back. When the time came, they’d come together like thunder, no pretty words, no candlelight, no sheen of romance. She wouldn’t need romance because his body would be hard, his mouth hungry, and his hands would know where to touch. Standing in the open market, full of exotic scents and sound, she forgot that he’d be easy to handle.

  Dangerous woman, Doug realized as he deliberately relaxed his fingers. With the treasure almost within reach and Dimitri like a monkey on his back, he couldn’t afford to think of her as a woman at all. Women—big-eyed women—had always been his downfall.

  They were partners. He had the papers, she had the bankroll. That was as complicated as things were going to get.

  “You’d better finish up here,” he said calmly enough. “We have to see about the camping supplies.”

  Whitney let out a quiet, cleansing breath and reminded herself he was already into her for over seven thousand dollars. It wouldn’t pay to forget it. “All right.” But she bought the lamba, telling herself it was simply a souvenir.

  By noon they were waiting for the train, both of them carrying knapsacks carefully packed with food and gear. He was restless, impatient to begin. He’d risked his life and gambled his future on the small bulge of papers taped to his chest. He’d always played the odds, but this time, he held the bank. By summer, he’d be dripping in money, lying on some hot foreign beach sipping rum while some dark-haired, sloe-eyed woman rubbed oil over his shoulder. He’d have enough money to insure that Dimitri would never find him, and if he wanted to hustle, he’d hustle for pleasure, not for his living.

  “Here it comes.” Feeling a fresh surge of excitement, Doug turned to Whitney. With the shawl draped over her shoulders, she was carefully writing in her notepad. She looked cool and calm, while his shirt was already beginning to stick to his shoulder blades. “Will you quit scrawling in that thing?” he demanded, taking her arm. “You’re worse than the goddamn IRS.”

  “Just adding on the price of your train ticket, partner.”

  “Jesus. When we get what we’re after, you’ll be knee-deep in gold and you’re worried about a few francs.”

  “Funny how they add up, isn’t it?” With a smile, she dropped the pad back in her purse. “Next stop. Tamatave.”

  A car purred to a halt just as Doug stepped onto the train behind Whitney.

  “There they are.” Jaw set, Remo reached beneath his jacket until his palm fit over the butt of his gun. The fingers of his other hand brushed over the bandage on his face. He had a personal score to settle with Lord now. It was going to be a pleasure. A small hand with the pinky only a stub closed with steely strength on his arm. The cuff was still white, studded this time with hammered gold ovals. The delicate hand, somehow elegant despite the deformity, made the muscles in Remo’s arm quiver.

  “You’ve let him outwit you before.” The voice was quiet and very smooth. A poet’s voice.

  “This time he’s a dead man.”

  There was a pleasant chuckle followed by a stream of expensive French tobacco. Remo didn’t relax or offer any excuses. Dimitri’s moods could be deceiving and Remo had heard him laugh before. He’d heard him give that same mild, pleasant laugh as he’d seared the bottom of a victim’s feet with blue flame from a monogrammed cigarette lighter. Remo didn’t move his arm, nor did he open his mouth.

  “Lord’s been a dead man since he stole from me.” Something vile slipped into Dimitri’s voice. It wasn’t anger, but more power, cool and dispassionate. A snake doesn’t always spew venom in fury. “Get my property back, then kill him however you please. Bring me his ears.”

  Remo gestured for the man in the back seat to get out and purchase tickets. “And the woman?”

  There was another stream of tobacco smoke as Dimitri thought it through. He’d learned years before that decisions made rashly leave a jagged trail. He preferred the smooth and the clean. “A lovely woman and clever enough to sever Butrain’s jugular. Damage her as little as possible and bring her back. I’d like to talk with her.”

  Satisfied, he sat back, idly watching the train through the smoke glass of the car window. It amused and satisfied him to smell the powdery scent of fear drifting from his employees. Fear, after all, was the most elegant of weapons. He gestured once with his mutilated hand. “A tedious business,” he said when Remo closed the car door. His sigh was delicate while he touched a scented silk handkerchief to his nose. The smell of dust and animal annoyed him. “Drive back to the hotel,” he instructed the silent man at the wheel. “I want a sauna and a massage.”

  Whitney positioned herself next to a window and prepared to watch Madagascar roll by. As he had off and on since the previous day, Doug had his face buried in a guidebook.

  “There are at least thirty-nine species of lemur in Madagascar and more than eight hundred species of butterflies.”

  “Fascinating. I had no idea you were so interested in fauna.”

  He looked over the top of the book. “All the snakes are harmless,” he added. “Little things like that are important to me when I’m sleeping in a tent. I always like to know something about the terr
itory. Like the rivers here are full of crocks.”

  “I guess that kills the idea of skinny-dipping.”

  “We’re bound to run into some of the natives. There are several distinct tribes, and according to this everybody’s friendly.”

  “That’s good news. Do you have a projection as to how long it should be before we get to where ‘X’ marks the spot?”

  “A week, maybe two.” Leaning back, he lit a cigarette. “How do you say diamond in French?”

  “Diamant.” Narrowing her eyes, she studied him. “Did this Dimitri have anything to do with stealing diamonds out of France and smuggling them here?”

  Doug smiled at her. She was close, but not close enough. “No. Dimitri’s good, but he didn’t have anything to do with this particular heist.”

  “So it is diamonds and they were stolen.”

  Doug thought of the papers. “Depends on your point of view.”

  “Just a thought,” Whitney began, plucking the cigarette from him for a drag. “But have you ever considered what you’d do if there was nothing there?”

  “It’s there.” He blew out smoke and watched her with his clear, green eyes. “It’s there.”

  As always she found herself believing him. It was impossible not to. “What are you going to do with your share?”

  He stretched his legs onto the seat beside her and grinned. “Wallow in it.”

  Reaching in the bag, she plucked out a mango and tossed it to him. “What about Dimitri?”

  “Once I have the treasure, he can fry in hell.”

  “You’re a cocky sonofabitch, Douglas.”

  He bit into the mango. “I’m going to be a rich cocky sonofabitch.”

  Interested, she took the mango for a bite of her own. She found it sweet and satisfying. “Being rich’s important?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Why?”

  He shot her a look. “You’re speaking from the comfort of several billion gallons of fudge ripple.”

  She shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m interested in your outlook on wealth.”

  “When you’re rich and you play the horses and lose, you get ticked off because you lost, not because you blew the rent money.”

  “And that’s what it comes down to?”

  “Ever worried about where you were going to sleep at night, sugar?”

  She took another bite of fruit before handing it back to him. Something in his voice had made her feel foolish. “No.”

  She lapsed into silence for a time as the train rumbled on, stopping at stations while people filed on or filed off. It was already hot, almost airless inside. Sweat, fruit, dust, and grime hung heavily. A man in a white panama a few seats forward mopped at his face with a large bandana. Because she thought she recognized him from the zoma, Whitney smiled. He only pocketed the bandana and went back to his newspaper. Idly Whitney noticed it was English before she turned back to a study of the landscape.

  Grassy rolling hills raced by, almost treeless. Small villages or settlements were huddled here and there with thatch-roofed houses and wide barns positioned near the river. What river? Doug had the guidebook and could certainly tell her. She was beginning to understand he could give her a fifteen-minute lecture on it. Whitney preferred the anonymity of dirt and water.

  She saw no crisscross of telephone wires or power poles. The people living along these endless, barren stretches would have to be tough, independent, self-sufficient. She could appreciate that, admire it, without putting herself in their place.

  Though she was a woman who craved the city with its crowds and noise and pulse, she found the quiet and vastness of the countryside appealing. She’d never found it difficult to value both a wildflower and a full-length chinchilla. They both brought pleasure.

  The train wasn’t quiet. It rumbled and moaned and swayed while conversation was a constant babble. It smelled, not too unpleasantly as air drifted through the windows, of sweat. The last time she’d ridden a train had been on impulse, she recalled. She’d had an air-conditioned roomette that smelled of powder and flowers. It hadn’t been nearly as interesting a ride.

  A woman with a thumb-sucking baby sat across from them. He stared wide-eyed and solemn at Whitney before reaching out with a pudgy hand to grab her braid. Embarrassed, his mother yanked him away, rattling a quick stream of Malagasy.

  “No, no, it’s all right.” Laughing, Whitney stroked the baby’s cheek. His fingers closed around hers like a small vise. Amused, she signed for the mother to pass him to her. After a few moments of hesitation and persuasion, Whitney took the baby onto her lap. “Hello, little man.”

  “I’m not sure the natives have heard of Pampers,” Doug said mildly.

  She merely wrinkled her nose at him. “Don’t you like children?”

  “Sure, I just like them better when they’re house-broken.”

  Chuckling, she gave her attention to the baby. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” she told him and reaching in her purse came up with a compact. “How about this? Want to see the baby?” She held the mirror up for him, enjoying the gurgling laughter. “Pretty baby,” she crooned, rather pleased with herself for amusing him. Just as amused as she, the baby pushed the mirror toward her face.

  “Pretty lady,” Doug commented, earning a laugh from Whitney.

  “Here, you try it.” Before he could protest, she’d passed the baby to him. “Babies are good for you.”

  If she’d expected him to be annoyed or to be awkward, she was wrong. As if he’d spent his life doing it, Doug straddled the baby on his lap and began to entertain him.

  That was interesting, Whitney noted. The thief had a sweet side. Sitting back, she watched Doug bounce the baby on his knee and make foolish noises. “Ever thought about going straight and opening a day-care center?”

  He lifted a brow and snatched the mirror from her. “Look here,” he told the baby, holding the mirror at an angle that had the sunlight flashing off it. Squealing, the baby grabbed the compact and pushed it toward Doug’s face.

  “He wants you to see the monkey,” Whitney said with a bland smile.

  “Smartass.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  To satisfy the baby, Doug made faces in the mirror. Bouncing with delight, the baby knocked at the mirror, angling it back so that Doug had a quick view of the rear of the train. He tensed, and, angling the mirror again, took a longer scan.

  “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  Still juggling the baby, he stared at her. Sweat pooled in his armpits and ran down his back. “You just keep smiling, sugar, and don’t look behind me. We’ve got a couple of friends a few seats back.”

  Though her hands tensed on the arms of the seat, she managed to keep her gaze from darting back over Doug’s shoulder. “Small world.”

  “Ain’t it just.”

  “Got any ideas?”

  “I’m working on it.” He measured the distance to the door. If they got off at the next stop, Remo would be on them before they’d crossed the platform. If Remo was here, Dimitri was close. He kept his men on a short leash. Doug gave himself a full minute to fight the panic. What they needed was a diversion and an unscheduled departure.

  “You just follow my lead,” Doug told her in undertones. “And when I say go, you grab the knapsack and run toward the doors.”

  Whitney glanced down the length of the train. There were women, children, old people jammed into seats. Not the place for a showdown, she decided. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll run.”

  The train slowed for the next stop, brakes squeaking, engine puffing. Doug waited until the crowd of incoming and outgoing passengers was at its thickest. “Sorry old man,” he murmured to the baby, then gave his soft butt a hard pinch. On cue, the baby set up a yowling scream that had the concerned mother hopping up in alarm. Doug rose as well and set about causing as much confusion as possible in the crowded center aisle.

  Sensing th
e game, Whitney stood and jostled the man at her right hard enough to dislodge the packages in his arms and send them scattering on the floor. Grapefruit bounced and squashed.

  When the train began to move again, there were six people between Doug and where Remo sat, crowding the aisle and arguing among themselves in Malagasy. In a gesture of apology, Doug raised his arms and upended a net bag of vegetables. The baby sent up long, continuous howls. Deciding it was the best he could do, Doug slipped a hand down and gripped Whitney’s wrist. “Now.”

  Together, they streaked toward the doors. Doug glanced up long enough to see Remo spring from his seat and begin to fight his way through the still-arguing group blocking the aisle. He caught a glimpse of another man wearing a panama tossing a newspaper aside and jumping up before he, too, was encircled by the crowd. Doug only had a second to wonder where he’d seen the face before.

  “Now what?” Whitney demanded as she watched the ground begin to rush by beneath them.

  “Now, we get off.” Without hesitating, Doug jumped, dragging her with him. He wrapped himself around her, tucking as they hit the ground so that they rolled together in a tangled heap. By the time they’d stopped, the train was yards away and picking up speed.

  “Goddamn it!” Whitney exploded from on top of him. “We could’ve broken our necks.”

  “Yeah.” Winded, he lay there. His hands had worked up under her skirt to her thighs, but he barely noticed. “But we didn’t.”

  Unappeased, she glowered down at him. “Well, aren’t we lucky.