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  “Who else could he be?”

  “Dammit, I don’t know.” Frustration tore through him. He felt he was being chased from all sides. Knew it, but couldn’t understand it. “Whoever he is, we’re getting out.” He looked back at Jacques’s shop. “Better go in the back way. He might have customers and the less people that see us, the better.”

  The back door was locked. Crouching down, Doug took out his penknife and went to work. Within five seconds, the lock clicked open. Whitney counted.

  Impressed, she watched him pocket the knife again. “I’d like you to teach me how to do that.”

  “A woman like you doesn’t have to pick locks. People open doors for you.” While she thought this over, he slipped in the back.

  It was part storage room, part bedroom, part kitchen. Beside the narrow, neatly made bunk was a collection of half a dozen cassette tapes. Upbeat Elton John music seemed to pour through the wallboards. Tacked to them was a full-color poster of a pouting, sexy Tina Turner. Beside her was an ad for Budweiser—the King of Beers, a New York Yankees pennant, and an evening shot of the Empire State Building.

  “Why do I feel as though I’ve just walked into a room on Second Avenue?” And because she did, she felt ridiculously safe.

  “His brother’s an exchange student at CCNY.”

  “That explains everything. Whose brother?”

  “Shh!” Padding silently on the balls of his feet like a cat, Doug moved to the door that connected with the shop. He opened it a crack and peered through.

  Jacques leaned over the counter, in the midst of a transaction that involved what was obviously a detailed exchange of town gossip. The bony, dark-eyed girl had apparently come in to flirt more than she’d come in to buy. She poked among spools of colored thread and giggled.

  “What’s going on?” Whitney maneuvered herself so that she could peek through the crack under Doug’s arm. “Ah, romance,” she proclaimed. “I wonder where she got that blouse. Just look at the embroidery work.”

  “We’ll have a fashion show later.”

  The girl bought two spools of thread, giggled for another moment or two, then left. Doug opened the door another inch and made a hissing sound through his teeth. It was no competition for Elton John. Jacques continued to swivel his hips as he picked up on the lyrics. With a glance to the window that opened onto the street, Doug eased the door open a bit more and called Jacques by name.

  Jolting, Jacques nearly upset the display of spools he was rearranging. “Man, you gave me a scare.” Still cautious, Doug crooked a finger and waited for Jacques to saunter over. “What you doing hiding back here?”

  “A change of schedule,” Doug told him. Taking Jacques’s hand, he jerked him inside. He realized Jacques smelled of English Leather. “We want to take off now.”

  “Now?” Narrowing his eyes, Jacques studied Doug’s face. He might have lived in a small seaside village all of his life, but he wasn’t a fool. When a man was on the run, it showed in his eyes. “You got trouble?”

  “Hello, Jacques.” Stepping forward, Whitney held out her hand. “I’m Whitney MacAllister. You must forgive Douglas for neglecting to introduce us. He’s often rude.”

  Jacques took the slim white hand in his and was instantly in love. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. As far as he could tell, Whitney MacAllister outshone Turner, and Benatar, and the high priestess Ronstadt put together. His tongue quite simply tied itself in knots.

  She’d seen the look before. In a slick, three-piece-suited professional on Fifth Avenue it bored her. In a trendy club on the West Side, it amused her. In Jacques, she found it sweet. “We have to apologize for barging in on you this way.”

  “It’s…” He had to search for the Americanisms that were usually on the tip of his tongue. “Okay,” he managed.

  Impatient, Doug laid a hand on Jacques’s shoulder. “We want to move.” His sense of fair play wouldn’t allow him to drag the young man blindly into the mess they were in. His sense of survival prevented him from telling all. “We had a little visit from the local police.”

  Jacques managed to drag his gaze away from Whitney. “Sambirano?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Asshole,” Jacques proclaimed, rather proud of the way the word rolled off his tongue. “You don’t worry about him. He’s just nosey, like an old woman.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but we’ve got some people who’d like to find us. We don’t want to be found.”

  Jacques took a moment to look from one to the other. A jealous husband, he thought. He needed nothing more to trigger his sense of romance. “We Malagasy don’t worry about time. The sun rises, the sun sets. You want to leave now, we leave now.”

  “Terrific. We’re a little low on supplies.”

  “No problem. You wait here.”

  “How’d you manage to find him?” Whitney asked when Jacques went through to the front again. “He’s wonderful.”

  “Sure, just because he was making bug-eyes at you.”

  “Bug-eyes?” She grinned and sat down on the edge of Jacques’s bed. “Really, Douglas, wherever do you dig up some of your quaint expressions?”

  “His eyes nearly fell out of his head.”

  “Yes.” She brushed a hand through her hair. “They did, didn’t they?”

  “You really eat it up, don’t you?” Annoyed, he paced the small room and wished he could do something. Anything. He could smell trouble, and it wasn’t as far away as he’d have liked. “You just love it when men drool.”

  “You weren’t exactly offended when little Marie all but kissed your feet. As I recall, you strutted around like a rooster with two tails.”

  “She helped save our skins. That was simple gratitude.”

  “With a touch of simple lust thrown in.”

  “Lust?” He stopped directly in front of her. “She couldn’t’ve been more than sixteen.”

  “Which made it all the more disgusting.”

  “Yeah, well old Jacques here must be pushing twenty.”

  “My, my.” Whitney pulled out her emery board and began to repair her chipped nail. “That sounds distinctly like jealousy.”

  “Shit.” He paced from one door to the other. “This is one man who won’t drool over you, duchess. I’ve got better things to do.”

  Giving him a half smile Whitney continued to file and hum along with Elton John.

  A few moments later there was silence. When Jacques came back in, he was carrying a good-size sack in one hand and his portable stereo in the other. With a grin, he packed the rest of his tapes. “Now we’re ready. Rock and roll.”

  “Won’t anyone wonder why you closed up early?” Doug opened the back door a crack and peered out.

  “Close up then, close up now. Nobody cares.”

  Nodding, Doug opened the door for him. “Then let’s go.”

  His boat was docked less than a quarter mile away and Whitney had never seen anything like it. It was very long, perhaps fifteen feet, and no more than three feet wide. She thought of a canoe she’d once paddled at summer camp in upstate New York. This was along the same lines if one stretched it out. Light on his feet, Jacques hopped in and began to stow the gear.

  The canoe was traditional Malagasy, his hat was a New York Yankees fielder’s cap, and his feet were bare. Whitney found him an odd and endearing combination of two worlds.

  “Nice boat,” Doug murmured, wishing he saw an engine somewhere.

  “I built her myself.” In a gesture she found very smooth and very courtly, he held out a hand for Whitney. “You can sit here,” he told her, indicating a spot in the center. “Very comfortable.”

  “Thank you, Jacques.”

  When he saw she was settled opposite where he would sit, he handed a long pole to Doug. “We pole out here when the water’s shallow.” Taking one himself, Jacques pushed off. The boat glided out like a swan on a lake. Relaxing, Whitney decided the boat trip had possibilities— the scent of the sea, feathery leaves dancing in the
breeze, the gentle movement beneath her. Then, two feet away, she saw the ugly leathery head skim the surface.

  “Ah…” It was all she could manage.

  “Yes, indeed.” With a chuckle Jacques continued to pole. “Those crocks, they’re everywhere. You have to watch out for them.” He made a sound somewhere between a hiss and a roar. The round, sleepy eyes at the surface came no closer. Without a word, Doug reached in his pack, dug out the gun, and hitched it in his belt again. This time Whitney made no objection.

  When the water deepened enough for them to use the paddles, Jacques switched on his stereo. Vintage Beatles blasted out. They were on their way.

  Jacques paddled tirelessly, with a smooth energy and enthusiasm Whitney admired. Through the hour and a half Beatle extravaganza, he sang along in a clear tenor, grinning when Whitney joined in with him.

  From the stores Jacques had brought aboard, they had a late impromptu lunch of coconut meat, berries, and cold fish. When he passed Whitney the canteen, she drank deeply, expecting plain water. Tilting the canteen down again, she swished the liquid around in her mouth. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t plain water either.

  “Rano vola,” Jacques told her. “Good for traveling.”

  Doug’s paddle cut through the water smoothly. “They make it by adding water to rice that sticks to the bottom of the cooking pot.”

  Whitney swallowed, trying to do it graciously. “I see.” Shifting a bit, she passed the canteen down to Doug.

  “You come from New York, too?”

  “Yes.” Whitney popped another berry into her mouth. “Doug tells me your brother goes to college there.”

  “Law school.” The letters on his T-shirt nearly trembled with pride. “He’s going to be a hotshot. He’s been to Bloomingdale’s.”

  “Whitney practically lives there,” Doug said under his breath.

  Ignoring him, she spoke to Jacques. “Do you plan to go to America?”

  “Next year,” he told her, resting his paddle across his lap. “I visit my brother. We’re going to do the town. Times Square, Macy’s, McDonald’s.”

  “I want you to call me.” As if she were in a plush East-Side restaurant, Whitney drew a card out of her wallet and handed it to him. Like its owner, the card was smooth, classy, and slender. “We’ll have a party.”

  “Party?” His eyes lit up. “A New York party?” Visions of glittering dance floors, wild colors, and wilder music raced in his head.

  “Absolutely.”

  “With all the ice cream you can eat.”

  “Don’t be cranky, Douglas. You can come too.”

  Jacques was quiet a moment while his imagination worked out all the fascinations of a party in New York. His brother had written about women with dresses that came high above the knee and cars as long as the canoe he rowed. There were buildings as high as the mountains to the west. Once his brother had eaten in the same restaurant as Billy Joel.

  New York, Jacques thought, awed. Maybe his new friends knew Billy Joel and would invite him to the party. He fondled Whitney’s card before tucking it into his pocket.

  “You two are…” He wasn’t quite sure of the American term for what he meant. Not a polite one anyway.

  “Business partners,” Whitney provided, smiling.

  “Yeah, we’re all business.” Scowling, Doug cut through the water with his pole.

  Jacques might’ve been young, but he hadn’t been born yesterday. “You have business? What kind?”

  “At the moment, we’re into travel and excavation.”

  Whitney lifted a brow at Doug’s terminology. “In New York, I’m an interior designer. Doug’s a—”

  “Freelancer,” he finished. “I work for myself.”

  “Best way,” Jacques agreed while his feet tapped out the beat. “When I was a boy, I worked on a coffee plantation. Do this, do that.” He shook his head and smiled. “Now, I have my own shop. I say do this, do that. But I don’t have to listen.”

  Chuckling, Whitney stretched her back while the music reminded her of home.

  Later, the sunset reminded her of the Caribbean. The forest on either side of the canal had become denser, deeper, more junglelike. Reeds grew along the verge, thin and brown, before they gave way to dense foliage. At the sight of her first flamingo, all pink-feathered and fragile-legged, she was charmed. She saw the iridescent blue flash in the brush and heard the quick, repetitive song Jacques identified as the coucal’s. Once or twice she thought she’d caught sight of a fast, agile lemur. The water, becoming shallow enough now and then to require the poles, was washed with red and skimmed with insects. Through the trees to the west, the sky was lit up like a forest fire. She decided a ride in an outrigger canoe had a lot more allure than punting on the Thames, though it was just as relaxing—except for the occasional crocodile.

  Over the quiet dusk and jungle silence, Jacques’s stereo poured out what any self-respecting DJ would have called hit after hit—commercial-free. She could’ve floated for hours.

  “We’d better camp.”

  Turning her eyes away from the sunset, she smiled at Doug. He’d long before stripped off his shirt. His chest gleamed in the dim light with a light sheen of sweat. “So soon?”

  He bit back a retort. It wasn’t easy to admit that his arms felt like rubber and his palms burned. Not when young Jacques was still bopping with the beat, looking as though he could row until midnight without slackening pace.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” was all he said.

  “Okay.” Jacques’s lean, limber muscles rippled as he stroked. “We’ll find an A-Number-One campsite.” He turned his shy smile on Whitney. “You should rest,” he told her. “Long day on the water.”

  Mumbling under his breath, Doug rowed toward shore.

  Jacques wouldn’t allow her to carry a pack. Hefting hers and his sack, he entrusted her with his stereo. Single file, they walked into the forest where the light was rose-colored, touched with mauve. Birds they couldn’t see sang to the darkening sky. Leaves shimmered green, damp with the moisture that was always present. Now and then Jacques would stop and hack at vines and bamboo with a small sickle. The scent was rich: vegetation, water, flowers—flowers that climbed through vines and burst through bush. She’d never seen so many colors in one place, nor had she expected to. Insects hovered, humming and whining in the twilight. On a frantic rustle of leaves a heron rose out of the bush and glided toward the canal. The forest was hot, wet, and close and had all the tastes of the exotic.

  They set up camp to the tunes of Springsteen’s Born in the USA.

  By the time they had a fire started and coffee heating, Doug found something to be cheerful about. Out of Jacques’s sack came a few small containers of spice, two lemons, and the rest of the carefully wrapped fish. With them, he found two packs of Marlboros. At the moment, they meant nothing compared with the other loot.

  “At last.” He held a container that smelled something like sweet basil up to his nose. “A meal with style.” He might have been sitting on the ground, surrounded by thick vines and insects just beginning to bite, but he liked the challenge. He’d eaten with the best of them, in the kitchens and under chandeliers. Tonight would be no different. Breaking out the cooking utensils, he prepared to enjoy himself.

  “Doug’s quite the gourmand,” Whitney told Jacques. “I’m afraid we’ve had to make do with what’s been available so far. It hasn’t been easy for him.” Then she sniffed the air. Mouth watering, she turned to see him sautéing the fish over the fire. “Douglas.” His name came out on a sultry breath. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Yeah.” Eyes intense, hands firm, he gave the fish an expert flick. “That’s what they all say, sugar.”

  That night the three of them slept deeply, replete with rich food, plum wine, and rock and roll.

  When the dark sedan pulled into the small seaside town an hour past dawn, it drew quite a crowd. In charge, impatient, and out of sorts, Remo stepped out and brushed through a huddl
e of children. Having the instinct of the young and the vulnerable, they made way for him. With a jerk of his head, he signaled the two other men to follow.

  They didn’t deliberately try to look out of place. If they’d come into town on mules, dressed in lambas, they’d still have looked like hoods. The way they’d lived, the way they intended to live—badly—oozed through their pores.

  The townspeople, though inherently wary of strangers, were also inherently hospitable. Still, no one approached the three men. The island term for taboo was fady. Remo and company, though trim in their crisp summer suits and glossy Italian shoes, were definitely fady.

  Remo spotted the inn, and signaling his men to circle the sides of the building, approached the front.

  The woman of the inn had on a fresh apron. Breakfast smells came from the rear though only two tables were occupied. She looked at Remo, sized him up, and decided she had no vacancies.

  “Looking for some people,” he told her, though he didn’t expect anyone on that godforsaken island to speak English. He simply