Hot Ice Page 3

  “Madagascar?” Intrigued, she turned it over in her mind. Hot, sultry nights, exotic birds, adventure. “What kind of puzzle? What kind of treasure?”

  “My business.” Favoring his arm, he slipped on the jacket again.

  “I want to see it.”

  “You can’t see it. It’s in Madagascar.” He took out a cigarette as he calculated. He could give her enough, just enough to interest her and not enough to cause trouble. Blowing out smoke, he glanced around the room. “Looks like you know something about France.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Enough to order escargots and Dom Pérignon.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” He lifted a pearl-crusted snuffbox from the top of a curio cabinet. “Let’s just say the goodies I’m after have a French accent. An old French accent.”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He’d hit a button. The little snuffbox he was tossing from hand to hand was two hundred years old and part of an extensive collection. “How old?”

  “Couple centuries. Look, sugar, you could back me.” He set the box down and walked to her again. “Think of it as a cultural investment. I take the cash, and I bring you back a few trinkets.”

  Two hundred years meant the French Revolution. Marie and Louis. Opulence, decadence, and intrigue. A smile began to form as she thought it through. History had always fascinated her, French history in particular with its royalty and court politics, philosophers and artists. If he really had something—and the look in his eyes convinced her he did—why shouldn’t she have a share? A treasure hunt was bound to be more fun than an afternoon at Sotheby’s.

  “Say I was interested,” she began as she worked out her terms. “What kind of a stake would be needed?”

  He grinned. He hadn’t thought she’d take the bait so easily. “Couple thousand.”

  “I don’t mean money.” Whitney dismissed it as only the wealthy could. “I mean how do we go about getting it?”

  “We?” He wasn’t grinning now. “There’s no we.”

  She examined her nails. “No we, no money.” She sat back, stretching her arms on the top of the sofa. “I’ve never been to Madagascar.”

  “Then call your travel agent, sugar. I work alone.”

  “Too bad.” She tossed her hair and smiled. “Well, it’s been nice. Now if you’ll pay me for the damages…”

  “Look, I haven’t got time to—” He broke off at the quiet sound behind him. Spinning around, Doug saw the door handle turn slowly—right, then left. He held up a hand, signaling silence. “Get behind the couch,” he whispered while he scanned the room for the handiest weapon. “Stay there and don’t make a sound.”

  Whitney started to object, then heard the quiet rattle of the knob. She watched Doug pick up a heavy porcelain vase.

  “Get down,” he hissed again as he switched off the lights. Deciding to take his advice, Whitney crouched behind the sofa and waited.

  Doug stood behind the door, watching as it opened slowly, silently. He gripped the vase in both hands and wished he knew how many of them he had to go through. He waited until the first shadow was completely inside, then lifting the vase over his head, brought it down hard. There was a crash, a grunt, then a thud. Whitney heard all three before the chaos began.

  There was a shuffle of feet, another splinter of glass— her Meissen tea set if the direction of the sound meant anything—then a man cursed. A muffled pop was followed by another tinkle of glass. A silenced bullet, she decided. She’d heard the sound on enough late-night movies to recognize it. And the glass—twisting her head she saw the hole in the picture window behind her.

  The super wasn’t going to like it, she reflected. Not one bit. And she was already on his list since the last party she’d given had gotten slightly out of hand. Dammit, Douglas Lord was bringing her a great deal of trouble. The treasure—she drew her brows together—the treasure better be worth it.

  Then, it was quiet, entirely too quiet. Over the silence all she could hear was the sound of breathing.

  Doug pressed back into the shadowy corner and held on to the .45. There was one more, but at least he wasn’t unarmed now. He hated guns. A man who used them generally ended up being on the wrong end of the barrel too often for comfort.

  He was close enough to the door to slip through it and be gone, maybe without notice. If it hadn’t been for the woman behind the couch, and the knowledge that he’d gotten her into this, he’d have done it. The fact that he couldn’t only made him furious with her. He might, just might, have to kill a man to get out. He’d killed before, was aware he was likely to do so again. But it was a part of his life he could never examine without guilt.

  Doug touched the bandage on his arm and his fingers came away wet. Damn, he couldn’t stand there waiting and bleeding to death. Moving soundlessly, he edged along the wall.

  Whitney had to cover her mouth to hold back all sound as the shadow crouched at the end of the sofa. It wasn’t Doug—she saw immediately that the neck was too long and the hair too short. Then she caught the flicker of movement to her left. The shadow turned toward it. Before she had time to think, Whitney pulled off her shoe. Holding the good Italian leather in one hand, she aimed the three-inch heel at the shadow’s head. With all the strength she could muster, she brought it down.

  There was a grunt, then a thud.

  Amazed at herself, Whitney held up her shoe in triumph. “I got him!”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Doug muttered as he dashed across the room, grabbing her hand and dragging her along with him.

  “I knocked him cold,” she told Doug as he streaked toward the stairway. “With this.” She wiggled the shoe that was crushed between his hand and hers. “How did they find us?”

  “Dimitri. Traced your plates,” he said, enraged with himself for not considering it before. Streaking down the next flight of stairs he started making new plans.

  “That fast?” She gave a quick laugh. Adrenaline was pumping through her. “Is this Dimitri a man or a magician?”

  “He’s a man who owns other men. He could pick up the phone and have your credit rating and your shoe size in a half hour.”

  So could her father. That was business, and she understood business. “Look, I can’t run lopsided, give me a couple of seconds.” Whitney pulled her hand from his and put on her shoe. “What’re we going to do now?”

  “We’ve got to get to the garage.”

  “Down forty-two flights?”

  “Elevators don’t have back doors.” With this he grabbed her hand and began to jog down the steps again. “I don’t want to come out near your car. He’s probably got somebody watching it just in case we get that far.”

  “Then why’re we going to the garage?”

  “We still need a car. I’ve got to get to the airport.”

  Whitney slung the strap of her purse over her head so that she could grip the rail for support as they ran. “You’re going to steal one?”

  “That’s the idea. I’ll drop you off at a hotel—register under some other name, then—”

  “Oh no,” she interrupted, noting gratefully that they were passing the twentieth floor. “You’re not dumping me in any hotel. Windshield, three hundred, plate-glass window, twelve hundred, Dresden vase circa 1865, twenty-two seventy-five.” She retrieved her purse, dug a notebook out of it, and never missed a beat. The minute she caught her breath, she’d start an accounting. “I’m going to collect.”

  “You’ll collect,” he said grimly. “Now, save your breath.” She did, and began to work out her own plan.

  By the time they’d reached the garage level, she was winded enough to lean breathlessly against the wall while he peered through a crack in the door. “Okay, the closest one is a Porsche. I’ll go out first. Once I’m in the car, you follow. And keep down.”

  He slipped the gun back out of his pocket. She caught the look in his eye, a look of—loathing? she wondered. Why should he look down at a gun as though it were something vile? She’d thought a gun would fit e
asily into his hand, the way a gun did for a man who hung out in dim bars and smoky hotel rooms. But it didn’t fit easily. It didn’t fit at all. Then he went through the door.

  Who was Doug Lord really? Whitney asked herself. Was he a hood, a con, a victim? Because she sensed he was all three, she was fascinated and determined to find out why.

  Crouched, Doug took out what looked like a penknife. Whitney watched as he fiddled with the lock for a moment, then quietly opened the passenger door. Whatever he was, Whitney noted, he was good at breaking and entering. Leaving that for later, she crept through the door. He was already in the driver’s seat and working with wires under the dash when she climbed inside.

  “Damn foreign cars,” he muttered. “Give me a Chevy any day.”

  Wide-eyed with admiration, Whitney heard the engine spring to life. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

  Doug shot her a look. “Just hold on. This time, I’m driving.” Throwing the Porsche into reverse, he peeled out of the space. By the time they reached the garage entrance, they were doing sixty. “Got a favorite hotel?”

  “I’m not going to a hotel. You’re not getting out of my sight, Lord, until your account has a zero balance. Where you go, I go.”

  “Look, I don’t know how much time I have.” He kept a careful eye on the rearview mirror as he drove.

  “What you don’t have any of is money,” she reminded him. She had her book out now and began to write in neat columns. “And you’re currently in to me for a windshield, an antique porcelain vase, a Meissen tea set—eleven-fifty for that—and a plate-glass window—maybe more.”

  “Then another thousand isn’t going to matter.”

  “Another thousand always matters. Your credit’s only good as long as I can see you. If you want a plane ticket you’re taking on a partner.”

  “Partner?” He turned to her, wondering why he didn’t just take her purse and shove her out the door. “I never take on partners.”

  “You do this time. Fifty-fifty.”

  “I’ve got the answers.” The truth was he had the questions, but he wasn’t going to worry about details.

  “But you don’t have the stake.”

  He swung onto FDR Drive. No, dammit, he didn’t have the stake, and he needed it. So, for now, he needed her. Later, when he was several thousand miles from New York, they could negotiate terms. “Okay, just how much cash have you got on you?”

  “A couple hundred.”

  “Hundred? Shit.” He kept his speed to a steady fifty-five now. He couldn’t afford to get pulled over. “That won’t take us farther than New Jersey.”

  “I don’t like to carry a lot of cash.”

  “Terrific. I’ve got papers worth millions and you want to buy in for two hundred.”

  “Two hundred, plus the five thousand you owe me. And—” She reached into her purse. “I’ve got the plastic.” Grinning, she held up a gold American Express card. “I never leave home without it.”

  Doug stared at it, then threw back his head and laughed. Maybe she was more trouble than she was worth, but he was beginning to doubt it.

  The hand that reached for the phone was plump and very white. At the wrist, white cuffs were studded with square sapphires. The nails were buffed to a dull sheen and neatly clipped. The receiver itself was white, pristine, cool. Fingers curled around it, three elegantly manicured ones and a scarred-over stub where the pinky should have been.

  “Dimitri.” The voice was poetry. Hearing it, Remo began to sweat like a pig. He drew on his cigarette and spoke quickly, before exhaling.

  “They gave us the slip.”

  Dead silence. Dimitri knew it was more terrifying than a hundred threats. He used it five seconds, ten. “Three men against one and a young woman. How inefficient.”

  Remo pulled the tie loose from his throat so he could breathe. “They stole a Porsche. We’re following them to the airport now. They won’t get far, Mr. Dimitri.”

  “No, they won’t get far. I have a few calls to make, a few… buttons to push. I’ll meet you in a day or two.”

  Remo rubbed his hand over his mouth as his relief began to spread. “Where?”

  There was a laugh, soft, distant. The sense of relief evaporated like sweat. “Find Lord, Remo. I’ll find you.”

  C H A P T E R

  2

  His arm was stiff. When Doug rolled over he gave a little grunt of annoyance at the discomfort and absently pushed at the bandage. His face was pressed into a soft feather pillow covered by a linen case that had no scent. Beneath him, the sheet was warm and smooth. Gingerly flexing his left arm, he shifted onto his back.

  The room was dark, deceiving him into thinking it was still night until he looked at his watch. Nine-fifteen. Shit. He ran a hand over his face as he pushed himself up in bed.

  He should be on a plane halfway to the Indian Ocean instead of lying around in a fancy hotel room in Washington. A dull, fancy hotel room, he remembered as he thought of the fussy, red-carpeted lobby. They’d arrived at one-ten and he hadn’t even been able to get a drink. The politicians could have Washington, he’d take New York.

  The first problem was that Whitney held the purse strings, and she hadn’t given him a choice. The next problem was, she’d been right. He’d only been thinking of getting out of New York, she’d been thinking of details like passports.

  So, she had connections in D.C., he thought. If connections could cut through paperwork, he was all for it. Doug glanced around the high-priced room that was hardly bigger than a broom closet. She’d charge him for the room, too, he realized, narrowing his eyes at the connecting door. Whitney MacAllister had a mind like a CPA. And a face like…

  With a half grin he shook his head and lay back. He’d better keep his mind off her face, and her other attributes. It was her money he needed. Women had to wait. Once he had what he was going for, he could swim neck-deep in them if he wanted.

  The image was pleasant enough to keep him smiling for another minute. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, plump, thin, short, and tall. There was no point in being too discriminating, and he intended to be very generous with his time. First, he had to get the damn passport and visa. He scowled. Damn bureaucratic bullshit. He had a treasure waiting for him, a professional bone breaker breathing down his neck, and a crazy woman in the room next door who wouldn’t even buy him a pack of cigarettes without marking it down in the little notebook she kept in her two-hundred-dollar snakeskin bag.

  The thought prompted him to reach over to pluck a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand. He couldn’t understand her attitude. When he had money to spend, he was generous with it. Maybe too generous, he decided with a half laugh. He certainly never had it for long.

  Generosity was part of his nature. Women were a weakness, especially small, pouty women with big eyes. No matter how many times he’d been taken by one, he invariably fell for the next. Six months before, a little waitress named Cindy had given him two memorable nights and a sob story about a sick mother in Columbus. In the end, he’d parted company with her—and with five grand. He’d always been a sucker for big eyes.

  That was going to change, Doug promised himself. Once he had his hands on the pot of gold, he was going to hold on to it. This time he was going to buy that big splashy villa in Martinique and start living his life the way he’d always dreamed. And he’d be generous with his servants. He’d cleaned up after enough rich people to know how cold and careless they could be with servants. Of course, he’d only cleaned up after them until he could clean them out, but that didn’t change the bottom line.

  Working for the wealthy hadn’t given him his taste for rich things. He’d been born with it. He just hadn’t been born with money. Then again, he felt he’d been better off being born with brains. With brains and certain talents you could take what you needed—or wanted—from people who barely noticed the sting. The job kept the adrenaline going. The result, the money, just let you relax until the next time.

  He knew ho
w to plan for it, how to plot, how to scheme. And he also knew the value of research. He’d been up half the night going over every scrap of information he could decipher in the envelope. It was a puzzle, but he had the pieces. All he needed to put them all together was time.

  The neatly typed translations he’d read might have just been a pretty story to some, a history lesson to others— aristocrats struggling to smuggle their jewels and their precious selves out of revolution-torn France. He’d read words of fear, of confusion, and of despair. In the plastic-sealed originals, he’d seen hopelessness in the handwriting, in words he couldn’t read. But he’d also read of intrigue, of royalty, and of wealth. Marie Antoinette. Robespierre. Necklaces with exotic names hidden behind bricks or concealed in wagon-loads of potatoes. The guillotine, desperate flights across the English Channel. Pretty stories steeped in history and colored with blood. But the diamonds, the emeralds, the rubies the size of hen’s eggs had been real too. Some of them had never been seen again. Some had been used to buy lives or a meal or silence. Others had traveled across oceans. Doug worked the kinks out of his arm and smiled. The Indian Ocean—trade route for merchants and pirates. And on the coast of Madagascar, hidden for centuries, guarded for a queen, was the answer to his dreams. He was going to find it, with the help of a young girl’s journal and a father’s despair. When he did, he’d never look back.

  Poor kid, he thought, imagining the young French girl who’d written out her feelings two hundred years before. He wondered if the translation he’d read had really keyed in on what she’d gone through. If he could read the original French… He shrugged and