Hot Ice Page 30

  jeep. With another quick glance around, Doug settled the chest in the back and tossed a blanket over it.

  “Okay, now we find a hotel.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve had all day.”

  When he found one that looked stylish and expensive enough for his taste, Doug pulled up at the curb. “Look, you go check in. I’m going to go see about getting us out of the country on the first plane in the morning.”

  “What about our luggage in Antananarivo?”

  “We’ll send for it. Where do you want to go?”

  “Paris,” she said instantly. “I have a feeling I won’t be bored this time.”

  “You got it. Now how about parting with a little of that cash so I can take care of things.”

  “Of course.” As if she’d never denied him a cent, Whitney took out her wallet. “You’d better take some plastic instead,” she decided and pulled out a credit card. “First class, Douglas, if you please.”

  “Nothing else. Get the best room in the house, sugar. Tonight we start living in style.”

  She smiled, but leaned over the back seat and retrieved the blanket-covered chest along with her pack. “I’ll just take this along with me.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Exactly.” Hopping out, she blew him a kiss. In dirt-smeared slacks and a torn blouse, she walked into the hotel like a reigning princess.

  Doug watched three men scramble to open the door for her. Class, he thought again. She reeked with it. He remembered she’d once asked him for a blue silk dress. With a grin, he pulled away from the curb. He was going to bring her back a few surprises.

  She approved of the room and told the bellboy so with a generous tip. Alone, she uncovered the chest and opened it again.

  She’d never considered herself a conservationist, an art buff, or a prude. Looking down at the gems, jewels, and coins of another age, she knew she’d never be able to turn them into something so ordinary as cash. People had died for what she held in her hand. Some had died for greed, some for principle, some for nothing more than timing. If they were only jewels, the deaths would mean nothing. She thought of Juan, and of Jacques. No, they were more, much more than jewels.

  What was here, at her fingertips, wasn’t hers or Doug’s. The trick would be in convincing him of it.

  Letting the lid close, she walked into the bath and turned the water on full. It brought back the memory of the little inn on the coast and Jacques.

  He was dead, but perhaps when the miniature and the treasure were in their rightful place, he’d be remembered. A small plaque with his name on it in a museum in New York. Yes. It made her smile. Jacques would appreciate that.

  She let the water run as she walked to the window to look at the view. She liked seeing the bay spreading out and the busy little town below her. She’d like to walk along the boulevard and absorb the texture of the seaport. Ships, men of ships. There would be shops crowded with goods, the sort a woman in her profession searched for. A pity she couldn’t go back to New York with a few crates of Malagasy wares.

  As her mind wandered, a figure on the sidewalk caught her eye and made her strain forward. A white panama hat. But that was ridiculous, she told herself. Lots of men wore panamas in the tropics. It couldn’t be… Yet as she looked, she was almost certain it was the man she’d seen before. She waited, breathlessly, for the man to turn so that she could be sure. When the hat disappeared into a doorway, she let out a frustrated breath. She was just jumpy. How could anyone have followed the zigzagging trail they’d taken to Diégo-Suarez? Doug better get back soon, she thought. She wanted to bathe, change, eat, and hop a plane.

  Paris, she thought and closed her eyes. A week of doing nothing but relaxing. Making love and drinking champagne. After what they’d been through, it was no less than what they both deserved. After Paris… She sighed and walked back to the bath. That was another question.

  She turned off the taps, straightened, and reached down to unbutton her blouse. As she did, her eyes met Remo’s in the mirror over the sink.

  “Ms. MacAllister.” He smiled, lightly touching the scar on his cheek. “It’s a pleasure.”

  C H A P T E R

  14

  She thought about screaming. Fear bubbled in the back of her throat, hot and bitter. It closed in the pit of her stomach, hard and cold. But there was a look in Remo’s eyes, a calm, waiting look, that warned her he’d be only too happy to silence her. She didn’t scream.

  In the next instant, she thought about running— making a wild, heroic dash past him and out the door. There was always a possibility she’d make it. And a possibility she wouldn’t.

  She backed up, her hand still poised at the top button of her blouse. In the small bathroom, her fast, uneven breathing echoed back over her. The sound of it made Remo smile. Seeing this, Whitney struggled for control. She’d come so far, worked so hard, and now she was cornered. Her fingers closed over the porcelain of the sink. She wouldn’t whine. That she promised herself. And she wouldn’t beg.

  At the movement behind Remo, Whitney shifted her gaze and looked into Barns’s idiotic, amiable eyes. She learned fear could be primitive, mindless, like the terror a mouse feels when a cat begins to playfully bat it with its paws. Instinct told her there was a great deal more danger in him than in the tall, dark man who leveled a pistol at her. There was a time for heroics, a time for fear, and a time for rolling the dice. She forced her fingers to relax, and prayed.

  “Remo, I presume. You work fast.” And so did her mind, beginning to rapidly tick off angles and escape routes. Doug had been gone no more than twenty minutes. She was on her own.

  He’d hoped she’d scream or try to run so that he would have a reason to put a few bruises on her. His vanity still smarted from the scar on his cheek. Vanity aside, Remo feared Dimitri too much to put a mark on her without provocation. He knew Dimitri liked women brought to him unmarred, whatever condition they were in when he was done with them. Intimidation, however, was different. He put the barrel of the gun under her chin so that it pressed into the soft, vulnerable point of her throat. At her quiver, his smile spread.

  “Lord,” he said briefly. “Where is he?”

  She shrugged because she’d never been so frightened in her life. When she spoke her voice was deliberately even, deliberately cool. Every drop of moisture in her mouth had dried up. “I killed him.”

  The lie came so easily, so swiftly, it nearly surprised her. Because it had, and easy lies carried the ring of truth, Whitney went with it. Lifting a finger, she nudged the barrel away from her throat.

  Remo stared at her. His intellect rarely dipped below the surface to subtleties, so that he saw the insolence in her eyes without seeing the fear beneath. Grabbing her arm, he dragged her into the bedroom and shoved her roughly into a chair. “Where’s Lord?”

  Whitney straightened in the chair, then brushed at the already tattered sleeve of her blouse. She couldn’t let him notice her fingers were shaking. It was going to take every ounce of guile at her disposal to pull it off. “Really, Remo, I expected a bit more style from you than from a second-rate thief.”

  With a jerk of his head Remo signaled to Barns. Grinning still, he approached her with a small, ugly revolver. “Pretty,” he said and nearly drooled. “Soft and pretty.”

  “He likes to shoot people in places like kneecaps,” Remo told her. “Now where’s Lord?”

  Whitney forced herself to ignore the gun Barns aimed at her left knee. If she looked at it, if she even thought about it, she’d have collapsed in a puddle of pleading. “I killed him,” she repeated. “Do you have a cigarette? I haven’t had one for days.”

  Her tone was so casually regal, Remo was reaching for them before he realized it. Frustrated, he aimed the gun at a point just between her eyes. Whitney felt the light, rapid pounding begin there and spread. “I’m only going to ask nice once more. Where’s Lord?”

  She gave a sigh that was short and a
nnoyed. “I’ve just told you. He’s dead.” She knew Barns was staring at her still, lightly humming. Her stomach rolled once before she glanced critically at her nails. “I don’t suppose you know where I can get a good manicure in this dump?”

  “How’d you kill him?”

  Her heartbeat accelerated. If he asked how, he was close to believing her. “I shot him, of course.” She smiled a bit vaguely and crossed her legs. She saw Remo jerk his head so that Barns lowered his gun. She didn’t allow herself a sigh of relief. “It seemed the most foolproof way.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She blinked. “Why what?”

  “Why’d you kill him?”

  “I didn’t need him anymore,” she said simply.

  Barns stepped forward and ran one pudgy hand down her hair. He made a sound in his throat that might’ve been approval. She made the mistake of turning her head so that their eyes met. What she saw in his made her blood ice over. Keeping still, Whitney fought not to show the fear, only the revulsion. “Is this your pet rodent, Remo?” she said mildly. “I certainly hope you know how to control him.”

  “Back off, Barns.”

  He stroked her hair down to her shoulder. “I just wanna touch.”

  “Back off!”

  She saw the look in Barns’s eyes when he turned to Remo. The amiability was gone. The idiocy in them now was dark and vile. She swallowed, unsure whether he’d obey or simply shoot Remo where he stood. If she had to deal with one of them, she didn’t want it to be Barns.

  “Gentlemen,” she said in a calm, clear voice that had them both looking back at her. “If we’re going to be at this for very long, I’d appreciate that cigarette. It’s been a very tiring morning.”

  With his left hand, Remo reached in his pocket and offered her a cigarette. Whitney took it, then, holding it between her two fingers, looked at him expectantly. He’d have shot her through the brain without a moment’s hesitation. Then again, Remo appreciated old-fashioned manners. Taking out his lighter, he flicked it on for her.

  With her gaze resting on his, Whitney smiled and blew out a stream of smoke. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. Just how do you expect me to believe you wasted Lord? He’s not a fool.”

  Whitney sat back, bringing the cigarette to her lips again. “There we have a difference of opinion, Remo. Lord was a first-class fool. It’s pitifully easy to take advantage of a man whose brains, shall we say, hang below the waist.” A bead of sweat ran down her shoulder blades. It took all her effort not to fidget in the chair.

  Remo studied her. Her face was calm, her hands steady. Either she had more guts than he’d expected, or she was telling the truth. Normally, he’d have appreciated someone tidying up for him, but he’d wanted to kill Doug himself. “Look, babe, you’ve been with Lord willing. You helped him all along.”

  “Naturally. He had something I wanted.” She puffed delicately, grateful that she didn’t choke. “I helped him get out of the country, even backed him financially.” She gave the cigarette a gentle tap in the ashtray beside her. Stalling wasn’t possible, she realized. If Doug came back while they were still there, it would be all over. For both of them. “I have to admit, it was a bit of a kick for awhile, even though Douglas lacked style. He’s the kind of man a woman tires of easily, if you know what I mean.” She smiled, looking Remo up and down through a mist of smoke. “In any case, I saw no reason why I should be stuck with him, or why I should share the treasure with him.”

  “So you killed him.”

  She noticed he didn’t say it with any shade of disgust or revulsion. It was speculation she heard. “Of course. He became foolishly cocky after we’d stolen your jeep. It was a simple matter to persuade him to stop—pull off the road a bit.” She fiddled idly with her top button and watched Remo’s eyes lower to it. “I had the papers and the jeep. I certainly didn’t need him anymore. I shot him, dumped him out in the bush, and drove into town.”

  “Pretty careless of him to let you get the drop on him.”

  “He was…” She trailed her fingertip down. “Occupied.” He wasn’t buying, she thought and jerked her shoulders. “You can waste your time looking for him if you like. However, you’re probably aware that I checked in alone. And, since you apparently knew Douglas, you might consider the fact that I have the treasure. Do you really think he’d have trusted me with that?”

  She pointed one elegant finger toward the dresser.

  Remo moved over and tossed back the lid. What he saw made his mouth water.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Whitney lightly tapped out her cigarette. “Much too impressive to share with someone of Lord’s caliber. However…” She trailed off until Remo’s gaze came back to her. “A man of a certain class and breeding would be quite different.”

  It was tempting. Her eyes were dark and promising. He could almost feel the heat rise from the small treasure chest beneath his fingers. But he remembered Dimitri. “You’re going to change your accommodations.”

  “All right.” As if it didn’t concern her in the least, Whitney rose. She had to get them out, and out quickly. Going with them was preferable to being shot in the kneecap, or anywhere else.

  Remo picked up the treasure chest. Dimitri was going to be pleased, he thought. Very, very pleased. He gave Whitney a thin smile. “Barns is going to walk you out to the car. I wouldn’t try anything—unless you’d like to have all the bones in your right hand broken.”

  A look at Barns’s grinning face brought on a shudder. “There’s no need to be crude, Remo.”

  It didn’t take Doug long to arrange for the two one-way tickets to Paris, but the shopping expedition ate up more time. It gave him a great deal of pleasure to buy Whitney the filmy underwear—even if it was her credit-card number that was stamped on the receipt. He spent nearly an hour, much to the saleswoman’s delight, choosing a royal blue silk dress with a draping bodice and a sleek, narrow skirt.

  Pleased, he treated himself to a casually elegant suit. It was precisely how he intended to live, at least for a time. Casually and elegantly.

  By the time he got back to the hotel, he was loaded with boxes and whistling. They were on their way. By the next evening, they’d be drinking champagne in Maxim’s and making love in a room overlooking the Seine. No more six-packs and roadside motels for Doug Lord. First class, Whitney had said. He was going to learn to live with it.

  It surprised him to find the door not quite latched. Didn’t Whitney realize by now he wouldn’t need a key for something as basic as a hotel lock?

  “Hey, lover, ready to celebrate?” Dumping the boxes on the bed, he hefted the bottle of wine he’d spent the equivalent of seventy-five dollars on. As he walked across to the bath, he began loosening the cork in the bottle. “Water still hot?”

  It was cold, and it was empty. For a moment, Doug stood in the center of the room staring at the still, clear water. Giving in to pressure, the cork blew out with a celebratory pop. He barely noticed the overflow of champagne dampening his fingers. His heart in his throat, he dashed back into the bedroom.

  Her pack was there where she’d tossed it on the floor. But there was no small wooden box. With speed and precision he searched the room. The box and everything in it was gone. So was Whitney.

  His first reaction was of fury. To be double-crossed by a woman with whiskey eyes and a cool smile was worse, a hundred times worse, than being double-crossed by a bowlegged midget. At least the midget had been in the business. Swearing, he slammed the bottle down on the table.

  Women! They were and had been his biggest problem since puberty. When would he learn? They smiled, crooned, batted their lashes, and rolled you for every last dollar.

  How could he have been such a jerk? He’d actually believed she had feelings for him. The way she’d looked when they’d made love, the way she’d stood by him, fought by him. He’d actually let himself fall for her, like a stone in a cool, deep lake. He’d even made some half-baked plans about the future, and sh
e’d just walked out on him the first chance she got.

  He looked down at her pack on the floor. She’d carried it on her back, hiking miles, laughing, bitching, teasing him. And then… Without thinking, Doug reached down and picked it up. Inside were pieces of her—the lacy underwear, a compact, a brush. He could smell her.

  No. The denial rammed into him, sharp and abrupt. With it, he tossed the pack against the wall. She wouldn’t have run out on him. Even if he were wrong about her feelings, she just had too much class to renege on a bargain.

  So if she hadn’t run, she’d been taken.

  He stood there, holding her brush in his hand, as the fear poured into him. Taken. He realized he’d rather have believed the double-cross. He’d rather have believed she was already on a plane, heading to Tahiti, laughing at him.

  Dimitri. The brush broke cleanly in two at the pressure of his hands. Dimitri had his woman. Doug threw the two pieces across the room. He wasn’t going to have her for long.

  He left the room quickly, and he was no longer whistling.

  The house was magnificent. But then, Whitney supposed she