Hot Ice Page 5

  millions. Millions. And if he was caught with her, he’d be up on kidnapping charges before he could ask for his court appointed lawyer. Twenty years to life, he thought, dragging a hand through his hair. Doug Lord sure knew how to pick ′em.

  “Look, sugar, this changes things.”

  “It certainly does,” she muttered. “Now I have to call Daddy. Oh, and Uncle Maxie, too.”

  “Yeah.” He scooped up the last forkful of eggs, deciding he’d better eat while he had the chance. “Why don’t you figure out my bill, and we’ll—”

  “Daddy is going to think I’m being held for ransom or something.”

  “Exactly.” He grabbed the last piece of toast. Since she’d figure out a way for him to pay for the meal, he might as well enjoy it. “And I don’t want to end up with a cop’s bullet in my head either.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Whitney dismissed him with a wave of the hand while she refined her plan of approach. “I’ll get around Daddy,” she murmured. “I’ve been doing it for years. I should be able to get him to wire me some money while I’m at it.”

  “Cash?”

  She shot him a long, appraising look. “That certainly got your attention.”

  He set the toast aside. “Look, gorgeous, if you know how to get around your old man, who’m I to argue? And, while the plastic’s nice, and the cash you can get with the plastic’s nice, a little extra of the green stuff would help me sleep a lot easier.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” She walked to the connecting doors, then paused. “You really could use a shower and a shave, Douglas, before we go shopping.”

  He stopped in the act of rubbing his chin. “Shopping?”

  “I’m not going to Madagascar with one blouse and one pair of slacks. And I’m certainly not going anywhere with you wearing a shirt with only one sleeve. We’ll do something about your wardrobe.”

  “I can pick out my own shirts.”

  “After seeing that fascinating jacket you had on when we met, I have my doubts.” With this, she closed the door between them.

  “It was a disguise,” he yelled at her, then stormed off toward the bathroom. Damn woman always had to have the last word.

  But he had to admit, she had taste. After a two-hour shopping whirlwind, he was carrying more packages than he cared to, but the cut of his shirt helped conceal the slight bulge of the envelope that was again strapped to his chest. And he liked the way the loose linen felt against his skin. The same way he liked the way Whitney’s hips moved under the thin white dress. Still, there was no use being too agreeable.

  “What the hell am I going to do with a suit tramping around in a forest in Madagascar?”

  She glanced over and adjusted the collar of his shirt. He’d fussed about wearing baby blue, but Whitney reaffirmed her opinion that it was an excellent color for him. Oddly enough, he looked as though he’d been born wearing tailored slacks. “When one travels, one should be prepared for anything.”

  “I don’t know how much walking we’re going to have to do, sugar, but I’ll tell you this. You’re carrying your own gear.”

  She tipped down her new signature sunglasses. “A gentleman to the last.”

  “You bet.” He stopped beside a drugstore and shifted the packages under one arm. “Look, I need some things in here. Give me a twenty.” When she only lifted a brow, he swore. “Come on, Whitney, you’re going to mark it down in your damn account book anyway. I feel naked without any cash.”

  She gave him a sweet smile as she reached in her purse. “It didn’t bother you to be naked this morning.”

  Her lack of reaction to his body still irked. He plucked the bill from her hand. “Yeah, we’ll take that up again sometime. I’ll meet you upstairs in ten minutes.”

  Pleased with herself, Whitney crossed to the hotel and breezed through the lobby. She was having more fun annoying Doug Lord than she’d had in months. She shifted the smart leather tote she’d bought to her other hand and pushed the button for her floor.

  Things were looking good, she decided. Her father had been relieved that she was safe and not displeased that she was leaving the country again. Laughing to herself, Whitney leaned back against the wall. She supposed she had given him a few bad moments in the past twenty-eight years, but she was just made that way. In any case, she’d spun fact and fiction together until her father had been satisfied. With the thousand dollars he was wiring to Uncle Maxie that afternoon, she and Doug would be on solid ground before they took off for Madagascar.

  Even the name appealed to her. Madagascar, she mused as she strolled down the hall toward her room. Exotic, new, unique. Orchids and lush greens. She wanted to see it all, experience it, as much as she wanted to believe the puzzle Doug talked about led to that pot of gold.

  It wasn’t the gold itself that drew her. She was too accustomed to wealth to have her heartbeat quicken at the thought of more. It was the thrill of looking, of finding, that attracted her. Oddly enough, she understood better than Doug that he felt the same.

  She was going to have to learn a great deal more about him, she decided. From the way he’d discussed cut and material with the salesclerk, he wasn’t a stranger to the finer things. He could’ve passed for one of the casually rich in a classic-cut linen shirt—unless you looked at his eyes. Really looked. Nothing casual there, Whitney thought. They were restless, wary, and hungry. If they were going to be partners, she had to find out why.

  As she unlocked her door, it occurred to her that she had a few minutes alone, and that maybe, just maybe, Doug had stashed the papers in his room. She was putting up the money, Whitney told herself. She had every right to see what she was financing. Still, she moved quietly, keeping an ear out for Doug’s return as she crossed to the connecting doors. She caught her breath, then with a hand to her heart, laughed.

  “Juan, you scared me to death.” She stepped inside, looking beyond where the young waiter sat to the still-littered table. “Did you come to pick up the breakfast dishes?” She didn’t have to put off her quick search because of him, she decided and began to poke through Doug’s dresser. “Is the hotel busy this time of year?” she asked conversationally. “It’s cherry-blossom time, isn’t it? That always brings in the tourists.”

  Frustrated that the dresser was empty, she scanned the room. Maybe the closet. “What time does the maid usually come in, Juan? I could use some extra towels.” When he continued to stare silently at her she frowned. “You don’t look well,” she told him. “They work you too hard. Maybe you should…” She touched a hand to his shoulder and slowly, bonelessly, he slumped to her feet, leaving a smear of blood on the back of the chair.

  She didn’t scream because her brain and her vocal cords had frozen. Eyes wide, mouth working, she backed up. She’d never seen death before, never smelled it, but she recognized it. Before she could run from it, a hand clamped over her arm.

  “Very pretty.”

  The man whose face was inches from hers held a gun under her chin. One cheek was badly scarred, jagged, as from a broken bottle or a blade. Both his hair and his eyes were the color of sand. The barrel of the gun was like ice on her skin. Grinning, he skimmed the gun down her throat.

  “Where’s Lord?”

  Her gaze darted down to the crumpled body inches away from her feet. She could see the red stain spread over the white back of his jacket. Juan would be no help, and he’d never spend the twenty-dollar tip she’d given him only hours before. If she wasn’t careful, very, very careful, she’d end up the same way.

  “I asked you about Lord.” The gun pushed her chin up a little higher.

  “I lost him,” she said, thinking fast. “I wanted to get back here and find the papers.”

  “Double-cross.” He toyed with the ends of her hair and made her stomach roll. “Smart too.” The fingers tightened, jerking her head back. “When’s he coming back?”

  “I don’t know.” She winced at the pain and struggled to keep her mind clear. “Fifteen minutes,
maybe a half hour.” Any minute, she thought desperately. He could walk in any minute and then they both would be dead. Another glance at the body sprawled at her feet and her eyes filled. Whitney swallowed hard, knowing she couldn’t afford tears. “Why did you kill Juan?”

  “Wrong place at the wrong time,” he said with a grin. “Just like you, pretty lady.”

  “Listen…” It wasn’t difficult to keep her voice low, if she’d tried to speak above a whisper her teeth would have chattered. “I don’t have any allegiance to Lord. If you and I could find the papers, then…” She let the sentence trail off, moistening her lips with her tongue. He watched the gesture before he ran his gaze down her body.

  “Not much tit,” he said with a sneer, then stepped back, gesturing with the gun. “Maybe I should see more of what you’re offering.”

  She toyed with the top button of her blouse. She’d gotten his mind off killing her for the moment, but this wasn’t much of a bargain. Inching back as she moved to the next button, she felt her hips bump into the table. As if to steady herself, she rested a palm on it, keeping her gaze on his sand-colored eyes. She felt cool stainless steel brush her fingertips.

  “Maybe you should help me,” she whispered and forced herself to smile.

  He inclined his head as he set the gun on the dresser. “Maybe I should.” Then his hands were on her hips, moving slowly up her body. Whitney gripped the handle in her fist and plunged the fork into the side of his throat.

  Blood spurting, squealing like a pig, he jumped back. As he reached for the handle himself, she picked up the leather tote and swung it with all the force she had. She didn’t look to see how deep she’d driven the prongs into him. She ran.

  In high good humor after a brief flirtation with the checkout girl, Doug started to swing into the lobby. Running full steam, Whitney barreled into him.

  He juggled tottering packages. “What the hell—”

  “Run!” she shouted, and without waiting to see if he took her advice, raced out of the hotel.

  Swearing and fumbling with packages, he drew up alongside her. “What for?”

  “They’ve found us.”

  A glance over his shoulder showed him Remo and two others just hustling out of the hotel. “Ah, shit,” Doug muttered, then grabbing Whitney’s arm, he dragged her through the first door he came to. They were greeted by the quiet strains of harp music and a stiff-backed maitre d’.

  “You have a luncheon reservation?”

  “Just looking for friends,” Doug told him, nudging Whitney along.

  “Yes, I hope we’re not too early.” She batted her eyes at the maitre d’ before scanning the restaurant. “I do hate being early. Ah, there’s Marjorie now. My, my, she’s put on weight.” With Whitney leaning conspiratorially toward Doug, they moved past the maitre d’. “Be sure to compliment her on that horrid outfit, Rodney.”

  Skirting through the restaurant, they made a direct line for the kitchen. “Rodney?” he complained in undertones.

  “It just came to me.”

  “Here.” Thinking fast, he shoved the boxes and bags into Whitney’s tote, then slung the whole business over his shoulder. “Let me do the talking.”

  In the kitchen they made their way around counters and ranges and cooks. Moving as quickly as he thought prudent, Doug aimed for the back door. A white-aproned bulk, three feet wide, stepped in front of him.

  “Guests are not permitted in the kitchen.”

  Doug looked up at the chef’s hat at least a foot above his own head. It reminded him how much he hated physical altercations. You didn’t get so many bruises when you used your head. “One minute, one minute,” Doug said fussily and turned to the pot simmering at his right. “Sheila, this has the most divine scent. Superb, sensuous. Four stars for the scent.”

  Catching on, she drew her pad out of her bag. “Four stars,” she repeated, scribbling.

  Picking up the ladle, Doug held it under his nose, closed his eyes, and sampled. “Ah.” He drew the word out so dramatically Whitney had to choke down a giggle. “Poisson Véronique. Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent. Definitely one of the top contenders in the contest. Your name?” he demanded from the chef.

  The white-aproned bulk preened. “Henri.”

  “Henri,” he repeated, waving a hand at Whitney. “You’ll be notified within ten days. Come, Sheila, don’t dawdle. We have three more stops to make.”

  “My money’s on you,” Whitney told Henri as they walked out the back door.

  “Okay.” Doug gripped her arm hard when they stood in the alley. “Remo’s only half-stupid so we’ve got to get out fast. Which way to Uncle Maxie’s?”

  “He lives in Virginia, Roslyn.”

  “All right, we need a cab.” He started forward, then pushed Whitney back against the wall so quickly she lost her breath. “Dammit, they’re already out there.” He took a moment, knowing the alley wouldn’t be safe for long. In his experience, alleys were never safe for long. “We’ll have to go the other way, which means going over a few walls. You’re going to have to keep up.”

  The image of Juan was still fresh in her mind. “I’ll keep up.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They started out side by side then swerved to the right. Whitney had to scramble over boxes to make it over the first fence and her leg muscles sang out in surprise on the landing. She kept running. If he had a pattern to his flight, she couldn’t find it. He zigzagged down streets, through alleys, and over fences until her lungs burned from the effort of keeping the pace. The floaty skirt of her dress caught on chain link and tore jaggedly at the hem. People stopped to look at them in surprise and speculation as they never would’ve done in New York.

  Always, he seemed to have one eye looking over his shoulder. She had no way of knowing he’d lived that way most of his life and had often wondered if he’d ever live any other way. When he dragged her down the stairs toward Metro Center, she had to grip the rail to keep from plunging head first.

  “Blue lines, red lines,” he muttered. “Why do they have to screw things up with colors?”

  “I don’t know.” Breathless, she leaned against the information board. “I’ve never ridden the Metro before.”

  “Well, we’re fresh out of limos. Red line,” he announced and grabbed her hand again. He hadn’t lost them. Doug could still smell the hunt. Five minutes, he thought. He only wanted a five-minute lead. Then they’d be on one of those speedy little trains and gain more time.

  The crowd was thick and babbling in a half dozen languages. The more people the better, he decided as he inched his way along. He glanced over his shoulder when they stood at the edge of the platform. His gaze met Remo’s. He saw the bandage on the tanned cheek. Compliments of Whitney MacAllister, Doug thought and couldn’t resist tossing back a grin. Yeah, he owed her for that, he decided. If for nothing else, he owed her for that.

  It was all timing now, he knew, as he pulled Whitney onto the train. Timing and luck. It was either with them or against them. Sandwiched between Whitney and a sariclad Indian woman, Doug watched Remo fight his way through the crowd.

  When the doors closed, he grinned and gave the frustrated man outside a half salute. “Let’s find a seat,” he said to Whitney. “There’s nothing like public transportation.”

  She said nothing as they worked their way through the car, and still nothing when they found a space nearly big enough for both of them. Doug was too busy alternately cursing and blessing his luck to notice. In the end, he grinned at his own reflection in the glass to his left.

  “Well, the sonofabitch might’ve found us, but he’s going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to Dimitri about losing us again.” Satisfied, he draped his arm over the back of the bright orange seat. “How’d you spot them anyway?” he asked absently while he plotted out his next move. Money, passport, and airport, in that order, though he had to fit in a quick trip to the library. If Dimitri and his hounds showed up in Madagascar, they’d just lose t
hem again. He was on a roll. “You’ve got a sharp eye, sugar,” he told her. “We’d’ve been in a bad way if there’d been a welcoming committee back in the hotel room.”

  Adrenaline had carried her through the streets. The need to survive had driven her hard and fast until the moment she’d sat down. Drained, Whitney turned her head and stared at his profile. “They killed Juan.”

  “What?” Distracted, he glanced over. For the first time he noticed that her skin was bloodless and her eyes blank. “Juan?” Doug drew her closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The waiter? What’re you talking about?”

  “He was dead in your room when I went back. There was a man waiting.”

  “What man?” Doug demanded. “What’d he look like?”

  “His eyes were like sand. He had a scar down his cheek, a long, jagged scar.”

  “Butrain,” Doug mumbled. Some of Dimitri’s excess slime and as mean as they came. He tightened his grip on Whitney’s shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”

  Her eyes, dark as aged whiskey, focused on his again. “I think I killed him.”

  “What?” he stared at the elegant, fine-boned face. “You killed Butrain? How?”

  “With a fork.”

  “You—” Doug stopped, sat back, and tried to take it in. If she hadn’t been looking at him with big, devastated eyes, if her hand hadn’t been like ice, he’d have laughed out loud. “You’re telling me you did in one of Dimitri’s apes with a fork?”

  “I didn’t stop to take his pulse.” The train pulled up at the next stop and, unable to sit still, Whitney rose and pushed her way