HOT ICE

He was running for his life. And it wasn’t the first time. As he raced by

Tiffany’s elegant window display he hoped it wouldn’t be his last. The night

was cool with April rain slick on the streets and sidewalk. There was a

breeze that even in Manhattan tasted pleasantly of spring. He was sweating.

They were too damn close.

Fifth Avenue was quiet, even sedate at this time of night. Streetlights

intermittently broke the darkness; traffic was light. It wasn’t the place to

lose yourself in a crowd. As he ran by Fifty-third, he considered ducking

down into the subway below the Tishman Building—but if they saw him go

in, he might not come back out.

Doug heard the squeal of tires behind him and whipped around the

corner at Cartier’s. He felt the sting in his upper arm, heard the muffled pop

of a silenced bullet, but never slackened his pace. Almost at once, he

smelled the blood. Now they were getting nasty. And he had the feeling

they could do a lot worse.

But on Fifty-second Street were people—a group here and there, some

walking, some standing. Here, there was noise—raised voices, music. His

labored breathing went unnoticed. Quietly he stood behind a redhead who

was four or five inches taller than his own six feet—and half again as wide.

She was swaying to the music that poured out of her portable stereo. It was

like hiding behind a tree in a windstorm. Doug took the opportunity to catch

his breath and check his wound. He was bleeding like a pig. Without giving

it a thought, he slipped the striped bandana out of the redhead’s back pocket

and wrapped it around his arm. She never stopped swaying—he had very

light fingers.

It was more difficult to kill a man outright when there was a crowd, he

decided. Not impossible, just harder. Doug kept his pace slow and faded in

and out of the packs of people while he kept his eyes and ears open for the

discreet black Lincoln.

Near Lexington he saw it pull up a half block away, and he saw the three

men in trim dark suits get out. They hadn’t spotted him yet, but it wouldn’t

be long. Thinking fast, he scanned the crowd he’d merged with. The black

leather with the two dozen zippers might work.

“Hey.” He grabbed the arm of the boy beside him. “I’ll give you fifty

bucks for your jacket.”

The boy with pale spiked hair and a paler face shrugged him off. “Fuck

off. It’s leather.”

“A hundred then,” Doug muttered. The three men were getting closer all

the time.

This time the boy took more interest. He turned his face so that Doug

saw the tiny tattooed vulture on his cheek. “Two hundred and it’s yours.”

Doug was already reaching for his wallet. “For two hundred I want the

shades too.”

The boy whipped off the wraparound mirrored sunglasses. “You got

′em.”

“Here, let me help you off with that.” In a quick move, Doug yanked the

boy’s jacket off. After stuffing bills in the boy’s hand he pulled it on, letting

out a hiss of breath at the pain in his left arm. The jacket smelled, not

altogether pleasantly, of its previous owner. Ignoring it, Doug tugged the

zipper up. “Look, there’re three guys in undertaker suits coming this way.

They’re scouting out for extras for a Billy Idol video. You and your friends

here should get yourselves noticed.”

“Oh yeah?” And as the boy turned around with his best bored-teenager’s

look on his face, Doug was diving through the nearest door.

Inside, wallpaper shimmered in pale colors under dimmed lights. People

sat at white linen-covered tables under art-deco prints. The gleam of brass

rails formed a path to more private dining rooms or to a mirrored bar. With

one whiff, Doug caught the scent of French cooking— sage, burgundy,

thyme. Briefly he considered hustling his way past the maitre d’ to a quiet

table, then decided the bar was better cover. Affecting a bored look, he

stuck his hands in his pockets and swaggered over. Even as he leaned on the

bar, he was calculating how and when to make his exit.

“Whiskey.” He pushed the wraparound shades more firmly onto his

nose. “Seagram’s. Leave the bottle.”

He stood hunched over it, his face turned ever so slightly toward the

door. His hair was dark, curling into the collar of the jacket; his face was

clean-shaven and lean. His eyes, hidden behind the mirrored glasses, were

trained on the door as he downed the first fiery taste of whiskey. Without

pausing, he poured a second shot. His mind was working out all the

alternatives.

He’d learned to think on his feet at an early age, just as he’d learned to

use his feet to run if that was the best solution. He didn’t mind a fight, but

he liked to have the odds in his favor. He could deal straight, or he could

skim over the finer points of honesty—depending on what was the most

profitable.

What he had strapped to his chest could be the answer to his taste for

luxury and easy living—the taste he’d always wanted to cultivate. What

was outside, combing the streets for him, could be a quick end to living at

all. Weighing one against the other, Doug opted to shoot for the pot of gold.

The couple beside him were discussing the latest Mailer novel in earnest

voices. Another group tossed around the idea of heading to a club for jazz

and cheaper booze. The crowd at the bar was mostly single, he decided,

here to drink off the tension of a business day and show themselves to other

singles. There were leather skirts, three-piece suits, and high-topped

sneakers. Satisfied, Doug pulled out a cigarette. He could have chosen a

worse place to hide.

A blonde in a dove gray suit slid onto the stool beside him and flicked

her lighter at the end of his cigarette. She smelled of Chanel and vodka.

Crossing her legs, she downed the rest of her drink.

“Haven’t seen you in here before.”

Doug gave her a brief look—enough to take in the slightly blurred vision

and the predatory smile. Another time, he’d have appreciated it. “No.” He

poured another shot.

“My office is a couple of blocks from here.” Even after three

Stolichnayas, she recognized something arrogant, something dangerous in

the man beside her. Interested, she swiveled a little closer. “I’m an

architect.”

The hair on the back of his neck stood up when they walked in. The

three of them looked neat and successful. Shifting, he looked over the

blonde’s shoulder as they separated. One of them stood idly by the door.

The only way out.

Attracted rather than discouraged by his lack of response, the blonde laid

a hand on Doug’s arm. “And what do you do?”

He let the whiskey lie in his mouth for just a moment before he

swallowed and sent it spreading through his system. “I steal,” he told her

because people rarely believe the truth.

She smiled as she took out a cigarette, then handed him her lighter and

waited for Doug to flick it on for her. “Fascinating, I’m sure.” She blew out

a quick, thin stream of smoke and plucked the lighter from his fingers.

“Why don’t you buy me a drink and tell me all about it?”

A pity he’d never tried that line before since it seemed to work so well.

A pity the timing was all wrong, because she filled out the little suit neater

than a CPA filled out a 1099. “Not tonight, sugar.”

Keeping his mind on business, Doug poured more whiskey and stayed

out of the light. The impromptu disguise might work. He felt the pressure of

a gun barrel against his ribs. Then again, it might not.

“Outside, Lord. Mr. Dimitri’s upset that you didn’t keep your

appointment.”

“Yeah?” Casually, he swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Thought I’d

have a couple of drinks first, Remo— must’ve lost track of time.”

The barrel dug into his ribs again. “Mr. Dimitri likes his employees to be

prompt.”

Doug downed the whiskey, watching in the mirror behind the bar as the

two other men took position behind him. Already the blonde was backing

off to look for an easier mark. “Am I fired?” He poured another glass and

figured the odds. Three to one—they were armed, he wasn’t. But then, of

the three of them, only Remo had what could pass for a brain.

“Mr. Dimitri likes to fire his employees in person.” Remo grinned and

showed perfectly capped teeth under a pencil-thin moustache. “And he

wants to give you real special attention.”

“Okay.” Doug placed one hand on the whiskey bottle, the other on the

glass. “How about a drink first?”

“Mr. Dimitri doesn’t like drinking on the job. And you’re late, Lord.

Real late.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s a shame to waste good booze.” Whirling, he tossed the

whiskey into Remo’s eyes and swung the bottle into the face of the suited

man at his right. With the impetus of the swing, he ran headlong into the

third man so that they fell backward onto the dessert display. Chocolate

soufflé and rich French cream flew in a symphony of high-caloric rain.

Wrapped around each other like lovers, they rolled into the lemon torte.

“Terrible waste,” Doug muttered and pushed a handful of strawberry

mousse into the other man’s face. Knowing the element of surprise would

wear out quickly, Doug used the most expeditious means of defense. He

brought his knee up hard between his opponent’s legs. Then he ran.

“Put it on Dimitri’s tab,” he called out as he pushed his way through

tables and chairs. On impulse, he grabbed a waiter, then shoved him and his

loaded tray in Remo’s direction. Roast squab flew like a bullet. With one

hand on the brass rail, he leapt over and scrambled for the door. He left the

chaos behind him and broke into the street.

He’d bought some time, but they’d be behind him again. And this time,

they’d be mean. Doug headed uptown on foot, wondering why the hell you

could never find a cab when you needed one.

Traffic was light on the Long Island Expressway as Whitney headed into

town. Her flight from Paris had landed at Kennedy an hour behind

schedule. The back seat and trunk of her little Mercedes were crammed

with luggage. The radio was turned up high so that the gritty strains of

Springsteen’s latest hit could ricochet through the car and out the open

window. The two-week trip to France had been a gift to herself for finally

working up the courage to break off her engagement to Tad Carlyse IV.

No matter how pleased her parents had been, she just couldn’t marry a

man who color-coordinated his socks and ties.

Whitney began to sing harmony with Springsteen as she tooled around a

slower-moving compact. She was twenty-eight, attractive, moderately

successful in her own career while having enough family money to back her

up if things got really tough. She was accustomed to affluence and

deference. She’d never had to demand either one, only expect them. She

enjoyed being able to slip into one of New York’s posher clubs late at night

and find it filled with people she knew.

She didn’t mind if the paparazzi snapped her or if the gossip columns

speculated on what her latest outrage would be. She’d often explained to

her frustrated father that she wasn’t outrageous by design, but by nature.

She liked fast cars, old movies, and Italian boots.

At the moment, she was wondering if she should go home or drop in at

Elaine’s and see who’d been up to what in the past two weeks. She didn’t

feel jet lag, but a trace of boredom. More than a trace, she admitted. She

was nearly smothered with it. The question was what to do about it.

Whitney was the product of new money, big money. She’d grown up

with the world at her fingertips, but she hadn’t always found it interesting

enough to reach for. Where was the challenge? she wondered. Where was

the—she hated to use the word—purpose? Her circle of friends was wide,

and from the outside appeared to be diverse. But once you got in, once you

really saw beneath the silk dresses or chinos, there was a sameness to these

young, urbane, wealthy, pampered people. Where was the thrill? That was

better, she thought. Thrill was an easier word to deal with than purpose. It

wasn’t a thrill to jet to Aruba if you only had to pick up the phone to

arrange it.

Her two weeks in Paris had been quiet and soothing— and uneventful.

Uneventful. Maybe that was the crux. She wanted something—something

more than she could pay for with a check or credit card. She wanted action.

Whitney also understood herself well enough to know she could be

dangerous in this kind of mood.

But she wasn’t in the mood to go home, alone, and unpack. Then again,

she wasn’t feeling much like a club crowded with familiar faces. She

wanted something new, something different. She could try one of the new

clubs that were always popping up. If she liked, she could have a couple of

drinks and make conversation. Then, if the club interested her enough, she

could drop a few words in the right places and make it the newest hot spot

in Manhattan. The fact that she had the power to do so didn’t astonish her,

or even particularly please her. It simply was.

Whitney squealed to a halt at a red light to give herself time to make up

her mind. It seemed like nothing was happening in her life lately. There

wasn’t any excitement, any, well, zing.

She was more surprised than alarmed when her passenger door was

yanked open. One look at the black zippered jacket and wraparound glasses

of the hitchhiker had her shaking her head. “You aren’t keeping up with

fashion trends,” she told him.

Doug shot a look over his shoulder. The street was clear, but it wouldn’t

be for long. He jumped in and slammed the door. “Drive.”

“Forget it. I don’t drive around with guys who wear last year’s clothes.

Take a walk.”

Doug stuck his hand in his pocket, using his forefinger to simulate the

barrel of a gun. “Drive,” he repeated.

She looked at his pocket, then back at his face. On the radio the disk

jockey announced a full hour of blasts from the past. Vintage Stones began

to pour out. “If there’s a gun in there, I want to see it. Otherwise, take off.”

Of all the cars he could’ve picked… Why the hell wasn’t she shaking

and pleading like any normal person would’ve done? “Dammit, I don’t

want to have to use this, but if you don’t throw this thing in gear and get

moving, I’m going to have to put a hole in you.”

Whitney stared at her own reflection in his glasses. Mick Jagger was

demanding that someone give him shelter. “Bullshit,” she said, her diction

exquisite.

Doug gave a moment’s consideration to knocking her cold, dumping her

out, and taking the car. Another glance over his shoulder showed him there

wasn’t much time to waste.

“Look, lady, if you don’t get moving, there’re three men in that Lincoln

coming up behind us that’ll do a lot of damage to your toy here.”

She looked in the rearview mirror and saw the big, black car slowing

down as it approached. “My father had a car like that once,” she

commented. “I always called it his funeral car.”

“Yeah—get it in gear or it’s going to be my funeral.”

Whitney frowned, watching the Lincoln in her rear-view mirror, then

impulsively decided to see what would happen next. She threw the car into

first and zipped across the intersection. The Lincoln immediately picked up

the pace. “They’re following.”

“Of course they’re following,” Doug spat out. “And if you don’t step on

it, they’re going to crawl into the back seat and shake hands.”

Mostly out of curiosity, Whitney punched the gas and turned down

Fifty-seventh. The Lincoln stayed with her. “They’re really following,” she

said again, but with a grin of excitement.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?”

She turned the grin on him. “Are you kidding?” Before he could

respond, she gunned the engine and was off like a shot. This was definitely

the most interesting way to spend the evening she could imagine. “Think I

can lose them?” Whitney looked behind her, craning her neck to see if the

Lincoln was still following. “Ever see Bullitt? Of course, we don’t have any

of those nifty hills, but—”

“Hey, watch it!”

Whitney turned back around and, whipping the wheel, skimmed around

a slower-moving sedan.

“Look.” Doug gritted his teeth. “The whole purpose of this is to stay

alive. You watch the road, I’ll watch the Lincoln.”

“Don’t be so snotty.” Whitney careened around the next corner. “I know

what I’m doing.”

“Look where you’re going!” Doug grabbed the wheel, yanking it so that

the fender missed a car parked at the curb. “Damn idiot woman.”

Whitney lifted her chin. “If you’re going to be insulting, you’ll just have

to get out.” Slowing down, she swung toward the curb.

“For God’s sake don’t stop.”

“I don’t tolerate insults. Now—”

“Down!” Doug hauled her sideways and pulled her down to the seat just

before the windshield exploded into spiderweb cracks.

“My car!” She struggled to sit up, but only managed to twist her head to

survey the damage. “Goddamn it, it didn’t have a scratch on it. I’ve only

had it for two months.”

“It’s going to have a lot more than a scratch if you don’t step on the gas

and keep going.” From his crouched position, Doug twisted the wheel

toward the street and peered cautiously over the dash. “Now!”

Infuriated, Whitney stepped hard on the accelerator, moving blindly into

the street while Doug held on to the wheel with one hand and held her down

with the other.

“I can’t drive this way.”

“You can’t drive with a bullet in your head either.”

“A bullet?” Her voice didn’t crack with fear, but vibrated with

annoyance. “They’re shooting at us?”

“They ain’t throwing rocks.” Tightening his grip, he spun the wheel so

that the car bumped into the curb and around the next corner. Frustrated that

he couldn’t take the controls himself, he took a cautious look behind. The

Lincoln was still there, but they’d gained a few seconds. “Okay, sit up, but

keep low. And for Chrissake keep moving.”

“How’m I supposed to explain this to the insurance company?” Whitney

poked up her head and tried to find a clear spot in the broken windshield.

“They’re never going to believe someone was shooting at me and I’ve

already got a filthy record. Do you know what my rates are?”

“The way you drive, I can imagine.”

“Well, I’ve had enough.” Setting her jaw, Whitney turned left.

“This is a one-way street.” He looked around helplessly. “Didn’t you see

the sign?”

“I know it’s a one-way street,” she muttered and pressed harder on the

gas. “It’s also the quickest way across town.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Doug watched the headlights bearing down on them.

Automatically he gripped the door handle and braced for the impact. If he

was going to die, he thought fatalistically, he’d rather be shot, nice and

clean through the heart, than be spread all over a street in Manhattan.

Ignoring the screams of horns, Whitney jerked the car to the right, then

to the left. Fools and small animals, Doug thought as they breezed between

two oncoming cars. God looked out for fools and small animals. He could

only be grateful he was with a fool.

“They’re still coming.” Doug turned in the seat to watch the progress of

the Lincoln. Somehow it was easier if he didn’t watch where he was going.

They bounced from side to side as she maneuvered between cars, then with

a force that threw him against the door, she turned another corner. Doug

swore and grabbed for the wound on his arm. Pain began again with a low,

insistent thud. “Stop trying to kill us, will you? They don’t need any help.”

“Always complaining,” Whitney tossed back. “Let me tell you

something, you’re not a real fun guy.”

“I tend to get moody when somebody’s trying to kill me.”

“Well, try to lighten up a bit,” Whitney suggested. She barreled around

the next corner, skimming the curb. “You’re making me nervous.”

Doug flopped back in his seat and wondered why, with all the

possibilities, it had to end this way—smashed into unrecognizable pulp in

some crazy woman’s Mercedes. He could’ve gone quietly with Remo and

had Dimitri murder him with some ritual. There’d have been more justice in

that.

They were on Fifth again, moving south at what Doug saw was better

than ninety. As they went through a puddle, water slushed up as far as the

window. Even now, the Lincoln was less than a half block behind.

“Dammit. They just won’t shake lose.”

“Oh yeah?” Whitney set her teeth and gave the mirror a quick check.

She’d never been a gracious loser. “Watch this.” Before Doug could draw a

breath, she whipped the Mercedes around in a tight U-turn and headed

dead-on for the Lincoln.

He watched with a kind of fascinated dread. “Oh my God.”

Remo, in the passenger seat of the Lincoln, echoed the sentiment just

before his driver lost courage and steered toward the curb. The speed took

them over it, across the sidewalk, and with an impressive flourish, through

the plate-glass window of Godiva Chocolatiers. Without slackening pace,

Whitney spun the Mercedes around again and cruised down Fifth.

Dropping back in his seat, Doug let out a series of long, deep breaths.

“Lady,” he managed to say, “you got more guts than brains.”

“And you owe me three hundred bucks for the windshield.” Rather

sedately, she pulled into the underground parking of a high rise.

“Yeah.” Absently, he patted his chest and torso to see if he was all in one

piece. “I’ll send you a check.”

“Cash.” After pulling into her space, Whitney turned off the ignition and

hopped out. “Now, you can carry my luggage up.” She popped the trunk

before she strolled toward the elevator. Maybe her knees were shaking, but

she’d be damned if she’d admit it. “I want a drink.”

Doug looked back toward the entrance of the garage and calculated his

chances on the street. Maybe an hour or so inside would give him the

chance to outline the best plan. And, he supposed, he owed her. He started

to haul out the luggage.

“There’s more in the back.”

“I’ll get it later.” He slung a garment bag over his shoulder and hoisted

two cases. Gucci, he noted with a smirk. And she was bitching about a

lousy three hundred.

Doug walked into the elevator and dumped the two cases

unceremoniously on the floor. “Been on a trip?”

Whitney punched the button for the forty-second floor. “A couple of

weeks in Paris.”

“Couple of weeks.” Doug glanced at the three bags. And she’d said there

were more. “Travel light, do you?”

“I travel,” Whitney said rather grandly, “as I please. Ever been to

Europe?”

He grinned, and though the sunglasses hid his eyes, she found the smile

appealing. He had a well-shaped mouth and teeth that weren’t quite straight.

“Few times.”

They measured each other in silence. It was the first opportunity Doug

had had to really look at her. She was taller than he’d expected—though he

wasn’t altogether sure just what he’d expected. Her hair was almost

completely hidden under an angled white fedora, but what he could see was

as pale as the punker’s he’d stopped on the street, though a richer shade.

The brim of the hat shaded her face, but he could see a flawless ivory

complexion over elegant bones. Her eyes were round, the color of the

whiskey he’d downed earlier. Her mouth was naked and unsmiling. She

smelled like something soft and silky you wanted to touch in a dark room.

She was what he’d have termed a stunner, though she didn’t appear to

have any obvious curves beneath the simple sable jacket and silk slacks.

Doug had always preferred the obvious in women. Perhaps the flamboyant.

Still, he didn’t find it any real hardship to look at her.

Casually, Whitney reached in her snakeskin bag and drew out her keys.

“Those glasses are ridiculous.”

“Yeah. Well they served their purpose.” He took them off.

His eyes surprised her. They were very light, very clear, and green.

Somehow they were at odds with his face and his coloring—until you

noticed how direct they were, and how carefully they watched, as if he were

a man who measured everything and everyone.

He hadn’t worried her before. The glasses had made him appear silly

and harmless. Now, Whitney had her first stirrings of discomfort. Who the

hell was he, and why were men shooting at him?

When the doors slid open, Doug bent to pick up the suitcases. Whitney

glanced down and noticed the thin stream of red dripping down his wrist.

“You’re bleeding.”

Doug looked down dispassionately. “Yeah. Which way?”

She hesitated only a moment. She could be just as cavalier as he. “To the

right. And don’t bleed on those cases.” Breezing past him, she turned the

key in the lock.

Through annoyance and pain, Doug noticed she had quite a walk. Slow

and loose with an elegant sort of swing. It made him conclude that she was

a woman accustomed to being followed by men. Deliberately he came up

alongside her. Whitney spared him a glance before she pushed open the

door. Then, flicking on the lights, she walked inside and went directly to the

bar. She chose a bottle of Remy Martin and poured generous amounts into

two glasses.

Impressive, Doug thought as he took stock of her apartment. The carpet

was so thick and soft he could be happy sleeping on it. He knew enough to

recognize the French influence in her furnishings, but not enough to pin

down the period. She’d used deep sapphire blue and mustard yellow to

offset the stunning white of the carpet. He could spot an antique when he

saw one, and he spotted quite a few in this room. Her romantic taste was as

obvious to him as the Monet seascape on the wall. A damn good copy, he

decided. If he just had the time to hock it, he could be on his way. It didn’t

take more than a cursory glance to make him realize he could fill his

zippered pockets with handfuls of her fancy French whatnots to pawn for a

first-class ticket that would get him far away from this burg. Trouble was,

he didn’t dare deal in any pawnshop in the city. Not now that Dimitri had

his tentacles out.

Because the furnishings weren’t of any use to him, he wasn’t sure why

they appealed. Normally he would have found them too feminine and

formal. Perhaps after an evening of running, he needed the comfort of silk

pillows and lace. Whitney sipped her cognac as she carried the glasses

across the room.

“You can bring this into the bathroom,” she told him as she handed him

his drink. Negligently she tossed the fur over the back of the sofa. “I’ll take

a look at that arm.”

Doug frowned while he watched her walk away. Women were supposed

to ask questions, dozens of them. Maybe this one just didn’t have the brains

to think of them. Reluctantly he followed her, and the trail of her scent. But

she was classy, he admitted. There was no denying it.

“Take off that jacket and sit down,” she ordered, running water over a

monogrammed washcloth.

Doug stripped off the jacket, gritting his teeth as he peeled it from his

left arm. After carefully folding it and laying it on the lip of the tub, he sat

on a ladder-back chair anyone else would have had in their living room. He

looked down and saw the sleeve of his shirt was caked with blood.

Swearing, he ripped it off and exposed the wound. “I can do it myself,” he

muttered and reached for the cloth.

“Be still.” Whitney began to wipe away the dried blood with the soapy

warm cloth. “I can’t very well see how much damage was done until I clean

it up.”

He sat back because the warm water was soothing and her touch was

gentle. But while he sat back, he watched her. Just what kind of woman was

she? he wondered. She drove like a nerveless maniac, dressed like Harper’s

Bazaar, and drank—he’d noticed she’d already knocked back her cognac—

like a sailor. He’d have been more comfortable if she’d shown just a touch

of the hysteria he’d expected.

“Don’t you want to know how I got this?”

“Hmmm.” Whitney pressed a clean cloth to the wound to slow the new

bleeding. Because he wanted her to ask, she was determined not to.

“A bullet,” Doug said with relish.

“Really?” Interested, Whitney removed the cloth to get a closer look.

“I’ve never seen a bullet wound before.”

“Terrific.” He swallowed more cognac. “How do you like it?”

She shrugged before she slid back the mirrored door of the medicine

cabinet. “It’s not terribly impressive.”

Frowning, he looked down at the wound himself. True, the bullet had

only nicked him, but he had been shot. It wasn’t every day a man got shot.

“It hurts.”

“Aw, well we’ll bandage it all up. Scratches don’t hurt nearly so much if

you can’t see them.”

He watched her root through jars of face cream and bath oils. “You’ve

got a smart mouth, lady.”

“Whitney,” she corrected. “Whitney MacAllister.” Turning she offered

her hand formally.

His lips curved. “Lord, Doug Lord.”

“Hello, Doug. Now, after I fix this up, we’ll have to discuss the damage

to my car and the payment.” She went back to the medicine cabinet. “Three

hundred dollars.”

He took another swallow of cognac. “How come you know it’s three

hundred?”

“I’m giving you the low end of the scale. You can’t fix a spark plug in a

Mercedes for less than three hundred.”

“I’ll have to owe you. I spent my last two hundred on the jacket.”

“That jacket?” Amazed, Whitney twisted her head and stared at him.

“You look smarter.”

“I needed it,” Doug tossed back. “Besides, it’s leather.”

This time she laughed. “As in genuine imitation.”

“What d’you mean, imitation?”

“That zippered monstrosity didn’t come off any cow. Ah, here it is. I

knew I had some.” With a satisfied nod, she took a bottle from the cabinet.

“That little sonofabitch,” Doug mumbled. He hadn’t had the time or the

opportunity to look too closely at his purchase before. Now, in the bright

bathroom light, he saw it was nothing more than cheap vinyl. Two hundred

dollars’ worth. The sudden fire in his arm had him jerking. “Goddamn it!

What’re you doing?”

“Iodine,” Whitney told him, smearing it on generously.

He settled down, scowling. “It stings.”

“Don’t be a baby.” Briskly, she wrapped gauze around his upper arm

until the wound was covered. She snipped off tape, secured it, then gave it a

final pat. “There,” she said, rather pleased with herself. “Good as new.” Still

bent over, she turned her head and smiled at him. Their faces were close,

hers full of laughter, his full of annoyance. “Now about my car—”

“I could be a murderer, a rapist, a psychopath for all you know.” He said

it softly, dangerously. She felt a tremor move up her back and straightened.

“I don’t think so.” But she picked up her empty glass and went back into

the living room. “Another drink?”

Damn, she did have guts. Doug grabbed the jacket and followed her.

“Don’t you want to know why they were after me?”

“The bad guys?”

“The—the bad guys?” he repeated on an astonished laugh.

“Good guys don’t shoot at innocent bystanders.” She poured herself

another drink, then sat on the sofa. “So, by process of elimination I figure

you’re the good guy.”

He laughed again and dropped down beside her. “A lot of people might

disagree with you.”

Whitney studied him again over the rim of her glass. No, perhaps good

was too concise a word. He looked more complicated than that. “Well, why

don’t you tell me why those three men wanted to kill you.”

“Just doing their job.” Doug drank again. “They work for a man named

Dimitri. He wants something I’ve got.”

“Which is?”

“The route to a pot of gold,” he said absently. Rising, he began to pace.

Less than twenty dollars in cash nestled with an expired credit card in his

pocket. Neither could buy his way out of the country. What he had carefully

folded in a manila envelope was worth a fortune, but he had to buy himself

a ticket before he could cash it in. He could lift a wallet at the airport.

Better, he could try rushing on the plane, flashing his fake ID, and play the

hard-bitten, impatient FBI agent. It had worked in Miami. But it didn’t feel

right this time. He knew enough to go with his instincts.

“I need a stake,” he muttered. “A few hundred—maybe a thousand.”

Thoughtfully, he turned back and looked at Whitney.

“Forget it,” she said simply. “You already owe me three hundred

dollars.”

“You’ll get it,” he snapped. “Dammit, in six months I’ll buy you a whole

car. Look at it as an investment.”

“My broker takes care of that.” She sipped again and smiled. He was

very attractive in this mood, restless, anxious to move. His exposed arm

rippled with muscle that was subtle and lean. His eyes were lit with

enthusiasm.

“Look, Whitney.” He came back and sat on the arm of the sofa beside

her. “A thousand. That’s nothing after what we’ve been through together.”

“It’s seven hundred dollars more than what you already owe me,” she

corrected him.

“I’ll pay you back double within six months. I need to buy a plane ticket,

some supplies…” He looked down at himself, then back at her with that

quick, appealing grin. “A new shirt.”

An operator, she thought, intrigued. Just what did a pot of gold mean to

him? “I’d have to know a lot more before I put my money down.”

He’d charmed women out of more than money. So, confidently, he took

her hand between his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. His voice was

soft, compelling. “Treasure. The kind you only read about in fairy stories.

I’ll bring you back diamonds for your hair. Big, glittery diamonds. They’ll

make you look like a princess.” He skimmed a finger up her cheek. It was

soft, cool. For a moment, only a moment, he lost the thread of his pitch.

“Something else out of a fairy story.”

Slowly, he removed her hat, then watched in astonished admiration as

her hair tumbled down, over her shoulders, over her arms. Pale as winter

sunlight, soft as silk. “Diamonds,” he repeated, tangling his fingers through

it. “Hair like this should have diamonds in it.”

She was caught up in him. Part of her would have believed anything he

said, done anything he asked, as long as he continued to touch her in just

that way. But it was the other part, the survivor, who managed to take

control. “I like diamonds. But I also know a lot of people who pay for them,

and end up with pretty glass. Guarantees, Douglas.” To distract herself, she

drank more cognac. “I always want to see the guarantee—the certificate of

value.”

Frustrated, he rose. She might look like a pushover, but she was as tough

as they came. “Look, nothing’s stopping me from just taking it.” He

snatched her purse off the sofa and held it out to her. “I can walk out of here

with this or we can make a deal.”

Standing, she plucked it out of his hands. “I don’t make deals until I

know all the terms. You’ve got a hell of a nerve threatening me after I saved

your life.”

“Saved my life?” Doug exploded. “You damn near killed me twenty

times.”

Her chin lifted. Her voice became regal and haughty. “If I hadn’t

outwitted those men, getting my car damaged in the process, you’d be

floating in the East River.”

The image was entirely too close to the truth. “You’ve been watching

too many Cagney movies,” he tossed back.

“I want to know what you have and where you intend to go.”

“A puzzle. I’ve got pieces to a puzzle and I’m going to Madagascar.”

“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 easily 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.”