CHAPTER 3: SIGNAL

She had to snap out of it. Doug shifted in his first-class seat and wished he

knew how to shake the grief out of her. He thought he understood wealthy

women. He’d worked for—and on—plenty of them. It was just as true, he

supposed, that plenty of them had worked on him. The trouble was, had

always been, that he invariably fell just a little bit in love with any woman

he spent more than two hours with. They were so, well, feminine, he

decided. Nobody could sound more sincere than a soft-smelling, softskinned woman. But he’d learned through experience that women with big

bank accounts generally had hearts of pure plastic. The minute you were

about ready to forget the diamond earrings in favor of a more meaningful

relationship, they dumped all over you.

Callousness. He thought that was the worst failing of the rich. The kind

of callousness that made them step all over people with the nonchalance of

a child stomping on a beetle. For recreation, he’d choose a waitress with an

easy laugh. But when it was business, Doug went straight to the bank

balance. A woman with a hefty one was an invaluable cover. You could get

through a lot of locked doors with a rich woman on your arm. They came in

varieties, certainly, but generally could be slapped with a few basic labels.

Bored, vicious, cold, or silly came to mind. Whitney didn’t seem to qualify

for any one of those labels. How many people would have remembered the

name of a waiter, much less mourned for him?

They were on their way to Paris out of Dulles International. Enough of a

detour, he hoped, to throw Dimitri off the scent. If it bought him a day, a

few hours, he’d use it. He knew, as anyone in the business knew, of

Dimitri’s reputation for dealing with those who attempted to cross him. A

traditional man, Dimitri preferred traditional methods. Men like Nero would

have appreciated Dimitri’s flare for slow, innovative torture. There had been

murmurs about a basement room in Dimitri’s Connecticut estate.

Supposedly it was filled with antiques—the sort from the Spanish

Inquisition. Rumor had it that there was a top-grade studio as well. Lights,

camera, action. Dimitri was credited with enjoying replays of his more

gruesome work. Doug wasn’t going to find himself in the spotlight in one of

Dimitri’s performances, nor was he going to believe the myth that Dimitri

was omnipotent. He was just a man, Doug told himself. Flesh and blood.

But even at thirty thousand feet, Doug had the uneasy sensation of a fly

being toyed with by a spider.

Taking another drink, he pushed that thought aside. One step at a time.

That’s how he’d play it, and that’s how he’d survive.

If he’d had the time, Doug would have taken Whitney to the Hotel de

Crillon for a couple of days. It was the only place he stayed in Paris. There

were cities he’d settle for a motel with a cot, and cities where he wouldn’t

sleep at all. But Paris. His luck had always held in Paris.

He made it a point to arrange a trip twice a year, for no other reason than

the food. As far as Doug was concerned no one cooked better than the

French, or those educated in France. Because of that, he had managed to

bluff his way into several courses. He’d learned the French way, the correct

way, to prepare an omelette at the Cordon Bleu. Of course, he kept a low

profile on that particular interest. If word got out that he’d worn an apron

and whisked eggs, he’d lose his reputation on the streets. Besides, it would

be embarrassing. So he always covered his trips to Paris for cooking

interests with business.

A couple of years back, he’d stayed there for a week, playing the

wealthy playboy and riffling the rooms of the rich. Doug remembered he’d

hocked a very good sapphire necklace and paid his bill in full. You never

knew when you’d want to go back.

But there wasn’t time on this trip for a quick course in soufflés or a

handy piece of burglary. There would be no sitting still in one place until

the game was over. Normally he preferred it that way—the chase, the hunt.

The game itself was more exciting than the winning. Doug had learned that

after his first big job. There’d been the tension and pressure of planning, the

rippling thrill and half terror of execution, then the rushing excitement of

success. After that, it was simply another job finished. You looked for the

next. And the next.

If he’d listened to his high-school counselor, he’d probably be a very

successful lawyer right now. He’d had the brains and the glib tongue. Doug

sipped smooth scotch and was grateful he hadn’t listened.

Imagine, Douglas Lord, Esquire, with a desk piled with papers and

luncheon meetings three days a week. Was that any way to live? He

skimmed another page of the book he’d stolen from a Washington library

before they’d left. No, a profession that kept you in an office owned you,

not the other way around. So, his IQ topped his weight, he’d rather use his

talents for something satisfying.

At the moment, it was reading about Madagascar, its history, its

topography, its culture. By the time he finished this book, he’d know

everything he needed to know. There were two other volumes in his case

he’d save for later. One was a history of missing gems, the other a long,

detailed history of the French Revolution. Before he found the treasure,

he’d be able to see it, and to understand it. If the papers he’d read were fact,

he had pretty Marie Antoinette and her penchant for opulence and intrigue

to thank for an early retirement. The Mirror of Portugal diamond, the Blue

Diamond, the Sancy—all fifty-four carats of it. Yeah, French royalty had

had great taste. Good old Marie hadn’t rocked tradition. Doug was grateful

for it. And for the aristocrats who had fled their country guarding the crown

jewels with their lives, holding them in secret until the royal family might

rule France again.…

He wouldn’t find the Sancy in Madagascar. Doug was in the business

and knew the rock was now in the Astor family. But the possibilities were

endless. The Mirror and the Blue had dropped out of sight centuries before.

So had other gems. The Diamond Necklace Affair—the straw that had

broken the peasants’ back—was riddled with theory, myth, and speculation.

Just what had become of the necklace that had ultimately insured Marie of

not having a neck to wear it on?

Doug believed in fate, in destiny, and just plain luck. Before it was over,

he was going to be knee-deep in sparkles—royal sparkles. And screw

Dimitri.

In the meantime, he wanted to learn all he could about Madagascar. He

was going far off his own turf—but so was Dimitri. If Doug could beat his

adversary in anything, he prided himself on being able to top him in

intelligent research. He read page after page and tallied fact after fact. He’d

find his way around the little island in the Indian Ocean the same way he

went from East-Side to West-Side Manhattan. He had to.

Satisfied, he set the book aside. They’d been at cruising altitude for two

hours. Long enough, Doug decided, for Whitney to brood in silence.

“Okay, knock it off.”

She turned and gave him a long, neutral look. “I beg your pardon?”

She did it well, Doug reflected. The ice-bitch routine peculiar to women

with money or guts. Of course, he was learning that Whitney had both. “I

said knock it off. I can’t stand a pouter.”

“A pouter?”

Because her eyes were slits and she’d hissed the words, he was satisfied.

If he made her angry, she’d snap out of it all the quicker. “Yeah. I’m not

crazy about a woman who runs her mouth a mile a minute, but we should

be able to come up with something in between.”

“Should we? How lovely that you have such definite requirements.” She

took a cigarette from the pack he’d tossed on the arm between them and lit

it. He’d never known the gesture could be so haughty. It helped amuse him.

“Let me give you lesson one before we go any further, sweetie.”

Deliberately, and with a quiet kind of venom, Whitney blew smoke in

his face. “Please do.”

Because he recognized pain when he saw it, he gave her another minute.

Then his voice was flat and final. “It’s a game.” He took the cigarette from

her fingers and drew on it. “It’s always a game, but you go into it knowing

there are penalties.”

She stared at him. “Is that what you consider Juan? A penalty?”

“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he told her,

unknowingly echoing Butrain’s words. But she heard something else.

Regret? Remorse? Though she couldn’t be sure, it was something. She held

on to it. “We can’t go back and change what happened, Whitney. So we go

on.”

She picked up her neglected drink. “Is that what you do best? Go on?”

“If you want to win. When you have to win, you can’t look back very

often. Tearing yourself up over this isn’t going to change anything. We’re

one step ahead of Dimitri, maybe two. We’ve got to stay that way because

it’s a game, but you play it for keeps. If we don’t stay ahead, we’re dead.”

As he spoke, he laid a hand over hers, not for comfort, but to see if it was

steady. “If you can’t take it, you’d better think about backing off now

because we’ve got a hell of a long way to go.”

She wouldn’t back off. Pride was the problem, or the blessing. She’d

never been able to back off. But what about him? she wondered. What

made Douglas Lord run? “Why do you do it?”

He liked the curiosity, the spark. As he settled back he was satisfied

she’d gotten over the first hump. “You know, Whitney, it’s a hell of a lot

sweeter to win the pot at poker with a pair of deuces than with a flush.” He

blew out smoke and grinned. “One hell of a lot sweeter.”

She thought she understood and studied his profile. “You like the odds

against you.”

“Long shots pay more.”

She sat back, closed her eyes, and was silent so long he thought she

dozed. Instead, Whitney was going back over everything that had happened,

step by step. “The restaurant,” she asked abruptly. “How did you pull that

off?”

“What restaurant?” He was studying the different tribes of Madagascar

in his book and didn’t bother to look up.

“In Washington, when we were running for our lives through the kitchen

and that enormous man in white stepped in front of you.”

“You just use the first thing that comes to your mind,” he said easily.

“It’s usually the best.”

“It wasn’t just what you said.” Unsatisfied, Whitney shifted in her seat.

“One minute you’re a frantic man off the streets, and the next a snooty food

critic saying all the right things.”

“Baby, when your life’s on the line, you can be anything.” Then he

looked up and grinned. “When you want something bad enough, you can be

anything. Usually I like to case a job from the inside. All you have to do is

decide if you’re going in the front door or the servants’ entrance.”

Interested, she signaled for another drink for each of them. “Meaning?”

“Okay, take California. Beverly Hills.”

“No, thanks.”

Ignoring her, Doug began to reminisce. “First you have to decide which

one of those nifty mansions you want to take. A few discreet questions, a

little legwork, and you hone in on one. Now, front door or back? That might

depend on my own whim. Getting in the front’s usually easiest.”

“Why?”

“Because money wants references for servants, not from guests. You

need a stake, a few thousand. Check into the Wilshire Royal and rent a

Mercedes, drop a few names—of people you know are out of town. Once

you get into the first party, you’re set.” With a sigh, he drank. “Boy, they do

like to wear their bank accounts around their necks in the Hills.”

“And you just walk right in and pluck them off?”

“More or less. The tough part is not to be greedy—and to know who’s

wearing rocks and who’s wearing glass. Lot of bullshit in California.

Basically, you just have to be a good mimic. Rich people are creatures more

of habit than imagination.”

“Thanks.”

“You dress right, make sure you’re seen at the right places—with a few

of the right people—and nobody’s going to question your pedigree. The last

time I used that routine, I checked into the Wilshire with three thousand

dollars. I checked out with thirty grand. I like California.”

“Sounds to me like you can’t go back anytime soon.”

“I’ve been back. I tinted my hair, grew a little moustache, and wore

jeans. I pruned Cassie Lawrence’s roses.”

“Cassie Lawrence? The professional piranha who disguises herself as a

patron of the arts?”

A perfect description. “You’ve met?”

“Unfortunately. How much did you take her for?”

From the tone, Doug decided Whitney would’ve been pleased he’d had

quite a haul. He also decided not to tell her he’d had a breeze casing the

inside because Cassie had enjoyed watching him weed her azaleas without a

shirt. She’d practically eaten him alive in bed. In return, he’d lifted an

ornate ruby necklace and a pair of diamond earrings as big as Ping-Pong

balls.

“Enough,” Doug answered at length. “I take it you don’t like her.”

“She has no class.” It was said simply, from a woman who did. “Did you

sleep with her?”

He choked on his drink, then set it down carefully. “I don’t think—”

“So you did.” A bit disappointed, Whitney studied him. “I’m surprised I

didn’t see the scars.” She studied him another moment, thoughtful, quiet.

“Don’t you find that sort of thing demeaning?”

He could’ve strangled her without a qualm. True, there were times he

slept with a mark and enjoyed himself— and made certain the mark

enjoyed herself as well. Payment for payment. But as a rule, he found using

sex as close to ugly as he wanted to get. “A job’s a job,” he said briefly.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never slept with a client.”

She lifted a brow at him, the way an amused woman could. “I sleep with

whom I choose,” she told him in a tone that stated she chose well.

“Some of us weren’t born with choices.” Opening his book again, he

stuck his nose in it and fell silent.

She wasn’t going to make him feel guilty. Guilt was something he

avoided more scrupulously than the police or a furious mark. The minute

you let guilt start sucking at you, you were finished.

Funny, it didn’t seem to bother her a bit that he stole for a living. It

didn’t bother her that he stole particularly from her class. She’d never

blinked an eye at that. In fact, it was more than likely that he’d relieved

some of her friends of excess personal property. She wasn’t the least

concerned.

Just what kind of woman was she anyway? He thought he understood

her thirst for adventure, for excitement and taking chances. He’d lived his

life on little else. But it didn’t fit those cool, moneyed looks.

No, she hadn’t missed a beat when he’d told her he was a thief, but she’d

looked at him with derision, and yes, dammit, pity, when she’d discovered

he’d slept with a West-Coast shark for a handful of glitter.

And where had the glitter gotten him? Thinking back, Doug

remembered he’d dumped the rocks on a fence in Chicago within twentyfour hours. After a routine haggle over price, a whim had taken him to

Puerto Rico. Within three days, Doug had lost all but two thousand in the

casinos. What had the glitter gotten him? he thought again, then grinned.

One hell of a weekend.

Money just didn’t stick to him. There was always another game, a sure

thing at the track or a big-eyed woman with a sob story and a breathy voice.

Still, Doug didn’t consider himself a sucker. He was an optimist. He’d been

born one and remained one even after more than fifteen years in the

business. Otherwise, the kick would have gone out of it and he might as

well be a lawyer.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars had passed through his hands. The

operative words were passed through. This time would be different. It

didn’t matter that he’d said so before, this time would be different. If the

treasure was half as big as the papers indicated, he’d be set for life. He’d

never have to work again—except for an occasional job to keep in shape.

He’d buy a yacht and sail from port to port. He’d head for the south of

France, bake in the sun, and watch women. He’d keep one step ahead of

Dimitri for the rest of his life. Because Dimitri, as long as he lived, would

never let up. That, too, was part of the game.

But the best part was the doing, the planning, the maneuvering. He’d

always found it more exciting to anticipate the taste of champagne than to

finish the bottle. Madagascar was only hours away. Once there he could

start applying everything he’d been reading along with his own skills and

experience.

He’d have to pace himself to keep ahead of Dimitri— but not so far

ahead he ran into Dimitri on the other end. The trouble was that he wasn’t

sure how much his former employer knew about the contents of the

envelope. Too much, he thought, absently touching a hand to his chest

where it was still strapped. Dimitri was bound to know plenty because he

always did. No one had ever crossed him and lived to enjoy it. Doug knew

if he sat still too long he’d feel hot breath on the back of his neck.

He’d just have to play it by ear. Once they were there… He glanced over

at Whitney. She was kicked back in her seat, eyes closed. In sleep she

looked cool and serene and untouchable. Need stirred inside him, the need

he’d always had for the untouchable. This time he’d just have to smother it.

It was strictly business between them, Doug mused. All business. Until

he could talk her out of some cold cash and gently ditch her along the way.

Maybe she’d been more help than he’d anticipated so far, but she was a type

he understood. Rich and restless. Sooner or later, she’d become bored with

the whole scheme. He had to get the cash before she did.

Certain he would, Doug pressed the button to release his seat back. He

shut the book. What he’d read he wouldn’t forget. His gift for recall would

have breezed him through law school or any other profession. He was

satisfied that it helped in the career he’d chosen. He never needed notes

when he cased a job because he didn’t forget. He never hit the same mark

twice because names and faces stayed with him.

Money might slip through his fingers but details didn’t. Doug took it

philosophically. You could always get more money. Life would be pretty

dull if you put it all in stocks and bonds instead of on the wheel or the

horses. He was satisfied. Because he knew the next few days would be long

and hard, he was even better than satisfied. It was more exciting to find a

diamond in a garbage heap than in a display cabinet. He was looking

forward to digging.

Whitney slept. It was the movement of the plane beginning its long

descent that woke her. Thank God, was her first thought. She was

thoroughly sick of planes. If she’d been traveling alone, she’d have taken

the Concorde. Under the circumstances, she hadn’t been willing to pick up

the extra fare for Doug. His account in her little book was growing, and

while she fully intended to collect every penny, she knew he fully intended

she wouldn’t.

To look at him now, you’d think he was as sincere as a first-year Boy

Scout. She studied him as he slept, his hair mussed from travel, his hands

closed over the book on his lap. Anyone would’ve taken him for an

ordinary man of some means on his way to a European vacation. That was

part of his skill, she decided. The ability to blend in with any group he

chose would be invaluable.

Just what group did he belong to? The sleazy, hard-edged members of

the underworld who dealt in dark alleys? She remembered the look in his

eyes when he’d asked about Butrain. Yes, she was sure he’d seen his share

of dark alleys. But belong? No, it didn’t quite fit.

Even in the short time she’d known him she was certain he simply didn’t

belong. He was a maverick, perhaps not always wise, but always restless.

That was part of the appeal. He was a thief, but she thought he had a certain

code of honor. A court might not recognize it, but she did. And respected it.

He wasn’t hard. She’d seen in his eyes when he spoke of Juan that he

wasn’t hard. He was a dreamer. She’d seen that in his eyes when he spoke

of the treasure. And he was a realist. She’d heard that in his voice when he

spoke of Dimitri. A realist knew enough to fear. He was too complex to

belong. And yet…

He’d been Cassie Lawrence’s lover. Whitney knew the West-Coast

diamond ate men for breakfast. She was also very discriminating about

whom she chose to share her sheets. What had Cassie seen? A young, virile

man with a hard body? Perhaps that had been enough, but Whitney didn’t

think so. Whitney had seen for herself that morning in Washington just how

attractive Doug Lord was, from head to foot. And she’d been tempted. By

more than his body, she admitted. Style. Doug Lord had his own style, and

it was that, she believed, that helped him over the threshold of homes in

Beverly Hills or Bel Air.

She’d thought she understood him until he’d been embarrassed by her

remark about Cassie. Embarrassed and angry when she’d expected a shrug

and an offhand remark. So, he had feelings, and values, she mused. It made

him more interesting and likable if it came to that.

Likable or not, she was going to find out more about this treasure and

soon. She had too much money invested to move much further blindly.

She’d gone with him on impulse and stayed through necessity. Instinctively

she knew she was safer with him than without. Safety and impulse aside,

Whitney was too much a businesswoman to invest in unnamed stock.

Before too much more time had passed, she’d have a look at what he

hoarded. She might like him, even understand him to a point, but she didn’t

trust him. Not an inch.

As he drifted awake, Doug came to the same conclusion about Whitney.

He was going to keep the envelope close to his skin until he had the treasure

in his hand.

As the plane began its final descent, they brought their chair backs up,

smiled at each other, and calculated.

By the time they’d struggled with luggage and passed through customs,

Whitney was more than ready to be horizontal in a stationary bed.

“Hotel de Crillon,” Doug told the cab driver and Whitney sighed.

“I apologize for ever doubting your taste.”

“Sugar, my problem’s always been twenty-four-carat taste.” He brushed

at the ends of her hair more in reflex than design. “You look tired.”

“It hasn’t been a restful forty-eight hours. Not that I’m complaining,”

she added. “But it’s going to feel marvelous to stretch out for the next

eight.”

He merely grunted and watched Paris whiz by. Dimitri wouldn’t be far

behind. His network of information was every bit as extensive as Interpol’s.

Doug could only hope the few curves he had thrown would be enough to

slow down the chase.

As he thought, Whitney struck up a conversation with the driver.

Because it was in French, Doug couldn’t understand, but he caught the tone.

Light, friendly, even flirtatious. Odd, he reflected. Most of the women he

knew who’d grown up with portfolios never really saw the people who

served them. It was one of the reasons he’d found it so easy to steal from

them. The rich were insular, but no matter how often the less endowed said

so, the rich weren’t unhappy. He’d bullshitted his way into their circle often

enough to know that money could buy happiness. It just cost a bit more

every year.

“What a cute little man.” Whitney stepped onto the curb and breathed in

the scent of Paris. “He said I was the most beautiful woman to sit in his cab

in five years.”

Doug watched her pass bills to the doorman before she breezed into the

hotel. “And earned himself a fat tip, I’ll bet,” he muttered. The way she

tossed money around, they’d be broke again before they landed in

Madagascar.

“Don’t be such a cheapskate, Douglas.”

He ignored that and took her arm. “You read French as well as you

speak it?”

“Need some help reading the menu?” she began, then stopped. “Tu ne

parles pas français, mon cher?” While he studied her in silence, she

smiled. “Fascinating. I should have caught on before that everything wasn’t

translated.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle MacAllister!”

“Georges.” She sent the desk clerk a smile. “I couldn’t stay away.”

“Always a pleasure to have you back.” His eyes lit again as he spotted

Doug over her shoulder. “Monsieur Lord. Such a surprise.”

“Georges.” Doug met Whitney’s speculative look briefly.

“Mademoiselle MacAllister and I are traveling together. I hope you have a

suite available.”

Romance bloomed in Georges’s head. If he hadn’t had a suite, Georges

would have been tempted at that moment to vacate one. “But of course, of

course. And your papa, mademoiselle, he is well?”

“Very well, thank you, Georges.”

“Charles will take your bags. Enjoy your stay.”

Whitney pocketed her key without glancing at it. She knew the beds in

the Crillon were soft and seductive. The water in the taps was hot. A bath, a

little caviar from room service, and a bed. In the morning she’d have a few

hours in the beauty salon before they took the last leg of the journey.

“I take it you’ve stayed here before.” Whitney slipped into the elevator

and leaned against the wall.

“From time to time.”

“A profitable place, I assume.”

Doug only smiled at her. “The service is excellent.”

“Hmmm.” Yes, she could see him here, sipping champagne and nibbling

pâté. Just as she could see him running through alleys in D.C. “How lucky

for me we’ve never crossed paths here before.” When the doors opened, she

strolled out ahead. Doug took her arm and steered her to the left. “The

ambience is important, I suppose, in your business,” she added.

He allowed his thumb to brush over the inside of her elbow. “I have a

taste for rich things.”

She only gave him an easy smile that said he wouldn’t sample her until

she was ready.

The suite was no less than she expected. Whitney let the bellman fuss a

few moments, then eased him out with a tip. “So…” She plopped down on

the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “What time do we leave tomorrow?”

Instead of answering, he took a shirt from his suitcase, balled it up until

it wrinkled, then tossed it over a chair. As Whitney watched, he took

various articles of clothing out and draped them here and there throughout

the suite.

“Hotel rooms are so impersonal until you have your own things around,

aren’t they?”

He mumbled something and dropped socks on the carpet. It wasn’t until

he moved to her cases that she objected.

“Just a minute.”

“Half the game’s illusion,” he told her and tossed a pair of Italian heels

into a corner. “I want them to think we’re staying here.”

She grabbed a silk blouse out of his hands. “We are staying here.”

“Wrong. Go hang a couple of things in the closet while I mess up the

bathroom.”

Left with the blouse in her hands, Whitney tossed it down and followed

him. “What are you talking about?”

“When Dimitri’s muscle gets here, I want them to think we’re still

around. It might only buy us a few hours, but it’s enough.” Systematically,

he went through the big, plush bath unwrapping soap and dropping towels.

“Go get some of your face junk. We’ll leave a couple bottles.”

“Oh no we won’t. What the hell am I supposed to do without it?”

“We ain’t going to the ball, sugar.” He went into the master bedroom and

tumbled the covers. “One bed’ll do,” he muttered. “They wouldn’t believe

we weren’t sleeping together anyway.”

“Are you padding your ego or insulting mine?”

He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and blew out smoke, all without taking

his eyes off her. For a moment, just a moment, she wondered what he was

capable of. And if she’d like it after all. Saying nothing, he strode back into

the next room and began to rifle her cases.

“Dammit, Doug, those are my things.”

“You’ll get them back, for Chrissake.” Choosing a handful of cosmetics

at random, he started back to the bath.

“That moisturizer costs me sixty-five dollars a bottle.”

“For this?” Interested, he turned the bottle over. “And I thought you

were practical.”

“I’m not leaving this room without it.”

“Okay.” He tossed it back to her and dumped the rest on the vanity.

“This’ll do.” As he passed through the suite again, he stubbed out the halfsmoked cigarette and lit another. “We’ve got just about enough,” he decided

as he crouched down to close Whitney’s case. A little swatch of lace caught

his eye. He lifted out a pair of sheer bikini briefs. “You fit in these?” He

could see her in them. He knew better than to let his imagination go in that

direction, but he could see her in them and nothing else.

She resisted the urge to snatch them out of his hand. That was easy. The

pressure that formed low in her stomach as he brushed his fingers over the

material wasn’t as easily controlled. “When you’ve finished playing with

my underwear, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“We check in.” After a moment, Doug tossed the little excuse of lace

back in her bag. “Then we take our bags down the service elevator and get

back to the airport. Our flight leaves in an hour.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

He snapped her bag closed. “Didn’t come up.”

“I see.” Whitney took a stroll around the suite until she thought her

temper might hold. “Let me explain something to you. I don’t know how

you worked before, and it isn’t important. This time”—she turned back to

face him— “this time, you’ve got a partner. Whatever little plans you have

in your head are half mine.”

“You don’t like the way I work, you can back out right now.”

“You owe me.” When he started to object, she took a step closer,

drawing her book from her purse as she moved. “Should I read off the list?”

“Screw your list. I’ve got gorillas on my ass. I can’t worry about

accounting.”

“You’d better worry about it.” Still calm, she dropped the book back into

her purse. “Without me you’ll go treasure hunting with empty pockets.”

“Sugar, a couple hours in this hotel and I’d have enough money to take

me anywhere I wanted to go.”

She didn’t doubt it, but her gaze remained level with his. “But you don’t

have time to play cat burglar and we both know it. Partners, Douglas, or

you fly to Madagascar with eleven dollars in your pocket.”

Damn her for knowing what he had, almost to the penny. He crushed out

his cigarette, then picked up his own bag. “We’ve got a plane to catch.

Partner.”

Her smile came slowly, and with such a gleam of satisfaction he was

tempted to laugh. Whitney slipped on her shoes and picked up a tote bag.

“Get that case, will you?” Before he could swear at her, she was moving to

the door. “I only wish I’d had time for a bath.”

Because of the ease with which they rode the service elevator down and

walked out of the hotel, Whitney imagined he’d used that escape route

before. She decided she could drop a letter to Georges in a few days and ask

him to store her things until she could pick them up. She hadn’t even had a

chance to wear that blouse yet. And the color was very flattering.

All in all it seemed like a waste of time to her, but she was willing to

humor Doug, for the moment. Besides, in the mood he was in they were

better off in a plane than sharing a suite. And she wanted some time to

think. If the papers he had, or some of them at any rate, were in French,

then it was obvious he couldn’t read them. She could. A smile touched her

lips. He wanted to ditch her, she wasn’t fool enough to think otherwise, but

she’d just made herself even more useful. All she had to do now was

persuade him to let her do some translating.

Still, she wasn’t in the best of moods herself when they pulled up at the

airport. The thought of going through customs again, of boarding another

plane, was enough to make her snarl.

“It seems we could’ve checked into a second-class hotel and had a few

hours.” Sweeping back her hair, she thought of the bath again. Hot, steamy,

fragrant. “I’m beginning to think you’re paranoid about this Dimitri. You

treat him as though he’s omnipotent.”

“They say he is.”

Whitney stopped and turned. It was the way he said it, as though he half

believed it, that made her flesh crawl. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Cautious.” He scanned the terminal as they walked. “You’re better off

walking around a ladder than under it.”

“The way you talk about him, you’d think he wasn’t human.”

“He’s flesh and blood,” Doug murmured, “but that doesn’t make him

human.”

The shiver skimmed along her skin again. Turning toward Doug, she

jolted into someone and dropped her bag. With an impatient mutter, she

bent to pick it up. “Look, Doug, no one could possibly have caught up with

us already.”

“Shit.” Grabbing her arm, he yanked her into a gift shop. With another

shove, she was up to her eyes in T-shirts.

“If you wanted a souvenir—”

“Just look, sweetheart. You can apologize later.” With a hand on the

back of her neck, he steered her head to the left. After a moment, Whitney

recognized the tall, dark man who’d chased them in Washington. The

moustache, the little white bandage on his cheek. She didn’t need to be told

that the two men with him belonged to Dimitri. And where was Dimitri

himself? She caught herself sliding down lower and swallowing.

“Is that—”

“Remo.” Doug mumbled the word. “They’re faster than I thought they’d

be.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth and swore. He didn’t like the feeling

that the web was widening at Dimitri’s leisure. If he and Whitney had

strolled another ten yards, they’d have walked into Remo’s arms. Luck was

the biggest part of the game, he reminded himself. It was what he liked the

best. “It’ll take them a while to track down the hotel. Then they’ll sit and

wait.” He grinned a little, nodding. “Yeah, they’ll wait for us.”

“How?” Whitney demanded. “For God’s sake how could they be here

already?”

“When you’re dealing with Dimitri, you don’t ask how. You just look

over your shoulder.”

“He’d need a crystal ball.”

“Politics,” Doug said. “Remember what your old man told you about

connections? If you had one in the CIA and you made a call, pushed a

button, you could be on top of someone without leaving your easy chair. A

call to the Agency, to the Embassy, to Immigration, and Dimitri had a

handle on our passports and visas before the ink was dry.”

She moistened her lips and tried to pretend her throat hadn’t gone dry.

“Then he knows where we’re going.”

“You bet your ass. All we have to do is stay one step ahead. Just one.”

Whitney let out a little sigh when she realized her heart was thumping.

The excitement was back. If she gave herself time it would smother the fear.

“Looks like you know what you’re doing after all.” When he turned his

head to scowl at her she gave him a quick, friendly kiss. “Smarter than you

look, Lord. Let’s go to Madagascar.”

Before she could rise, he caught her chin in his hand. “We’re going to

finish this there.” His fingers tightened briefly, but long enough. “All of

this.”

She met him look for look. They had too far to go to give in now.

“Maybe,” she said. “But we have to get there first. Why don’t we catch that

plane?”

Remo picked up a silky bit of fluff Whitney would have called a

nightgown. He balled it into his fist. He’d have his hands on Lord and the

woman before morning. This time they wouldn’t slip through his fingers

and make him look like a fool. When Doug Lord walked back in the door

he’d put a bullet between his eyes. And the woman—he’d take care of the

woman. This time… slowly he ripped the gown in half. The silk tore with

hardly a whisper. When the phone rang, he jerked his head, signaling the

other men to flank the door. Using the tip of his thumb and finger, Remo

lifted the receiver. When he heard the voice, his sweat glands opened.

“You’ve missed them again, Remo.”

“Mr. Dimitri.” He saw the other men look over and turned his back. It

was never wise to let fear show. “We’ve found them. As soon as they come

back, we’ll—”

“They won’t be back.” With a long, smooth sigh, Dimitri blew out

smoke. “They’ve been spotted at the airport, Remo, right under your nose.

The destination is Antananarivo. Your tickets are waiting for you. Be

prompt.”