CHAPTER 5: BOUNCED OF FWALLS

Whitney had always been fond of mountains. She could look back with

pleasure on a two-week skiing vacation in the Swiss Alps. In the mornings,

she’d ridden to the top of the slopes, admiring the view from a tram. The

swishing rush of the ride down had always delighted her. A great deal could

be said about a cozy après-ski with hot buttered rum and a crackling fire.

Once she’d enjoyed a lazy weekend in a villa in Greece, high on a rocky

slope overlooking the Aegean. She’d appreciated the height, the view, and

the quality of nature and antiquity—from the comfort of a terra-cotta

balcony.

However, Whitney had never been big on mountain climbing—sweaty,

leg-cramping mountain climbing. Nature wasn’t all it was cracked up to be

when it worked its way under the tender balls of your feet and dug in.

North, he’d said. Grimly she kept pace with him, up tough, rocky slopes

and down again. She’d continue to keep pace with Lord, she promised

herself as sweat dribbled down her back. He had the envelope. But while

she’d hike with him, sweat with him, pant with him, there was absolutely

no reason she had to speak to him.

No one, absolutely no one, told her to get her ass in gear and got away

with it.

It might take days, even weeks, but she’d get him for it. There was one

basic business rule she’d learned from her father. Revenge, chilled a bit,

was much more palatable.

North. Doug looked around at the rugged, steep hills that surrounded

them. The terrain was a monotony of high grass that fanned in the breeze

and rough red scars where erosion had won. And rock, endless, unforgiving

rock. Farther up were a few sparse, spindly trees, but he wasn’t looking for

shade. From his vantage point there was nothing else, no huts, no houses,

no fields. No people. For now, it was exactly what he wanted.

The night before while Whitney had slept, he’d studied the map of

Madagascar he’d ripped from the stolen library book. He couldn’t stand to

mar a book of any kind, because books had given his imagination an outlet

as a child, and kept him company through lonely nights as a man. But it had

been necessary in this case. The ragged piece of paper fit nicely in his

pocket while the book stayed in his pack. It was only there for backup. In

his mind’s eye, Doug separated the terrain into the three parallel belts he’d

studied. The western lowlands didn’t matter. As he strode up a rocky, rough

path he hoped they’d detoured as far west as they’d have to. They’d stick to

the highlands, avoid the riverbanks and open areas as long as they could.

Dimitri was closer than he’d anticipated. Doug didn’t want to guess wrong

again.

The heat was already oppressive, but their water supply should last until

morning. He’d worry about replenishing it when he had to. He wished he

could be certain just how far north they should travel before they dared

swing east to the coast and easier ground.

Dimitri might be waiting in Tamatave, soaking up wine and sunshine,

dining on the fresh local fish. Logically, that should be their first stop, so

logically they had to avoid it. For the time being.

Doug didn’t mind playing a game of wits, the bigger the odds the better.

The sweeter the pot, as he’d once told Whitney. But Dimitri… Dimitri was

a different story.

He hitched at the straps of his backpack until the weight settled more

comfortably on his shoulders. And there wasn’t only himself to think of this

time. One of the reasons he’d avoided partnerships for so long was because

he preferred having one body to worry about. His own. He shot a look

across at Whitney, who’d been cooly silent since they’d left the train tracks

and headed toward the highlands.

Damn woman, he thought for lack of anything better. If she thought the

cold-shoulder routine was going to shake him up, she was dead wrong. It

might make some of her fancy patent-leather jerks beg for a word of

forgiveness, but as far as he was concerned, she was a hell of a lot more

attractive when her mouth was shut anyway.

Imagine complaining because he’d gotten her off the train in one piece.

Maybe she had a few bruises, but she was still breathing. Her problem was,

he decided, she wanted everything all nice and pretty, like that high-class

apartment of hers… or the tiny little piece of silk she was wearing under

that skirt.

Doug shook away that particular thought in a hurry and concentrated on

picking his way over the rocks.

He’d like to keep to the hills for a while—two days, maybe three. There

was plenty of cover, and the going was rough. Rough enough, he was

certain, to slow Remo and some of Dimitri’s other trained hounds down.

They were more accustomed to tramping down back alleys and into sleazy

motel rooms than over rocks and hills. Those used to being hunted

acclimated with more ease.

Pausing on a crest, he drew out the field glasses and took a long, slow

sweep. Below and slightly west, he spotted a small settlement. The cluster

of tiny red houses and wide barns bordered a patchwork of fields. Rice

paddies, he decided, because of their moist emerald green color. He saw no

power lines and was grateful. The farther away from civilization, the better.

The settlement would be a Merina tribe, if his memory of the guidebook

was accurate. Just beyond was a narrow winding river. Part of the

Betsiboka.

Eyes narrowed, Doug followed its trail while an idea formed. True, the

river flowed northwest, but the notion of traveling by boat had some appeal.

Crocodiles or not, it was bound to be faster than going on foot, even for a

short distance. Traveling by river was something he’d have to decide on

when the time came. He’d take an evening or two to read up on it—what

rivers would suit his purpose best and how the Malagasy traveled by them.

He remembered skimming over something that had reminded him of the

flatbed canoes the Cajuns used. Doug had traveled through the bayous on

one himself after nearly bungling a job in a stately old house outside of

Lafayette.

How much had he gotten for those antique pearl-handled dueling

pistols? He couldn’t remember. But the chase through the swamp where

he’d had to pole his way across cypress trees and under dripping moss—

that had been something. No, he wouldn’t mind traveling by river again.

In any case, he’d keep his eye out for more settlements. Sooner or later,

they’d need more food and have to bargain for it. Remembering the woman

beside him, he decided that Whitney might just come in handy there.

Disgusted, and aching from bruises, Whitney sat on the ground. She

wasn’t going another step until she’d rested and eaten. Her legs felt entirely

too much like they had the one and only time she’d tried the electric

jogging track at the gym. Without giving Doug a glance she dug into her

pack. The first thing she was going to do was change her shoes.

Replacing the glasses, Doug turned to her. The sun was straight up. They

could make miles before dusk. “Let’s go.”

Cooly silent, Whitney found a banana and began to peel it in long, slow

strips. Just let him tell her to move her ass this time. With her eyes on

Doug’s she bit into the fruit and chewed.

Her skirt was hiked up past her knees as she sat cross-legged on the

ground. Damp with perspiration, her blouse clung to her. The neat braid

she’d fashioned while he’d watched that morning had loosened so that pale,

silky hair escaped to tease her cheekbones. Her face was as cool and elegant

as marble.

“Let’s move.” Desire made him edgy. She wasn’t going to get to him, he

promised himself. No way. Every time he let a woman get under his skin,

he ended up losing. Maybe, just maybe, he’d get to her before they were

finished, but there was no way this cool-eyed, skinny lady was going to

shake his priorities. Money, the good life.

He wondered what it would be like to have her under him, naked, hot,

and completely vulnerable.

Whitney leaned back against a rock and took another bite of fruit. A rare

breeze moved hot air over her. Idly, she scratched the back of her knee. “Up

yours, Lord,” she suggested in perfectly rounded tones.

God, he’d like to make love with her until she was limp and slick and

malleable. He’d like to murder her. “Listen, sugar, we’ve got a lot of ground

to cover today. Since we’re on foot—”

“Your doing,” she reminded him.

He crouched down until they were at eye level. “It was my doing that

kept your empty head on your sexy shoulders.” Full of fury and frustration,

of unwanted needs, he gripped her chin in his hand. “Dimitri would just

love to get his pudgy little hands on a classy number like you. Believe me,

he’s got a unique imagination.”

A quick thrill of fear went through her, but she kept her eyes level.

“Dimitri’s your boogeyman, Doug, not mine.”

“He won’t be selective.”

“I won’t be intimidated.”

“You’ll be dead,” he tossed back. “If you don’t do what you’re told.”

Firmly, she pushed his hand away. Gracefully, she rose. Though the skirt

was smudged with red dust and rent with a hole at the hip, it billowed

around her like a cloak. The rough Malagasy shoes might have been glass

slippers. He had to admire the way she pulled it off. It was innate, he was

sure. No one could have taught her. If she’d been the peasant she looked

like at that moment, she’d still have moved like a duchess.

One brow rose as she dropped the banana peel into his hand. “I never do

what I’m told. In fact, I often make a point not to. Do try to keep that in

mind in the future.”

“Keep it up, sugar, and you’re not going to have one.”

Taking her time, she brushed some of the dust from her skirt. “Shall we

go?”

He tossed the peel into a ravine and tried to convince himself he’d have

preferred a woman who whimpered and trembled. “If you’re sure you’re

ready.”

“Quite sure.”

He took out his compass for another check. North. They’d keep heading

north for a while yet. The sun might beat down unmercifully with no shade

to fight it, and the ground might be misery itself to hike on, but the rocks

and slopes offered some protection. Whether it was instinct or superstition,

something was prickling at the back of his neck. He wouldn’t stop again

until sundown.

“You know, duchess, under different circumstances I’d admire that class

of yours.” He began to walk in a steady, ground-eating pace. “Right now

you’re in danger of becoming a pain in the ass.”

Long legs and determination kept her abreast with him. “Breeding,” she

corrected, “is admirable under any circumstances.” She sent him an amused

glance. “And enviable.”

“You keep your breeding, sister, I’ll keep mine.”

With a laugh, she tucked her arm through his. “Oh, I intend to.”

He looked down at her neat, manicured hand. He didn’t think there was

another woman in the world who could make him feel as though he were

escorting her to a ball when they were fighting their way up a rocky slope in

the full afternoon sun. “Decided to be friendly again?”

“I decided rather than sulk, I’d keep my eye open for the first

opportunity to pay you back for the bruises. In the meantime, just how far

are we going to walk?”

“The train ride would’ve taken about twelve hours, and we’ve got to

follow a less direct route. You figure it out.”

“No need to be testy,” she said mildly. “Can’t we find a village and rent

a car?”

“Let me know when you see the first Hertz sign. It’ll be my treat.”

“You really should eat something, Douglas. Lack of food always puts

me in a bad mood.” Turning away from him, she offered her pack. “Go

ahead, have a nice mango.”

Fighting a grin, he loosened the strap and reached in. The fact was he

could use something warm and sweet at the moment. His fingers brushed

over the net bag that held the fruit and touched something soft and silky.

Curious, he drew it out and examined the tiny, lace-trimmed pair of bikini

briefs. So she hadn’t worn them yet. “Great-looking mangoes they have

here.”

Whitney looked over her shoulder and watched him run the material

between his fingers. “Get your hands out of my pants, Douglas.”

He only grinned and held them up so that the sun beamed through them.

“Interesting phrasing. How come you bother wearing something like this

anyway?”

“Modesty,” she said primly.

With a laugh, he stuffed them back in the pack. “Sure.” Pulling out a

mango, he took a big, greedy bite. Juice trickled wonderfully down his dry

throat. “Silk and lace always make me think of modest little nuns in

underdeveloped countries.”

“What an odd imagination you have,” she observed as she half skidded

down a slope. “They always make me think of sex.”

With this she lengthened her stride to a marching pace and whistled

smartly.

They walked. And walked. They slapped sunscreen on every inch of

exposed skin and accepted the fact that they’d burn anyway. Flies buzzed

and swooped, attracted by the scent of oil and sweat, but they learned to

ignore them. Other than insects, they had no company.

As the afternoon waned Whitney lost her interest in the rolling, rocky

highlands and the stretches of valley below. The earthy smells of dirt and

sun-baked grass lost their appeal when she was streaked with both. She

watched a bird fly overhead, caught in a current. Because she was looking

up, she didn’t see the long, slim snake that passed inches in front of her

foot, then hid itself by a rock.

There wasn’t anything exotic about dripping with sweat or slipping over

pebbles. Madagascar would have held more appeal from the cool terrace of

a hotel room. Only the thin edge of pride kept her from demanding that they

stop. As long as he could walk, so, by God, could she.

From time to time she spotted a small village or settlement, always

cupped near the river and spread out into fields. From the hills, they could

see cook smoke, and when the air was right, hear the sounds of dogs or

cattle. Voices didn’t carry. Distance and fatigue gave Whitney a sense of

unreality. Perhaps the huts and fields were only part of a stage.

Once, through Doug’s field glasses, she watched workers bending over

the swamplike paddies, many of the women with babies strapped in lambas

papoose-style on their backs. She could see the moist ground shiver and

give under the movement of feet.

In all her experience, her treks through Europe, Whitney had never seen

anything quite like it. But then Paris, London, and Madrid offered the glitter

and cosmopolitan touches she was accustomed to. She’d never strapped a

pack on her back and hiked over the countryside before. As she shifted the

weight yet again, she told herself there was always a first time—and a last.

While she might enjoy the color, the terrain, and the openness, she’d enjoy

it a hell of a lot more off her feet.

If she wanted to perspire, she wanted to do it in a sauna. If she wanted to

exhaust herself, she wanted to do it trouncing someone in a few fast games

of tennis.

Aching and sticky with sweat, she put one foot in front of the other. She

wouldn’t come in second place to Doug Lord or anyone else.

Doug watched the angle of the sun and knew they’d have to find a place

to camp. Shadows were lengthening. To the west, the sky was already

taking on streaks of red. Normally he did his best maneuvering at night but

he didn’t think the highlands of Madagascar was a good place to try his luck

in the dark.

He’d traveled the Rockies at night once and had nearly broken his leg in

the process. It didn’t take much effort to remember his slide over the rocks.

The unplanned trip down the cliff had masked his trail, but he’d had to limp

his way into Boulder. When the sun set, they’d park and wait for dawn.

He kept waiting for Whitney to complain, to wail, to demand—to act in

general as he considered a woman would act under the circumstances. Then

again, Whitney hadn’t acted the way he’d expected from the first moment

they had set eyes on one another. The truth was, he wanted her to grumble.

It would make it easier to justify dumping her at the first opportunity. After

he’d skimmed her of most of her cash. If she complained, he could do both

without a qualm. As it was, she wasn’t slowing him down, and she was

carrying her share of the load. It was only the first day, he reminded

himself. Give her time. Hothouse flowers wilted quickly when they were

exposed to real air.

“Let’s take a look at that cave.”

“Cave?” Shielding her eyes, Whitney followed his gaze. She saw a very

small arch and a very dark hole. “That cave?”

“Yeah. If it isn’t occupied by one of our four-legged friends, it’ll make a

nice hotel for the night.”

Inside? “The Beverly Wilshire’s a nice hotel.”

He didn’t even spare her a glance. “First we’d better see if there’s a

vacancy.”

Swallowing, Whitney watched him go over, strip off his pack, and crawl

in. Just barely, she resisted the urge to call him out.

Everyone’s entitled to a phobia, she reminded herself as she walked a bit

closer. Hers was a terror of small, closed-in spaces. As tired as she was,

she’d have walked another ten miles rather than crawl into that tiny arch of

darkness.

“It ain’t the Wilshire,” Doug said as he crawled back out. “But it’ll do.

They have our reservations.”

Whitney sat down on a rock and took a long look around. There was

nothing but more rock, a few scrubby pines, and pitted dirt. “I seem to

remember paying an exorbitant amount of money for that tent that folds up

like a handkerchief. The one you insisted we had to have,” she reminded

him. “Haven’t you ever heard of the pleasure of sleeping under the stars?”

“When someone’s after my hide—and they’ve come close to peeling it a

number of times—I like having a wall to keep my back to.” Still kneeling,

he picked up his pack. “I figure Dimitri’s looking for us east of here, but

I’m not taking any chances. It cools down in the highlands at night,” he

added. “In there we can risk a small fire.”

“A campfire.” Whitney examined her nails. If she didn’t have a

manicure soon, they’d look very tacky. “Charming. In a little place like that,

the smoke would suffocate us in minutes.”

Doug pulled a small hatchet out of his pack and un-snapped the leather

sheath. “After about five feet, the place opens up. I can stand.” Moving to a

scrawny pine, he began hacking at a branch. “Ever go spelunking?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Cave exploring,” he explained, grinning. “I knew this geology major

once. Her daddy owned a bank.” As he recalled, he’d never been able to

soak her for much more than a couple of memorable nights in a cave.

“I’ve always found better things to explore than holes in the ground.”

“Then you’ve missed a lot, sugar. This might not be a tourist attraction,

but it has some first-class stalactites and stalagmites.”

“How exciting,” she said dryly. When she looked toward the cave, all

she saw was a very small, very dark hole in the rock. Just looking made the

sweat bead cold on her forehead.

Annoyed, Doug began to chop a respectable pile of firewood. “Yeah, I

guess a woman like you wouldn’t find rock formations very exciting.

Unless you could wear them.” They were the same, women who wore

French dresses and Italian shoes. That’s why for pleasure he’d go for a fan

dancer or a pro. You got honesty there, and some spine.

Whitney stopped staring at the opening long enough to narrow her eyes

at him. “Just what do you mean, a woman like me?”

“Spoiled,” he said, bringing his hatchet down with a thwack. “Shallow.”

“Shallow?” She rose from the rock. Accepting the spoiled wasn’t a

problem. Whitney figured truth was truth. “Shallow?” she repeated.

“You’ve a hell of a nerve calling me shallow, Douglas. I didn’t steal my

way to easy street.”

“You didn’t have to.” He tilted his head so that their eyes met. His cool,

hers hot. “That’s about all that separates us, duchess. You were born with a

silver spoon in your mouth. I was born to take it out and hock it.” Tucking

the firewood under his arm, he walked back to the cave. “You wanna eat,

lady, then get your high-class buns inside. You won’t get any room service

here.” Agile and quick, he grabbed his pack by the straps, crawled inside,

and disappeared.

How dare he! With her hands on her hips, Whitney stared at the cave.

How dare he speak to her that way after she’d walked miles and miles?

Since she’d met him, she’d been shot at, threatened, chased, and pushed

from a train. And it had cost her thousands of dollars to date. How dare he

talk to her as though she were a simpering, empty-headed debutante? He

wouldn’t get away with it.

Briefly, she thought of simply going on herself, leaving him to his cave

like any bad-tempered bear. Oh no. She took a long, deep breath as she

stared at the opening in the rock. No, that was just what he’d like. He’d be

rid of her and have the treasure all to himself. She wouldn’t give him the

satisfaction. If she killed herself in the process, she was sticking with him

until she got every dime he owed her. And a lot more.

A hell of a lot more, she added as she gritted her teeth. Getting down on

her hands and knees, Whitney started into the cave.

Pure anger carried her the first couple of feet. Then the cold sweat of

fear broke out and riveted her to the spot. As her breath began to hitch, she

couldn’t move forward, she couldn’t move back. It was a box, airless, dark.

The lid was already closed to suffocate her.

She felt the walls, the dark, damp walls closing in, squeezing the air out

of her. Laying her head down on the hard dirt, she fought back hysteria.

No, she wouldn’t give in to it. Couldn’t. He was just ahead, just ahead. If

she whimpered, he’d hear. Pride was every bit as strong as fear. She

wouldn’t have his scorn. Gasping for air, she inched forward. He’d said the

cave opened up. She’d be able to breathe if she could just crawl in a few

more feet.

Oh God, she needed light. And room. And air. Balling her hands into

fists, she fought off the need to scream. No, she wouldn’t make a fool of

herself in front of him. She wouldn’t be his entertainment.

While she lay prone, waging her own war, she caught a glimpse of a

flicker of light. Staying perfectly still, she concentrated on the sound of

crackling wood, the light smell of pine smoke. He’d started the fire. It

wouldn’t be dark. She had only to pull herself a few more feet and it

wouldn’t be dark.

It took all her strength, and more courage than she’d known she had.

Inch by inch, Whitney worked her way in until the light played over her

face and the walls spread out around her. Drained, she lay for a moment,

just breathing.

“So you decided to join me.” With his back to her, Doug drew out one of

the clever folding pans to heat water. The thought of hot, strong coffee had

kept him going the last five miles. “Dinner’s Dutch treat, sugar. Fruit, rice,

and coffee. I’ll handle the coffee. Let’s see what you can do with the rice.”

Though she was still shaking, Whitney brought herself into a sitting

position. It would pass, she told herself. In moments, the nausea, the lightheadedness would pass. Then somehow, she’d make him pay.

“Too bad we didn’t pick up a little white wine, but…” When he turned

to her, he trailed off. Was it a trick of the light, or was her face gray?

Frowning, he set the water on to heat, then went to her. No trick of the light,

he decided. She looked as though she’d dissolve if he touched her. Unsure

of himself, Doug crouched down. “What’s wrong?”

Her eyes were hot and hard when she looked at him. “Nothing.”

“Whitney.” Reaching out, he touched her hand. “Jesus, you’re like ice.

Come on over to the fire.”

“I’m fine.” Furious, she snatched her hand away. “Just leave me alone.”

“Hold on.” Before she could spring to her feet, he had her by the

shoulders. He could feel her tremble under his palms. She wasn’t supposed

to look so young, so defenseless. Women with blue-chip stocks and watery

diamonds had all the defense they needed. “I’ll get you some water,” he

murmured. In silence, he reached for the canteen and opened it for her. “It’s

a little warm, take it slow.”

She sipped. It was indeed warm and tasted like iron. She sipped again.

“I’m all right.” Her voice was tense, fretful. He wasn’t supposed to be kind.

“Just rest a minute. If you’re sick—”

“I’m not sick.” She thrust the canteen back in his hands. “I have a little

problem with closed-in places, okay? I’m in now and I’ll be just fine.”

Not a little problem, he realized as he took her hand again. It was damp,

cold, and trembling. Guilt hit him, and he hated it. He hadn’t given her a

break since they’d started. Hadn’t wanted to. Once she made him soften,

made him care, he’d lose his edge. It had happened before. But she was

trembling.

“Whitney, you should’ve told me.”

She angled her chin in a gesture he couldn’t help but admire. “I have a

bigger problem with being a fool.”

“Why? It never bothers me.” Grinning, he brushed the hair away from

her temples. She wasn’t going to cry. Thank Christ.

“People who’re born fools rarely notice.” But the sting had gone out of

her voice. Her lips curved. “Anyway, I’m in. It might take a crane to get me

back out again.” Breathing slowly, she glanced around at the wide cave

with the pillars of rock he’d spoken of. In the firelight, the rocks shone,

rising up or plunging down. Here and there, the cave floor was littered with

dung. She saw, with a shudder, a snake skin curled against the wall. “Even

if it is decorated in early Neanderthal.”

“We’ve got a rope.” He ran his knuckles quickly back and forth over her

cheek. Her color was coming back. “I’ll just haul you out when the time

comes.” Glancing back, he saw the water beginning to simmer. “Let’s have

some coffee.”

When he turned away, Whitney touched her cheek where it was warmed

from his hand. She hadn’t thought he could be so unexpectedly sweet when

there wasn’t an angle.

Or was there?

With a sigh, she stripped off her pack. She still held the bankroll. “I

don’t know anything about cooking rice.” Opening her bag, she took out the

mesh bag of fruit. More than a few had suffered bruises and the scent was

hot and ripe. No seven-course dinner had ever looked so good.

“Due to our current facilities, there’s nothing to do but boil and stir.

Rice, water, fire—” He glanced over his shoulder. “You should be able to

handle it.”

“Who does the dishes?” she wanted to know as she poured water into

another pan.

“Cooking’s a joint effort, so’s cleaning.” He shot her a fast, appealing

grin. “After all, we’re partners.”

“Are we?” Smiling sweetly, Whitney set the pot to heat and drew in the

scent of coffee. The cave, full of dung and damp, was immediately

civilized. “Well, partner, how about letting me see the papers?”

Doug handed her a metal mug filled with coffee. “How about letting me

hold half the money?”

Over the rim, her eyes laughed at him. “Coffee’s good, Douglas.

Another of your many talents.”

“Yeah, I was blessed.” Drinking half his cup down, he let it run hot and

strong through him. “I’ll leave you in the kitchen while I see to our sleeping

arrangements.”

Whitney hauled out the sack of rice. “Those sleeping bags better feel

like feather beds after what I paid for them.”

“You’ve got a dollar fixation, sugar.”

“I’ve got the dollars.”

He mumbled under his breath as he cleared spaces for their bags. While

Whitney couldn’t catch the words, she caught the drift. Grinning, she began

to scoop out rice. One handful, two. If rice was to be their main dish, she

mused, they might as well eat hearty. She dug into the bag again.

It took her a moment to figure out the mechanics of the spoon that

folded into itself. By the time she had it opened, the water was beginning to

boil rapidly. Rather pleased with herself, Whitney began to stir.

“Use a fork,” Doug told her while he unrolled the sleeping bags. “A

spoon mashes the grains.”

“Picky, picky,” she mumbled, but went through the same process on the

fork as she had on the spoon. “How do you know so much about cooking

anyway?”

“I know a lot about eating,” he said easily. “I don’t often find myself in

the position where I can go out and enjoy the kind of food I’m entitled to.”

He unrolled the second bag next to the first. After a moment’s

consideration, he moved them about a foot apart. He was better off with a

little distance. “So I learned to cook. It’s satisfying.”

“As long as someone else is doing it.”

He only shrugged. “I like it. Brains and a few spices and you can eat like

a king—even in a ratty motel room with bad plumbing. And when things

get tough, I’ll work in a restaurant for a while.”

“A job? I’m disillusioned.”

He let the light sarcasm pass over him. “The only one I’ve ever been

able to tolerate. Besides, you eat good, and it gives you a chance to check

out the clientele.”

“For a possible mark.”

“No opportunity should ever go undeveloped.” Spreading the lower half

of his body on one of the bags, he leaned against the cave wall and drew out

a cigarette.

“Is that a Boy Scout motto?”

“If it isn’t, it should be.”

“I bet you’d’ve just raked in the merit badges, Douglas.”

He grinned, enjoying the quiet, the tobacco, the coffee. He’d learned

long ago to enjoy what he could when he could, and plan for more. Much

more. “One way or the other,” he agreed. “How’s dinner?”

She swiped through the rice with the fork again. “It’s coming.” As far as

she could tell.

He stared up at the ceiling, idly studying the formation of rock that had

dripped down over centuries into long spears. He’d always been drawn to

antiquity, to heritage, perhaps because he didn’t have much of one himself.

He knew that it was part of the reason he was driving himself north, toward

the jewels and the stories behind them. “Rice is better sautéed in butter,

with mushrooms and a few slivers of almonds.”

She felt her stomach groan. “Eat a banana,” she suggested and tossed

him one. “Any idea how we’re going to replace our water?”

“I think we might slip down to the village below in the morning.” He

blew out a cloud of smoke. The only thing that was missing, he decided,

was a nice hot tub and a pretty, scented blonde to scrub his back. It would

be one of the first things he saw to when the treasure was in his hands.

Whitney crossed her legs under her and chose another piece of fruit. “Do

you think it’s safe?”

He shrugged and finished off his coffee. It was always more a matter of

need than safety. “We need water, and we might bargain for some meat.”

“Please, you’ll get me excited.”

“The way I figure it, Dimitri knew the train was going to Tamatave, so

that’s where he’ll be looking for us. By the time we get there, I’m hoping

he’s looking someplace else.”

She bit into the fruit. “So he doesn’t have any idea where you’re

ultimately going?”

“No more than you do, sugar.” He hoped. But the itch between his

shoulder blades had yet to let up. Taking a last deep drag, Doug flicked the

stub of the cigarette into the fire. “As far as I know, he’s never seen the

papers, at least not all of them.”

“If he’s never seen them, how did he find out about the treasure?”

“Faith, sugar, same as you.”

She lifted a brow at his smirk. “This Dimitri doesn’t strike me as a man

of faith.”

“Instinct then. There was a man named Whitaker who figured to sell the

papers to the highest bidder and make a nice profit without having to dig for

it. The idea of a treasure, a documented one, caught Dimitri’s imagination. I

told you he had one of those.”

“Indeed. Whitaker…” Turning the name over in her mind, Whitney

forgot to stir. “George Allan Whitaker?”

“The same.” Doug blew out smoke. “Know him?”

“Casually. I dated one of his nephews. It’s thought he made his money

from bootlegging, among other things.”

“Smuggling, among other things, especially in the last ten years or so.

Remember the Geraldi sapphires that were stolen, let’s see, in seventy-six?”

She frowned a minute. “No.”

“You should keep up with current events, sugar. Read that book I lifted

in D.C.”

“Missing Gems Through the Ages?” Whitney moved her shoulders. “I

prefer fiction when I read.”

“Broaden your outlook. You can learn anything there is to learn from

books.”

“Really?” Interested, she studied him again. “So you like to read?”

“Next to sex, it’s my favorite pastime. Anyway, the Geraldi sapphires.

The sweetest set of rocks since the crown jewels.”

Impressed, she lifted a brow. “You stole them?”

“No.” He settled his shoulders against the wall. “I was on a downswing

in seventy-six. Didn’t have the fare to get to Rome. But I’ve got

connections. So did Whitaker.”

“He stole them?” Her eyes widened as she thought of the skinny old

man.

“Arranged,” Doug corrected. “Once he hit sixty Whitaker didn’t like

getting his hands dirty. He liked to pretend he was an expert in archeology.

Didn’t you catch any of his shows on public television?”

So he watched PBS too. A well-rounded thief. “No, but I heard he

wanted to be a land-locked Jacques Cousteau.”

“Not enough class. Still, he got pretty good ratings for a couple of years.

Bullshitting a lot of hotshots with big bank accounts into financing digs. He

had a real smooth game going.”

“My father said he was full of shit,” Whitney said idly.

“Your father’s got more on the ball than fudge ripple. Anyway, Whitaker

played middleman for a lot of rocks and art objects that crossed from one

side of the Atlantic to the other. About a year ago, he conned some English

lady out of a bunch of old documents and correspondence.”

Her interest peaked. “Our papers?”

He didn’t care for the plural pronoun but shrugged it off. “The lady

considered it all part of art or history— cultural value. She’d written a lot of

books on stuff like that. There was some general involved who’d nearly

worked a deal with her, but it seemed Whitaker knew more about flattering

matrons. And Whitaker had a more basic train of thought. Greed. Trouble

was, he was broke and had to do some campaigning for funds for the

expedition.”

“That’s where Dimitri came in.”

“Exactly. Like I said, Whitaker threw the bidding open. It was supposed

to be a business deal. Partners,” he added with a slow smile. “Dimitri

decided he didn’t like the competitive market and made an alternate

proposition.” Doug crossed his ankles and peeled the banana. “Whitaker

could let him have the papers, and Dimitri’d let Whitaker keep all his

fingers and toes.”

Whitney took another nibble of fruit but it wasn’t easy to swallow.

“Sounds like a forceful businessman.”

“Yeah, Dimitri loves to wheel and deal. Trouble was, he used a little too

much persuasion on Whitaker. Apparently the old man had a heart problem.

Keeled over before Dimitri had the papers or his jollies—I’m not sure

which pissed him off more. An unfortunate accident, or so Dimitri said

when he hired me to steal them.” Doug bit into the banana and savored it.

“He went into graphic detail on how he’d planned to change Whitaker’s

mind— for the purpose of putting the fear of God into me so I wouldn’t get

any ideas myself.” He remembered the tiny pair of silver pliers Dimitri had

fondled during the interview. “It worked.”

“But you took them anyway.”

“Only after he’d double-crossed me,” he told her over another bite of

banana. “If he’d played it straight, he’d have the papers. I’d’ve taken my

fee and a little vacation in Cancún.”

“But this way, you have them. And no opportunity should go

undeveloped.”

“You got it, sister. Jesus Christ!” Doug bolted up and scrambled to the

fire. In automatic defense, Whitney curled up her legs, expecting anything

from a slimy snake to a hideous spider. “Damn, woman, how much rice did

you put in here?”

“I—” She broke off and stared as he grabbed at the pan. Rice was

flowing over the sides like lava. “Just a couple handfuls,” she said as she bit

her lip to keep from laughing.

“My ass.”

“Well, four.” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as he dug

for a plate. “Or five.”

“Four or five,” he muttered while scooping rice onto the plates. “How

the hell did I end up in a cave in Madagascar with ‘I Love Lucy’?;?”

“I told you I couldn’t cook,” she reminded him as she studied the

brownish, sticky mass on the plate. “I simply proved it.”

“In spades.” When he heard her muffled chuckle, he glanced over. She

sat Indian style, her skirt and blouse filthy, the ribbon at the end of her braid

dangling free. He remembered how she’d looked the first time he’d seen

her, cool and sleek in a white fedora and lush furs. Why was it she looked

every bit as appealing now? “You laugh,” he tossed back, shoving a plate at

her. “You’re going to have to eat your share.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” With the fork she’d used for cooking, she poked into

the rice. Bravely, he thought, she took the first bite. The flavor was nutty

and not altogether unpleasant. With a shrug, Whitney ate more. Though

she’d never been in the position of being a beggar, she’d heard they

couldn’t be choosers. “Don’t be a baby, Douglas,” she told him. “If we can

get our hands on some mushrooms and almonds, we’ll fix it your way next

time.” With the enthusiasm of a child over a bowl of ice cream, she dug in.

Without fully realizing it, Whitney had had her first experience with real

hunger.

Eating at a slower pace, and with less enthusiasm, Doug watched her.

He’d been hungry before, and figured he’d be hungry again. But she…

Perhaps she was dining on rice off a tin plate, in a skirt that was streaked

with grime, but class shone through. He found it fascinating, and intriguing

enough to make it worthwhile discovering if it always would. The

partnership, he mused, might be more interesting than he’d bargained for.

For as long as it lasted.

“Douglas, what about the woman who gave Whitaker the map?”

“What about her?”

“Well, what happened to her?”

He swallowed a lump of rice. “Butrain.”

When she glanced up, he saw the fear come and go in her eyes and was

glad. Better for both of them if she understood this was the big leagues. But

her hands were steady when she reached for the coffee.

“I see. So you’re the only one alive who’s seen those papers.”

“That’s right, sugar.”

“He’ll want you dead, and me too.”

“That’s also right.”

“But I haven’t seen them.”

Casually, Doug dug for more rice. “If he gets his hands on you, you

can’t tell him anything.”

She waited a minute, studying him. “You’re a first-class bastard, Doug.”

This time he grinned because he’d heard the light trace of respect. “I like

first class, Whitney. I’m going to live there the rest of my life.”

Two hours later, he was cursing her again, though only to himself.

They’d let the fire burn down to embers so that the light in the cave was

dim and red. Somewhere, deeper, water dripped in a slow, musical plop. It

reminded him of a pricey, innovative little bordello in New Orleans.

They were both exhausted, both aching from the demands of a very

long, very arduous day. Doug stripped off his shoes with his only thought

one of the pleasures of unconsciousness. He never doubted he’d sleep like a

rock.

“You know how to work that thing?” he asked idly as he opened his own

bag.

“I think I can handle a zipper, thanks.”

Then he made the mistake of glancing over—and not looking away

again.

Without any show of self-consciousness, Whitney drew off her blouse.

He remembered just how thin the material of her teddy had looked in the

morning light. When she pulled off her skirt, his mouth watered.

No, she wasn’t self-conscious, she was nearly comatose with fatigue. It

never occurred to her to make a play at modesty. Even if she’d thought it

out, Whitney would have considered the teddy adequate cover. She wore a

fraction of that on a public beach. Her only thought was of getting

horizontal, of closing her eyes, and of oblivion.

If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have enjoyed the discomfort she

was causing in the region of Doug’s loins. It might have given her some

pleasure to know his muscles had tensed as he watched the subtle flicker of

firelight play over her skin as she bent to unzip her bag. She’d have gotten

pure feminine satisfaction knowing he sucked in his breath as the thin

material rose up at her thighs and pulled over her bottom with her

movements.

Without giving it a thought, she climbed into the sleeping bag and pulled

up the zipper. Nothing was visible but a cloud of pale hair untangled from

the braid. With a sigh, she pillowed her head on her hands. “Good night,

Douglas.”

“Yeah.” He pulled off his shirt, then gripped the edge of adhesive and

held his breath. Ruthlessly he ripped and the fire snaked across his chest.

Whitney never budged as his curse bounced off the cave walls. She was

already asleep. Cursing her, cursing the pain, he snapped the envelope into

his knapsack before he climbed into his own bag. In sleep, she sighed, low

and quiet.

Doug stared at the ceiling of the cave, wide awake and aching from

more than bruises.