CHAPTER 2:ANGER

His arm was stiff. When Doug rolled over he gave a little grunt of

annoyance at the discomfort and absently pushed at the bandage. His face

was pressed into a soft feather pillow covered by a linen case that had no

scent. Beneath him, the sheet was warm and smooth. Gingerly flexing his

left arm, he shifted onto his back.

The room was dark, deceiving him into thinking it was still night until

he looked at his watch. Nine-fifteen. Shit. He ran a hand over his face as he

pushed himself up in bed.

He should be on a plane halfway to the Indian Ocean instead of lying

around in a fancy hotel room in Washington. A dull, fancy hotel room, he

remembered as he thought of the fussy, red-carpeted lobby. They’d arrived

at one-ten and he hadn’t even been able to get a drink. The politicians could

have Washington, he’d take New York.

The first problem was that Whitney held the purse strings, and she

hadn’t given him a choice. The next problem was, she’d been right. He’d

only been thinking of getting out of New York, she’d been thinking of

details like passports.

So, she had connections in D.C., he thought. If connections could cut

through paperwork, he was all for it. Doug glanced around the high-priced

room that was hardly bigger than a broom closet. She’d charge him for the

room, too, he realized, narrowing his eyes at the connecting door. Whitney

MacAllister had a mind like a CPA. And a face like…

With a half grin he shook his head and lay back. He’d better keep his

mind off her face, and her other attributes. It was her money he needed.

Women had to wait. Once he had what he was going for, he could swim

neck-deep in them if he wanted.

The image was pleasant enough to keep him smiling for another minute.

Blondes, brunettes, redheads, plump, thin, short, and tall. There was no

point in being too discriminating, and he intended to be very generous with

his time. First, he had to get the damn passport and visa. He scowled. Damn

bureaucratic bullshit. He had a treasure waiting for him, a professional bone

breaker breathing down his neck, and a crazy woman in the room next door

who wouldn’t even buy him a pack of cigarettes without marking it down in

the little notebook she kept in her two-hundred-dollar snakeskin bag.

The thought prompted him to reach over to pluck a cigarette from the

pack on the nightstand. He couldn’t understand her attitude. When he had

money to spend, he was generous with it. Maybe too generous, he decided

with a half laugh. He certainly never had it for long.

Generosity was part of his nature. Women were a weakness, especially

small, pouty women with big eyes. No matter how many times he’d been

taken by one, he invariably fell for the next. Six months before, a little

waitress named Cindy had given him two memorable nights and a sob story

about a sick mother in Columbus. In the end, he’d parted company with her

—and with five grand. He’d always been a sucker for big eyes.

That was going to change, Doug promised himself. Once he had his

hands on the pot of gold, he was going to hold on to it. This time he was

going to buy that big splashy villa in Martinique and start living his life the

way he’d always dreamed. And he’d be generous with his servants. He’d

cleaned up after enough rich people to know how cold and careless they

could be with servants. Of course, he’d only cleaned up after them until he

could clean them out, but that didn’t change the bottom line.

Working for the wealthy hadn’t given him his taste for rich things. He’d

been born with it. He just hadn’t been born with money. Then again, he felt

he’d been better off being born with brains. With brains and certain talents

you could take what you needed—or wanted—from people who barely

noticed the sting. The job kept the adrenaline going. The result, the money,

just let you relax until the next time.

He knew how to plan for it, how to plot, how to scheme. And he also

knew the value of research. He’d been up half the night going over every

scrap of information he could decipher in the envelope. It was a puzzle, but

he had the pieces. All he needed to put them all together was time.

The neatly typed translations he’d read might have just been a pretty

story to some, a history lesson to others— aristocrats struggling to smuggle

their jewels and their precious selves out of revolution-torn France. He’d

read words of fear, of confusion, and of despair. In the plastic-sealed

originals, he’d seen hopelessness in the handwriting, in words he couldn’t

read. But he’d also read of intrigue, of royalty, and of wealth. Marie

Antoinette. Robespierre. Necklaces with exotic names hidden behind bricks

or concealed in wagon-loads of potatoes. The guillotine, desperate flights

across the English Channel. Pretty stories steeped in history and colored

with blood. But the diamonds, the emeralds, the rubies the size of hen’s

eggs had been real too. Some of them had never been seen again. Some had

been used to buy lives or a meal or silence. Others had traveled across

oceans. Doug worked the kinks out of his arm and smiled. The Indian

Ocean—trade route for merchants and pirates. And on the coast of

Madagascar, hidden for centuries, guarded for a queen, was the answer to

his dreams. He was going to find it, with the help of a young girl’s journal

and a father’s despair. When he did, he’d never look back.

Poor kid, he thought, imagining the young French girl who’d written out

her feelings two hundred years before. He wondered if the translation he’d

read had really keyed in on what she’d gone through. If he could read the

original French… He shrugged and reminded himself she was long dead

and not his concern. But she’d just been a kid, scared and confused.

Why do they hate us? she’d written. Why do they look at us with such

hate? Papa says we must leave Paris and I believe I will never see my home

again.

And she never had, Doug mused, because war and politics go for the big

view and trample all over the little guy. France during the Revolution or a

steamy pit of a jungle in Nam. It never changed. He knew just what it felt

like to be helpless. He wasn’t going to feel that way ever again.

He stretched and thought of Whitney.

For better or worse, he’d made a deal with her. He never turned his back

on a deal unless he was sure he could get away with it. Still, it grated to

have to depend on her for every dollar.

Dimitri had hired him to steal the papers because he was, Doug admitted

honestly as he sucked in smoke, a very good thief. Unlike Dimitri’s

standard crew, he’d never considered that a weapon made up for wit. He’d

always preferred living by the latter. Doug knew it was his reputation for

doing a smooth, quiet job that had earned him the call from Dimitri to lift a

fat envelope from a safe in an exclusive co-op off Park Avenue.

A job was a job, and if a man like Dimitri was willing to pay five

thousand for a bunch of papers, a great many with faded and foreign

writing, Doug wasn’t going to argue. Besides, he’d had some debts to pay.

He’d had to get by two sophisticated alarm systems and four security

guards before he could crack the little gem of a wall safe where the

envelope was stored. He had a way with locks and alarms. It was—well, a

gift, Doug decided. A man shouldn’t waste his God-given talents.

The thing was, he’d played it straight. He’d taken nothing but the papers

—though there’d been a very interesting-looking black case in the safe

along with it. He never considered that taking them out to read them was

any more than covering his bets. He hadn’t expected to be fascinated by the

translations of letters or a journal or documents that stretched back two

hundred years. Maybe it had been his love of a good story, or his respect for

the written word that had touched off his imagination as he had skimmed

over the papers. But fascinated or not, he would have turned them over. A

deal was a deal.

He’d stopped in a drugstore and bought adhesive. Strapping the

envelope to his chest had just been a precaution. New York, like any city,

was riddled with dishonest people. Of course, he’d arrived at the East-Side

playground an hour early and had hidden. A man stayed alive longer if he

watched his ass.

While sitting behind the shrubbery in the rain, he’d thought over what

he’d read—the correspondence, the documents, and the tidy list of gems

and jewels. Whoever had collected the information, translated it so

meticulously, had done so with the dedication of a professional librarian. It

had passed through his mind briefly that if he’d had the time and

opportunity, he’d have followed up on the rest of the job himself. But a deal

was a deal.

Doug had waited with every intention of turning over the papers and

collecting his fee. That had been before he’d learned that he wasn’t going to

get the five thousand Dimitri had agreed on. He was going to get a twodollar bullet in the back and a burial in the East River.

Remo had arrived in the black Lincoln with two other men dressed for

business. They’d calmly debated the most efficient way to murder him. A

bullet in the brain seemed to be the method agreed on, but they were still

working out the “when” and “where” as Doug crouched behind bushes six

feet away. It seemed Remo had been fussy about getting blood on the

Lincoln’s upholstery.

At first Doug had been angry. No matter how many times he’d been

double-crossed—and he’d stopped counting—it always made him angry.

Nobody was honest in this world, he’d thought as the adhesive pulled a bit

at his skin. Even while he’d concentrated on getting out in one piece, he had

begun to consider his options.

Dimitri had a reputation for being eccentric. But he also had a reputation

for picking winners, from the right senator to keep on the payroll to the best

wine to stock in the cellar. If he wanted the papers badly enough to snip off

a loose end named Doug Lord, they must be worth something. On the spot,

Doug decided the papers were his and his fortune was made. All he had to

do was live to claim it.

In reflex he touched his arm now. Stiff, yes, but already healing. He had

to admit crazy Whitney MacAllister had done a good job there. He blew

smoke between his teeth before he crushed out the cigarette. She’d probably

charge him for it.

He needed her for the moment, at least until they were out of the

country. Once he got to Madagascar, he’d ditch her. A slow, lazy grin

covered his face. He’d had some experience in outmaneuvering women.

Sometimes he succeeded. His only regret was that he wouldn’t get to see

her stomp and swear when she realized he’d given her the slip. Picturing

those clouds of pale, sunlit hair he thought it was almost too bad he had to

double-cross her. He couldn’t deny he owed her. Even as he sighed and

began to think kindly of her, the connecting door burst open.

“Still in bed?” Whitney crossed to the window and pulled open the

drapes. She waved a hand fussily in front of her face in an attempt to clear

the haze of smoke. He’d been up for a while, she decided. Smoking and

plotting. Well, she’d been doing some figuring herself. When Doug swore

and squinted, she merely shook her head. “You look terrible.”

He was vain enough to scowl. His chin was rough with a night’s coarse

growth of beard, his hair was unruly, and he’d have killed for a toothbrush.

She, on the other hand, looked as though she’d just walked out of Elizabeth

Arden’s. Naked in the bed with the sheet up to his waist, Doug felt at a

disadvantage. He didn’t care for that sensation.

“You ever knock?”

“Not when I’m paying for the room,” she said easily. She stepped over

the tangle of jeans on the floor. “Breakfast is on its way up.”

“Great.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Whitney made herself at home by sitting on the

bottom of the bed and stretching out her legs.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Doug said expansively.

Whitney only smiled and shook back her hair. “I got in touch with Uncle

Maxie.”

“Who?”

“Uncle Maxie,” Whitney repeated, giving her nails a quick check. She

really needed a manicure before they left town. “Actually, he’s not my

uncle, I just call him my uncle.”

“Oh, that kind of uncle,” Doug said, a half sneer on his face.

Whitney spared him a mild glance. “Don’t be crude, Douglas. He’s a

dear friend of the family’s. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Maximillian

Teebury.”

“Senator Teebury?”

She spread her fingers for a last examination. “You do keep up with

current events.”

“Look, smartass.” Doug grabbed her arm so that she tumbled half into

his lap. Whitney only smiled up at him, knowing she still held all the aces.

“Just what does Senator Teebury have to do with anything?”

“Connections.” She ran a finger down his cheek, clucking her tongue at

the roughness. But roughness, she discovered, had its own primitive appeal.

“My father always says you can do without sex in a pinch, but you can’t do

without connections.”

“Yeah?” Grinning, he lifted her up so that her face was close to his and

her hair streamed down to the sheets. Again he caught the drift of her scent

that meant wealth and class. “Everybody has different priorities.”

“Indeed.” She wanted to kiss him. He looked rough and restless and

disheveled, the way a man might after a night of wild sex. Just what kind of

a lover would Douglas Lord be? Ruthless. She felt her heart thud a little

faster at the thought. He smelled of tobacco and sweat. He looked like a

man who lived on the edge and enjoyed it. She’d like to feel that clever,

interesting mouth on hers—but not yet. Once she’d kissed him she might

forget that she had to stay one step ahead of him. “The thing is,” she

murmured, letting her hands stray into his hair when their lips were only a

breath apart, “Uncle Maxie can get a passport for you and two thirty-day

visas to Madagascar within twenty-four hours.”

“How?”

Whitney noted with amused annoyance just how quickly his seducing

tone became businesslike. “Connections, Douglas,” she said blithely.

“What’re partners for?”

He shot her a considering look. Damn if she wasn’t becoming handy. If

he wasn’t careful, she’d be indispensable. The last thing a smart man

needed was an indispensable woman who had eyes like whiskey and skin

like the underside of petals. Then it hit him that they’d be on their way by

that time the next day. Letting out a quick whoop, he rolled on top of her.

Her hair fanned over the pillow. Her eyes, half-wary, half-laughing, met his.

“Let’s find out, partner,” he suggested.

His body was hard, like his eyes could be, like his hand as it cupped her

face. It was tempting. He was tempting. But it was always vital to weigh

advantage against disadvantage. Before Whitney could decide whether to

agree or not, there was a knock at the door. “Breakfast,” she said cheerfully,

wiggling out from under him. If her heart was beating a bit too fast, she

wasn’t going to dwell on it. There was too much to do.

Doug folded his arms behind his head and leaned back on the

headboard. Maybe desire was eating a hole in his stomach, or maybe it was

just hunger. Maybe it was both. “Let’s have it in bed.”

Whitney gave her opinion of his suggestion by ignoring it. “Good

morning,” she said brightly to the waiter as he wheeled in the tray.

“Good morning, Ms. MacAllister.” The young, square-built Puerto

Rican didn’t even glance at Doug. His eyes were all for Whitney. With

considerable charm, he handed her a pink rosebud.

“Why, thank you, Juan. It’s lovely.”

“I thought you’d like it.” He flashed her a quick grin, showing a

mouthful of strong, even teeth. “I hope your breakfast’s okay. I brought up

the toiletries and the paper you asked for.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Juan.” She smiled at the dark stud of a waiter,

Doug noted, with a lot more sweetness than she’d bothered to show him. “I

hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Oh, no, never for you, Ms. MacAllister.”

Behind the waiter’s back, Doug silently mimicked his words and soulful

expression. Whitney only arched a brow, then signed the check with a

flourish. “Thank you, Juan.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a

twenty. “You’ve been a big help.”

“A pleasure, Ms. MacAllister. You just call me if there’s anything else I

can do.” The twenty disappeared into his pocket with the speed and

discretion of long practice. “Enjoy your breakfast.” Still smiling, he backed

his way out the door.

“You love them to grovel, don’t you?”

Whitney turned a cup right side up and poured coffee. Casually, she

waved the rosebud under her nose. “Put some pants on and come eat.”

“And you were damn generous with the little bit of cash we’ve got.” She

said nothing, but he saw she was drawing out her little notepad. “Just hold

on, it was you overtipped the waiter, not me.”

“He got you a razor and a toothbrush,” she said mildly. “We’ll split the

tip because your hygiene’s of some concern to me at the moment.”

“That’s big of you,” he grumbled. Then, because he wanted to see just

how far he could push her, he climbed slowly out of bed.

She didn’t gasp, she didn’t flinch, she didn’t blush. She merely gave him

one long, measuring survey. The white bandage on his arm was a stark

contrast against his dark-toned skin. God, he had a beautiful body, she

thought as her pulse began a slow, dull thud. Lean, sleek, and subtly

muscled. Naked, unshaven, half-smiling, he looked more dangerous and

more appealing than any man she’d ever come across. She wouldn’t give

him the satisfaction of knowing it.

Without taking her eyes from him, Whitney lifted her coffee cup. “Stop

bragging, Douglas,” she said mildly, “and put your pants on. Your eggs are

getting cold.”

Damn, she was a cool one, he thought as he grabbed up his jeans. Just

once, he was going to see her sweat. Flopping down in the chair across

from her, Doug began to stuff himself with hot eggs and crisp bacon. At the

moment, he was too hungry to calculate what the luxury of room service

was costing him. Once he found the treasure, he could buy his own damn

hotel.

“Just who are you, Whitney MacAllister?” he demanded over a full

mouth.

She added a dash of pepper to her own eggs. “In what way?”

He grinned, pleased that she wouldn’t give easy answers. “Where do you

come from?”

“Richmond, Virginia,” she said, lapsing so quickly into a smooth

Virginia accent one would’ve sworn she’d had one all along. “My family’s

still there, on the plantation.”

“Why’d you move to New York?”

“Because it’s fast.”

He reached for toast, scrutinizing the basket of jellies. “What do you do

there?”

“Whatever I like.”

He looked into her sultry, whiskey-colored eyes and believed it. “Do you

have a job?”

“No, I have a profession.” She lifted a piece of bacon between her

fingers and nibbled. “I’m an interior designer.”

He remembered her apartment, the feeling of elegance, the melding of

colors, the uniqueness. “A decorator,” he mused. “You’d be a good one.”

“Naturally. And you?” She poured them both more coffee. “What do you

do?”

“A lot of things.” He reached for the cream, watching her. “Mostly I’m a

thief.”

She remembered the ease with which he had stolen the Porsche. “You’d

be a good one.”

He laughed, enjoying her. “Naturally.”

“This puzzle you mentioned. The papers.” She tore a piece of toast in

two. “Are you going to show them to me?”

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How do I know you have them? How do I

know that if you do have them they’re worth my time, not to mention my

money?”

He seemed to consider a moment, then offered her the basket of jellies.

“Faith?”

She chose strawberry preserves and spread them on generously. “Let’s

try not to be ridiculous. How’d you get them?”

“I—acquired them.”

Biting into the toast, she watched him over it. “Stole them.”

“Yeah.”

“From the men who were chasing you?”

“For the man they work for,” Doug corrected her. “Dimitri.

Unfortunately, he was going to double-cross me, so all bets were called off.

Possession’s nine-tenths of the law.”

“I suppose.” She considered for a moment the fact that she was

breakfasting with a thief who was in possession of a mysterious puzzle. She

supposed she’d done more unusual things in her life. “All right, let’s try

this. What form is this puzzle in?”

Doug considered giving her another nonanswer, then caught the look in

her eyes. Cool, unflappable determination. He’d better give her something,

at least until he had the passport and a ticket. “I’ve got papers, documents,

letters. I told you it went back a couple hundred years. There’s enough

information in the papers I have to lead me right to the pot of gold, a pot of

gold nobody even knows is there.” When another thought occurred to him,

he frowned at her. “You speak French?”

“Of course,” she said, and smiled. “So some of the puzzle’s in French.”

When he said nothing she steered him back again. “Why doesn’t anyone

know about your pot of gold?”

“Anyone who did is dead.”

She didn’t like the way he said it, but she wasn’t about to back off now.

“How do you know it’s genuine?”

His eyes became intense, the way they could when you least expected it.

“I feel it.”

“And who’s this man who’s after you?”

“Dimitri? He’s a first-class businessman—bad business. He’s smart, he’s

mean, he’s the kind of guy who knows the Latin name for the bug he’s

picking the wings off. If he wants the papers, they’re worth a hell of a lot.

One hell of a lot.”

“I guess we’ll find that out in Madagascar.” She picked up the New York

Times Juan had delivered. She didn’t like the way Doug had described the

man who was after him. The best way to avoid thinking about it was to

think of something else. Opening the paper she caught her breath, then let it

out again. “Oh, shit.”

Intent on finishing his eggs, Doug gave her an absent “Hmmm?”

“I’m in for it now,” she predicted, rising and tossing the open paper onto

his plate.

“Hey, I’m not finished.” Before he could push the paper aside, he saw

Whitney’s picture smiling up at him. Above the picture was a splash of

headline.

ICE-CREAM HEIRESS MISSING

“Ice-cream heiress,” Doug muttered, skimming down to the text before

he fully took it in. “Ice cream…” His mouth fell open as he dropped the

paper. “MacAllister’s ice cream? That’s you?”

“Indirectly,” Whitney told him, pacing the room as she tried to work out

the best plan. “It’s my father.”

“MacAllister’s ice cream,” Doug repeated. “Sonofabitch. He makes the

best damn fudge ripple in the country.”

“Of course.”

It hit him then that she wasn’t just a classy decorator but the daughter of

one of the richest men in the country. She was worth millions. Millions.

And if he was caught with her, he’d be up on kidnapping charges before he

could ask for his court appointed lawyer. Twenty years to life, he thought,

dragging a hand through his hair. Doug Lord sure knew how to pick ′em.

“Look, sugar, this changes things.”

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

Uncle Maxie, too.”

“Yeah.” He scooped up the last forkful of eggs, deciding he’d better eat

while he had the chance. “Why don’t you figure out my bill, and we’ll—”

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

“Exactly.” He grabbed the last piece of toast. Since she’d figure out a

way for him to pay for the meal, he might as well enjoy it. “And I don’t

want to end up with a cop’s bullet in my head either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Whitney dismissed him with a wave of the hand

while she refined her plan of approach. “I’ll get around Daddy,” she

murmured. “I’ve been doing it for years. I should be able to get him to wire

me some money while I’m at it.”

“Cash?”

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

He set the toast aside. “Look, gorgeous, if you know how to get around

your old man, who’m I to argue? And, while the plastic’s nice, and the cash

you can get with the plastic’s nice, a little extra of the green stuff would

help me sleep a lot easier.”

“I’ll take care of it.” She walked to the connecting doors, then paused.

“You really could use a shower and a shave, Douglas, before we go

shopping.”

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

“I’m not going to Madagascar with one blouse and one pair of slacks.

And I’m certainly not going anywhere with you wearing a shirt with only

one sleeve. We’ll do something about your wardrobe.”

“I can pick out my own shirts.”

“After seeing that fascinating jacket you had on when we met, I have my

doubts.” With this, she closed the door between them.

“It was a disguise,” he yelled at her, then stormed off toward the

bathroom. Damn woman always had to have the last word.

But he had to admit, she had taste. After a two-hour shopping

whirlwind, he was carrying more packages than he cared to, but the cut of

his shirt helped conceal the slight bulge of the envelope that was again

strapped to his chest. And he liked the way the loose linen felt against his

skin. The same way he liked the way Whitney’s hips moved under the thin

white dress. Still, there was no use being too agreeable.

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

in Madagascar?”

She glanced over and adjusted the collar of his shirt. He’d fussed about

wearing baby blue, but Whitney reaffirmed her opinion that it was an

excellent color for him. Oddly enough, he looked as though he’d been born

wearing tailored slacks. “When one travels, one should be prepared for

anything.”

“I don’t know how much walking we’re going to have to do, sugar, but

I’ll tell you this. You’re carrying your own gear.”

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

last.”

“You bet.” He stopped beside a drugstore and shifted the packages under

one arm. “Look, I need some things in here. Give me a twenty.” When she

only lifted a brow, he swore. “Come on, Whitney, you’re going to mark it

down in your damn account book anyway. I feel naked without any cash.”

She gave him a sweet smile as she reached in her purse. “It didn’t bother

you to be naked this morning.”

Her lack of reaction to his body still irked. He plucked the bill from her

hand. “Yeah, we’ll take that up again sometime. I’ll meet you upstairs in ten

minutes.”

Pleased with herself, Whitney crossed to the hotel and breezed through

the lobby. She was having more fun annoying Doug Lord than she’d had in

months. She shifted the smart leather tote she’d bought to her other hand

and pushed the button for her floor.

Things were looking good, she decided. Her father had been relieved

that she was safe and not displeased that she was leaving the country again.

Laughing to herself, Whitney leaned back against the wall. She supposed

she had given him a few bad moments in the past twenty-eight years, but

she was just made that way. In any case, she’d spun fact and fiction together

until her father had been satisfied. With the thousand dollars he was wiring

to Uncle Maxie that afternoon, she and Doug would be on solid ground

before they took off for Madagascar.

Even the name appealed to her. Madagascar, she mused as she strolled

down the hall toward her room. Exotic, new, unique. Orchids and lush

greens. She wanted to see it all, experience it, as much as she wanted to

believe the puzzle Doug talked about led to that pot of gold.

It wasn’t the gold itself that drew her. She was too accustomed to wealth

to have her heartbeat quicken at the thought of more. It was the thrill of

looking, of finding, that attracted her. Oddly enough, she understood better

than Doug that he felt the same.

She was going to have to learn a great deal more about him, she decided.

From the way he’d discussed cut and material with the salesclerk, he wasn’t

a stranger to the finer things. He could’ve passed for one of the casually

rich in a classic-cut linen shirt—unless you looked at his eyes. Really

looked. Nothing casual there, Whitney thought. They were restless, wary,

and hungry. If they were going to be partners, she had to find out why.

As she unlocked her door, it occurred to her that she had a few minutes

alone, and that maybe, just maybe, Doug had stashed the papers in his

room. She was putting up the money, Whitney told herself. She had every

right to see what she was financing. Still, she moved quietly, keeping an ear

out for Doug’s return as she crossed to the connecting doors. She caught her

breath, then with a hand to her heart, laughed.

“Juan, you scared me to death.” She stepped inside, looking beyond

where the young waiter sat to the still-littered table. “Did you come to pick

up the breakfast dishes?” She didn’t have to put off her quick search

because of him, she decided and began to poke through Doug’s dresser. “Is

the hotel busy this time of year?” she asked conversationally. “It’s cherryblossom time, isn’t it? That always brings in the tourists.”

Frustrated that the dresser was empty, she scanned the room. Maybe the

closet. “What time does the maid usually come in, Juan? I could use some

extra towels.” When he continued to stare silently at her she frowned. “You

don’t look well,” she told him. “They work you too hard. Maybe you

should…” She touched a hand to his shoulder and slowly, bonelessly, he

slumped to her feet, leaving a smear of blood on the back of the chair.

She didn’t scream because her brain and her vocal cords had frozen.

Eyes wide, mouth working, she backed up. She’d never seen death before,

never smelled it, but she recognized it. Before she could run from it, a hand

clamped over her arm.

“Very pretty.”

The man whose face was inches from hers held a gun under her chin.

One cheek was badly scarred, jagged, as from a broken bottle or a blade.

Both his hair and his eyes were the color of sand. The barrel of the gun was

like ice on her skin. Grinning, he skimmed the gun down her throat.

“Where’s Lord?”

Her gaze darted down to the crumpled body inches away from her feet.

She could see the red stain spread over the white back of his jacket. Juan

would be no help, and he’d never spend the twenty-dollar tip she’d given

him only hours before. If she wasn’t careful, very, very careful, she’d end

up the same way.

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

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

the papers.”

“Double-cross.” He toyed with the ends of her hair and made her

stomach roll. “Smart too.” The fingers tightened, jerking her head back.

“When’s he coming back?”

“I don’t know.” She winced at the pain and struggled to keep her mind

clear. “Fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour.” Any minute, she thought

desperately. He could walk in any minute and then they both would be

dead. Another glance at the body sprawled at her feet and her eyes filled.

Whitney swallowed hard, knowing she couldn’t afford tears. “Why did you

kill Juan?”

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

pretty lady.”

“Listen…” It wasn’t difficult to keep her voice low, if she’d tried to

speak above a whisper her teeth would have chattered. “I don’t have any

allegiance to Lord. If you and I could find the papers, then…” She let the

sentence trail off, moistening her lips with her tongue. He watched the

gesture before he ran his gaze down her body.

“Not much tit,” he said with a sneer, then stepped back, gesturing with

the gun. “Maybe I should see more of what you’re offering.”

She toyed with the top button of her blouse. She’d gotten his mind off

killing her for the moment, but this wasn’t much of a bargain. Inching back

as she moved to the next button, she felt her hips bump into the table. As if

to steady herself, she rested a palm on it, keeping her gaze on his sandcolored eyes. She felt cool stainless steel brush her fingertips.

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

He inclined his head as he set the gun on the dresser. “Maybe I should.”

Then his hands were on her hips, moving slowly up her body. Whitney

gripped the handle in her fist and plunged the fork into the side of his

throat.

Blood spurting, squealing like a pig, he jumped back. As he reached for

the handle himself, she picked up the leather tote and swung it with all the

force she had. She didn’t look to see how deep she’d driven the prongs into

him. She ran.

In high good humor after a brief flirtation with the checkout girl, Doug

started to swing into the lobby. Running full steam, Whitney barreled into

him.

He juggled tottering packages. “What the hell—”

“Run!” she shouted, and without waiting to see if he took her advice,

raced out of the hotel.

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

for?”

“They’ve found us.”

A glance over his shoulder showed him Remo and two others just

hustling out of the hotel. “Ah, shit,” Doug muttered, then grabbing

Whitney’s arm, he dragged her through the first door he came to. They were

greeted by the quiet strains of harp music and a stiff-backed maitre d’.

“You have a luncheon reservation?”

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

“Yes, I hope we’re not too early.” She batted her eyes at the maitre d’

before scanning the restaurant. “I do hate being early. Ah, there’s Marjorie

now. My, my, she’s put on weight.” With Whitney leaning conspiratorially

toward Doug, they moved past the maitre d’. “Be sure to compliment her on

that horrid outfit, Rodney.”

Skirting through the restaurant, they made a direct line for the kitchen.

“Rodney?” he complained in undertones.

“It just came to me.”

“Here.” Thinking fast, he shoved the boxes and bags into Whitney’s tote,

then slung the whole business over his shoulder. “Let me do the talking.”

In the kitchen they made their way around counters and ranges and

cooks. Moving as quickly as he thought prudent, Doug aimed for the back

door. A white-aproned bulk, three feet wide, stepped in front of him.

“Guests are not permitted in the kitchen.”

Doug looked up at the chef’s hat at least a foot above his own head. It

reminded him how much he hated physical altercations. You didn’t get so

many bruises when you used your head. “One minute, one minute,” Doug

said fussily and turned to the pot simmering at his right. “Sheila, this has

the most divine scent. Superb, sensuous. Four stars for the scent.”

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

scribbling.

Picking up the ladle, Doug held it under his nose, closed his eyes, and

sampled. “Ah.” He drew the word out so dramatically Whitney had to

choke down a giggle. “Poisson Véronique. Magnificent. Absolutely

magnificent. Definitely one of the top contenders in the contest. Your

name?” he demanded from the chef.

The white-aproned bulk preened. “Henri.”

“Henri,” he repeated, waving a hand at Whitney. “You’ll be notified

within ten days. Come, Sheila, don’t dawdle. We have three more stops to

make.”

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

door.

“Okay.” Doug gripped her arm hard when they stood in the alley.

“Remo’s only half-stupid so we’ve got to get out fast. Which way to Uncle

Maxie’s?”

“He lives in Virginia, Roslyn.”

“All right, we need a cab.” He started forward, then pushed Whitney

back against the wall so quickly she lost her breath. “Dammit, they’re

already out there.” He took a moment, knowing the alley wouldn’t be safe

for long. In his experience, alleys were never safe for long. “We’ll have to

go the other way, which means going over a few walls. You’re going to

have to keep up.”

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

“Let’s go.”

They started out side by side then swerved to the right. Whitney had to

scramble over boxes to make it over the first fence and her leg muscles sang

out in surprise on the landing. She kept running. If he had a pattern to his

flight, she couldn’t find it. He zigzagged down streets, through alleys, and

over fences until her lungs burned from the effort of keeping the pace. The

floaty skirt of her dress caught on chain link and tore jaggedly at the hem.

People stopped to look at them in surprise and speculation as they never

would’ve done in New York.

Always, he seemed to have one eye looking over his shoulder. She had

no way of knowing he’d lived that way most of his life and had often

wondered if he’d ever live any other way. When he dragged her down the

stairs toward Metro Center, she had to grip the rail to keep from plunging

head first.

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

up with colors?”

“I don’t know.” Breathless, she leaned against the information board.

“I’ve never ridden the Metro before.”

“Well, we’re fresh out of limos. Red line,” he announced and grabbed

her hand again. He hadn’t lost them. Doug could still smell the hunt. Five

minutes, he thought. He only wanted a five-minute lead. Then they’d be on

one of those speedy little trains and gain more time.

The crowd was thick and babbling in a half dozen languages. The more

people the better, he decided as he inched his way along. He glanced over

his shoulder when they stood at the edge of the platform. His gaze met

Remo’s. He saw the bandage on the tanned cheek. Compliments of Whitney

MacAllister, Doug thought and couldn’t resist tossing back a grin. Yeah, he

owed her for that, he decided. If for nothing else, he owed her for that.

It was all timing now, he knew, as he pulled Whitney onto the train.

Timing and luck. It was either with them or against them. Sandwiched

between Whitney and a sariclad Indian woman, Doug watched Remo fight

his way through the crowd.

When the doors closed, he grinned and gave the frustrated man outside a

half salute. “Let’s find a seat,” he said to Whitney. “There’s nothing like

public transportation.”

She said nothing as they worked their way through the car, and still

nothing when they found a space nearly big enough for both of them. Doug

was too busy alternately cursing and blessing his luck to notice. In the end,

he grinned at his own reflection in the glass to his left.

“Well, the sonofabitch might’ve found us, but he’s going to have a hell

of a lot of explaining to do to Dimitri about losing us again.” Satisfied, he

draped his arm over the back of the bright orange seat. “How’d you spot

them anyway?” he asked absently while he plotted out his next move.

Money, passport, and airport, in that order, though he had to fit in a quick

trip to the library. If Dimitri and his hounds showed up in Madagascar,

they’d just lose them again. He was on a roll. “You’ve got a sharp eye,

sugar,” he told her. “We’d’ve been in a bad way if there’d been a

welcoming committee back in the hotel room.”

Adrenaline had carried her through the streets. The need to survive had

driven her hard and fast until the moment she’d sat down. Drained, Whitney

turned her head and stared at his profile. “They killed Juan.”

“What?” Distracted, he glanced over. For the first time he noticed that

her skin was bloodless and her eyes blank. “Juan?” Doug drew her closer,

dropping his voice to a whisper. “The waiter? What’re you talking about?”

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

waiting.”

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

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

scar.”

“Butrain,” Doug mumbled. Some of Dimitri’s excess slime and as mean

as they came. He tightened his grip on Whitney’s shoulder. “Did he hurt

you?”

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

him.”

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

How?”

“With a fork.”

“You—” Doug stopped, sat back, and tried to take it in. If she hadn’t

been looking at him with big, devastated eyes, if her hand hadn’t been like

ice, he’d have laughed out loud. “You’re telling me you did in one of

Dimitri’s apes with a fork?”

“I didn’t stop to take his pulse.” The train pulled up at the next stop and,

unable to sit still, Whitney rose and pushed her way off. Swearing and

struggling through bodies, Doug caught up with her on the platform.

“Okay, okay, you’d better tell me the whole thing.”

“The whole thing?” Abruptly enraged, she turned on him. “You want to

hear the whole thing? The whole bloody thing? I walk back into the room

and there’s that poor, harmless boy dead, blood all over his starched white

coat, and some creep with a face like a road map’s holding a gun to my

throat.”

Her voice had risen so that passersby turned to listen or to stare.

“Keep it down,” Doug muttered, dragging her toward another train.

They’d ride, it didn’t matter where, until she was calm and he had a more

workable plan.

“You keep it down,” she shot back. “You got me into this.”

“Look, honey, you can take a walk any time you want.”

“Sure, and end up with my throat slit by someone who’s after you and

those damn papers.”

The truth left him little defense. Shoving her down into a corner seat, he

squeezed in beside her. “Okay, so you’re stuck with me,” he said under his

breath. “Here’s a news flash—listening to you whine about it gets on my

nerves.”

“I’m not whining.” She turned to him with eyes suddenly drenched and

vulnerable. “That boy’s dead.”

Anger drained and guilt flared. Not knowing what else to do, he put his

arm around her. He wasn’t used to comforting women. “You can’t let it get

to you. You’re not responsible.”

Tired, she let her head rest on his shoulder. “Is that how you get through

life, Doug, by not being responsible?”

Curling his fingers into her hair, he watched their blurred twin images in

the glass. “Yeah.”

They lapsed into silence with both of them wondering if he was telling

the truth.