CHAPTER 4:PICNIC

Whitney pushed open the wooden shutters on the window and took a long

look at Antananarivo. It didn’t, as she’d thought it would, remind her of

Africa. She’d spent two weeks once in Kenya and remembered the heady

morning scent of meat smoking on sidewalk grills, of towering heat and a

cosmopolitan flare. Africa was only a narrow strip of water away, but

Whitney saw nothing from her window that resembled what she

remembered of it.

Nor did she find a tropical island flare. She didn’t sense the lazy gaiety

she’d always associated with islands and island people. What she did sense,

though she wasn’t yet sure why, was a country completely unique to itself.

This was the capital of Madagascar, the heart of the country, city of

open-air markets and hand-drawn carts existing in complete harmony and

total chaos alongside high-rise office buildings and sleek modern cars. It

was a city, so she expected the habitual turmoil that brewed in cities. Yet

what she saw was peaceful: slow, but not lazy. Perhaps it was just the dawn,

or perhaps it was inherent.

The air was cool with dawn so that she shivered, but didn’t turn away. It

didn’t have the smell of Paris, or Europe, but of something riper. Spice

mixed with the first whispers of heat that threatened the morning chill.

Animals. Few cities carried even a wisp of animal in their air. Hong Kong

smelled of the harbor and London of traffic. Antananarivo smelled of

something older that wasn’t quite ready to fade under concrete or steel.

There was a haze as heat hovered above the cooler ground. Even as she

stood, Whitney could feel the temperature change, almost degree by degree.

In another hour, she thought, the sweat would start to roll and the air would

smell of that as well.

She had the impression of houses stacked on top of houses, stacked on

top of more houses, all pink and purple in the early light. It was like a fairy

tale: sweet and a little grim around the edges.

The town was all hills, hills so steep and breathless that stairs had been

dug, built into rock and earth to negotiate them. Even from a distance they

seemed worn and old and pitched at a terrifying angle. She saw three

children and their dog heedlessly racing down and thought she might get

winded just watching them.

She could see Lake Anosy, the sacred lake, steel blue and still, ringed by

the jacaranda trees that gave it the exotic flare she’d dreamed of. Because of

the distance, she could only imagine the scent would be sweet and strong.

Like so many other cities, there were modern buildings, apartments, hotels,

a hospital, but sprinkled among them were thatched roofs. A stone’s throw

away were rice paddies and small farms. The fields would be moist and

glitter in the afternoon sun. If she looked up toward the highest hill, she

could see the palaces, glorious in the dawn, opulent, arrogant, anachronistic.

She heard the sound of a car on the wide avenue below.

So they were here, she thought, stretching and drawing in the cool air.

The plane trip had been long and tedious, but it had given her time to adjust

to what had happened and to make some decisions of her own. If she was

honest, she had to admit that she’d made her decision the moment she’d

stepped on the gas and started her race with Doug. True, it had been an

impulse, but she’d stick by it. If nothing else, the quick stop in Paris had

convinced her that Doug was smart and she was in for the count. She was

thousands of miles away from New York now, and the adventure was here.

She couldn’t change Juan’s fate, but she could have her own personal

revenge by beating Dimitri to the treasure. And laughing. To accomplish it,

she needed Doug Lord and the papers she’d yet to see. See them she would.

It was a matter of learning how to get around Doug.

Doug Lord, Whitney mused, stepping away from the window to dress.

Who and what was he? Where did he come from and just where did he

intend to go?

A thief. Yes, she thought he was a man who might lift stealing to the

level of a profession. But he wasn’t a Robin Hood. He might steal from the

rich, but she couldn’t picture him giving to the poor. Whatever he—

acquired, he’d keep. Yet she couldn’t condemn him for it. For one, there

was something about him, some flash she’d seen right from the beginning.

A lack of cruelty and a dash of what was irresistible to her. Daring.

Then, too, she’d always believed if you excelled at something, you

should pursue it. She had an idea that he was very good at what he did.

A womanizer? Perhaps, she thought, but she’d dealt with womanizers

before. Professional ones who could speak three languages and order the

best champagne were less admirable than a man like Doug Lord who would

womanize in all good humor. That didn’t worry her. He was attractive, even

appealing when he wasn’t arguing with her. She could handle the physical

part of it

Though she could remember what it was like to lie beneath him with his

mouth a teasing inch above hers. There’d been a pleasant, breathless sort of

sensation she’d have liked to explore a bit further. She could remember

what it was like to wonder just how it would feel to kiss that interesting,

arrogant mouth.

Not as long as they were business partners, Whitney reminded herself as

she shook out a skirt. She’d keep things on the practical sort of level she

could mark down in her notebook. She’d keep Doug Lord at a careful

distance until she had her share of the winnings in her hand. If something

happened later, then it happened. With a half smile, she decided it might be

fun to anticipate it.

“Room service.” Doug breezed in, carrying a tray. He checked a

moment, taking a brief but thorough look at Whitney, who stood by the bed

in a sleek, buff-colored teddy. She could make a man’s mouth water. Class,

he thought again. A man like him had better watch his step when he started

to have fantasies about class. “Nice dress,” he said easily.

Refusing to give him any reaction, Whitney stepped into the skirt. “Is

that breakfast?”

He’d break through that cool eventually, he told himself. In his own

time. “Coffee and rolls. We’ve got things to do.”

She drew on a blouse the color of crushed raspberries. “Such as?”

“I checked the train schedule.” Doug dropped into a chair, crossed his

ankles on the table, and bit into a roll. “We can be on our way east at

twelve-fifteen. Meantime we’ve got to pick up some supplies.”

She took her coffee to the dresser. “Such as?”

“Backpacks,” he said, watching the sun rise over the city outside. “I’m

not lugging that leather thing through the forest.”

Whitney took a sip of coffee before picking up her brush. It was strong,

European style, and thick as mud. “As in hiking?”

“You got it, sugar. We’ll need a tent, one of those new lightweight ones

that fold up to nothing.”

She drew the brush in a long, slow stroke through her hair. “Anything

wrong with hotels?”

With a quick smirk, he glanced over, then said nothing at all. Her hair

looked like gold dust in the morning light. Fairy dust. He found it difficult

to swallow. Rising, he paced over to the window so that his back was to her.

“We’ll use public transportation when I think it’s safe, then go through the

back door. I don’t want to advertise our little expedition,” he muttered.

“Dimitri isn’t going to give up.”

She thought of Paris. “You’ve convinced me.”

“The less we use public roads and towns, the less chance he has of

picking up our scent.”

“Makes sense.” Whitney wound her hair into a braid and secured the end

with a swatch of ribbon. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“We’ll travel by rail as far as Tamatave.” He turned, grinning. With the

sun at his back he looked more like a knight than a thief. His hair fell to his

collar, dark, a bit unruly. There was a light of adventure in his eyes. “Then,

we go north.”

“And when do I see what it is that’s taking us north?”

“You don’t need to. I’ve seen it.” But he was already calculating how he

could get her to translate pieces for him without giving her the whole.

Slowly, she tapped her brush against her palm. She wondered how long

it would be before she could translate some of the papers, and keep a few

snatches of information to herself. “Doug, would you buy a pig in a poke?”

“If I liked the odds.”

With a half smile, she shook her head. “No wonder you’re broke. You

have to learn how to hang on to your money.”

“I’m sure you could give me lessons.”

“The papers, Douglas.”

They were strapped to his chest again. The first thing he was going to

buy was a knapsack where he could store them safely. His skin was raw

from the adhesive. He was certain Whitney would have some pretty

ointment that would ease the soreness. He was equally sure she’d mark the

cost of it in her little notebook.

“Later.” When she started to speak again, he held up a hand. “I’ve got a

couple of books along you might like to read. We’ve got a long trip and

plenty of time. We’ll talk about it. Trust me, okay?”

She waited a moment, watching him. Trust, no, she wasn’t foolish

enough to feel it. But as long as she held the purse strings, they were a

team. Satisfied, she swung her handbag strap over her shoulder and held out

her hand. If she was going on a quest, she’d just as soon it be with a knight

who had some tarnish on him. “Okay, let’s go shopping.”

Doug led her downstairs. As long as she was in a good mood, he might

as well make his pitch. Companionably, he swung an arm around her

shoulder. “So, how’d you sleep?”

“Just fine.”

On their way through the lobby, he plucked a small purple blossom from

a vase and tucked it behind her ear. Passionflower—he thought it might suit

her. Its scent was strong and sweet, as a tropical flower’s should be. The

gesture touched her, even as she distrusted it. “Too bad we don’t have much

time to play tourist,” he said conversationally. “The Queen’s Palace is

supposed to be something to see.”

“You have a taste for the opulent?”

“Sure. I always figured it was nice to live with a little flash.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I’d rather have a feather bed than a gold

one.”

“‘They say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I now know

that they meant money.’”

She stopped in her tracks and stared at him. What kind of a thief quoted

Byron? “You continue to surprise me.”

“If you read you’re bound to pick up something.” Shrugging, Doug

decided to steer away from philosophy and back to practicality. “Whitney,

we agreed to divide the treasure fifty-fifty.”

“After you pay me what you owe me.”

He gritted his teeth on that. “Right. Since we’re partners, it seems to me

we ought to divide the cash we have fifty-fifty.”

She turned her head to give him a pleasant smile. “Does it seem like that

to you?”

“A matter of practicality,” he told her breezily. “Suppose we got

separated—”

“Not a chance.” Her smile remained pleasant as she tightened her hold

on her purse. “I’m sticking to you like an appendage until this is all over,

Douglas. People might think we’re in love.”

Without breaking rhythm, he changed tactics. “It’s also a matter of

trust.”

“Whose?”

“Yours, sugar. After all, if we’re partners, we have to trust each other.”

“I do trust you.” She draped a friendly arm around his waist. The mist

was burning off and the sun was climbing. “As long as I hold the bankroll

—sugar.”

Doug narrowed his eyes. Classy wasn’t all she was, he thought grimly.

“Okay then, how about an advance?”

“Forget it.”

Because choking her was becoming tempting, he broke away to face her

down. “Give me one reason why you should hold all the cash?”

“You want to trade it for the papers?”

Infuriated, he spun away to stare at the whitewashed house behind him.

In the dusty side yard, flowers and vines tangled in wild abandon. He

caught the scents of breakfast cooking and overripe fruit.

There was no way he could give her the slip as long as he was broke.

There was no way he could justify lifting her purse and leaving her

stranded. The alternative left him exactly where he was—stuck with her.

The worst of it was he was probably going to need her. Sooner or later he’d

need someone to translate the correspondence written in French, for no

other reason than his own nagging curiosity. Not yet, he thought. Not until

he was on more solid ground. “Look, dammit, I’ve got eight dollars in my

pocket.”

If he had much more, she reflected, he’d dump her without a second

thought. “Change from the twenty I gave you in Washington.”

Frustrated, he started down a set of steep stairs. “You’ve got a mind like

a damn accountant.”

“Thanks.” She hung on to the rough wooden rail and wondered if there

were any other way down. She shielded her eyes and looked. “Oh look,

what’s that, a bazaar?” Quickening her pace, she dragged Doug back with

her.

“Friday market,” he grumbled. “The zoma. I told you that you should

read the guidebook.”

“I’d rather be surprised. Let’s take a look.”

He went along because it was as easy, and perhaps cheaper, to buy some

of the supplies in the open market as it was to buy them in one of the shops.

There was time before the train left, he thought with a quick check of his

watch. They might as well enjoy it.

There were thatch-roofed structures and wooden stalls under wide white

umbrellas. Clothes, fabrics, gemstones were spread out for the serious buyer

or the browser. Always a serious buyer, Whitney spotted an interesting mix

of quality and junk. But it wasn’t a fair, it was business. The market was

organized, crowded, full of sound and scent. Wagons drawn by oxen and

driven by men wrapped in white lambas were crammed with vegetables and

chickens. Animals clucked and mooed and snorted in varying degrees of

complaint as flies buzzed. A few dogs milled around, sniffing, and were

shooed away or ignored.

She could smell feathers and spice and animal sweat. True, the roads

were paved, there were sounds of traffic and not too far away the windows

of a first-class hotel glistened in the burgeoning sun. A goat shied at a

sudden noise and pulled on his tether. A child with mango juice dripping

down his chin tugged on his mother’s skirt and babbled in a language

Whitney had never heard. She watched a man in baggy pants and a peaked

hat point and count out coins. Caught by two scrawny legs, a chicken

squawked and struggled to fly. Feathers drifted. On a rough blanket was a

spread of amethysts and garnets that glinted dully in the early sun. She

started to reach out, just to touch, when Doug pulled her to a display of

sturdy leather moccasins.

“There’ll be plenty of time for baubles,” he told her and nodded toward

the walking shoes. “You’re going to need something more practical than

those little strips of leather you’re wearing.”

With a shrug, Whitney looked over her choices. They were a long way

from the cosmopolitan cities she was accustomed to, a long way from the

playgrounds the wealthy chose.

Whitney bought the shoes, then picked up a handmade basket,

instinctively bargaining for it in flawless French.

He had to admire her, she was a born negotiator. More, he liked the way

she had fun arguing over the price of a trinket. He had a feeling she’d have

been disappointed if the haggling had gone too quickly or the price had

dropped too dramatically. Since he was stuck with her, Doug decided to be

philosophical and make the best of the partnership. For the moment.

“Now that you’ve got it,” Doug said, “who’s going to carry it?”

“We’ll leave it in storage with the luggage. We’ll need some food, won’t

we? You do intend to eat on this expedition?” Eyes laughing, she picked up

a mango and held it under his nose.

He grinned and chose another, then dropped both in her basket. “Just

don’t get carried away.”

She wandered through the stalls, joining in the bargaining and carefully

counting out francs. She fingered a necklace of shells, considering it as

carefully as she would a bauble at Cartier’s. In time, she found herself

filtering out the strange Malagasy and listening, answering, even thinking in

French. The merchants traded in a continual stream of give and take. It

seemed they were too proud to show eagerness, but Whitney hadn’t missed

the marks of poverty on many.

How far had they come, she wondered, traveling in wagons? They didn’t

seem tired, she thought as she began to study the people as closely as their

wares. Sturdy, she would have said. Content, though there were many

without shoes. The clothes might be dusty, some worn, but all were

colorful. Women braided and pinned and wound their hair in intricate,

timely designs. The zoma, Whitney decided, was as much a social event as

a business one.

“Let’s pick up the pace, babe.” There was an itch between his shoulder

blades that was growing more nagging. When Doug caught himself looking

over his shoulder for the third time, he knew it was time to move on.

“We’ve got a lot more to do today.”

She dropped more fruit in the basket with vegetables and a sack of rice.

She might have to walk and sleep in a tent, Whitney thought, but she

wouldn’t go hungry.

He wondered if she knew just what a startling contrast she made among

the dark merchants and solemn-faced women with her ivory skin and pale

hair. There was an unmistakable air of class about her even as she stood

bargaining for dried peppers or figs. She wasn’t his style, Doug told

himself, thinking of the sequins-and-feathers type he normally drifted to.

But she’d be a hard woman to forget.

On impulse he picked up a soft cotton lamba and draped it over her

head. When she turned, laughing, she was so outrageously beautiful he lost

his breath. It should be white silk, he thought. She should wear white silk,

cool, smooth. He’d like to buy her yards of it. He’d like to drape her in it, in

miles of it, then slowly, slowly strip it from her until it was only her skin,

just as soft, just as white. He could watch her eyes darken, feel her flesh

heat. With her face beneath his hands, he forgot she wasn’t his style.

She saw the change in his eyes, felt the sudden tension in his fingers.

Her heart began a slow, insistent thudding against her ribs. Hadn’t she

wondered what he’d be like as a lover? Wasn’t she wondering now when

she could feel desire pouring out of him? Thief, philosopher, opportunist,

hero? Whatever he was, her life was tangled with his and there was no

going back. When the time came, they’d come together like thunder, no

pretty words, no candlelight, no sheen of romance. She wouldn’t need

romance because his body would be hard, his mouth hungry, and his hands

would know where to touch. Standing in the open market, full of exotic

scents and sound, she forgot that he’d be easy to handle.

Dangerous woman, Doug realized as he deliberately relaxed his fingers.

With the treasure almost within reach and Dimitri like a monkey on his

back, he couldn’t afford to think of her as a woman at all. Women—bigeyed women—had always been his downfall.

They were partners. He had the papers, she had the bankroll. That was as

complicated as things were going to get.

“You’d better finish up here,” he said calmly enough. “We have to see

about the camping supplies.”

Whitney let out a quiet, cleansing breath and reminded herself he was

already into her for over seven thousand dollars. It wouldn’t pay to forget it.

“All right.” But she bought the lamba, telling herself it was simply a

souvenir.

By noon they were waiting for the train, both of them carrying

knapsacks carefully packed with food and gear. He was restless, impatient

to begin. He’d risked his life and gambled his future on the small bulge of

papers taped to his chest. He’d always played the odds, but this time, he

held the bank. By summer, he’d be dripping in money, lying on some hot

foreign beach sipping rum while some dark-haired, sloe-eyed woman

rubbed oil over his shoulder. He’d have enough money to insure that

Dimitri would never find him, and if he wanted to hustle, he’d hustle for

pleasure, not for his living.

“Here it comes.” Feeling a fresh surge of excitement, Doug turned to

Whitney. With the shawl draped over her shoulders, she was carefully

writing in her notepad. She looked cool and calm, while his shirt was

already beginning to stick to his shoulder blades. “Will you quit scrawling

in that thing?” he demanded, taking her arm. “You’re worse than the

goddamn IRS.”

“Just adding on the price of your train ticket, partner.”

“Jesus. When we get what we’re after, you’ll be knee-deep in gold and

you’re worried about a few francs.”

“Funny how they add up, isn’t it?” With a smile, she dropped the pad

back in her purse. “Next stop. Tamatave.”

A car purred to a halt just as Doug stepped onto the train behind

Whitney.

“There they are.” Jaw set, Remo reached beneath his jacket until his

palm fit over the butt of his gun. The fingers of his other hand brushed over

the bandage on his face. He had a personal score to settle with Lord now. It

was going to be a pleasure. A small hand with the pinky only a stub closed

with steely strength on his arm. The cuff was still white, studded this time

with hammered gold ovals. The delicate hand, somehow elegant despite the

deformity, made the muscles in Remo’s arm quiver.

“You’ve let him outwit you before.” The voice was quiet and very

smooth. A poet’s voice.

“This time he’s a dead man.”

There was a pleasant chuckle followed by a stream of expensive French

tobacco. Remo didn’t relax or offer any excuses. Dimitri’s moods could be

deceiving and Remo had heard him laugh before. He’d heard him give that

same mild, pleasant laugh as he’d seared the bottom of a victim’s feet with

blue flame from a monogrammed cigarette lighter. Remo didn’t move his

arm, nor did he open his mouth.

“Lord’s been a dead man since he stole from me.” Something vile

slipped into Dimitri’s voice. It wasn’t anger, but more power, cool and

dispassionate. A snake doesn’t always spew venom in fury. “Get my

property back, then kill him however you please. Bring me his ears.”

Remo gestured for the man in the back seat to get out and purchase

tickets. “And the woman?”

There was another stream of tobacco smoke as Dimitri thought it

through. He’d learned years before that decisions made rashly leave a

jagged trail. He preferred the smooth and the clean. “A lovely woman and

clever enough to sever Butrain’s jugular. Damage her as little as possible

and bring her back. I’d like to talk with her.”

Satisfied, he sat back, idly watching the train through the smoke glass of

the car window. It amused and satisfied him to smell the powdery scent of

fear drifting from his employees. Fear, after all, was the most elegant of

weapons. He gestured once with his mutilated hand. “A tedious business,”

he said when Remo closed the car door. His sigh was delicate while he

touched a scented silk handkerchief to his nose. The smell of dust and

animal annoyed him. “Drive back to the hotel,” he instructed the silent man

at the wheel. “I want a sauna and a massage.”

Whitney positioned herself next to a window and prepared to watch

Madagascar roll by. As he had off and on since the previous day, Doug had

his face buried in a guidebook.

“There are at least thirty-nine species of lemur in Madagascar and more

than eight hundred species of butterflies.”

“Fascinating. I had no idea you were so interested in fauna.”

He looked over the top of the book. “All the snakes are harmless,” he

added. “Little things like that are important to me when I’m sleeping in a

tent. I always like to know something about the territory. Like the rivers

here are full of crocks.”

“I guess that kills the idea of skinny-dipping.”

“We’re bound to run into some of the natives. There are several distinct

tribes, and according to this everybody’s friendly.”

“That’s good news. Do you have a projection as to how long it should be

before we get to where ‘X’ marks the spot?”

“A week, maybe two.” Leaning back, he lit a cigarette. “How do you say

diamond in French?”

“Diamant.” Narrowing her eyes, she studied him. “Did this Dimitri

have anything to do with stealing diamonds out of France and smuggling

them here?”

Doug smiled at her. She was close, but not close enough. “No. Dimitri’s

good, but he didn’t have anything to do with this particular heist.”

“So it is diamonds and they were stolen.”

Doug thought of the papers. “Depends on your point of view.”

“Just a thought,” Whitney began, plucking the cigarette from him for a

drag. “But have you ever considered what you’d do if there was nothing

there?”

“It’s there.” He blew out smoke and watched her with his clear, green

eyes. “It’s there.”

As always she found herself believing him. It was impossible not to.

“What are you going to do with your share?”

He stretched his legs onto the seat beside her and grinned. “Wallow in

it.”

Reaching in the bag, she plucked out a mango and tossed it to him.

“What about Dimitri?”

“Once I have the treasure, he can fry in hell.”

“You’re a cocky sonofabitch, Douglas.”

He bit into the mango. “I’m going to be a rich cocky sonofabitch.”

Interested, she took the mango for a bite of her own. She found it sweet

and satisfying. “Being rich’s important?”

“Damn right.”

“Why?”

He shot her a look. “You’re speaking from the comfort of several billion

gallons of fudge ripple.”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m interested in your outlook on wealth.”

“When you’re rich and you play the horses and lose, you get ticked off

because you lost, not because you blew the rent money.”

“And that’s what it comes down to?”

“Ever worried about where you were going to sleep at night, sugar?”

She took another bite of fruit before handing it back to him. Something

in his voice had made her feel foolish. “No.”

She lapsed into silence for a time as the train rumbled on, stopping at

stations while people filed on or filed off. It was already hot, almost airless

inside. Sweat, fruit, dust, and grime hung heavily. A man in a white panama

a few seats forward mopped at his face with a large bandana. Because she

thought she recognized him from the zoma, Whitney smiled. He only

pocketed the bandana and went back to his newspaper. Idly Whitney

noticed it was English before she turned back to a study of the landscape.

Grassy rolling hills raced by, almost treeless. Small villages or

settlements were huddled here and there with thatch-roofed houses and

wide barns positioned near the river. What river? Doug had the guidebook

and could certainly tell her. She was beginning to understand he could give

her a fifteen-minute lecture on it. Whitney preferred the anonymity of dirt

and water.

She saw no crisscross of telephone wires or power poles. The people

living along these endless, barren stretches would have to be tough,

independent, self-sufficient. She could appreciate that, admire it, without

putting herself in their place.

Though she was a woman who craved the city with its crowds and noise

and pulse, she found the quiet and vastness of the countryside appealing.

She’d never found it difficult to value both a wildflower and a full-length

chinchilla. They both brought pleasure.

The train wasn’t quiet. It rumbled and moaned and swayed while

conversation was a constant babble. It smelled, not too unpleasantly as air

drifted through the windows, of sweat. The last time she’d ridden a train

had been on impulse, she recalled. She’d had an air-conditioned roomette

that smelled of powder and flowers. It hadn’t been nearly as interesting a

ride.

A woman with a thumb-sucking baby sat across from them. He stared

wide-eyed and solemn at Whitney before reaching out with a pudgy hand to

grab her braid. Embarrassed, his mother yanked him away, rattling a quick

stream of Malagasy.

“No, no, it’s all right.” Laughing, Whitney stroked the baby’s cheek. His

fingers closed around hers like a small vise. Amused, she signed for the

mother to pass him to her. After a few moments of hesitation and

persuasion, Whitney took the baby onto her lap. “Hello, little man.”

“I’m not sure the natives have heard of Pampers,” Doug said mildly.

She merely wrinkled her nose at him. “Don’t you like children?”

“Sure, I just like them better when they’re house-broken.”

Chuckling, she gave her attention to the baby. “Let’s see what we’ve

got,” she told him and reaching in her purse came up with a compact. “How

about this? Want to see the baby?” She held the mirror up for him, enjoying

the gurgling laughter. “Pretty baby,” she crooned, rather pleased with

herself for amusing him. Just as amused as she, the baby pushed the mirror

toward her face.

“Pretty lady,” Doug commented, earning a laugh from Whitney.

“Here, you try it.” Before he could protest, she’d passed the baby to him.

“Babies are good for you.”

If she’d expected him to be annoyed or to be awkward, she was wrong.

As if he’d spent his life doing it, Doug straddled the baby on his lap and

began to entertain him.

That was interesting, Whitney noted. The thief had a sweet side. Sitting

back, she watched Doug bounce the baby on his knee and make foolish

noises. “Ever thought about going straight and opening a day-care center?”

He lifted a brow and snatched the mirror from her. “Look here,” he told

the baby, holding the mirror at an angle that had the sunlight flashing off it.

Squealing, the baby grabbed the compact and pushed it toward Doug’s face.

“He wants you to see the monkey,” Whitney said with a bland smile.

“Smartass.”

“So you’ve said.”

To satisfy the baby, Doug made faces in the mirror. Bouncing with

delight, the baby knocked at the mirror, angling it back so that Doug had a

quick view of the rear of the train. He tensed, and, angling the mirror again,

took a longer scan.

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

Still juggling the baby, he stared at her. Sweat pooled in his armpits and

ran down his back. “You just keep smiling, sugar, and don’t look behind

me. We’ve got a couple of friends a few seats back.”

Though her hands tensed on the arms of the seat, she managed to keep

her gaze from darting back over Doug’s shoulder. “Small world.”

“Ain’t it just.”

“Got any ideas?”

“I’m working on it.” He measured the distance to the door. If they got

off at the next stop, Remo would be on them before they’d crossed the

platform. If Remo was here, Dimitri was close. He kept his men on a short

leash. Doug gave himself a full minute to fight the panic. What they needed

was a diversion and an unscheduled departure.

“You just follow my lead,” Doug told her in undertones. “And when I

say go, you grab the knapsack and run toward the doors.”

Whitney glanced down the length of the train. There were women,

children, old people jammed into seats. Not the place for a showdown, she

decided. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll run.”

The train slowed for the next stop, brakes squeaking, engine puffing.

Doug waited until the crowd of incoming and outgoing passengers was at

its thickest. “Sorry old man,” he murmured to the baby, then gave his soft

butt a hard pinch. On cue, the baby set up a yowling scream that had the

concerned mother hopping up in alarm. Doug rose as well and set about

causing as much confusion as possible in the crowded center aisle.

Sensing the game, Whitney stood and jostled the man at her right hard

enough to dislodge the packages in his arms and send them scattering on the

floor. Grapefruit bounced and squashed.

When the train began to move again, there were six people between

Doug and where Remo sat, crowding the aisle and arguing among

themselves in Malagasy. In a gesture of apology, Doug raised his arms and

upended a net bag of vegetables. The baby sent up long, continuous howls.

Deciding it was the best he could do, Doug slipped a hand down and

gripped Whitney’s wrist. “Now.”

Together, they streaked toward the doors. Doug glanced up long enough

to see Remo spring from his seat and begin to fight his way through the

still-arguing group blocking the aisle. He caught a glimpse of another man

wearing a panama tossing a newspaper aside and jumping up before he, too,

was encircled by the crowd. Doug only had a second to wonder where he’d

seen the face before.

“Now what?” Whitney demanded as she watched the ground begin to

rush by beneath them.

“Now, we get off.” Without hesitating, Doug jumped, dragging her with

him. He wrapped himself around her, tucking as they hit the ground so that

they rolled together in a tangled heap. By the time they’d stopped, the train

was yards away and picking up speed.

“Goddamn it!” Whitney exploded from on top of him. “We could’ve

broken our necks.”

“Yeah.” Winded, he lay there. His hands had worked up under her skirt

to her thighs, but he barely noticed. “But we didn’t.”

Unappeased, she glowered down at him. “Well, aren’t we lucky. Now

what do we do?” she demanded, blowing loose hair out of her eyes. “We’re

out in the middle of nowhere, miles from where we’re supposed to be and

with no transportation to get there.”

“You’ve got your feet,” Doug tossed back at her.

“So do they,” she said between her teeth. “And they’ll be off at the next

stop and doubling back for us. They’ve got guns and we’ve got mangoes

and a folding tent.”

“So the sooner we stop arguing and get going the better.”

Unceremoniously, he pushed her from him and stood up. “I never told you

it’d be a picnic.”

“You never mentioned tossing me off a moving train either.”

“Just get your ass in gear, sweetheart.”

Rubbing a bruised hip, she rose until she stood toe to toe with him.

“You’re crude, arrogant, and very dislikable.”

“Oh, excuse me.” He swept her a mock bow. “Would you mind stepping

this way so we can avoid getting a bullet in the brain, duchess?”

She stormed away and dragged up the backpack that had been knocked

out of her hands on impact. “Which way?”

Doug slipped his own pack over his shoulders. “North.”