CHAPTER 6:REMO

Something tickled the back of her hand. Fighting to cling to sleep, Whitney

flicked her wrist in a lazy, back-and-forth action and yawned.

She had always kept her own hours. If she wanted to sleep until noon,

she slept until noon. If she wanted to get up at dawn, she did. When the

mood struck her, she could work for an eighteen-hour stretch. With a

similar enthusiasm, she could sleep for the same length of time.

At the moment, she wasn’t interested in anything but the vague, rather

pretty dream she was having. When she felt the feathery brush on her hand

again, she sighed, only slightly annoyed, and opened her eyes.

In all probability, it was the biggest, fattest spider she’d ever seen. Big,

black, and hairy, it probed and skiddled with its bowed legs. Her hand only

inches from her face, Whitney watched as it loomed full in her vision,

moving lazily across her knuckles in a direct line to her nose. For a

moment, dazed with sleep, she just stared at it in the dim light.

Her knuckles. Her nose.

Realization came loud and clear. Muffling a yelp, she knocked the spider

off and several feet into the air. It landed with an audible plop on the cave

floor, then meandered drunkenly away.

The spider hadn’t frightened her. She never considered the possibility

that it might have been poisonous. It was simply ugly and Whitney had a

basic disrespect for the ugly.

Sighing in disgust, she sat up and combed her fingers through her

tangled hair. Well, she supposed when one slept in a cave, one could expect

a visit from ugly neighbors. But why hadn’t it visited Doug instead?

Deciding there was no reason why he should sleep when she’d been so

rudely awakened, Whitney turned with the full intention of giving him a

hard shove.

He was gone, and so was his sleeping bag.

Uneasy, but not yet alarmed, she looked around. The cave was empty,

with the rock formations Doug had spoken of giving it the look of an

abandoned and slightly dilapidated castle. The cook fire was only a pile of

glowing embers. The air smelled ripe. Some of the fruit was already

turning. Doug’s pack, like his sleeping bag, was gone.

The bastard. The rotten bastard. He had taken himself off, with the

papers, and left her stuck in a damn cave with a couple of pieces of fruit, a

sack of rice, and a spider as big as a dinner plate.

Too furious to think twice, she dashed across the cave and began to

crawl through the tunnel. When her breath clogged up, she pushed on. The

hell with phobias, she told herself. No one was going to double-cross her

and get away with it. To catch him, she had to get out. And when she caught

him…

She saw the opening and concentrated on it, and revenge. Panting,

shuddering, she pulled herself into the sunshine. Scrambling up, she drew in

all of her breath and let it out on a shout.

“Lord! Lord, you sonofabitch!” The sound rang out and bounced back at

her, half as loud but twice as angry. Impotently, she looked around at red

hills and rock. How was she supposed to know which way he’d gone?

North. Damn north, he had the compass. And he had the map. After

gritting her teeth, Whitney shouted again. “Lord, you bastard, you won’t get

away with it!”

“With what?”

She spun on her heel and nearly bumped into him. “Where the hell were

you?” she demanded. In a blaze of relief and anger, she gripped his shirt

and yanked him against her. “Where the hell did you go?”

“Easy, sugar.” Companionably, he patted her bottom. “If I’d known you

wanted to get your hands on me, I’d’ve stuck around longer.”

“Around your throat.” With a jerk, she released him.

“Gotta start somewhere.” He set his pack near the mouth of the cave.

“D’you think I’d ditch you?”

“At the very first opportunity.”

He had to admit, she was sharp. The idea had occurred to him, but after

a quick look around that morning, he hadn’t been able to justify leaving her

in a cave in the middle of nowhere. Still, the opportunity was bound to

come up.

In an attempt to keep her from getting a step ahead of him, he poured on

the charm. “Whitney, we’re partners. And…” He lifted a hand and ran a

fingertip down her cheek. “You’re a woman. What kind of man would I be

if I left you alone in a place like this?”

She met his engaging smile with one of her own. “The kind of man

who’d sell the hide off the family dog if the price was right. Now, where

were you?”

He wouldn’t have sold the hide, but he might have hocked the whole

dog if it had been necessary. “You’re a hard lady. Look, you were sleeping

like a baby.” As she had all night, while he’d spent a good part of it tossing,

turning, and fantasizing. He wouldn’t forgive her for that easily, but there

was a time and place for payback. “I wanted to do a little scouting around,

and I didn’t want to wake you.”

She let out a long breath. It was reasonable, and he was back. “Next time

you want to play Daniel Boone, wake me up.”

“Whatever you say.”

Whitney saw a bird fly overhead. She watched it for a moment, until she

was calm. The sky was clear, so was the air—and it was cool. The heat was

a few hours off. There was a quality of silence she’d only heard a few times

in her life. It soothed.

“Well, since you’ve been scouting, how about a report?”

“Everything’s quiet down in the village.” Doug drew out a cigarette

which Whitney plucked from his fingers. Pulling out another, he lit them

both. “I didn’t go close enough to get any real particulars, but it looks like

business as usual. The way I see it, since everybody’s calm and easy, it’s a

good time to drop in for a visit.”

Whitney looked down at her grime-smeared teddy. “Like this?”

“I’ve already told you it’s a nice dress.” And it had a certain appeal with

one strap hanging down her shoulder. “Anyway, I didn’t pass a local beauty

parlor and boutique.”

“You might go visiting looking sleazy.” Whitney cast one long look up

his body, then down. “In fact, I’m sure you do. I, on the other hand, intend

to wash and change first.”

“Suit yourself. There’s probably enough water left to get some of the dirt

off your face.”

When she reached up automatically to brush at her cheeks, he grinned.

“Where’s your pack?”

She looked back at the mouth of the cave. “It’s in there.” Her gaze was

defiant, her voice firm when she looked back at him. “I’m not going back in

there.”

“Okay, I’ll get your gear. But you’re not going to be able to primp all

morning. I don’t want to lose any time.”

Whitney merely lifted a brow as he started to crawl back in. “I never

primp,” she said mildly. “It’s not necessary.”

With an indistinguishable grunt, he was gone. Nibbling on her lip, she

glanced at the cave, then at the pack he’d left beside it. She might not have

a second chance. Without hesitation, she crouched down and began to root

through it.

There was cooking gear to paw through, and his clothes. She came upon

a rather elegant man’s brush that had her pausing a moment. When had he

gotten that? she wondered. She knew every item down to his shorts that

she’d paid for. Light fingers, she decided, and dropped the brush back in.

When she found the envelope, she took it out carefully. This had to be it.

She glanced back at the cave again. Quickly, she dew out a thin, yellowed

sheet sealed in plastic and skimmed it. It was written in French in a trim,

feminine hand. A letter, she thought. No, part of a journal. And the date—

my God. Her eyes widened as she studied the neat, faded writing.

September 15, 1793. She was standing in blazing sunlight, on a wind- and

weather-torn rock, holding history in her hand.

Whitney scanned it again, quickly, catching phrases of fear, of anxiety,

and of hope. A young girl had written it, of that she was all but certain

because of references to Maman and Papa. A young aristocrat, confused

and afraid by what was happening to her life and her family, Whitney

reflected. Did Doug have any idea just what he was carrying in a canvas

sack?

It wouldn’t do to take the chance to read it thoroughly now. Later…

Carefully, Whitney closed his pack again and set it down next to the

mouth of the cave. Thinking, she tapped the envelope against her open

palm. It was very satisfying to beat a man at his own game, she decided,

then heard the sounds of his return.

Holding the envelope in one hand, she looked down at herself. Dumbly,

she passed the other hand from her breast to her waist. Just where the hell

was she supposed to hide it? Mata Hari must’ve had a sarong at least.

Frantic, she started to slip it down the bodice of the teddy, then realized the

absurdity. She might as well pin it to her forehead. With seconds to spare,

she slipped it down her back and left the rest to luck.

“Your luggage, Ms. MacAllister.”

“I’ll catch you later with your tip.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Good service is its own reward.” She gave him a smug smile. He gave

one right back to her. Whitney had taken the pack from his hand when a

sudden thought occurred to her. If she could lift the envelope so easily, then

he… Opening the pack, she dug for her wallet.

“You’d better get moving, sugar. We’re already late for our morning

call.” He started to take her arm when she shoved the pack into his stomach.

The hiss of air coming from his lungs gave her great satisfaction. “My

wallet, Douglas.” Taking it out, she opened it and saw he’d been generous

enough to leave her with a twenty. “It appears you’ve had your sticky

fingers on it.”

“Finders, keepers—partner.” Though he’d hoped she wouldn’t find him

out quite so soon, he only shrugged. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your

allowance.”

“Oh, really?”

“You could say I’m a traditionalist.” Satisfied with the new situation, he

started to heft his pack onto his back. “I feel a man should handle the

money.”

“You could say you’re an idiot.”

“Whatever, but I’m handling the money from here on.”

“Fine.” She gave him a sweet smile he immediately mistrusted. “And

I’m holding the envelope.”

“Forget it.” He handed her back her pack. “Now go change like a good

girl.”

Fury leapt into her eyes. Nasty words scrambled on her tongue. There

was a time for temper, Whitney reminded herself, and there was a time for

cool heads. Another of her father’s basic rules of business. “I said I’m

holding it.”

“And I said…” But he trailed off at the expression on her face. A woman

who’d just been neatly ripped off shouldn’t look smug. Doug glanced down

at his pack. She couldn’t have. Then he looked back at her. Like hell she

couldn’t.

Tossing down his pack, he dug into it. It only took a moment. “All right,

where is it?”

Standing in the full sunlight, she lifted her hands, palms up. The brief

teddy shifted over her like air. “It doesn’t appear necessary to search me.”

He narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t possible to keep them from sweeping

down her. “Hand it over, Whitney, or you’ll be buck naked in five seconds.”

“And you’ll have a broken nose.”

They faced each other, each determined to come out on top. And each

with no choice but to accept a standoff.

“The papers,” he said again, giving masculine strength and dominance

one last shot.

“The money,” she returned, relying on guts and feminine guile.

Swearing, Doug reached in his back pocket and took out a wad of bills.

When she reached for them, he jerked them back out of range. “The

papers,” he repeated.

She studied him. He had a very direct gaze, she decided. Very clear, very

frank. And he could lie with the best of them. Still, in some areas, she’d

trust him. “Your word,” she demanded. “Such as it is.”

His word was worth only what he chose it to be worth. With her, he

discovered, that would be entirely too much. “You’ve got it.”

Nodding, she reached behind her, but the envelope had slipped down out

of range. “There’re a lot of reasons I don’t like to turn my back on you.

But…” With a shrug, she did so. “You’ll have to get it out yourself.”

He ran his gaze down the smooth line of her back, over the subtle curve

of hip. There wasn’t much to her, he thought, but what there was, was

excellent. Taking his time, he slipped his hand under the material and

worked his way down.

“Just get the envelope, Douglas. No detours.” She folded her arms under

her breasts and stared straight ahead. The brush of his fingers over her skin

aroused every nerve. She wasn’t accustomed to being moved by so little.

“It seems to have slipped down pretty low,” he murmured. “It might take

me a while to find it.” It occurred to him that he could indeed have her out

of the teddy in five seconds flat. What would she do then? He could have

her beneath him on the ground before she’d taken the breath to curse him.

Then he’d have what he’d sweated about the night before.

But then, he thought as his fingers brushed the edge of the envelope, she

might have a hold over him he couldn’t afford. Priorities, he reminded

himself as his fingers touched both the stiff manila and the soft skin. It was

always a matter of priorities.

It took all her concentration to hold perfectly still. “Douglas, you’ve got

two seconds to get it out, or lose the use of your right hand.”

“A little jumpy, are you?” At least he had the satisfaction of knowing

she was churning even as he was. He hadn’t missed the huskiness in her

voice or the slight tremor. With the tip between his finger and thumb, he

pulled out the envelope.

Whitney turned quickly, hand outstretched. He had the map, he had the

money. He was fully dressed, she was all but naked. He didn’t doubt she

could make her way down to the village and wangle herself transportation

back to the capital. If he was going to ditch her, there would never be a

better time.

Her eyes stayed on his, calm and direct. Doug didn’t doubt she’d read

every thought in his head.

Though he hesitated, Doug found in this case his word was indeed his

word. He slapped the wad of bills into her hand.

“Honor among thieves—”

“—is a major cultural myth,” she finished. There’d been a moment, just

a moment, when she hadn’t been sure he’d come through. Picking up her

pack and the canteen, she walked toward the pine. It was cover of a sort.

Though at the moment, she’d have preferred a steel wall with a heavy bolt.

“You might consider shaving, Douglas,” she called out. “I hate my escort to

look rangy.”

He ran a hand over his chin and vowed not to shave for weeks.

Whitney found it was easier going when the destination was in sight.

One memorable summer in her early teens she’d stayed on her parents’

estate on Long Island. Her father had developed an acute obsession with the

benefits of exercise. Every day that she hadn’t been quick enough to escape,

she’d been railroaded into jogging with him. She remembered her

determination to keep up with a man twenty-five years her senior, and the

trick she’d developed of looking for the stately white dormers of the house.

Once she saw them, she could lope ahead, knowing the end was in sight.

In this case, the destination was only a huddle of buildings adjoining

green, green fields and a brown, westward-flowing river. After a day of

hiking and a night in a cave, it looked as tidy as New Rochelle to Whitney.

In the distance, men and women worked in the rice paddies. Forests had

been sacrificed for fields. The Malagasy, a practical people, worked

diligently to justify the exchange. They were islanders, she remembered,

but without the breezy laziness island life often promoted. As she looked at

them, Whitney wondered how many had ever seen the sea.

Cattle, with bored eyes and swishing tails, milled in paddocks. She saw

a battered jeep, wheelless, propped on a stone. From somewhere came the

monotonous ring of metal against metal.

Women hung clothes on a line, bright, flowery shirts that contrasted with

their plain, workday clothes. Men in baggy pants hoed a long, narrow

garden. A few sang as they worked, a tune not so much cheerless as

purposeful.

At their approach, heads turned and work stopped. No one came forward

except a skinny black dog who ran in circles in front of them and sent up a

clatter.

East or West, Whitney knew curiosity and suspicion when she saw it.

She thought it a pity she wore nothing more cheerful than a shirt and slacks.

She cast a look at Doug. With his unshaven face and untidy hair, he looked

more like he’d just come from a party—a long one.

As they drew closer, she made out a smatter of children. Some of the

smaller ones were carried on the backs and hips of men and women. In the

air was the smell of animal dung and of cooking. She ran a hand over her

stomach, scrambling down a hill behind Doug, who had his nose in the

guidebook.

“Do you have to do that now?” she demanded. When he only grunted,

she rolled her eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring one of those little clipon lights so you could read in bed.”

“We’ll pick one up. The Merina are of Asiatic stock— they’re the upper

crust of the island. You’d relate to that.”

“Of course.”

Ignoring the humor in her voice, he read on. “They have a caste system

that separates the nobles from the middle class.”

“Very sensible.”

When he shot her a look over the top of the book, Whitney only smiled.

“Sensibly,” he returned, “the caste system was abolished by law, but they

don’t pay much attention.”

“It’s a matter of legislating morality. It never seems to work.”

Refusing to be drawn, Doug glanced up, squinting. The people were

drawing together, but it didn’t look like a welcoming committee. According

to everything he’d read, the twenty or so tribes or groups of the Malagasy

had packed up their spears and bows years ago. Still… he looked back at

dozens of dark eyes. He and Whitney would just have to take it one step at a

time.

“How do you think they’ll respond to uninvited guests?” More nervous

than she wanted to admit, Whitney tucked her arm into his.

He’d slid his way without invitation into more places than he could

count. “We’ll be charming.” It usually worked.

“Think you can pull it off?” she asked and strode by him to the flatland

at the base of the hill.

Though Whitney felt uneasy, she continued to walk forward, shoulders

back. The crowd grumbled, then parted, making a path for a tall, lean-faced

man in a stark black robe over a stiff white shirt. He might have been the

leader, the priest, the general, but she knew with only a glance that he was

important… and he was displeased with the intrusion.

He was also six-four if he was an inch. Abandoning pride, Whitney took

a step back so that Doug was in front of her.

“Charm him,” she challenged in a mutter.

Doug scanned the tall black man with the crowd behind him. He cleared

his throat. “No problem.” He tried his best grin. “Morning. How’s it

going?”

The tall man inclined his head, regal, aloof, and disapproving. In a deep,

rumbling voice he tossed out a spate of Malagasy.

“We’re a little short on the language, Mister, ah…” Still grinning, Doug

stuck out his hand. It was stared at, then ignored. With the grin still

plastered on his face, he took Whitney’s elbow and shoved her forward.

“Try French.”

“But your charm was working so well.”

“This isn’t a good time to be a smartass, sugar.”

“You said they were friendly.”

“Maybe he hasn’t read the guidebook.”

Whitney studied the rock-hard face several long inches above hers.

Maybe Doug had a point. She smiled, swept up her lashes, and tried a

formal French greeting.

The man in black robes stared at her for ten pulsing seconds, then

returned it. She nearly giggled in relief. “Okay, good. Now apologize,”

Doug ordered.

“For what?”

“For butting in,” he said between his teeth as he squeezed her elbow.

“Tell him we’re on our way to Tamatave, but we lost our way and our

supplies are low. Keep smiling.”

“It’s easy when you’re grinning like my idiot brother.”

He swore at her, but softly, with his lips still curved. “Look helpless, the

way you would if you were trying to fix a flat on the side of the road.”

She turned her head, brow raised, eyes cool. “I beg your pardon?”

“Just do it, Whitney. For Chrissake.”

“I’ll tell him,” she said with a regal sniff. “But I won’t look helpless.”

When she turned back, her expression changed to a pleasant smile. “We’re

very sorry to have intruded on your village,” she began in French. “But

we’re traveling to Tamatave, and my companion—” She gestured toward

Doug and shrugged. “He’s lost his way. We’re very low on food and water.”

“Tamatave is a very long way to the east. You go on foot?”

“Unfortunately.”

The man studied Doug and Whitney again, cooly, deliberately.

Hospitality was part of the Malagasy heritage, their culture. Still, it was

extended discriminately He saw nerves in the eyes of the strangers, but no

ill will. After a moment, he bowed. “We are pleased to receive guests. You

may share our food and water. I am Louis Rabemananjara.”

“How do you do?” She extended her hand, and this time, he accepted the

gesture. “I’m Whitney MacAllister and this is Douglas Lord.”

Louis turned to the waiting crowd and announced they would have

guests in the village. “My daughter, Marie.” At his words a small, coffeeskinned young woman with black eyes stepped forward. Whitney eyed her

intricate braided hairstyle and wondered if her own stylist could match it.

“She will see to you. When you have rested, you will share our food.”

With this, Louis stepped back into the crowd.

After a quick survey of Whitney’s periwinkle shirt and slim pants, Marie

lowered her eyes. Her father would never permit her to wear anything so

revealing. “You are welcome. If you will come with me, I will show you

where you can wash.”

“Thank you, Marie.”

They moved in Marie’s wake through the crowd. One of the children

pointed at Whitney’s hair and spilled out with an excited babble before

being shushed by his mother. A word from Louis sent them back to work

before Marie had reached a small, one-story house. The roof was thatched

and pitched steeply to spread shade. The house was built of wood and some

of the boards were bowed and curled. The windows sparkled. Outside the

door was a square woven mat bleached nearly white. When Marie opened

the door, she stepped back to allow her guests to enter.

Everything inside was neat as a pin, every surface polished. The

furniture was rough and plain, but bright cushions were plumped in every

chair. Yellow daisylike flowers stood in a clay pot by a window where

wooden slats held back the intense light and heat.

“There is water and soap.” She led them farther inside where the

temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. From a small alcove, Marie

produced deep wooden bowls, pitchers of water, and cakes of brown soap.

“We will have our midday meal soon, with you as our guests. Food will be

plentiful.” She smiled for the first time. “We have been preparing for

fadamihana.”

Before Whitney could thank Marie, Doug took her arm. He hadn’t

followed the French, but the one phrase had rung a bell. “Tell her we, too,

honor their ancestors.”

“What?”

“Just tell her.”

Humoring him, Whitney did so and was rewarded with a beaming smile.

“You are welcome to what we have,” she said before she left them alone.

“What was that about?”

“She said something about fadamihana.”

“Yes, they’re preparing for it, whatever it is.”

“Feast of the dead.”

She stopped examining a bowl to turn to him. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s an old custom. Part of Malagasy religion is ancestor worship. When

somebody dies, they’re always brought back to their ancestral tombs. Every

few years they disentomb the dead and hold a party for them.”

“Disentomb them?” Immediate revulsion took over. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s part of their religion, a gesture of respect.”

“I hope no one respects me that way,” she began, but her curiosity got

the better of her. She frowned as Doug poured water into the bowl. “What’s

the purpose?”

“When the bodies are brought up, they’re given a place of honor at the

celebration. They get fresh linen, palm wine, and all the latest gossip.” He

dipped both hands in the bowl of water and splashed it over his face. “It’s

their way of honoring the past, I guess. Of showing respect for the people

they descended from. Ancestor worship’s the root of Malagasy religion.

There’s music and dancing. A good time’s had by all, living or otherwise.”

So the dead weren’t mourned, Whitney mused. They were entertained. A

celebration of death, or perhaps more accurately of the bond between life

and death. Suddenly she felt she understood the ceremony and her feelings

about it changed.

Whitney accepted the soap Doug offered and smiled at him. “It’s

beautiful, isn’t it?”

He lifted a small, rough towel and scrubbed it over his face. “Beautiful?”

“They don’t forget you when you die. You’re brought back, given a

front-row seat at a party, filled in on all the town news, and drunk to. One of

the worst things about dying is missing out on all the fun.”

“The worst thing about dying is dying,” he countered.

“You’re too literal. I wonder if it makes it easier to face death knowing

you’ve got something like that to look forward to.”

He’d never considered anything made it easier to face death. It was just

something that happened when you couldn’t con life any longer. He shook

his head, dropping the towel. “You’re an interesting woman, Whitney.”

“Of course.” Laughing, she lifted the soap and sniffed. It smelled of

crushed, waxy flowers. “And I’m starving. Let’s see what’s on the menu.”

When Marie came back, she had changed into a colorful skirt that

skimmed her calves. Outside, villagers were busily loading a long table

with food and drink. Whitney, who’d been expecting a few handfuls of rice

and a fresh canteen, turned to Marie again with thanks.

“You are our guests.” Solemn and formal, Marie lowered her eyes. “You

have been guided to our village. We offer the hospitality of our ancestors

and celebrate your visit. My father has said we will have today as holiday in

your honor.”

“I only know we’re hungry.” Whitney reached out to touch her hand.

“And very grateful.”

She stuffed herself. Though she didn’t recognize anything but the fruit

and rice, she didn’t quibble. Scents flowed on the air, spicy, exotic,

different. The meat, without aid of electricity, had been cooked over open

fires and in stone kilns. It was gamey and rich and wonderful. The wine,

cup after cup of it, was potent.

Music began, drums and rough wind and string instruments that formed

thready, ancient tunes. The fields, it seemed, could wait one day. Visitors

were rare, and once accepted, prized.

A little giddy, Whitney swirled into a dance with a group of men and

women.

They accepted her, grinning and nodding as she mimicked their steps.

She watched some of the men leap and turn as the rhythm quickened.

Whitney let her head fall back with her laugh. She thought of the smoky,

crowded clubs she patronized. Electric music, electric lights. There, each

one tried to outshine the other. She thought of some of the smooth, selfabsorbed men who’d partnered her— or tried to. Not one of them would be

able to hold up against a Merina. She whirled until her head spun and then

turned to Doug.

“Dance with me,” she demanded.

Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright. Against him, she was warm and

impossibly soft. Laughing, he shook his head. “I’ll pass. You’re doing

enough for both of us.”

“Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud.” She poked a finger into his chest. “The

Merina know a party pooper when they see one.” She linked her hands

behind him and swayed. “All you have to do is move your feet.”

On their own power, his hands slipped down to her hips to feel the

movement. “Just my feet?”

Tilting her head, she aimed a deadly look from beneath her lashes. “If

that’s the best you can do—” She let out a quick whoop when he swung her

in a circle.

“Just try to keep up with me, sugar.” In a flash, he had an arm hooked

behind her, and extending the other, gripped her hand. He held the dramatic

tango pose for a moment, then moved smoothly forward. They broke,

turned, and came back together.

“Damn, Douglas, I think you might be a fun date after all.”

As they continued, stepping, swaying, then moving forward, their dance

caught the crowd’s approval. They turned so their faces were close, their

bodies facing, hand extended to hand as Doug guided her backward.

Her heart began to drum pleasantly, both from the pleasure of being

foolish and the constant brush of his body against hers. His breath was

warm. His eyes, so unusual and clear, stayed on hers. It wasn’t often she

thought of him as a strong man, but now, caught close, she felt the ripple of

muscle in his back, along his shoulders. Whitney tilted her head back in

challenge. She’d match him, step for step.

He whirled her so quickly her vision blurred. Then she felt herself being

flung back. Freely, she let her body go so that her head nearly brushed the

ground in the exaggerated dip. Just as quickly, she was upright and caught

against him. His mouth was only a whisper from hers.

They had only to move—only a slight shift of their heads would bring

their lips together. Both were breathing quickly, from the exertion, from the

excitement. She could smell the muskiness of light sweat, the hint of wine

and rich meat. He’d taste of all of them.

They had only to move—a fraction closer. And what then?

“What the hell,” Doug muttered. Even as his hand tightened at her waist,

even as her lashes fluttered down, he heard the roar of an engine. His head

swiveled around. He tensed like a cat so quickly that Whitney blinked.

“Shit.” Grabbing her hand, Doug ran for cover. Because he had to make

do, he pushed her up against the side of a house and pressed himself against

her.

“What the hell’re you doing? One tango, and you turn into a crazy man.”

“Just don’t move.”

“I don’t…” Then she heard it too, loud and clear above them. “What is

it?”

“Helicopter.” He prayed the overhang of the steeply pitched roof and the

shade it spread would keep them from view.

She managed to peer over his shoulder. She could hear it, but she

couldn’t see it. “It could be anyone.”

“Could be. I don’t risk my life on could be’s. Dimitri doesn’t like to

waste time.” And dammit, he thought as he looked for shelter and escape,

how could he have found them in the middle of nowhere? Cautiously, he

glanced around. There would be no running. “That mop of blonde hair

would stand out like a road sign.”

“Even under pressure, you’re full of charm, Douglas.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t decide to land to get a closer look.” The

words were hardly out of his mouth when the sound grew louder. Even on

the far side of the house, they felt the wind from the blades. Dust billowed

up.

“You had to give him the idea.”

“Shut up a minute.” He glanced behind him, poised to run. Where? he

asked himself in disgust. Where the hell to? They were cornered as neatly

as if they’d run down a blind alley.

At the whisper of a sound, he whirled, fists lifted. Marie stopped, raising

her hand for silence. Gesturing, she hurried along the side of the house.

With her back pressed against the wall, she moved along the west side to

the door. Though it meant putting his luck into the hands of a woman again,

Doug followed, keeping Whitney’s hand in his.

Once inside, he signaled to them both to remain still and silent before he

moved to the window. Keeping well to the side, he peered out.

The helicopter was some distance away on the flatland at the base of the

hills. Already Remo was striding toward the crowd of celebrants.

“Sonofabitch,” Doug muttered. Sooner or later, it was going to come

down to dealing with Remo. He had to make certain he had house

advantage. At the moment, he had nothing more lethal than a penknife in

the pocket of his jeans. It was then he remembered that both he and

Whitney had left their packs outside, near the spread of food and drink.

“Is it—”

“Stay back,” he ordered when Whitney crept up behind him. “It’s Remo

and two more of Dimitri’s toy soldiers.” And sooner or later, he admitted as

he wiped a hand over his mouth, it was going to come down to dealing with

Dimitri. He’d need more than luck when the time came. Racking his brain,

he looked around the room for something, anything to defend himself with.

“Tell her these men are looking for us and ask her what her people are

going to do.”

Whitney looked over at Marie, who stood quietly by the door. Briefly,

she followed Doug’s instructions.

Marie folded her hands. “You are our guests,” she said simply. “They are

not.”

Whitney smiled and told Doug, “We’ve got sanctuary, for what it’s

worth.”

“Yeah, that’s good, but remember what happened to Quasimodo.”

He watched as Remo faced down Louis. The village leader stood steelyeyed and implacable, speaking briefly in Malagasy. The sound, if not the

words, came through the open window. Remo pulled something out of his

pocket.

“Photographs,” Whitney whispered. “He must be showing him pictures

of us.”

Him, Doug agreed silently, and every other villager between here and

Tamatave. If they got out of this one, there’d be no more parties along the

way. He’d been stupid to believe he could take time to breathe with Dimitri

after him, he realized.

Along with the pictures, Remo produced a wad of bills and a smile. Both

were met with awesome silence.

While Remo tried his bargaining powers on Louis, another of the

helicopter crew wandered to the spread of food and began sampling.

Helpless, Doug watched him come closer and closer to the packs.

“Ask her if she has a gun in here.”

“A gun?” Whitney swallowed. She hadn’t heard him use that tone of

voice before. “But Louis won’t—”

“Ask her. Now.” Remo’s companion poured himself a cup of palm wine.

He had only to look down to the left. It wouldn’t make any difference

whose side the villagers ranged themselves on if he saw the packs. They

were unarmed. Doug knew what would be tucked into a leather holster

under Remo’s coat. He’d felt it prod into his ribs not too many days before.

“Dammit, Whitney, ask her.”

At Whitney’s question, Marie nodded expressionlessly. After slipping

into the adjoining room, she came back carrying a long, deadly looking

rifle. When Doug took it, Whitney grabbed his arm.

“Doug, they’ll have guns too. There’re babies out there.”

Grimly, he loaded the gun. He’d just have to be fast, and accurate. Damn

fast. “I’m not going to do anything until I have to.” He crouched down,

rested the barrel on the windowsill, and focused the site. His finger was

damp before he placed it on the trigger.

He hated guns. Always had. It didn’t matter which side of the barrel he

was on. He had killed. In Nam he’d killed because a quick mind and clever

hands hadn’t kept him out of the draft or the stinking jungles. He had

learned things there he hadn’t wanted to learn, and things he’d had to use.

Survival, that was always number one.

He had killed. There had been one miserable night in Chicago when his

back had been against the wall and a knife whizzed at his throat. He knew

what it was to look at someone as the life eased out of them. You had to

know the next time, anytime, it could be you.

He hated guns. He held the rifle steady.

One of Whitney’s dance partners let out a high-pitched laugh. Holding a

pitcher of wine over his head, he grabbed the man beside the packs. As the

Merina whirled, leaping with the wine, the packs slid away into the crowd

and disappeared.

“Stop acting like an idiot,” Remo shouted as his partner lifted his cup for

more wine. Turning back to Louis again, he gestured with the photos. He

got nothing but a hard stare and a rumble of Malagasy.

Doug watched Remo stuff the photos and money back in his pocket and

stride off toward the waiting copter. With a roar and a whirl, it started up.

When it was ten feet off the ground, he felt his shoulder muscles loosen.

He didn’t like the feel of a gun in his hand. As the sound of the copter

died away, he unloaded it.

“You might’ve hurt somebody with that,” Whitney murmured when he’d

handed it back to Marie.

“Yeah.”

When he turned, she saw a ruthlessness she hadn’t gauged before. There

was an edge there that had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do

with cunning. A thief, yes, that she understood and accepted. But she saw

now that in his own way, he was just as tough, just as hard as the men who

searched for them. She wasn’t certain she could accept that as easily.

The look vanished from his eyes when Marie came back into the room.

Taking her hand, Doug lifted it to his lips as gallantly as royalty. “Tell her

we owe her our lives. And we won’t forget it.”

Though Whitney said the words, Marie continued to stare up at Doug.

Woman to woman, Whitney recognized the look. A glance at Doug showed

he recognized it too, and loved every minute of it.

“Maybe you two would like to be alone,” she said dryly. Crossing the

room, she pulled open the door. “After all, three’s a crowd.” She let it slam

with more force than necessary.

“Nothing?” A puff of fragrant smoke rose up in front of a high-backed,

brocade chair.

Remo shifted his feet. Dimitri didn’t care for negative reports. “Krentz,

Weis, and me covered the whole area, stopped at every village. We’ve got

five men here in town watching for them. There’s not a sign.”

“Not a sign.” Dimitri’s voice was mild, with richness beneath. Diction,

among other things, had been taught relentlessly by his mother. The threefingered hand tapped the cigarette into an alabaster tray. “When one has

eyes to look, there’s always a sign, my dear Remo.”

“We’ll find them, Mr. Dimitri. It’s just going to take a little more time.”

“It worries me.” From the table to the right, he plucked up a faceted

glass half filled with deep ruby wine. On his unmarred hand he wore a ring

—thick, glossy gold around a hard diamond. “They’ve eluded you three…”

He paused as he sipped, letting the wine lie on his tongue. He had a taste for

the sweet. “No, dear me, four times now. It’s becoming a very disturbing

habit of yours to fail.” While his voice flowed softly, he flicked on his

lighter so that the flame rose straight and thin. Behind it, his gaze locked on

Remo’s. “You know how I feel about failures?”

Remo swallowed. He knew better than to make excuses. Dimitri dealt

harshly with excuses. He felt the sweat begin on the nape of his neck and

roll slowly down.

“Remo, Remo.” The name came out in a sigh. “You’ve been like a son

to me.” The lighter clicked off. Smoke plumed again, thin and rich. He

never spoke quickly. A conversation, stretched to the last word, was more

frightening than a threat. “I’m a patient man and generous.” He waited for

Remo’s comment, pleased when there was only silence. “But I expect

results. Do succeed next time, Remo. An employer, like a parent, must

exercise discipline.” A smile moved his lips, but not his eyes. They were

flat and passionless. “Discipline,” he repeated.

“I’ll get Lord, Mr. Dimitri. You’ll have him on a platter.”

“An enjoyable thought, I’m sure. Get the papers.” His voice changed,

iced. “And the woman. I find myself more and more intrigued with the

woman.”

In reflex, Remo touched the thin scar on his cheek. “I’ll get the woman.”