CHAPTER 7: SURGE OF FURY

They waited until an hour before dusk. With great ceremony, food, water,

and wine were wrapped and presented to them for the journey ahead. The

Merina seemed to feel themselves highly entertained by the visit.

In a gesture of generosity that made Doug wince, Whitney pressed bills

into Louis’s hands. His relief when they were refused was short-lived. For

the village, she insisted, then on a stroke of inspiration added that the

money was to express their respect and good wishes for the ancestors.

The bills disappeared into the folds of Louis’s shirt.

“How much did you give him?” Doug demanded as he picked up his

newly replenished pack.

“Only a hundred.” At his expression, she patted his cheek. “Don’t be a

piker, Douglas. It’s unbecoming.” Humming, she took out her notebook.

“Oh no, you shelled it out, not me.”

Whitney noted the amount in her book with a flourish. Doug’s tab was

definitely adding up. “You play you pay. Anyway, I have a surprise for

you.”

“What, a ten-percent discount?”

“Don’t be crass.” She looked over at the sputtering sound of an engine.

“Transportation.” Her arm waved out in a wide gesture.

The jeep had definitely seen better days. Though it shone from a fresh

washing, the engine spit and missed as a Merina with a bright, rolled

headband drove it up the rutted road.

As a getaway car, he figured it came in a poor second to a blind mule. “It

won’t go twenty miles.”

“It’ll be twenty miles we don’t use our feet. Say thank you, Douglas, and

stop being rude. Pierre’s going to drive us to the Tamatave province.”

It only took one look at Pierre to see that he’d freely imbibed palm wine.

They’d be lucky if they didn’t end up sunk in a rice paddy. “Terrific.”

Pessimistic, and dealing with a headache from his own free use of wine,

Doug said a formal good-bye to Louis.

Whitney’s was much lengthier and more elaborate. Doug climbed into

the back of the jeep and stretched out his legs. “Get your ass in gear,

sweetheart. It’ll be dark in an hour.”

Smiling at the Merina who crowded around the jeep, she stepped in. “Up

yours, Lord.” Settling the pack on the floor at her feet, she leaned back and

swung one arm jauntily over the back of the seat. “Avant, Pierre.”

The jeep lurched forward, bucked, then rattled down the road. Doug felt

his headache explode in tiny, unmerciful blasts. He closed his eyes and

willed himself to sleep.

Whitney took the teeth-rattling ride in stride. She’d been wined, dined,

and entertained. The same could be said about dinner at the 21 Club and a

Broadway show. And this had been unique. Perhaps this wasn’t a hansomcab ride through the park, but anyone with twenty dollars could have one of

those. She was bouncing along a road in Madagascar in a jeep driven by a

Merina native with a thief snoring lightly in the back. It was entirely more

interesting than a sedate ride through Central Park.

For the most part, the scenery was monotonous. Red hills, almost

treeless, wide valleys patched with fields. It had cooled now that the sun

was hanging low, but the day’s baking left the road dusty. It plumed under

the wheels and coated the just-washed jeep. There were mountains that rose

up sharply, but again, pines were sparse. It was rock and earth. Though

there was a sameness, it was the basic space that caught Whitney’s

imagination.

Miles of it, she mused. Miles and miles with nothing to block the sky,

nothing to impede the vision. She felt it would be possible to find here a

sense of self that a city dweller would never understand.

From time to time in New York, she missed the sky. When the feeling

came upon her, she would simply hop a plane and go wherever the spirit

moved her, staying until her mood swung again. Her friends accepted it

because they couldn’t do anything about it. Her family accepted it because

they were still waiting for her to settle down.

Perhaps it was the aloneness, perhaps it was a full stomach and a clear

head, but she felt a strange contentment. It would pass. Whitney knew

herself too well to think otherwise. She hadn’t been fashioned for long

periods of contentment, but rather for darting around the next corner to see

what was waiting.

For now, though, she leaned back in the jeep and enjoyed the serenity.

Shadows shifted, lengthened, thickened. Something small and fast dashed

across the road just in front of the jeep. It was over the rocks and gone

before Whitney could fully focus on it. The air began to take on that pearly

hush that lasts only moments.

The sun set, spectacularly. She had to turn and kneel on her seat to watch

the western sky explode with color. Part of her profession dealt with

incorporating tints and hues into fabrics and paints. As she watched, she

thought about doing a room in the colors of sunset. Crimsons, golds, deep

jewel blues, and softening mauves. An interesting and intense combination.

Her gaze lowered and rested on Doug as he slept. It would suit him, she

decided. The flash of brilliance, the spark of power, the underlying

intensity.

He wasn’t a man to take lightly, nor was he a man to trust. Still, she was

beginning to think he was a man who could fascinate. Like a sunset, he

could shift and change before your eyes, then vanish while you were still

looking. The moment he’d taken that rifle in his hands, she’d seen he had a

ruthlessness he could pull out and slip on at a moment’s notice. If and when

he found it necessary, he’d be just as ruthless with her.

She needed more leverage.

Catching her tongue between her teeth, Whitney looked from him to the

floor. The pack—and the envelope—sat at his feet. While she kept her eyes

on his face for any signs of wakefulness, she leaned over. The pack was

well out of reach. The jeep jostled as she rose up enough to bend over the

seat from the waist. Doug continued to snore lightly. Her fingers gripped

the strap of the pack. Gingerly, she began to lift it up.

There was a bang loud enough to make her gasp. Before she had time to

fumble for a good hold, the jeep veered, sending her tumbling into the back.

Doug woke up with the air knocked out of him and Whitney sprawled

over his chest. She smelled of wine and fruit. Yawning, he ran a hand down

her hip. “Just can’t keep your hands off me.”

Blowing the hair out of her eyes she scowled at him. “I was watching

the sunset out the back.”

“Uh-huh.” His hand closed over hers, still on the strap of his pack.

“Sticky fingers, Whitney.” He clucked his tongue. “I’m disappointed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” With a huff, she struggled up

and called to Pierre. Though the spate of French went over his head, Doug

needed no translation when the native kicked the front right tire.

“A flat. Figures.” Doug started to climb out, then glanced over his

shoulder, located his pack, and took it with him. Whitney reached for her

own before she followed him. “What’re you going to do?” Doug asked.

She glanced at the spare Pierre rolled out. “Just stand here and look

helpless, of course. Unless you’d like me to phone Triple A.”

Swearing, Doug crouched down and began to loosen lug nuts. “The

spare’s bald as a baby’s ass. Tell our chauffeur that we’ll walk from here.

He’ll be lucky if this gets him back to the village.”

Fifteen minutes later, they stood in the middle of the road and watched

the jeep bounce over ruts. Cheerful, Whitney linked her arm with Doug’s.

Insects and small birds had begun to sing as the first stars came out. “A

little evening stroll, darling?”

“As much as I hate to turn you down, we find cover and camp. In

another hour, it’ll be too dark to see. Over there,” he decided, pointing to a

jumble of rocks. “We’ll pitch the tent behind them. We can’t do anything

about them spotting us from the air, but we’ll be out of sight from the road.”

“So, you think they’ll be back.”

“They’ll be back. All we have to do is not be there.”

Because she had begun to wonder if there were trees in any quantity in

Madagascar, Whitney was pleased when they came to the forest. It helped

ease the annoyance of being awakened at dawn. The only courtesy he’d

given her had been a cup of coffee shoved in her face.

The hills going east were steep, peaking up and dropping down so that

walking had become a chore she was ready to swear off for good.

Doug looked at the forest as welcome cover. Whitney looked at it as a

welcome change.

Though the air was mild, after an hour of climbing, she was sticky and

out of sorts. There were better ways to hunt for treasure, she was certain.

An air-conditioned car would be the first choice.

The forest might not have been air-conditioned, but it was cool. Whitney

stepped in among fanning fern trees. “Very pretty,” she decided, looking up

and up.

“Travelers’ trees.” He broke off a leaf stalk and poured clear water into

his palm from the sheath. “Handy. Read the guidebook.”

Whitney poked her finger into the puddle in his hand, then laid it on her

tongue. “But it’s so good for your ego to spout off knowledge.” At a rustle,

she glanced over and saw a furry white shape and long tail disappear into

the brush. “Why, it’s a dog.”

“Uh-uh.” Doug grabbed her arm before she could race after it. “A sifaka

—you’ve just seen your first lemur. Look.”

As she followed his pointing finger, Whitney caught a glimpse of the

snow-white-bodied, black-headed lemur as it dashed through the top of the

trees. She laughed and strained for another look. “They’re so cute. I was

beginning to think we’d see nothing but hills and grass and rock.”

He liked the way she laughed. Maybe just a bit too much. Women, he

thought. It had been too damn long since he’d had one. “This ain’t no

guided tour,” he said briefly. “Once we have the treasure, you can book one.

Right now, we’ve got to move.”

“What’s the hurry?” Shifting her pack, Whitney trooped along beside

him. “It seems to me the longer we take, the less chance Dimitri has to find

us.”

“I get itchy—not knowing where he is. In front of us, or behind.” It

made him think of Nam again, where the jungle hid too much. He preferred

the dark streets and mean alleys of the city.

Whitney glanced over her shoulder and grimaced. The forest had already

closed in behind them. She wanted to take comfort in the deep greens, the

moistness, and the cool air, but Doug was making her see gnomes. “Well,

there’s no one in the forest but us. So far we’ve been one step ahead of them

every time.”

“So far. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Why don’t we pass the time with conversation. You could tell me about

the papers.”

He’d already decided she wouldn’t let it go and that he’d give her

enough information to stop her from nagging him. “Know much about the

French Revolution?”

She shifted the hateful pack as she walked. It would be best, Whitney

calculated, not to mention the quick look she’d had at the one page already.

The less Doug thought she knew, the more he might tell her.

“Enough to get me though a French history class in college.”

“How about rocks?”

“I passed on geology.”

“Not limestone and quartz. Real rocks, sugar. Diamonds, emeralds,

rubies as big as your fist. Put them together with the Reign of Terror and

fleeing aristocrats and you have a lot of potential. Necklaces, earrings, unset

stones. A hell of a lot was stolen.”

“And more hidden or smuggled out.”

“Right. When you think about it, there’s more still missing than anyone

will ever find. We’re going to find a little part. It’s all I need.”

“The treasure’s two hundred years old,” she said quietly and thought

again of the paper she’d skimmed. “Part of French history.”

“Royal antiques,” Doug murmured, already seeing them gleam in his

hands.

“Royal?” The word had her glancing up. He was looking off into middle

distance, dreaming. “The treasure belonged to the king of France?”

It was close enough, Doug decided. Closer than he’d intended her to get

this soon. “It belonged to the man who was smart enough to get his hands

on it. It’s going to belong to me. Us,” he corrected, anticipating her. But she

fell silent.

“Who was the woman who gave Whitaker the map?” she asked at

length.

“The English lady? Ah—Smythe-Wright. Yeah, Lady Smythe-Wright.”

As the name hit home, Whitney stared into the forest. Olivia SmytheWright was one of the few members of the gentry who fully deserved the

title. She’d devoted herself to the arts and charity with a near-religious

fervor. Part of the reason, or so she’d often said, was that she was a

descendant of Marie Antoinette’s. Queen, beauty, victim—a woman some

historians deemed a selfish fool and others called a victim of circumstance.

Whitney had been to some of Lady Smythe-Wright’s functions and had

admired her.

Marie Antoinette and lost French jewels. A page of a journal dating

from 1793. It made sense. If Olivia had believed the papers were history…

Whitney remembered reading of her death in the Times. It had been a

ghastly murder. Bloody and without apparent motive. The authorities were

still investigating.

Butrain, Whitney thought. He’d never be brought to justice now or have

a trial by his peers. He was dead and so was Whitaker, Lady Smythe-

Wright, and a young waiter named Juan. The motive for all sat in Doug’s

pocket. How many more had lost their lives for a queen’s treasure?

No, she couldn’t think of it that way. Not now. If she did, she’d turn

around and give up. Her father had taught her many things, but the first, the

most important, was to finish no matter what. Perhaps it had the edges of

pride, but it was her breeding. She’d always been proud of it.

She’d go on. She’d help Doug find the treasure. Then she’d decide what

to do about it.

He found himself looking around at every rustle. According to his

guidebook, the forests abounded with life. Nothing very dangerous, he

recalled. This wasn’t the land of safaris. In any case, it was two-legged

carnivores he worried about.

By this time, Dimitri would be very annoyed. Doug had heard some

graphic stories about what happened when Dimitri was annoyed. He didn’t

want any firsthand knowledge.

The forest smelled of pine and morning. The large, leafy trees cut the

glare of the sun he and Whitney had lived with for days. Instead, it came in

shafts, white, shimmering, and lovely. There were flowers underfoot that

smelled like expensive women, flowers in trees overhead that spread out

and promised fruit. Passionflower, he thought, spotting a flaring violet

blossom. He remembered the one he’d handed Whitney in Antananarivo.

They hadn’t stopped running since.

Doug let his muscles relax. The hell with Dimitri. He was miles away

and running in circles. Even he couldn’t track them through uninhabited

forest. The itch at the back of his neck was just sweat. The envelope was

safe, tucked in the pack. He’d slept with it digging into his back the night

before, just in case. The treasure, the end of the rainbow, was closer than

ever.

“Nice place,” he decided, glancing up to see some fox-faced lemurs

scrambling in the treetops.

“So glad you approve,” Whitney returned. “Maybe we can stop and have

the breakfast you were in too much of a hurry for this morning.”

“Yeah, soon. Let’s work up an appetite.”

Whitney pressed a hand to her stomach. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Then she saw a swarm of large butterflies, twenty, perhaps thirty, flow by. It

was like a wave, swelling, then dipping, then swirling. They were the most

beautiful, most brilliant blue she’d ever seen. As they passed, she felt the

light breeze their wings had ruffled on the air. The sheer strength of color

almost hurt her eyes. “God, I’d kill for a dress that color.”

“We’ll shop later.”

She watched them move, scatter, and regroup. The sight of something

lovely helped her forget the hours of walking. “I’d settle for some of that

mystery meat and a banana.”

Though he knew he should have been immune to her quick smile and

her sweep of lashes by this time, Doug felt himself softening. “We’ll have a

picnic.”

“Wonderful!”

“In another mile.”

Taking her hand in his, he continued through the forest. It smelled soft,

he thought. Like a woman. And like a woman, it had shadows and cool

corners. It paid to stay on your feet and keep your eyes open. No one

traveled here. From the looks of the undergrowth, no one had traveled here

in some time. He had the compass to guide him and that was all.

“I don’t understand why you have this obsession about covering miles.”

“Because every one takes me that much closer to the pot of gold, sugar.

We’re both going to have penthouses when we get home.”

“Douglas.” Shaking her head, she reached down and scooped up a

flower. It was pale, watery pink, delicate as a young girl. Its stem was thick

and tough. Whitney smiled and tucked it into her hair. “Things shouldn’t be

that important.”

“Not nearly so much when you’ve got them all.”

Shrugging, she plucked another flower to twirl under her nose. “You

worry too much about money.”

“What?” He stopped and gaped at her. “I worry? I worry? Just who

keeps marking down every solitary penny in her little book? Just who

sleeps with her wallet under her pillow?”

“That’s business,” Whitney said easily. She touched the flower in her

hair. Pretty petals and a tough stem. “Business is entirely different.”

“Bullshit. I’ve never seen anyone so bent on counting their change,

tallying every cent. If I were bleeding, you’d charge me a goddamn dime

for a Band-Aid.”

“No more than a nickel,” she corrected. “And there’s absolutely no need

to shout.”

“I have to shout to be heard over all that racket.”

They both stopped, brows drawing together. The sound they’d just

begun to notice was like an engine. No, Doug decided even as he tensed to

run, it was too steady and deep for an engine. Thunder? No. He took her

hand again.

“Come on. Let’s go see what the hell that is.”

It grew louder as they walked east. Louder, it lost all resemblance to the

sound of a motor. “Water against rock,” Whitney murmured. When they

stepped into the clearing, she saw she’d nearly been right. Water against

water.

The falls plunged down twenty feet into a clear, gurgling lagoon. The

white agitated water was struck by the sun on its journey down, then turned

to a deep crystal blue. The falls made a sound of rushing, of power and

speed, and yet it was a picture of serenity. Yes, the forest was like a woman,

Doug thought again. Intensely beautiful, powerful, and full of surprises.

Without realizing it, Whitney rested her head against Doug’s shoulder.

“It’s lovely,” she murmured. “Absolutely lovely. Just as though it were

waiting for us.”

He gave in and slipped an arm around her. “Nice spot for a picnic.

Aren’t you glad we waited?”

She had to match his grin. “A picnic,” she agreed with her eyes dancing.

“And a bath.”

“Bath?”

“A wonderful, cool, wet bath.” Catching him by surprise, she gave him a

quick, smacking kiss, then dashed to the side of the lagoon. “I’m not

passing this up, Douglas.” She dropped her pack and began to dig inside.

“Just the thought of getting my body into water and washing off the dirt of

the past couple of days makes me crazy.” She brought out a cake of French

milled soap and a small bottle of shampoo.

Doug took the soap and held it under his nose. It smelled like her—

feminine, fresh. Expensive. “Gonna share?”

“All right. And in this case, because I’m feeling generous, no charge.”

His grin tilted as he tossed the soap back to her. “Can’t take a bath with

your clothes on.”

She met the challenge in his eyes and undid her top button. “I’ve no

intention of keeping them on.” Slowly, she undid the range of buttons,

waiting while his gaze followed the trail. A light breeze ruffled the edges

and tickled the line of bare skin. “All you have to do,” she said softly, “is

turn around.” When he lifted his gaze to hers and smiled, she gestured with

the cake in her hand. “Or no soap.”

“Talk about spoilsports,” he mumbled, but turned his back.

In seconds, Whitney stripped and dove cleanly into the pool. Breaking

the surface, she treaded water. “Your turn.” With the simple pleasure of

having water against her skin, she dipped her head back and let it flow

through her hair. “Don’t forget the shampoo.”

The water was clear enough to give him a tempting silhouette of her

body from the shoulders down. Water lapped over her breasts. Her feet

kicked gently. Feeling the stir, the dull, dangerous stir of desire, he

concentrated on her face. It didn’t help.

It glowed with laughter, washed clean of the light, sophisticated makeup

she put on every morning. Her hair was sleek, turned dark with water and

sun as it framed the elegant bones that would keep her a beauty even when

she was eighty. Doug picked up the little plastic bottle of shampoo and

tossed it in his hand.

Under the circumstances, he thought it wise to look at the humor in the

situation. He had a ticket to a million-dollar prize literally at his fingertips, a

determined and very clever enemy breathing down his throat, and he was

about to skinny-dip with an ice-cream princess.

After pulling his shirt over his head, he reached for the snap of his jeans.

“You’re not going to turn around are you?”

Dammit, she liked it when he grinned that way. The cheerful cockiness

was just plain appealing. Lavishly, she began to soap one arm. She hadn’t

realized how much she’d missed that cool, slick feeling. “Want to brag, do

you, Douglas? I’m not easily impressed.”

He sat down to remove his shoes. “Leave me my share of the soap.”

“Move a little faster then.” She began to soap her other arm in the same

long, smooth stroke. “God, this is better than Elizabeth Arden’s.” With a

sigh, she lay back and lifted one leg out of the water. When he stood and

dropped his jeans, she gave him a thorough, critical study. Her expression

was bland, but she didn’t miss the lean, muscled thighs, the taut stomach,

the narrow hips just covered with low, snug briefs. He had the clean, sleek

build of a runner. And that, she supposed, was what he was.

“Adequate,” she said after a moment. “Since you apparently like to pose,

it’s a pity I didn’t bring my Polaroid.”

Unstung, he pulled off the briefs. For a moment, he was poised, naked—

and she was forced to admit, magnificent—at the edge of the lagoon. His

dive was sharp before he surfaced a foot away from her. What he’d seen

underwater made his mouth go dry with desire.

“Soap,” he said, as cool as she, and offered the shampoo in trade.

“Don’t forget behind the ears.” Using a generous hand, she poured

shampoo into her palm.

“Hey, half’s mine, remember.”

“You’ll get it. Anyway, I’ve more hair than you.” She worked it into a

lather while she scissored her feet to keep above water.

He gestured with the soap before rubbing it over his chest. “And I’ve

more body.”

With a smile, she sank below the surface, leaving a frothy trail of suds

where her hair fanned out. The beat of water sucked them down and away.

Unable to resist, she swam down, deeper. She could hear the vibrations of

the falls, drumming, drumming, see rocks sparkling a foot beneath her, taste

the clear, sweet water that was kissed by the sun. Glancing up, she saw the

strong, lean body of the man who was now her partner.

The idea of danger, or men with guns, of being pursued seemed

ludicrous. This was paradise. Whitney didn’t believe in cunning snakes

behind luscious flowers. When she surfaced, she was laughing.

“This is fabulous. We should book in for the weekend.”

He saw the sun shoot sparks into her hair. “Next time. I’ll even spring

for the soap.”

“Yeah?” He looked attractive, dangerously so. She discovered she

preferred a touch of danger in a man. The word boredom, the only word she

considered a true obscenity, wouldn’t apply to him. Unexpected. That was

the word. She found it had a sensuous ring.

Testing him, and perhaps herself, she treaded slowly until their bodies

were too close for safety. “Trade,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on his

as she held out the bottle.

His fingers tightened on the slick soap so that it nearly slid out of them.

Just what the hell was she up to? he asked himself. He’d been around

enough to recognize that look in a woman’s eyes. It said—maybe. Why

don’t you persuade me? The trouble was, she wasn’t anything like the

women he’d known. He wasn’t entirely sure of his moves.

Instead, he equated her to a job, a high-class, luxury apartment complex

that took careful casing, meticulous planning, and intricate legwork before

he took it down. Better that he be the thief with her. He knew the rules,

because he’d made them.

“Sure.” He opened his palm so that she had to slide the wet cake of soap

from it. In response, she tossed the bottle high, laughing as she retreated.

Doug plucked it inches above the water.

“I hope you don’t mind a touch of jasmine.” Lazily she lifted her other

leg and began to run the soap up and down her calf.

“I can handle it.” He poured the shampoo directly on his hair, rescrewed

the cap, then tossed it on the ground beside the lagoon. “Ever been to a

public bath?”

“No.” Curious, she glanced back over. “Have you?”

“I was in Tokyo a couple years back. It’s an interesting experience.”

“I usually like to keep the quantity in my tub down to two.” She ran the

soap up a thigh. “Cozy, but not crowded.”

“I’ll bet.” He ducked under to rinse off, and to cool off. She had legs that

went all the way up to her waist.

“Convenient, too,” she said when he’d surfaced. “Especially when you

need your back scrubbed.” With a smile, she held out the soap again.

“Would you mind?”

So she wanted to play games, he decided. Well, he rarely turned one

down—as long as he’d figured the odds. Taking the soap from her, he began

to run it over her shoulder blades. “Marvelous,” she said after a moment. It

wasn’t easy to keep her voice even when her stomach had begun to tighten,

but she managed. “But then I suppose a man in your line of work has to

have clever hands.”

“It helps. I suppose all that ice cream could buy million-dollar skin.”

“It helps.”

His hand ran lower, down her spine, then slowly up again. Unprepared

for the jolt it brought her, Whitney shuddered. Doug grinned.

“Cold?”

Just who had she managed to push anyway? she wondered. “The water

gets chilly unless you move around.” Telling herself it wasn’t a retreat, she

gently sidestroked away. Not that easy, sugar, Doug thought. He tossed the

soap onto the grass beside the shampoo. In a quick move, he grabbed her

ankle.

“Problem?”

Effortlessly, he pulled her back toward him. “As long as we’re playing

games—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she began, but the sentence

ended on a quick gasp as her body collided with his.

“The hell you don’t.”

He found he enjoyed it—the uncertainty, the annoyance, and the flare of

awareness that came and went in her eyes. Her body was long and slim.

Deliberately, he tangled her legs with his so that she was forced to grab his

shoulders to stay afloat.

“Watch your step, Lord,” she warned.

“Water games, Whitney. I’ve always been a sucker for them.”

“I’ll let you know when I want to play.”

His hands slid up to just under her breasts. “Didn’t you?”

She’d asked for it. Knowing it didn’t improve her temper one whit. Yes,

she’d wanted to play with him, but on her terms, in her own time. She

discovered she was over her head in more ways than one, and she didn’t

care for it. Her voice became very cool; her eyes were equally chilly.

“You don’t really consider we’re in the same league, do you?” Long ago,

she’d discovered insults, given coldly, were the most successful of defenses.

“No, but then I’ve never paid much attention to caste systems. You want

to play duchess, go ahead.” He slid his thumbs up, over her nipples, and

heard her breath shudder in, then out. “As I recall, royalty always had a

penchant for taking commoners to bed.”

“I’ve no intention of taking you to mine.”

“You want me.”

“You’re flattering yourself.”

“You’re lying.”

Temper flared. The warm liquid pull in her stomach battled with it. “The

water’s getting cold, Douglas. I want to get out.”

“You want me to kiss you.”

“I’d sooner kiss a toad.”

He grinned. She’d practically hissed at him. “I won’t give you warts.”

Making up his mind on the instant, he covered her mouth with his.

She stiffened. No one ever kissed her without her consent, and without

jumping through the hoops she tossed out first. Who the hell did he think he

was?

And her heart pounded against his. Her pulses raced. Her head swam.

She didn’t give a damn who he was.

With a spurt of passion that rocked them both, she moved her mouth on

his. Tongues met. His teeth scraped her lower lip while he slid his arms

around her back to mold them closer together. Surprises, he thought as he

began to lose himself in her. The lady was full of them.

He tasted cool, fresh, different, so excitingly different. Passion took

them beneath the surface. Wrapped together, they came up again, mouths

fused, water cascading off skin.

There’d never been anything like him in her life. He didn’t ask, but took.

His hands moved over her body with an intimacy she’d always doled out

stingily. She chose a lover, sometimes impulsively, sometimes calculatingly

but she chose. This time, she’d been given no choice. The moment of

helplessness was as exhilarating as anything she’d ever experienced.

He’d bring her madness in bed. If he could take her so far with a kiss…

He’d take her, up, over, beyond, whether she wanted to go or not. And oh,

now, with the water lapping over her, with his hands stroking and his mouth

growing hotter, hungrier, she wanted to go.

And then, she thought, he’d give her a salute, a cocky grin, and slip off

into the night. Once a thief, always a thief, whether it was gold or a

woman’s soul. Perhaps she hadn’t chosen this beginning, but she’d hold on

long enough to choose her own end.

She pushed regrets aside. Pain was something to be avoided at all costs.

Even if the cost was pleasure.

Whitney let her body go limp, as in total surrender. Then quickly, she

lifted her hands to his shoulders and pushed. Hard.

Doug went under without a chance to gulp in air.

Before he’d surfaced, Whitney was at the side of the lagoon and

climbing out. “Game’s over. My point.” She grabbed up her blouse and

pulled it on without bothering to dry.

Fury. He’d thought he knew precisely what it felt like. Women. He had

thought he’d known what buttons to push. Doug discovered he was just

learning. Swimming to the side, he hauled himself out. Whitney was

already pulling on her slacks.

“A nice diversion,” she said, letting out a quiet, relieved breath when she

was fully clothed. “Now I think we’d better have that picnic. I’m starving.”

“Lady…” Keeping his eyes on her, Doug picked up his jeans. “What

I’ve got in mind for you is no picnic.”

“Really?” On solid ground again, she reached in her pack and found her

brush. She began to pull it slowly through her hair. Water rained out in

gemlike drops. “You look like you could use a bit of raw meat at the

moment. Is that the look you use to scare little old ladies out of their

purses?”

“I’m a thief, not a mugger.” He snapped his jeans, and tossing wet hair

out of his eyes, approached her. “But I might make an exception in your

case.”

“Don’t do anything you’d regret,” she said softly.

He gritted his teeth. “I’m going to love every minute of it.” When he

gripped her shoulders, she stared up at him solemnly.

“You simply aren’t the violent sort,” she told him. “However…”

Her fist connected with his stomach, hard and fast. Gasping, he bent

double.

“I am.” Whitney dropped her brush back in the pack and hoped he was

too dazed to see her hand shake.

“That does it.” Holding his sore stomach, he sent her a look that

might’ve made Dimitri step back and reconsider.

“Douglas…” She held up a hand as she might to a lean, vicious dog.

“Take a few deep breaths. Count to ten.” What else was there? she

wondered frantically. “Jog in place,” she hazarded. “Don’t lose control.”

“I’m in complete control,” he said between his teeth as he stalked her.

“Let me show you.”

“Some other time. Let’s have some wine. We can…” She broke off as

his hand closed over her throat. “Doug!” It came out in a squeak.

“Now,” he began, then looked up at the whirl of engines. “Sonofabitch!”

He wouldn’t mistake the sound of the helicopter a second time. It was

almost overhead and they were in the open. Wide fucking open, he thought

on a surge of fury. Releasing her, he began to grab up gear. “Move ass,” he

shouted. “Picnic’s over.”

“If you tell me to move ass one more time—”

“Just move it!” He shoved the first pack at her even as he hauled up the

other. “Now get those pretty long legs moving, sugar. We ain’t got much

time.” He locked his hand over hers and headed for the trees in a dead run.

Whitney’s hair flowed out behind them.

Above, in the small cabin of the copter, Remo lowered his binoculars.

For the first time in days, a grin moved under his moustache. Lazily, he

stroked the scar that marred his cheek. “We’ve spotted them. Radio Mr.

Dimitri.”