Hot Ice (18 page)

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 hansom-cab 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 Smythe-Wright 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.”