Hot Ice (20 page)

“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.”

“Do you think they saw us?”

At top speed, Doug headed dead east and kept to the thickest part of the forest. Roots and vines snatched at their feet, but he never lost his footing. He ran instinctively, through a foreign forest crowded with bamboo and eucalyptus just as he had through Manhattan. Leaves swung out and lashed back as they pushed through. Whitney might’ve complained when they swatted into her face, but she was too busy saving her breath.

“Yeah, I think they saw us.” He didn’t waste time on fury, on frustration, on panic, though he felt all. Every time he thought they’d gained some time, he found Dimitri on his heels like some well-groomed English hound who’d tasted blood. He needed to rework his strategy, and he’d have to do it on his feet. Through experience he’d come to believe it was the best way. If you had too much time to think, you thought too much about consequences. “There’s no place for them to put that copter down in this forest.”

It made sense. “So we stay in the forest.”

“No.” He was loping along like a marathon runner, smoothly, breath even. Whitney could detest him for it even as she admired it. Overhead, lemurs chattered in
wild fear and excitement. “Dimitri’ll have men combing this area within the hour.”

That made sense as well. “So we get out of the forest.”

“No.”

Exhausted from the run, Whitney stopped, leaned her back against a tree, and just slid down to the mossy ground beneath. She’d once, arrogantly, considered herself in shape. The muscles in her legs screamed in revolt. “What’re we going to do?” she demanded. “Disappear?”

Doug frowned, not at her, nor at the steady, whirling sound of blades and engine overhead. He looked off into the forest while the plan formed in his mind.

It was risky. In fact, it was undoubtedly foolhardy. He glanced up to where a canopy of leaves was all that separated them from Remo and a .45.

Then again, it might work.

“Disappear,” he murmured. “That’s what we’re going to do.” Crouching down, he opened a pack.

“Looking for your fairy dust?”

“I’m looking to save that alabaster skin of yours, sugar.” He pulled out the lamba Whitney had bought in Antananarivo. While she sat, he draped it over her head, going more for coverage than style. “Good-bye Whitney MacAllister, hello Malagasy matron.”

Whitney blew pale blonde hair out of her eyes. One elegant, fine-boned hand folded over the other. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Got a better idea?”

She sat for a moment. The forest was no longer quiet with the intrusion of helicopter blades overhead. Its shade and spreading trees and mossy scent no longer equalled protection. In silence, she crossed the lamba under her chin and tossed the ends back. A lousy idea was better than none at all. Usually.

“Okay, let’s move.” Taking her hand he hauled her to her feet. “We’ve got work to do.”

Ten minutes later, he found what he’d been looking for.

Near the bottom of a rocky, uneven slope was a clearing with a handful of bamboo huts. The grass and vegetation on the incline had been slashed and burned, then planted with hill rice. Below, gardens had been cleared and hoed so that the leafy vines of beans wound up around poles. She could see an empty paddock and a small lean-to where chickens scratched for whatever they could find.

The hill was steep so that the small buildings rose on stilts to compensate for the irregular terrain. Roofs were thatched but even with the distance looked in need of repair. A line of crude steps dug directly into the hill ran down to a narrow, rutted path below them. The path went east. Doug kept low behind the cover of small, scrubby bushes and watched for any sign of life.

Balancing herself with a hand on his shoulder, Whitney looked over his head. The cluster of houses looked cozy. Remembering the Merina, she felt a certain safety.

“Are we going to hide down there?”

“Hiding’s not going to do us much good for very long.” Taking out his field glasses, he lay down on his belly and took a closer look at the huddle of houses. There was no cook smoke, no movement at any of the windows. Nothing. Making up his mind quickly, he handed the glasses to Whitney. “Can you whistle?”

“Can I what?”

“Whistle.” He made a low steady sound through his teeth.

“I can whistle better than that,” she said with a sniff.

“Terrific. You watch through the glasses. If you see anyone coming back toward the huts, whistle.”

“If you think you’re going down there without me—”

“Look, I’m leaving the packs here. Both of them.” He grabbed her hair so that he could pull her face close. “I
figure you want to stay alive more than you want to get your hands on the envelope.”

She nodded, coolly. “Staying alive’s become quite a priority lately.”

It had always been his. “So stay put.”

“Why’re you going down there?”

“If we’re going to pass ourselves off as a couple of Malagasy, we need to acquire a few more things.”

“Acquire.” She lifted a brow. “You’re going to steal them.”

“That’s right, sugar, and you’re the lookout.”

After a moment’s thought, Whitney decided she rather liked the idea of being a lookout. Perhaps in another time and place, it might’ve had a crude ring, but she’d always believed in enjoying each experience within its own frame.

“If I see anyone coming back, I whistle.”

“You got it. Now stay down, out of sight. Remo could come buzzing by in the copter.”

Getting into the spirit, Whitney shifted onto her stomach and scanned with the glasses. “Just do your job, Lord. I’ll do mine.”

With a quick glance toward the heavens, Doug began to scramble his way down the steep slope behind the huts. The steps, such as they were, would leave him in the open for too long. He avoided them. Loose pebbles bounced against his calves, and once the eroded slope gave out under him and sent him sliding five feet before he could gain another foothold. Already he was working out an alternate plan, in case he ran into someone. He couldn’t speak the language, and his French interpreter was now his lookout. God help him. But he had a few— very few, he thought grimly—dollars in his pocket. If worse came to worst, he might buy most of what they needed.

Pausing a moment, straining to hear any sound, he dashed into the open toward the first hut.

He’d have liked it better if the lock had had more character. Doug had always found a certain satisfaction in outwitting a clever lock—or a clever woman. He glanced up and around toward where Whitney waited. He hadn’t finished with her yet, but in the case of the lock, he had to make do with what there was. In seconds, he was inside.

Comfortable on the soft ground of the forest, Whitney watched him through the glasses. He moved very well, she decided. Because she’d been running with him almost since the moment they’d met, she hadn’t been able to appreciate the smoothness with which he moved. Impressive, she decided, and touched her tongue to her top lip. She remembered the way he’d held her in the water of the lagoon.

And much more dangerous, she reminded herself, than she’d initially believed.

When he disappeared into the hut, she began a slow sweep with the field glasses. Twice she caught a movement, but it was only that of animals in the trees. Something resembling a hedgehog waddled out into the sunlight, lifted its head to scent, then slipped back into the bush. She heard flies buzzing and the whine of insects. That’s what reminded her the sound of the copter had ceased. She kept her mind set on Doug, willing him to hurry.

Though the settlement below seemed sparse and dingy, this was a much lusher Madagascar than the one she’d passed through over the last two days. It was green and wet, thriving with life. She knew there were birds or animals overhead as she listened to the leaves rustle. Once through the field glasses she thought she spotted a fat partridge fly low over the clearing.

She could smell grass and the light fragrance of flowers that grew in the shade. Her elbows pushed through the springy moss to where the ground was dark and rich.
A few yards away the hill sloped steeply, and erosion had washed soil down to rock. As she lay still, a fresh hush fell over the forest, a humming silence that was touched with the mystery she’d first anticipated when Doug had mentioned the country’s name.

Had it really only been a matter of days, she mused, since they’d been in her apartment, him pacing, impatient, trying to wheedle a stake out of her? Already, everything that had come before that night seemed like a dream. She hadn’t even unpacked from Paris, yet she could remember nothing exciting from her trip there. She couldn’t think of a dull moment since Doug had jumped into her car in Manhattan.

Definitely more interesting, she decided. She looked back at the huts, but they were as quiet now as they’d been before Doug had scrambled down the hill. He’d be very good, she thought, at his chosen profession. His hands were quick, his eye keen, and he was light, very light, on his feet.

Though she wasn’t looking for a career change herself, she thought it might be fun to have him teach her a few tricks of his trade. She was a quick study and good with her hands. That and a certain steel-coated charm had helped her achieve success in her business without the help of her influential family. Weren’t the same basic abilities required in Doug’s field?

Perhaps, just for the experience naturally, she could try her hand at being a thief. After all, black was one of her best colors.

She had a trim little angora sweater that would do very nicely, she thought. And, if she remembered right, she owned a pair of black jeans. Yes, she was certain of it, snug black jeans with a row of silver studs down one leg. Really, she could be outfitted in no time if she picked up a pair of black sneakers.

She could try the family estate on Long Island for
starters. The security system there was complex and intricate. So intricate, her father set it off regularly, then bellowed at the servants to shut it down again. If she and Doug could manage to get through it…

There were the Rubens, the pair of T’ang horses, the perfectly hideous solid-gold salver her grandfather had given to her mother. She could take a few choice pieces, box them up, and ship them back to her father’s New York offices. It would drive him crazy.

Amused at the thought, Whitney scanned again. Daydreaming, she nearly missed the movement to the east. With a jerk, she brought the glasses back to the right and focused.

The three bears were coming back, she thought. And Goldilocks was going to be caught with his fingers in the porridge.

She drew in her breath to whistle when a voice close behind her had her gulping instead.

“We flush ′em out in here, or we drive ′em out.” Leaves rustled smartly behind her and just overhead. “Either way, Lord’s luck’s running out.” The man who spoke hadn’t forgotten having a bottle of whiskey swung into his face. As he spoke, he touched the nose Doug had broken in the bar in Manhattan. “I want first shot at Lord myself.”

“I want first shot at the woman,” another voice piped up, high and whiny. Whitney felt as though something slimy had passed over her skin.

“Pervert,” the first man grumbled as he pushed his way through the forest. “You can play with her, Barns, but remember, Dimitri wants her in one piece. As for Lord, the boss doesn’t care how many pieces he’s in.”

Whitney lay still on the ground, eyes wide, mouth dry. She’d read somewhere that true fear mists over hearing and sight. She could now verify it firsthand. It occurred to her that the woman they spoke of so casually was herself.
All they had to do was look over the rise they were approaching and they’d see her spread out on the forest floor like goods in a marketplace.

Frantic, she looked back toward the huts. A hell of a lot of good Doug would do her, she thought grimly. He could come out into the open at any moment. From their position on the rise, Dimitri’s men would simply pick him off like a bear in a shooting gallery. If he stayed where he was much longer, the Malagasy who were trooping home might create a bit of a scene when they found him systematically looting their hut.