Hot Ice (9 page)

“Don’t be such a cheapskate, Douglas.”

He ignored that and took her arm. “You read French as well as you speak it?”

“Need some help reading the menu?” she began, then stopped.
“Tu ne parles pas français, mon cher?”
While he studied her in silence, she smiled. “Fascinating. I should have caught on before that everything wasn’t translated.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle MacAllister!”

“Georges.” She sent the desk clerk a smile. “I couldn’t stay away.”

“Always a pleasure to have you back.” His eyes lit again as he spotted Doug over her shoulder. “Monsieur Lord. Such a surprise.”

“Georges.” Doug met Whitney’s speculative look briefly. “Mademoiselle MacAllister and I are traveling together. I hope you have a suite available.”

Romance bloomed in Georges’s head. If he hadn’t had a suite, Georges would have been tempted at that moment to vacate one. “But of course, of course. And your papa, mademoiselle, he is well?”

“Very well, thank you, Georges.”

“Charles will take your bags. Enjoy your stay.”

Whitney pocketed her key without glancing at it. She
knew the beds in the Crillon were soft and seductive. The water in the taps was hot. A bath, a little caviar from room service, and a bed. In the morning she’d have a few hours in the beauty salon before they took the last leg of the journey.

“I take it you’ve stayed here before.” Whitney slipped into the elevator and leaned against the wall.

“From time to time.”

“A profitable place, I assume.”

Doug only smiled at her. “The service is excellent.”

“Hmmm.” Yes, she could see him here, sipping champagne and nibbling pâté. Just as she could see him running through alleys in D.C. “How lucky for me we’ve never crossed paths here before.” When the doors opened, she strolled out ahead. Doug took her arm and steered her to the left. “The ambience is important, I suppose, in your business,” she added.

He allowed his thumb to brush over the inside of her elbow. “I have a taste for rich things.”

She only gave him an easy smile that said he wouldn’t sample her until she was ready.

The suite was no less than she expected. Whitney let the bellman fuss a few moments, then eased him out with a tip. “So…” She plopped down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “What time do we leave tomorrow?”

Instead of answering, he took a shirt from his suitcase, balled it up until it wrinkled, then tossed it over a chair. As Whitney watched, he took various articles of clothing out and draped them here and there throughout the suite.

“Hotel rooms are so impersonal until you have your own things around, aren’t they?”

He mumbled something and dropped socks on the carpet. It wasn’t until he moved to her cases that she objected.

“Just a minute.”

“Half the game’s illusion,” he told her and tossed a
pair of Italian heels into a corner. “I want them to think we’re staying here.”

She grabbed a silk blouse out of his hands. “We are staying here.”

“Wrong. Go hang a couple of things in the closet while I mess up the bathroom.”

Left with the blouse in her hands, Whitney tossed it down and followed him. “What are you talking about?”

“When Dimitri’s muscle gets here, I want them to think we’re still around. It might only buy us a few hours, but it’s enough.” Systematically, he went through the big, plush bath unwrapping soap and dropping towels. “Go get some of your face junk. We’ll leave a couple bottles.”

“Oh no we won’t. What the hell am I supposed to do without it?”

“We ain’t going to the ball, sugar.” He went into the master bedroom and tumbled the covers. “One bed’ll do,” he muttered. “They wouldn’t believe we weren’t sleeping together anyway.”

“Are you padding your ego or insulting mine?”

He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and blew out smoke, all without taking his eyes off her. For a moment, just a moment, she wondered what he was capable of. And if she’d like it after all. Saying nothing, he strode back into the next room and began to rifle her cases.

“Dammit, Doug, those are my things.”

“You’ll get them back, for Chrissake.” Choosing a handful of cosmetics at random, he started back to the bath.

“That moisturizer costs me sixty-five dollars a bottle.”

“For this?” Interested, he turned the bottle over. “And I thought you were practical.”

“I’m not leaving this room without it.”

“Okay.” He tossed it back to her and dumped the rest on the vanity. “This’ll do.” As he passed through the suite again, he stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and lit
another. “We’ve got just about enough,” he decided as he crouched down to close Whitney’s case. A little swatch of lace caught his eye. He lifted out a pair of sheer bikini briefs. “You fit in these?” He could see her in them. He knew better than to let his imagination go in that direction, but he could see her in them and nothing else.

She resisted the urge to snatch them out of his hand. That was easy. The pressure that formed low in her stomach as he brushed his fingers over the material wasn’t as easily controlled. “When you’ve finished playing with my underwear, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“We check in.” After a moment, Doug tossed the little excuse of lace back in her bag. “Then we take our bags down the service elevator and get back to the airport. Our flight leaves in an hour.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

He snapped her bag closed. “Didn’t come up.”

“I see.” Whitney took a stroll around the suite until she thought her temper might hold. “Let me explain something to you. I don’t know how you worked before, and it isn’t important. This time”—she turned back to face him— “this time, you’ve got a partner. Whatever little plans you have in your head are half mine.”

“You don’t like the way I work, you can back out right now.”

“You owe me.” When he started to object, she took a step closer, drawing her book from her purse as she moved. “Should I read off the list?”

“Screw your list. I’ve got gorillas on my ass. I can’t worry about accounting.”

“You’d better worry about it.” Still calm, she dropped the book back into her purse. “Without me you’ll go treasure hunting with empty pockets.”

“Sugar, a couple hours in this hotel and I’d have enough money to take me anywhere I wanted to go.”

She didn’t doubt it, but her gaze remained level with his. “But you don’t have time to play cat burglar and we both know it. Partners, Douglas, or you fly to Madagascar with eleven dollars in your pocket.”

Damn her for knowing what he had, almost to the penny. He crushed out his cigarette, then picked up his own bag. “We’ve got a plane to catch. Partner.”

Her smile came slowly, and with such a gleam of satisfaction he was tempted to laugh. Whitney slipped on her shoes and picked up a tote bag. “Get that case, will you?” Before he could swear at her, she was moving to the door. “I only wish I’d had time for a bath.”

Because of the ease with which they rode the service elevator down and walked out of the hotel, Whitney imagined he’d used that escape route before. She decided she could drop a letter to Georges in a few days and ask him to store her things until she could pick them up. She hadn’t even had a chance to wear that blouse yet. And the color was very flattering.

All in all it seemed like a waste of time to her, but she was willing to humor Doug, for the moment. Besides, in the mood he was in they were better off in a plane than sharing a suite. And she wanted some time to think. If the papers he had, or some of them at any rate, were in French, then it was obvious he couldn’t read them. She could. A smile touched her lips. He wanted to ditch her, she wasn’t fool enough to think otherwise, but she’d just made herself even more useful. All she had to do now was persuade him to let her do some translating.

Still, she wasn’t in the best of moods herself when they pulled up at the airport. The thought of going through customs again, of boarding another plane, was enough to make her snarl.

“It seems we could’ve checked into a second-class hotel and had a few hours.” Sweeping back her hair, she
thought of the bath again. Hot, steamy, fragrant. “I’m beginning to think you’re paranoid about this Dimitri. You treat him as though he’s omnipotent.”

“They say he is.”

Whitney stopped and turned. It was the way he said it, as though he half believed it, that made her flesh crawl. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Cautious.” He scanned the terminal as they walked. “You’re better off walking around a ladder than under it.”

“The way you talk about him, you’d think he wasn’t human.”

“He’s flesh and blood,” Doug murmured, “but that doesn’t make him human.”

The shiver skimmed along her skin again. Turning toward Doug, she jolted into someone and dropped her bag. With an impatient mutter, she bent to pick it up. “Look, Doug, no one could possibly have caught up with us already.”

“Shit.” Grabbing her arm, he yanked her into a gift shop. With another shove, she was up to her eyes in T-shirts.

“If you wanted a souvenir—”

“Just look, sweetheart. You can apologize later.” With a hand on the back of her neck, he steered her head to the left. After a moment, Whitney recognized the tall, dark man who’d chased them in Washington. The moustache, the little white bandage on his cheek. She didn’t need to be told that the two men with him belonged to Dimitri. And where was Dimitri himself? She caught herself sliding down lower and swallowing.

“Is that—”

“Remo.” Doug mumbled the word. “They’re faster than I thought they’d be.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth and swore. He didn’t like the feeling that the web was widening at Dimitri’s leisure. If he and Whitney had strolled another ten yards, they’d have walked into Remo’s arms. Luck was the biggest part of the game, he
reminded himself. It was what he liked the best. “It’ll take them a while to track down the hotel. Then they’ll sit and wait.” He grinned a little, nodding. “Yeah, they’ll wait for us.”

“How?” Whitney demanded. “For God’s sake how could they be here already?”

“When you’re dealing with Dimitri, you don’t ask how. You just look over your shoulder.”

“He’d need a crystal ball.”

“Politics,” Doug said. “Remember what your old man told you about connections? If you had one in the CIA and you made a call, pushed a button, you could be on top of someone without leaving your easy chair. A call to the Agency, to the Embassy, to Immigration, and Dimitri had a handle on our passports and visas before the ink was dry.”

She moistened her lips and tried to pretend her throat hadn’t gone dry. “Then he knows where we’re going.”

“You bet your ass. All we have to do is stay one step ahead. Just one.”

Whitney let out a little sigh when she realized her heart was thumping. The excitement was back. If she gave herself time it would smother the fear. “Looks like you know what you’re doing after all.” When he turned his head to scowl at her she gave him a quick, friendly kiss. “Smarter than you look, Lord. Let’s go to Madagascar.”

Before she could rise, he caught her chin in his hand. “We’re going to finish this there.” His fingers tightened briefly, but long enough. “All of this.”

She met him look for look. They had too far to go to give in now. “Maybe,” she said. “But we have to get there first. Why don’t we catch that plane?”

Remo picked up a silky bit of fluff Whitney would have called a nightgown. He balled it into his fist. He’d have his hands on Lord and the woman before morning. This
time they wouldn’t slip through his fingers and make him look like a fool. When Doug Lord walked back in the door he’d put a bullet between his eyes. And the woman—he’d take care of the woman. This time… slowly he ripped the gown in half. The silk tore with hardly a whisper. When the phone rang, he jerked his head, signaling the other men to flank the door. Using the tip of his thumb and finger, Remo lifted the receiver. When he heard the voice, his sweat glands opened.

“You’ve missed them again, Remo.”

“Mr. Dimitri.” He saw the other men look over and turned his back. It was never wise to let fear show. “We’ve found them. As soon as they come back, we’ll—”

“They won’t be back.” With a long, smooth sigh, Dimitri blew out smoke. “They’ve been spotted at the airport, Remo, right under your nose. The destination is Antananarivo. Your tickets are waiting for you. Be prompt.”

Whitney pushed open the wooden shutters on the window and took a long look at Antananarivo. It didn’t, as she’d thought it would, remind her of Africa. She’d spent two weeks once in Kenya and remembered the heady morning scent of meat smoking on sidewalk grills, of towering heat and a cosmopolitan flare. Africa was only a narrow strip of water away, but Whitney saw nothing from her window that resembled what she remembered of it.

Nor did she find a tropical island flare. She didn’t sense the lazy gaiety she’d always associated with islands and island people. What she did sense, though she wasn’t yet sure why, was a country completely unique to itself.

This was the capital of Madagascar, the heart of the country, city of open-air markets and hand-drawn carts existing in complete harmony and total chaos alongside high-rise office buildings and sleek modern cars. It was a city, so she expected the habitual turmoil that brewed in cities. Yet what she saw was peaceful: slow, but not lazy. Perhaps it was just the dawn, or perhaps it was inherent.

The air was cool with dawn so that she shivered, but didn’t turn away. It didn’t have the smell of Paris, or
Europe, but of something riper. Spice mixed with the first whispers of heat that threatened the morning chill. Animals. Few cities carried even a wisp of animal in their air. Hong Kong smelled of the harbor and London of traffic. Antananarivo smelled of something older that wasn’t quite ready to fade under concrete or steel.

There was a haze as heat hovered above the cooler ground. Even as she stood, Whitney could feel the temperature change, almost degree by degree. In another hour, she thought, the sweat would start to roll and the air would smell of that as well.