Hot Ice (25 page)

“Hit me with your best shot!” she challenged as he pushed the door open.

Behind the counter stood a tall, lanky man whose dark skin gleamed with sweat as he moved to the beat pouring
out of a small, expensive portable stereo. While his feet shuffled, he polished the glass in the windows to the side of the counter and belted out the lyrics with Benatar.

“Fire awaaay!” he shouted, then turned as the door slammed behind Doug. “Good afternoon.” The accent was decidedly French. The faded T-shirt he wore read City College of New York. The grin was youthful and appealing. On the shelves behind him were trinkets, linens, cans, and bottles. A general store in Nebraska wouldn’t have been better stocked.

“May I interest you in some souvenirs?”

“CCNY?” Doug questioned as he crossed the bare wood floor.

“American!” Reverently, the man turned Benatar down to a muffled roar before he held out his hand. “You are from the States?”

“Yeah. New York.”

The young man lit up like a firecracker. “New York! My brother”—he tugged on the T-shirt—“he goes to college there. Student exchange. Going to be a lawyer, yes sir. A hotshot.”

It was impossible not to grin. With his hand still caught in the man’s grasp, Doug shook lightly. “I’m Doug Lord.”

“Jacques Tsiranana. America.” Obviously reluctant, he released Doug’s hand. “I go there myself next year to visit. You know Soho?”

“Yeah.” And until that moment, he hadn’t realized just how much he missed it. “Yeah, I know Soho.”

“I have a picture.” Digging in behind the counter, he brought out a bent snapshot. It showed a tall, muscular man in jeans standing in front of Tower Records.

“My brother, he buys the records and puts them on the tapes for me. American music,” Jacques pronounced. “Rock and roll. How about that Benatar?”

“Great pipes,” Doug agreed, handing the snapshot back.

“So what are you doing here, when you could be in Soho?”

Doug shook his head. There had been times he’d asked himself the same question. “My, ah, lady and I are traveling up the coast.”

“Vacation?” He took a quick glimpse at Doug’s clothes. He was dressed like the humblest Malagasy peasant, but there was a look of sharp authority in his eye.

“Yeah, like a vacation.” If you didn’t count the guns and the running. “I thought it might give her a kick to go up the canal, you know, scenic.”

“Pretty country,” Jacques agreed. “How far?”

“To here.” Doug drew the map out of his pocket and ran a finger along the route. “All the way to Maroantsetra.”

“Some kick,” Jacques murmured. “Two days, two long days. In places the canal is hard to navigate.” His teeth shone. “Crocodiles.”

“She’s tough,” he claimed, thinking of that very sensitive, very soft skin. “You know the kind who digs camping out and open fires. What we need is a good guide and a strong boat.”

“You pay in American dollars?”

Doug narrowed his eyes. It looked like luck was indeed playing on his side. “It can be arranged.”

Jacques poked his thumb into the printing on his shirt. “Then I take you.”

“Got a boat?”

“The best boat in town. Built it myself. Got a hundred?”

Doug looked down at his hands. They appeared competent and strong. “Fifty up front. We’ll be ready to go in the morning. Eight o’clock.”

“Bring your lady here at eight o’clock. We’ll give her a kick.”

Unaware of the pleasures in store for her, Whitney half dozed in the tub. Each time the water had cooled a bit, she had let in another stream of hot. As far as she was
concerned, she could spend the night there. Her head rested against the back lip, her hair fell behind, wet and shining.

“Trying for a world’s record?” Doug asked from behind her.

With a gasp, she jerked up so that water lapped dangerously near the edge. “You didn’t knock,” she accused. “And I locked the door.”

“I picked it,” he said easily. “Need to keep in practice. How’s the water?” Without waiting for an answer, he dipped in a finger. “Smells good.” His gaze skimmed over the surface. “Looks like your bubbles’re starting to give out.”

“They’ve got a few minutes left in them. Why don’t you get rid of that ridiculous outfit?”

Grinning, he began to unbutton his shirt. “Thought you’d never ask.”

“On the other side of the screen.” Smiling, she examined her toe just above the water’s surface. “I’ll get out so you can have your turn.”

“Shame to waste all that pretty hot water.” Putting a hand on either side of the tub, he leaned over her. “Since we’re partners, we should share.”

“You think so?” His mouth was very close, and she was very relaxed. Reaching up she trailed a damp finger down his cheek. “Just what did you have in mind?”

“A little”—gently, he brushed her lips with his— “unfinished business.”

“Business?” She laughed and let her hand roam over his neck. “Want to negotiate?” On impulse she pulled, and off-balance, he slid into the tub. Water heaved over the side. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she watched as he swiped bubbles from his face. “Douglas, you never looked better.”

Tangled with her, he struggled to keep from submerging. “She likes games.”

“Well, you looked so hot and sweaty.” Generous, she offered the soap, then laughed again when he rubbed it over the shirt that clung to him.

“Why don’t I give you a hand?” Before she could avoid it, he ran the soap down from her throat to her waist. “I seem to remember you owe me a back scrub.”

Aware, and still amused, she took the soap from him. “Why don’t you—”

Both of them tensed at the knock at the door.

“Don’t move,” Doug whispered.

“I wasn’t going to.”

Untangling himself, he climbed out of the tub. Water ran everywhere. It swished in his shoes as he went to his pack and dug out the gun he’d buried in it. He hadn’t had it in his hands since their flight from Washington. He didn’t like the feel of it any more now.

If Dimitri had found them, he couldn’t have cornered them more neatly. Doug glanced at the window behind him. He could be out and down in seconds. Then he glanced at the bamboo screen. In a tub of cooling water, Whitney sat naked and completely vulnerable. Doug gave a last regretful look at the window and escape.

“Shit.”

“Doug—”

“Quiet.” Holding it close, barrel up, he moved to the door. It was time to try his luck again. “Yeah?”

“Captain Sambirano, police. At your service.”

“Shit.” Looking around quickly, Doug stuck the gun in the back waistband of his pants. “Your badge, Captain?” Coiled to spring, Doug opened the door a crack and examined the badge, then the man. He could spot a cop ten miles away. Reluctantly, he opened the door. “What can I do for you?”

The captain, small, rotund, and very Western in dress, stepped inside. “I seem to have interrupted you.”

“Having a bath.” Doug saw the puddle forming at his feet and reached for a towel behind the screen.

“I beg your pardon, Mr.—”

“Wallace, Peter Wallace.”

“Mr. Wallace. It is my custom to greet anyone who passes through our town. We have a quiet community.” The captain gently tugged on the hem of his jacket. Doug noticed his nails were short and polished. “From time to time we entertain tourists who are not fully aware of the law or our customs.”

“Always happy to cooperate with the police,” Doug said with a wide smile. “As it happens, I’m moving on tomorrow.”

“A pity you can’t extend your stay. You are perhaps in a hurry?”

“Peter…” Whitney poked her head and one naked shoulder around the screen. “Excuse me.” She did her best to blush as she swept her lashes down, then up again.

Whether the blush worked or not, the captain took off his hat and bowed. “Madame.”

“My wife, Cathy. Cath, this is Captain Sambirano.”

“How do you do?”

“Charmed.”

“I’m sorry I can’t come out just now. You see I’m…” She trailed off and smiled.

“Of course. You must forgive the interruption, Mrs. Wallace. Mr. Wallace. If I can be of any help to you during your stay, please do not hesitate.”

“How sweet.”

Halfway out the door, the captain turned back. “And your destination, Mr. Wallace?”

“Oh, we’re following our noses,” Doug claimed. “Cathy and I are graduate students. Botany. So far we’ve found your country fascinating.”

“Peter, the water’s getting cold.”

Doug glanced over his shoulder, looked back, and grinned. “It’s our honeymoon, you understand.”

“Naturally. May I congratulate you on your taste? Good afternoon.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Doug closed the door, leaned back against it, and swore. “I don’t like it.”

Wrapped in a towel, Whitney came out from behind the screen. “What do you think that was all about?”

“I wish I knew. But one thing, when cops start nosing around, I look for other accommodations.”

Whitney took a long look at the gaily covered bed. “But, Doug.”

“Sorry, sugar. Get yourself dressed.” He began to strip off his own dripping clothes. “We’re catching a boat, a little ahead of schedule.”

“You have something new?” After fondling a glass chess piece, Dimitri moved bishop’s pawn.

“We think they headed toward the coast.”

“Think?” At the snap of Dimitri’s fingers a dark-suited man placed a crystal goblet in his hand.

“There was a little settlement in the hills.” Remo watched Dimitri drink and swallowed on his own dry throat. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week. “When we checked it out, the family was in an uproar. Somebody’d ripped them off while they were in the fields.”

“I see.” The wine was excellent, but, of course, he’d brought his own stock with him. Dimitri enjoyed traveling, but not inconvenience. “And what precisely was acquired from these people?”

“A couple hats, some clothes, baskets…” He hesitated.

“And?” Dimitri prompted, too gently for comfort.

“A pig.”

“A pig,” Dimitri repeated and chuckled. Remo nearly
let his shoulders relax. “How ingenious. I begin to regret Lord must be disposed of. I could put a man like him to good use. Go on, Remo. The rest.”

“A couple kids saw a peddler in a truck pick up a man and woman—and a pig—late this morning. They headed east.”

There was a long silence. Remo wouldn’t have broken it if there’d been a knife in his back. Dimitri studied the wine in his goblet then sipped, drawing the moment out. He could hear Remo’s nerves stretching, stretching. His gaze came up.

“I suggest you also head east, Remo. I, in the meantime, will move on.” He ran his fingers over another chess piece, admiring the craftsmanship, the detail. “I’ve calculated the area our quarries are headed for. While you track them, I shall wait.” He brought the goblet to his lips again, breathing deeply of the bouquet of the wine. “I grow weary of hotels, though the service here is quite excellent. When I entertain our guest, I’d like to do so with more privacy.”

Setting down the wine, he picked up the white knight and its queen. “Yes, I do love to entertain.” In a quick move, he smashed the pieces together. The shards tinkled lightly as they fell onto the table.

“We didn’t eat.”

“We’ll eat later.”

“You’re always saying that. And another thing,” Whitney said, “I still don’t understand why we have to check out this way.” She gave a quick grimace to the pile of “borrowed” clothes in a heap on the floor. Whitney wasn’t accustomed to seeing anyone move quite so fast as Doug had in the last five minutes.

“Ever heard of an ounce of prevention, sugar?”

“With a little salt, I’d
eat
an ounce of prevention at the moment.” Whitney scowled down at his fingertips on the window ledge. In a flash they were gone and she held her breath as she watched him drop to the ground below.

Doug felt his legs sing briefly. A quick glance around showed him that no one had seen his leap but a fat, battle-scarred cat dozing in a patch of sunshine. Looking up, he signaled to Whitney. “Toss down the packs.” She did, with an enthusiasm that nearly knocked him off his feet. “Take it easy,” he said between his teeth. Setting them aside, Doug braced himself beneath the window. “Okay, now you.”

“Me?”

“You’re all that’s left, lover. Come on, I’ll catch you.”

It wasn’t that she doubted him. After all, she’d taken the precaution of slipping her wallet out of her pack— and making certain he saw her—before he’d climbed through the window. In the same way, she remembered that he’d switched the envelope to the pocket of his jeans. Trust among thieves was obviously the same sort of myth as honor.

Whitney thought it rather strange that the drop looked so much longer now than it had when he’d hung by his fingers. She frowned down at him.

“A MacAllister always leaves a hotel by the front door.”

“We ain’t got time for family traditions. For Chrissake come on before we draw an audience.”

Setting her teeth, she swung a leg over. Agilely, but very slowly, she twisted herself around and lowered. It only took her an instant to discover she didn’t like the sensation of hanging from the window ledge of an inn in Madagascar one bit. “Doug…”

“Drop,” Doug ordered.

“I’m not sure I can.”

“You can, unless you want me to start throwing rocks.”

He might. Whitney closed her eyes, held her breath, and let go.

She fell free for hardly more than a heartbeat before his hands clamped around her hips, then slid up to her armpits. Even so, the abrupt stop took the breath from her.

“See?” he told her when he placed her lightly on the ground. “Nothing to it. You’ve got real potential as a cat burglar.”

“Goddamn it.” Turning, she examined her hands. “I broke a nail. Now what am I supposed to do?”

“Yeah, that’s tragic.” He bent to pick up the packs. “I guess I could shoot you and put you out of your misery.”

She snatched her pack out of his hands. “Very droll. I happen to think walking around with nine fingernails is extremely tacky.”

“Put your hands in your pockets,” he suggested and started to walk.

“Just where are you going now?”

“I’ve arranged for a little trip by water.” He slid his arms through the straps until the pack rested comfortably on his back. “All we have to do is get to the boat. Unobtrusively.”