Hot Ice (41 page)

“Fascinating,” Whitney said when it looked like the general’s monologue would go on until dawn. “Simply fascinating. I can see why you earned those five stars.” Hooking her arm through his, she smiled. “You saved my life, General. I hope you’ll give me the pleasure of showing you the treasure.”

With a cocky smile over her shoulder, she led him away.

MacAllister drew out a cigarette case and flipped it open, offering it to Doug. “Nobody bullshits like Whitney,” he said easily. “I don’t believe you’ve met Brick-man.” He gestured to the man in the panama. “He’s worked for me before, one of the best. He’s said the same of you.”

Doug eyed the man in the panama. Each man recognized the other for what he was. “You were at the canal, just behind Remo.”

Brickman remembered the crocks and smiled. “My pleasure.”

“Now.” MacAllister looked from one man to the other. He hadn’t succeeded in business without knowing what went on in men’s minds. “Why don’t we get a drink and you can tell me what really happened?”

Doug flipped his lighter and studied MacAllister’s face. It was tanned and smooth, a sure sign of wealth. His voice had the ring of authority. The eyes that looked back at him were dark as whiskey, as amused as Whitney’s. Doug’s lips tilted.

“Dimitri’s a pig, but he stocks a good bar. Scotch?”

It was nearly dawn when Doug looked down on Whitney. She was curled, naked, under the thin sheet. A slight
smile touched her lips as though she were dreaming of the rush of lovemaking they’d shared after they’d returned to the hotel. But her breathing was slow and even as she slept the sleep of the exhausted.

He wanted to touch her, but he didn’t. He’d thought of leaving her a note. But he didn’t.

He was who he was, what he was. A thief, a nomad, a loner.

For the second time in his life, he’d held the world in his hands, and for the second time, it had vanished. It would be possible, after a time, to convince himself that he’d come across that big break again. The end of the rainbow. Just as it would be possible, after a very long time, to convince himself that he and Whitney had had a fling. Fun and games, nothing serious. He’d convince himself because those damn strings were tightening around him. It was break them now, or not at all.

He still had the ticket to Paris, and a check for five thousand the general had written to him after Whitney had had the retired soldier bubbling with gratitude.

But he’d seen the look in the eyes of the officials, of the private detective who recognized a con and a thief when he saw one. He’d earned a reprieve, but the next dark alley was just around the corner.

Doug glanced at the pack and thought of her notebook. He knew his tab came to more than the five thousand he had at his disposal. Going over, he rummaged through her pack until he found the pad and pencil.

After the final total, which caused him to lift a brow, he scribbled a brief message.

IOU, sugar.

Dropping both back in the pack, he took a last look at her while she slept. He slipped from the room like the thief he was, silently and swiftly.

The moment she woke, Whitney knew he was gone. It wasn’t a matter of the bed being empty beside her. Another woman might have assumed he’d gone out for coffee or a walk. Another woman might have called his name in a husky sleepy voice.

She knew he was gone.

It was in her nature to face things directly when there wasn’t a choice. Whitney rose, pulled back the blinds, and began to pack. Because silence was unbearable, she switched on the radio without bothering to fiddle with the dial.

She noticed the boxes tumbled on the floor. Determined to keep occupied, she began to open them.

Her fingers slid over the flimsy lingerie Doug had picked out for her. She gave a quick, tilted smile at the receipt with her credit-card imprint. Because she’d decided that cynicism would be her best defense, Whitney slipped into the pale blue teddy. After all, she’d paid for it.

Tossing the box aside, she drew off the lid of the next. The dress was rich, rich blue, the color, she remembered, of the butterflies she’d seen and admired. Cynicism and all other defenses threatened to crumble. Swallowing tears, she bundled the dress back into the box. It wouldn’t travel well, she told herself, and yanked a pair of wrinkled slacks out of her pack.

In a few hours, she’d be back in New York, in her own milieu, surrounded by her own friends. Doug Lord would be a vague, and expensive, memory. That was all. Dressed, packed, and utterly calm, she went to check out and meet her father.

He was already in the lobby, pacing, impatient. Deals were cooking. The ice-cream business was dog-eat-dog. “Where’s your boyfriend?” he demanded.

“Daddy, really.” Whitney signed her bill with a flourish
and a completely steady hand. “A woman doesn’t have boyfriends. She has lovers.” She smiled at the bellboy and followed him out to the car her father had waiting.

He huffed, not entirely pleased with her terminology. “So where is he?”

“Doug?” She gave her father an unconcerned look over her shoulder as she climbed into the back seat of the limo. “Why I have no idea. Paris perhaps—he had a ticket.”

Scowling, MacAllister plopped back against the seat. “What the hell’s going on, Whitney?”

“I think I might spend a few days on Long Island when we get back. I tell you, all this traveling’s exhausting.”

“Whitney.” He clamped a hand over hers, using the tone he’d used since she was two. It had never been overly successful. “Why did he leave?”

She reached in her father’s pocket, drew out his cigarette case, and chose one. Staring straight ahead, she tapped the cigarette on the dull gold lid. “Because that’s his style. Slipping out in the middle of the night without a sound, without a word. He’s a thief, you know.”

“So he told me last night while you were busy bullshitting Bennett. Dammit, Whitney, by the time he was finished, my hair was standing on end. It was worse than reading the report from the detective. The two of you nearly got yourselves killed half a dozen times.”

“It concerned us a bit at the time, too,” she murmured.

“You’d do my ulcer a world of good if you’d marry that empty-headed, weak-jawed Carlyse.”

“Sorry, then I’d have one.”

He studied the cigarette she’d yet to light. “I got the impression you were—attached to this young thief you’d picked up.”

“Attached.” The cigarette snapped in her fingers. “No, it was strictly business.” Tears welled up and spilled over but she continued to speak calmly. “I was bored and he provided entertainment.”

“Entertainment?”

“Expensive entertainment,” she added. “The bastard’s gone off owing me twelve thousand, three hundred and fifty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents.”

MacAllister took out his handkerchief and dried her cheeks. “Nothing like losing a few thousand to bring on the waterworks,” he murmured. “Often happens to me.”

“He didn’t even say good-bye,” she whispered. Curling into her father, she wept because there didn’t seem to be anything else she could do.

New York in August can be vicious. The heat can hang, shimmer, gloat, and roll. When a garbage strike coincided with a heat wave, tempers became as ripe as the air. Even the more fortunate who could summon an air-conditioned limo at the snap of a finger tended to turn surly after two weeks of ninety-degree-plus weather. It was a time when anyone who could arrange it fled the city for the islands, for the country, for Europe.

Whitney had had her fill of traveling.

She stuck it out in Manhattan when the majority of her friends and acquaintances jumped ship. She turned down offers for a cruise on the Aegean, a week on the Italian Riviera, and a month-long honeymoon in the country of her choice.

She worked because it was an interesting way to ignore the heat. She played because it was more productive than moping. She considered taking a trip to the Orient, but—just to be obstinate—in September, when everyone else trickled back to New York.

When she’d returned from Madagascar, she’d treated herself to a wild, indulgent shopping spree. Half of what she’d bought still hung, unworn, in her already-crowded closet. She’d hit the clubs every night for more than two weeks, hopping from one to the next and tumbling into bed after sunrise.

When she lost interest in that, she threw herself into her work with such vigor her friends began to mutter among themselves.

It was one thing for her to exhaust herself with rounds of parties, quite another to do so during working hours. Whitney did what she did best. She ignored them completely.

“Tad, don’t make a fool of yourself again. I simply can’t bear it.” Her voice was careless, but more sympathetic than cruel. Over the past few weeks, he’d nearly convinced her that he cared for her almost as much as his collection of silk ties.

“Whitney…” Blond, tailored, and a little drunk, he stood in the doorway of her apartment, trying to figure the best way to ease himself inside. She blocked him without effort. “We’d make a good team. It doesn’t matter that my mother thinks you’re flighty.”

Flighty. Whitney rolled her eyes at the term. “Listen to your mother, Tad. I’d make a perfectly dreadful wife. Now, go back down so your driver can take you home. You know you can’t drink more than two martinis without losing your grip.”

“Whitney.” He grabbed her, kissing her with passion if not with style. “Let me send Charles home. I’ll spend the night.”

“Your mother would send out the National Guard,” she reminded him, slipping out of his arms. “Now go home and sleep off that third martini. You’ll feel more like yourself tomorrow.”

“You don’t take me seriously.”

“I don’t take
me
seriously,” she corrected and patted his cheek. “Now run along and listen to your mother.” She closed the door in his face. “The old battle-ax.”

Letting out a long breath, she crossed to the bar. After an evening with Tad, she deserved a nightcap. If she hadn’t been so restless, so… whatever, she’d never have
let him convince her that she needed an evening of opera and congenial company. Opera wasn’t high on her list of enjoyments, and Tad had never been the most congenial companion.

She splashed a healthy dose of cognac into a glass.

“Make it two, will you, sugar?”

Her fingers tightened on the glass, her heart lodged in her throat. But she didn’t flinch, she didn’t turn. Calmly, Whitney turned over a second glass and filled it. “Still slipping through keyholes, Douglas?”

She wore the dress he’d bought her in Diégo-Suarez. He’d pictured her in it a hundred times. He didn’t know this was the first time she’d put it on, and that she’d done so in defiance. Nor did he know that because of it, she’d thought of him all evening.

“Out pretty late, aren’t you?”

She told herself she was strong enough to handle it. After all, she’d had weeks to get over him. One brow cocked, she turned.

He was dressed in black, and it suited him. Plain black T-shirt, snug black jeans. The costume of his trade, she mused as she held out the glass. She thought his face looked leaner, his eyes more intense, then she tried not to think at all.

“How was Paris?”

“Okay.” He took the glass and restrained the urge to touch her hand. “How’ve you been?”

“How do I look?” It was a direct challenge. Look at me, she demanded. Take a good long look. He did.

Her hair flowed sleekly down one shoulder, held back with a crescent-shaped pin of diamonds. Her face was as he remembered: pale, cool, elegant. Her eyes were dark and arrogant as she watched him over the rim of her glass.

“You look terrific,” he muttered.

“Thank you. So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

He’d practiced what he was going to say, how he was going to say it, two dozen times in the last week. He’d been in New York that long, vacillating between going to her and staying away. “Just thought I’d see how you were,” he mumbled into his glass.

“How sweet.”

“Look, I know you must think I ran out on you—”

“To the tune of twelve thousand, three hundred and fifty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents.”

He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Nothing changes.”

“Did you come to make good on the IOU you left me?”

“I came because I had to, dammit.”

“Oh?” Unmoved, she tossed back her drink. She restrained herself from tossing the glass against the wall as well. “Do you have another venture in mind that requires some ready capital?”

“You want to get a few shots in, go ahead.” With a snap, he set his glass down.

She stared at him a moment, then shook her head. Turning away, she set down her own glass and rested her palms against the table. For the first time since he’d known her, her shoulders slumped and her voice was weary. “No, I don’t want to get any shots in, Doug. I’m a bit tired. You’ve seen that I’m fine. Now why don’t you leave the same way you came in?”

“Whitney.”

“Don’t touch me,” she murmured before he’d taken two steps toward her. The quiet, even voice didn’t quite hide the trickle of desperation underneath.

He lifted his hands, palms out, then let them drop. “Okay.” He wandered the room a moment, trying to find his way back to his original plan of attack. “You know, I
had pretty good luck in Paris. Cleaned out five rooms in the Hotel de Crillon.”