Hot Ice (7 page)

“Blue lines, red lines,” he muttered. “Why do they have to screw things up with colors?”

“I don’t know.” Breathless, she leaned against the information board. “I’ve never ridden the Metro before.”

“Well, we’re fresh out of limos. Red line,” he announced and grabbed her hand again. He hadn’t lost them. Doug could still smell the hunt. Five minutes, he thought. He only wanted a five-minute lead. Then they’d be on one of those speedy little trains and gain more time.

The crowd was thick and babbling in a half dozen languages. The more people the better, he decided as he inched his way along. He glanced over his shoulder when they stood at the edge of the platform. His gaze met Remo’s. He saw the bandage on the tanned cheek. Compliments of Whitney MacAllister, Doug thought and couldn’t resist tossing back a grin. Yeah, he owed her for that, he decided. If for nothing else, he owed her for that.

It was all timing now, he knew, as he pulled Whitney onto the train. Timing and luck. It was either with them or against them. Sandwiched between Whitney and a sariclad Indian woman, Doug watched Remo fight his way through the crowd.

When the doors closed, he grinned and gave the frustrated man outside a half salute. “Let’s find a seat,” he
said to Whitney. “There’s nothing like public transportation.”

She said nothing as they worked their way through the car, and still nothing when they found a space nearly big enough for both of them. Doug was too busy alternately cursing and blessing his luck to notice. In the end, he grinned at his own reflection in the glass to his left.

“Well, the sonofabitch might’ve found us, but he’s going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to Dimitri about losing us again.” Satisfied, he draped his arm over the back of the bright orange seat. “How’d you spot them anyway?” he asked absently while he plotted out his next move. Money, passport, and airport, in that order, though he had to fit in a quick trip to the library. If Dimitri and his hounds showed up in Madagascar, they’d just lose them again. He was on a roll. “You’ve got a sharp eye, sugar,” he told her. “We’d’ve been in a bad way if there’d been a welcoming committee back in the hotel room.”

Adrenaline had carried her through the streets. The need to survive had driven her hard and fast until the moment she’d sat down. Drained, Whitney turned her head and stared at his profile. “They killed Juan.”

“What?” Distracted, he glanced over. For the first time he noticed that her skin was bloodless and her eyes blank. “Juan?” Doug drew her closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The waiter? What’re you talking about?”

“He was dead in your room when I went back. There was a man waiting.”

“What man?” Doug demanded. “What’d he look like?”

“His eyes were like sand. He had a scar down his cheek, a long, jagged scar.”

“Butrain,” Doug mumbled. Some of Dimitri’s excess slime and as mean as they came. He tightened his grip on Whitney’s shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”

Her eyes, dark as aged whiskey, focused on his again. “I think I killed him.”

“What?” he stared at the elegant, fine-boned face. “You killed Butrain? How?”

“With a fork.”

“You—” Doug stopped, sat back, and tried to take it in. If she hadn’t been looking at him with big, devastated eyes, if her hand hadn’t been like ice, he’d have laughed out loud. “You’re telling me you did in one of Dimitri’s apes with a fork?”

“I didn’t stop to take his pulse.” The train pulled up at the next stop and, unable to sit still, Whitney rose and pushed her way off. Swearing and struggling through bodies, Doug caught up with her on the platform.

“Okay, okay, you’d better tell me the whole thing.”

“The whole thing?” Abruptly enraged, she turned on him. “You want to hear the whole thing? The whole bloody thing? I walk back into the room and there’s that poor, harmless boy dead, blood all over his starched white coat, and some creep with a face like a road map’s holding a gun to my throat.”

Her voice had risen so that passersby turned to listen or to stare.

“Keep it down,” Doug muttered, dragging her toward another train. They’d ride, it didn’t matter where, until she was calm and he had a more workable plan.

“You keep it down,” she shot back. “You got me into this.”

“Look, honey, you can take a walk any time you want.”

“Sure, and end up with my throat slit by someone who’s after you and those damn papers.”

The truth left him little defense. Shoving her down into a corner seat, he squeezed in beside her. “Okay, so you’re stuck with me,” he said under his breath. “Here’s a news flash—listening to you whine about it gets on my nerves.”

“I’m not whining.” She turned to him with eyes suddenly drenched and vulnerable. “That boy’s dead.”

Anger drained and guilt flared. Not knowing what else to do, he put his arm around her. He wasn’t used to comforting women. “You can’t let it get to you. You’re not responsible.”

Tired, she let her head rest on his shoulder. “Is that how you get through life, Doug, by not being responsible?”

Curling his fingers into her hair, he watched their blurred twin images in the glass. “Yeah.”

They lapsed into silence with both of them wondering if he was telling the truth.

She had to snap out of it. Doug shifted in his first-class seat and wished he knew how to shake the grief out of her. He thought he understood wealthy women. He’d worked for—and on—plenty of them. It was just as true, he supposed, that plenty of them had worked on him. The trouble was, had always been, that he invariably fell just a little bit in love with any woman he spent more than two hours with. They were so, well, feminine, he decided. Nobody could sound more sincere than a soft-smelling, soft-skinned woman. But he’d learned through experience that women with big bank accounts generally had hearts of pure plastic. The minute you were about ready to forget the diamond earrings in favor of a more meaningful relationship, they dumped all over you.

Callousness. He thought that was the worst failing of the rich. The kind of callousness that made them step all over people with the nonchalance of a child stomping on a beetle. For recreation, he’d choose a waitress with an easy laugh. But when it was business, Doug went straight to the bank balance. A woman with a hefty one was an invaluable cover. You could get through a lot of locked doors with a rich woman on your arm. They came in varieties,
certainly, but generally could be slapped with a few basic labels. Bored, vicious, cold, or silly came to mind. Whitney didn’t seem to qualify for any one of those labels. How many people would have remembered the name of a waiter, much less mourned for him?

They were on their way to Paris out of Dulles International. Enough of a detour, he hoped, to throw Dimitri off the scent. If it bought him a day, a few hours, he’d use it. He knew, as anyone in the business knew, of Dimitri’s reputation for dealing with those who attempted to cross him. A traditional man, Dimitri preferred traditional methods. Men like Nero would have appreciated Dimitri’s flare for slow, innovative torture. There had been murmurs about a basement room in Dimitri’s Connecticut estate. Supposedly it was filled with antiques—the sort from the Spanish Inquisition. Rumor had it that there was a top-grade studio as well. Lights, camera, action. Dimitri was credited with enjoying replays of his more gruesome work. Doug wasn’t going to find himself in the spotlight in one of Dimitri’s performances, nor was he going to believe the myth that Dimitri was omnipotent. He was just a man, Doug told himself. Flesh and blood. But even at thirty thousand feet, Doug had the uneasy sensation of a fly being toyed with by a spider.

Taking another drink, he pushed that thought aside. One step at a time. That’s how he’d play it, and that’s how he’d survive.

If he’d had the time, Doug would have taken Whitney to the Hotel de Crillon for a couple of days. It was the only place he stayed in Paris. There were cities he’d settle for a motel with a cot, and cities where he wouldn’t sleep at all. But Paris. His luck had always held in Paris.

He made it a point to arrange a trip twice a year, for no other reason than the food. As far as Doug was concerned no one cooked better than the French, or those educated
in France. Because of that, he had managed to bluff his way into several courses. He’d learned the French way, the
correct
way, to prepare an omelette at the Cordon Bleu. Of course, he kept a low profile on that particular interest. If word got out that he’d worn an apron and whisked eggs, he’d lose his reputation on the streets. Besides, it would be embarrassing. So he always covered his trips to Paris for cooking interests with business.

A couple of years back, he’d stayed there for a week, playing the wealthy playboy and riffling the rooms of the rich. Doug remembered he’d hocked a very good sapphire necklace and paid his bill in full. You never knew when you’d want to go back.

But there wasn’t time on this trip for a quick course in soufflés or a handy piece of burglary. There would be no sitting still in one place until the game was over. Normally he preferred it that way—the chase, the hunt. The game itself was more exciting than the winning. Doug had learned that after his first big job. There’d been the tension and pressure of planning, the rippling thrill and half terror of execution, then the rushing excitement of success. After that, it was simply another job finished. You looked for the next. And the next.

If he’d listened to his high-school counselor, he’d probably be a very successful lawyer right now. He’d had the brains and the glib tongue. Doug sipped smooth scotch and was grateful he hadn’t listened.

Imagine, Douglas Lord, Esquire, with a desk piled with papers and luncheon meetings three days a week. Was that any way to live? He skimmed another page of the book he’d stolen from a Washington library before they’d left. No, a profession that kept you in an office owned you, not the other way around. So, his IQ topped his weight, he’d rather use his talents for something satisfying.

At the moment, it was reading about Madagascar, its
history, its topography, its culture. By the time he finished this book, he’d know everything he needed to know. There were two other volumes in his case he’d save for later. One was a history of missing gems, the other a long, detailed history of the French Revolution. Before he found the treasure, he’d be able to see it, and to understand it. If the papers he’d read were fact, he had pretty Marie Antoinette and her penchant for opulence and intrigue to thank for an early retirement. The Mirror of Portugal diamond, the Blue Diamond, the Sancy—all fifty-four carats of it. Yeah, French royalty had had great taste. Good old Marie hadn’t rocked tradition. Doug was grateful for it. And for the aristocrats who had fled their country guarding the crown jewels with their lives, holding them in secret until the royal family might rule France again.…

He wouldn’t find the Sancy in Madagascar. Doug was in the business and knew the rock was now in the Astor family. But the possibilities were endless. The Mirror and the Blue had dropped out of sight centuries before. So had other gems. The Diamond Necklace Affair—the straw that had broken the peasants’ back—was riddled with theory, myth, and speculation. Just what had become of the necklace that had ultimately insured Marie of not having a neck to wear it on?

Doug believed in fate, in destiny, and just plain luck. Before it was over, he was going to be knee-deep in sparkles—royal sparkles. And screw Dimitri.

In the meantime, he wanted to learn all he could about Madagascar. He was going far off his own turf—but so was Dimitri. If Doug could beat his adversary in anything, he prided himself on being able to top him in intelligent research. He read page after page and tallied fact after fact. He’d find his way around the little island in the Indian Ocean the same way he went from East-Side to West-Side Manhattan. He had to.

Satisfied, he set the book aside. They’d been at cruising altitude for two hours. Long enough, Doug decided, for Whitney to brood in silence.

“Okay, knock it off.”

She turned and gave him a long, neutral look. “I beg your pardon?”

She did it well, Doug reflected. The ice-bitch routine peculiar to women with money or guts. Of course, he was learning that Whitney had both. “I said knock it off. I can’t stand a pouter.”

“A pouter?”

Because her eyes were slits and she’d hissed the words, he was satisfied. If he made her angry, she’d snap out of it all the quicker. “Yeah. I’m not crazy about a woman who runs her mouth a mile a minute, but we should be able to come up with something in between.”

“Should we? How lovely that you have such definite requirements.” She took a cigarette from the pack he’d tossed on the arm between them and lit it. He’d never known the gesture could be so haughty. It helped amuse him.

“Let me give you lesson one before we go any further, sweetie.”

Deliberately, and with a quiet kind of venom, Whitney blew smoke in his face. “Please do.”

Because he recognized pain when he saw it, he gave her another minute. Then his voice was flat and final. “It’s a game.” He took the cigarette from her fingers and drew on it. “It’s always a game, but you go into it knowing there are penalties.”

She stared at him. “Is that what you consider Juan? A penalty?”

“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he told her, unknowingly echoing Butrain’s words. But she heard something else. Regret? Remorse? Though she couldn’t
be sure, it was something. She held on to it. “We can’t go back and change what happened, Whitney. So we go on.”

She picked up her neglected drink. “Is that what you do best? Go on?”

“If you want to win. When you have to win, you can’t look back very often. Tearing yourself up over this isn’t going to change anything. We’re one step ahead of Dimitri, maybe two. We’ve got to stay that way because it’s a game, but you play it for keeps. If we don’t stay ahead, we’re dead.” As he spoke, he laid a hand over hers, not for comfort, but to see if it was steady. “If you can’t take it, you’d better think about backing off now because we’ve got a hell of a long way to go.”