by Nora Roberts
“Outside, Lord. Mr. Dimitri’s upset that you didn’t keep your appointment.”
“Yeah?” Casually, he swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Thought I’d have a couple of drinks first, Remo—must’ve lost track of time.”
The barrel dug into his ribs again. “Mr. Dimitri likes his employees to be prompt.”
Doug downed the whiskey, watching in the mirror behind the bar as the two other men took position behind him. Already the blonde was backing off to look for an easier mark. “Am I fired?” He poured another glass and figured the odds. Three to one—they were armed, he wasn’t. But then, of the three of them, only Remo had what could pass for a brain.
“Mr. Dimitri likes to fire his employees in person.” Remo grinned and showed perfectly capped teeth under a pencil-thin moustache. “And he wants to give you real special attention.”
“Okay.” Doug placed one hand on the whiskey bottle, the other on the glass. “How about a drink first?”
“Mr. Dimitri doesn’t like drinking on the job. And you’re late, Lord. Real late.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s a shame to waste good booze.” Whirling, he tossed the whiskey into Remo’s eyes and swung the bottle into the face of the suited man at his right. With the impetus of the swing, he ran headlong into the third man so that they fell backward onto the dessert display. Chocolate soufflé and rich French cream flew in a symphony of high-caloric rain. Wrapped around each other like lovers, they rolled into the lemon torte. “Terrible waste,” Doug muttered and pushed a handful of strawberry mousse into the other man’s face. Knowing the element of surprise would wear out quickly, Doug used the most expeditious means of defense. He brought his knee up hard between his opponent’s legs. Then he ran.
“Put it on Dimitri’s tab,” he called out as he pushed his way through tables and chairs. On impulse, he grabbed a waiter, then shoved him and his loaded tray in Remo’s direction. Roast squab flew like a bullet. With one hand on the brass rail, he leapt over and scrambled for the door. He left the chaos behind him and broke into the street.
He’d bought some time, but they’d be behind him again. And this time, they’d be mean. Doug headed uptown on foot, wondering why the hell you could never find a cab when you needed one.
Traffic was light on the Long Island Expressway as Whitney headed into town. Her flight from Paris had landed at Kennedy an hour behind schedule. The back seat and trunk of her little Mercedes were crammed with luggage. The radio was turned up high so that the gritty strains of Springsteen’s latest hit could ricochet through the car and out the open window. The two-week trip to France had been a gift to herself for finally working up the courage to break off her engagement to Tad Carlyse IV.
No matter how pleased her parents had been, she just couldn’t marry a man who color-coordinated his socks and ties.
Whitney began to sing harmony with Springsteen as she tooled around a slower-moving compact. She was twenty-eight, attractive, moderately successful in her own career while having enough family money to back her up if things got really tough. She was accustomed to affluence and deference. She’d never had to demand either one, only expect them. She enjoyed being able to slip into one of New York’s posher clubs late at night and find it filled with people she knew.
She didn’t mind if the paparazzi snapped her or if the gossip columns speculated on what her latest outrage would be. She’d often explained to her frustrated father that she wasn’t outrageous by design, but by nature.
She liked fast cars, old movies, and Italian boots.
At the moment, she was wondering if she should go home or drop in at Elaine’s and see who’d been up to what in the past two weeks. She didn’t feel jet lag, but a trace of boredom. More than a trace, she admitted. She was nearly smothered with it. The question was what to do about it.
Whitney was the product of new money, big money. She’d grown up with the world at her fingertips, but she hadn’t always found it interesting enough to reach for. Where was the challenge? she wondered. Where was the—she hated to use the word—purpose? Her circle of friends was wide, and from the outside appeared to be diverse. But once you got in, once you really saw beneath the silk dresses or chinos, there was a sameness to these young, urbane, wealthy, pampered people. Where was the thrill? That was better, she thought. Thrill was an easier word to deal with than purpose. It wasn’t a thrill to jet to Aruba if you only had to pick up the phone to arrange it.
Her two weeks in Paris had been quiet and soothing—and uneventful. Uneventful. Maybe that was the crux. She wanted something—something more than she could pay for with a check or credit card. She wanted action. Whitney also understood herself well enough to know she could be dangerous in this kind of mood.
But she wasn’t in the mood to go home, alone, and unpack. Then again, she wasn’t feeling much like a club crowded with familiar faces. She wanted something new, something different. She could try one of the new clubs that were always popping up. If she liked, she could have a couple of drinks and make conversation. Then, if the club interested her enough, she could drop a few words in the right places and make it the newest hot spot in Manhattan. The fact that she had the power to do so didn’t astonish her, or even particularly please her. It simply was.
Whitney squealed to a halt at a red light to give herself time to make up her mind. It seemed like nothing was happening in her life lately. There wasn’t any excitement, any, well, zing.
She was more surprised than alarmed when her passenger door was yanked open. One look at the black zippered jacket and wraparound glasses of the hitchhiker had her shaking her head. “You aren’t keeping up with fashion trends,” she told him.
Doug shot a look over his shoulder. The street was clear, but it wouldn’t be for long. He jumped in and slammed the door. “Drive.”
“Forget it. I don’t drive around with guys who wear last year’s clothes. Take a walk.”
Doug stuck his hand in his pocket, using his forefinger to simulate the barrel of a gun. “Drive,” he repeated.
She looked at his pocket, then back at his face. On the radio the disk jockey announced a full hour of blasts from the past. Vintage Stones began to pour out. “If there’s a gun in there, I want to see it. Otherwise, take off.”
Of all the cars he could’ve picked … Why the hell wasn’t she shaking and pleading like any normal person would’ve done? “Dammit, I don’t want to have to use this, but if you don’t throw this thing in gear and get moving, I’m going to have to put a hole in you.”
Whitney stared at her own reflection in his glasses. Mick Jagger was demanding that someone give him shelter. “Bullshit,” she said, her diction exquisite.
Doug gave a moment’s consideration to knocking her cold, dumping her out, and taking the car. Another glance over his shoulder showed him there wasn’t much time to waste.
“Look, lady, if you don’t get moving, there’re three men in that Lincoln coming up behind us that’ll do a lot of damage to your toy here.”
She looked in the rearview mirror and saw the big, black car slowing down as it approached. “My father had a car like that once,” she commented. “I always called it his funeral car.”
“Yeah—get it in gear or it’s going to be my funeral.”
Whitney frowned, watching the Lincoln in her rear-view mirror, then impulsively decided to see what would happen next. She threw the car into first and zipped across the intersection. The Lincoln immediately picked up the pace. “They’re following.”
“Of course they’re following,” Doug spat out. “And if you don’t step on it, they’re going to crawl into the back seat and shake hands.”
Mostly out of curiosity, Whitney punched the gas and turned down Fifty-seventh. The Lincoln stayed with her. “They’re really following,” she said again, but with a grin of excitement.
“Can’t this thing go any faster?”
She turned the grin on him. “Are you kidding?” Before he could respond, she gunned the engine
and was off like a shot. This was definitely the most interesting way to spend the evening she could imagine. “Think I can lose them?” Whitney looked behind her, craning her neck to see if the Lincoln was still following. “Ever see Bullitt? Of course, we don’t have any of those nifty hills, but—”
“Hey, watch it!”
Whitney turned back around and, whipping the wheel, skimmed around a slower-moving sedan.
“Look.” Doug gritted his teeth. “The whole purpose of this is to stay alive. You watch the road, I’ll watch the Lincoln.”
“Don’t be so snotty.” Whitney careened around the next corner. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Look where you’re going!” Doug grabbed the wheel, yanking it so that the fender missed a car parked at the curb. “Damn idiot woman.”
Whitney lifted her chin. “If you’re going to be insulting, you’ll just have to get out.” Slowing down, she swung toward the curb.
“For God’s sake don’t stop.”
“I don’t tolerate insults. Now—”
“Down!” Doug hauled her sideways and pulled her down to the seat just before the windshield exploded into spiderweb cracks.
“My car!” She struggled to sit up, but only managed to twist her head to survey the damage. “Goddamn it, it didn’t have a scratch on it. I’ve only had it for two months.”
“It’s going to have a lot more than a scratch if you don’t step on the gas and keep going.” From his crouched position, Doug twisted the wheel toward the street and peered cautiously over the dash. “Now!”
Infuriated, Whitney stepped hard on the accelerator, moving blindly into the street while Doug held on to the wheel with one hand and held her down with the other.
“I can’t drive this way.”
“You can’t drive with a bullet in your head either.”
“A bullet?” Her voice didn’t crack with fear, but vibrated with annoyance. “They’re shooting at us?”
“They ain’t throwing rocks.” Tightening his grip, he spun the wheel so that the car bumped into the curb and around the next corner. Frustrated that he couldn’t take the controls himself, he took a cautious look behind. The Lincoln was still there, but they’d gained a few seconds. “Okay, sit up, but keep low. And for Chrissake keep moving.”
“How’m I supposed to explain this to the insurance company?” Whitney poked up her head and tried to find a clear spot in the broken windshield. “They’re never going to believe someone was shooting at me and I’ve already got a filthy record. Do you know what my rates are?”
“The way you drive, I can imagine.”
“Well, I’ve had enough.” Setting her jaw, Whitney turned left.
“This is a one-way street.” He looked around helplessly. “Didn’t you see the sign?”
“I know it’s a one-way street,” she muttered and pressed harder on the gas. “It’s also the quickest way across town.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Doug watched the headlights bearing down on them. Automatically he gripped the door handle and braced for the impact. If he was going to die, he thought fatalistically, he’d rather be shot, nice and clean through the heart, than be spread all over a street in Manhattan.
Ignoring the screams of horns, Whitney jerked the car to the right, then to the left. Fools and small animals, Doug thought as they breezed between two oncoming cars. God looked out for fools and small animals. He could only be grateful he was with a fool.
“They’re still coming.” Doug turned in the seat to watch the progress of the Lincoln. Somehow it was easier if he didn’t watch where he was going. They bounced from side to side as she maneuvered between cars, then with a force that threw him against the door, she turned another corner. Doug swore and grabbed for the wound on his arm. Pain began again with a low, insistent thud. “Stop trying to kill us, will you? They don’t need any help.”
“Always complaining,” Whitney tossed back. “Let me tell you something, you’re not a real fun guy.”
“I tend to get moody when somebody’s trying to kill me.”
“Well, try to lighten up a bit,” Whitney suggested. She barreled around the next corner, skimming the curb. “You’re making me nervous.”
Doug flopped back in his seat and wondered why, with all the possibilities, it had to end this way—smashed into unrecognizable pulp in some crazy woman’s Mercedes. He could’ve gone quietly with Remo and had Dimitri murder him with some ritual. There’d have been more justice in that.
They were on Fifth again, moving south at what Doug saw was better than ninety. As they went through a puddle, water slushed up as far as the window. Even now, the Lincoln was less than a half block behind. “Dammit. They just won’t shake lose.”
“Oh yeah?” Whitney set her teeth and gave the mirror a quick check. She’d never been a gracious loser. “Watch this.” Before Doug could draw a breath, she whipped the Mercedes around in a tight U-turn and headed dead-on for the Lincoln.
He watched with a kind of fascinated dread. “Oh my God.”
Remo, in the passenger seat of the Lincoln, echoed the sentiment just before his driver lost courage and steered toward the curb. The speed took them over it, across the sidewalk, and with an impressive flourish, through the plate-glass window of Godiva Chocolatiers. Without slackening pace, Whitney spun the Mercedes around again and cruised down Fifth.
Dropping back in his seat, Doug let out a series of long, deep breaths. “Lady,” he managed to say, “you got more guts than brains.”
“And you owe me three hundred bucks for the windshield.” Rather sedately, she pulled into the underground parking of a high rise.
“Yeah.” Absently, he patted his chest and torso to see if he was all in one piece. “I’ll send you a check.”
“Cash.” After pulling into her space, Whitney turned off the ignition and hopped out. “Now, you can carry my luggage up.” She popped the trunk before she strolled toward the elevator. Maybe her knees were shaking, but she’d be damned if she’d admit it. “I want a drink.”
Doug looked back toward the entrance of the garage and calculated his chances on the street. Maybe an hour or so inside would give him the chance to outline the best plan. And, he supposed, he owed her. He started to haul out the luggage.
“There’s more in the back.”
“I’ll get it later.” He slung a garment bag over his shoulder and hoisted two cases. Gucci, he noted with a smirk. And she was bitching about a lousy three hundred.
Doug walked into the elevator and dumped the two cases unceremoniously on the floor. “Been on a trip?”
Whitney punched the button for the forty-second floor. “A couple of weeks in Paris.”
“Couple of weeks.” Doug glanced at the three bags. And she’d said there were more. “Travel light, do you?”
“I travel,” Whitney said rather grandly, “as I please. Ever been to Europe?”
He grinned, and though the sunglasses hid his eyes, she found the smile appealing. He had a well-shaped mouth and teeth that weren’t quite straight. “Few times.”
They measured each other in silence. It was the first opportunity Doug had had to really look at her. She was taller than he’d expected—though he wasn’t altogether sure just what he’d expected. Her hair was almost completely hidden under an angled white fedora, but what he could see was as pale as the punker’s he’d stopped on the street, though a richer shade. The brim of the hat shaded her face, but he could see a flawless ivory complexion over elegant bones. Her eyes were round, the color of the whiskey he’d downed earlier. Her mouth was naked and unsmiling. She smelled like something soft and silky you wanted to touch in a dark room.
She was what he’d have termed a stunner, though she didn’t appear to have any obvious curves beneath the simple sable jacket and silk slacks. Doug had always preferred the obvious in women. Perhaps the flamboyant. Still, he didn’t find it any real hardship to look at her.
Casually, Whitney reached in her snakeskin bag and drew out her k
eys. “Those glasses are ridiculous.”
“Yeah. Well they served their purpose.” He took them off.
His eyes surprised her. They were very light, very clear, and green. Somehow they were at odds with his face and his coloring—until you noticed how direct they were, and how carefully they watched, as if he were a man who measured everything and everyone.
He hadn’t worried her before. The glasses had made him appear silly and harmless. Now, Whitney had her first stirrings of discomfort. Who the hell was he, and why were men shooting at him?
When the doors slid open, Doug bent to pick up the suitcases. Whitney glanced down and noticed the thin stream of red dripping down his wrist. “You’re bleeding.”
Doug looked down dispassionately. “Yeah. Which way?”
She hesitated only a moment. She could be just as cavalier as he. “To the right. And don’t bleed on those cases.” Breezing past him, she turned the key in the lock.
Through annoyance and pain, Doug noticed she had quite a walk. Slow and loose with an elegant sort of swing. It made him conclude that she was a woman accustomed to being followed by men. Deliberately he came up alongside her. Whitney spared him a glance before she pushed open the door. Then, flicking on the lights, she walked inside and went directly to the bar. She chose a bottle of Remy Martin and poured generous amounts into two glasses.
Impressive, Doug thought as he took stock of her apartment. The carpet was so thick and soft he could be happy sleeping on it. He knew enough to recognize the French influence in her furnishings, but not enough to pin down the period. She’d used deep sapphire blue and mustard yellow to offset the stunning white of the carpet. He could spot an antique when he saw one, and he spotted quite a few in this room. Her romantic taste was as obvious to him as the Monet seascape on the wall. A damn good copy, he decided. If he just had the time to hock it, he could be on his way. It didn’t take more than a cursory glance to make him realize he could fill his zippered pockets with handfuls of her fancy French whatnots to pawn for a first-class ticket that would get him far away from this burg. Trouble was, he didn’t dare deal in any pawnshop in the city. Not now that Dimitri had his tentacles out.