by Nora Roberts
Doug folded his arms behind his head and leaned back on the headboard. Maybe desire was eating a hole in his stomach, or maybe it was just hunger. Maybe it was both. “Let’s have it in bed.”
Whitney gave her opinion of his suggestion by ignoring it. “Good morning,” she said brightly to the waiter as he wheeled in the tray.
“Good morning, Ms. MacAllister.” The young, square-built Puerto Rican didn’t even glance at Doug. His eyes were all for Whitney. With considerable charm, he handed her a pink rosebud.
“Why, thank you, Juan. It’s lovely.”
“I thought you’d like it.” He flashed her a quick grin, showing a mouthful of strong, even teeth. “I hope your breakfast’s okay. I brought up the toiletries and the paper you asked for.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Juan.” She smiled at the dark stud of a waiter, Doug noted, with a lot more sweetness than she’d bothered to show him. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
“Oh, no, never for you, Ms. MacAllister.”
Behind the waiter’s back, Doug silently mimicked his words and soulful expression. Whitney only arched a brow, then signed the check with a flourish. “Thank you, Juan.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a twenty. “You’ve been a big help.”
“A pleasure, Ms. MacAllister. You just call me if there’s anything else I can do.” The twenty disappeared into his pocket with the speed and discretion of long practice. “Enjoy your breakfast.” Still smiling, he backed his way out the door.
“You love them to grovel, don’t you?”
Whitney turned a cup right side up and poured coffee. Casually, she waved the rosebud under her nose. “Put some pants on and come eat.”
“And you were damn generous with the little bit of cash we’ve got.” She said nothing, but he saw she was drawing out her little notepad. “Just hold on, it was you overtipped the waiter, not me.”
“He got you a razor and a toothbrush,” she said mildly. “We’ll split the tip because your hygiene’s of some concern to me at the moment.”
“That’s big of you,” he grumbled. Then, because he wanted to see just how far he could push her, he climbed slowly out of bed.
She didn’t gasp, she didn’t flinch, she didn’t blush. She merely gave him one long, measuring survey. The white bandage on his arm was a stark contrast against his dark-toned skin. God, he had a beautiful body, she thought as her pulse began a slow, dull thud. Lean, sleek, and subtly muscled. Naked, unshaven, half-smiling, he looked more dangerous and more appealing than any man she’d ever come across. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
Without taking her eyes from him, Whitney lifted her coffee cup. “Stop bragging, Douglas,” she said mildly, “and put your pants on. Your eggs are getting cold.”
Damn, she was a cool one, he thought as he grabbed up his jeans. Just once, he was going to see her sweat. Flopping down in the chair across from her, Doug began to stuff himself with hot eggs and crisp bacon. At the moment, he was too hungry to calculate what the luxury of room service was costing him. Once he found the treasure, he could buy his own damn hotel.
“Just who are you, Whitney MacAllister?” he demanded over a full mouth.
She added a dash of pepper to her own eggs. “In what way?”
He grinned, pleased that she wouldn’t give easy answers. “Where do you come from?”
“Richmond, Virginia,” she said, lapsing so quickly into a smooth Virginia accent one would’ve sworn she’d had one all along. “My family’s still there, on the plantation.”
“Why’d you move to New York?”
“Because it’s fast.”
He reached for toast, scrutinizing the basket of jellies. “What do you do there?”
“Whatever I like.”
He looked into her sultry, whiskey-colored eyes and believed it. “Do you have a job?”
“No, I have a profession.” She lifted a piece of bacon between her fingers and nibbled. “I’m an interior designer.”
He remembered her apartment, the feeling of elegance, the melding of colors, the uniqueness. “A decorator,” he mused. “You’d be a good one.”
“Naturally. And you?” She poured them both more coffee. “What do you do?”
“A lot of things.” He reached for the cream, watching her. “Mostly I’m a thief.”
She remembered the ease with which he had stolen the Porsche. “You’d be a good one.”
He laughed, enjoying her. “Naturally.”
“This puzzle you mentioned. The papers.” She tore a piece of toast in two. “Are you going to show them to me?”
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How do I know you have them? How do I know that if you do have them they’re worth my time, not to mention my money?”
He seemed to consider a moment, then offered her the basket of jellies. “Faith?”
She chose strawberry preserves and spread them on generously. “Let’s try not to be ridiculous. How’d you get them?”
“I—acquired them.”
Biting into the toast, she watched him over it. “Stole them.”
“Yeah.”
“From the men who were chasing you?”
“For the man they work for,” Doug corrected her. “Dimitri. Unfortunately, he was going to double-cross me, so all bets were called off. Possession’s nine-tenths of the law.”
“I suppose.” She considered for a moment the fact that she was breakfasting with a thief who was in possession of a mysterious puzzle. She supposed she’d done more unusual things in her life. “All right, let’s try this. What form is this puzzle in?”
Doug considered giving her another nonanswer, then caught the look in her eyes. Cool, unflappable determination. He’d better give her something, at least until he had the passport and a ticket. “I’ve got papers, documents, letters. I told you it went back a couple hundred years. There’s enough information in the papers I have to lead me right to the pot of gold, a pot of gold nobody even knows is there.” When another thought occurred to him, he frowned at her. “You speak French?”
“Of course,” she said, and smiled. “So some of the puzzle’s in French.” When he said nothing she steered him back again. “Why doesn’t anyone know about your pot of gold?”
“Anyone who did is dead.”
She didn’t like the way he said it, but she wasn’t about to back off now. “How do you know it’s genuine?”
His eyes became intense, the way they could when you least expected it. “I feel it.”
“And who’s this man who’s after you?”
“Dimitri? He’s a first-class businessman—bad business. He’s smart, he’s mean, he’s the kind of guy who knows the Latin name for the bug he’s picking the wings off. If he wants the papers, they’re worth a hell of a lot. One hell of a lot.”
“I guess we’ll find that out in Madagascar.” She picked up the New York Times Juan had delivered. She didn’t like the way Doug had described the man who was after him. The best way to avoid thinking about it was to think of something else. Opening the paper she caught her breath, then let it out again. “Oh, shit.”
Intent on finishing his eggs, Doug gave her an absent “Hmmm?”
“I’m in for it now,” she predicted, rising and tossing the open paper onto his plate.
“Hey, I’m not finished.” Before he could push the paper aside, he saw Whitney’s picture smiling up at him. Above the picture was a splash of headline.
ICE-CREAM HEIRESS MISSING
“Ice-cream heiress,” Doug muttered, skimming down to the text before he fully took it in. “Ice cream …” His mouth fell open as he dropped the paper. “MacAllister’s ice cream? That’s you?”
“Indirectly,” Whitney told him, pacing the room as she tried to work out the best plan. “It’s my father.”
“MacAllister’s ice cream,” Doug repeated. “Sonofabitch. He makes the best damn fudge ripple in the country.”
“Of course.”
It hit him then that she wasn’t just a classy decorator but the daughter of one of the richest men in the country. She was worth millions. Millions. And if he was caught with her, he’d be up on kidnapping charges before he could ask for his court appointed lawyer. Twenty years to life, he thought, dragging a hand through his hair. Doug Lord sure knew how to pick ’em.
“Look, sugar, this changes things.”
“It certainly does,” she muttered. “Now I have to call Daddy. Oh, and Uncle Maxie, too.”
“Yeah.” He scooped up the last forkful of eggs, deciding he’d better eat while he had the chance. “Why don’t you figure out my bill, and we’ll—”
“Daddy is going to think I’m being held for ransom or something.”
“Exactly.” He grabbed the last piece of toast. Since she’d figure out a way for him to pay for the meal, he might as well enjoy it. “And I don’t want to end up with a cop’s bullet in my head either.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Whitney dismissed him with a wave of the hand while she refined her plan of approach. “I’ll get around Daddy,” she murmured. “I’ve been doing it for years. I should be able to get him to wire me some money while I’m at it.”
“Cash?”
She shot him a long, appraising look. “That certainly got your attention.”
He set the toast aside. “Look, gorgeous, if you know how to get around your old man, who’m I to argue? And, while the plastic’s nice, and the cash you can get with the plastic’s nice, a little extra of the green stuff would help me sleep a lot easier.”
“I’ll take care of it.” She walked to the connecting doors, then paused. “You really could use a shower and a shave, Douglas, before we go shopping.”
He stopped in the act of rubbing his chin. “Shopping?”
“I’m not going to Madagascar with one blouse and one pair of slacks. And I’m certainly not going anywhere with you wearing a shirt with only one sleeve. We’ll do something about your wardrobe.”
“I can pick out my own shirts.”
“After seeing that fascinating jacket you had on when we met, I have my doubts.” With this, she closed the door between them.
“It was a disguise,” he yelled at her, then stormed off toward the bathroom. Damn woman always had to have the last word.
But he had to admit, she had taste. After a two-hour shopping whirlwind, he was carrying more packages than he cared to, but the cut of his shirt helped conceal the slight bulge of the envelope that was again strapped to his chest. And he liked the way the loose linen felt against his skin. The same way he liked the way Whitney’s hips moved under the thin white dress. Still, there was no use being too agreeable.
“What the hell am I going to do with a suit tramping around in a forest in Madagascar?”
She glanced over and adjusted the collar of his shirt. He’d fussed about wearing baby blue, but Whitney reaffirmed her opinion that it was an excellent color for him. Oddly enough, he looked as though he’d been born wearing tailored slacks. “When one travels, one should be prepared for anything.”
“I don’t know how much walking we’re going to have to do, sugar, but I’ll tell you this. You’re carrying your own gear.”
She tipped down her new signature sunglasses. “A gentleman to the last.”
“You bet.” He stopped beside a drugstore and shifted the packages under one arm. “Look, I need some things in here. Give me a twenty.” When she only lifted a brow, he swore. “Come on, Whitney, you’re going to mark it down in your damn account book anyway. I feel naked without any cash.”
She gave him a sweet smile as she reached in her purse. “It didn’t bother you to be naked this morning.”
Her lack of reaction to his body still irked. He plucked the bill from her hand. “Yeah, we’ll take that up again sometime. I’ll meet you upstairs in ten minutes.”
Pleased with herself, Whitney crossed to the hotel and breezed through the lobby. She was having more fun annoying Doug Lord than she’d had in months. She shifted the smart leather tote she’d bought to her other hand and pushed the button for her floor.
Things were looking good, she decided. Her father had been relieved that she was safe and not displeased that she was leaving the country again. Laughing to herself, Whitney leaned back against the wall. She supposed she had given him a few bad moments in the past twenty-eight years, but she was just made that way. In any case, she’d spun fact and fiction together until her father had been satisfied. With the thousand dollars he was wiring to Uncle Maxie that afternoon, she and Doug would be on solid ground before they took off for Madagascar.
Even the name appealed to her. Madagascar, she mused as she strolled down the hall toward her room. Exotic, new, unique. Orchids and lush greens. She wanted to see it all, experience it, as much as she wanted to believe the puzzle Doug talked about led to that pot of gold.
It wasn’t the gold itself that drew her. She was too accustomed to wealth to have her heartbeat quicken at the thought of more. It was the thrill of looking, of finding, that attracted her. Oddly enough, she understood better than Doug that he felt the same.
She was going to have to learn a great deal more about him, she decided. From the way he’d discussed cut and material with the salesclerk, he wasn’t a stranger to the finer things. He could’ve passed for one of the casually rich in a classic-cut linen shirt—unless you looked at his eyes. Really looked. Nothing casual there, Whitney thought. They were restless, wary, and hungry. If they were going to be partners, she had to find out why.
As she unlocked her door, it occurred to her that she had a few minutes alone, and that maybe, just maybe, Doug had stashed the papers in his room. She was putting up the money, Whitney told herself. She had every right to see what she was financing. Still, she moved quietly, keeping an ear out for Doug’s return as she crossed to the connecting doors. She caught her breath, then with a hand to her heart, laughed.
“Juan, you scared me to death.” She stepped inside, looking beyond where the young waiter sat to the still-littered table. “Did you come to pick up the breakfast dishes?” She didn’t have to put off her quick search because of him, she decided and began to poke through Doug’s dresser. “Is the hotel busy this time of year?” she asked conversationally. “It’s cherry-blossom time, isn’t it? That always brings in the tourists.”
Frustrated that the dresser was empty, she scanned the room. Maybe the closet. “What time does the maid usually come in, Juan? I could use some extra towels.” When he continued to stare silently at her she frowned. “You don’t look well,” she told him. “They work you too hard. Maybe you should …” She touched a hand to his shoulder and slowly, bonelessly, he slumped to her feet, leaving a smear of blood on the back of the chair.
She didn’t scream because her brain and her vocal cords had frozen. Eyes wide, mouth working, she backed up. She’d never seen death before, never smelled it, but she recognized it. Before she could run from it, a hand clamped over her arm.
“Very pretty.”
The man whose face was inches from hers held a gun under her chin. One cheek was badly scarred, jagged, as from a broken bottle or a blade. Both his hair and his eyes were the color of sand. The barrel of the gun was like ice on her skin. Grinning, he skimmed the gun down her throat.
“Where’s Lord?”
Her gaze darted down to the crumpled body inches away from her feet. She could see the red stain spread over the white back of his jacket. Juan would be no help, and he’d never spend the twenty-dollar tip she’d given him only hours before. If she wasn’t careful, very, very careful, she’d end up the same way.
“I asked you about Lord.” The gun pushed her chin up a little higher.
“I lost him,” she said, thinking fast. “I wanted to get back here and find the papers.”
“Double-cross.” He toyed with the ends of her hair and made her stomach roll. “Smart too.” The fingers tightened, jerking her head back. “When’s he coming
back?”
“I don’t know.” She winced at the pain and struggled to keep her mind clear. “Fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour.” Any minute, she thought desperately. He could walk in any minute and then they both would be dead. Another glance at the body sprawled at her feet and her eyes filled. Whitney swallowed hard, knowing she couldn’t afford tears. “Why did you kill Juan?”
“Wrong place at the wrong time,” he said with a grin. “Just like you, pretty lady.”
“Listen …” It wasn’t difficult to keep her voice low, if she’d tried to speak above a whisper her teeth would have chattered. “I don’t have any allegiance to Lord. If you and I could find the papers, then …” She let the sentence trail off, moistening her lips with her tongue. He watched the gesture before he ran his gaze down her body.
“Not much tit,” he said with a sneer, then stepped back, gesturing with the gun. “Maybe I should see more of what you’re offering.”
She toyed with the top button of her blouse. She’d gotten his mind off killing her for the moment, but this wasn’t much of a bargain. Inching back as she moved to the next button, she felt her hips bump into the table. As if to steady herself, she rested a palm on it, keeping her gaze on his sand-colored eyes. She felt cool stainless steel brush her fingertips.
“Maybe you should help me,” she whispered and forced herself to smile.
He inclined his head as he set the gun on the dresser. “Maybe I should.” Then his hands were on her hips, moving slowly up her body. Whitney gripped the handle in her fist and plunged the fork into the side of his throat.
Blood spurting, squealing like a pig, he jumped back. As he reached for the handle himself, she picked up the leather tote and swung it with all the force she had. She didn’t look to see how deep she’d driven the prongs into him. She ran.
In high good humor after a brief flirtation with the checkout girl, Doug started to swing into the lobby. Running full steam, Whitney barreled into him.
He juggled tottering packages. “What the hell—”