by Nora Roberts
She wouldn’t back off. Pride was the problem, or the blessing. She’d never been able to back off. But what about him? she wondered. What made Douglas Lord run? “Why do you do it?”
He liked the curiosity, the spark. As he settled back he was satisfied she’d gotten over the first hump. “You know, Whitney, it’s a hell of a lot sweeter to win the pot at poker with a pair of deuces than with a flush.” He blew out smoke and grinned. “One hell of a lot sweeter.”
She thought she understood and studied his profile. “You like the odds against you.”
“Long shots pay more.”
She sat back, closed her eyes, and was silent so long he thought she dozed. Instead, Whitney was going back over everything that had happened, step by step. “The restaurant,” she asked abruptly. “How did you pull that off?”
“What restaurant?” He was studying the different tribes of Madagascar in his book and didn’t bother to look up.
“In Washington, when we were running for our lives through the kitchen and that enormous man in white stepped in front of you.”
“You just use the first thing that comes to your mind,” he said easily. “It’s usually the best.”
“It wasn’t just what you said.” Unsatisfied, Whitney shifted in her seat. “One minute you’re a frantic man off the streets, and the next a snooty food critic saying all the right things.”
“Baby, when your life’s on the line, you can be anything.” Then he looked up and grinned. “When you want something bad enough, you can be anything. Usually I like to case a job from the inside. All you have to do is decide if you’re going in the front door or the servants’ entrance.”
Interested, she signaled for another drink for each of them. “Meaning?”
“Okay, take California. Beverly Hills.”
“No, thanks.”
Ignoring her, Doug began to reminisce. “First you have to decide which one of those nifty mansions you want to take. A few discreet questions, a little legwork, and you hone in on one. Now, front door or back? That might depend on my own whim. Getting in the front’s usually easiest.”
“Why?”
“Because money wants references for servants, not from guests. You need a stake, a few thousand. Check into the Wilshire Royal and rent a Mercedes, drop a few names—of people you know are out of town. Once you get into the first party, you’re set.” With a sigh, he drank. “Boy, they do like to wear their bank accounts around their necks in the Hills.”
“And you just walk right in and pluck them off?”
“More or less. The tough part is not to be greedy—and to know who’s wearing rocks and who’s wearing glass. Lot of bullshit in California. Basically, you just have to be a good mimic. Rich people are creatures more of habit than imagination.”
“Thanks.”
“You dress right, make sure you’re seen at the right places—with a few of the right people—and nobody’s going to question your pedigree. The last time I used that routine, I checked into the Wilshire with three thousand dollars. I checked out with thirty grand. I like California.”
“Sounds to me like you can’t go back anytime soon.”
“I’ve been back. I tinted my hair, grew a little moustache, and wore jeans. I pruned Cassie Lawrence’s roses.”
“Cassie Lawrence? The professional piranha who disguises herself as a patron of the arts?”
A perfect description. “You’ve met?”
“Unfortunately. How much did you take her for?”
From the tone, Doug decided Whitney would’ve been pleased he’d had quite a haul. He also decided not to tell her he’d had a breeze casing the inside because Cassie had enjoyed watching him weed her azaleas without a shirt. She’d practically eaten him alive in bed. In return, he’d lifted an ornate ruby necklace and a pair of diamond earrings as big as Ping-Pong balls.
“Enough,” Doug answered at length. “I take it you don’t like her.”
“She has no class.” It was said simply, from a woman who did. “Did you sleep with her?”
He choked on his drink, then set it down carefully. “I don’t think—”
“So you did.” A bit disappointed, Whitney studied him. “I’m surprised I didn’t see the scars.” She studied him another moment, thoughtful, quiet. “Don’t you find that sort of thing demeaning?”
He could’ve strangled her without a qualm. True, there were times he slept with a mark and enjoyed himself—and made certain the mark enjoyed herself as well. Payment for payment. But as a rule, he found using sex as close to ugly as he wanted to get. “A job’s a job,” he said briefly. “Don’t tell me you’ve never slept with a client.”
She lifted a brow at him, the way an amused woman could. “I sleep with whom I choose,” she told him in a tone that stated she chose well.
“Some of us weren’t born with choices.” Opening his book again, he stuck his nose in it and fell silent.
She wasn’t going to make him feel guilty. Guilt was something he avoided more scrupulously than the police or a furious mark. The minute you let guilt start sucking at you, you were finished.
Funny, it didn’t seem to bother her a bit that he stole for a living. It didn’t bother her that he stole particularly from her class. She’d never blinked an eye at that. In fact, it was more than likely that he’d relieved some of her friends of excess personal property. She wasn’t the least concerned.
Just what kind of woman was she anyway? He thought he understood her thirst for adventure, for excitement and taking chances. He’d lived his life on little else. But it didn’t fit those cool, moneyed looks.
No, she hadn’t missed a beat when he’d told her he was a thief, but she’d looked at him with derision, and yes, dammit, pity, when she’d discovered he’d slept with a West-Coast shark for a handful of glitter.
And where had the glitter gotten him? Thinking back, Doug remembered he’d dumped the rocks on a fence in Chicago within twenty-four hours. After a routine haggle over price, a whim had taken him to Puerto Rico. Within three days, Doug had lost all but two thousand in the casinos. What had the glitter gotten him? he thought again, then grinned. One hell of a weekend.
Money just didn’t stick to him. There was always another game, a sure thing at the track or a big-eyed woman with a sob story and a breathy voice. Still, Doug didn’t consider himself a sucker. He was an optimist. He’d been born one and remained one even after more than fifteen years in the business. Otherwise, the kick would have gone out of it and he might as well be a lawyer.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars had passed through his hands. The operative words were passed through. This time would be different. It didn’t matter that he’d said so before, this time would be different. If the treasure was half as big as the papers indicated, he’d be set for life. He’d never have to work again—except for an occasional job to keep in shape.
He’d buy a yacht and sail from port to port. He’d head for the south of France, bake in the sun, and watch women. He’d keep one step ahead of Dimitri for the rest of his life. Because Dimitri, as long as he lived, would never let up. That, too, was part of the game.
But the best part was the doing, the planning, the maneuvering. He’d always found it more exciting to anticipate the taste of champagne than to finish the bottle. Madagascar was only hours away. Once there he could start applying everything he’d been reading along with his own skills and experience.
He’d have to pace himself to keep ahead of Dimitri—but not so far ahead he ran into Dimitri on the other end. The trouble was that he wasn’t sure how much his former employer knew about the contents of the envelope. Too much, he thought, absently touching a hand to his chest where it was still strapped. Dimitri was bound to know plenty because he always did. No one had ever crossed him and lived to enjoy it. Doug knew if he sat still too long he’d feel hot breath on the back of his neck.
He’d just have to play it by ear. Once they were there … He glanced over at Whitney. She was kic
ked back in her seat, eyes closed. In sleep she looked cool and serene and untouchable. Need stirred inside him, the need he’d always had for the untouchable. This time he’d just have to smother it.
It was strictly business between them, Doug mused. All business. Until he could talk her out of some cold cash and gently ditch her along the way. Maybe she’d been more help than he’d anticipated so far, but she was a type he understood. Rich and restless. Sooner or later, she’d become bored with the whole scheme. He had to get the cash before she did.
Certain he would, Doug pressed the button to release his seat back. He shut the book. What he’d read he wouldn’t forget. His gift for recall would have breezed him through law school or any other profession. He was satisfied that it helped in the career he’d chosen. He never needed notes when he cased a job because he didn’t forget. He never hit the same mark twice because names and faces stayed with him.
Money might slip through his fingers but details didn’t. Doug took it philosophically. You could always get more money. Life would be pretty dull if you put it all in stocks and bonds instead of on the wheel or the horses. He was satisfied. Because he knew the next few days would be long and hard, he was even better than satisfied. It was more exciting to find a diamond in a garbage heap than in a display cabinet. He was looking forward to digging.
Whitney slept. It was the movement of the plane beginning its long descent that woke her. Thank God, was her first thought. She was thoroughly sick of planes. If she’d been traveling alone, she’d have taken the Concorde. Under the circumstances, she hadn’t been willing to pick up the extra fare for Doug. His account in her little book was growing, and while she fully intended to collect every penny, she knew he fully intended she wouldn’t.
To look at him now, you’d think he was as sincere as a first-year Boy Scout. She studied him as he slept, his hair mussed from travel, his hands closed over the book on his lap. Anyone would’ve taken him for an ordinary man of some means on his way to a European vacation. That was part of his skill, she decided. The ability to blend in with any group he chose would be invaluable.
Just what group did he belong to? The sleazy, hard-edged members of the underworld who dealt in dark alleys? She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d asked about Butrain. Yes, she was sure he’d seen his share of dark alleys. But belong? No, it didn’t quite fit.
Even in the short time she’d known him she was certain he simply didn’t belong. He was a maverick, perhaps not always wise, but always restless. That was part of the appeal. He was a thief, but she thought he had a certain code of honor. A court might not recognize it, but she did. And respected it.
He wasn’t hard. She’d seen in his eyes when he spoke of Juan that he wasn’t hard. He was a dreamer. She’d seen that in his eyes when he spoke of the treasure. And he was a realist. She’d heard that in his voice when he spoke of Dimitri. A realist knew enough to fear. He was too complex to belong. And yet …
He’d been Cassie Lawrence’s lover. Whitney knew the West-Coast diamond ate men for breakfast. She was also very discriminating about whom she chose to share her sheets. What had Cassie seen? A young, virile man with a hard body? Perhaps that had been enough, but Whitney didn’t think so. Whitney had seen for herself that morning in Washington just how attractive Doug Lord was, from head to foot. And she’d been tempted. By more than his body, she admitted. Style. Doug Lord had his own style, and it was that, she believed, that helped him over the threshold of homes in Beverly Hills or Bel Air.
She’d thought she understood him until he’d been embarrassed by her remark about Cassie. Embarrassed and angry when she’d expected a shrug and an offhand remark. So, he had feelings, and values, she mused. It made him more interesting and likable if it came to that.
Likable or not, she was going to find out more about this treasure and soon. She had too much money invested to move much further blindly. She’d gone with him on impulse and stayed through necessity. Instinctively she knew she was safer with him than without. Safety and impulse aside, Whitney was too much a businesswoman to invest in unnamed stock. Before too much more time had passed, she’d have a look at what he hoarded. She might like him, even understand him to a point, but she didn’t trust him. Not an inch.
As he drifted awake, Doug came to the same conclusion about Whitney. He was going to keep the envelope close to his skin until he had the treasure in his hand.
As the plane began its final descent, they brought their chair backs up, smiled at each other, and calculated.
By the time they’d struggled with luggage and passed through customs, Whitney was more than ready to be horizontal in a stationary bed.
“Hotel de Crillon,” Doug told the cab driver and Whitney sighed.
“I apologize for ever doubting your taste.”
“Sugar, my problem’s always been twenty-four-carat taste.” He brushed at the ends of her hair more in reflex than design. “You look tired.”
“It hasn’t been a restful forty-eight hours. Not that I’m complaining,” she added. “But it’s going to feel marvelous to stretch out for the next eight.”
He merely grunted and watched Paris whiz by. Dimitri wouldn’t be far behind. His network of information was every bit as extensive as Interpol’s. Doug could only hope the few curves he had thrown would be enough to slow down the chase.
As he thought, Whitney struck up a conversation with the driver. Because it was in French, Doug couldn’t understand, but he caught the tone. Light, friendly, even flirtatious. Odd, he reflected. Most of the women he knew who’d grown up with portfolios never really saw the people who served them. It was one of the reasons he’d found it so easy to steal from them. The rich were insular, but no matter how often the less endowed said so, the rich weren’t unhappy. He’d bullshitted his way into their circle often enough to know that money could buy happiness. It just cost a bit more every year.
“What a cute little man.” Whitney stepped onto the curb and breathed in the scent of Paris. “He said I was the most beautiful woman to sit in his cab in five years.”
Doug watched her pass bills to the doorman before she breezed into the hotel. “And earned himself a fat tip, I’ll bet,” he muttered. The way she tossed money around, they’d be broke again before they landed in Madagascar.
“Don’t be such a cheapskate, Douglas.”
He ignored that and took her arm. “You read French as well as you speak it?”
“Need some help reading the menu?” she began, then stopped. “Tu ne parles pas français, mon cher?” While he studied her in silence, she smiled. “Fascinating. I should have caught on before that everything wasn’t translated.”
“Ah, Mademoiselle MacAllister!”
“Georges.” She sent the desk clerk a smile. “I couldn’t stay away.”
“Always a pleasure to have you back.” His eyes lit again as he spotted Doug over her shoulder. “Monsieur Lord. Such a surprise.”
“Georges.” Doug met Whitney’s speculative look briefly. “Mademoiselle MacAllister and I are traveling together. I hope you have a suite available.”
Romance bloomed in Georges’s head. If he hadn’t had a suite, Georges would have been tempted at that moment to vacate one. “But of course, of course. And your papa, mademoiselle, he is well?”
“Very well, thank you, Georges.”
“Charles will take your bags. Enjoy your stay.”
Whitney pocketed her key without glancing at it. She knew the beds in the Crillon were soft and seductive. The water in the taps was hot. A bath, a little caviar from room service, and a bed. In the morning she’d have a few hours in the beauty salon before they took the last leg of the journey.
“I take it you’ve stayed here before.” Whitney slipped into the elevator and leaned against the wall.
“From time to time.”
“A profitable place, I assume.”
Doug only smiled at her. “The service is excellent.”
“Hmmm.” Yes, she
could see him here, sipping champagne and nibbling pâté. Just as she could see him running through alleys in D.C. “How lucky for me we’ve never crossed paths here before.” When the doors opened, she strolled out ahead. Doug took her arm and steered her to the left. “The ambience is important, I suppose, in your business,” she added.
He allowed his thumb to brush over the inside of her elbow. “I have a taste for rich things.”
She only gave him an easy smile that said he wouldn’t sample her until she was ready.
The suite was no less than she expected. Whitney let the bellman fuss a few moments, then eased him out with a tip. “So …” She plopped down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “What time do we leave tomorrow?”
Instead of answering, he took a shirt from his suitcase, balled it up until it wrinkled, then tossed it over a chair. As Whitney watched, he took various articles of clothing out and draped them here and there throughout the suite.
“Hotel rooms are so impersonal until you have your own things around, aren’t they?”
He mumbled something and dropped socks on the carpet. It wasn’t until he moved to her cases that she objected.
“Just a minute.”
“Half the game’s illusion,” he told her and tossed a pair of Italian heels into a corner. “I want them to think we’re staying here.”
She grabbed a silk blouse out of his hands. “We are staying here.”
“Wrong. Go hang a couple of things in the closet while I mess up the bathroom.”
Left with the blouse in her hands, Whitney tossed it down and followed him. “What are you talking about?”
“When Dimitri’s muscle gets here, I want them to think we’re still around. It might only buy us a few hours, but it’s enough.” Systematically, he went through the big, plush bath unwrapping soap and dropping towels. “Go get some of your face junk. We’ll leave a couple bottles.”