by Nora Roberts
They were being followed, of that he was certain. He recognized the feeling, and hadn’t been able to shake it since they’d left New York. And yet … Doug shifted the basket. He couldn’t lose the notion that Dimitri knew the destination and was waiting patiently to close the net. Doug glanced around again. He’d have slept easier knowing from which direction he was being hunted.
Though they didn’t dare risk the use of his field glasses, they could see wide, well-tended plantations—with long stretches of flatland that could accommodate the landing of a helicopter. Flowers sprang up everywhere to bake in the heat. Dust from the road coated petals but didn’t make them any less exotic. The view was excellent, the day clear. All the easier to spot two people and one pig traveling down the eastern road. He kept the pace steady, hoping to come across a group of travelers they could blend with. One glance at Whitney reminded him that blending wasn’t a simple matter.
“Do you have to walk as though you were strolling toward Bloomingdale’s?”
“I beg your pardon?” She was getting the hang of leading the pig and wondered if it would make a more interesting pet than a dog.
“You walk rich. Try for humble.”
She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Douglas, I might have to wear this very unattractive outfit and lead a pig on a rope, but I won’t be humble. Now, why don’t you stop griping and enjoy the walk. Everything’s pretty and green and the air smells like vanilla.”
“There’s a plantation over there. They grow it.” And on a plantation were vehicles. He wondered just how risky it would be to attempt to liberate one.
“Really?” She squinted as she looked into the sun. The fields were wide and very green, dotted with people. “It grows in a little bean, doesn’t it?” she asked idly. “I’ve always been fond of the scent in those slim white candles.”
He shot her a mild look. White candles, white silk. That was her style. Ignoring the image, he gave his attention back to the fields they were passing. There were too many people working in them and too much open space to try hot-wiring a pickup at the moment.
“The weather’s certainly become tropical, hasn’t it?” Sweltering, she dabbed at her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Trade winds bring in the moisture. It’s hot and humid till around next month, but we’ve missed the cyclone season.”
“There’s good news,” she murmured. She thought she could actually see the heat rising from the road in waves. Oddly, it brought a flash of nostalgia for New York in high summer, where the heat bounced up off the sidewalks and you could choke on the smell of sweat and exhaust.
A late brunch at the Palm Court would be nice, with strawberries in cream and a tall iced coffee. She shook her head and ordered herself to think of something else.
“On a day like this, I’d like to be in Martinique.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Ignoring his testy tone of voice, she went on. “I’ve a friend with a villa there.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Perhaps you’ve heard of him—Robert Madison. He writes spy thrillers.”
“Madison?” Surprised, Doug gave her his attention again. “The Pisces Symbol?”
Impressed that he’d named what she considered Madison’s best work, she looked at him under the brim of her hat. “Why yes, you’ve read him?”
“Yeah.” Doug shifted the bags on his shoulders. “I’ve managed to get a bit beyond ‘see Spot run.’ ”
She’d already gauged that for herself. “Don’t be cranky. It just happens that I’m a rather avid fan. We’ve known each other for years. Bob moved to Martinique when the IRS made it uncomfortable for him in the States. His villa’s quite lovely, with a spectacular view of the sea. Right now, I’d be sitting beside the pool on the terrace with an enormous frozen margarita, watching half-naked people play on the beach.”
That was her style all right, he thought, incomprehensibly annoyed. Terraced pools and sultry air, little white-suited houseboys serving drinks on silver platters while some jerk with more looks than brains rubbed oil on her shoulder blades. He’d done both the serving and the rubbing in his time and couldn’t say he preferred one to the other as long as the haul was rich.
“If you had nothing to do on a day like this, what would you choose?”
He struggled against the image of Whitney, lying half-naked on a lounge, skin slick with oil. “I’d be in bed,” he told her. “With a clever redhead with green eyes and big—”
“A rather ordinary fantasy,” Whitney interrupted.
“I’ve rather ordinary urges.”
She feigned a yawn. “So, I’m sure, does our pig. Look,” she went on before he could retort, “something’s coming.”
He saw the dust plume in the road ahead. Muscles tense, he looked right and left. If necessary, they could make a run for it over the fields, but it wasn’t likely they’d get far. If their impromptu costuming didn’t work, it could all be over within minutes.
“Just keep your head down,” he told Whitney. “And I don’t care how much it goes against the grain, look humble and subservient.”
She tilted her head so that she looked at him from under the brim of her hat. “I wouldn’t have the least idea how.”
“Keep your head down and walk.”
The truck’s engine sounded well-tuned and powerful. Though the paint was splashed with dirt, Doug could see it was fairly new. He’d read that many of the plantation owners were well-off, growing wealthy through the sale of vanilla, coffee, and cloves that thrived in this region. As the truck drew closer, he shifted the bag on his shoulder slightly so that most of his face was hidden. His muscles tingled and tensed. The truck barely slowed as it passed them. All he could think of was how quickly they could get to the coast if he could get his hands on one.
“It worked.” Whitney lifted her head and grinned. “He drove right by us without a glance.”
“Mostly if you give people what they expect to see, they don’t see anything.”
“How profound.”
“Human nature,” he tossed back, still regretting that he wasn’t behind the wheel of the truck. “I’ve gotten into plenty of hotel rooms wearing a red bellman’s jacket and a five-dollar smile.”
“You rob hotels in broad daylight?”
“For the most part, people aren’t in their rooms during the day.”
She thought about it a moment, then shook her head. “It doesn’t sound nearly as thrilling. Now, stalking around in the dead of night in a black suit with a flashlight, while people are sleeping right in the same room. That’s exciting.”
“And that’s how you get ten to twenty.”
“Risk adds to the excitement. Have you ever been to jail?”
“No. It’s one of the small pleasures in life I’ve never experienced.”
She nodded. It confirmed her opinion that he was good at what he did. “What was your biggest heist?”
Though the sweat was running freely down his back, he laughed. “Christ, where do you get your terminology? ‘Starsky and Hutch’ reruns?”
“Come on, Douglas, this is called passing the time.” If she didn’t pass the time, she’d collapse on the road in a puddle of dripping exhaustion. Once she’d thought she’d never be any more hot and uncomfortable than she’d been hiking over the highlands. She’d been wrong. “You must’ve had one big haul in your illustrious career.”
He said nothing for a moment as he looked down the straight, endless road. But he wasn’t seeing the dust, the ruts, the short shadows cast by the piercing noontime sun. “I had my hands on a diamond as big as your fist.”
“A diamond?” It so happened she had a weakness for them, the icy glitter, the hidden colors, the ostentation.
“Yeah, not just any rock; a big, glittery granddaddy. The prettiest piece of ice I’ve ever seen. The Sydney Diamond.”
“The Sydney?” She stopped, gaping. “God, it’s forty-eight and a half carats of perfection. I remember it was on exhibit
ion in San Francisco about three, no four years ago. It was stolen …” She broke off, astonished and deeply impressed. “You?”
“That’s right, sugar.” He enjoyed the fascinated surprise on her face. “I had that sonofabitch in my hand.” In memory, he looked down at his empty palm. It was scratched now from the flight through the forest, but he could see the diamond in it, gloating up at him. “I swear, you could feel the heat from it, see a hundred different pictures by putting it up to the light. It was like holding a cool blonde while her blood ran hot.”
She could feel it, the arousal, the pure physical thrill. Since she’d received her first string of pearls, Whitney had often pinned and draped on diamonds and other glitters. It pleased her. But the pleasure of imagining holding the Sydney was much deeper, of plucking it out of its cold glass case and watching light and life gleam in your hand.
“How?”
“Melvin Feinstein. The Worm. The little bastard was my partner.”
Whitney saw from the set of his mouth that the story wasn’t going to have a happy-ever-after ending. “And?”
“The Worm earned his name in more ways than one. He was four-foot-six. I swear, he could slip under the crack of a door. He had the blueprints of the museum, but he didn’t have the brains to handle the security. That’s where I came in.”
“You handled the alarms.”
“Everybody’s got a specialty.” He looked back, back over the years in San Francisco where the days had been misty and the nights cool. “We cased that job for weeks, calculating every possible angle. The alarm system was a beauty, the best I’d ever come across.” That memory was pleasant, the challenge of it, and the logic by which he’d outwitted it. With a computer and figures, you could find more interesting answers than the balance of your checkbook.
“Alarms’re like women,” he mused. “They bait you, wink at you. With a little charm and the right skill, you figure out what makes them tick. Patience,” he murmured, nodding to himself. “The right touch, and you’ve got them just where you want them.”
“A fascinating analogy, I’m sure.” She watched him cooly from under the brim of her hat. “One might even say they have a habit of going off when provoked.”
“Yeah, but not if you keep a step ahead.”
“You’d better go on with your story before you get in any deeper, Douglas.”
His mind was back in San Francisco on a chilled night where the fog came in long fingers to sweep the ground. “We got in through the ducts, easier for the Worm than me. Had to shoot out a line and go hand over hand because the floors were wired. I lifted it; the Worm has clumsy hands and he wasn’t long enough to reach the display anyway. I had to hang down over the case. It took me six and a half minutes to cut through the glass. Then I had it.”
She could see it—Doug hanging by his feet over the display, dressed in black, while the diamond glinted up at him.
“The Sydney was never recovered.”
“That’s right, sugar. It’s one of the little entries in the book in my pack.” There was no way he could explain to her the pleasure and frustration he felt reading about it.
“If you had it, why aren’t you living in a villa in Martinique?”
“Good question.” With something between a smile and a sneer, he shook his head. “Yeah, that’s a damn good question. I had it,” he murmured, half to himself. He angled his hat forward but still squinted against the sun. “For a minute I was one rich sonofabitch.” He could still picture it, still feel the near-sexual pull of hanging over the display case, holding the glittering piece of ice in his hand, the world under his feet.
“What happened?”
The image and the feeling shattered, like a diamond split carelessly. “We started back out. Like I said, the Worm could squirm through the ducts like a slug. By the time I got through, he was gone. The little bastard’d lifted the rock right out of my bag and vanished. To top it off, he put an anonymous call through to the police. They were crawling all over my hotel when I got back. I hopped a freighter with the shirt on my back. That’s when I spent some time in Tokyo.”
“What about the Worm?”
“Last I heard he had himself a cozy yacht and was running a high-class floating casino. One of these days …” He relished the fantasy a moment, then shrugged. “Anyway, that was the last time I took a partner.”
“Until now,” she reminded him.
He looked down at her, his eyes narrowed. He was back in Madagascar and there was no chilling fog. There was only sweat, aching muscles, and Whitney. “Until now.”
“In case you have any notion of imitating your friend the Worm, Douglas, remember, there isn’t a hole deep enough for you to slide into.”
“Sugar—” He pinched her chin. “Trust me.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
For a time they walked in silence, Doug reliving every step of the Sydney Diamond job—the tension, the cool-headed concentration that kept the blood very still and the hands very steady, the thrill of holding the world in his hands, if only for a moment. He’d have it again. That much he promised himself.
It wouldn’t be the Sydney this time, but a box of jewels that would make the Sydney look like a prize in a Cracker Jack box. This time nobody’d take it from him, no bow-legged midget, and no classy blonde.
Too many times he’d had the rainbow in his hands and watched it vanish. It wasn’t so bad if you blew it yourself on foolishness and chances. But when you were stupid enough to trust someone … That had always been one of his big problems. He might steal, but he was honest. Somehow he figured other people were as well. Until he ended up with empty pockets.
The Sydney, Whitney mused. No second-class hood would’ve attempted to steal it, or have succeeded. The story confirmed for her what she’d thought all along. Doug Lord was a class act, in his own fashion. And there was one more thing—he’d be very possessive with the treasure when and if they found it. That was something she’d have to think about carefully.
Absently, she smiled at two children racing across the field to her left. Perhaps their parents were working on the plantation, perhaps they owned it. Still, their lives would be simple, she thought. It was interesting how appealing simplicity could be from time to time. She felt the cotton dress rub uncomfortably over her shoulder. Then again, there was something to be said for luxury. Lots of it.
They both jolted at the sound of an engine behind them. When they turned, the truck was practically on top of them. If they’d had to run, they wouldn’t have gotten ten yards. Doug cursed himself, then cursed again when the driver leaned out and called to them.
It wasn’t a new model like the truck that had passed them earlier, nor was it quite as rickety as the Merina jeep. The engine ran smoothly enough as it idled in the middle of the road. The back was loaded with wares, from pots and baskets to wooden chairs and tables.
A traveling salesman, Whitney decided, already eyeing what he had to offer. She wondered how much he wanted for the colorful clay pot. It would look rather nice on a table with a collection of cacti.
The driver would be a Betsimisaraka, Doug calculated, both from the region they were traveling in and the European touch of his derby. He grinned, showing a mouthful of healthy white teeth as he gestured for them to approach the truck.
“Well, what now?” Whitney asked under her breath.
“I think we’ve just hitched a ride, sugar, whether we want to or not. We’d better give your French and my charm another try.”
“Let’s simply use my French, shall we?” Forgetting to look humble, she walked to the truck. While she peered from under the brim of her hat, she gave the driver her best smile and made up a story as she went along.
She and her husband, though she had to swallow a bit on that one, were traveling from their farm in the hills to the coast where her family lived. Her mother, she decided on the spot, was ill. She noticed that his curious dark eyes roamed her face, pale and regal under the simple straw hat. With
out breaking rhythm, Whitney rattled off an explanation. Apparently satisfied, the driver gestured to the door. He was traveling to the coast, they were welcome to a ride.
Stooping, Whitney gathered up the pig. “Come on, Douglas, we’ve got a new chauffeur.”
Doug secured the baskets in the back, then climbed in beside her. Luck could play either way, he knew that well enough. This time he was willing to believe it had played on his side.
Whitney laid the pig on her lap as though it were a small, weary child. “What’d you tell him?” he asked her as he nodded to the driver and grinned.
Whitney sighed, absorbing the luxury of being driven. “I told him we’re going to the coast. My mother’s ill.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“It’s very likely a deathbed scene, so don’t look too happy.”
“Your mother never liked me.”
“That’s beside the point. Besides, it’s merely that she wanted me to marry Tad.”
He paused in the act of offering one of their few cigarettes to the driver. “Tad who?”
She enjoyed the scowl on his face and smoothed the skirt of her dress. “Tad Carlyse IV. Don’t be jealous, darling. After all, I chose you.”
“Lucky me,” he muttered. “How’d you get around the fact that we aren’t natives?”
“I’m French. My father was a sea captain who settled on the coast. You were a teacher on holiday. We fell madly in love, married against our family’s wishes, and now work a small farm in the hills. By the way, you’re British.”
Doug played back the story in his head and decided he couldn’t have done better. “Good thinking. How long’ve we been married?”
“I don’t know, why?”
“I just wondered if I should be affectionate or bored.”
Whitney narrowed her eyes. “Kiss ass.”
“Even if we’re newlyweds, I don’t think I should be that affectionate in front of company.”
Barely smothering a chuckle, Whitney closed her eyes and pretended she was in a plush limo. Within moments, her head was snuggled on Doug’s shoulder. The pig snored gently in her lap.