by Nora Roberts
“Yeah.” He sat down, a bit leery of the way she poured and served so cheerfully.
She looked exquisite. He’d figured a few days on the road would leave her a bit haggard, a little rough around the edges. He scraped his palm over the stubble on his own chin. Instead, she looked radiant. Her pale, angel-blonde hair shone as it rippled down her back. The sun had warmed her skin, bringing up touches of rose that only accented its flawlessness and the classic line of bone. No, she looked anything but haggard at the moment.
Doug accepted the coffee and drank deeply.
“This is a lovely spot,” Whitney said, bringing up her knees and circling them with her arms.
He glanced around. Moisture dripped from leaves in quiet plip-plops. The ground was damp and spongy. He slapped at a mosquito and wondered how long the repellent would hold out. The mist rose off the ground in little fingers, like steam in a Turkish bath. “If you like saunas.”
Whitney cocked a brow. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bedroll, didn’t we?”
He only grunted. He’d woken up itchy as any healthy man would after spending the night next to a healthy woman without having the luxury of taking things to their natural conclusion.
“Look at it this way Douglas. If there were an acre of this in Manhattan, people would be scrambling for it, piling in on top of each other.” She lifted her hands, palms up. Birdsong burst out in an ecstacy of sound. A chamelion crawled onto a dull gray rock and slowly faded into it. Flowers seemed to pour out of the ground and the green, green of leaves and ferns still damp with dew gave everything a lushness. “We’ve got it all to ourselves.”
He poured a second cup of coffee. “I figured a woman like you would prefer crowds.”
“A time and place, Douglas,” she murmured. “A time and place.” Then she smiled, so simply, so exquisitely, he felt his heart stop. “I like being here, with you.”
The coffee had scalded his tongue, but he didn’t notice. He swallowed it, still staring at her. He’d never had any problem with women, pouring on the rough-edged, cocky charm that he’d learned very young they found appealing. Now, when he could’ve used a surplus of what came so handily to him, he couldn’t find any at all. “Oh yeah?” he managed.
Amused that he could be thrown off so easily, she nodded. “Yeah. I’ve given it some thought.” Leaning over, she kissed him very, very lightly. “Just what do you think of that?”
He might stumble, but years of experience had taught him how to land on his feet. Reaching out, he gathered her hair in his hand. “Well, maybe we should”—he nipped at her lip—“discuss it.”
She liked the way he kissed without quite kissing, the way he held her without really holding her. She remembered what it had been like when he’d done both, thoroughly. “Perhaps we should.”
Their lips did no more than tease each other’s. Eyes open, they nibbled, testing, tempting. They didn’t touch. Each was used to leading, to being in control. To lose the edge—that was the primary mistake, in matters of love and money, to both of them. As long as the reins were held, even loosely, then neither of them felt they would go where they didn’t lead.
Lips warmed. Thoughts clouded. Priorities shifted.
His hand tightened on her hair, hers gripped his shirt-front. In that rare instant that moves timelessly, they were caught close. Need became the leader, and desire, the map. Each surrendered without hesitation or regret.
Beyond the thick, moist leaves came a bright, bubbling blast of Cyndi Lauper.
Like children caught with their fingers deep in the cookie jar, Whitney and Doug sprang apart. Jacques’s clear tenor echoed with Cyndi’s cheery voice. Both of them cleared their throats.
“Company’s coming,” Doug commented and reached for a cigarette.
“Yes.” Rising, Whitney brushed at the seat of her thin, baggy slacks. They were a bit damp with dew, but the heat was already drying the ground. She watched sunbeams slash through the tops of cypress. “As I said, a spot like this seems to draw people. Well, I think I’ll …” She trailed off in surprise when his hand circled her ankle.
“Whitney.” His eyes were intense, as they became when least expected. His fingers were very firm. “One day, we’re going to finish this.”
She wasn’t used to being told what she’d do, and saw no reason to begin now. She sent him a long, neutral look. “Perhaps.”
“Absolutely.”
The neutral look became a hint of a smile. “Douglas, you’re going to find out I can be very contrary.”
“You’re going to find out I take what I want.” He said it softly, and her smile faded. “It’s my profession.”
“Man oh man, we got ourselves some coconuts.” Coming through the bush, Jacques shook the net bag he carried.
Whitney laughed when he pulled one out and tossed it to her. “Anyone got a corkscrew?”
“No problem.” Making use of a rock, Jacques slammed the coconut against it sharply. The chamelion scrambled away without a sound. With a grin, he broke the fruit apart and handed the two pieces to Whitney.
“How clever.”
“A little rum and you could have piña coladas.”
Brow arched, she handed a half to Doug. “Don’t be testy, darling. I’m sure you could’ve climbed up a palm tree too.”
Grinning, Jacques carved out a piece of the meat with a small knife. “It’s fady to eat anything white on Wednesdays,” he said with a simplicity that caused Whitney to study him more carefully. He popped the coconut into his mouth with a kind of guilty relish. “It’s worse not to eat at all.”
She looked at the fielder’s cap, the T-shirt, and the portable radio. It was difficult for her to remember that he was Malagasy, and part of an ancient tribe. With Louis of the Merina it had been easy. He’d looked the part. Jacques looked like someone she’d pass crossing Broadway and Forty-second.
“Are you superstitious, Jacques?”
He moved his shoulders. “I apologize to the gods and spirits. Keep them happy.” Reaching in his front pocket, he drew out what looked like a small shell on a chain.
“An ody,” Doug explained, both amused and tolerant. He didn’t believe in talismans, but in making your own luck. Or cashing in on someone else’s. “It’s like an amulet.”
Whitney studied it, intrigued by the contrasts between Jacques’s Americanized dress and speech and his deep-seated belief in taboos and spirits. “For luck?” she asked him.
“For safety. The gods have bad moods.” He rubbed the shell between his fingers, then offered it to Whitney. “You carry it today.”
“All right.” She slipped the chain over her neck. After all, she thought, it wasn’t so odd. Her father carried a rabbit’s foot that had been tinted baby blue. The amulet fell along the same lines—or perhaps more along the lines of a St. Christopher’s medal. “For safety.”
“You two can carry on the cultural exchange later. Let’s get moving.” As he rose, Doug tossed the fruit back to Jacques.
Whitney winked at Jacques. “I told you he was often rude.”
“No problem,” Jacques said again, then reached into his back pocket where he’d carefully secured the stem of a flower. Pulling it out, he offered it to Whitney.
“An orchid.” It was white, pure, spectacular white and so delicate it seemed as though it would dissolve in her palm. “Jacques, it’s exquisite.” She touched it to her cheek before she threaded the stem through the hair above her ear. “Thank you.” When she kissed him, she heard the audible click of his swallow.
“Looks nice.” He began to gather gear quickly. “Lots of flowers here in Madagascar. Any flower you want, you find it here.” Still chattering, he began to cart gear to the canoe.
“You wanted a flower,” Doug muttered, “all you had to do was bend over and yank one up.”
Whitney touched the petals above her ear. “Some men understand sweetness,” she commented, “and others don’t.” Picking up her pack, she followed Jacques.
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�Sweetness,” Doug grumbled as he struggled with the rest of the gear. “I’ve got a pack of wolves after me and she wants sweetness.” Still muttering, he kicked out the campfire. “I could’ve picked her a damn flower. A dozen of them.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Whitney’s laughter. “Oh Jacques, it’s exquisite,” he mimicked. With a snort of disgust, Doug checked the safety on his gun before he secured it in his belt. “And I can open a goddamn coconut too.” He gave the fire one last kick before hefting the remaining gear and starting toward the canoe.
When Remo nudged one expensively shod toe into the campfire, it was no more than a pile of cold ash. The sun was straight up and streaming; there was no relief from the heat in the shade. He’d removed his suit jacket and tie—something he’d never have done in front of Dimitri during working hours. His once-crisp Arrow shirt was limp with sweat. Tracking Lord was becoming a pain in the ass.
“Looks like they spent the night here.” Weis, a tall, bankerish-looking man who’d had his nose broken by a whiskey bottle swiped sweat from his forehead. He had a line of insect bites on his neck that constantly plagued him. “I guess we’re about four hours behind them.”
“What’re you, part Apache?” Giving the fire a last violent kick, Remo turned. His gaze rested on Barns, whose round moon face was creased in smiles. “What’re you grinning at, you little asshole?”
But Barns hadn’t stopped grinning since Remo had told him to take care of the Malagasy captain. He knew Barns had, but even a man of Remo’s experience didn’t want to hear the details. It was common knowledge that Dimitri had an affection for Barns, the way one had an affection for a half-witted dog who dropped mutilated chickens and small mangled rodents at your feet. He also knew that Dimitri often let Barns take care of employees on their way out. Dimitri didn’t believe in unemployment benefits.
“Let’s go,” he said briefly. “We’ll have them before sundown.”
Whitney had herself nestled comfortably between the packs. Lengthening shadows from cypress and eucalyptus fell on the dunes alongside the canal and on the thick brush on the opposing side. Thin brown reeds waved in the current. From time to time a startled egret folded in its legs and lifted off into the brush with a whoosh of wings and rush. Flowers poked out, profuse in places, red, orange, and melting yellow. Orchids grew as haphazardly as poppies in a meadow. Butterflies, sometimes alone, sometimes in troups, swooped and fluttered around the petals. Their color was a blaze against vegetation and the dung brown of the canal. Here and there crocodiles stretched on sloping banks and took in the sun. Most barely turned a head as the canoe rowed by. The fragrance lifting over the scent of the river was lazily rich.
With the brim of Jacques’s cap shielding her eyes, she lay crossways in the canoe, her feet resting on the edge. The long fishing pole Jacques had fashioned rested loosely in her hands as she half dozed.
She decided she’d discovered just what Huck Finn had found so appealing about floating down the Mississippi. A good deal of it was bone laziness and the rest was wide-eyed adventure. It was, Whitney reflected, a delightful combination.
“And just what do you plan to do if a fish reaches up and bites on that bent safety pin?”
Taking her time, Whitney stretched her shoulders. “Why I’d drop him right in your lap, Douglas. I’m sure you’d know exactly what to do with a fish.”
“You cook ’em up good.” Jacques paddled with the long steady strokes that would’ve made a Yale alumnus’s heart patter with pride. Tina Turner helped him keep the rhythm. “My cooking …” He shook his head. “Pretty bad. When I get married, I have to make sure my wife cooks good. Like my mama.”
Whitney made a snorting sound from under the cap. A fly landed on her knee but it was too much effort to brush it aside. “Another man whose heart’s in his stomach.”
“Look, the kid’s got a point. Eating’s important.”
“To you it’s more like a religion. Do it with the proper tradition and respect or not at all.” She shifted the brim of her cap so that she could see Jacques more clearly. Young, she thought, with a good-humored, good-looking face and well-muscled body. She didn’t think he’d have any trouble attracting the girls. “So, you’re putting your stomach on the same level with your heart. What happens if you fall for a girl who can’t cook?”
Jacques considered this. He was only twenty, and answers were as easy and basic as life. The smile he gave her was young, innocent, and cocky enough to make her chuckle. “I’d take her to my mother so she could learn.”
“Very sensible,” Doug agreed. He broke rhythm to pop a piece of coconut into his mouth.
“I don’t suppose you ever considered learning to cook.” Whitney watched Jacques mull this over while his lean, strong arms worked the paddles. Smiling at him, she ran a finger over the shell that nestled just above her breasts.
“A Malagasy wife cooks the meals.”
“In between the times she takes care of the house, the children, and tills the fields, I imagine,” Whitney put in.
Jacques nodded and grinned. “But she takes care of the money too.”
Whitney felt the lump of her wallet in her back pocket. “That’s very sensible,” she agreed, smiling at Doug.
He had the envelope secure in his own pocket. “I thought you’d like that.”
“Again, it’s a simple matter of people doing what they’re best suited for.” She started to settle back again when her line jerked. With her eyes wide, she sat straight up. “Oh God, I think I’ve got one.”
“One what?”
“A fish!” Gripping the pole fiercely, she watched the line bob. “A fish,” she said again. “A big goddamn fish.”
A grin split Doug’s face as he saw the improvised fishing line grow taut. “Sonofabitch. Now take it easy,” he advised as she scrambled to her knees and rocked the boat. “Don’t lose it, that’s tonight’s main course.”
“I’m not going to lose it,” she said between gritted teeth. And she wouldn’t, but she didn’t have any idea what to do next. After another moment of struggle, she turned to Jacques. “What now?”
“Pull him up easy. It’s a big bastard.” Drawing his paddle into the canoe, he went to her with light movements that kept the boat steady. “Yessirree, we eat tonight. He’s going to fight.” He rested a hand on her shoulder while he looked over the side. “He’s thinking about the frying pan.”
“Come on, sugar, you can do it.” Doug left the oars behind to creep to the center and root. “Just bring ’im up.” And he’d fillet him, sauté him, and serve him on a bed of fluffy rice.
Giddy, excited, determined, Whitney caught her tongue between her teeth. If either man had offered to take the pole from her, she’d have snarled. Using arm muscles she only remembered during an occasional brief set of tennis, she brought the fish out of the water.
Wiggling on the end of the line, he caught the glint of the late afternoon sun. It was only a simple trout, flopping frantically, but for a moment, he looked regal, a flash of silver caught against the deepening blue of the sky. Whitney gave out a war whoop and fell back on her rump.
“Don’t drop him now!”
“She won’t.” Reaching out, Jacques caught the line between his thumb and fingers, drawing it gently in. The fish waved back and forth like a flag in a breeze. “She’s caught herself one big, fat fish.” In a quick move, he drew out the hook and held up the catch. “How about that? Some luck.” He grinned, fish in hand, while Tina Turner gritted out a tune from the tape player behind him.
It happened so fast. Still, as long as she lived Whitney would remember the instant as though it had been captured frame by frame on film. One moment, Jacques was standing, glistening with healthy sweat and triumph. Her laughter was still hanging on the air. The next, he was tumbling into the water. The explosion never even registered in her mind.
“Jacques?” Dazed, she scrambled to her knees.
“Down.” Doug had her pinned beneath him so that her breath ca
me in gasps. He held her down while the boat rocked and he prayed they wouldn’t capsize.
“Doug?”
“Lie still, understand?” But he wasn’t looking at her. Though his head was only inches above hers, he scanned the shore on either side of the canal. The brush was thick enough to hide an army. Where the hell were they? Keeping his movements slow, he reached for the gun in his belt.
When Whitney saw it, she shifted her head to look for Jacques. “Did he fall? I thought I heard a—” When she saw the answer in Doug’s eyes, she arched like a bow. “No!” She struggled, nearly knocking the gun from Doug’s hand as she tried to get up. “Jacques! Oh God.”
“Stay down.” He gave the order between his teeth as he locked his legs around hers. “There’s nothing you can do for him now.” When she continued to fight, he dug his fingers in hard enough to bruise her. “He’s dead, dammit. Dead before he hit the water.”
Her eyes were wide, swimming, as she stared up at him. Without a word she closed them and lay still.
If he felt guilt, if he felt grief, he’d deal with them later. Now it was back to the first priority. Staying alive.
He could hear nothing but the gentle lap of water as the boat drifted in the current. They could be on either side, that he knew. What he didn’t know was why they hadn’t simply riddled the canoe with bullets. The thin outer skin would be no protection.
They had orders to take them alive. Doug glanced down at Whitney. She remained still and passive, eyes shut. Or to take one of them alive, he realized.
Dimitri would be curious about a woman like Whitney MacAllister. He’d know everything there was to know about her by now. No, he wouldn’t want her dead. He’d want to entertain her for a time—be entertained by her—then ransom her back. They wouldn’t shoot at the canoe, but simply wait them out. The first order of business was to find out where they were waiting. Doug could already feel the sweat pooling between his shoulder blades.
“That you, Remo?” he shouted. “You’re still using too much of that fancy cologne. I can smell you out here.” He waited a moment, straining to hear any sound. “Dimitri know I’ve had you running around in circles?”