by Nora Roberts
“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 keys. “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.
Because the furnishings weren’t of any use to him, he wasn’t sure why they appealed. Normally
he would have found them too feminine and formal. Perhaps after an evening of running, he needed the comfort of silk pillows and lace. Whitney sipped her cognac as she carried the glasses across the room.
“You can bring this into the bathroom,” she told him as she handed him his drink. Negligently she tossed the fur over the back of the sofa. “I’ll take a look at that arm.”
Doug frowned while he watched her walk away. Women were supposed to ask questions, dozens of them. Maybe this one just didn’t have the brains to think of them. Reluctantly he followed her, and the trail of her scent. But she was classy, he admitted. There was no denying it.
“Take off that jacket and sit down,” she ordered, running water over a monogrammed washcloth.
Doug stripped off the jacket, gritting his teeth as he peeled it from his left arm. After carefully folding it and laying it on the lip of the tub, he sat on a ladder-back chair anyone else would have had in their living room. He looked down and saw the sleeve of his shirt was caked with blood. Swearing, he ripped it off and exposed the wound. “I can do it myself,” he muttered and reached for the cloth.
“Be still.” Whitney began to wipe away the dried blood with the soapy warm cloth. “I can’t very well see how much damage was done until I clean it up.”
He sat back because the warm water was soothing and her touch was gentle. But while he sat back, he watched her. Just what kind of woman was she? he wondered. She drove like a nerveless maniac, dressed like Harper’s Bazaar, and drank—he’d noticed she’d already knocked back her cognac—like a sailor. He’d have been more comfortable if she’d shown just a touch of the hysteria he’d expected.
“Don’t you want to know how I got this?”
“Hmmm.” Whitney pressed a clean cloth to the wound to slow the new bleeding. Because he wanted her to ask, she was determined not to.
“A bullet,” Doug said with relish.
“Really?” Interested, Whitney removed the cloth to get a closer look. “I’ve never seen a bullet wound before.”
“Terrific.” He swallowed more cognac. “How do you like it?”
She shrugged before she slid back the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. “It’s not terribly impressive.”
Frowning, he looked down at the wound himself. True, the bullet had only nicked him, but he had been shot. It wasn’t every day a man got shot. “It hurts.”
“Aw, well we’ll bandage it all up. Scratches don’t hurt nearly so much if you can’t see them.”
He watched her root through jars of face cream and bath oils. “You’ve got a smart mouth, lady.”
“Whitney,” she corrected. “Whitney MacAllister.” Turning she offered her hand formally.
His lips curved. “Lord, Doug Lord.”
“Hello, Doug. Now, after I fix this up, we’ll have to discuss the damage to my car and the payment.” She went back to the medicine cabinet. “Three hundred dollars.”
He took another swallow of cognac. “How come you know it’s three hundred?”
“I’m giving you the low end of the scale. You can’t fix a spark plug in a Mercedes for less than three hundred.”
“I’ll have to owe you. I spent my last two hundred on the jacket.”
“That jacket?” Amazed, Whitney twisted her head and stared at him. “You look smarter.”
“I needed it,” Doug tossed back. “Besides, it’s leather.”
This time she laughed. “As in genuine imitation.”
“What d’you mean, imitation?”
“That zippered monstrosity didn’t come off any cow. Ah, here it is. I knew I had some.” With a satisfied nod, she took a bottle from the cabinet.
“That little sonofabitch,” Doug mumbled. He hadn’t had the time or the opportunity to look too closely at his purchase before. Now, in the bright bathroom light, he saw it was nothing more than cheap vinyl. Two hundred dollars’ worth. The sudden fire in his arm had him jerking. “Goddamn it! What’re you doing?”
“Iodine,” Whitney told him, smearing it on generously.
He settled down, scowling. “It stings.”
“Don’t be a baby.” Briskly, she wrapped gauze around his upper arm until the wound was covered. She snipped off tape, secured it, then gave it a final pat. “There,” she said, rather pleased with herself. “Good as new.” Still bent over, she turned her head and smiled at him. Their faces were close, hers full of laughter, his full of annoyance. “Now about my car—”
“I could be a murderer, a rapist, a psychopath for all you know.” He said it softly, dangerously. She felt a tremor move up her back and straightened.
“I don’t think so.” But she picked up her empty glass and went back into the living room. “Another drink?”
Damn, she did have guts. Doug grabbed the jacket and followed her. “Don’t you want to know why they were after me?”
“The bad guys?”
“The—the bad guys?” he repeated on an astonished laugh.
“Good guys don’t shoot at innocent bystanders.” She poured herself another drink, then sat on the sofa. “So, by process of elimination I figure you’re the good guy.”
He laughed again and dropped down beside her. “A lot of people might disagree with you.”
Whitney studied him again over the rim of her glass. No, perhaps good was too concise a word. He looked more complicated than that. “Well, why don’t you tell me why those three men wanted to kill you.”
“Just doing their job.” Doug drank again. “They work for a man named Dimitri. He wants something I’ve got.”
“Which is?”
“The route to a pot of gold,” he said absently. Rising, he began to pace. Less than twenty dollars in cash nestled with an expired credit card in his pocket. Neither could buy his way out of the country. What he had carefully folded in a manila envelope was worth a fortune, but he had to buy himself a ticket before he could cash it in. He could lift a wallet at the airport. Better, he could try rushing on the plane, flashing his fake ID, and play the hard-bitten, impatient FBI agent. It had worked in Miami. But it didn’t feel right this time. He knew enough to go with his instincts.
“I need a stake,” he muttered. “A few hundred—maybe a thousand.” Thoughtfully, he turned back and looked at Whitney.
“Forget it,” she said simply. “You already owe me three hundred dollars.”
“You’ll get it,” he snapped. “Dammit, in six months I’ll buy you a whole car. Look at it as an investment.”
“My broker takes care of that.” She sipped again and smiled. He was very attractive in this mood, restless, anxious to move. His exposed arm rippled with muscle that was subtle and lean. His eyes were lit with enthusiasm.
“Look, Whitney.” He came back and sat on the arm of the sofa beside her. “A thousand. That’s nothing after what we’ve been through together.”
“It’s seven hundred dollars more than what you already owe me,” she corrected him.
“I’ll pay you back double within six months. I need to buy a plane ticket, some supplies…” He looked down at himself, then back at her with that quick, appealing grin. “A new shirt.”
An operator, she thought, intrigued. Just what did a pot of gold mean to him? “I’d have to know a lot more before I put my money down.”
He’d charmed women out of more than money. So, confidently, he took her hand between his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. His voice was soft, compelling. “Treasure. The kind you only read about in fairy stories. I’ll bring you back diamonds for your hair. Big, glittery diamonds. They’ll make you look like a princess.” He skimmed a finger up her cheek. It was soft, cool. For a moment, only a moment, he lost the thread of his pitch. “Something else out of a fairy story.”
Slowly, he removed her hat, then watched in astonished admiration as her hair tumbled down, over her shoulders, over her arms. Pale as winter sunlight, soft as silk. “Diamonds,” he repeated, tangling his fingers through it. “Hair like this should have diamonds in it.�
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She was caught up in him. Part of her would have believed anything he said, done anything he asked, as long as he continued to touch her in just that way. But it was the other part, the survivor, who managed to take control. “I like diamonds. But I also know a lot of people who pay for them, and end up with pretty glass. Guarantees, Douglas.” To distract herself, she drank more cognac. “I always want to see the guarantee—the certificate of value.”
Frustrated, he rose. She might look like a pushover, but she was as tough as they came. “Look, nothing’s stopping me from just taking it.” He snatched her purse off the sofa and held it out to her. “I can walk out of here with this or we can make a deal.”
Standing, she plucked it out of his hands. “I don’t make deals until I know all the terms. You’ve got a hell of a nerve threatening me after I saved your life.”
“Saved my life?” Doug exploded. “You damn near killed me twenty times.”
Her chin lifted. Her voice became regal and haughty. “If I hadn’t outwitted those men, getting my car damaged in the process, you’d be floating in the East River.”
The image was entirely too close to the truth. “You’ve been watching too many Cagney movies,” he tossed back.
“I want to know what you have and where you intend to go.”
“A puzzle. I’ve got pieces to a puzzle and I’m going to Madagascar.”
