by Nora Roberts
reminded himself she was long dead and not his concern. But she’d just been a kid, scared and confused.
Why do they hate us? she’d written. Why do they look at us with such hate? Papa says we must leave Paris and I believe I will never see my home again.
And she never had, Doug mused, because war and politics go for the big view and trample all over the little guy. France during the Revolution or a steamy pit of a jungle in Nam. It never changed. He knew just what it felt like to be helpless. He wasn’t going to feel that way ever again.
He stretched and thought of Whitney.
For better or worse, he’d made a deal with her. He never turned his back on a deal unless he was sure he could get away with it. Still, it grated to have to depend on her for every dollar.
Dimitri had hired him to steal the papers because he was, Doug admitted honestly as he sucked in smoke, a very good thief. Unlike Dimitri’s standard crew, he’d never considered that a weapon made up for wit. He’d always preferred living by the latter. Doug knew it was his reputation for doing a smooth, quiet job that had earned him the call from Dimitri to lift a fat envelope from a safe in an exclusive co-op off Park Avenue.
A job was a job, and if a man like Dimitri was willing to pay five thousand for a bunch of papers, a great many with faded and foreign writing, Doug wasn’t going to argue. Besides, he’d had some debts to pay.
He’d had to get by two sophisticated alarm systems and four security guards before he could crack the little gem of a wall safe where the envelope was stored. He had a way with locks and alarms. It was—well, a gift, Doug decided. A man shouldn’t waste his God-given talents.
The thing was, he’d played it straight. He’d taken nothing but the papers—though there’d been a very interesting-looking black case in the safe along with it. He never considered that taking them out to read them was any more than covering his bets. He hadn’t expected to be fascinated by the translations of letters or a journal or documents that stretched back two hundred years. Maybe it had been his love of a good story, or his respect for the written word that had touched off his imagination as he had skimmed over the papers. But fascinated or not, he would have turned them over. A deal was a deal.
He’d stopped in a drugstore and bought adhesive. Strapping the envelope to his chest had just been a precaution. New York, like any city, was riddled with dishonest people. Of course, he’d arrived at the East-Side playground an hour early and had hidden. A man stayed alive longer if he watched his ass.
While sitting behind the shrubbery in the rain, he’d thought over what he’d read—the correspondence, the documents, and the tidy list of gems and jewels. Whoever had collected the information, translated it so meticulously, had done so with the dedication of a professional librarian. It had passed through his mind briefly that if he’d had the time and opportunity, he’d have followed up on the rest of the job himself. But a deal was a deal.
Doug had waited with every intention of turning over the papers and collecting his fee. That had been before he’d learned that he wasn’t going to get the five thousand Dimitri had agreed on. He was going to get a two-dollar bullet in the back and a burial in the East River.
Remo had arrived in the black Lincoln with two other men dressed for business. They’d calmly debated the most efficient way to murder him. A bullet in the brain seemed to be the method agreed on, but they were still working out the “when” and “where” as Doug crouched behind bushes six feet away. It seemed Remo had been fussy about getting blood on the Lincoln’s upholstery.
At first Doug had been angry. No matter how many times he’d been double-crossed—and he’d stopped counting—it always made him angry. Nobody was honest in this world, he’d thought as the adhesive pulled a bit at his skin. Even while he’d concentrated on getting out in one piece, he had begun to consider his options.
Dimitri had a reputation for being eccentric. But he also had a reputation for picking winners, from the right senator to keep on the payroll to the best wine to stock in the cellar. If he wanted the papers badly enough to snip off a loose end named Doug Lord, they must be worth something. On the spot, Doug decided the papers were his and his fortune was made. All he had to do was live to claim it.
In reflex he touched his arm now. Stiff, yes, but already healing. He had to admit crazy Whitney MacAllister had done a good job there. He blew smoke between his teeth before he crushed out the cigarette. She’d probably charge him for it.
He needed her for the moment, at least until they were out of the country. Once he got to Madagascar, he’d ditch her. A slow, lazy grin covered his face. He’d had some experience in outmaneuvering women. Sometimes he succeeded. His only regret was that he wouldn’t get to see her stomp and swear when she realized he’d given her the slip. Picturing those clouds of pale, sunlit hair he thought it was almost too bad he had to double-cross her. He couldn’t deny he owed her. Even as he sighed and began to think kindly of her, the connecting door burst open.
“Still in bed?” Whitney crossed to the window and pulled open the drapes. She waved a hand fussily in front of her face in an attempt to clear the haze of smoke. He’d been up for a while, she decided. Smoking and plotting. Well, she’d been doing some figuring herself. When Doug swore and squinted, she merely shook her head. “You look terrible.”
He was vain enough to scowl. His chin was rough with a night’s coarse growth of beard, his hair was unruly, and he’d have killed for a toothbrush. She, on the other hand, looked as though she’d just walked out of Elizabeth Arden’s. Naked in the bed with the sheet up to his waist, Doug felt at a disadvantage. He didn’t care for that sensation.
“You ever knock?”
“Not when I’m paying for the room,” she said easily. She stepped over the tangle of jeans on the floor. “Breakfast is on its way up.”
“Great.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, Whitney made herself at home by sitting on the bottom of the bed and stretching out her legs.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Doug said expansively.
Whitney only smiled and shook back her hair. “I got in touch with Uncle Maxie.”
“Who?”
“Uncle Maxie,” Whitney repeated, giving her nails a quick check. She really needed a manicure before they left town. “Actually, he’s not my uncle, I just call him my uncle.”
“Oh, that kind of uncle,” Doug said, a half sneer on his face.
Whitney spared him a mild glance. “Don’t be crude, Douglas. He’s a dear friend of the family’s. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Maximillian Teebury.”
“Senator Teebury?”
She spread her fingers for a last examination. “You do keep up with current events.”
“Look, smartass.” Doug grabbed her arm so that she tumbled half into his lap. Whitney only smiled up at him, knowing she still held all the aces. “Just what does Senator Teebury have to do with anything?”
“Connections.” She ran a finger down his cheek, clucking her tongue at the roughness. But roughness, she discovered, had its own primitive appeal. “My father always says you can do without sex in a pinch, but you can’t do without connections.”
“Yeah?” Grinning, he lifted her up so that her face was close to his and her hair streamed down to the sheets. Again he caught the drift of her scent that meant wealth and class. “Everybody has different priorities.”
“Indeed.” She wanted to kiss him. He looked rough and restless and disheveled, the way a man might after a night of wild sex. Just what kind of a lover would Douglas Lord be? Ruthless. She felt her heart thud a little faster at the thought. He smelled of tobacco and sweat. He looked like a man who lived on the edge and enjoyed it. She’d like to feel that clever, interesting mouth on hers—but not yet. Once she’d kissed him she might forget that she had to stay one step ahead of him. “The thing is,” she murmured, letting her hands stray into his hair when their lips were only a breath apart, “Uncle Maxie can get a passport for you and two thirty
-day visas to Madagascar within twenty-four hours.”
“How?”
Whitney noted with amused annoyance just how quickly his seducing tone became businesslike. “Connections, Douglas,” she said blithely. “What’re partners for?”
He shot her a considering look. Damn if she wasn’t becoming handy. If he wasn’t careful, she’d be indispensable. The last thing a smart man needed was an indispensable woman who had eyes like whiskey and skin like the underside of petals. Then it hit him that they’d be on their way by that time the next day. Letting out a quick whoop, he rolled on top of her. Her hair fanned over the pillow. Her eyes, half-wary, half-laughing, met his.
“Let’s find out, partner,” he suggested.
His body was hard, like his eyes could be, like his hand as it cupped her face. It was tempting. He was tempting. But it was always vital to weigh advantage against disadvantage. Before Whitney could decide whether to agree or not, there was a knock at the door. “Breakfast,” she said cheerfully, wiggling out from under him. If her heart was beating a bit too fast, she wasn’t going to dwell on it. There was too much to do.
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 tha
t 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
