Hot Ice

by Nora Roberts

  Now what do we do?” she demanded, blowing loose hair out of her eyes. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere, miles from where we’re supposed to be and with no transportation to get there.”

  “You’ve got your feet,” Doug tossed back at her.

  “So do they,” she said between her teeth. “And they’ll be off at the next stop and doubling back for us. They’ve got guns and we’ve got mangoes and a folding tent.”

  “So the sooner we stop arguing and get going the better.” Unceremoniously, he pushed her from him and stood up. “I never told you it’d be a picnic.”

  “You never mentioned tossing me off a moving train either.”

  “Just get your ass in gear, sweetheart.”

  Rubbing a bruised hip, she rose until she stood toe to toe with him. “You’re crude, arrogant, and very dislikable.”

  “Oh, excuse me.” He swept her a mock bow. “Would you mind stepping this way so we can avoid getting a bullet in the brain, duchess?”

  She stormed away and dragged up the backpack that had been knocked out of her hands on impact. “Which way?”

  Doug slipped his own pack over his shoulders. “North.”

  C H A P T E R

  5

  Whitney had always been fond of mountains. She could look back with pleasure on a two-week skiing vacation in the Swiss Alps. In the mornings, she’d ridden to the top of the slopes, admiring the view from a tram. The swishing rush of the ride down had always delighted her. A great deal could be said about a cozy après-ski with hot buttered rum and a crackling fire.

  Once she’d enjoyed a lazy weekend in a villa in Greece, high on a rocky slope overlooking the Aegean. She’d appreciated the height, the view, and the quality of nature and antiquity—from the comfort of a terra-cotta balcony.

  However, Whitney had never been big on mountain climbing—sweaty, leg-cramping mountain climbing. Nature wasn’t all it was cracked up to be when it worked its way under the tender balls of your feet and dug in.

  North, he’d said. Grimly she kept pace with him, up tough, rocky slopes and down again. She’d continue to keep pace with Lord, she promised herself as sweat dribbled down her back. He had the envelope. But while she’d hike with him, sweat with him, pant with him, there was absolutely no reason she had to speak to him.

  No one, absolutely no one, told her to get her ass in gear and got away with it.

  It might take days, even weeks, but she’d get him for it. There was one basic business rule she’d learned from her father. Revenge, chilled a bit, was much more palatable.

  North. Doug looked around at the rugged, steep hills that surrounded them. The terrain was a monotony of high grass that fanned in the breeze and rough red scars where erosion had won. And rock, endless, unforgiving rock. Farther up were a few sparse, spindly trees, but he wasn’t looking for shade. From his vantage point there was nothing else, no huts, no houses, no fields. No people. For now, it was exactly what he wanted.

  The night before while Whitney had slept, he’d studied the map of Madagascar he’d ripped from the stolen library book. He couldn’t stand to mar a book of any kind, because books had given his imagination an outlet as a child, and kept him company through lonely nights as a man. But it had been necessary in this case. The ragged piece of paper fit nicely in his pocket while the book stayed in his pack. It was only there for backup. In his mind’s eye, Doug separated the terrain into the three parallel belts he’d studied. The western lowlands didn’t matter. As he strode up a rocky, rough path he hoped they’d detoured as far west as they’d have to. They’d stick to the highlands, avoid the riverbanks and open areas as long as they could. Dimitri was closer than he’d anticipated. Doug didn’t want to guess wrong again.

  The heat was already oppressive, but their water supply should last until morning. He’d worry about replenishing it when he had to. He wished he could be certain just how far north they should travel before they dared swing east to the coast and easier ground.

  Dimitri might be waiting in Tamatave, soaking up wine and sunshine, dining on the fresh local fish. Logically, that should be their first stop, so logically they had to avoid it. For the time being.

  Doug didn’t mind playing a game of wits, the bigger the odds the better. The sweeter the pot, as he’d once told Whitney. But Dimitri… Dimitri was a different story.

  He hitched at the straps of his backpack until the weight settled more comfortably on his shoulders. And there wasn’t only himself to think of this time. One of the reasons he’d avoided partnerships for so long was because he preferred having one body to worry about. His own. He shot a look across at Whitney, who’d been cooly silent since they’d left the train tracks and headed toward the highlands.

  Damn woman, he thought for lack of anything better. If she thought the cold-shoulder routine was going to shake him up, she was dead wrong. It might make some of her fancy patent-leather jerks beg for a word of forgiveness, but as far as he was concerned, she was a hell of a lot more attractive when her mouth was shut anyway.

  Imagine complaining because he’d gotten her off the train in one piece. Maybe she had a few bruises, but she was still breathing. Her problem was, he decided, she wanted everything all nice and pretty, like that high-class apartment of hers… or the tiny little piece of silk she was wearing under that skirt.

  Doug shook away that particular thought in a hurry and concentrated on picking his way over the rocks.

  He’d like to keep to the hills for a while—two days, maybe three. There was plenty of cover, and the going was rough. Rough enough, he was certain, to slow Remo and some of Dimitri’s other trained hounds down. They were more accustomed to tramping down back alleys and into sleazy motel rooms than over rocks and hills. Those used to being hunted acclimated with more ease.

  Pausing on a crest, he drew out the field glasses and took a long, slow sweep. Below and slightly west, he spotted a small settlement. The cluster of tiny red houses and wide barns bordered a patchwork of fields. Rice paddies, he decided, because of their moist emerald green color. He saw no power lines and was grateful. The farther away from civilization, the better. The settlement would be a Merina tribe, if his memory of the guidebook was accurate. Just beyond was a narrow winding river. Part of the Betsiboka.

  Eyes narrowed, Doug followed its trail while an idea formed. True, the river flowed northwest, but the notion of traveling by boat had some appeal. Crocodiles or not, it was bound to be faster than going on foot, even for a short distance. Traveling by river was something he’d have to decide on when the time came. He’d take an evening or two to read up on it—what rivers would suit his purpose best and how the Malagasy traveled by them. He remembered skimming over something that had reminded him of the flatbed canoes the Cajuns used. Doug had traveled through the bayous on one himself after nearly bungling a job in a stately old house outside of Lafayette.

  How much had he gotten for those antique pearl-handled dueling pistols? He couldn’t remember. But the chase through the swamp where he’d had to pole his way across cypress trees and under dripping moss—that had been something. No, he wouldn’t mind traveling by river again.

  In any case, he’d keep his eye out for more settlements. Sooner or later, they’d need more food and have to bargain for it. Remembering the woman beside him, he decided that Whitney might just come in handy there.

  Disgusted, and aching from bruises, Whitney sat on the ground. She wasn’t going another step until she’d rested and eaten. Her legs felt entirely too much like they had the one and only time she’d tried the electric jogging track at the gym. Without giving Doug a glance she dug into her pack. The first thing she was going to do was change her shoes.

  Replacing the glasses, Doug turned to her. The sun was straight up. They could make miles before dusk. “Let’s go.”

  Cooly silent, Whitney found a banana and began to peel it in long, slow strips. Just let him tell her to move her ass this time. With her eyes on Doug’s she bit into the f
ruit and chewed.

  Her skirt was hiked up past her knees as she sat cross-legged on the ground. Damp with perspiration, her blouse clung to her. The neat braid she’d fashioned while he’d watched that morning had loosened so that pale, silky hair escaped to tease her cheekbones. Her face was as cool and elegant as marble.

  “Let’s move.” Desire made him edgy. She wasn’t going to get to him, he promised himself. No way. Every time he let a woman get under his skin, he ended up losing. Maybe, just maybe, he’d get to her before they were finished, but there was no way this cool-eyed, skinny lady was going to shake his priorities. Money, the good life.

  He wondered what it would be like to have her under him, naked, hot, and completely vulnerable.

  Whitney leaned back against a rock and took another bite of fruit. A rare breeze moved hot air over her. Idly, she scratched the back of her knee. “Up yours, Lord,” she suggested in perfectly rounded tones.

  God, he’d like to make love with her until she was limp and slick and malleable. He’d like to murder her. “Listen, sugar, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover today. Since we’re on foot—”

  “Your doing,” she reminded him.

  He crouched down until they were at eye level. “It was my doing that kept your empty head on your sexy shoulders.” Full of fury and frustration, of unwanted needs, he gripped her chin in his hand. “Dimitri would just love to get his pudgy little hands on a classy number like you. Believe me, he’s got a unique imagination.”

  A quick thrill of fear went through her, but she kept her eyes level. “Dimitri’s your boogeyman, Doug, not mine.”

  “He won’t be selective.”

  “I won’t be intimidated.”

  “You’ll be dead,” he tossed back. “If you don’t do what you’re told.”

  Firmly, she pushed his hand away. Gracefully, she rose. Though the skirt was smudged with red dust and rent with a hole at the hip, it billowed around her like a cloak. The rough Malagasy shoes might have been glass slippers. He had to admire the way she pulled it off. It was innate, he was sure. No one could have taught her. If she’d been the peasant she looked like at that moment, she’d still have moved like a duchess.

  One brow rose as she dropped the banana peel into his hand. “I never do what I’m told. In fact, I often make a point not to. Do try to keep that in mind in the future.”

  “Keep it up, sugar, and you’re not going to have one.”

  Taking her time, she brushed some of the dust from her skirt. “Shall we go?”

  He tossed the peel into a ravine and tried to convince himself he’d have preferred a woman who whimpered and trembled. “If you’re sure you’re ready.”

  “Quite sure.”

  He took out his compass for another check. North. They’d keep heading north for a while yet. The sun might beat down unmercifully with no shade to fight it, and the ground might be misery itself to hike on, but the rocks and slopes offered some protection. Whether it was instinct or superstition, something was prickling at the back of his neck. He wouldn’t stop again until sundown.

  “You know, duchess, under different circumstances I’d admire that class of yours.” He began to walk in a steady, ground-eating pace. “Right now you’re in danger of becoming a pain in the ass.”

  Long legs and determination kept her abreast with him. “Breeding,” she corrected, “is admirable under any circumstances.” She sent him an amused glance. “And enviable.”

  “You keep your breeding, sister, I’ll keep mine.”

  With a laugh, she tucked her arm through his. “Oh, I intend to.”

  He looked down at her neat, manicured hand. He didn’t think there was another woman in the world who could make him feel as though he were escorting her to a ball when they were fighting their way up a rocky slope in the full afternoon sun. “Decided to be friendly again?”

  “I decided rather than sulk, I’d keep my eye open for the first opportunity to pay you back for the bruises. In the meantime, just how far are we going to walk?”

  “The train ride would’ve taken about twelve hours, and we’ve got to follow a less direct route. You figure it out.”

  “No need to be testy,” she said mildly. “Can’t we find a village and rent a car?”

  “Let me know when you see the first Hertz sign. It’ll be my treat.”

  “You really should eat something, Douglas. Lack of food always puts me in a bad mood.” Turning away from him, she offered her pack. “Go ahead, have a nice mango.”

  Fighting a grin, he loosened the strap and reached in. The fact was he could use something warm and sweet at the moment. His fingers brushed over the net bag that held the fruit and touched something soft and silky. Curious, he drew it out and examined the tiny, lace-trimmed pair of bikini briefs. So she hadn’t worn them yet. “Great-looking mangoes they have here.”

  Whitney looked over her shoulder and watched him run the material between his fingers. “Get your hands out of my pants, Douglas.”

  He only grinned and held them up so that the sun beamed through them. “Interesting phrasing. How come you bother wearing something like this anyway?”

  “Modesty,” she said primly.

  With a laugh, he stuffed them back in the pack. “Sure.” Pulling out a mango, he took a big, greedy bite. Juice trickled wonderfully down his dry throat. “Silk and lace always make me think of modest little nuns in underdeveloped countries.”

  “What an odd imagination you have,” she observed as she half skidded down a slope. “They always make me think of sex.”

  With this she lengthened her stride to a marching pace and whistled smartly.

  They walked. And walked. They slapped sunscreen on every inch of exposed skin and accepted the fact that they’d burn anyway. Flies buzzed and swooped, attracted by the scent of oil and sweat, but they learned to ignore them. Other than insects, they had no company.

  As the afternoon waned Whitney lost her interest in the rolling, rocky highlands and the stretches of valley below. The earthy smells of dirt and sun-baked grass lost their appeal when she was streaked with both. She watched a bird fly overhead, caught in a current. Because she was looking up, she didn’t see the long, slim snake that passed inches in front of her foot, then hid itself by a rock.

  There wasn’t anything exotic about dripping with sweat or slipping over pebbles. Madagascar would have held more appeal from the cool terrace of a hotel room. Only the thin edge of pride kept her from demanding that they stop. As long as he could walk, so, by God, could she.

  From time to time she spotted a small village or settlement, always cupped near the river and spread out into fields. From the hills, they could see cook smoke, and when the air was right, hear the sounds of dogs or cattle. Voices didn’t carry. Distance and fatigue gave Whitney a sense of unreality. Perhaps the huts and fields were only part of a stage.

  Once, through Doug’s field glasses, she watched workers bending over the swamplike paddies, many of the women with babies strapped in lambas papoose-style on their backs. She could see the moist ground shiver and give under the movement of feet.

  In all her experience, her treks through Europe, Whitney had never seen anything quite like it. But then Paris, London, and Madrid offered the glitter and cosmopolitan touches she was accustomed to. She’d never strapped a pack on her back and hiked over the countryside before. As she shifted the weight yet again, she told herself there was always a first time—and a last. While she might enjoy the color, the terrain, and the openness, she’d enjoy it a hell of a lot more off her feet.

  If she wanted to perspire, she wanted to do it in a sauna. If she wanted to exhaust herself, she wanted to do it trouncing someone in a few fast games of tennis.

  Aching and sticky with sweat, she put one foot in front of the other. She wouldn’t come in second place to Doug Lord or anyone else.

  Doug watched the angle of the sun and knew they’d have to find a place to camp. Shadows were lengthening. To the west, the sky w
as already taking on streaks of red. Normally he did his best maneuvering at night but he didn’t think the highlands of Madagascar was a good place to try his luck in the dark.

  He’d traveled the Rockies at night once and had nearly broken his leg in the process. It didn’t take much effort to remember his slide over the rocks. The unplanned trip down the cliff had masked his trail, but he’d had to limp his way into Boulder. When the sun set, they’d park and wait for dawn.

  He kept waiting for Whitney to complain, to wail, to demand—to act in general as he considered a woman would act under the circumstances. Then again, Whitney hadn’t acted the way he’d expected from the first moment they had set eyes on one another. The truth was, he wanted her to grumble. It would make it easier to justify dumping her at the first opportunity. After he’d skimmed her of most of her cash. If she complained, he could do both without a qualm. As it was, she wasn’t slowing him down, and she was carrying her share of the load. It was only the first day, he reminded himself. Give her time. Hothouse flowers wilted quickly when they were exposed to real air.

  “Let’s take a look at that cave.”

  “Cave?” Shielding her eyes, Whitney followed his gaze. She saw a very small arch and a very dark hole. “That cave?”

  “Yeah. If it isn’t occupied by one of our four-legged friends, it’ll make a nice hotel for the night.”

  Inside? “The Beverly Wilshire’s a nice hotel.”

  He didn’t even spare her a glance. “First we’d better see if there’s a vacancy.”

  Swallowing, Whitney watched him go over, strip off his pack, and crawl in. Just barely, she resisted the urge to call him out.

  Everyone’s entitled to a phobia, she reminded herself as she