Hot Ice

by Nora Roberts

  walked a bit closer. Hers was a terror of small, closed-in spaces. As tired as she was, she’d have walked another ten miles rather than crawl into that tiny arch of darkness.

  “It ain’t the Wilshire,” Doug said as he crawled back out. “But it’ll do. They have our reservations.”

  Whitney sat down on a rock and took a long look around. There was nothing but more rock, a few scrubby pines, and pitted dirt. “I seem to remember paying an exorbitant amount of money for that tent that folds up like a handkerchief. The one you insisted we had to have,” she reminded him. “Haven’t you ever heard of the pleasure of sleeping under the stars?”

  “When someone’s after my hide—and they’ve come close to peeling it a number of times—I like having a wall to keep my back to.” Still kneeling, he picked up his pack. “I figure Dimitri’s looking for us east of here, but I’m not taking any chances. It cools down in the highlands at night,” he added. “In there we can risk a small fire.”

  “A campfire.” Whitney examined her nails. If she didn’t have a manicure soon, they’d look very tacky. “Charming. In a little place like that, the smoke would suffocate us in minutes.”

  Doug pulled a small hatchet out of his pack and un-snapped the leather sheath. “After about five feet, the place opens up. I can stand.” Moving to a scrawny pine, he began hacking at a branch. “Ever go spelunking?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Cave exploring,” he explained, grinning. “I knew this geology major once. Her daddy owned a bank.” As he recalled, he’d never been able to soak her for much more than a couple of memorable nights in a cave.

  “I’ve always found better things to explore than holes in the ground.”

  “Then you’ve missed a lot, sugar. This might not be a tourist attraction, but it has some first-class stalactites and stalagmites.”

  “How exciting,” she said dryly. When she looked toward the cave, all she saw was a very small, very dark hole in the rock. Just looking made the sweat bead cold on her forehead.

  Annoyed, Doug began to chop a respectable pile of firewood. “Yeah, I guess a woman like you wouldn’t find rock formations very exciting. Unless you could wear them.” They were the same, women who wore French dresses and Italian shoes. That’s why for pleasure he’d go for a fan dancer or a pro. You got honesty there, and some spine.

  Whitney stopped staring at the opening long enough to narrow her eyes at him. “Just what do you mean, a woman like me?”

  “Spoiled,” he said, bringing his hatchet down with a thwack. “Shallow.”

  “Shallow?” She rose from the rock. Accepting the spoiled wasn’t a problem. Whitney figured truth was truth. “Shallow?” she repeated. “You’ve a hell of a nerve calling me shallow, Douglas. I didn’t steal my way to easy street.”

  “You didn’t have to.” He tilted his head so that their eyes met. His cool, hers hot. “That’s about all that separates us, duchess. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. I was born to take it out and hock it.” Tucking the firewood under his arm, he walked back to the cave. “You wanna eat, lady, then get your high-class buns inside. You won’t get any room service here.” Agile and quick, he grabbed his pack by the straps, crawled inside, and disappeared.

  How dare he! With her hands on her hips, Whitney stared at the cave. How dare he speak to her that way after she’d walked miles and miles? Since she’d met him, she’d been shot at, threatened, chased, and pushed from a train. And it had cost her thousands of dollars to date. How dare he talk to her as though she were a simpering, empty-headed debutante? He wouldn’t get away with it.

  Briefly, she thought of simply going on herself, leaving him to his cave like any bad-tempered bear. Oh no. She took a long, deep breath as she stared at the opening in the rock. No, that was just what he’d like. He’d be rid of her and have the treasure all to himself. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. If she killed herself in the process, she was sticking with him until she got every dime he owed her. And a lot more.

  A hell of a lot more, she added as she gritted her teeth. Getting down on her hands and knees, Whitney started into the cave.

  Pure anger carried her the first couple of feet. Then the cold sweat of fear broke out and riveted her to the spot. As her breath began to hitch, she couldn’t move forward, she couldn’t move back. It was a box, airless, dark. The lid was already closed to suffocate her.

  She felt the walls, the dark, damp walls closing in, squeezing the air out of her. Laying her head down on the hard dirt, she fought back hysteria.

  No, she wouldn’t give in to it. Couldn’t. He was just ahead, just ahead. If she whimpered, he’d hear. Pride was every bit as strong as fear. She wouldn’t have his scorn. Gasping for air, she inched forward. He’d said the cave opened up. She’d be able to breathe if she could just crawl in a few more feet.

  Oh God, she needed light. And room. And air. Balling her hands into fists, she fought off the need to scream. No, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself in front of him. She wouldn’t be his entertainment.

  While she lay prone, waging her own war, she caught a glimpse of a flicker of light. Staying perfectly still, she concentrated on the sound of crackling wood, the light smell of pine smoke. He’d started the fire. It wouldn’t be dark. She had only to pull herself a few more feet and it wouldn’t be dark.

  It took all her strength, and more courage than she’d known she had. Inch by inch, Whitney worked her way in until the light played over her face and the walls spread out around her. Drained, she lay for a moment, just breathing.

  “So you decided to join me.” With his back to her, Doug drew out one of the clever folding pans to heat water. The thought of hot, strong coffee had kept him going the last five miles. “Dinner’s Dutch treat, sugar. Fruit, rice, and coffee. I’ll handle the coffee. Let’s see what you can do with the rice.”

  Though she was still shaking, Whitney brought herself into a sitting position. It would pass, she told herself. In moments, the nausea, the light-headedness would pass. Then somehow, she’d make him pay.

  “Too bad we didn’t pick up a little white wine, but…” When he turned to her, he trailed off. Was it a trick of the light, or was her face gray? Frowning, he set the water on to heat, then went to her. No trick of the light, he decided. She looked as though she’d dissolve if he touched her. Unsure of himself, Doug crouched down. “What’s wrong?”

  Her eyes were hot and hard when she looked at him. “Nothing.”

  “Whitney.” Reaching out, he touched her hand. “Jesus, you’re like ice. Come on over to the fire.”

  “I’m fine.” Furious, she snatched her hand away. “Just leave me alone.”

  “Hold on.” Before she could spring to her feet, he had her by the shoulders. He could feel her tremble under his palms. She wasn’t supposed to look so young, so defenseless. Women with blue-chip stocks and watery diamonds had all the defense they needed. “I’ll get you some water,” he murmured. In silence, he reached for the canteen and opened it for her. “It’s a little warm, take it slow.”

  She sipped. It was indeed warm and tasted like iron. She sipped again. “I’m all right.” Her voice was tense, fretful. He wasn’t supposed to be kind.

  “Just rest a minute. If you’re sick—”

  “I’m not sick.” She thrust the canteen back in his hands. “I have a little problem with closed-in places, okay? I’m in now and I’ll be just fine.”

  Not a little problem, he realized as he took her hand again. It was damp, cold, and trembling. Guilt hit him, and he hated it. He hadn’t given her a break since they’d started. Hadn’t wanted to. Once she made him soften, made him care, he’d lose his edge. It had happened before. But she was trembling.

  “Whitney, you should’ve told me.”

  She angled her chin in a gesture he couldn’t help but admire. “I have a bigger problem with being a fool.”

  “Why? It never bothers me.” Grinning, he brushed the hair away from her t
emples. She wasn’t going to cry. Thank Christ.

  “People who’re born fools rarely notice.” But the sting had gone out of her voice. Her lips curved. “Anyway, I’m in. It might take a crane to get me back out again.” Breathing slowly, she glanced around at the wide cave with the pillars of rock he’d spoken of. In the firelight, the rocks shone, rising up or plunging down. Here and there, the cave floor was littered with dung. She saw, with a shudder, a snake skin curled against the wall. “Even if it is decorated in early Neanderthal.”

  “We’ve got a rope.” He ran his knuckles quickly back and forth over her cheek. Her color was coming back. “I’ll just haul you out when the time comes.” Glancing back, he saw the water beginning to simmer. “Let’s have some coffee.”

  When he turned away, Whitney touched her cheek where it was warmed from his hand. She hadn’t thought he could be so unexpectedly sweet when there wasn’t an angle.

  Or was there?

  With a sigh, she stripped off her pack. She still held the bankroll. “I don’t know anything about cooking rice.” Opening her bag, she took out the mesh bag of fruit. More than a few had suffered bruises and the scent was hot and ripe. No seven-course dinner had ever looked so good.

  “Due to our current facilities, there’s nothing to do but boil and stir. Rice, water, fire—” He glanced over his shoulder. “You should be able to handle it.”

  “Who does the dishes?” she wanted to know as she poured water into another pan.

  “Cooking’s a joint effort, so’s cleaning.” He shot her a fast, appealing grin. “After all, we’re partners.”

  “Are we?” Smiling sweetly, Whitney set the pot to heat and drew in the scent of coffee. The cave, full of dung and damp, was immediately civilized. “Well, partner, how about letting me see the papers?”

  Doug handed her a metal mug filled with coffee. “How about letting me hold half the money?”

  Over the rim, her eyes laughed at him. “Coffee’s good, Douglas. Another of your many talents.”

  “Yeah, I was blessed.” Drinking half his cup down, he let it run hot and strong through him. “I’ll leave you in the kitchen while I see to our sleeping arrangements.”

  Whitney hauled out the sack of rice. “Those sleeping bags better feel like feather beds after what I paid for them.”

  “You’ve got a dollar fixation, sugar.”

  “I’ve got the dollars.”

  He mumbled under his breath as he cleared spaces for their bags. While Whitney couldn’t catch the words, she caught the drift. Grinning, she began to scoop out rice. One handful, two. If rice was to be their main dish, she mused, they might as well eat hearty. She dug into the bag again.

  It took her a moment to figure out the mechanics of the spoon that folded into itself. By the time she had it opened, the water was beginning to boil rapidly. Rather pleased with herself, Whitney began to stir.

  “Use a fork,” Doug told her while he unrolled the sleeping bags. “A spoon mashes the grains.”

  “Picky, picky,” she mumbled, but went through the same process on the fork as she had on the spoon. “How do you know so much about cooking anyway?”

  “I know a lot about eating,” he said easily. “I don’t often find myself in the position where I can go out and enjoy the kind of food I’m entitled to.” He unrolled the second bag next to the first. After a moment’s consideration, he moved them about a foot apart. He was better off with a little distance. “So I learned to cook. It’s satisfying.”

  “As long as someone else is doing it.”

  He only shrugged. “I like it. Brains and a few spices and you can eat like a king—even in a ratty motel room with bad plumbing. And when things get tough, I’ll work in a restaurant for a while.”

  “A job? I’m disillusioned.”

  He let the light sarcasm pass over him. “The only one I’ve ever been able to tolerate. Besides, you eat good, and it gives you a chance to check out the clientele.”

  “For a possible mark.”

  “No opportunity should ever go undeveloped.” Spreading the lower half of his body on one of the bags, he leaned against the cave wall and drew out a cigarette.

  “Is that a Boy Scout motto?”

  “If it isn’t, it should be.”

  “I bet you’d’ve just raked in the merit badges, Douglas.”

  He grinned, enjoying the quiet, the tobacco, the coffee. He’d learned long ago to enjoy what he could when he could, and plan for more. Much more. “One way or the other,” he agreed. “How’s dinner?”

  She swiped through the rice with the fork again. “It’s coming.” As far as she could tell.

  He stared up at the ceiling, idly studying the formation of rock that had dripped down over centuries into long spears. He’d always been drawn to antiquity, to heritage, perhaps because he didn’t have much of one himself. He knew that it was part of the reason he was driving himself north, toward the jewels and the stories behind them. “Rice is better sautéed in butter, with mushrooms and a few slivers of almonds.”

  She felt her stomach groan. “Eat a banana,” she suggested and tossed him one. “Any idea how we’re going to replace our water?”

  “I think we might slip down to the village below in the morning.” He blew out a cloud of smoke. The only thing that was missing, he decided, was a nice hot tub and a pretty, scented blonde to scrub his back. It would be one of the first things he saw to when the treasure was in his hands.

  Whitney crossed her legs under her and chose another piece of fruit. “Do you think it’s safe?”

  He shrugged and finished off his coffee. It was always more a matter of need than safety. “We need water, and we might bargain for some meat.”

  “Please, you’ll get me excited.”

  “The way I figure it, Dimitri knew the train was going to Tamatave, so that’s where he’ll be looking for us. By the time we get there, I’m hoping he’s looking someplace else.”

  She bit into the fruit. “So he doesn’t have any idea where you’re ultimately going?”

  “No more than you do, sugar.” He hoped. But the itch between his shoulder blades had yet to let up. Taking a last deep drag, Doug flicked the stub of the cigarette into the fire. “As far as I know, he’s never seen the papers, at least not all of them.”

  “If he’s never seen them, how did he find out about the treasure?”

  “Faith, sugar, same as you.”

  She lifted a brow at his smirk. “This Dimitri doesn’t strike me as a man of faith.”

  “Instinct then. There was a man named Whitaker who figured to sell the papers to the highest bidder and make a nice profit without having to dig for it. The idea of a treasure, a documented one, caught Dimitri’s imagination. I told you he had one of those.”

  “Indeed. Whitaker…” Turning the name over in her mind, Whitney forgot to stir. “George Allan Whitaker?”

  “The same.” Doug blew out smoke. “Know him?”

  “Casually. I dated one of his nephews. It’s thought he made his money from bootlegging, among other things.”

  “Smuggling, among other things, especially in the last ten years or so. Remember the Geraldi sapphires that were stolen, let’s see, in seventy-six?”

  She frowned a minute. “No.”

  “You should keep up with current events, sugar. Read that book I lifted in D.C.”

  “Missing Gems Through the Ages?” Whitney moved her shoulders. “I prefer fiction when I read.”

  “Broaden your outlook. You can learn anything there is to learn from books.”

  “Really?” Interested, she studied him again. “So you like to read?”

  “Next to sex, it’s my favorite pastime. Anyway, the Geraldi sapphires. The sweetest set of rocks since the crown jewels.”

  Impressed, she lifted a brow. “You stole them?”

  “No.” He settled his shoulders against the wall. “I was on a downswing in seventy-six. Didn’t have the fare to get to Rome. But I’ve got conne
ctions. So did Whitaker.”

  “He stole them?” Her eyes widened as she thought of the skinny old man.

  “Arranged,” Doug corrected. “Once he hit sixty Whitaker didn’t like getting his hands dirty. He liked to pretend he was an expert in archeology. Didn’t you catch any of his shows on public television?”

  So he watched PBS too. A well-rounded thief. “No, but I heard he wanted to be a land-locked Jacques Cousteau.”

  “Not enough class. Still, he got pretty good ratings for a couple of years. Bullshitting a lot of hotshots with big bank accounts into financing digs. He had a real smooth game going.”

  “My father said he was full of shit,” Whitney said idly.

  “Your father’s got more on the ball than fudge ripple. Anyway, Whitaker played middleman for a lot of rocks and art objects that crossed from one side of the Atlantic to the other. About a year ago, he conned some English lady out of a bunch of old documents and correspondence.”

  Her interest peaked. “Our papers?”