by Nora Roberts
He didn’t care for the plural pronoun but shrugged it off. “The lady considered it all part of art or history— cultural value. She’d written a lot of books on stuff like that. There was some general involved who’d nearly worked a deal with her, but it seemed Whitaker knew more about flattering matrons. And Whitaker had a more basic train of thought. Greed. Trouble was, he was broke and had to do some campaigning for funds for the expedition.”
“That’s where Dimitri came in.”
“Exactly. Like I said, Whitaker threw the bidding open. It was supposed to be a business deal. Partners,” he added with a slow smile. “Dimitri decided he didn’t like the competitive market and made an alternate proposition.” Doug crossed his ankles and peeled the banana. “Whitaker could let him have the papers, and Dimitri’d let Whitaker keep all his fingers and toes.”
Whitney took another nibble of fruit but it wasn’t easy to swallow. “Sounds like a forceful businessman.”
“Yeah, Dimitri loves to wheel and deal. Trouble was, he used a little too much persuasion on Whitaker. Apparently the old man had a heart problem. Keeled over before Dimitri had the papers or his jollies—I’m not sure which pissed him off more. An unfortunate accident, or so Dimitri said when he hired me to steal them.” Doug bit into the banana and savored it. “He went into graphic detail on how he’d planned to change Whitaker’s mind— for the purpose of putting the fear of God into me so I wouldn’t get any ideas myself.” He remembered the tiny pair of silver pliers Dimitri had fondled during the interview. “It worked.”
“But you took them anyway.”
“Only after he’d double-crossed me,” he told her over another bite of banana. “If he’d played it straight, he’d have the papers. I’d’ve taken my fee and a little vacation in Cancún.”
“But this way, you have them. And no opportunity should go undeveloped.”
“You got it, sister. Jesus Christ!” Doug bolted up and scrambled to the fire. In automatic defense, Whitney curled up her legs, expecting anything from a slimy snake to a hideous spider. “Damn, woman, how much rice did you put in here?”
“I—” She broke off and stared as he grabbed at the pan. Rice was flowing over the sides like lava. “Just a couple handfuls,” she said as she bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“My ass.”
“Well, four.” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as he dug for a plate. “Or five.”
“Four or five,” he muttered while scooping rice onto the plates. “How the hell did I end up in a cave in Madagascar with ‘I Love Lucy’?;?”
“I told you I couldn’t cook,” she reminded him as she studied the brownish, sticky mass on the plate. “I simply proved it.”
“In spades.” When he heard her muffled chuckle, he glanced over. She sat Indian style, her skirt and blouse filthy, the ribbon at the end of her braid dangling free. He remembered how she’d looked the first time he’d seen her, cool and sleek in a white fedora and lush furs. Why was it she looked every bit as appealing now? “You laugh,” he tossed back, shoving a plate at her. “You’re going to have to eat your share.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” With the fork she’d used for cooking, she poked into the rice. Bravely, he thought, she took the first bite. The flavor was nutty and not altogether unpleasant. With a shrug, Whitney ate more. Though she’d never been in the position of being a beggar, she’d heard they couldn’t be choosers. “Don’t be a baby, Douglas,” she told him. “If we can get our hands on some mushrooms and almonds, we’ll fix it your way next time.” With the enthusiasm of a child over a bowl of ice cream, she dug in. Without fully realizing it, Whitney had had her first experience with real hunger.
Eating at a slower pace, and with less enthusiasm, Doug watched her. He’d been hungry before, and figured he’d be hungry again. But she… Perhaps she was dining on rice off a tin plate, in a skirt that was streaked with grime, but class shone through. He found it fascinating, and intriguing enough to make it worthwhile discovering if it always would. The partnership, he mused, might be more interesting than he’d bargained for. For as long as it lasted.
“Douglas, what about the woman who gave Whitaker the map?”
“What about her?”
“Well, what happened to her?”
He swallowed a lump of rice. “Butrain.”
When she glanced up, he saw the fear come and go in her eyes and was glad. Better for both of them if she understood this was the big leagues. But her hands were steady when she reached for the coffee.
“I see. So you’re the only one alive who’s seen those papers.”
“That’s right, sugar.”
“He’ll want you dead, and me too.”
“That’s also right.”
“But I haven’t seen them.”
Casually, Doug dug for more rice. “If he gets his hands on you, you can’t tell him anything.”
She waited a minute, studying him. “You’re a first-class bastard, Doug.”
This time he grinned because he’d heard the light trace of respect. “I like first class, Whitney. I’m going to live there the rest of my life.”
Two hours later, he was cursing her again, though only to himself. They’d let the fire burn down to embers so that the light in the cave was dim and red. Somewhere, deeper, water dripped in a slow, musical plop. It reminded him of a pricey, innovative little bordello in New Orleans.
They were both exhausted, both aching from the demands of a very long, very arduous day. Doug stripped off his shoes with his only thought one of the pleasures of unconsciousness. He never doubted he’d sleep like a rock.
“You know how to work that thing?” he asked idly as he opened his own bag.
“I think I can handle a zipper, thanks.”
Then he made the mistake of glancing over—and not looking away again.
Without any show of self-consciousness, Whitney drew off her blouse. He remembered just how thin the material of her teddy had looked in the morning light. When she pulled off her skirt, his mouth watered.
No, she wasn’t self-conscious, she was nearly comatose with fatigue. It never occurred to her to make a play at modesty. Even if she’d thought it out, Whitney would have considered the teddy adequate cover. She wore a fraction of that on a public beach. Her only thought was of getting horizontal, of closing her eyes, and of oblivion.
If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have enjoyed the discomfort she was causing in the region of Doug’s loins. It might have given her some pleasure to know his muscles had tensed as he watched the subtle flicker of firelight play over her skin as she bent to unzip her bag. She’d have gotten pure feminine satisfaction knowing he sucked in his breath as the thin material rose up at her thighs and pulled over her bottom with her movements.
Without giving it a thought, she climbed into the sleeping bag and pulled up the zipper. Nothing was visible but a cloud of pale hair untangled from the braid. With a sigh, she pillowed her head on her hands. “Good night, Douglas.”
“Yeah.” He pulled off his shirt, then gripped the edge of adhesive and held his breath. Ruthlessly he ripped and the fire snaked across his chest. Whitney never budged as his curse bounced off the cave walls. She was already asleep. Cursing her, cursing the pain, he snapped the envelope into his knapsack before he climbed into his own bag. In sleep, she sighed, low and quiet.
Doug stared at the ceiling of the cave, wide awake and aching from more than bruises.
C H A P T E R
6
Something tickled the back of her hand. Fighting to cling to sleep, Whitney flicked her wrist in a lazy, back-and-forth action and yawned.
She had always kept her own hours. If she wanted to sleep until noon, she slept until noon. If she wanted to get up at dawn, she did. When the mood struck her, she could work for an eighteen-hour stretch. With a similar enthusiasm, she could sleep for the same length of time.
At the moment, she wasn’t interested in anything but the vague, rather
pretty dream she was having. When she felt the feathery brush on her hand again, she sighed, only slightly annoyed, and opened her eyes.
In all probability, it was the biggest, fattest spider she’d ever seen. Big, black, and hairy, it probed and skiddled with its bowed legs. Her hand only inches from her face, Whitney watched as it loomed full in her vision, moving lazily across her knuckles in a direct line to her nose. For a moment, dazed with sleep, she just stared at it in the dim light.
Her knuckles. Her nose.
Realization came loud and clear. Muffling a yelp, she knocked the spider off and several feet into the air. It landed with an audible plop on the cave floor, then meandered drunkenly away.
The spider hadn’t frightened her. She never considered the possibility that it might have been poisonous. It was simply ugly and Whitney had a basic disrespect for the ugly.
Sighing in disgust, she sat up and combed her fingers through her tangled hair. Well, she supposed when one slept in a cave, one could expect a visit from ugly neighbors. But why hadn’t it visited Doug instead? Deciding there was no reason why he should sleep when she’d been so rudely awakened, Whitney turned with the full intention of giving him a hard shove.
He was gone, and so was his sleeping bag.
Uneasy, but not yet alarmed, she looked around. The cave was empty, with the rock formations Doug had spoken of giving it the look of an abandoned and slightly dilapidated castle. The cook fire was only a pile of glowing embers. The air smelled ripe. Some of the fruit was already turning. Doug’s pack, like his sleeping bag, was gone.
The bastard. The rotten bastard. He had taken himself off, with the papers, and left her stuck in a damn cave with a couple of pieces of fruit, a sack of rice, and a spider as big as a dinner plate.
Too furious to think twice, she dashed across the cave and began to crawl through the tunnel. When her breath clogged up, she pushed on. The hell with phobias, she told herself. No one was going to double-cross her and get away with it. To catch him, she had to get out. And when she caught him…
She saw the opening and concentrated on it, and revenge. Panting, shuddering, she pulled herself into the sunshine. Scrambling up, she drew in all of her breath and let it out on a shout.
“Lord! Lord, you sonofabitch!” The sound rang out and bounced back at her, half as loud but twice as angry. Impotently, she looked around at red hills and rock. How was she supposed to know which way he’d gone?
North. Damn north, he had the compass. And he had the map. After gritting her teeth, Whitney shouted again. “Lord, you bastard, you won’t get away with it!”
“With what?”
She spun on her heel and nearly bumped into him. “Where the hell were you?” she demanded. In a blaze of relief and anger, she gripped his shirt and yanked him against her. “Where the hell did you go?”
“Easy, sugar.” Companionably, he patted her bottom. “If I’d known you wanted to get your hands on me, I’d’ve stuck around longer.”
“Around your throat.” With a jerk, she released him.
“Gotta start somewhere.” He set his pack near the mouth of the cave. “D’you think I’d ditch you?”
“At the very first opportunity.”
He had to admit, she was sharp. The idea had occurred to him, but after a quick look around that morning, he hadn’t been able to justify leaving her in a cave in the middle of nowhere. Still, the opportunity was bound to come up.
In an attempt to keep her from getting a step ahead of him, he poured on the charm. “Whitney, we’re partners. And…” He lifted a hand and ran a fingertip down her cheek. “You’re a woman. What kind of man would I be if I left you alone in a place like this?”
She met his engaging smile with one of her own. “The kind of man who’d sell the hide off the family dog if the price was right. Now, where were you?”
He wouldn’t have sold the hide, but he might have hocked the whole dog if it had been necessary. “You’re a hard lady. Look, you were sleeping like a baby.” As she had all night, while he’d spent a good part of it tossing, turning, and fantasizing. He wouldn’t forgive her for that easily, but there was a time and place for payback. “I wanted to do a little scouting around, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
She let out a long breath. It was reasonable, and he was back. “Next time you want to play Daniel Boone, wake me up.”
“Whatever you say.”
Whitney saw a bird fly overhead. She watched it for a moment, until she was calm. The sky was clear, so was the air—and it was cool. The heat was a few hours off. There was a quality of silence she’d only heard a few times in her life. It soothed.
“Well, since you’ve been scouting, how about a report?”
“Everything’s quiet down in the village.” Doug drew out a cigarette which Whitney plucked from his fingers. Pulling out another, he lit them both. “I didn’t go close enough to get any real particulars, but it looks like business as usual. The way I see it, since everybody’s calm and easy, it’s a good time to drop in for a visit.”
Whitney looked down at her grime-smeared teddy. “Like this?”
“I’ve already told you it’s a nice dress.” And it had a certain appeal with one strap hanging down her shoulder. “Anyway, I didn’t pass a local beauty parlor and boutique.”
“You might go visiting looking sleazy.” Whitney cast one long look up his body, then down. “In fact, I’m sure you do. I, on the other hand, intend to wash and change first.”
“Suit yourself. There’s probably enough water left to get some of the dirt off your face.”
When she reached up automatically to brush at her cheeks, he grinned. “Where’s your pack?”
She looked back at the mouth of the cave. “It’s in there.” Her gaze was defiant, her voice firm when she looked back at him. “I’m not going back in there.”
“Okay, I’ll get your gear. But you’re not going to be able to primp all morning. I don’t want to lose any time.”
Whitney merely lifted a brow as he started to crawl back in. “I never primp,” she said mildly. “It’s not necessary.”
With an indistinguishable grunt, he was gone. Nibbling on her lip, she glanced at the cave, then at the pack he’d left beside it. She might not have a second chance. Without hesitation, she crouched down and began to root through it.
There was cooking gear to paw through, and his clothes. She came upon a rather elegant man’s brush that had her pausing a moment. When had he gotten that? she wondered. She knew every item down to his shorts that she’d paid for. Light fingers, she decided, and dropped the brush back in.
When she found the envelope, she took it out carefully. This had to be it. She glanced back at the cave again. Quickly, she dew out a thin, yellowed sheet sealed in plastic and skimmed it. It was written in French in a trim, feminine hand. A letter, she thought. No, part of a journal. And the date—my God. Her eyes widened as she studied the neat, faded writing. September 15, 1793. She was standing in blazing sunlight, on a wind- and weather-torn rock, holding history in her hand.
Whitney scanned it again, quickly, catching phrases of fear, of anxiety, and of hope. A young girl had written it, of that she was all but certain because of references to Maman and Papa. A young aristocrat, confused and afraid by what was happening to her life and her family, Whitney reflected. Did Doug have any idea just what he was carrying in a canvas sack?
It wouldn’t do to take the chance to read it thoroughly now. Later…
Carefully, Whitney closed his pack again and set it down next to the mouth of the cave. Thinking, she tapped the envelope against her open palm. It was very satisfying to beat a man at his own game, she decided, then heard the sounds of his return.
Holding the envelope in one hand, she looked down at herself. Dumbly, she passed the other hand from her breast to her waist. Just where the hell was she supposed to hide it? Mata Hari must’ve had a sarong at least. Frantic, she started to slip it down the bodice of the teddy, then r
ealized the absurdity. She might as well pin it to her forehead. With seconds to spare, she slipped it down her back and left the rest to luck.
“Your luggage, Ms. MacAllister.”
“I’ll catch you later with your tip.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Good service is its own reward.” She gave him a smug smile. He gave one right back to her. Whitney had taken the pack from his hand when a sudden thought occurred to her. If she could lift the envelope so easily, then he… Opening the pack, she dug for her wallet.
“You’d better get moving, sugar. We’re already late for our morning call.” He started to take her arm when she shoved the pack into his stomach. The hiss of air coming from his lungs gave her great satisfaction. “My wallet, Douglas.” Taking it out, she opened it and saw he’d been generous enough to leave her with a twenty. “It appears you’ve had your sticky fingers on it.”
“Finders, keepers—partner.” Though he’d hoped she wouldn’t find him out quite so soon, he only shrugged. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your allowance.”
