by Nora Roberts
With a quick glance toward the heavens, Doug began to scramble his way down the steep slope behind the huts. The steps, such as they were, would leave him in the open for too long. He avoided them. Loose pebbles bounced against his calves, and once the eroded slope gave out under him and sent him sliding five feet before he could gain another foothold. Already he was working out an alternate plan, in case he ran into someone. He couldn’t speak the language, and his French interpreter was now his lookout. God help him. But he had a few—very few, he thought grimly—dollars in his pocket. If worse came to worst, he might buy most of what they needed.
Pausing a moment, straining to hear any sound, he dashed into the open toward the first hut.
He’d have liked it better if the lock had had more character. Doug had always found a certain satisfaction in outwitting a clever lock—or a clever woman. He glanced up and around toward where Whitney waited. He hadn’t finished with her yet, but in the case of the lock, he had to make do with what there was. In seconds, he was inside.
Comfortable on the soft ground of the forest, Whitney watched him through the glasses. He moved very well, she decided. Because she’d been running with him almost since the moment they’d met, she hadn’t been able to appreciate the smoothness with which he moved. Impressive, she decided, and touched her tongue to her top lip. She remembered the way he’d held her in the water of the lagoon.
And much more dangerous, she reminded herself, than she’d initially believed.
When he disappeared into the hut, she began a slow sweep with the field glasses. Twice she caught a movement, but it was only that of animals in the trees. Something resembling a hedgehog waddled out into the sunlight, lifted its head to scent, then slipped back into the bush. She heard flies buzzing and the whine of insects. That’s what reminded her the sound of the copter had ceased. She kept her mind set on Doug, willing him to hurry.
Though the settlement below seemed sparse and dingy, this was a much lusher Madagascar than the one she’d passed through over the last two days. It was green and wet, thriving with life. She knew there were birds or animals overhead as she listened to the leaves rustle. Once through the field glasses she thought she spotted a fat partridge fly low over the clearing.
She could smell grass and the light fragrance of flowers that grew in the shade. Her elbows pushed through the springy moss to where the ground was dark and rich. A few yards away the hill sloped steeply, and erosion had washed soil down to rock. As she lay still, a fresh hush fell over the forest, a humming silence that was touched with the mystery she’d first anticipated when Doug had mentioned the country’s name.
Had it really only been a matter of days, she mused, since they’d been in her apartment, him pacing, impatient, trying to wheedle a stake out of her? Already, everything that had come before that night seemed like a dream. She hadn’t even unpacked from Paris, yet she could remember nothing exciting from her trip there. She couldn’t think of a dull moment since Doug had jumped into her car in Manhattan.
Definitely more interesting, she decided. She looked back at the huts, but they were as quiet now as they’d been before Doug had scrambled down the hill. He’d be very good, she thought, at his chosen profession. His hands were quick, his eye keen, and he was light, very light, on his feet.
Though she wasn’t looking for a career change herself, she thought it might be fun to have him teach her a few tricks of his trade. She was a quick study and good with her hands. That and a certain steel-coated charm had helped her achieve success in her business without the help of her influential family. Weren’t the same basic abilities required in Doug’s field?
Perhaps, just for the experience naturally, she could try her hand at being a thief. After all, black was one of her best colors.
She had a trim little angora sweater that would do very nicely, she thought. And, if she remembered right, she owned a pair of black jeans. Yes, she was certain of it, snug black jeans with a row of silver studs down one leg. Really, she could be outfitted in no time if she picked up a pair of black sneakers.
She could try the family estate on Long Island for starters. The security system there was complex and intricate. So intricate, her father set it off regularly, then bellowed at the servants to shut it down again. If she and Doug could manage to get through it …
There were the Rubens, the pair of T’ang horses, the perfectly hideous solid-gold salver her grandfather had given to her mother. She could take a few choice pieces, box them up, and ship them back to her father’s New York offices. It would drive him crazy.
Amused at the thought, Whitney scanned again. Daydreaming, she nearly missed the movement to the east. With a jerk, she brought the glasses back to the right and focused.
The three bears were coming back, she thought. And Goldilocks was going to be caught with his fingers in the porridge.
She drew in her breath to whistle when a voice close behind her had her gulping instead.
“We flush ’em out in here, or we drive ’em out.” Leaves rustled smartly behind her and just overhead. “Either way, Lord’s luck’s running out.” The man who spoke hadn’t forgotten having a bottle of whiskey swung into his face. As he spoke, he touched the nose Doug had broken in the bar in Manhattan. “I want first shot at Lord myself.”
“I want first shot at the woman,” another voice piped up, high and whiny. Whitney felt as though something slimy had passed over her skin.
“Pervert,” the first man grumbled as he pushed his way through the forest. “You can play with her, Barns, but remember, Dimitri wants her in one piece. As for Lord, the boss doesn’t care how many pieces he’s in.”
Whitney lay still on the ground, eyes wide, mouth dry. She’d read somewhere that true fear mists over hearing and sight. She could now verify it firsthand. It occurred to her that the woman they spoke of so casually was herself. All they had to do was look over the rise they were approaching and they’d see her spread out on the forest floor like goods in a marketplace.
Frantic, she looked back toward the huts. A hell of a lot of good Doug would do her, she thought grimly. He could come out into the open at any moment. From their position on the rise, Dimitri’s men would simply pick him off like a bear in a shooting gallery. If he stayed where he was much longer, the Malagasy who were trooping home might create a bit of a scene when they found him systematically looting their hut.
First things first, Whitney cautioned herself. She needed better cover, and she needed it quickly. Moving only her head, she looked from side to side. Her best shot seemed to be a wide, downed tree between her and a thicket of bushes. Without giving herself time to consider, she gathered both packs and scrambled for it on all fours. Scraping her skin on the bark, she rolled over the tree and hit the ground with a thud.
“Hear something?”
Holding her breath, Whitney flattened herself against the trunk. Now she couldn’t even see down to the huts and Doug. But she could see an army of tiny, rust-colored insects burrowing into the dead tree an inch from her face. Fighting revulsion, she kept still. Doug was on his own now, she told herself. And so was she.
Overhead came a rustling that might have been thunder by the way it echoed in her head. Fear gripped, followed by a wave of giddiness. How the hell was she going to explain to her father that she’d been kidnapped by a couple of thugs in a forest in Madagascar on her way to find lost treasure with a thief?
He didn’t have much of a sense of humor.
Because she knew her father’s wrath and didn’t know Dimitri, the idea of the first worried her a great deal more than the second. She nearly crawled into the tree.
The rustling came again. There was no more casual conversation between the men. Stalking was done in silence. She tried to imagine them walking toward her, around her, beyond her, but her mind iced over with fear. Silence dragged on until sweat pearled on her forehead.
Whitney screwed her eyes shut as though, like a child, she believed the idea of I can�
�t see you, you can’t see me. It seemed easy to hold her breath when her blood was slowed and thickened with terror. There was a quiet thump on the trunk directly above her head. Resigned, she opened her eyes. Staring at her with intense eyes out of a black face was a smooth-coated lemur.
“Jesus.” The word came out on a trembling breath, but there wasn’t time for relief. She could hear the men approaching, more cautiously now. She wondered if being stalked in Central Park brought the same chilling fear. “Get!” she hissed at the lemur. “Go on.” She lay there, making faces at him, not daring to move. Obviously more amused than intimidated, he began making faces back at her. Whitney shut her eyes on a sigh. “Sweet Christ.” The lemur sent up a chatter that brought both men rushing to the rise.
She heard a high-pitched whoop and the retort of a gun, then watched the wood splinter and fly no more than six inches above her face. At the same moment, the lemur leapt off the trunk and into the thicket.
“Idiot!” Whitney heard the quick, hard sound of a slap, then incredibly, a giggle. It was the giggle more than the shot, more than the stalking, that had her body limp with terror.
“Almost got him. Another inch and I’d’ve plugged the little bastard.”
“Yeah, and that gunshot probably has Lord running like a rabbit.”
“I like shooting rabbits. Little fuckers freeze and look right at you when you pull the trigger.”
“Shit.” She recognized disgust when she heard it and nearly sympathized. “Get going. Remo wants us moving north.”
“Nearly got me a monkey.” The giggle sounded again. “Never shot a monkey before.”
“Pervert.”
The word and the echoing laughter drifted away. Moments passed. Whitney lay still and silent as a stone. The insects had decided to explore her arm as well as the tree, but she didn’t move. She decided she might have found a very good place to spend the next few days.
When a hand closed over her mouth, she jerked like a spring.
“Taking a nap?” Doug whispered in her ear. Watching her eyes, he saw surprise turn to relief and relief to fury. As a precaution, he held her down a moment longer. “Take it easy, sugar. They aren’t that far away yet.”
The moment her mouth was free, she started. “I nearly got shot,” she hissed at him. “By some whiny little creep with a cannon.”
He saw the fresh splinters in the tree above her head, but shrugged. “You look okay to me.”
“No thanks to you.” She brushed at the sleeve of her blouse, allowing the disgust as insects scattered into the moss. “While you were down there playing Robin Hood, two nasty men with equally nasty guns came strolling by. Your name was mentioned.”
“Fame’s a burden,” he murmured. It had been close, he thought with a glance at the splintered tree again. Too close. No matter how he maneuvered, no matter how often he shifted direction and tactics, Dimitri hung on. Doug knew the sensation of being tracked. He also knew the sweaty, gut-fluttering feeling of the hunted when the hunter was closing in. He wasn’t going to lose. He looked into the forest and forced himself to stay calm. He wasn’t going to lose when he’d almost won.
“By the way, you’re a lousy lookout.”
“You’ll have to excuse the fact that I was preoccupied and couldn’t whistle.”
“I nearly had to talk my way out of a very sensitive situation.” Back to business, he told himself. If Dimitri was close, they’d just have to move faster and jazz up their footwork. “However, I managed to pick up a few things and get out before it got crowded.”
“It figures.” It didn’t matter that she was relieved he was in one piece, and that she was more than pleased to have him with her again. She wouldn’t let him know it. “There was this lemur, and …” Whitney broke off when she saw one of the things he’d brought with him. “What,” she began, in a tone that was obviously as offended as it was curious, “is that?”
“A present.” Doug picked up the straw hat and offered it. “I didn’t have time to wrap it.”
“It’s unattractive and has absolutely no style.”
“It has a wide brim,” he returned and dropped it on her head. “Since it isn’t possible for me to stick a bag over your head, this has to do.”
“How flattering.”
“I picked you up a little outfit to go with it.” He tossed her a stiff, shapeless cotton dress the color of sun-bleached dung.
“Douglas, really.” Whitney picked up a sleeve between her thumb and fingertip. She felt a revulsion nearly identical with that she’d experienced the morning she’d woken with the spider. Ugly was ugly, after all. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in this.”
“That’s just what we’re shooting for, sugar.”
She remembered the wood splintering a few inches above her nose. Perhaps the dress would pick up a bit of style when it was worn. “And while I’m wearing this fetching little number, what about you?”
He picked up another straw hat, this one with a slightly peaked cap.
“Very chic.” She smothered her laughter when he held up a long plaid shirt and wide cotton pants.
“Our host obviously likes his rice,” Doug commented as he spread the generous waist of the pants. “But we’ll manage.”
“I hate to bring up the previous success of your disguises, but—”
“Then don’t.” He rolled the clothes into a ball. “In the morning, you and I are going to be a loving Malagasy couple on their way to market.”
“Why not a Malagasy woman and her idiot brother on their way to market?”
“Don’t press your luck.”
Feeling a bit more confident, Whitney examined her slacks. They’d been torn at the knee on the bark. The hole annoyed her a great deal more than the bullet had. “Just look at this!” she demanded. “If this keeps up, I won’t have a decent outfit left. I’ve already ruined a skirt and a perfectly lovely blouse, and now this.” She could stick three fingers in the hole. “I just bought these slacks in D.C.”
“Look, I brought you a new dress, didn’t I?”
Whitney glanced at the ball of clothes. “How droll.”
“Bitch later,” he advised. “Right now tell me if you overheard anything I should know.”
She sent him a smoldering look, reached in her pack, and pulled out her notebook. “These slacks are on your tab, Douglas.”
“Isn’t everything?” Twisting his head, he looked down at the amount she noted. “Eighty-five dollars? Who the hell pays eighty-five bucks for a pair of cotton pants?”
“You do,” she said sweetly. “Just be grateful I’m not adding on the tax. Now …” Satisfied, she dropped the notebook back in her pack. “One of the men was a creep.”
“Only one of them?”
“I mean a first-class creep with a voice like a slug. He giggled.”
Doug momentarily forgot his growing tab. “Barns?”
“Yes, that’s it. The other man called him Barns. He tried to shoot one of those cute little lemurs and nearly took off the tip of my nose.” As an afterthought she dug in her pack for her compact to make certain there was no damage.
If Dimitri had set his pet dog loose, Doug knew he was feeling confident. Barns wasn’t on the payroll because of his brains or cunning. He didn’t kill for profit or for practicality. He killed for fun. “What’d they say? What’d you hear?”
Satisfied, she patted on a bit of powder. “It came through loud and clear that the first man wanted to get his hands on you. It sounded personal. As for Barns …” Nervous again, she reached in Doug’s pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “He prefers me. Which, I suppose, shows some discrimination.”
He felt a well of fury rise up so quickly he nearly choked on it. While he battled it back, Doug took out a pack of matches and lit the cigarette. Since he was running low, they’d have to share a while. Saying nothing, he took the cigarette from Whitney and drew smoke in deeply.
He’d never seen Barns in action, but he’d heard. What he’d heard wasn’t pr
etty, even up against some of the obscenities that happened with regularity in places Whitney’d never heard of.
Barns had a penchant for women, and small, fragile things. There was a particularly gruesome story about what he’d done to a sharp little hooker in Chicago—and what had been left of her after he’d done it.
Doug watched Whitney’s slender, elegant fingers as she took the cigarette again. Barns wouldn’t get his sweaty hands on her. Not if he had to cut them off at the wrist first.
“What else?”
She’d only heard that tone of voice from him once or twice before—when he’d held a rifle in his hand and when his fingers had closed around her throat. Whitney took a long pull on the cigarette. It was easier to play the game when Doug seemed half-amused and half-frustrated. When his eyes went cool and flat in just that way, it was a different story.
She remembered a hotel room in Washington and a young waiter with a red stain spreading over the back of his neat white jacket.
“Doug, can it be worth it?”
Impatient, he kept his eyes trained on the rise above their heads. “What?”
“Your end of the rainbow, your pot of gold. These men want you dead—you want to jingle some gold in your pocket.”
“I want more than jingles, sugar. I’m going to drip with it.”
“While you’re dripping, they’ll be shooting at you.”
“Yeah, but I’ll have something.” His gaze shifted and locked on hers. “I’ve been shot at before. I’ve been running for years.”
She met the look, as intense as he. “When do you plan to stop?”
“When I have something. And this time, I’m going to get it. Yeah.” He blew out a long stream of smoke. How could he explain to her what it was like to wake up in the morning with twenty dollars and your wits? Would she believe him if he told her he knew he’d been born for more than two-bit hustling? He’d been given a brain, he’d honed the skill, all he needed was a stake. A big one. “Yeah, it’s worth it.”
