Hot Ice (14 page)

“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 connections. 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?”

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.