Hot Ice (13 page)

“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 was 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 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 temples. 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.”