Hot Ice

couldn’t only made him furious with her. He might, just might, have to kill a man to get out. He’d killed before, was aware he was likely to do so again. But it was a part of his life he could never examine without guilt.
    Doug touched the bandage on his arm and his fingers came away wet. Damn, he couldn’t stand there waiting and bleeding to death. Moving soundlessly, he edged along the wall.
    Whitney had to cover her mouth to hold back all sound as the shadow crouched at the end of the sofa. It wasn’t Doug—she saw immediately that the neck was too long and the hair too short. Then she caught the flicker of movement to her left. The shadow turned toward it. Before she had time to think, Whitney pulled off her shoe. Holding the good Italian leather in one hand, she aimed the three-inch heel at the shadow’s head. With all the strength she could muster, she brought it down.
    There was a grunt, then a thud.
    Amazed at herself, Whitney held up her shoe in triumph. “I got him!”
    “Sweet Jesus,” Doug muttered as he dashed across the room, grabbing her hand and dragging her along with him.
    “I knocked him cold,” she told Doug as he streaked toward the stairway. “With this.” She wiggled the shoe that was crushed between his hand and hers. “How did they find us?”
    “Dimitri. Traced your plates,” he said, enraged with himself for not considering it before. Streaking down the next flight of stairs he started making new plans.
    “That fast?” She gave a quick laugh. Adrenaline was pumping through her. “Is this Dimitri a man or a magician?”
    “He’s a man who owns other men. He could pick up the phone and have your credit rating and your shoe size in a half hour.”
    So could her father. That was business, and she understood business. “Look, I can’t run lopsided, give me a couple of seconds.” Whitney pulled her hand from his and put on her shoe. “What’re we going to do now?”
    “We’ve got to get to the garage.”
    “Down forty-two flights?”
    “Elevators don’t have back doors.” With this he grabbed her hand and began to jog down the steps again. “I don’t want to come out near your car. He’s probably got somebody watching it just in case we get that far.”
    “Then why’re we going to the garage?”
    “We still need a car. I’ve got to get to the airport.”
    Whitney slung the strap of her purse over her head so that she could grip the rail for support as they ran. “You’re going to steal one?”
    “That’s the idea. I’ll drop you off at a hotel—register under some other name, then—”
    “Oh no,” she interrupted, noting gratefully that they were passing the twentieth floor. “You’re not dumping me in any hotel. Windshield, three hundred, plate-glass window, twelve hundred, Dresden vase circa 1865, twenty-two seventy-five.” She retrieved her purse, dug a notebook out of it, and never missed a beat. The minute she caught her breath, she’d start an accounting. “I’m going to collect.”
    “You’ll collect,” he said grimly. “Now, save your breath.” She did, and began to work out her own plan.
    By the time they’d reached the garage level, she was winded enough to lean breathlessly against the wall while he peered through a crack in the door. “Okay, the closest one is a Porsche. I’ll go out first. Once I’m in the car, you follow. And keep down.”
    He slipped the gun back out of his pocket. She caught the look in his eye, a look of—loathing? she wondered. Why should he look down at a gun as though it were something vile? She’d thought a gun would fit easily into his hand, the way a gun did for a man who hung out in dim bars and smoky hotel rooms. But it didn’t fit easily. It didn’t fit at all. Then he went through the door.
    Who was Doug Lord really? Whitney asked herself. Was he a hood, a con, a victim? Because she sensed he was all three, she was fascinated and determined to find out why.
    Crouched, Doug took out what looked like a penknife. Whitney watched as he fiddled with the lock for a moment, then quietly opened the passenger door. Whatever he was, Whitney noted, he was good at breaking and entering. Leaving that for later, she crept through the door. He was already in the driver’s seat and working with wires under the dash when she climbed inside.
    “Damn foreign cars,” he muttered. “Give me a Chevy any day.”
    Wide-eyed with admiration, Whitney heard the engine spring to life. “Can you teach me how