Hot Ice

him.”
    “He was…” She trailed her fingertip down. “Occupied.” He wasn’t buying, she thought and jerked her shoulders. “You can waste your time looking for him if you like. However, you’re probably aware that I checked in alone. And, since you apparently knew Douglas, you might consider the fact that I have the treasure. Do you really think he’d have trusted me with that?”
    She pointed one elegant finger toward the dresser.
    Remo moved over and tossed back the lid. What he saw made his mouth water.
    “Impressive, isn’t it?” Whitney lightly tapped out her cigarette. “Much too impressive to share with someone of Lord’s caliber. However…” She trailed off until Remo’s gaze came back to her. “A man of a certain class and breeding would be quite different.”
    It was tempting. Her eyes were dark and promising. He could almost feel the heat rise from the small treasure chest beneath his fingers. But he remembered Dimitri. “You’re going to change your accommodations.”
    “All right.” As if it didn’t concern her in the least, Whitney rose. She had to get them out, and out quickly. Going with them was preferable to being shot in the kneecap, or anywhere else.
    Remo picked up the treasure chest. Dimitri was going to be pleased, he thought. Very, very pleased. He gave Whitney a thin smile. “Barns is going to walk you out to the car. I wouldn’t try anything—unless you’d like to have all the bones in your right hand broken.”
    A look at Barns’s grinning face brought on a shudder. “There’s no need to be crude, Remo.”
    It didn’t take Doug long to arrange for the two one-way tickets to Paris, but the shopping expedition ate up more time. It gave him a great deal of pleasure to buy Whitney the filmy underwear—even if it was her credit-card number that was stamped on the receipt. He spent nearly an hour, much to the saleswoman’s delight, choosing a royal blue silk dress with a draping bodice and a sleek, narrow skirt.
    Pleased, he treated himself to a casually elegant suit. It was precisely how he intended to live, at least for a time. Casually and elegantly.
    By the time he got back to the hotel, he was loaded with boxes and whistling. They were on their way. By the next evening, they’d be drinking champagne in Maxim’s and making love in a room overlooking the Seine. No more six-packs and roadside motels for Doug Lord. First class, Whitney had said. He was going to learn to live with it.
    It surprised him to find the door not quite latched. Didn’t Whitney realize by now he wouldn’t need a key for something as basic as a hotel lock?
    “Hey, lover, ready to celebrate?” Dumping the boxes on the bed, he hefted the bottle of wine he’d spent the equivalent of seventy-five dollars on. As he walked across to the bath, he began loosening the cork in the bottle. “Water still hot?”
    It was cold, and it was empty. For a moment, Doug stood in the center of the room staring at the still, clear water. Giving in to pressure, the cork blew out with a celebratory pop. He barely noticed the overflow of champagne dampening his fingers. His heart in his throat, he dashed back into the bedroom.
    Her pack was there where she’d tossed it on the floor. But there was no small wooden box. With speed and precision he searched the room. The box and everything in it was gone. So was Whitney.
    His first reaction was of fury. To be double-crossed by a woman with whiskey eyes and a cool smile was worse, a hundred times worse, than being double-crossed by a bowlegged midget. At least the midget had been in the business. Swearing, he slammed the bottle down on the table.
    Women! They were and had been his biggest problem since puberty. When would he learn? They smiled, crooned, batted their lashes, and rolled you for every last dollar.
    How could he have been such a jerk? He’d actually believed she had feelings for him. The way she’d looked when they’d made love, the way she’d stood by him, fought by him. He’d actually let himself fall for her, like a stone in a cool, deep lake. He’d even made some half-baked plans about the future, and she’d just walked out on him the first chance she got.
    He looked down at her pack on the floor. She’d carried it on her back, hiking miles, laughing, bitching, teasing him. And then… Without thinking, Doug reached down and picked it up. Inside were pieces of her—the lacy underwear, a compact, a brush. He could smell her.
    No.