Hot Ice

The denial rammed into him, sharp and abrupt. With it, he tossed the pack against the wall. She wouldn’t have run out on him. Even if he were wrong about her feelings, she just had too much class to renege on a bargain.
    So if she hadn’t run, she’d been taken.
    He stood there, holding her brush in his hand, as the fear poured into him. Taken. He realized he’d rather have believed the double-cross. He’d rather have believed she was already on a plane, heading to Tahiti, laughing at him.
    Dimitri. The brush broke cleanly in two at the pressure of his hands. Dimitri had his woman. Doug threw the two pieces across the room. He wasn’t going to have her for long.
    He left the room quickly, and he was no longer whistling.
    The house was magnificent. But then, Whitney supposed she should have expected no less from a man of Dimitri’s reputation. On the outside, it was elegant, almost feminine, white and clean with wrought-iron balconies that would provide a lovely view of the bay. The grounds were spacious and well kept, rich with the ornate tropical flowers of the region and shaded with palms. She studied it with a sick, creeping dread.
    Remo stopped the car at the end of the crushed white gravel drive. Her courage had begun to fail her, but Whitney fought to find it again. A man who could acquire a place like this had brains. Brains could be dealt with.
    It was Barns, with his black, greedy eyes and eager grin who worried her.
    “Well, I must say this is preferable to the hotel.” With the air of someone preparing to go to a dinner party, Whitney alighted from the car. She plucked a hibiscus and strolled to the front door twirling it under her nose.
    At Remo’s knock, the door was opened by another dark-suited man. Dimitri insisted on a neat, businesslike appearance in his employees. Every one would wear a tie with their blunt-nose .45. When the man smiled, he showed a badly chipped front tooth. Whitney had no idea he’d acquired it when he’d smashed through the window of Godiva Chocolatiers.
    “So you got her.” Unlike Remo, he looked at the chipped tooth as an occupational hazard. He had to admire a woman who could drive with such nerveless lunacy. But he didn’t feel the same tolerance toward Doug. “Where’s Lord?”
    Remo didn’t even glance at him. He only answered to one man. “Keep an eye on her,” he ordered and went to report directly to Dimitri. Because he carried the treasure, he walked quickly, with the air of a man in charge. The last time he’d reported in, he’d nearly crawled.
    “So what’s the story, Barns?” The dark-suited man cast a long look at Whitney. Nice-looking lady. He figured Dimitri had some interesting plans for her. “You forget Lord’s ears for the boss?”
    Barns’s giggle brought a chill to Whitney’s skin. “She killed him,” he said cheerfully.
    “Oh yeah?”
    She caught the interested look, then brushed back her hair. “That’s right. Any way to get a drink in this place?”
    Without waiting for an answer she walked down the wide white hall and into the first room.
    It was obviously a formal parlor. Whoever had decorated it leaned toward the ornate. Whitney would have chosen something a great deal breezier.
    The windows, twice as tall as she, were festooned in scarlet brocade. As she strolled across the room, she wondered if it would be possible for her to open them and escape. Doug would be back at the hotel by now, she calculated as she ran her fingertip along an intricately carved drum table. But she couldn’t count on him to come charging in like the Seventh Cavalry. Whatever move she made, she made on her own.
    Knowing both men were watching her every step, she walked to a Waterford decanter and poured. Her fingers were numb and damp. A little shot of courage wouldn’t hurt, she decided. Especially since she didn’t yet know what she was up against. As if she had all the time in the world, she sat in a high-backed Queen Anne chair and began to sip some very smooth vermouth.
    Her father had always said you could negotiate with a man who stocked a good bar. Whitney drank again and hoped he was right.
    Minutes passed. She sat in the chair and drank, trying to ignore the terror that built inside of her. After all, she reasoned, if he was simply going to kill her, he’d have done so by now. Wouldn’t he? Wasn’t it more likely he’d hold her for ransom? It might not sit well with her to be exchanged for a few hundred thousand dollars, but