Hot Ice

across a long, elegant mahogany table that gleamed dully under the light of two dozen candles. From the escargot to the soufflé and Dom Pérignon, the meal was exquisite in every detail. Chopin floated quietly in the background while they spoke of literature and art.
    There was no denying that Dimitri was a connoisseur of such things, and that he would have fit into the most exclusive club without a ripple. Before it was over, they’d dissected a Tennessee Williams play, discussed the intricacies of the French impressionists, and debated the subtleties of the Mikado.
    As the soufflé melted in her mouth, Whitney found herself yearning for the sticky rice and fruit she’d shared with Doug one night in a cave.
    While her conversation with Dimitri ran smoothly, she remembered all the arguments and sniping she’d had with Doug. The silk lay cool on her shoulders. She’d have traded the five-hundred-dollar dress in a heartbeat for the stiff cotton sack she’d worn on the road to the coast.
    Under the circumstances, with her life on the line, it might have been difficult to say she was bored. She was, miserably.
    “You seem a bit distant this evening, my dear.”
    “Oh?” Whitney brought herself back. “It’s an excellent meal, Mr. Dimitri.”
    “But the entertainment is perhaps a bit lax. A young, vital woman demands something more exciting.” With a benevolent smile, he pressed a button at his side. Almost instantaneously, a white-suited Oriental entered. “Ms. MacAllister and I will have coffee in the library. It’s quite extensive,” he added as the Oriental backed out of the room. “I’m pleased you share my affection for the written word.”
    She might have refused, but the idea of seeing more of the house could lead to finding some route of escape. It never hurt to have an edge, she decided. She smiled and nudged her dinner knife into the open evening bag she’d placed by her plate.
    “It’s always a pleasure to spend the evening with a man who appreciates the finer things.” Whitney rose, clipping the bag shut. She accepted his arm and told herself she would, without compunction, stick the knife into his heart at the first opportunity.
    “When a man travels as I do,” he began, “it’s often necessary to take certain things of import along. The right wine, the proper music, a few volumes of literature.” He walked smoothly through the house, smelling lightly of cologne. The formal white dinner jacket fit without a wrinkle.
    He was feeling benevolent, tolerant. Too many weeks had passed since he’d had a young, beautiful woman to dine with. He opened the tall double doors of the library and ushered her inside. “Browse if you like, my dear,” he told her, indicating the two levels of books.
    The room had terrace doors. That was something she made note of immediately. If there was any way to get out of her room during the night, this might be the method of escape. All she’d have to do then would be to get past the guards. And the guns.
    One step at a time, Whitney reminded herself as she skimmed a fingertip over leather-bound volumes.
    “My father has a library like this,” she commented. “I always found it a cozy place to spend the evening.”
    “Cozier with coffee and brandy.” Dimitri poured the brandy himself while the Oriental entered with the silver service. “Do give Chan your knife, my dear. He’s very particular about the washing up.” Whitney turned to see Dimitri watching her with a small smile and eyes that reminded her of a reptile—flat, cold, and dangerously patient.
    Without a word she took out the knife and handed it over to the servant. All the oaths that were on her tongue, the temper tantrum she barely held back, weren’t going to help her out of this one.
    “Brandy?” Dimitri asked when Chan left them alone.
    “Yes, thank you.” As cool as he, Whitney crossed the room and held out her hand.
    “Did you think to kill me with your dinner knife, my dear?”
    She shrugged, then downed brandy. It rolled in her stomach, then settled. “It was a thought.”
    He laughed, a long, rumbling sound that was indescribably unpleasant. He was again thinking of the mantis, and the struggles of the moth. “I admire you, Whitney. I really do.” He touched his glass to hers, swirled brandy, and drank. “I imagine you’d like to get a good look at the treasure again. After all, you hadn’t much time for it today, had you?”
    “No, Remo was in quite a