Hot Ice

known her, her shoulders slumped and her voice was weary. “No, I don’t want to get any shots in, Doug. I’m a bit tired. You’ve seen that I’m fine. Now why don’t you leave the same way you came in?”
    “Whitney.”
    “Don’t touch me,” she murmured before he’d taken two steps toward her. The quiet, even voice didn’t quite hide the trickle of desperation underneath.
    He lifted his hands, palms out, then let them drop. “Okay.” He wandered the room a moment, trying to find his way back to his original plan of attack. “You know, I had pretty good luck in Paris. Cleaned out five rooms in the Hotel de Crillon.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “I was on a roll, probably could’ve spent the next six months picking off tourists.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets.
    “So why didn’t you?”
    “Just wasn’t any fun. You got trouble when the fun goes out of your work, you know.”
    She turned back, telling herself it was cowardly not to face him. “I suppose so. You came back to the States for a change of scene?”
    “I came back because I couldn’t stay away from you anymore.”
    Her expression didn’t change, but he saw her link her fingers together in the first outward show of nerves he’d ever observed in her. “Oh?” she said simply. “It seems an odd thing to say. I didn’t kick you out of the hotel room in Diégo-Suarez.”
    “No.” His gaze traveled slowly over her face, as if he needed to find something. “You didn’t kick me out.”
    “Then why did you leave?”
    “Because if I’d stayed, I’d’ve done then what I guess I’m going to do now.”
    “Steal my purse?” she asked with a flippant toss of her head.
    “Ask you to marry me.”
    It was the first time, perhaps the only time, he’d seen her mouth fall open and hang there. She looked as though someone had just stomped on her toes. He’d hoped for a bit more emotional reaction.
    “I guess that charmed the shit out of you.” Helping himself, he took his glass back to the bar. “Pretty funny idea, a guy like me proposing to a woman like you. I don’t know, maybe it was the air or something, but I started getting some funny ideas in Paris about setting up housekeeping, settling in. Kids.”
    Whitney managed to close her mouth. “You did?” Like Doug, she decided another drink was in order. “You’re talking marriage as in till death us do part and joint tax returns?”
    “Yeah. I decided I’m traditional. Even down to this.” When he went for something, he went for it completely. The policy didn’t always work, but it was his policy. He reached in his pocket and drew out a ring.
    The brilliance of the diamond caught the light and exploded with it. Whitney made a conscious effort to keep her mouth from dropping open again.
    “Where did you—”
    “I didn’t steal it,” he snapped. Feeling foolish, he tossed it up and clamped it in his palm. “Exactly,” he amended and managed a half smile. “The diamond came out of Marie’s treasure. I pocketed it—I guess you’d call it a reflex. I thought about fencing it, but—” Opening his hand, he stared down at it. “Had it set in Paris.”
    “I see.”
    “Look, I know you wanted the treasure to go to museums, and most of it did.” It still hurt. “There was a hell of a write-up in the Paris papers. Bennett Foundation recovers tragic queen’s booty, diamond necklace sparks new theories, and so on.”
    He moved his shoulders, trying not to think of all those pretty, shiny stones. “I decided to settle for the one rock. Even though just a couple of those bangles could’ve set me up for life.” Shrugging again, he held the ring up by its thin gold band. “If it itches your conscience, I’ll take the damn rock out and ship it off to Bennett.”
    “Don’t be insulting.” In a deft move, she snatched it out of his hand. “My engagement ring isn’t going in any museum. Besides…” And she smiled at him fully. “I also believe there are pieces of history that should belong to the individual. A hands-on sort of thing.” She gave him her cool, lifted-brow look. “Are you traditional enough to get down on one knee?”
    “Not even for you, sugar.” He gripped her left wrist and, taking the ring from her, slipped it on the third finger. The look he gave her was long and steady. “Deal?”
    “Deal,” she agreed, and laughing, launched herself into his arms. “Damn you, Douglas, I’ve been miserable for two months.”
    “Oh yeah?” He