Hot Ice

whole thing?” Abruptly enraged, she turned on him. “You want to hear the whole thing? The whole bloody thing? I walk back into the room and there’s that poor, harmless boy dead, blood all over his starched white coat, and some creep with a face like a road map’s holding a gun to my throat.”
    Her voice had risen so that passersby turned to listen or to stare.
    “Keep it down,” Doug muttered, dragging her toward another train. They’d ride, it didn’t matter where, until she was calm and he had a more workable plan.
    “You keep it down,” she shot back. “You got me into this.”
    “Look, honey, you can take a walk any time you want.”
    “Sure, and end up with my throat slit by someone who’s after you and those damn papers.”
    The truth left him little defense. Shoving her down into a corner seat, he squeezed in beside her. “Okay, so you’re stuck with me,” he said under his breath. “Here’s a news flash—listening to you whine about it gets on my nerves.”
    “I’m not whining.” She turned to him with eyes suddenly drenched and vulnerable. “That boy’s dead.”
    Anger drained and guilt flared. Not knowing what else to do, he put his arm around her. He wasn’t used to comforting women. “You can’t let it get to you. You’re not responsible.”
    Tired, she let her head rest on his shoulder. “Is that how you get through life, Doug, by not being responsible?”
    Curling his fingers into her hair, he watched their blurred twin images in the glass. “Yeah.”
    They lapsed into silence with both of them wondering if he was telling the truth.

CHAPTER
3
    She had to snap out of it. Doug shifted in his first-class seat and wished he knew how to shake the grief out of her. He thought he understood wealthy women. He’d worked for—and on—plenty of them. It was just as true, he supposed, that plenty of them had worked on him. The trouble was, had always been, that he invariably fell just a little bit in love with any woman he spent more than two hours with. They were so, well, feminine, he decided. Nobody could sound more sincere than a soft-smelling, soft-skinned woman. But he’d learned through experience that women with big bank accounts generally had hearts of pure plastic. The minute you were about ready to forget the diamond earrings in favor of a more meaningful relationship, they dumped all over you.
    Callousness. He thought that was the worst failing of the rich. The kind of callousness that made them step all over people with the nonchalance of a child stomping on a beetle. For recreation, he’d choose a waitress with an easy laugh. But when it was business, Doug went straight to the bank balance. A woman with a hefty one was an invaluable cover. You could get through a lot of locked doors with a rich woman on your arm. They came in varieties, certainly, but generally could be slapped with a few basic labels. Bored, vicious, cold, or silly came to mind. Whitney didn’t seem to qualify for any one of those labels. How many people would have remembered the name of a waiter, much less mourned for him?
    They were on their way to Paris out of Dulles International. Enough of a detour, he hoped, to throw Dimitri off the scent. If it bought him a day, a few hours, he’d use it. He knew, as anyone in the business knew, of Dimitri’s reputation for dealing with those who attempted to cross him. A traditional man, Dimitri preferred traditional methods. Men like Nero would have appreciated Dimitri’s flare for slow, innovative torture. There had been murmurs about a basement room in Dimitri’s Connecticut estate. Supposedly it was filled with antiques—the sort from the Spanish Inquisition. Rumor had it that there was a top-grade studio as well. Lights, camera, action. Dimitri was credited with enjoying replays of his more gruesome work. Doug wasn’t going to find himself in the spotlight in one of Dimitri’s performances, nor was he going to believe the myth that Dimitri was omnipotent. He was just a man, Doug told himself. Flesh and blood. But even at thirty thousand feet, Doug had the uneasy sensation of a fly being toyed with by a spider.
    Taking another drink, he pushed that thought aside. One step at a time. That’s how he’d play it, and that’s how he’d survive.
    If he’d had the time, Doug would have taken Whitney to the Hotel de Crillon for a couple of days. It was the only place he stayed in Paris. There were cities he’d settle for a motel with a cot,