Hot Ice

a grin, he loosened the strap and reached in. The fact was he could use something warm and sweet at the moment. His fingers brushed over the net bag that held the fruit and touched something soft and silky. Curious, he drew it out and examined the tiny, lace-trimmed pair of bikini briefs. So she hadn’t worn them yet. “Great-looking mangoes they have here.”
    Whitney looked over her shoulder and watched him run the material between his fingers. “Get your hands out of my pants, Douglas.”
    He only grinned and held them up so that the sun beamed through them. “Interesting phrasing. How come you bother wearing something like this anyway?”
    “Modesty,” she said primly.
    With a laugh, he stuffed them back in the pack. “Sure.” Pulling out a mango, he took a big, greedy bite. Juice trickled wonderfully down his dry throat. “Silk and lace always make me think of modest little nuns in underdeveloped countries.”
    “What an odd imagination you have,” she observed as she half skidded down a slope. “They always make me think of sex.”
    With this she lengthened her stride to a marching pace and whistled smartly.
    They walked. And walked. They slapped sunscreen on every inch of exposed skin and accepted the fact that they’d burn anyway. Flies buzzed and swooped, attracted by the scent of oil and sweat, but they learned to ignore them. Other than insects, they had no company.
    As the afternoon waned Whitney lost her interest in the rolling, rocky highlands and the stretches of valley below. The earthy smells of dirt and sun-baked grass lost their appeal when she was streaked with both. She watched a bird fly overhead, caught in a current. Because she was looking up, she didn’t see the long, slim snake that passed inches in front of her foot, then hid itself by a rock.
    There wasn’t anything exotic about dripping with sweat or slipping over pebbles. Madagascar would have held more appeal from the cool terrace of a hotel room. Only the thin edge of pride kept her from demanding that they stop. As long as he could walk, so, by God, could she.
    From time to time she spotted a small village or settlement, always cupped near the river and spread out into fields. From the hills, they could see cook smoke, and when the air was right, hear the sounds of dogs or cattle. Voices didn’t carry. Distance and fatigue gave Whitney a sense of unreality. Perhaps the huts and fields were only part of a stage.
    Once, through Doug’s field glasses, she watched workers bending over the swamplike paddies, many of the women with babies strapped in lambas papoose-style on their backs. She could see the moist ground shiver and give under the movement of feet.
    In all her experience, her treks through Europe, Whitney had never seen anything quite like it. But then Paris, London, and Madrid offered the glitter and cosmopolitan touches she was accustomed to. She’d never strapped a pack on her back and hiked over the countryside before. As she shifted the weight yet again, she told herself there was always a first time—and a last. While she might enjoy the color, the terrain, and the openness, she’d enjoy it a hell of a lot more off her feet.
    If she wanted to perspire, she wanted to do it in a sauna. If she wanted to exhaust herself, she wanted to do it trouncing someone in a few fast games of tennis.
    Aching and sticky with sweat, she put one foot in front of the other. She wouldn’t come in second place to Doug Lord or anyone else.
    Doug watched the angle of the sun and knew they’d have to find a place to camp. Shadows were lengthening. To the west, the sky was already taking on streaks of red. Normally he did his best maneuvering at night but he didn’t think the highlands of Madagascar was a good place to try his luck in the dark.
    He’d traveled the Rockies at night once and had nearly broken his leg in the process. It didn’t take much effort to remember his slide over the rocks. The unplanned trip down the cliff had masked his trail, but he’d had to limp his way into Boulder. When the sun set, they’d park and wait for dawn.
    He kept waiting for Whitney to complain, to wail, to demand—to act in general as he considered a woman would act under the circumstances. Then again, Whitney hadn’t acted the way he’d expected from the first moment they had set eyes on one another. The truth was, he wanted her to grumble. It would make it easier to justify dumping her at the first opportunity. After he’d