Hot Ice

interesting than he’d bargained for. For as long as it lasted.
    “Douglas, what about the woman who gave Whitaker the map?”
    “What about her?”
    “Well, what happened to her?”
    He swallowed a lump of rice. “Butrain.”
    When she glanced up, he saw the fear come and go in her eyes and was glad. Better for both of them if she understood this was the big leagues. But her hands were steady when she reached for the coffee.
    “I see. So you’re the only one alive who’s seen those papers.”
    “That’s right, sugar.”
    “He’ll want you dead, and me too.”
    “That’s also right.”
    “But I haven’t seen them.”
    Casually, Doug dug for more rice. “If he gets his hands on you, you can’t tell him anything.”
    She waited a minute, studying him. “You’re a first-class bastard, Doug.”
    This time he grinned because he’d heard the light trace of respect. “I like first class, Whitney. I’m going to live there the rest of my life.”
    Two hours later, he was cursing her again, though only to himself. They’d let the fire burn down to embers so that the light in the cave was dim and red. Somewhere, deeper, water dripped in a slow, musical plop. It reminded him of a pricey, innovative little bordello in New Orleans.
    They were both exhausted, both aching from the demands of a very long, very arduous day. Doug stripped off his shoes with his only thought one of the pleasures of unconsciousness. He never doubted he’d sleep like a rock.
    “You know how to work that thing?” he asked idly as he opened his own bag.
    “I think I can handle a zipper, thanks.”
    Then he made the mistake of glancing over—and not looking away again.
    Without any show of self-consciousness, Whitney drew off her blouse. He remembered just how thin the material of her teddy had looked in the morning light. When she pulled off her skirt, his mouth watered.
    No, she wasn’t self-conscious, she was nearly comatose with fatigue. It never occurred to her to make a play at modesty. Even if she’d thought it out, Whitney would have considered the teddy adequate cover. She wore a fraction of that on a public beach. Her only thought was of getting horizontal, of closing her eyes, and of oblivion.
    If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have enjoyed the discomfort she was causing in the region of Doug’s loins. It might have given her some pleasure to know his muscles had tensed as he watched the subtle flicker of firelight play over her skin as she bent to unzip her bag. She’d have gotten pure feminine satisfaction knowing he sucked in his breath as the thin material rose up at her thighs and pulled over her bottom with her movements.
    Without giving it a thought, she climbed into the sleeping bag and pulled up the zipper. Nothing was visible but a cloud of pale hair untangled from the braid. With a sigh, she pillowed her head on her hands. “Good night, Douglas.”
    “Yeah.” He pulled off his shirt, then gripped the edge of adhesive and held his breath. Ruthlessly he ripped and the fire snaked across his chest. Whitney never budged as his curse bounced off the cave walls. She was already asleep. Cursing her, cursing the pain, he snapped the envelope into his knapsack before he climbed into his own bag. In sleep, she sighed, low and quiet.
    Doug stared at the ceiling of the cave, wide awake and aching from more than bruises.

CHAPTER
6
    Something tickled the back of her hand. Fighting to cling to sleep, Whitney flicked her wrist in a lazy, back-and-forth action and yawned.
    She had always kept her own hours. If she wanted to sleep until noon, she slept until noon. If she wanted to get up at dawn, she did. When the mood struck her, she could work for an eighteen-hour stretch. With a similar enthusiasm, she could sleep for the same length of time.
    At the moment, she wasn’t interested in anything but the vague, rather pretty dream she was having. When she felt the feathery brush on her hand again, she sighed, only slightly annoyed, and opened her eyes.
    In all probability, it was the biggest, fattest spider she’d ever seen. Big, black, and hairy, it probed and skiddled with its bowed legs. Her hand only inches from her face, Whitney watched as it loomed full in her vision, moving lazily across her knuckles in a direct line to her nose. For a moment, dazed with sleep, she just stared at it in the dim light.
    Her knuckles. Her nose.
    Realization came loud and clear. Muffling a yelp, she knocked the spider off