Hot Ice

I see it, since everybody’s calm and easy, it’s a good time to drop in for a visit.”
    Whitney looked down at her grime-smeared teddy. “Like this?”
    “I’ve already told you it’s a nice dress.” And it had a certain appeal with one strap hanging down her shoulder. “Anyway, I didn’t pass a local beauty parlor and boutique.”
    “You might go visiting looking sleazy.” Whitney cast one long look up his body, then down. “In fact, I’m sure you do. I, on the other hand, intend to wash and change first.”
    “Suit yourself. There’s probably enough water left to get some of the dirt off your face.”
    When she reached up automatically to brush at her cheeks, he grinned. “Where’s your pack?”
    She looked back at the mouth of the cave. “It’s in there.” Her gaze was defiant, her voice firm when she looked back at him. “I’m not going back in there.”
    “Okay, I’ll get your gear. But you’re not going to be able to primp all morning. I don’t want to lose any time.”
    Whitney merely lifted a brow as he started to crawl back in. “I never primp,” she said mildly. “It’s not necessary.”
    With an indistinguishable grunt, he was gone. Nibbling on her lip, she glanced at the cave, then at the pack he’d left beside it. She might not have a second chance. Without hesitation, she crouched down and began to root through it.
    There was cooking gear to paw through, and his clothes. She came upon a rather elegant man’s brush that had her pausing a moment. When had he gotten that? she wondered. She knew every item down to his shorts that she’d paid for. Light fingers, she decided, and dropped the brush back in.
    When she found the envelope, she took it out carefully. This had to be it. She glanced back at the cave again. Quickly, she dew out a thin, yellowed sheet sealed in plastic and skimmed it. It was written in French in a trim, feminine hand. A letter, she thought. No, part of a journal. And the date—my God. Her eyes widened as she studied the neat, faded writing. September 15, 1793. She was standing in blazing sunlight, on a wind- and weather-torn rock, holding history in her hand.
    Whitney scanned it again, quickly, catching phrases of fear, of anxiety, and of hope. A young girl had written it, of that she was all but certain because of references to Maman and Papa. A young aristocrat, confused and afraid by what was happening to her life and her family, Whitney reflected. Did Doug have any idea just what he was carrying in a canvas sack?
    It wouldn’t do to take the chance to read it thoroughly now. Later…
    Carefully, Whitney closed his pack again and set it down next to the mouth of the cave. Thinking, she tapped the envelope against her open palm. It was very satisfying to beat a man at his own game, she decided, then heard the sounds of his return.
    Holding the envelope in one hand, she looked down at herself. Dumbly, she passed the other hand from her breast to her waist. Just where the hell was she supposed to hide it? Mata Hari must’ve had a sarong at least. Frantic, she started to slip it down the bodice of the teddy, then realized the absurdity. She might as well pin it to her forehead. With seconds to spare, she slipped it down her back and left the rest to luck.
    “Your luggage, Ms. MacAllister.”
    “I’ll catch you later with your tip.”
    “That’s what they all say.”
    “Good service is its own reward.” She gave him a smug smile. He gave one right back to her. Whitney had taken the pack from his hand when a sudden thought occurred to her. If she could lift the envelope so easily, then he… Opening the pack, she dug for her wallet.
    “You’d better get moving, sugar. We’re already late for our morning call.” He started to take her arm when she shoved the pack into his stomach. The hiss of air coming from his lungs gave her great satisfaction. “My wallet, Douglas.” Taking it out, she opened it and saw he’d been generous enough to leave her with a twenty. “It appears you’ve had your sticky fingers on it.”
    “Finders, keepers—partner.” Though he’d hoped she wouldn’t find him out quite so soon, he only shrugged. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your allowance.”
    “Oh, really?”
    “You could say I’m a traditionalist.” Satisfied with the new situation, he started to heft his pack onto his back. “I feel a man should handle the money.”
    “You could say you’re an idiot.”
    “Whatever, but I’m handling the