Hot Ice

yet.”
    The moment her mouth was free, she started. “I nearly got shot,” she hissed at him. “By some whiny little creep with a cannon.”
    He saw the fresh splinters in the tree above her head, but shrugged. “You look okay to me.”
    “No thanks to you.” She brushed at the sleeve of her blouse, allowing the disgust as insects scattered into the moss. “While you were down there playing Robin Hood, two nasty men with equally nasty guns came strolling by. Your name was mentioned.”
    “Fame’s a burden,” he murmured. It had been close, he thought with a glance at the splintered tree again. Too close. No matter how he maneuvered, no matter how often he shifted direction and tactics, Dimitri hung on. Doug knew the sensation of being tracked. He also knew the sweaty, gut-fluttering feeling of the hunted when the hunter was closing in. He wasn’t going to lose. He looked into the forest and forced himself to stay calm. He wasn’t going to lose when he’d almost won.
    “By the way, you’re a lousy lookout.”
    “You’ll have to excuse the fact that I was preoccupied and couldn’t whistle.”
    “I nearly had to talk my way out of a very sensitive situation.” Back to business, he told himself. If Dimitri was close, they’d just have to move faster and jazz up their footwork. “However, I managed to pick up a few things and get out before it got crowded.”
    “It figures.” It didn’t matter that she was relieved he was in one piece, and that she was more than pleased to have him with her again. She wouldn’t let him know it. “There was this lemur, and…” Whitney broke off when she saw one of the things he’d brought with him. “What,” she began, in a tone that was obviously as offended as it was curious, “is that?”
    “A present.” Doug picked up the straw hat and offered it. “I didn’t have time to wrap it.”
    “It’s unattractive and has absolutely no style.”
    “It has a wide brim,” he returned and dropped it on her head. “Since it isn’t possible for me to stick a bag over your head, this has to do.”
    “How flattering.”
    “I picked you up a little outfit to go with it.” He tossed her a stiff, shapeless cotton dress the color of sun-bleached dung.
    “Douglas, really.” Whitney picked up a sleeve between her thumb and fingertip. She felt a revulsion nearly identical with that she’d experienced the morning she’d woken with the spider. Ugly was ugly, after all. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in this.”
    “That’s just what we’re shooting for, sugar.”
    She remembered the wood splintering a few inches above her nose. Perhaps the dress would pick up a bit of style when it was worn. “And while I’m wearing this fetching little number, what about you?”
    He picked up another straw hat, this one with a slightly peaked cap.
    “Very chic.” She smothered her laughter when he held up a long plaid shirt and wide cotton pants.
    “Our host obviously likes his rice,” Doug commented as he spread the generous waist of the pants. “But we’ll manage.”
    “I hate to bring up the previous success of your disguises, but—”
    “Then don’t.” He rolled the clothes into a ball. “In the morning, you and I are going to be a loving Malagasy couple on their way to market.”
    “Why not a Malagasy woman and her idiot brother on their way to market?”
    “Don’t press your luck.”
    Feeling a bit more confident, Whitney examined her slacks. They’d been torn at the knee on the bark. The hole annoyed her a great deal more than the bullet had. “Just look at this!” she demanded. “If this keeps up, I won’t have a decent outfit left. I’ve already ruined a skirt and a perfectly lovely blouse, and now this.” She could stick three fingers in the hole. “I just bought these slacks in D.C.”
    “Look, I brought you a new dress, didn’t I?”
    Whitney glanced at the ball of clothes. “How droll.”
    “Bitch later,” he advised. “Right now tell me if you overheard anything I should know.”
    She sent him a smoldering look, reached in her pack, and pulled out her notebook. “These slacks are on your tab, Douglas.”
    “Isn’t everything?” Twisting his head, he looked down at the amount she noted. “Eighty-five dollars? Who the hell pays eighty-five bucks for a pair of cotton pants?”
    “You do,” she said sweetly. “Just be grateful I’m not adding on the tax. Now…” Satisfied, she dropped the notebook back in her pack. “One