Hot Ice

followed her, and the trail of her scent. But she was classy, he admitted. There was no denying it.
    “Take off that jacket and sit down,” she ordered, running water over a monogrammed washcloth.
    Doug stripped off the jacket, gritting his teeth as he peeled it from his left arm. After carefully folding it and laying it on the lip of the tub, he sat on a ladder-back chair anyone else would have had in their living room. He looked down and saw the sleeve of his shirt was caked with blood. Swearing, he ripped it off and exposed the wound. “I can do it myself,” he muttered and reached for the cloth.
    “Be still.” Whitney began to wipe away the dried blood with the soapy warm cloth. “I can’t very well see how much damage was done until I clean it up.”
    He sat back because the warm water was soothing and her touch was gentle. But while he sat back, he watched her. Just what kind of woman was she? he wondered. She drove like a nerveless maniac, dressed like Harper’s Bazaar, and drank—he’d noticed she’d already knocked back her cognac—like a sailor. He’d have been more comfortable if she’d shown just a touch of the hysteria he’d expected.
    “Don’t you want to know how I got this?”
    “Hmmm.” Whitney pressed a clean cloth to the wound to slow the new bleeding. Because he wanted her to ask, she was determined not to.
    “A bullet,” Doug said with relish.
    “Really?” Interested, Whitney removed the cloth to get a closer look. “I’ve never seen a bullet wound before.”
    “Terrific.” He swallowed more cognac. “How do you like it?”
    She shrugged before she slid back the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. “It’s not terribly impressive.”
    Frowning, he looked down at the wound himself. True, the bullet had only nicked him, but he had been shot. It wasn’t every day a man got shot. “It hurts.”
    “Aw, well we’ll bandage it all up. Scratches don’t hurt nearly so much if you can’t see them.”
    He watched her root through jars of face cream and bath oils. “You’ve got a smart mouth, lady.”
    “Whitney,” she corrected. “Whitney MacAllister.” Turning she offered her hand formally.
    His lips curved. “Lord, Doug Lord.”
    “Hello, Doug. Now, after I fix this up, we’ll have to discuss the damage to my car and the payment.” She went back to the medicine cabinet. “Three hundred dollars.”
    He took another swallow of cognac. “How come you know it’s three hundred?”
    “I’m giving you the low end of the scale. You can’t fix a spark plug in a Mercedes for less than three hundred.”
    “I’ll have to owe you. I spent my last two hundred on the jacket.”
    “That jacket?” Amazed, Whitney twisted her head and stared at him. “You look smarter.”
    “I needed it,” Doug tossed back. “Besides, it’s leather.”
    This time she laughed. “As in genuine imitation.”
    “What d’you mean, imitation?”
    “That zippered monstrosity didn’t come off any cow. Ah, here it is. I knew I had some.” With a satisfied nod, she took a bottle from the cabinet.
    “That little sonofabitch,” Doug mumbled. He hadn’t had the time or the opportunity to look too closely at his purchase before. Now, in the bright bathroom light, he saw it was nothing more than cheap vinyl. Two hundred dollars’ worth. The sudden fire in his arm had him jerking. “Goddamn it! What’re you doing?”
    “Iodine,” Whitney told him, smearing it on generously.
    He settled down, scowling. “It stings.”
    “Don’t be a baby.” Briskly, she wrapped gauze around his upper arm until the wound was covered. She snipped off tape, secured it, then gave it a final pat. “There,” she said, rather pleased with herself. “Good as new.” Still bent over, she turned her head and smiled at him. Their faces were close, hers full of laughter, his full of annoyance. “Now about my car—”
    “I could be a murderer, a rapist, a psychopath for all you know.” He said it softly, dangerously. She felt a tremor move up her back and straightened.
    “I don’t think so.” But she picked up her empty glass and went back into the living room. “Another drink?”
    Damn, she did have guts. Doug grabbed the jacket and followed her. “Don’t you want to know why they were after me?”
    “The bad guys?”
    “The—the bad guys?” he repeated on an astonished laugh.
    “Good guys don’t shoot at innocent bystanders.” She poured herself another drink, then sat on the sofa.