Hot Ice

steal it, or have succeeded. The story confirmed for her what she’d thought all along. Doug Lord was a class act, in his own fashion. And there was one more thing—he’d be very possessive with the treasure when and if they found it. That was something she’d have to think about carefully.
    Absently, she smiled at two children racing across the field to her left. Perhaps their parents were working on the plantation, perhaps they owned it. Still, their lives would be simple, she thought. It was interesting how appealing simplicity could be from time to time. She felt the cotton dress rub uncomfortably over her shoulder. Then again, there was something to be said for luxury. Lots of it.
    They both jolted at the sound of an engine behind them. When they turned, the truck was practically on top of them. If they’d had to run, they wouldn’t have gotten ten yards. Doug cursed himself, then cursed again when the driver leaned out and called to them.
    It wasn’t a new model like the truck that had passed them earlier, nor was it quite as rickety as the Merina jeep. The engine ran smoothly enough as it idled in the middle of the road. The back was loaded with wares, from pots and baskets to wooden chairs and tables.
    A traveling salesman, Whitney decided, already eyeing what he had to offer. She wondered how much he wanted for the colorful clay pot. It would look rather nice on a table with a collection of cacti.
    The driver would be a Betsimisaraka, Doug calculated, both from the region they were traveling in and the European touch of his derby. He grinned, showing a mouthful of healthy white teeth as he gestured for them to approach the truck.
    “Well, what now?” Whitney asked under her breath.
    “I think we’ve just hitched a ride, sugar, whether we want to or not. We’d better give your French and my charm another try.”
    “Let’s simply use my French, shall we?” Forgetting to look humble, she walked to the truck. While she peered from under the brim of her hat, she gave the driver her best smile and made up a story as she went along.
    She and her husband, though she had to swallow a bit on that one, were traveling from their farm in the hills to the coast where her family lived. Her mother, she decided on the spot, was ill. She noticed that his curious dark eyes roamed her face, pale and regal under the simple straw hat. Without breaking rhythm, Whitney rattled off an explanation. Apparently satisfied, the driver gestured to the door. He was traveling to the coast, they were welcome to a ride.
    Stooping, Whitney gathered up the pig. “Come on, Douglas, we’ve got a new chauffeur.”
    Doug secured the baskets in the back, then climbed in beside her. Luck could play either way, he knew that well enough. This time he was willing to believe it had played on his side.
    Whitney laid the pig on her lap as though it were a small, weary child. “What’d you tell him?” he asked her as he nodded to the driver and grinned.
    Whitney sighed, absorbing the luxury of being driven. “I told him we’re going to the coast. My mother’s ill.”
    “Sorry to hear it.”
    “It’s very likely a deathbed scene, so don’t look too happy.”
    “Your mother never liked me.”
    “That’s beside the point. Besides, it’s merely that she wanted me to marry Tad.”
    He paused in the act of offering one of their few cigarettes to the driver. “Tad who?”
    She enjoyed the scowl on his face and smoothed the skirt of her dress. “Tad Carlyse IV. Don’t be jealous, darling. After all, I chose you.”
    “Lucky me,” he muttered. “How’d you get around the fact that we aren’t natives?”
    “I’m French. My father was a sea captain who settled on the coast. You were a teacher on holiday. We fell madly in love, married against our family’s wishes, and now work a small farm in the hills. By the way, you’re British.”
    Doug played back the story in his head and decided he couldn’t have done better. “Good thinking. How long’ve we been married?”
    “I don’t know, why?”
    “I just wondered if I should be affectionate or bored.”
    Whitney narrowed her eyes. “Kiss ass.”
    “Even if we’re newlyweds, I don’t think I should be that affectionate in front of company.”
    Barely smothering a chuckle, Whitney closed her eyes and pretended she was in a plush limo. Within moments, her head was snuggled on Doug’s shoulder. The pig snored gently in her lap.
    She dreamed she and Doug were in a small,