Hot Ice

Coincidence? Doug pulled Whitney back behind the tree. He didn’t believe in them.
    “Is it one of Dimitri’s men?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Who else could he be?”
    “Dammit, I don’t know.” Frustration tore through him. He felt he was being chased from all sides. Knew it, but couldn’t understand it. “Whoever he is, we’re getting out.” He looked back at Jacques’s shop. “Better go in the back way. He might have customers and the less people that see us, the better.”
    The back door was locked. Crouching down, Doug took out his penknife and went to work. Within five seconds, the lock clicked open. Whitney counted.
    Impressed, she watched him pocket the knife again. “I’d like you to teach me how to do that.”
    “A woman like you doesn’t have to pick locks. People open doors for you.” While she thought this over, he slipped in the back.
    It was part storage room, part bedroom, part kitchen. Beside the narrow, neatly made bunk was a collection of half a dozen cassette tapes. Upbeat Elton John music seemed to pour through the wallboards. Tacked to them was a full-color poster of a pouting, sexy Tina Turner. Beside her was an ad for Budweiser—the King of Beers, a New York Yankees pennant, and an evening shot of the Empire State Building.
    “Why do I feel as though I’ve just walked into a room on Second Avenue?” And because she did, she felt ridiculously safe.
    “His brother’s an exchange student at CCNY.”
    “That explains everything. Whose brother?”
    “Shh!” Padding silently on the balls of his feet like a cat, Doug moved to the door that connected with the shop. He opened it a crack and peered through.
    Jacques leaned over the counter, in the midst of a transaction that involved what was obviously a detailed exchange of town gossip. The bony, dark-eyed girl had apparently come in to flirt more than she’d come in to buy. She poked among spools of colored thread and giggled.
    “What’s going on?” Whitney maneuvered herself so that she could peek through the crack under Doug’s arm. “Ah, romance,” she proclaimed. “I wonder where she got that blouse. Just look at the embroidery work.”
    “We’ll have a fashion show later.”
    The girl bought two spools of thread, giggled for another moment or two, then left. Doug opened the door another inch and made a hissing sound through his teeth. It was no competition for Elton John. Jacques continued to swivel his hips as he picked up on the lyrics. With a glance to the window that opened onto the street, Doug eased the door open a bit more and called Jacques by name.
    Jolting, Jacques nearly upset the display of spools he was rearranging. “Man, you gave me a scare.” Still cautious, Doug crooked a finger and waited for Jacques to saunter over. “What you doing hiding back here?”
    “A change of schedule,” Doug told him. Taking Jacques’s hand, he jerked him inside. He realized Jacques smelled of English Leather. “We want to take off now.”
    “Now?” Narrowing his eyes, Jacques studied Doug’s face. He might have lived in a small seaside village all of his life, but he wasn’t a fool. When a man was on the run, it showed in his eyes. “You got trouble?”
    “Hello, Jacques.” Stepping forward, Whitney held out her hand. “I’m Whitney MacAllister. You must forgive Douglas for neglecting to introduce us. He’s often rude.”
    Jacques took the slim white hand in his and was instantly in love. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. As far as he could tell, Whitney MacAllister outshone Turner, and Benatar, and the high priestess Ronstadt put together. His tongue quite simply tied itself in knots.
    She’d seen the look before. In a slick, three-piece-suited professional on Fifth Avenue it bored her. In a trendy club on the West Side, it amused her. In Jacques, she found it sweet. “We have to apologize for barging in on you this way.”
    “It’s…” He had to search for the Americanisms that were usually on the tip of his tongue. “Okay,” he managed.
    Impatient, Doug laid a hand on Jacques’s shoulder. “We want to move.” His sense of fair play wouldn’t allow him to drag the young man blindly into the mess they were in. His sense of survival prevented him from telling all. “We had a little visit from the local police.”
    Jacques managed to drag his gaze away from Whitney. “Sambirano?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Asshole,” Jacques proclaimed, rather proud of the way the word