Hot Ice

along whether they wanted to go or not. What would a handful of jewels have meant to a woman walking up the steps to the guillotine?
    It made a treasure hunt seem foolish. Unless—unless it had a moral. Maybe it was time Whitney discovered her own.
    Because of this, and because of a young waiter named Juan, Whitney was determined to find the treasure, and to kick dust in Dimitri’s face when she did.
    She faced the morning confidently. No, she wasn’t naive. Still, Whitney held to the basic belief that good would ultimately outdo bad—especially if good was very clever.
    “What the hell’re you going to do when the batteries on that thing run down?”
    Whitney smiled up at Doug before she slipped the thin, hand-held calculator and her notepad back in her bag. She wondered what he would think if he knew she’d spent several hours during the night analyzing him and what they were doing. “Duracell,” she said sweetly. “Would you like some coffee?”
    “Yeah.” He sat down, a bit leery of the way she poured and served so cheerfully.
    She looked exquisite. He’d figured a few days on the road would leave her a bit haggard, a little rough around the edges. He scraped his palm over the stubble on his own chin. Instead, she looked radiant. Her pale, angel-blonde hair shone as it rippled down her back. The sun had warmed her skin, bringing up touches of rose that only accented its flawlessness and the classic line of bone. No, she looked anything but haggard at the moment.
    Doug accepted the coffee and drank deeply.
    “This is a lovely spot,” Whitney said, bringing up her knees and circling them with her arms.
    He glanced around. Moisture dripped from leaves in quiet plip-plops. The ground was damp and spongy. He slapped at a mosquito and wondered how long the repellent would hold out. The mist rose off the ground in little fingers, like steam in a Turkish bath. “If you like saunas.”
    Whitney cocked a brow. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bedroll, didn’t we?”
    He only grunted. He’d woken up itchy as any healthy man would after spending the night next to a healthy woman without having the luxury of taking things to their natural conclusion.
    “Look at it this way Douglas. If there were an acre of this in Manhattan, people would be scrambling for it, piling in on top of each other.” She lifted her hands, palms up. Birdsong burst out in an ecstacy of sound. A chamelion crawled onto a dull gray rock and slowly faded into it. Flowers seemed to pour out of the ground and the green, green of leaves and ferns still damp with dew gave everything a lushness. “We’ve got it all to ourselves.”
    He poured a second cup of coffee. “I figured a woman like you would prefer crowds.”
    “A time and place, Douglas,” she murmured. “A time and place.” Then she smiled, so simply, so exquisitely, he felt his heart stop. “I like being here, with you.”
    The coffee had scalded his tongue, but he didn’t notice. He swallowed it, still staring at her. He’d never had any problem with women, pouring on the rough-edged, cocky charm that he’d learned very young they found appealing. Now, when he could’ve used a surplus of what came so handily to him, he couldn’t find any at all. “Oh yeah?” he managed.
    Amused that he could be thrown off so easily, she nodded. “Yeah. I’ve given it some thought.” Leaning over, she kissed him very, very lightly. “Just what do you think of that?”
    He might stumble, but years of experience had taught him how to land on his feet. Reaching out, he gathered her hair in his hand. “Well, maybe we should”—he nipped at her lip—“discuss it.”
    She liked the way he kissed without quite kissing, the way he held her without really holding her. She remembered what it had been like when he’d done both, thoroughly. “Perhaps we should.”
    Their lips did no more than tease each other’s. Eyes open, they nibbled, testing, tempting. They didn’t touch. Each was used to leading, to being in control. To lose the edge—that was the primary mistake, in matters of love and money, to both of them. As long as the reins were held, even loosely, then neither of them felt they would go where they didn’t lead.
    Lips warmed. Thoughts clouded. Priorities shifted.
    His hand tightened on her hair, hers gripped his shirt-front. In that rare instant that moves timelessly, they were caught close. Need became the leader, and desire, the map. Each surrendered without