Hot Ice

and well-muscled body. She didn’t think he’d have any trouble attracting the girls. “So, you’re putting your stomach on the same level with your heart. What happens if you fall for a girl who can’t cook?”
    Jacques considered this. He was only twenty, and answers were as easy and basic as life. The smile he gave her was young, innocent, and cocky enough to make her chuckle. “I’d take her to my mother so she could learn.”
    “Very sensible,” Doug agreed. He broke rhythm to pop a piece of coconut into his mouth.
    “I don’t suppose you ever considered learning to cook.” Whitney watched Jacques mull this over while his lean, strong arms worked the paddles. Smiling at him, she ran a finger over the shell that nestled just above her breasts.
    “A Malagasy wife cooks the meals.”
    “In between the times she takes care of the house, the children, and tills the fields, I imagine,” Whitney put in.
    Jacques nodded and grinned. “But she takes care of the money too.”
    Whitney felt the lump of her wallet in her back pocket. “That’s very sensible,” she agreed, smiling at Doug.
    He had the envelope secure in his own pocket. “I thought you’d like that.”
    “Again, it’s a simple matter of people doing what they’re best suited for.” She started to settle back again when her line jerked. With her eyes wide, she sat straight up. “Oh God, I think I’ve got one.”
    “One what?”
    “A fish!” Gripping the pole fiercely, she watched the line bob. “A fish,” she said again. “A big goddamn fish.”
    A grin split Doug’s face as he saw the improvised fishing line grow taut. “Sonofabitch. Now take it easy,” he advised as she scrambled to her knees and rocked the boat. “Don’t lose it, that’s tonight’s main course.”
    “I’m not going to lose it,” she said between gritted teeth. And she wouldn’t, but she didn’t have any idea what to do next. After another moment of struggle, she turned to Jacques. “What now?”
    “Pull him up easy. It’s a big bastard.” Drawing his paddle into the canoe, he went to her with light movements that kept the boat steady. “Yessirree, we eat tonight. He’s going to fight.” He rested a hand on her shoulder while he looked over the side. “He’s thinking about the frying pan.”
    “Come on, sugar, you can do it.” Doug left the oars behind to creep to the center and root. “Just bring ’im up.” And he’d fillet him, sauté him, and serve him on a bed of fluffy rice.
    Giddy, excited, determined, Whitney caught her tongue between her teeth. If either man had offered to take the pole from her, she’d have snarled. Using arm muscles she only remembered during an occasional brief set of tennis, she brought the fish out of the water.
    Wiggling on the end of the line, he caught the glint of the late afternoon sun. It was only a simple trout, flopping frantically, but for a moment, he looked regal, a flash of silver caught against the deepening blue of the sky. Whitney gave out a war whoop and fell back on her rump.
    “Don’t drop him now!”
    “She won’t.” Reaching out, Jacques caught the line between his thumb and fingers, drawing it gently in. The fish waved back and forth like a flag in a breeze. “She’s caught herself one big, fat fish.” In a quick move, he drew out the hook and held up the catch. “How about that? Some luck.” He grinned, fish in hand, while Tina Turner gritted out a tune from the tape player behind him.
    It happened so fast. Still, as long as she lived Whitney would remember the instant as though it had been captured frame by frame on film. One moment, Jacques was standing, glistening with healthy sweat and triumph. Her laughter was still hanging on the air. The next, he was tumbling into the water. The explosion never even registered in her mind.
    “Jacques?” Dazed, she scrambled to her knees.
    “Down.” Doug had her pinned beneath him so that her breath came in gasps. He held her down while the boat rocked and he prayed they wouldn’t capsize.
    “Doug?”
    “Lie still, understand?” But he wasn’t looking at her. Though his head was only inches above hers, he scanned the shore on either side of the canal. The brush was thick enough to hide an army. Where the hell were they? Keeping his movements slow, he reached for the gun in his belt.
    When Whitney saw it, she shifted her head to look for Jacques. “Did he fall? I thought I heard a—” When she saw the answer in Doug’s