But fascinated or not, he would have turned them over. A deal was a deal. Strapping the envelope to his chest had just been a precaution. New York, like any city, was riddled with dishonest people. A man stayed alive longer if he watched his ass. Whoever had collected the information, translated it so meticulously, had done so with the dedication of a professional librarian. But a deal was a deal. Doug had waited with every intention of turning over the papers and collecting his fee.
He was going to get a two-dollar bullet in the back and a burial in the East River. Remo had arrived in the black Lincoln with two other men dressed for business.
At first Doug had been angry. Dimitri had a reputation for being eccentric. But he also had a reputation for picking winners, from the right senator to keep on the payroll to the best wine to stock in the cellar.
If he wanted the papers badly enough to snip off a loose end named Doug Lord, they must be worth something. On the spot, Doug decided the papers were his and his fortune was made. All he had to do was live to claim it. In reflex he touched his arm now. Stiff, yes, but already healing. He had to admit crazy Whitney MacAllister had done a good job there. He blew smoke between his teeth before he crushed out the cigarette. He needed her for the moment, at least until they were out of the country.
A slow, lazy grin covered his face. Sometimes he succeeded. Picturing those clouds of pale, sunlit hair he thought it was almost too bad he had to double-cross her. Even as he sighed and began to think kindly of her, the connecting door burst open. She waved a hand fussily in front of her face in an attempt to clear the haze of smoke. Smoking and plotting.
When Doug swore and squinted, she merely shook her head. Naked in the bed with the sheet up to his waist, Doug felt at a disadvantage.
She stepped over the tangle of jeans on the floor. Whitney only smiled and shook back her hair. She really needed a manicure before they left town. Whitney spared him a mild glance. Maximillian Teebury. Whitney only smiled up at him, knowing she still held all the aces. But roughness, she discovered, had its own primitive appeal. Again he caught the drift of her scent that meant wealth and class. He looked rough and restless and disheveled, the way a man might after a night of wild sex.
Just what kind of a lover would Douglas Lord be? She felt her heart thud a little faster at the thought. He smelled of tobacco and sweat. He looked like a man who lived on the edge and enjoyed it.
The last thing a smart man needed was an indispensable woman who had eyes like whiskey and skin like the underside of petals. Letting out a quick whoop, he rolled on top of her. Her hair fanned over the pillow. Her eyes, half-wary, half-laughing, met his. His body was hard, like his eyes could be, like his hand as it cupped her face. It was tempting. He was tempting. But it was always vital to weigh advantage against disadvantage.
Before Whitney could decide whether to agree or not, there was a knock at the door. There was too much to do. Doug folded his arms behind his head and leaned back on the headboard. Maybe desire was eating a hole in his stomach, or maybe it was just hunger. Maybe it was both. His eyes were all for Whitney. With considerable charm, he handed her a pink rosebud. I brought up the toiletries and the paper you asked for. Whitney only arched a brow, then signed the check with a flourish.
Casually, she waved the rosebud under her nose. Then, because he wanted to see just how far he could push her, he climbed slowly out of bed. She merely gave him one long, measuring survey. The white bandage on his arm was a stark contrast against his dark-toned skin. God, he had a beautiful body, she thought as her pulse began a slow, dull thud. Lean, sleek, and subtly muscled. Without taking her eyes from him, Whitney lifted her coffee cup.
Your eggs are getting cold. Just once, he was going to see her sweat. Flopping down in the chair across from her, Doug began to stuff himself with hot eggs and crisp bacon. At the moment, he was too hungry to calculate what the luxury of room service was costing him. Once he found the treasure, he could buy his own damn hotel.
She added a dash of pepper to her own eggs. And you? The papers. Unfortunately, he was going to double-cross me, so all bets were called off. What form is this puzzle in? Cool, unflappable determination. I told you it went back a couple hundred years.
One hell of a lot. The best way to avoid thinking about it was to think of something else. Opening the paper she caught her breath, then let it out again. Above the picture was a splash of headline. He makes the best damn fudge ripple in the country. She was worth millions. Twenty years to life, he thought, dragging a hand through his hair. Oh, and Uncle Maxie, too. Damn woman always had to have the last word. But he had to admit, she had taste. After a two-hour shopping whirlwind, he was carrying more packages than he cared to, but the cut of his shirt helped conceal the slight bulge of the envelope that was again strapped to his chest.
And he liked the way the loose linen felt against his skin. Still, there was no use being too agreeable. Give me a twenty. I feel naked without any cash. He plucked the bill from her hand. Things were looking good, she decided. Her father had been relieved that she was safe and not displeased that she was leaving the country again.
Laughing to herself, Whitney leaned back against the wall. She supposed she had given him a few bad moments in the past twenty-eight years, but she was just made that way. With the thousand dollars he was wiring to Uncle Maxie that afternoon, she and Doug would be on solid ground before they took off for Madagascar. Even the name appealed to her. Madagascar, she mused as she strolled down the hall toward her room. Exotic, new, unique. Orchids and lush greens.
She wanted to see it all, experience it, as much as she wanted to believe the puzzle Doug talked about led to that pot of gold. She was too accustomed to wealth to have her heartbeat quicken at the thought of more. It was the thrill of looking, of finding, that attracted her. Oddly enough, she understood better than Doug that he felt the same.
She was going to have to learn a great deal more about him, she decided. Really looked. Nothing casual there, Whitney thought. They were restless, wary, and hungry. If they were going to be partners, she had to find out why. As she unlocked her door, it occurred to her that she had a few minutes alone, and that maybe, just maybe, Doug had stashed the papers in his room.
She was putting up the money, Whitney told herself. She had every right to see what she was financing. She caught her breath, then with a hand to her heart, laughed. That always brings in the tourists. Maybe the closet. I could use some extra towels. Eyes wide, mouth working, she backed up. Before she could run from it, a hand clamped over her arm.
One cheek was badly scarred, jagged, as from a broken bottle or a blade. Both his hair and his eyes were the color of sand. The barrel of the gun was like ice on her skin. Grinning, he skimmed the gun down her throat. She could see the red stain spread over the white back of his jacket. He could walk in any minute and then they both would be dead. Another glance at the body sprawled at her feet and her eyes filled. He watched the gesture before he ran his gaze down her body.
Inching back as she moved to the next button, she felt her hips bump into the table. As if to steady herself, she rested a palm on it, keeping her gaze on his sand-colored eyes. She felt cool stainless steel brush her fingertips. He inclined his head as he set the gun on the dresser.
Whitney gripped the handle in her fist and plunged the fork into the side of his throat. Blood spurting, squealing like a pig, he jumped back. As he reached for the handle himself, she picked up the leather tote and swung it with all the force she had. She ran. In high good humor after a brief flirtation with the checkout girl, Doug started to swing into the lobby.
Running full steam, Whitney barreled into him. He juggled tottering packages. Swearing and fumbling with packages, he drew up alongside her. Moving as quickly as he thought prudent, Doug aimed for the back door. A white-aproned bulk, three feet wide, stepped in front of him.
It reminded him how much he hated physical altercations. Superb, sensuous. Four stars for the scent. Picking up the ladle, Doug held it under his nose, closed his eyes and sampled. Absolutely magnificent. Definitely one of the top contenders in the contest.
Your name? The white-aproned bulk preened. We have three more stops to make. In his experience, alleys were never safe for long. Whitney had to scramble over boxes to make it over the first fence and her leg muscles sang out in surprise on the landing. She kept running. He zigzagged down streets, through alleys, and over fences until her lungs burned from the effort of keeping the pace.
The floaty skirt of her dress caught on chain link and tore jaggedly at the hem. Always, he seemed to have one eye looking over his shoulder.
When he dragged her down the stairs toward Metro Center, she had to grip the rail to keep from plunging head first. Doug could still smell the hunt. Five minutes, he thought. He only wanted a five-minute lead. The crowd was thick and babbling in a half dozen languages. The more people the better, he decided as he inched his way along. He glanced over his shoulder when they stood at the edge of the platform. He saw the bandage on the tanned cheek. Yeah, he owed her for that, he decided.
If for nothing else, he owed her for that. It was all timing now, he knew, as he pulled Whitney onto the train. Timing and luck. It was either with them or against them.
Sandwiched between Whitney and a sari-clad Indian woman, Doug watched Remo fight his way through the crowd. When the doors closed, he grinned and gave the frustrated man outside a half salute. Doug was too busy alternately cursing and blessing his luck to notice. In the end, he grinned at his own reflection in the glass to his left. Money, passport, and airport, in that order, though he had to fit in a quick trip to the library.
He was on a roll. Drained, Whitney turned her head and stared at his profile. For the first time he noticed that her skin was bloodless and her eyes blank.
There was a man waiting. He had a scar down his cheek, a long, jagged scar. Swearing and struggling through bodies, Doug caught up with her on the platform. The whole bloody thing? Shoving her down into a corner seat, he squeezed in beside her. Not knowing what else to do, he put his arm around her.
Doug shifted in his first-class seat and wished he knew how to shake the grief out of her. He thought he understood wealthy women.
It was just as true, he supposed, that plenty of them had worked on him. The trouble was, had always been, that he invariably fell just a little bit in love with any woman he spent more than two hours with.
They were so, well, feminine, he decided. Nobody could sound more sincere than a soft-smelling, soft-skinned woman. The minute you were about ready to forget the diamond earrings in favor of a more meaningful relationship, they dumped all over you. He thought that was the worst failing of the rich. The kind of callousness that made them step all over people with the nonchalance of a child stomping on a beetle. But when it was business, Doug went straight to the bank balance.
A woman with a hefty one was an invaluable cover. You could get through a lot of locked doors with a rich woman on your arm. They came in varieties, certainly, but generally could be slapped with a few basic labels. Bored, vicious, cold, or silly came to mind. How many people would have remembered the name of a waiter, much less mourned for him?
They were on their way to Paris out of Dulles International. Enough of a detour, he hoped, to throw Dimitri off the scent.
A traditional man, Dimitri preferred traditional methods. Supposedly it was filled with antiques—the sort from the Spanish Inquisition. Rumor had it that there was a top-grade studio as well. Lights, camera, action. Dimitri was credited with enjoying replays of his more gruesome work. He was just a man, Doug told himself. Flesh and blood. But even at thirty thousand feet, Doug had the uneasy sensation of a fly being toyed with by a spider.
Taking another drink, he pushed that thought aside. One step at a time. It was the only place he stayed in Paris. But Paris. His luck had always held in Paris. He made it a point to arrange a trip twice a year, for no other reason than the food. As far as Doug was concerned no one cooked better than the French, or those educated in France.
Because of that, he had managed to bluff his way into several courses. Of course, he kept a low profile on that particular interest. Besides, it would be embarrassing. So he always covered his trips to Paris for cooking interests with business. There would be no sitting still in one place until the game was over. Normally he preferred it that way—the chase, the hunt. The game itself was more exciting than the winning.
Doug had learned that after his first big job. After that, it was simply another job finished. You looked for the next. And the next. Imagine, Douglas Lord, Esquire, with a desk piled with papers and luncheon meetings three days a week.
Was that any way to live? No, a profession that kept you in an office owned you, not the other way around. At the moment, it was reading about Madagascar, its history, its topography, its culture. One was a history of missing gems, the other a long, detailed history of the French Revolution.
Yeah, French royalty had had great taste. Doug was grateful for it. Doug was in the business and knew the rock was now in the Astor family. But the possibilities were endless. The Mirror and the Blue had dropped out of sight centuries before.
So had other gems. Just what had become of the necklace that had ultimately insured Marie of not having a neck to wear it on? Doug believed in fate, in destiny, and just plain luck. Before it was over, he was going to be knee-deep in sparkles— royal sparkles. And screw Dimitri. In the meantime, he wanted to learn all he could about Madagascar.
He was going far off his own turf—but so was Dimitri. If Doug could beat his adversary in anything, he prided himself on being able to top him in intelligent research. He read page after page and tallied fact after fact. He had to.
Satisfied, he set the book aside. Long enough, Doug decided, for Whitney to brood in silence. Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator. We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you. Some of the techniques listed in Hot Ice may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them.
DMCA and Copyright : The book is not hosted on our servers, to remove the file please contact the source url. This is the book to recommend because of its power to evoke the info and sources in always updated. One also that will certainly make this publication as referral is also this has the tendency to be the most up to date publication to release. Yeah, also this is a brand-new coming publication; it will not mean that we will certainly give it hardly. You recognize in this case, you can obtain the book by clicking the link.
The web link will certainly lead you to get the soft data of the book conveniently and straight. It will really relieve your means to get DDD also you could not go anywhere. Only stay at home or office and also get easy with your internet attaching. This is basic, fast, as well as trusted. We offer the book is based upon the reasons that will affect you to live far better. Even you have currently the analysis publication; you can also enhance the understanding by obtaining them develop Hot Ice By Nora Roberts This is really a kind of publication that not just uses the ideas.
The incredible lessons, Experiences, and knowledge can be acquired. It is why you need to read this publication, even web page by page to the finish. Hot Ice Hockey Free. Capture the romance as a brilliant wedding photographer's casual fling turns steamy. Ice Bucket Challenge: Hot or Cold? Help Joe catch as many ice water In Hot summer who does not need a full cup of Ice Candy. Here is Juicy ice candy Game for you in this season.
This is an amazing game for Catch The Ice Cream is a fully entertaining game for hot summer! Get ready to pick up the sweetest ice cream ever. Catch The Ice Cream come with two Stickman Ice Hockey Free. Now free for a limited time.
0コメント