could store them safely. His skin was raw from the adhesive. He was certain Whitney would have some pretty ointment that would ease the soreness. He was equally sure she’d mark the cost of it in her little notebook.
“Later.” When she started to speak again, he held up a hand. “I’ve got a couple of books along you might like to read. We’ve got a long trip and plenty of time. We’ll talk about it. Trust me, okay?”
She waited a moment, watching him. Trust, no, she wasn’t foolish enough to feel it. But as long as she held the purse strings, they were a team. Satisfied, she swung her handbag strap over her shoulder and held out her hand. If she was going on a quest, she’d just as soon it be with a knight who had some tarnish on him. “Okay, let’s go shopping.”
Doug led her downstairs. As long as she was in a good mood, he might as well make his pitch. Companionably, he swung an arm around her shoulder. “So, how’d you sleep?”
“Just fine.”
On their way through the lobby, he plucked a small purple blossom from a vase and tucked it behind her ear. Passionflower—he thought it might suit her. Its scent was strong and sweet, as a tropical flower’s should be. The gesture touched her, even as she distrusted it. “Too bad we don’t have much time to play tourist,” he said conversationally. “The Queen’s Palace is supposed to be something to see.”
“You have a taste for the opulent?”
“Sure. I always figured it was nice to live with a little flash.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I’d rather have a feather bed than a gold one.”
“‘They say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I now know that they meant money.’”
She stopped in her tracks and stared at him. What kind of a thief quoted Byron? “You continue to surprise me.”
“If you read you’re bound to pick up something.” Shrugging, Doug decided to steer away from philosophy and back to practicality. “Whitney, we agreed to divide the treasure fifty-fifty.”
“After you pay me what you owe me.”
He gritted his teeth on that. “Right. Since we’re partners, it seems to me we ought to divide the cash we have fifty-fifty.”
She turned her head to give him a pleasant smile. “Does it seem like that to you?”
“A matter of practicality,” he told her breezily. “Suppose we got separated—”
“Not a chance.” Her smile remained pleasant as she tightened her hold on her purse. “I’m sticking to you like an appendage until this is all over, Douglas. People might think we’re in love.”
Without breaking rhythm, he changed tactics. “It’s also a matter of trust.”
“Whose?”
“Yours, sugar. After all, if we’re partners, we have to trust each other.”
“I do trust you.” She draped a friendly arm around his waist. The mist was burning off and the sun was climbing. “As long as I hold the bankroll—sugar.”
Doug narrowed his eyes. Classy wasn’t all she was, he thought grimly. “Okay then, how about an advance?”
“Forget it.”
Because choking her was becoming tempting, he broke away to face her down. “Give me one reason why you should hold all the cash?”
“You want to trade it for the papers?”
Infuriated, he spun away to stare at the whitewashed house behind him. In the dusty side yard, flowers and vines tangled in wild abandon. He caught the scents of breakfast cooking and overripe fruit.
There was no way he could give her the slip as long as he was broke. There was no way he could justify lifting her purse and leaving her stranded. The alternative left him exactly where he was—stuck with her. The worst of it was he was probably going to need her. Sooner or later he’d need someone to translate the correspondence written in French, for no other reason than his own nagging curiosity. Not yet, he thought. Not until he was on more solid ground. “Look, dammit, I’ve got eight dollars in my pocket.”
If he had much more, she reflected, he’d dump her without a second thought. “Change from the twenty I gave you in Washington.”
Frustrated, he started down a set of steep stairs. “You’ve got a mind like a damn accountant.”
“Thanks.” She hung on to the rough wooden rail and wondered if there were any other way down. She shielded her eyes and looked. “Oh look, what’s that, a bazaar?” Quickening her pace, she dragged Doug back with her.
“Friday market,” he grumbled. “The zoma. I told you that you should read the guidebook.”