“The—the bad guys?” he repeated on an astonished laugh.
“Good guys don’t shoot at innocent bystanders.” She poured herself another drink, then sat on the sofa. “So, by process of elimination I figure you’re the good guy.”
He laughed again and dropped down beside her. “A lot of people might disagree with you.”
Whitney studied him again over the rim of her glass. No, perhaps good was too concise a word. He looked more complicated than that. “Well, why don’t you tell me why those three men wanted to kill you.”
“Just doing their job.” Doug drank again. “They work for a man named Dimitri. He wants something I’ve got.”
“Which is?”
“The route to a pot of gold,” he said absently. Rising, he began to pace. Less than twenty dollars in cash nestled with an expired credit card in his pocket. Neither could buy his way out of the country. What he had carefully folded in a manila envelope was worth a fortune, but he had to buy himself a ticket before he could cash it in. He could lift a wallet at the airport. Better, he could try rushing on the plane, flashing his fake ID, and play the hard-bitten, impatient FBI agent. It had worked in Miami. But it didn’t feel right this time. He knew enough to go with his instincts.
“I need a stake,” he muttered. “A few hundred—maybe a thousand.” Thoughtfully, he turned back and looked at Whitney.
“Forget it,” she said simply. “You already owe me three hundred dollars.”
“You’ll get it,” he snapped. “Dammit, in six months I’ll buy you a whole car. Look at it as an investment.”
“My broker takes care of that.” She sipped again and smiled. He was very attractive in this mood, restless, anxious to move. His exposed arm rippled with muscle that was subtle and lean. His eyes were lit with enthusiasm.
“Look, Whitney.” He came back and sat on the arm of the sofa beside her. “A thousand. That’s nothing after what we’ve been through together.”
“It’s seven hundred dollars more than what you already owe me,” she corrected him.
“I’ll pay you back double within six months. I need to buy a plane ticket, some supplies…” He looked down at himself, then back at her with that quick, appealing grin. “A new shirt.”
An operator, she thought, intrigued. Just what did a pot of gold mean to him? “I’d have to know a lot more before I put my money down.”
He’d charmed women out of more than money. So, confidently, he took her hand between his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. His voice was soft, compelling. “Treasure. The kind you only read about in fairy stories. I’ll bring you back diamonds for your hair. Big, glittery diamonds. They’ll make you look like a princess.” He skimmed a finger up her cheek. It was soft, cool. For a moment, only a moment, he lost the thread of his pitch. “Something else out of a fairy story.”
Slowly, he removed her hat, then watched in astonished admiration as her hair tumbled down, over her shoulders, over her arms. Pale as winter sunlight, soft as silk. “Diamonds,” he repeated, tangling his fingers through it. “Hair like this should have diamonds in it.”
She was caught up in him. Part of her would have believed anything he said, done anything he asked, as long as he continued to touch her in just that way. But it was the other part, the survivor, who managed to take control. “I like diamonds. But I also know a lot of people who pay for them, and end up with pretty glass. Guarantees, Douglas.” To distract herself, she drank more cognac. “I always want to see the guarantee—the certificate of value.”
Frustrated, he rose. She might look like a pushover, but she was as tough as they came. “Look, nothing’s stopping me from just taking it.” He snatched her purse off the sofa and held it out to her. “I can walk out of here with this or we can make a deal.”
Standing, she plucked it out of his hands. “I don’t make deals until I know all the terms. You’ve got a hell of a nerve threatening me after I saved your life.”
“Saved my life?” Doug exploded. “You damn near killed me twenty times.”
Her chin lifted. Her voice became regal and haughty. “If I hadn’t outwitted those men, getting my car damaged in the process, you’d be floating in the East River.”
The image was entirely too close to the truth. “You’ve been watching too many Cagney movies,”