“I want to know what you have and where you intend to go.”
“A puzzle. I’ve got pieces to a puzzle and I’m going to Madagascar.”
“Madagascar?” Intrigued, she turned it over in her mind. Hot, sultry nights, exotic birds, adventure. “What kind of puzzle? What kind of treasure?”
“My business.” Favoring his arm, he slipped on the jacket again.
“I want to see it.”
“You can’t see it. It’s in Madagascar.” He took out a cigarette as he calculated. He could give her enough, just enough to interest her and not enough to cause trouble. Blowing out smoke, he glanced around the room. “Looks like you know something about France.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Enough to order escargots and Dom Pérignon.”
“Yeah, I bet.” He lifted a pearl-crusted snuffbox from the top of a curio cabinet. “Let’s just say the goodies I’m after have a French accent. An old French accent.”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He’d hit a button. The little snuffbox he was tossing from hand to hand was two hundred years old and part of an extensive collection. “How old?”
“Couple centuries. Look, sugar, you could back me.” He set the box down and walked to her again. “Think of it as a cultural investment. I take the cash, and I bring you back a few trinkets.”
Two hundred years meant the French Revolution. Marie and Louis. Opulence, decadence, and intrigue. A smile began to form as she thought it through. History had always fascinated her, French history in particular with its royalty and court politics, philosophers and artists. If he really had something—and the look in his eyes convinced her he did—why shouldn’t she have a share? A treasure hunt was bound to be more fun than an afternoon at Sotheby’s.
“Say I was interested,” she began as she worked out her terms. “What kind of a stake would be needed?”
He grinned. He hadn’t thought she’d take the bait so easily. “Couple thousand.”
“I don’t mean money.” Whitney dismissed it as only the wealthy could. “I mean how do we go about getting it?”
“We?” He wasn’t grinning now. “There’s no we.”
She examined her nails. “No we, no money.” She sat back, stretching her arms on the top of the sofa. “I’ve never been to Madagascar.”
“Then call your travel agent, sugar. I work alone.”
“Too bad.” She tossed her hair and smiled. “Well, it’s been nice. Now if you’ll pay me for the damages…”
“Look, I haven’t got time to—” He broke off at the quiet sound behind him. Spinning around, Doug saw the door handle turn slowly—right, then left. He held up a hand, signaling silence. “Get behind the couch,” he whispered while he scanned the room for the handiest weapon. “Stay there and don’t make a sound.”
Whitney started to object, then heard the quiet rattle of the knob. She watched Doug pick up a heavy porcelain vase.
“Get down,” he hissed again as he switched off the lights. Deciding to take his advice, Whitney crouched behind the sofa and waited.
Doug stood behind the door, watching as it opened slowly, silently. He gripped the vase in both hands and wished he knew how many of them he had to go through. He waited until the first shadow was completely inside, then lifting the vase over his head, brought it down hard. There was a crash, a grunt, then a thud. Whitney heard all three before the chaos began.
There was a shuffle of feet, another splinter of glass— her Meissen tea set if the direction of the sound meant anything—then a man cursed. A muffled pop was followed by another tinkle of glass. A silenced bullet, she decided. She’d heard the sound on enough late-night movies to recognize it. And the glass—twisting her head she saw the hole in the picture window behind her.
The super wasn’t going to like it, she reflected. Not one bit. And she was already on his list since the last party she’d given had gotten slightly out of hand. Dammit, Douglas Lord was bringing her a great deal of trouble. The treasure—she drew her brows together—the treasure better be worth it.
Then, it was quiet, entirely too quiet. Over the silence all she could hear was the sound of breathing.
Doug pressed back into the shadowy corner and held on to the .45. There was one more, but at least he wasn’t unarmed now. He hated guns. A man who used them generally ended up being on the wrong end of the barrel too often for comfort.