the wallboards. Tacked to them was a full-color poster of a pouting, sexy Tina Turner. Beside her was an ad for Budweiser—the King of Beers, a New York Yankees pennant, and an evening shot of the Empire State Building.
“Why do I feel as though I’ve just walked into a room on Second Avenue?” And because she did, she felt ridiculously safe.
“His brother’s an exchange student at CCNY.”
“That explains everything. Whose brother?”
“Shh!” Padding silently on the balls of his feet like a cat, Doug moved to the door that connected with the shop. He opened it a crack and peered through.
Jacques leaned over the counter, in the midst of a transaction that involved what was obviously a detailed exchange of town gossip. The bony, dark-eyed girl had apparently come in to flirt more than she’d come in to buy. She poked among spools of colored thread and giggled.
“What’s going on?” Whitney maneuvered herself so that she could peek through the crack under Doug’s arm. “Ah, romance,” she proclaimed. “I wonder where she got that blouse. Just look at the embroidery work.”
“We’ll have a fashion show later.”
The girl bought two spools of thread, giggled for another moment or two, then left. Doug opened the door another inch and made a hissing sound through his teeth. It was no competition for Elton John. Jacques continued to swivel his hips as he picked up on the lyrics. With a glance to the window that opened onto the street, Doug eased the door open a bit more and called Jacques by name.
Jolting, Jacques nearly upset the display of spools he was rearranging. “Man, you gave me a scare.” Still cautious, Doug crooked a finger and waited for Jacques to saunter over. “What you doing hiding back here?”
“A change of schedule,” Doug told him. Taking Jacques’s hand, he jerked him inside. He realized Jacques smelled of English Leather. “We want to take off now.”
“Now?” Narrowing his eyes, Jacques studied Doug’s face. He might have lived in a small seaside village all of his life, but he wasn’t a fool. When a man was on the run, it showed in his eyes. “You got trouble?”
“Hello, Jacques.” Stepping forward, Whitney held out her hand. “I’m Whitney MacAllister. You must forgive Douglas for neglecting to introduce us. He’s often rude.”
Jacques took the slim white hand in his and was instantly in love. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. As far as he could tell, Whitney MacAllister outshone Turner, and Benatar, and the high priestess Ronstadt put together. His tongue quite simply tied itself in knots.
She’d seen the look before. In a slick, three-piece-suited professional on Fifth Avenue it bored her. In a trendy club on the West Side, it amused her. In Jacques, she found it sweet. “We have to apologize for barging in on you this way.”
“It’s…” He had to search for the Americanisms that were usually on the tip of his tongue. “Okay,” he managed.
Impatient, Doug laid a hand on Jacques’s shoulder. “We want to move.” His sense of fair play wouldn’t allow him to drag the young man blindly into the mess they were in. His sense of survival prevented him from telling all. “We had a little visit from the local police.”
Jacques managed to drag his gaze away from Whitney. “Sambirano?”
“That’s right.”
“Asshole,” Jacques proclaimed, rather proud of the way the word rolled off his tongue. “You don’t worry about him. He’s just nosey, like an old woman.”
“Yeah, maybe, but we’ve got some people who’d like to find us. We don’t want to be found.”
Jacques took a moment to look from one to the other. A jealous husband, he thought. He needed nothing more to trigger his sense of romance. “We Malagasy don’t worry about time. The sun rises, the sun sets. You want to leave now, we leave now.”
“Terrific. We’re a little low on supplies.”
“No problem. You wait here.”
“How’d you manage to find him?” Whitney asked when Jacques went through to the front again. “He’s wonderful.”
“Sure, just because he was making bug-eyes at you.”
“Bug-eyes?” She grinned and sat down on the edge of Jacques’s bed. “Really, Douglas, wherever do you dig up some of your quaint expressions?”
“His eyes nearly fell out of his head.”
“Yes.” She brushed a hand through her hair. “They did, didn’t they?”
“You really eat it up, don’t you?” Annoyed, he paced the small room and wished he could do something. Anything. He could smell trouble, and it wasn’t as far away as he’d have liked. “You just love it when men drool.”
“You