use of a rock, Jacques slammed the coconut against it sharply. The chamelion scrambled away without a sound. With a grin, he broke the fruit apart and handed the two pieces to Whitney.
“How clever.”
“A little rum and you could have piña coladas.”
Brow arched, she handed a half to Doug. “Don’t be testy, darling. I’m sure you could’ve climbed up a palm tree too.”
Grinning, Jacques carved out a piece of the meat with a small knife. “It’s fady to eat anything white on Wednesdays,” he said with a simplicity that caused Whitney to study him more carefully. He popped the coconut into his mouth with a kind of guilty relish. “It’s worse not to eat at all.”
She looked at the fielder’s cap, the T-shirt, and the portable radio. It was difficult for her to remember that he was Malagasy, and part of an ancient tribe. With Louis of the Merina it had been easy. He’d looked the part. Jacques looked like someone she’d pass crossing Broadway and Forty-second.
“Are you superstitious, Jacques?”
He moved his shoulders. “I apologize to the gods and spirits. Keep them happy.” Reaching in his front pocket, he drew out what looked like a small shell on a chain.
“An ody,” Doug explained, both amused and tolerant. He didn’t believe in talismans, but in making your own luck. Or cashing in on someone else’s. “It’s like an amulet.”
Whitney studied it, intrigued by the contrasts between Jacques’s Americanized dress and speech and his deep-seated belief in taboos and spirits. “For luck?” she asked him.
“For safety. The gods have bad moods.” He rubbed the shell between his fingers, then offered it to Whitney. “You carry it today.”
“All right.” She slipped the chain over her neck. After all, she thought, it wasn’t so odd. Her father carried a rabbit’s foot that had been tinted baby blue. The amulet fell along the same lines—or perhaps more along the lines of a St. Christopher’s medal. “For safety.”
“You two can carry on the cultural exchange later. Let’s get moving.” As he rose, Doug tossed the fruit back to Jacques.
Whitney winked at Jacques. “I told you he was often rude.”
“No problem,” Jacques said again, then reached into his back pocket where he’d carefully secured the stem of a flower. Pulling it out, he offered it to Whitney.
“An orchid.” It was white, pure, spectacular white and so delicate it seemed as though it would dissolve in her palm. “Jacques, it’s exquisite.” She touched it to her cheek before she threaded the stem through the hair above her ear. “Thank you.” When she kissed him, she heard the audible click of his swallow.
“Looks nice.” He began to gather gear quickly. “Lots of flowers here in Madagascar. Any flower you want, you find it here.” Still chattering, he began to cart gear to the canoe.
“You wanted a flower,” Doug muttered, “all you had to do was bend over and yank one up.”
Whitney touched the petals above her ear. “Some men understand sweetness,” she commented, “and others don’t.” Picking up her pack, she followed Jacques.
“Sweetness,” Doug grumbled as he struggled with the rest of the gear. “I’ve got a pack of wolves after me and she wants sweetness.” Still muttering, he kicked out the campfire. “I could’ve picked her a damn flower. A dozen of them.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Whitney’s laughter. “Oh Jacques, it’s exquisite,” he mimicked. With a snort of disgust, Doug checked the safety on his gun before he secured it in his belt. “And I can open a goddamn coconut too.” He gave the fire one last kick before hefting the remaining gear and starting toward the canoe.
When Remo nudged one expensively shod toe into the campfire, it was no more than a pile of cold ash. The sun was straight up and streaming; there was no relief from the heat in the shade. He’d removed his suit jacket and tie—something he’d never have done in front of Dimitri during working hours. His once-crisp Arrow shirt was limp with sweat. Tracking Lord was becoming a pain in the ass.
“Looks like they spent the night here.” Weis, a tall, bankerish-looking man who’d had his nose broken by a whiskey bottle swiped sweat from his forehead. He had a line of insect bites on his neck that constantly plagued him. “I guess we’re about four hours behind them.”
“What’re you, part Apache?” Giving the fire a last violent kick, Remo turned. His gaze rested on Barns, whose round moon face was creased in smiles. “What’re