Hot Ice Read Free Page B

snakeskin bag and drew out her keys. “Those glasses are ridiculous.”
    “Yeah. Well they served their purpose.” He took them off.
    His eyes surprised her. They were very light, very clear, and green. Somehow they were at odds with his face and his coloring—until you noticed how direct they were, and how carefully they watched, as if he were a man who measured everything and everyone.
    He hadn’t worried her before. The glasses had made him appear silly and harmless. Now, Whitney had her first stirrings of discomfort. Who the hell was he, and why were men shooting at him?
    When the doors slid open, Doug bent to pick up the suitcases. Whitney glanced down and noticed the thin stream of red dripping down his wrist. “You’re bleeding.”
    Doug looked down dispassionately. “Yeah. Which way?”
    She hesitated only a moment. She could be just as cavalier as he. “To the right. And don’t bleed on those cases.” Breezing past him, she turned the key in the lock.
    Through annoyance and pain, Doug noticed she had quite a walk. Slow and loose with an elegant sort of swing. It made him conclude that she was a woman accustomed to being followed by men. Deliberately he came up alongside her. Whitney spared him a glance before she pushed open the door. Then, flicking on the lights, she walked inside and went directly to the bar. She chose a bottle of Remy Martin and poured generous amounts into two glasses.
    Impressive, Doug thought as he took stock of her apartment. The carpet was so thick and soft he could be happy sleeping on it. He knew enough to recognize the French influence in her furnishings, but not enough to pin down the period. She’d used deep sapphire blue and mustard yellow to offset the stunning white of the carpet. He could spot an antique when he saw one, and he spotted quite a few in this room. Her romantic taste was as obvious to him as the Monet seascape on the wall. A damn good copy, he decided. If he just had the time to hock it, he could be on his way. It didn’t take more than a cursory glance to make him realize he could fill his zippered pockets with handfuls of her fancy French whatnots to pawn for a first-class ticket that would get him far away from this burg. Trouble was, he didn’t dare deal in any pawnshop in the city. Not now that Dimitri had his tentacles out.
    Because the furnishings weren’t of any use to him, he wasn’t sure why they appealed. Normally he would have found them too feminine and formal. Perhaps after an evening of running, he needed the comfort of silk pillows and lace. Whitney sipped her cognac as she carried the glasses across the room.
    “You can bring this into the bathroom,” she told him as she handed him his drink. Negligently she tossed the fur over the back of the sofa. “I’ll take a look at that arm.”
    Doug frowned while he watched her walk away. Women were supposed to ask questions, dozens of them. Maybe this one just didn’t have the brains to think of them. Reluctantly he followed her, and the trail of her scent. But she was classy, he admitted. There was no denying it.
    “Take off that jacket and sit down,” she ordered, running water over a monogrammed washcloth.
    Doug stripped off the jacket, gritting his teeth as he peeled it from his left arm. After carefully folding it and laying it on the lip of the tub, he sat on a ladder-back chair anyone else would have had in their living room. He looked down and saw the sleeve of his shirt was caked with blood. Swearing, he ripped it off and exposed the wound. “I can do it myself,” he muttered and reached for the cloth.
    “Be still.” Whitney began to wipe away the dried blood with the soapy warm cloth. “I can’t very well see how much damage was done until I clean it up.”
    He sat back because the warm water was soothing and her touch was gentle. But while he sat back, he watched her. Just what kind of woman was she? he wondered. She drove like a nerveless maniac, dressed like Harper’s