Hot Ice by Nora Roberts

herself, Whitney leaned back against the wall. She supposed she had given him a few bad moments in the past twenty-eight years, but she was just made that way. In any case, she’d spun fact and fiction together until her father had been satisfied. With the thousand dollars he was wiring to Uncle Maxie that afternoon, she and Doug would be on solid ground before they took off for Madagascar.
    Even the name appealed to her. Madagascar, she mused as she strolled down the hall toward her room.Exotic, new, unique. Orchids and lush greens. She wanted to see it all, experience it, as much as she wanted to believe the puzzle Doug talked about led to that pot of gold.
    It wasn’t the gold itself that drew her. She was too accustomed to wealth to have her heartbeat quicken at the thought of more. It was the thrill of looking, of finding, that attracted her. Oddly enough, she understood better than Doug that he felt the same.
    She was going to have to learn a great deal more about him, she decided. From the way he’d discussed cut and material with the salesclerk, he wasn’t a stranger to the finer things. He could’ve passed for one of the casually rich in a classic-cut linen shirt—unless you looked at his eyes. Really looked. Nothing casual there, Whitney thought. They were restless, wary, and hungry. If they were going to be partners, she had to find out why.
    As she unlocked her door, it occurred to her that she had a few minutes alone, and that maybe, just maybe, Doug had stashed the papers in his room. She was putting up the money, Whitney told herself. She had every right to see what she was financing. Still, she moved quietly, keeping an ear out for Doug’s return as she crossed to the connecting doors. She caught her breath, then with a hand to her heart, laughed.
    “Juan, you scared me to death.” She stepped inside, looking beyond where the young waiter sat to the still-littered table. “Did you come to pick up the breakfast dishes?” She didn’t have to put off her quick search because of him, she decided and began to poke through Doug’s dresser. “Is the hotel busy this time of year?” she asked conversationally. “It’s cherry-blossom time, isn’t it? That always brings in the tourists.”
    Frustrated that the dresser was empty, she scanned the room. Maybe the closet. “What time does the maid usually come in, Juan? I could use some extra towels.” When he continued to stare silently at her she frowned. “Youdon’t look well,” she told him. “They work you too hard. Maybe you should…” She touched a hand to his shoulder and slowly, bonelessly, he slumped to her feet, leaving a smear of blood on the back of the chair.
    She didn’t scream because her brain and her vocal cords had frozen. Eyes wide, mouth working, she backed up. She’d never seen death before, never smelled it, but she recognized it. Before she could run from it, a hand clamped over her arm.
    “Very pretty.”
    The man whose face was inches from hers held a gun under her chin. One cheek was badly scarred, jagged, as from a broken bottle or a blade. Both his hair and his eyes were the color of sand. The barrel of the gun was like ice on her skin. Grinning, he skimmed the gun down her throat.
    “Where’s Lord?”
    Her gaze darted down to the crumpled body inches away from her feet. She could see the red stain spread over the white back of his jacket. Juan would be no help, and he’d never spend the twenty-dollar tip she’d given him only hours before. If she wasn’t careful, very, very careful, she’d end up the same way.
    “I asked you about Lord.” The gun pushed her chin up a little higher.
    “I lost him,” she said, thinking fast. “I wanted to get back here and find the papers.”
    “Double-cross.” He toyed with the ends of her hair and made her stomach roll. “Smart too.” The fingers tightened, jerking her head back. “When’s he coming back?”
    “I don’t know.” She winced at the pain and struggled