minutes, maybe a half hour.” Any minute, she thought desperately. He could walk in any minute and then they both would be dead. Another glance at the body sprawled at her feet and her eyes filled. Whitney swallowed hard, knowing she couldn’t afford tears. “Why did you kill Juan?”
“Wrong place at the wrong time,” he said with a grin. “Just like you, pretty lady.”
“Listen…” It wasn’t difficult to keep her voice low, if she’d tried to speak above a whisper her teeth would have chattered. “I don’t have any allegiance to Lord. If you and I could find the papers, then…” She let the sentence trail off, moistening her lips with her tongue. He watched the gesture before he ran his gaze down her body.
“Not much tit,” he said with a sneer, then stepped back, gesturing with the gun. “Maybe I should see more of what you’re offering.”
She toyed with the top button of her blouse. She’d gotten his mind off killing her for the moment, but this wasn’t much of a bargain. Inching back as she moved to the next button, she felt her hips bump into the table. As if to steady herself, she rested a palm on it, keeping her gaze on his sand-colored eyes. She felt cool stainless steel brush her fingertips.
“Maybe you should help me,” she whispered and forced herself to smile.
He inclined his head as he set the gun on the dresser. “Maybe I should.” Then his hands were on her hips, moving slowly up her body. Whitney gripped the handle in her fist and plunged the fork into the side of his throat.
Blood spurting, squealing like a pig, he jumped back. As he reached for the handle himself, she picked up the leather tote and swung it with all the force she had. She didn’t look to see how deep she’d driven the prongs into him. She ran.
In high good humor after a brief flirtation with the checkout girl, Doug started to swing into the lobby. Running full steam, Whitney barreled into him.
He juggled tottering packages. “What the hell—”
“Run!” she shouted, and without waiting to see if he took her advice, raced out of the hotel.
Swearing and fumbling with packages, he drew up alongside her. “What for?”
“They’ve found us.”
A glance over his shoulder showed him Remo and two others just hustling out of the hotel. “Ah, shit,” Doug muttered, then grabbing Whitney’s arm, he dragged her through the first door he came to. They were greeted by the quiet strains of harp music and a stiff-backed maitre d’.
“You have a luncheon reservation?”
“Just looking for friends,” Doug told him, nudging Whitney along.
“Yes, I hope we’re not too early.” She batted her eyes at the maitre d’ before scanning the restaurant. “I do hate being early. Ah, there’s Marjorie now. My, my, she’s put on weight.” With Whitney leaning conspiratorially toward Doug, they moved past the maitre d’. “Be sure to compliment her on that horrid outfit, Rodney.”
Skirting through the restaurant, they made a direct line for the kitchen. “Rodney?” he complained in undertones.
“It just came to me.”
“Here.” Thinking fast, he shoved the boxes and bags into Whitney’s tote, then slung the whole business over his shoulder. “Let me do the talking.”
In the kitchen they made their way around counters and ranges and cooks. Moving as quickly as he thought prudent, Doug aimed for the back door. A white-aproned bulk, three feet wide, stepped in front of him.
“Guests are not permitted in the kitchen.”
Doug looked up at the chef’s hat at least a foot above his own head. It reminded him how much he hated physical altercations. You didn’t get so many bruises when you used your head. “One minute, one minute,” Doug said fussily and turned to the pot simmering at his right. “Sheila, this has the most divine scent. Superb, sensuous. Four stars for the scent.”
Catching on, she drew her pad out of her bag. “Four stars,” she repeated, scribbling.
Picking up the
“Wrong place at the wrong time,” he said with a grin. “Just like you, pretty lady.”
“Listen…” It wasn’t difficult to keep her voice low, if she’d tried to speak above a whisper her teeth would have chattered. “I don’t have any allegiance to Lord. If you and I could find the papers, then…” She let the sentence trail off, moistening her lips with her tongue. He watched the gesture before he ran his gaze down her body.
“Not much tit,” he said with a sneer, then stepped back, gesturing with the gun. “Maybe I should see more of what you’re offering.”
She toyed with the top button of her blouse. She’d gotten his mind off killing her for the moment, but this wasn’t much of a bargain. Inching back as she moved to the next button, she felt her hips bump into the table. As if to steady herself, she rested a palm on it, keeping her gaze on his sand-colored eyes. She felt cool stainless steel brush her fingertips.
“Maybe you should help me,” she whispered and forced herself to smile.
He inclined his head as he set the gun on the dresser. “Maybe I should.” Then his hands were on her hips, moving slowly up her body. Whitney gripped the handle in her fist and plunged the fork into the side of his throat.
Blood spurting, squealing like a pig, he jumped back. As he reached for the handle himself, she picked up the leather tote and swung it with all the force she had. She didn’t look to see how deep she’d driven the prongs into him. She ran.
In high good humor after a brief flirtation with the checkout girl, Doug started to swing into the lobby. Running full steam, Whitney barreled into him.
He juggled tottering packages. “What the hell—”
“Run!” she shouted, and without waiting to see if he took her advice, raced out of the hotel.
Swearing and fumbling with packages, he drew up alongside her. “What for?”
“They’ve found us.”
A glance over his shoulder showed him Remo and two others just hustling out of the hotel. “Ah, shit,” Doug muttered, then grabbing Whitney’s arm, he dragged her through the first door he came to. They were greeted by the quiet strains of harp music and a stiff-backed maitre d’.
“You have a luncheon reservation?”
“Just looking for friends,” Doug told him, nudging Whitney along.
“Yes, I hope we’re not too early.” She batted her eyes at the maitre d’ before scanning the restaurant. “I do hate being early. Ah, there’s Marjorie now. My, my, she’s put on weight.” With Whitney leaning conspiratorially toward Doug, they moved past the maitre d’. “Be sure to compliment her on that horrid outfit, Rodney.”
Skirting through the restaurant, they made a direct line for the kitchen. “Rodney?” he complained in undertones.
“It just came to me.”
“Here.” Thinking fast, he shoved the boxes and bags into Whitney’s tote, then slung the whole business over his shoulder. “Let me do the talking.”
In the kitchen they made their way around counters and ranges and cooks. Moving as quickly as he thought prudent, Doug aimed for the back door. A white-aproned bulk, three feet wide, stepped in front of him.
“Guests are not permitted in the kitchen.”
Doug looked up at the chef’s hat at least a foot above his own head. It reminded him how much he hated physical altercations. You didn’t get so many bruises when you used your head. “One minute, one minute,” Doug said fussily and turned to the pot simmering at his right. “Sheila, this has the most divine scent. Superb, sensuous. Four stars for the scent.”
Catching on, she drew her pad out of her bag. “Four stars,” she repeated, scribbling.
Picking up the
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