ladle, Doug held it under his nose, closed his eyes, and sampled. “Ah.” He drew the word out so dramatically Whitney had to choke down a giggle. “Poisson Véronique. Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent. Definitely one of the top contenders in the contest. Your name?” he demanded from the chef.
The white-aproned bulk preened. “Henri.”
“Henri,” he repeated, waving a hand at Whitney. “You’ll be notified within ten days. Come, Sheila, don’t dawdle. We have three more stops to make.”
“My money’s on you,” Whitney told Henri as they walked out the back door.
“Okay.” Doug gripped her arm hard when they stood in the alley. “Remo’s only half-stupid so we’ve got to get out fast. Which way to Uncle Maxie’s?”
“He lives in Virginia, Roslyn.”
“All right, we need a cab.” He started forward, then pushed Whitney back against the wall so quickly she lost her breath. “Dammit, they’re already out there.” He took a moment, knowing the alley wouldn’t be safe for long. In his experience, alleys were never safe for long. “We’ll have to go the other way, which means going over a few walls. You’re going to have to keep up.”
The image of Juan was still fresh in her mind. “I’ll keep up.”
“Let’s go.”
They started out side by side then swerved to the right. Whitney had to scramble over boxes to make it over the first fence and her leg muscles sang out in surprise on the landing. She kept running. If he had a pattern to his flight, she couldn’t find it. He zigzagged down streets, through alleys, and over fences until her lungs burned from the effort of keeping the pace. The floaty skirt of her dress caught on chain link and tore jaggedly at the hem. People stopped to look at them in surprise and speculation as they never would’ve done in New York.
Always, he seemed to have one eye looking over his shoulder. She had no way of knowing he’d lived that way most of his life and had often wondered if he’d ever live any other way. When he dragged her down the stairs toward Metro Center, she had to grip the rail to keep from plunging head first.
“Blue lines, red lines,” he muttered. “Why do they have to screw things up with colors?”
“I don’t know.” Breathless, she leaned against the information board. “I’ve never ridden the Metro before.”
“Well, we’re fresh out of limos. Red line,” he announced and grabbed her hand again. He hadn’t lost them. Doug could still smell the hunt. Five minutes, he thought. He only wanted a five-minute lead. Then they’d be on one of those speedy little trains and gain more time.
The crowd was thick and babbling in a half dozen languages. The more people the better, he decided as he inched his way along. He glanced over his shoulder when they stood at the edge of the platform. His gaze met Remo’s. He saw the bandage on the tanned cheek. Compliments of Whitney MacAllister, Doug thought and couldn’t resist tossing back a grin. Yeah, he owed her for that, he decided. If for nothing else, he owed her for that.
It was all timing now, he knew, as he pulled Whitney onto the train. Timing and luck. It was either with them or against them. Sandwiched between Whitney and a sariclad Indian woman, Doug watched Remo fight his way through the crowd.
When the doors closed, he grinned and gave the frustrated man outside a half salute. “Let’s find a seat,” he said to Whitney. “There’s nothing like public transportation.”
She said nothing as they worked their way through the car, and still nothing when they found a space nearly big enough for both of them. Doug was too busy alternately cursing and blessing his luck to notice. In the end, he grinned at his own reflection in the glass to his left.
“Well, the sonofabitch might’ve found us, but he’s going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to Dimitri about losing us again.” Satisfied, he draped his arm over the back of the bright orange seat.
The white-aproned bulk preened. “Henri.”
“Henri,” he repeated, waving a hand at Whitney. “You’ll be notified within ten days. Come, Sheila, don’t dawdle. We have three more stops to make.”
“My money’s on you,” Whitney told Henri as they walked out the back door.
“Okay.” Doug gripped her arm hard when they stood in the alley. “Remo’s only half-stupid so we’ve got to get out fast. Which way to Uncle Maxie’s?”
“He lives in Virginia, Roslyn.”
“All right, we need a cab.” He started forward, then pushed Whitney back against the wall so quickly she lost her breath. “Dammit, they’re already out there.” He took a moment, knowing the alley wouldn’t be safe for long. In his experience, alleys were never safe for long. “We’ll have to go the other way, which means going over a few walls. You’re going to have to keep up.”
The image of Juan was still fresh in her mind. “I’ll keep up.”
“Let’s go.”
They started out side by side then swerved to the right. Whitney had to scramble over boxes to make it over the first fence and her leg muscles sang out in surprise on the landing. She kept running. If he had a pattern to his flight, she couldn’t find it. He zigzagged down streets, through alleys, and over fences until her lungs burned from the effort of keeping the pace. The floaty skirt of her dress caught on chain link and tore jaggedly at the hem. People stopped to look at them in surprise and speculation as they never would’ve done in New York.
Always, he seemed to have one eye looking over his shoulder. She had no way of knowing he’d lived that way most of his life and had often wondered if he’d ever live any other way. When he dragged her down the stairs toward Metro Center, she had to grip the rail to keep from plunging head first.
“Blue lines, red lines,” he muttered. “Why do they have to screw things up with colors?”
“I don’t know.” Breathless, she leaned against the information board. “I’ve never ridden the Metro before.”
“Well, we’re fresh out of limos. Red line,” he announced and grabbed her hand again. He hadn’t lost them. Doug could still smell the hunt. Five minutes, he thought. He only wanted a five-minute lead. Then they’d be on one of those speedy little trains and gain more time.
The crowd was thick and babbling in a half dozen languages. The more people the better, he decided as he inched his way along. He glanced over his shoulder when they stood at the edge of the platform. His gaze met Remo’s. He saw the bandage on the tanned cheek. Compliments of Whitney MacAllister, Doug thought and couldn’t resist tossing back a grin. Yeah, he owed her for that, he decided. If for nothing else, he owed her for that.
It was all timing now, he knew, as he pulled Whitney onto the train. Timing and luck. It was either with them or against them. Sandwiched between Whitney and a sariclad Indian woman, Doug watched Remo fight his way through the crowd.
When the doors closed, he grinned and gave the frustrated man outside a half salute. “Let’s find a seat,” he said to Whitney. “There’s nothing like public transportation.”
She said nothing as they worked their way through the car, and still nothing when they found a space nearly big enough for both of them. Doug was too busy alternately cursing and blessing his luck to notice. In the end, he grinned at his own reflection in the glass to his left.
“Well, the sonofabitch might’ve found us, but he’s going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to Dimitri about losing us again.” Satisfied, he draped his arm over the back of the bright orange seat.
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