Hot Ice by Nora Roberts

not recognize it, but she did. And respected it.
    He wasn’t hard. She’d seen in his eyes when he spoke of Juan that he wasn’t hard. He was a dreamer. She’d seen that in his eyes when he spoke of the treasure. And he was a realist. She’d heard that in his voice when he spoke of Dimitri. A realist knew enough to fear. He was too complex to belong. And yet…
    He’d been Cassie Lawrence’s lover. Whitney knew the West-Coast diamond ate men for breakfast. She was also very discriminating about whom she chose to share her sheets. What had Cassie seen? A young, virile man with a hard body? Perhaps that had been enough, but Whitney didn’t think so. Whitney had seen for herself that morning in Washington just how attractive Doug Lord was, from head to foot. And she’d been tempted. By more than his body, she admitted. Style. Doug Lord had his own style, and it was that, she believed, that helped him over the threshold of homes in Beverly Hills or Bel Air.
    She’d thought she understood him until he’d been embarrassed by her remark about Cassie. Embarrassed and angry when she’d expected a shrug and an offhand remark. So, he had feelings, and values, she mused. It made him more interesting and likable if it came to that.
    Likable or not, she was going to find out more about this treasure and soon. She had too much money invested to move much further blindly. She’d gone with him on impulse and stayed through necessity. Instinctively she knew she was safer with him than without. Safety and impulse aside, Whitney was too much a businesswoman to invest in unnamed stock. Before too much more time had passed, she’d have a look at what he hoarded. She might like him, even understand him to a point, but she didn’t trust him. Not an inch.
    As he drifted awake, Doug came to the same conclusion about Whitney. He was going to keep the envelope close to his skin until he had the treasure in his hand.
    As the plane began its final descent, they brought their chair backs up, smiled at each other, and calculated.
    By the time they’d struggled with luggage and passed through customs, Whitney was more than ready to be horizontal in a stationary bed.
    “Hotel de Crillon,” Doug told the cab driver and Whitney sighed.
    “I apologize for ever doubting your taste.”
    “Sugar, my problem’s always been twenty-four-carat taste.” He brushed at the ends of her hair more in reflex than design. “You look tired.”
    “It hasn’t been a restful forty-eight hours. Not that I’m complaining,” she added. “But it’s going to feel marvelous to stretch out for the next eight.”
    He merely grunted and watched Paris whiz by. Dimitri wouldn’t be far behind. His network of information was every bit as extensive as Interpol’s. Doug could only hope the few curves he had thrown would be enough to slow down the chase.
    As he thought, Whitney struck up a conversation with the driver. Because it was in French, Doug couldn’t understand, but he caught the tone. Light, friendly, even flirtatious. Odd, he reflected. Most of the women he knew who’d grown up with portfolios never really saw the people who served them. It was one of the reasons he’d found it so easy to steal from them. The rich were insular, but no matter how often the less endowed said so, the rich weren’t unhappy. He’d bullshitted his way into their circle often enough to know that money could buy happiness. It just cost a bit more every year.
    “What a cute little man.” Whitney stepped onto the curb and breathed in the scent of Paris. “He said I was the most beautiful woman to sit in his cab in five years.”
    Doug watched her pass bills to the doorman before she breezed into the hotel. “And earned himself a fat tip, I’ll bet,” he muttered. The way she tossed money around, they’d be broke again before they landed in Madagascar.
    “Don’t be such a cheapskate, Douglas.”
    He ignored that and took her arm. “You read French as well as you speak