Hot Ice by Nora Roberts Page A

it?”
    “Need some help reading the menu?” she began, then stopped. “Tu ne parles pas français, mon cher?” While he studied her in silence, she smiled. “Fascinating. I should have caught on before that everything wasn’t translated.”
    “Ah, Mademoiselle MacAllister!”
    “Georges.” She sent the desk clerk a smile. “I couldn’t stay away.”
    “Always a pleasure to have you back.” His eyes lit again as he spotted Doug over her shoulder. “Monsieur Lord. Such a surprise.”
    “Georges.” Doug met Whitney’s speculative look briefly. “Mademoiselle MacAllister and I are traveling together. I hope you have a suite available.”
    Romance bloomed in Georges’s head. If he hadn’t had a suite, Georges would have been tempted at that moment to vacate one. “But of course, of course. And your papa, mademoiselle, he is well?”
    “Very well, thank you, Georges.”
    “Charles will take your bags. Enjoy your stay.”
    Whitney pocketed her key without glancing at it. She knew the beds in the Crillon were soft and seductive. The water in the taps was hot. A bath, a little caviar from room service, and a bed. In the morning she’d have a few hours in the beauty salon before they took the last leg of the journey.
    “I take it you’ve stayed here before.” Whitney slipped into the elevator and leaned against the wall.
    “From time to time.”
    “A profitable place, I assume.”
    Doug only smiled at her. “The service is excellent.”
    “Hmmm.” Yes, she could see him here, sipping champagne and nibbling pâté. Just as she could see him running through alleys in D.C. “How lucky for me we’ve never crossed paths here before.” When the doors opened, she strolled out ahead. Doug took her arm and steered her to the left. “The ambience is important, I suppose, in your business,” she added.
    He allowed his thumb to brush over the inside of her elbow. “I have a taste for rich things.”
    She only gave him an easy smile that said he wouldn’t sample her until she was ready.
    The suite was no less than she expected. Whitney let the bellman fuss a few moments, then eased him out with a tip. “So…” She plopped down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “What time do we leave tomorrow?”
    Instead of answering, he took a shirt from his suitcase, balled it up until it wrinkled, then tossed it over a chair. As Whitney watched, he took various articles of clothing out and draped them here and there throughout the suite.
    “Hotel rooms are so impersonal until you have your own things around, aren’t they?”
    He mumbled something and dropped socks on the carpet. It wasn’t until he moved to her cases that she objected.
    “Just a minute.”
    “Half the game’s illusion,” he told her and tossed a pair of Italian heels into a corner. “I want them to think we’re staying here.”
    She grabbed a silk blouse out of his hands. “We are staying here.”
    “Wrong. Go hang a couple of things in the closet while I mess up the bathroom.”
    Left with the blouse in her hands, Whitney tossed it down and followed him. “What are you talking about?”
    “When Dimitri’s muscle gets here, I want them to think we’re still around. It might only buy us a few hours, but it’s enough.” Systematically, he went through the big, plush bath unwrapping soap and dropping towels. “Go get some of your face junk. We’ll leave a couple bottles.”
    “Oh no we won’t. What the hell am I supposed to do without it?”
    “We ain’t going to the ball, sugar.” He went into the master bedroom and tumbled the covers. “One bed’ll do,” he muttered. “They wouldn’t believe we weren’t sleeping together anyway.”
    “Are you padding your ego or insulting mine?”
    He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and blew out smoke, all without taking his eyes off her. For a moment, just a moment, she wondered what he was capable of. And if she’d like it after all. Saying nothing, he strode back into the next room