Hot Ice by Nora Roberts Page B

shrug, Whitney looked over her choices. They were a long way from the cosmopolitan cities she was accustomed to, a long way from the playgrounds the wealthy chose.
    Whitney bought the shoes, then picked up a handmade basket, instinctively bargaining for it in flawless French.
    He had to admire her, she was a born negotiator. More, he liked the way she had fun arguing over the price of a trinket. He had a feeling she’d have been disappointed if the haggling had gone too quickly or the price had dropped too dramatically. Since he was stuck with her, Doug decided to be philosophical and make the best of the partnership. For the moment.
    “Now that you’ve got it,” Doug said, “who’s going to carry it?”
    “We’ll leave it in storage with the luggage. We’ll need some food, won’t we? You do intend to eat on this expedition?” Eyes laughing, she picked up a mango and held it under his nose.
    He grinned and chose another, then dropped both in her basket. “Just don’t get carried away.”
    She wandered through the stalls, joining in the bargaining and carefully counting out francs. She fingered a necklace of shells, considering it as carefully as she would a bauble at Cartier’s. In time, she found herself filtering out the strange Malagasy and listening, answering, even thinking in French. The merchants traded in a continual stream of give and take. It seemed they were too proud to show eagerness, but Whitney hadn’t missed the marks of poverty on many.
    How far had they come, she wondered, traveling in wagons? They didn’t seem tired, she thought as she began to study the people as closely as their wares. Sturdy, she would have said. Content, though there were many without shoes. The clothes might be dusty, some worn, but all were colorful. Women braided and pinned and wound their hair in intricate, timely designs. The zoma, Whitney decided, was as much a social event as a business one.
    “Let’s pick up the pace, babe.” There was an itch between his shoulder blades that was growing more nagging. When Doug caught himself looking over his shoulder for the third time, he knew it was time to move on. “We’ve got a lot more to do today.”
    She dropped more fruit in the basket with vegetables and a sack of rice. She might have to walk and sleep in a tent, Whitney thought, but she wouldn’t go hungry.
    He wondered if she knew just what a startling contrast she made among the dark merchants and solemn-faced women with her ivory skin and pale hair. There was an unmistakable air of class about her even as she stood bargaining for dried peppers or figs. She wasn’t his style, Doug told himself, thinking of the sequins-and-feathers type he normally drifted to. But she’d be a hard woman to forget.
    On impulse he picked up a soft cotton lamba and draped it over her head. When she turned, laughing, she was so outrageously beautiful he lost his breath. It should be white silk, he thought. She should wear white silk, cool, smooth. He’d like to buy her yards of it. He’d like to drape her in it, in miles of it, then slowly, slowly strip it from her until it was only her skin, just as soft, just as white. He could watch her eyes darken, feel her flesh heat. With her face beneath his hands, he forgot she wasn’t his style.
    She saw the change in his eyes, felt the sudden tension in his fingers. Her heart began a slow, insistent thudding against her ribs. Hadn’t she wondered what he’d be like as a lover? Wasn’t she wondering now when she could feel desire pouring out of him? Thief, philosopher, opportunist, hero? Whatever he was, her life was tangled with his and there was no going back. When the time came, they’d come together like thunder, no pretty words, no candlelight, no sheen of romance. She wouldn’t need romance because his body would be hard, his mouth hungry, and his hands would know where to touch. Standing in the open market, full of exotic scents and sound, she forgot that he’d be easy to