Free Hot Ice by Nora Roberts Page A

that routine, I checked into the Wilshire with three thousand dollars. I checked out with thirty grand. I like California.”
    “Sounds to me like you can’t go back anytime soon.”
    “I’ve been back. I tinted my hair, grew a little moustache, and wore jeans. I pruned Cassie Lawrence’s roses.”
    “Cassie Lawrence? The professional piranha who disguises herself as a patron of the arts?”
    A perfect description. “You’ve met?”
    “Unfortunately. How much did you take her for?”
    From the tone, Doug decided Whitney would’ve been pleased he’d had quite a haul. He also decided not to tell her he’d had a breeze casing the inside because Cassie had enjoyed watching him weed her azaleas without a shirt. She’d practically eaten him alive in bed. In return, he’d lifted an ornate ruby necklace and a pair of diamond earrings as big as Ping-Pong balls.
    “Enough,” Doug answered at length. “I take it you don’t like her.”
    “She has no class.” It was said simply, from a woman who did. “Did you sleep with her?”
    He choked on his drink, then set it down carefully. “I don’t think—”
    “So you did.” A bit disappointed, Whitney studied him. “I’m surprised I didn’t see the scars.” She studied him another moment, thoughtful, quiet. “Don’t you find that sort of thing demeaning?”
    He could’ve strangled her without a qualm. True, there were times he slept with a mark and enjoyed himself— and made certain the mark enjoyed herself as well. Payment for payment. But as a rule, he found using sex as close to ugly as he wanted to get. “A job’s a job,” he said briefly. “Don’t tell me you’ve never slept with a client.”
    She lifted a brow at him, the way an amused woman could. “I sleep with whom I choose,” she told him in a tone that stated she chose well.
    “Some of us weren’t born with choices.” Opening his book again, he stuck his nose in it and fell silent.
    She wasn’t going to make him feel guilty. Guilt was something he avoided more scrupulously than the police or a furious mark. The minute you let guilt start sucking at you, you were finished.
    Funny, it didn’t seem to bother her a bit that he stole for a living. It didn’t bother her that he stole particularly from her class. She’d never blinked an eye at that. In fact, it was more than likely that he’d relieved some of her friends of excess personal property. She wasn’t the least concerned.
    Just what kind of woman was she anyway? He thought he understood her thirst for adventure, for excitement and taking chances. He’d lived his life on little else. But it didn’t fit those cool, moneyed looks.
    No, she hadn’t missed a beat when he’d told her he was a thief, but she’d looked at him with derision, and yes, dammit, pity, when she’d discovered he’d slept with a West-Coast shark for a handful of glitter.
    And where had the glitter gotten him? Thinking back, Doug remembered he’d dumped the rocks on a fence in Chicago within twenty-four hours. After a routine haggle over price, a whim had taken him to Puerto Rico. Within three days, Doug had lost all but two thousand in the casinos. What had the glitter gotten him? he thought again, then grinned. One hell of a weekend.
    Money just didn’t stick to him. There was always another game, a sure thing at the track or a big-eyed woman with a sob story and a breathy voice. Still, Doug didn’t consider himself a sucker. He was an optimist. He’d been born one and remained one even after more than fifteenyears in the business. Otherwise, the kick would have gone out of it and he might as well be a lawyer.
    Hundreds of thousands of dollars had passed through his hands. The operative words were passed through. This time would be different. It didn’t matter that he’d said so before, this time
would
be different. If the treasure was half as big as the papers indicated, he’d be set for life. He’d never have to work again—except for an