“You want to send your boys away, you and I could probably come up with something.”
He laughed again, ice clinking on ice. “I’m afraid my days of physical combat are over, Mr. Lord. I prefer more subtle ways of settling disputes.”
“A knife in the back?”
Dimitri merely lifted a brow at Whitney’s question. “I’m forced to admit that one on one, you’d far outmatch me, Mr. Lord. After all, you’re young and physically agile. I’m afraid I require the handicap of my staff. Now…” He touched his finger to his lips. “What are we to do about this situation?”
Oh, he’s enjoying this, Whitney thought grimly. He’s like a spider, merrily spinning a web to catch flies so he can suck the blood from them. He wanted to see them sweat.
Because there was no way out, she slipped her hand into Doug’s and squeezed. They wouldn’t grovel. And by God, they wouldn’t sweat.
“As I see it, Mr. Lord, your fate is really quite elemental. In essence, you’ve been a dead man for weeks. It’s simply a matter of method.”
Doug gulped down brandy and grinned. “Don’t let me rush you.”
“No, no, I’ve been giving the matter a great deal of thought. A great deal. Unfortunately, I haven’t the facilities here to carry things out in the style I prefer. But I believe Remo has a strong desire to take care of the matter. Though he did fumble quite a bit on this project, I feel the ultimate success deserves a reward.” Dimitri drew out one of his rich black cigarettes. “I’ll give you Mr. Lord, Remo.” He lit the cigarette and looked out through the fine mist of smoke. “Kill him slowly.”
Doug felt the cool barrel of the gun below his left ear. “Mind if I finish my brandy first?”
“By all means.” With a gracious nod, Dimitri turned his attention to Whitney. “As to you, my dear, I might have preferred a few more days in your company. I’d thought perhaps we could share some mutual pleasures. However…” He tapped the cigarette in a clear crystal tray. “Under the circumstances, that would add complications. One of my staff has admired you since I showed him your picture. A case of love at first sight.” He smoothed the thinning hair back from his forehead. “Barns, take her with my blessing. But do be tidy this time.”
“No!” Doug leapt up from his chair. In an instant his arms were clamped behind him and a gun was lodged against his throat. Hearing Barns’s giggle, he struggled despite them. “She’s worth more than that,” he said desperately. “Her father’d pay you a million, two million, to get her back. Don’t be a fool, Dimitri. Give her to this little creep, she’s worth nothing to you.”
“Not all of us think in terms of money, Mr. Lord,” Dimitri said calmly. “There’s a matter of principle at stake, you see. I believe as strongly in reward as I do in discipline.” His gaze flicked down to his mutilated hand. “Yes, just as strongly. Take him along, Remo, he’s creating quite a fuss.”
“Keep your hands off me.” Springing up, Whitney dashed the contents of her snifter in Barns’s face. With fury carrying her, she doubled up her fist and planted it squarely on his nose. His squeak and the squirt of blood gave her momentary satisfaction.
Doug took his cue from her and, bracing himself against the man behind him, reared back and smashed his foot under the chin of the man across from him. They might’ve been mowed down in that instant if Dimitri hadn’t signaled. He enjoyed watching the doomed struggle. Calmly he took the derringer from his inside pocket and fired into the vaulted ceiling.
“That’ll do,” he told them, as if speaking to obstreperous adolescents. He watched tolerantly as Doug gathered Whitney to his side. He was particularly fond of Shakespeare’s tragedies that dealt with star-crossed lovers— not only because of the beauty of words, but because of their hopelessness. “I’m a reasonable man, and a romantic at heart. In order to give you a bit more time together, Miss MacAllister is welcome to go along while Remo proceeds with the execution.”
“Execution,” Whitney spat at him with all the venom a desperate woman can gather. “Murder, Dimitri, doesn’t have such a clean, cool ring to it. You delude yourself into believing you’re cultured and suave. Do you think a silk dinner jacket can hide what you are, and what you’ll never be? You’re nothing more than a crow, Dimitri, a crow picking at carrion. You don’t even kill for yourself.”
“Normally, no.” His voice had frozen. Those of his men who had heard the tone before tensed. “In this case, however, perhaps I should make an exception.” He lowered the derringer.