Fire and Ice (Ice 5)

She almost dumped the melted ice cream in her lap when she sat up. She set it on the floor, then headed into the main part of the house, turning on lights as she went, trying to brighten the awful smoky gloom that hovered outside.

She wasn’t stupid enough to open the front door without checking—she pushed the intercom button, and for a moment panicked. The neatly dressed young man in the video cam looked like Reno.

“Yes?” She couldn’t help it—her voice wobbled.

“Miss Lovitz? I’m Lee Hop Sing from the Los Angeles Times. Your mother said you’d be willing to talk to me about your recent trip to Japan and your father’s foundation.”

Shit. Of course he wasn’t Reno. He looked younger, his face was broader, and of course his hair was all wrong. Double shit. Her mother hadn’t canceled the interview—typical Lianne.

“How did you get in? The front gates are kept locked.” She sounded rude and suspicious, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with the press, particularly if they reminded her of someone she didn’t want to be thinking about.

“The gardener was leaving as I arrived. He let me through. Is this a bad time, Miss Lovitz?”

Someone was going to have to speak to the new gardener—she certainly didn’t want strangers just wandering up to the house.

But the reporter looked perfectly normal. He was neatly dressed, with his black hair slicked back from his broad face, a far cry from a leather-clad bad boy. And knowing the press, he’d keep coming back.

“All right,” she said, pushing the code to unlock the door. “But just fifteen minutes.” She opened the door.

He was shorter than she was, but then, a lot of men were. He was carrying a laptop case, and he looked as harmless as Jenkins.

“We can talk in the living room,” she said, leading the way. “Though I don’t know that I have anything interesting to say. The foundation is my father’s work—he’s always had a lifelong interest in the environment. I don’t have much to do with it.” In fact, Ralph Lovitz didn’t give a rat’s ass about the environment, but he had enough sense to find a worthy tax dodge that would offset some of his less environmentally friendly investments.

“And your recent trip to Tokyo?”

She stopped and looked at him. “Just a visit to my sister,” she said. “Nothing to do with anything. Would you like something to drink? Some coffee?”

“Tea would be lovely,” the man said. His voice was lighter than Reno’s, faintly accented. She kept thinking there was something familiar, something she was missing. But she had no doubt she’d never seen this particular young man before in her life. It must just be part of the emotional hangover that she couldn’t seem to get rid of.

“Make yourself at home,” she said. “I’ll get us some tea.”

It took her for freaking ever. She didn’t know where Consuela kept the tea, or the teapots, and she wasn’t go

ing to touch the Japanese pottery her sister used when she was here. She was moving slowly; she felt as if she’d been tossed in a blender. She finally made do with some Lipton tea bags and a couple of mugs, even as she could hear Summer mentally chastise her. The water took forever to boil, and by the time she rounded up milk, sugar and a tray, she’d probably left the poor man alone for half an hour. He was sitting on the sofa, small feet neatly together, a small digital recorder on the table. He’d put his briefcase down somewhere, but it probably didn’t matter. She just had to remind him to take it with him when she managed to get rid of him.

“Sorry it took me so long,” she said briskly.

“Not a problem. I hope you don’t mind if I tape you? That way I can be sure I quote you correctly.”

“There really is nothing to quote, Mr. Lee,” she said, setting the tray down by the recorder. “I think you’re wasting your time.”

The recorder was already blinking, a slow, steady red light, which seemed odd. She sat in the armchair across from him, reaching for her mug, and he did the same.

And then she saw his hand. Parts of two fingers were missing, one from the first knuckle, the other from the second. And she set her tea back down, suddenly sick.

“Is something wrong, Miss Lovitz?”

Fuck. Hop Sing. That was the stereotypical character on Bonanza. She’d spent hours watching Western reruns on TV land in her youth. No wonder something seemed familiar. “Not at all,” she said in an even voice. Where the fuck had he put his briefcase? “I just forgot the plate of cookies I set out.”

“I don’t need any cookies.”

“I do.” She scrambled to her feet, and he rose, as well, and suddenly he didn’t seem so short and sweet at all, and he was reaching in his coat for something.

She grabbed her scalding tea and threw it in his face, his screech of pain following her as she took off at a dead run. He was close behind her, and she tossed over chairs and tables as she ran, anything to slow him down.

She made it as far as the kitchen when he caught up with her. They went down on the slate floor, and Jilly kicked at him, desperate, furious, breaking free for a moment and scrambling away, only to have him grab her again as she tried to leap across the counter.

He grabbed her ankle, trying to haul her back, but he’d underestimated her. The knife block was there, and she picked up the whole damned thing, slamming it down on his head.