by Anne Stuart
ALSO BY ANNE STUART
ROMANTIC SUSPENSE
THE ICE SERIES
On Thin Ice
Silver Falls
Fire and Ice
Ice Storm
Ice Blue
Cold As Ice
Black Ice
STAND-ALONE TITLES
Into the Fire
Still Lake
The Widow
Shadows at Sunset
Shadow Lover
Ritual Sins
Moonrise
Nightfall
Seen and Not Heard
At the Edge of the Sun
Darkness Before Dawn
Escape Out of Darkness
The Demon Count’s Daughter
The Demon Count
Demonwood
Cameron’s Landing
Barrett’s Hill
COLLABORATIONS
Dogs & Goddesses
The Unfortunate Miss Fortunes
ANTHOLOGIES
Burning Bright
Date with a Devil
What Lies Beneath
Night and Day
Valentine Babies
My Secret Admirer
Sisters and Secrets
Summer Love
New Year’s Resolution: Baby
New Year’s Resolution: Husband
One Night with a Rogue
Strangers in the Night
Highland Fling
To Love and To Honor
My Valentine
Silhouette Shadows
ROMANCE
Wild Thing
The Right Man
A Dark and Stormy Night
The Soldier and the Baby
Cinderman
Falling Angel
One More Valentine
Rafe’s Revenge
Heat Lightning
Chasing Trouble
Night of the Phantom
Lazarus Rising / reprint as Here Come the Grooms
Angel’s Wings
Rancho Diablo / reprint as Western Lovers
Crazy Like a Fox / reprint as Born in the USA
Glass Houses / reprint as Men at Work
Cry for the Moon
Partners in Crime
Blue Sage / reprint as Western Lovers
Bewitching Hour
Rocky Road / reprint in Men Made in America #19
Banish Misfortune
Housebound
Museum Piece
Heart’s Ease
Chain of Love
The Fall of Maggie Brown
Winter’s Edge
Catspaw II
Hand in Glove
Catspaw
Tangled Lies / reprint in Men Made in America #11
Now You See Him
Special Gifts
Break the Night
Against the Wind
NOVELLAS
Married to It (prequel to Fire and Ice)
Risk the Night
HISTORICALS
SCANDAL AT THE HOUSE OF RUSSELL
Never Kiss a Rake
Never Trust a Pirate
Never Marry a Viscount
THE HOUSE OF ROHAN
The Wicked House of Rohan
Shameless
Breathless
Reckless
Ruthless
STAND-ALONE TITLES
The Devil’s Waltz
Hidden Honor
Lady Fortune
Prince of Magic
Lord of Danger
Prince of Swords
To Love a Dark Lord
Shadow Dance
A Rose at Midnight
The Houseparty
The Spinster and the Rake
Lord Satan’s Bride
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477828472
ISBN-10: 1477828478
Cover design by Jason Blackburn
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014957576
For everyone who’s been asking me for more Ice books. Here it is.
Contents
PART ONE—BEGINNINGS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
PART TWO—FIVE YEARS LATER
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
About the Author
PART ONE—BEGINNINGS
Chapter One
Evangeline Morrissey sank down on the rock wall, hot, dusty, sweaty, and tired. Her legs ached from climbing the hills beyond the tiny Tuscan town of Cabrisi—she’d underestimated how far she’d gone, and the way back was daunting. It was early afternoon but the sun was bright overhead on this hot spring day, and she leaned forward and rubbed her sore calves.
She frowned at the sturdy sandals she’d worn. Usually they served her well, but right now her feet hurt, and she just wanted to find a place to curl up and sleep for a little while, just a fifteen-minute nap out of the baking sun.
Fortunately she knew just where to find such a sanctuary.
The church of St. Anselmo was rarely used, a sixteenth-century remnant of a once denser population in these hills. Surely no one would object to her presence; as usual she wore a knee-length denim skirt rather than shorts, wrapped a shirt around her waist that she used to cover her arms, and had a kerchief on her head to keep her ridiculously curly reddish-brown hair in place. It was her standard costume, guaranteed to appease even the most fundamental of clerics no matter what their faith, and had served her in Spanish mosques as well as ancient synagogues. While she’d been working on her advanced degree in Medieval Religious Architecture, she’d naturally ended up spending time in a lot of places of worship, and she’d kept the uniform ever since. She simply had to remember which places required her to cover her head and which didn’t.
The last bit of road approaching the church was steep, and her calves were in agony by the time she topped the rise. She stopped, momentarily startled.
She’d never seen a vehicle in this place, never passed anyone other than Father Francisco as he glumly paced the empty aisles. This time there were three cars parked beside the small church—a Bentley, a smaller, more discreet black Lexus, and a humble
Fiat. Were some sort of officials having some kind of meeting about the fate of the church? Would they abandon such a beauty, allow it to be ruined by vandals, its stained glass windows shattered by the Italian equivalent of street punks? Surely not. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the church or its architecture—she barely had a page of notes on the place—but it was a sanctuary of peace and respite on a hot day, and she was a pilgrim of sorts, wasn’t she?
She crossed the graveled area that could barely hold more cars than were already there, stepped into the cool darkness of the narthex, the traditional front entrance hall of the church, and blinked at the dense shadows lit only by the sun beaming through the rich, jewel-like colors of the stained glass window at the far end of the nave. She could see one man in the pews, his head bent in prayer, and with surprise she recognized the balding pate of Signore Corsini, the friendly Italian businessman from the hotel. There was no sign of the priest or whoever had come in the other cars. She turned to her right, slipping into the shadows. The tiny chapel off to one side would provide the private respite she needed, and she paused to light a candle and put an offering in the box before heading in. She always lit a candle, never sure whom she was praying for. Asking God for money or success in her profession seemed totally crass, and everything else in her life seemed in decent shape, so she’d come to the decision she was paying it forward, at least in terms of prayer, and she was happy with that.
She sank into the last of the five rows of pews in the chapel, sighing with relief. She’d overestimated her energy; the remnants of the old town wall were much farther than she thought, and she was worn out. She’d trained her body to nap efficiently: fifteen minutes and she’d wake, refreshed and re-energized. She put her hands on the pew in front of her, rested her forehead on them, and fell asleep immediately.
The sound woke her. She jerked awake, blinking at the darkness, before she remembered where she was. She’d either slept longer than she should have, or not long enough—she felt disoriented, confused, and she shook her head, as if the physical act could toss off the cobwebs.
She tried to recall the sound that had startled her. It had been a strange, unexpected noise, almost human, and her skin prickled with the sense that something was wrong.
Pushing herself up, she quickly crossed herself, wondering as usual if she was doing it backwards, and stepped back out into the narthex, coming to an abrupt halt as she saw two people enshrined by the bright sunlight pouring in the outer doors.
The woman was model thin, model tall, and had an interesting rather than a beautiful face. She was exquisite, as so many Italian and French women were, and Evangeline had learned long ago not to feel inadequate, but for some reason those lessons vanished in her sleep-fuzzed brain, and she knew she was a grubby mess.
The man didn’t help. He was just a bit taller than the woman was, perhaps six feet, and if the woman was gorgeous this man was simply . . . she couldn’t think of the word for it. Unlike his companion, he was dressed casually, wearing khakis and an open-neck shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms: he looked like a beautiful, slightly decadent Italian nobleman come back to life. He had an elegant face, black hair that flowed around it in artful waves, and the kind of dark, liquid eyes you could drown in. His mouth was made for sin, his lean body had a whipcord, tensile strength, and Evangeline was in love.
She shook her head and laughed softly at the notion, and the sound caught their attention. They’d been so deep in conversation they hadn’t noticed her sudden appearance, and they both jerked their heads in her direction with lightning speed, making her feel even more conspicuous.
She straightened her shoulders, gave them a smile and a polite “bongiorno,” and moved past them into the darkness of the main church. Signore Corsini was still praying, bent low, and although she didn’t want to bother him, she didn’t want to go back the other way. It would look extremely odd if she immediately turned around, and she preferred not to face the glorious couple again. She dipped her fingers in the holy water and crossed herself again, her back to them, and started up the aisle.
She could feel their eyes on her, which was ridiculous. There was no reason for them to watch her—she was obviously just an American tourist wandering around the hillsides, and she should be the last person to interest them.
She was mentally slapping herself upside the head. What the hell had gotten into her, to worry about what people thought of her? She didn’t want to look like that woman, no matter how stunning she was, no matter what kind of man she attracted.
And she didn’t want a man like that. He was too handsome, too elegant, too self-assured, and worse than that, there was a burning intensity behind those dark brown eyes that made her even more uncomfortable.
When she dated she preferred ordinary mortals, men who were slightly offbeat. She liked normal men, people you bumped into at the Laundromat, slightly awkward, slightly rumpled, though she couldn’t stand academics, most of whom had the morals of an alley cat. A life in academia, following her parents’ example, was not particularly conducive to romance if her fellow professors made her skin crawl, but Evangeline was fine on her own most of the time. She considered the fact that she even enjoyed sex to be a major triumph, and she no longer had anything left to prove.
But this man was something else. Maybe she’d been alone too long: one look at that decidedly dangerous man and she’d practically swooned at his feet. She wasn’t sure why she thought he was dangerous—the only likely danger was to her heart. No, he wouldn’t even get that far. Maybe he was simply a danger to her self-esteem. Whatever the problem, she didn’t want to get any closer.
She approached the altar first, remembering at the last moment to do that sort of dip she’d seen others do, and then turned back. When her parents had bothered to take her and her sister to church at all, it had been to the local Unitarian church, and she wasn’t that familiar with the arcane rituals each faith demanded, though she did her best.
She thought she heard the sound of a car, and some of the tension left her. They were gone. She needed to start back to town if she was going to make it to her hotel in time for dinner, and she was famished. Turning, she started back down the aisle, pausing to look at the man still bent in prayer. She hid her smile—he’d probably fallen asleep as she had. Sooner or later he’d wake up and drive himself home in one of those cars—the Bentley, she guessed. It was logical to assume he would be returning to the hotel; maybe if she asked him, he would give her a ride down. But who knew how long the old man might doze, and he might not be planning to return at all, but continue up over the hills.
She wrinkled her nose. There was an odd, almost sewage-like smell in the air. There was no plumbing up here, just an open well, and someone must have used the place for an emergency bathroom. She shrugged. These things happened—she only hoped the priest was alert enough to notice and get whoever looked after the place to clean. But it wasn’t her concern.
She turned back to the entrance of the church and halted. Someone was standing there, silhouetted by the bright sun. A man, and while she could hope it was a priest she knew fate wasn’t with her. All right, she could handle it. Handsome men usually had very little brains, and she could outthink almost anyone. She kept walking toward him.
James Bishop watched the girl move toward him, wishing he still smoked. She’d obviously been clambering around the hills all day, and she was a dusty, dirt-streaked mess. She’d clean up well—he had an eye for such things—and she moved well. In fact, if this were simply a cover, then she’d done a good job with it. She could almost convince him, if he could afford to be convinced.
He couldn’t. Claudia had been very clear.
“I don’t care if she saw us kill Corsini or not, she saw us. When the news gets out that someone was garroted in the old church, she’ll remember seeing us there.”
He’d shrugged. “What does it matter? We’ll be
long gone, and we’ll look completely different. No one will connect either of us with the hit—we’ve made sure of it. We just go ahead as we’d planned—spend the night in town and then move on. She’s no danger to us.”
“Since when have you become so sentimental? She’s a liability, and I’m not about to endanger myself because you’re feeling sentimental.”
“Our orders concerning collateral damage have changed and you know it. We don’t need to add to the body count,” he’d said irritably. He’d had no choice but to kill Corsini’s chauffeur—the man had tried to cut his throat—but he still had blood on his hands, and he was feeling like god-damned Lady Macbeth. There was only so much Claudia’s perfumed wipes could remove, and even he couldn’t bring himself to rinse his hands in the font of holy water at the entrance to the church. Too much of his ancient Catholic upbringing coming back to haunt him, he thought.
“Changed for the worse,” Claudia had snapped. “I don’t care how squeamish Peter Madsen is, I’m not going to feel comfortable until she’s disposed of. If you’re too much of a pussy to do it, I will.”
Bishop had kept his temper under control. “I’ll check her out. If I think she’s a problem, I’ll take care of it,” he’d said shortly.
“She’s a problem.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
“No, it isn’t. Cut her throat, dump her with the chauffeur, and then get your ass back down to the town.”
He’d given her the silky smile that always pissed her off. “And what makes you think you’re in charge here, Claudia? You’re the operative, I’m the handler. You took care of the old man, but I’m overseeing the operation. I make the decision—you live with it.”
Claudia had snarled at him before taking off in the Lexus, peeling out of the parking space and tearing down the hill at suicidal speeds. He’d watched her go for a moment. It would make things a lot simpler if she simply took one corner too fast. She was unstable, and that was always a concern. Sooner or later Madsen was going to have to do something about her, but that wasn’t his problem. He was just going to have to put up with her bad temper back at the hotel.
