Hot Ice

by Nora Roberts

  himself inside. She blocked him without effort. “We’d make a good team. It doesn’t matter that my mother thinks you’re flighty.”

  Flighty. Whitney rolled her eyes at the term. “Listen to your mother, Tad. I’d make a perfectly dreadful wife. Now, go back down so your driver can take you home. You know you can’t drink more than two martinis without losing your grip.”

  “Whitney.” He grabbed her, kissing her with passion if not with style. “Let me send Charles home. I’ll spend the night.”

  “Your mother would send out the National Guard,” she reminded him, slipping out of his arms. “Now go home and sleep off that third martini. You’ll feel more like yourself tomorrow.”

  “You don’t take me seriously.”

  “I don’t take me seriously,” she corrected and patted his cheek. “Now run along and listen to your mother.” She closed the door in his face. “The old battle-ax.”

  Letting out a long breath, she crossed to the bar. After an evening with Tad, she deserved a nightcap. If she hadn’t been so restless, so… whatever, she’d never have let him convince her that she needed an evening of opera and congenial company. Opera wasn’t high on her list of enjoyments, and Tad had never been the most congenial companion.

  She splashed a healthy dose of cognac into a glass.

  “Make it two, will you, sugar?”

  Her fingers tightened on the glass, her heart lodged in her throat. But she didn’t flinch, she didn’t turn. Calmly, Whitney turned over a second glass and filled it. “Still slipping through keyholes, Douglas?”

  She wore the dress he’d bought her in Diégo-Suarez. He’d pictured her in it a hundred times. He didn’t know this was the first time she’d put it on, and that she’d done so in defiance. Nor did he know that because of it, she’d thought of him all evening.

  “Out pretty late, aren’t you?”

  She told herself she was strong enough to handle it. After all, she’d had weeks to get over him. One brow cocked, she turned.

  He was dressed in black, and it suited him. Plain black T-shirt, snug black jeans. The costume of his trade, she mused as she held out the glass. She thought his face looked leaner, his eyes more intense, then she tried not to think at all.

  “How was Paris?”

  “Okay.” He took the glass and restrained the urge to touch her hand. “How’ve you been?”

  “How do I look?” It was a direct challenge. Look at me, she demanded. Take a good long look. He did.

  Her hair flowed sleekly down one shoulder, held back with a crescent-shaped pin of diamonds. Her face was as he remembered: pale, cool, elegant. Her eyes were dark and arrogant as she watched him over the rim of her glass.

  “You look terrific,” he muttered.

  “Thank you. So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  He’d practiced what he was going to say, how he was going to say it, two dozen times in the last week. He’d been in New York that long, vacillating between going to her and staying away. “Just thought I’d see how you were,” he mumbled into his glass.

  “How sweet.”

  “Look, I know you must think I ran out on you—”

  “To the tune of twelve thousand, three hundred and fifty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents.”

  He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Nothing changes.”

  “Did you come to make good on the IOU you left me?”

  “I came because I had to, dammit.”

  “Oh?” Unmoved, she tossed back her drink. She restrained herself from tossing the glass against the wall as well. “Do you have another venture in mind that requires some ready capital?”

  “You want to get a few shots in, go ahead.” With a snap, he set his glass down.

  She stared at him a moment, then shook her head. Turning away, she set down her own glass and rested her palms against the table. For the first time since he’d known her, her shoulders slumped and her voice was weary. “No, I don’t want to get any shots in, Doug. I’m a bit tired. You’ve seen that I’m fine. Now why don’t you leave the same way you came in?”

  “Whitney.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she murmured before he’d taken two steps toward her. The quiet, even voice didn’t quite hide the trickle of desperation underneath.

  He lifted his hands, palms out, then let them drop. “Okay.” He wandered the room a moment, trying to find his way back to his original plan of attack. “You know, I had pretty good luck in Paris. Cleaned out five rooms in the Hotel de Crillon.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I was on a roll, probably could’ve spent the next six months picking off tourists.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets.

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Just wasn’t any fun. You got trouble when the fun goes out of your work, you know.”

  She turned back, telling herself it was cowardly not to face him. “I suppose so. You came back to the States for a change of scene?”

  “I came back because I couldn’t stay away from you anymore.”

  Her expression didn’t change, but he saw her link her fingers together in the first outward show of nerves he’d ever observed in her. “Oh?” she said simply. “It seems an odd thing to say. I didn’t kick you out of the hotel room in Diégo-Suarez.”

  “No.” His gaze traveled slowly over her face, as if he needed to find something. “You didn’t kick me out.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  “Because if I’d stayed, I’d’ve done then what I guess I’m going to do now.”

  “Steal my purse?” she asked with a flippant toss of her head.

  “Ask you to marry me.”

  It was the first time, perhaps the only time, he’d seen her mouth fall open and hang there. She looked as though someone had just stomped on her toes. He’d hoped for a bit more emotional reaction.

  “I guess that charmed the shit out of you.” Helping himself, he took his glass back to the bar. “Pretty funny idea, a guy like me proposing to a woman like you. I don’t know, maybe it was the air or something, but I started getting some funny ideas in Paris about setting up housekeeping, settling in. Kids.”

  Whitney managed to close her mouth. “You did?” Like Doug, she decided another drink was in order. “You’re talking marriage as in till death us do part and joint tax returns?”

  “Yeah. I decided I’m traditional. Even down to this.” When he went for something, he went for it completely. The policy didn’t always work, but it was his policy. He reached in his pocket and drew out a ring.

  The brilliance of the diamond caught the light and exploded with it. Whitney made a conscious effort to keep her mouth from dropping open again.

  “Where did you—”

  “I didn’t steal it,” he snapped. Feeling foolish, he tossed it up and clamped it in his palm. “Exactly,” he amended and managed a half smile. “The diamond came out of Marie’s treasure. I pocketed it—I guess you’d call it a reflex. I thought about fencing it, but—” Opening his hand, he stared down at it. “Had it set in Paris.”

  “I see.”

  “Look, I know you wanted the treasure to go to museums, and most of it did.” It still hurt. “There was a hell of a write-up in the Paris papers. Bennett Foundation recovers tragic queen’s booty, diamond necklace sparks new theories, and so on.”

  He moved his shoulders, trying not to think of all those pretty, shiny stones. “I decided to settle for the one rock. Even though just a couple of those bangles could’ve set me up for life.” Shrugging again, he held the ring up by its thin gold band. “If it itches your conscience, I’ll take the damn rock out and ship it off to Bennett.”

  “Don’t be insulting.” In a deft move, she snatched it out of his hand. “My engagement ring isn’t going in any museum. Besides…” And she smiled at him fully. “I also believe there are pieces of history that should belong to the individual. A hands-on sort of thing.” She gave him her cool, lifted-brow look. “Are yo
u traditional enough to get down on one knee?”

  “Not even for you, sugar.” He gripped her left wrist and, taking the ring from her, slipped it on the third finger. The look he gave her was long and steady. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” she agreed, and laughing, launched herself into his arms. “Damn you, Douglas, I’ve been miserable for two months.”

  “Oh yeah?” He found he liked the idea, almost as much as he liked kissing her again. “I see you like the dress I bought you.”

  “You have excellent taste.” Behind his back she turned her hand so she could watch the light bounce from the ring. “Married,” she repeated, trying out the word. “You mentioned settling in. Does that mean you plan to retire?”

  “I’ve been giving it some thought. You know…” He nuzzled into her neck so he could draw in the scent that had haunted him in Paris. “I’ve never seen your bedroom.”

  “Really? I’ll have to give you the grand tour. You’re a bit young to retire,” she added, drawing away from him. “What do you plan to do with your spare time?”

  “Well, when I’m not making love to you, I thought I might run a business.”

  “A pawnshop.”

  He nipped at her lip. “A restaurant,” he corrected. “Smartass.”

  “Of course.” She nodded, liking the idea. “Here in New York?”

  “A good place to start.” He let her go to pick up his glass. Maybe the end of the rainbow had been closer than he’d thought all along. “Start with one here, then maybe Chicago, San Francisco. Thing is, I’m going to need a backer.”

  She ran her tongue around her teeth. “Naturally. Any ideas?”

  He shot her the charming, untrustworthy grin. “I’d like to keep it in the family.”

  “Uncle Jack.”

  “Come on, Whitney, you know I can do it. Forty thousand, no, make it fifty, and I’ll set up the slickest little restaurant on the West Side.”

  “Fifty thousand,” she mused, moving toward her desk.

  “It’s a good investment. I’d write up the menu myself, supervise the kitchen. I’d… What’re you doing?”

  “That would come to sixty-two thousand, three hundred and fifty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents, all told.” With a brisk nod, she double-underlined the total. “At twelve and a half percent interest.”

  He scowled down at the figures. “Interest? Twelve and a half percent?”

  “A more than reasonable rate, I know, but I’m a softie.”

  “Look, we’re getting married, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “A wife doesn’t charge her husband interest, for Chrissake.”

  “This one does,” she murmured as she continued jotting down numbers. “I can figure out the monthly payments in just a minute. Let’s see, over a period of fifteen years, say?”

  He looked down at her elegant hands as she scrawled figures. The diamond winked up at him. “Sure, what the hell.”

  “Now, about collateral.”

  He bit back an oath, then smothered a laugh. “How about our firstborn son?”

  “Interesting.” She tapped the pad against her palm. “Yes, I might agree to that—but we don’t have any children as yet.”

  He walked over and snatched the notebook from her hand. After tossing it over his shoulder, he grabbed her. “Then let’s take care of it, sugar. I need the loan.”

  Whitney noticed with satisfaction that the pad had fallen faceup. “Anything for free enterprise.”

  A B O U T T H E A U T H O R

  Nora Roberts was the first writer to be inducted into the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame. The New York Times bestselling author of such novels as Montana Sky, Born in Ice, True Betrayals, and Divine Evil, she has become one of today’s most successful and best-loved writers. Nora Roberts lives in Maryland.

  If you loved

  Hot Ice

  then here’s a sneak peek at

  Divine Evil

  Nora Roberts’s

  spellbinding novel of romantic

  suspense, available now

  from Bantam Books

  Divine Evil

  Available from Bantam Books

  C H A P T E R

  1

  The rite began an hour after sunset. The circle had been prepared long ago, a perfect nine feet, by the clearing of trees and young saplings. The ground had been sprinkled with consecrated earth.

  Clouds, dark and secretive, danced over the pale moon.

  Thirteen figures, in black cowls and cloaks, stood inside the protective circle. In the woods beyond, a lone owl began to scream, in lament or in sympathy. When the gong sounded, even he was silenced. For a moment, there was only the murmur of the wind through the early spring leaves.

  In the pit at the left side of the circle, the fire already smoldered. Soon the flames would rise up, called by that same wind or other forces.

  It was May Day Eve, the Sabbat of Roodmas. On this night of high spring, both celebration and sacrifice would be given for the fertility of crops and for the power of men.

  Two women dressed in red robes stepped into the circle. Their faces were not hooded and were very white, with a slash of scarlet over their lips. Like vampires who had already feasted.

  One, following the careful instructions she had been given, shed her robe and stood naked in the light of a dozen black candles, then draped herself over a raised slab of polished wood.

  She would be their altar of living flesh, the virgin on which they would worship. The fact that she was a prostitute and far from pure disturbed some of them. Others simply relished her lush curves and generously spread thighs.

  The high priest, having donned his mask of the Goat of Mendes, began to chant in bastardized Latin. When he had finished his recitation, he raised his arms high toward the inverted pentagram above the altar. A bell was rung to purify the air.

  From her hiding place in the brush, a young girl watched, her eyes wide with curiosity. There was a burning smell coming from the pit where flames crackled, sending sparks shooting high. Odd shapes had been carved in the trunks of the circling trees.

  The young girl began wondering where her father was. She had hidden in his car, giggling to herself at the trick she was playing on him. When she had followed him through the woods, she hadn’t been afraid of the dark. She’d never been afraid. She had hidden, waiting for the right time to jump out and into his arms.

  But he had put on a long, dark coat, like the others, and now she wasn’t sure which one was Daddy. Though the naked woman both embarrassed and fascinated her, what the grownups were doing no longer seemed like a game.

  She felt her heart beating in her throat when the man in the mask began to chant again.