Hot Ice

cool ice-princess look Doug admired.
    “Mr. Dimitri’s waiting.”
    Without a word she swept by him. Her palms were damp, but she resisted the urge to curl her hands into fists. Instead, she ran her fingers lightly over the banister as she descended the stairs. If she was walking toward her execution, she thought, at least she was walking toward it in style. Pressing her lips together only briefly, she followed Remo through the house and out onto a wide, flower-bordered terrace.
    “Ms. MacAllister, at last.”
    She wasn’t certain what she’d expected. Certainly after all the horror stories she’d lived through and heard, she expected someone fierce and cruel and larger than life. The man who rose from the smoked-glass and wicker table was pale and small and unimpressive. He had a round, mild face and a thinning thatch of dark hair swept back from it. His skin was pale, so pale it looked as though he never saw the sun. She had a quick, giddy flash that if she poked her finger into his cheek it would collapse like soft, warm dough. His eyes were nearly colorless, a light, watery blue under dark, inoffensive brows. She couldn’t decide if he were forty or sixty, or somewhere in between.
    His mouth was thin, his nose small, and his round cheeks, unless she missed her guess, had been lightly tinted with blusher.
    The white, rather dapper suit he wore didn’t quite disguise his paunch. It might’ve been tempting to pass him off as a foolish little man, but she noticed the nine thinly glossed nails and the stub of his pinky.
    Against the chubby, glossy appearance, the deformity clashed and rattled. He held his hand, palm out, in greeting so that she could see where the skin had grown thick and tough over the ridge. The palm was as smooth as a young girl’s.
    Whatever his appearance, it wouldn’t do to forget that Dimitri was as dangerous and shrewd as anything that slithered out from the swamp. The breadth of his power might not have been apparent on the surface, but he dismissed the lean, rangy Remo with no more than a look.
    “I’m so pleased to have you join me, my dear. There’s nothing so depressing as lunching alone. I’ve some lovely Campari.” He lifted yet another piece of Waterford. “Can I persuade you to try some?”
    She opened her mouth to speak and nothing came out. It was the glint of pleasure in his eyes that had her stepping forward. “I’d love it.” Whitney swept up to the table. The closer she came, the more the fear built. It was irrational, she thought. He looked like someone’s pompous little uncle. But the fear built. His eyes, she realized, never seemed to blink. He just stared and stared and stared. She had to concentrate on keeping her hand steady as she reached for the glass. “Your house, Mr. Dimitri, is quite a showpiece.”
    “I take that as a high compliment from someone with your professional reputation. I was fortunate to find it on short notice.” He sipped, then dabbed at his mouth delicately with white linen. “The owners were—gracious enough to give it over to me for a few weeks. I’m rather fond of the gardens. A pleasant respite in this sticky heat.” In a courtly gesture he walked over to hold her chair. Whitney had to repress a surge of panic and revulsion. “I’m sure you must be hungry after your journey.”
    She looked over her shoulder and forced herself to smile. “Actually I dined quite well last evening, again due to your hospitality.”
    Mild curiosity crossed his face as he walked back to his own chair. “Indeed?”
    “In the jeep Douglas and I acquired from your— employees?” At his nod, she continued. “There was a lovely bottle of wine and a very enjoyable meal. I’m rather fond of beluga.”
    She saw the caviar, black and shiny, heaped on ice beside her. Whitney helped herself.
    “I see.”
    She wasn’t certain if she’d annoyed or amused him. Taking a bite, she smiled. “Again, I must say your pantry’s well stocked.”
    “I hope you’ll continue to find my hospitality to your liking. You must try the lobster bisque, my dear. Let me serve you.” With a grace and an economy of movement she wouldn’t have expected, Dimitri dipped a silver ladle into the soup tureen. “Remo informs me you’ve disposed of our Mr. Lord.”
    “Thank you. It smells marvelous.” Whitney took her time, sipping at the soup. “Douglas was becoming a bit of a bother.” It was a game, she told herself. And she’d just begun to play. The