Hot Ice

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.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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
    CHAPTER
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