Melting The Ice. Лорет Энн Уайт
accident. I just don’t have the resources to—”
“So you’re not going to try and find the people who did this?”
“There were no prints. Nothing to go on.”
She rubbed her hands over her face, scrubbing at the frustration. This was a dead end. He was no help.
Fred stopped chewing. “Hannah…I’m sorry.”
She stood. “It’s okay. Thanks for your time.”
“Look, if you come up with something concrete, anything that will justify opening up the case again, I will.”
“Thanks, Fred. Enjoy your lunch.” She turned and walked out, feeling his eyes on her behind.
There had to be something. She just needed to find it. She’d promised Al she would help get to the bottom of this. Perhaps she might still find some clue in Amy’s apartment. Maybe she and Al had missed something a year ago.
Outside the RCMP detachment, the sky was darkening with the threat of a storm. The light in the village was a dim and unearthly amber under the bruised clouds, and there was a distant grumble of thunder up in the peaks. Branches nodded in grim deference to the mounting wind.
Hannah stood on the stairs and zipped up her jacket, irked at how the weather always affected her moods. The brooding clouds seemed to hold ominous portent. The sudden chill seeped up and into her spine. She felt as if things were closing in on her as she stepped out into the wind.
Chapter 2
The concierge at Rex’s hotel was right, the Black Diamond Grill had one of the best patios in White River. It was located near the gondola station at the base of Powder Mountain, and the view of the grassy ski slopes was unobstructed.
The patio was buzzing with the Friday-afternoon lunch crowd. People were lapping up the sunshine after last night’s fierce storm.
Rex was shown to a small table under a red umbrella at the rear of the patio. He counted himself lucky to find a spot. Luckier than he had been in his hunt for CIA Agent Mitchell this morning.
There was no Ken Mitchell registered at any of the hotels in White River. But that was not surprising. Mitchell would hardly use his real name. Still, Rex wanted to rule out the obvious.
A waitress with auburn braids approached his table.
“I’ll have the special. And I’ll try the White River ale.”
She took his menu, and Rex settled back to survey the ski town scene. The village was packed with tourists. He could hear British and Australian and American accents. The couple at the table next to him were conversing in Spanish, and next to them was a boisterous party of Japanese teens. Their animation was infectious.
His beer arrived. He spilled the cool amber liquid into his mouth, letting it pool around his tongue before swallowing. The local brew was good.
He stretched his legs out under the table.
And then he saw her.
How could anyone miss her?
Sunlight glinted gold off her hair. The waitress was showing her and two older men to a table at the far end of the patio.
Rex didn’t move despite the quickening of his pulse. He maintained his posture of relaxation. He did not want to draw attention to himself.
One of the men pulled out a chair for her. She sat with fluid grace, her back partially to him. He could just catch her aristocratic profile, her high cheekbones, the shape of her lush mouth. Rex closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, calming the edgy rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He felt as if he’d been winded. A punch to the solar plexus. Nothing could have prepared him for this. So many times he’d dreamed of her, conjured her up from the caverns of his mind. But this hit him straight in the gut. The sight of her in living, breathing, pulsing flesh was a physical assault on his system.
Time slowed. The patio buzz faded.
“You all right, sir?” His waitress was putting his club sandwich in front of him.
He opened his eyes. “Thanks. Just drinking in the summer weather while it lasts.” He was back in control. Cool. Composed. At least, outwardly. He had an ideal vantage point from the back of the patio under the umbrella. He donned his dark shades. She wasn’t likely to see him here.
He took another swig of beer, his eyes fixed on the woman who was once his lover. The woman he still ached for. Her hair was longer than he remembered. More feminine. The thick waves skimmed below her shoulders. It fell softly across her profile as she leaned forward to touch the arm of one of the men. It was a gentle, consoling gesture. He felt his stomach slip. That was Hannah McGuire. A mix of intelligence and compassion, guts and lithe grace. He was a voyeur, studying her jealously from the shadows. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Not for a minute. She was wearing white linen pants, a white tank top, her arms bare and sun browned. Fresh off the pages of a fashion magazine. He drank the sight in.
Every pore in his body screamed to go to her. Touch her. Hold her. Tell her he was sorry. He should’ve known it would be close to impossible to avoid her here. White River was a small town. Perhaps deep down, at some primal subconscious level, he’d even wanted to run into her. Perhaps that’s why he’d accepted this mission instead of trying to insist on Scott as a replacement. His body had brought him where his mind refused to go. Hannah McGuire was like a drug to his system. And the sight of her now, after all these years, made him feel like an alcoholic must feel after taking that first forbidden sip.
Forbidden. Hannah was off-limits. He forced his attention to the company she was with.
The man was talking to her, shaking his head, as if in disbelief. Rex didn’t recognize him.
But the other, there was something about the other man that butted sharply up against the deep recesses of his memory. He was familiar. Very. But Rex couldn’t place him.
The man sat ramrod straight, broad shoulders pulled back. Tanned, fit, strong. His dark hair was flecked with silver, but from this distance it was difficult to pinpoint his age. Rex mentally filed the facts, trying to come up with a match.
All three of them looked up as a fourth man approached their table.
Again his pulse quickened. Agent Ken Mitchell.
Rex bit into his sandwich and slowly chewed as he watched. Now, this was getting really interesting.
Gunter, Al and Hannah all looked up as the tall man approached their table.
“Hello again, Hannah.” It was the Washington reporter she’d met on the mountain, the one in the suit.
“Mark, hi. Please join us, take a seat,” Hannah motioned to an empty chair.
“Thank you.” He was wearing dark glasses, a crisp white shirt. Formal for this resort town. He’d brought his big-city sensibilities with him.
Hannah made the introductions. “Mark Bamfield, this is Al Brashear, publisher of the Gazette, and this is Dr. Gunter Schmidt from the White River Spa.” She turned to Al. “Mark works as a freelance writer. He came to the Gazette office this morning to talk about Amy.”
Mark Bamfield shook hands. “Actually, I’m here for the upcoming forensic toxicology conference. I’m generally a medical and science writer, based out of the States.” He pulled up the chair, sat down and lifted his sunglasses. “But since I’m here, I’ve been asked to pick up the Amy Barnes story.” He turned to Al. “This must be difficult. I’m sorry.”
Al nodded. “I understand the news value. I’m still a media man.”
“I was hoping I’d get a chance to meet you, Al. I want to do an in-depth color piece on your niece. With your consent, of course. Something that captures the spirit of who she was. I was wondering if I could take a look at some of the articles she’d been working on, get a sense of her life, her work.”