Fire & Ice (22 page)

The fires were getting closer. KTLA was covering them with breathless anticipation, and even their usual tongue-in-cheek joviality seemed on the wane. It was late when Jilly dragged herself out of bed, and if anything, she was even more achy . The house was deserted, for maybe the first time in her life. Her mother always kept a skeleton staff on, particularly if her young daughter was at home. But Jilly was a grown-up, and the locked gate was security enough. Who would want to hurt her?

Whoever had shoved her in front of traffic. Whoever had slammed into her with a truck, trying to push her off an overpass, and taken off before anyone could catch him.

She shook herself. Whether she was being paranoid or not, she was safe here. And there was a panic button in the security panel that went directly to the police.

And there was no reason for her to be in any danger. Everything that happened in Japan was resolved—no one would be coming after her. Ojiisan was dead, along with both his men and his enemies. And she'd never been more than a pawn in their entire game—it wasn't as if she had possessed any kind of intrinsic value. She'd been in the way, and as soon as the dust settled, or even before, she'd been sent back home. Apart from a rush visit from her sister and a few phone calls, everyone in Japan had forgotten she existed. Probably.

She'd been half tempted to call Summer , just to set her mind at ease, but in the end she resisted. Summer would just ask more questions about Reno, then follow it up with a loving lecture on how Reno wasn't even remotely viable as...what? A boyfriend? A lover? Something even more?

She didn't need her sister to tell her that. She didn't need to be reminded. Bad boys, while delicious, weren't for brainiacs like her.

She used her mother's marble shower with the built-in seat, letting the hot water stream down over her. Her body was a mess—her torso was a mass of bruises, and the mark the seat belt had made across her chest was far from attractive. For an accident with “no interesting injuries,” it had certainly made her look like shit. Fortunately no one but a doctor was going to see her naked for the rest of her natural life, so she didn't need to worry.

At least the swelling in her eye had gone down, and she could see out of both now. She dressed carefully in loose khakis and a T-shirt, not bothering with a bra; no one was around, just the gardener she'd spotted, lurking among the roses, and it was too much trouble to fasten it.

Then she remembered Reno's reaction to her lack of a bra, and was half tempted to take the trouble.

She had to stop thinking about him. She was seeing him everywhere—she even thought the new Hispanic gardener looked like him, that is if Reno stooped, had short black hair and worked as a gardener . She should have fought harder for drugs—a prescription—at the hospital.

Dreams or no, a little oblivion would be a treat.

The windows in her mother's suite didn't open, but she craned her neck, looking at the darkened, smoke-filled sky. It should be safe enough, up here in the Hills. And as Jenkins said, there'd be plenty of warning if the fires came closer; California was very good at getting people evacuated. But even through the air-purified, hermetically sealed house she could smell the smoke in the air, and it made her nervous.

Hell, everything was making her nervous. She made her way down the backstairs to the kitchen, barefoot and hungry, heading straight to the freezer. A little of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey should do the trick. Bananas for fruit and nuts for protein—very healthy. Add chocolate chunks for serenity and she had the perfect meal. She opened the giant freezer, grabbed a pint and headed for the long copper counter that was Consuela's pride and joy, grabbing a spoon and a stool and digging in.

It was early afternoon—she'd almost slept the clock around—yet it was unnaturally dark. She could see the new gardener out there, doing something with the Hawaiian orchids.

She watched him as she ate the ice cream, savoring each bite. If she half closed her eyes she could almost imagine it was Reno. Except that he didn't move with Reno's pantherlike grace, and Reno wouldn't have been caught dead in baggy khakis and a green work shirt. Besides, there was no mistaking Reno's glorious hair.

She pushed away from the counter, heading in to the screening room with her pint of ice cream, now half gone. There were televisions in almost every room of the house, and usually she preferred a room with windows, but the overcast sky was making her edgy, and the gardener was making her think too much about Reno. She needed a nice weepy movie to take her mind off things.

She put the ice cream down on one of the plush reclining seats and began scrolling through the DVDs loaded onto her father's state-of-the-art player.
Titanic
or
Steel Magnolias
would be nice and cathartic—she could sit there and sob and get at least a little bit of relief from the pressure building inside her.
Mommie Dearest
would be another distraction—Lianne's typical abandonment was more of an irritant than ever. Or she could really ask for trouble and watch
Akira Kurosawa
. And imagine Reno's throat impaled with arrows.

No,
Ghostbusters
. That and Galaxy Quest were surefire cures for what ailed her. She pushed the buttons, grabbed the rest of her Chunky Monkey and settled in to watch.

She must have fallen asleep again. When she woke the screen was blank, the little bit of ice cream she hadn't devoured was melted in the bottom of the cardboard container, and the doorbell was ringing.

That didn't make sense—no one could get through the security gates to the main door without being buzzed in, and she hadn't been so knocked out that she could have sleepwalked.

She almost dumped the melted ice cream in her lap when she sat up. She set it on the floor, then headed into the main part of the house, turning on lights as she went, trying to brighten the awful smoky gloom that hovered outside.

She wasn't stupid enough to open the front door without checking—she pushed the intercom button, and for a moment panicked. The neatly dressed young man in the video cam looked like Reno.

“Yes?” She couldn't help it—her voice wobbled.

“Miss Lovitz? I'm Lee Hop Sing from the Los Angeles Times. Your mother said you'd be willing to talk to me about your recent trip to Japan and your father's foundation.”

Shit. Of course he wasn't Reno. He looked younger, his face was broader, and of course his hair was all wrong. Doable shit. Her mother hadn't canceled the interview—typical Lianne.

“How did you get in? The front gates are kept locked.” She sounded rude and suspicious, but she didn't care. She wasn't in the mood to deal with the press, particularly if they reminded her of someone she didn't want to be thinking about.

“The gardener was leaving as I arrived. He let me through. Is this a bad time, Miss Lovitz?”

Someone was going to have to speak to the new gardener—she certainly didn't want strangers just wandering up to the house.

But the reporter looked perfectly normal. He was neatly dressed, with his black hair slicked back from his broad face, a far cry from a leather-clad bad boy. And knowing the press, he'd keep coming back.

All right,” she said, pushing the code to unlock the door. “But just fifteen minutes.” She opened the door.

He was shorter than she was, but then, a lot of men were. He was carrying a laptop case, and he looked as harmless as Jenkins.

“We can talk in the living room,” she said, leading the way. “Though I don't know that I have anything interesting to say. The foundation is my father's work—he's always had a lifelong interest in the environment. I don't have much to do with it.” In fact, Ralph Lovitz didn't give a rat's ass about the environment, but he had enough sense to find a worthy tax dodge that would offset some of his less environmentally friendly investments.

“And your recent trip to Tokyo?”

She stopped and looked at him. “Just a visit to my sister,” she said. “Nothing to do with anything. Would you like something to drink? Some coffee?”

“Tea would be lovely,” the man said. His voice was lighter than Reno's, faintly accented. She kept thinking there was something familiar, something she was missing. But she had no doubt she'd never seen this particular young man before in her life. It must just be part of the emotional hangover that she couldn't seem to get rid of.

“Make yourself at home,” she said. “I'll get us some tea.”

It took her for freaking ever. She didn't know where Consuela kept the tea, or the teapots, and she wasn't going to touch the Japanese pottery her sister used when she was here. She was moving slowly; she felt as if she'd been tossed in a blender. She finally made do with some Lipton tea bags and a couple of mugs, even as she could hear Summer mentally chastise her. The water took forever to boil, and by the time she rounded up milk, sugar and a tray, she'd probably left the poor man alone for half an hour. He was sitting on the sofa, small feet neatly together, a small digital recorder on the table. He'd put his briefcase down somewhere, but it probably didn't matter. She just had to remind him to take it with him when she managed to get rid of him.

“Sorry it took me so long,” she said briskly.

“Not a problem. I hope you don't mind if I tape you? That way I can be sure I quote you correctly.”

“There really is nothing to quote, Mr. Lee,” she said, setting the tray down by the recorder. “I think you're wasting your time.”

The recorder was already blinking, a slow, steady red light, which seemed odd. She sat in the armchair across from him, reaching for her mug, and he did the same.

And then she saw his hand. Parts of two fingers were missing, one from the first knuckle, the other from the second. And she set her tea back down, suddenly sick.

“Is something wrong, Miss Lovitz?”

Fuck. Hop Sing. That was the stereotypical character on Bonanza. She'd spent hour
s watching Western reruns on
TV
land in her youth. No wonder something seemed familiar
. “Not at all,” she said in an even voice
. Where the fuck had he put his briefcase?
“I just forgot the plate of cookies I set out.”

“I don't need any cookies.”

“I do.” She scrambled to her feet, and he rose, as well, and suddenly he didn't seem so short and sweet at all, and he was reaching in his coat for something.

She grabbed her scalding tea and threw it in his face, his screech of pain following her as she took off at a dead run. He was close behind her, and she tossed over chairs and tables as she ran, anything to slow him down.

She made it as far as the kitchen when he caught up with her. They went down on the slate floor, and Jilly kicked at him, desperate, furious, breaking free for a moment and scrambling away, only to have him grab her again as she tried to leap across the counter.

He grabbed her ankle, trying to haul her back, but he'd underestimated her. The knife block was there, and she picked up the whole damned thing, slamming it down on his head.

He slid to the floor, a silent, boneless puddle, and she leapt over him, still frantic. She didn't know whether he was unconscious or dead—blood was already pooling beneath him, and she wanted to throw up.

She needed to get the hell out of there, before he came to, before someone else showed up. She was still barefoot and she didn't care, racing to the huge garage and grabbing the biggest car she could find, her father's bright yellow Hummer.

The keys were on the rack by the door, along with the automatic opener, and it started up with a powerful roar. She didn't wait for the door to open completely—she drove so fast she clipped the roof of the car, and she could just imagine Ralph Lovitz's reaction.

She tore down the driveway at full speed, pushing buttons on the automatic gate opener. It didn't move. She forced herself to stop for a moment, reentering the numbers that had to be right.

It was jammed. Keeping her trapped inside, with either a yakuza killer or a dead body, and God knew who else. The gardener must have been part of the plan, as well—no wonder he seemed to be lurking near the house every time she looked.

She put the car in Reverse, backing up about twenty feet as she fastened the seat belt with shaking fingers. And then, putting it in Drive, she floored it, slamming toward the gates like a bright yellow battering ram.

It was like hitting a brick wall. The front of the Hummer made little more than a dent, and then the air bag went off, scaring the hell out of her. Second air bag in three days, she thought, coughing. She flailed around, yanking the keys out of the ignition and stabbing at the inflated bag, and it collapsed. She turned the car on again, put it in Reverse and floored it again. It didn't move, the tires spinning beneath her. The grille had gotten caught in the mangled gate, and she was trapped, well and good.

She scrambled out of the Hummer, looking back toward the house. There was no sign of life in the shadowed afternoon, and the smell of smoke was stronger still. The fires couldn't be coming that quickly, could they? She headed toward the high stone walls surrounding the property—she'd tried to climb over them when she was younger and had failed totally—the top was strung with electric wire. But right now she was between a rock and hard place, and she wasn't going to stay there and let someone—