Melting The Ice. Лорет Энн Уайт

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      “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.”

      Al looked weary. “Of course. Feel free to call me at the office. We can set something up.”

      “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

      Gunter stepped in, changing the topic, breaking the subtle tension that had settled around his friend. “Tell me, Mark, the toxicology conference, is there anything in particular, any specific speakers you are interested in?”

      Mark turned to Gunter. “I plan to attend most of the sessions, see what grabs me. Will you be there?”

      “Ja, but of course. It’s not every day one of these things comes to your doorstep. You are covering this for a newspaper?”

      “Magazine. Spectra.”

      Hannah knew of it. High profile. “Nice gig.”

      “Not bad. Now that you mention it, you had a pretty good one yourself.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I realized, after I met you yesterday, you’re Mac McGuire’s daughter.”

      Hannah tensed. She felt instantly cornered, always did when anything about her past sneaked into the present she’d so carefully carved out for herself and Danny.

      “Yes. Mac was my dad.” She forked a piece of lettuce from her Caesar salad but couldn’t find the impetus to bring it to her mouth.

      “You were following in his footsteps for a while there, McGuire. One of the best. They were even calling you Mac, Jr.”

      “You been checking up on me?”

      Mark laughed. “Mac’s a legend in media circles. So why’d you quit? What brought you here?” To this media backwater. The words hung unsaid.

      She forced a smile. “I needed a change. And I like the skiing.”

      Mark raised his brows, studying her. She had an uneasy feeling about him. Like he could see into her, like he knew something. She forced the lettuce into her mouth.

      Al was watching her, too. She’d never spoken to him about Mac. But she figured he knew she was the daughter of the famous Canadian international correspondent. She loved Al for the fact that he never pried, that he sensed her need to put the past away. That he just let her be while the scabs of her wound grew strong.

      She saw Gunter Schmidt studying her, too, as if the fact she was Mac’s daughter suddenly meant she had to be judged by new standards. But the plastic surgeon made no comment. He pushed his empty plate to one side. “Well, that was good.” Gunter dabbed the corners of his mouth neatly with his napkin. “But my patients, they are waiting.” He called for the check.

      Rex watched as the man with gray-flecked hair called for the bill.

      So, Hannah knew Ken Mitchell. No matter how he looked at it, he was not going to be able to avoid her. She was working her way into his investigation. He’d need to ask her about Mitchell. And the other man, the one tugging at his memory.

      He watched them stand, say their goodbyes. Hannah shook Mitchell’s hand. She looked unhappy. It tore at him.

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