Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [92]
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