Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [94]
“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 hours 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