Black Ice. Anne Stuart

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      Anne Stuart has written over sixty novels in her twenty-five-plus years as a novelist. Anne’s books have made various bestseller lists and she has been quoted in People, USA Today and Vogue. She has also appeared on Entertainment Tonight and,according to her,done her best to cause trouble! When she’s not writing or travelling around the country speaking to various writers’ groups, she can be found at home in northern Vermont,with her husband, two children, a dog and three cats.

      Black Ice

      Anne Stuart

      

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      This was a gift book for me, one the universe delivered when I was riding in a taxi in Paris, and it comes with a sound track. listen to Japanese Rock and Roll, French rock (Marc lavoine, Florent Pagny) and maybe some Pretenders. Enjoy!

      Chapter 1

      People might go on and on about springtime in Paris, Chloe Underwood thought as she walked down the street huddled in her coat, but there was really nothing to compare to winter in the City of Lights. By early December the leaves were gone, the air was crisp and cool and enough of the tourists had left to make life bearable. In August she always wondered why on earth she’d chosen to pull up stakes and move three thousand miles away from her family. But then winter came, and she remembered all too well.

      It might have helped if she could have abandoned the city to the tourists every August, as all the French did, but she’d yet to find a job that included such luxuries as vacations, health care or a living wage. She was lucky she’d managed to find work at all. As it was, her presence in France was quasi-legal, and most days she decided just being there was blessing enough, even if she shared a tiny walk-up flat with a fellow expatriate who seemed to have very little sense of responsibility. Sylvia barely remembered to pay her half of the rent, she’d never swept a floor in her life and she considered any piece of furniture or flat surface a place to leave her astonishingly large wardrobe. On the other hand, she wore the same size eight that Chloe did, and she was not averse to sharing. She was also single-mindedly determined to marry a wealthy Frenchman, and in pursuit of that goal she spent most nights away from their cramped quarters, leaving Chloe with a little more breathing room.

      In fact, it was Sylvia who’d found Chloe her current job translating children’s books. Sylvia had worked at Les Frères Laurent for two years, and she’d slept with all three of the middle-aged frères, ensuring job tenure and a decent salary for translating spy novels and thrillers for the small publisher. Children’s books were less of a moneymaker, and Chloe was paid accordingly, but at least she didn’t have to ask her family for money or touch the trust fund her grandparents had left her. Not that her parents would encourage her. That money was earmarked for her education, and working a menial job in Paris hardly constituted advanced learning.

      If she weren’t hamstrung by job requirements she could have found something a bit more challenging. While her French was excellent, she was also fluent in Italian, Spanish and German, with a healthy smattering of Swedish and Russian, and even a few bits of Arabic and Japanese. She loved words, almost as much as she loved cooking, but she seemed to have a greater talent out of the kitchen. At least, that’s what she’d been told when she was dismissed from the famous Cordon Bleu halfway into the program. Too much imagination for a beginner, they’d said. Not enough respect for tradition.

      Chloe had never been particularly respectful of tradition, including her family tradition of medicine. She’d left all five of the Underwoods back in the mountains of North Carolina. Her parents were internists, her two older brothers were surgeons, and her older sister was an anesthesiologist. And they still couldn’t believe Chloe wasn’t dying to enter medical school, ignoring the fact that there was no one in this world more squeamish at the sight of blood than the youngest member of the Underwood family.

      No, Chloe wasn’t going to get to touch that nice little chunk of money until she gave in and went to medical school. And it was going to be a cold day in hell before she did.

      In the meantime, she could do amazing things with pasta and fresh vegetables, and all the walking she did kept the carbohydrates from gathering in force, though they seemed to have developed a fondness for her rear. At twenty-three she couldn’t still be built like a coltish teenager, and she was never going to look like a Frenchwoman. She just lacked the style even her roommate Sylvia, an Englishwoman, had in abundance. She could wear Sylvia’s clothes, but she never could master that faintly arrogant, slightly amused mien that she longed for. She might as well have a big butt, too.

      Les Frères Laurent was on the third floor of an older building near Montmartre. Chloe was the first one in, as always, and she put on a pot of the strong coffee that she loved, cradling a cup in her chilled hands as she looked out into the busy street below. The brothers kept the heat off at night, and as a junior employee she wasn’t allowed to touch the thermostat, so she’d learned to keep an extra sweater in the tiny cubicle she’d been allotted. She wasn’t in the mood for working—it was a gorgeous day, with the sky a bright azure above the old buildings that surrounded them, and for some reason the adventures of Flora the plucky little ferret didn’t call to her. Not enough sex and violence, she thought wistfully. Just moral lessons in a heavy-handed lecture, given by a skinny rodent in a pink tutu and the smug values of an American Republican. Just once she wished Flora would yank off her tutu and jump the rascally weasel who’d been giving her the eye. But Flora would never stoop so low.

      Chloe took a sip of her coffee. Strong as faith, sweet as love, black as sin. She wouldn’t be a real Parisian until she started smoking, but even to annoy her parents she couldn’t go that far. Besides, the farther away her parents were, the less annoying they became.

      It was another hour before anyone else would arrive at the office, and she told herself that no one would know or care if she wasted a few precious minutes before turning to the boring Flora. It was no wonder she was so irritated with the fictional character. What she needed was a little more sex and violence in her own life.

      Be careful what you wish for, a little voice murmured in her head, but Chloe shook it off, draining her coffee. Sex had been notable by its total absence for the past ten months, and her last affair was so lackluster that she hadn’t been energized enough to look for a replacement. It wasn’t that Claude had been a bad lover. He prided himself on his skills, and expected the gauche Américain to be suitably dazzled. She wasn’t.

      And she could probably do without violence, which was usually accompanied by blood, which tended to make her puke. Not that she’d encountered much real violence in her life. Her family had kept her sheltered, and she had a healthy respect for her own safety. She didn’t go wandering into dangerous parts of the city at night, she locked her doors and windows and looked both ways and prayed diligently before she crossed the homicidal Parisian traffic.

      No, she could look forward to another peaceful winter in the underheated apartment, eating pasta, translating Flora the Plucky Ferret and Bruce the Tangerine, though how a tangerine could have a life of its own had so far escaped her. Maybe that was why she was stalling on Flora, knowing her next task was citrus.

      She’d find another lover, sooner or later. Maybe Sylvia would finally hit the mother lode, move out, and Chloe would find some nice, gentle Frenchman with wire-rimmed glasses and a skinny body and a taste for experimental cooking.

      In the meantime, the doughty little ferret awaited her, as did the daunting task of coming up with the French equivalent of “doughty.”

      She heard Sylvia before she arrived—there was no mistaking the noisy clatter of her expensive shoes on the two flights of stairs, the muttered cursing from her perfectly rouged mouth. The only question was, why was Sylvia showing up at work three hours before she usually dragged herself in?

      The