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Fire & Ice A. M. HARTNETT A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London, SE1 9GF An eBook Original 2015 Copyright © A. M. Hartnett 2015 A.M. Hartnett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Ebook Edition © JUNE 2015 ISBN: 9780008148751 Version: 2015–05–13 Contents
The pounding was so brisk that it rattled the windows, and as Julia pushed the cold eye mask from her face she uttered her first curse of the day. ‘Oh, come on, it’s October. Enough with the home reno’s,’ she groaned, and looked longingly through the bathroom door to the bedroom where her noise-cancelling earphones were slung over the headboard. They were the best three hundred dollars she had ever spent and had saved her from more than a few homicidal rages as she tried to work through Mr Morgan’s noisy to-do list. After a moment of silence, Julia sighed and pulled the mask back down over her eyes and sank deeper into the tub. She gave herself over to the fizz of what was left of her bubbles and David Gray crooning ‘Babylon’ from the Bluetooth speaker on the toilet tank, determined to stay that way until her phone’s alarm beeped to let her know it was time to get a wiggle on her day. A second onslaught of pounding rose up. Through the flurry of expletives she let loose Julia realised that the sound wasn’t Mr Morgan but her front door. She tore the mask off and it landed with a splat on the tile floor. Someone, some lunatic, was hammering on her front door at ten to eight in the morning. The knocking continued in a rhythmic burst of insistent raps while she pulled herself out of the tub and dragged her robe on. As she passed by Kris’s door she slowed with a growl, overflowing with jealousy over her roommate’s ability to sleep even if Liam Neeson broke into the house and detonated a bomb in the kitchen. ‘I’m coming,’ she barked as she reached the bottom step, but it did nothing to abate the teeth-chattering blows upon her door. She twisted the knob, scowl ready to drive back her unwanted guest, but it was Julia who found herself taking a step back. The man on her doorstep looked like he had burst free from a video game featuring barbarian raiders wielding axes and been given a makeover. Shoulders went on and on, and a chest pressed against the front of his fleece pullover. His dark hair stuck out in errant curls and licks, and the scruff of beard looked like it hadn’t met a razor that could best it. It was the expression that cinched it. Lips pressed tightly together and thick brows almost meeting where the deep line formed between them. Julia had never seen a more perfect glower in her life…outside of mugshots. Before she could recover and greet him, the man reached into the satchel that hung at his side and withdrew a book, which he thrust between them. ‘I am here for the French,’ he said in a thick Russian accent. Julia looked down at the book. Emma et Olivier: French for Beginners. ‘Oh,’ she said, and found it a bit of a challenge to meet his intense gaze. ‘Right. You’re…really early. Aren’t we supposed to meet at nine o’clock?’ His scowl deepened, and his gaze moved slowly from the top of her blonde head to her bare feet. The temptation to follow nearly killed her. She hoped there were no coffee stains on her robe, or dried blobs of the mashed-banana face mask she’d used the other morning. It didn’t seem completely out of the realm of possibility that her visitor would make her drop and give him twenty push-ups for being slovenly. Nostrils flaring impatiently, he tucked his free hand into the outer pocket and pulled out his phone. Using only his thumb, he swiped the screen a few times and then held up the device for her to see. ‘You said eight,’ he insisted, the word coming out as et. Daring to drag her gaze from his face, she looked at the screen. There it was, the email she had sent him three days ago about their first tutoring session. The date and time was highlighted in blue. Sure enough, she had made a typo. He was on time, and she was an idiot. Radiating impatience, he tucked his phone back into his bag and looked expectantly past her. Julia did a quick check to make sure
