a Touch of Ice Read Online Free Page B

up in the same neighborhood. I was dropping off some photos he’d commissioned and—” Mitch pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes “—I found him lying there. Body jammed between the sofa and the coffee table.”
    He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, then pinned me with a look. “I cover a lot of different assignments in my work, some gruesome, but finding him like that—not good. When you suddenly appeared in the middle of that wave, it caught my attention. Gave my head a break from the memories.”
    I reached for his hand, stopped just short of touching him. He didn’t know about my fingertips, and that made my touch a huge trespass into his life. Yeah, I’d done it earlier. But this was different. It had become personal.
    He slid his empty cup across the table from hand to hand. “I haven’t been home yet. Spent the night at the police station, accounting for my time and activities—”
    I reached for his hand again, paused. What right did I have to intrude on his privacy? A civic duty to find out if he was a killer? To find out if my storyboard collage had something to do with his friend’s death? Yep, that made it okay. That and the rare surge of lust that turned my body into a helpless quiver. I shut down the lust, stopped thinking, and let my fingertips come to rest against the back of his hand. A hand that had touched the dead body, and that still held the imprint of the crime scene.
    It was nothing at all like touching his wrist. New images flashed across the surface of my mind.
    The body had a name. Tony. And Mitch didn’t kill him.
    Not a murderer.
    Against all common sense, I let my hand stay where it was. To offer comfort maybe? “It’ll help to talk about it, Mitch, especially to Violet. She’s the best PI in the business and can probably help you find the killer. You do plan on investigating, right?”
    It was a guess on my part, but I was spot on. Could see it in Mitch’s eyes. Yeah, this was a shameless ploy on my part to gather more information. But it would help him to talk about it. And if by some miracle the info would stop my nightmares, well, all the better. His hand was warm against my palm and the heat rushed all the way to my toes. They trembled.
    An inarticulate sound escaped his lips. “Obviously it’s on my mind, since I’m telling near strangers about the worst friggin’ night I can remember.”
    I gave his hand a gentle squeeze and kept my mouth shut.
    He jerked away from my touch and forked both hands through his hair, leaving it in raggedy spikes. “The cops said he killed himself, an overdose of some sort. Speculation on their part, since the tox screen hasn’t come through yet.”
    I caught my lip between my teeth. Best not to interrupt.
    He balanced on the back legs of his chair again and his fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. Suddenly he let go and slapped his hands over mine, pressing them firmly against the table. The chair landed flat with a sharp crack. “The thing is, I know it was murder.”
    Heat poured into my abdomen when his hands covered mine. From his touch? Or was it his intense need to be believed about the reference to murder?
    The man had good hands. Strong. Warm. Smooth, mixed with rough. I flexed my toes to keep them from curling. Who knew skin could be so fascinating?
    He broke contact.
    Lonely. Damn. I never feel lonely.
    And that’s when the vision hit me for the second time.
    “Is she…”
    “Everly?”
    “Maybe food…”
    Fragments of their conversation buzzed in my head, but I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t respond. I forced my eyes open only to be blinded by a flash of sunlight pouring through the half-open slats of the blinds. I slapped my hands over my face, and, oh, no. Did that groan come from me? There was movement next me. Violet closing the blinds. And then I inhaled the warm scent of cinnamon and slowly uncovered my eyes. They were both staring at me, concern etched on their