Read A Taste of Ice for Free Online

advantage.
    Divide and conquer, he always said.
    The cabdriver whistled as he pulled his rattling source of income into the driveway of the sprawling, two-story fieldstone house Michael had rented for the next two weeks. The driveway made a wide circle around a dry fountain still topped with a decorated Christmas tree.
    “Never driven anyone up here before,” said the cabbie, his mouth hanging open as he peered through the windshield. “It yours or you renting?”
    “Wait for me,” grunted Michael.
    “Hey, I keep the meter running.”
    “Hey, I don’t care.”
    Michael approached the house, trying to keep his steps light and unhurried. People running in and out of houses tended to leave an impression on those who watched, and the cabbie was definitely watching.
    The front door opened. Sean had one hand braced on the doorjamb and a ghostly expression on his barely adult face.
    Michael waved Sean back inside and glanced over his shoulder to see if the cabbie was eyeing them, but the cabbie had turned his gape-mouthed attention to the east wing of the house. The fewer people who saw Sean the better. He was still technically “missing.”
    Sean backed into the foyer and Michael shut the door behind himself. The faint, stale smell of smoke lingered; Sean must have burned toast again.
    “Talk,” Michael said. “I had to
split
to get up here.”
    He didn’t have to explain the time limits to Sean. Sean knew. He knew very well.
    Sean ran a hand through his sandy hair and kept it there, clenching the straight stuff at the back of his skull. “Lea got you a new one.”
    Michael slid his hands to hips, parting the cashmere coat. “Yeah, that’s what you said. Weren’t we expecting another? She had her heart set on one in particular.”
    Sean was shaking his head before Michael had even finished. “No. A
new
one. Like, one that neither of us knew was coming. And it was delivered here.”
    Michael’s arms dropped. So did his voice. “Why here? The L.A. house is all set up for collection.”
    Sean shrugged. “Said you’d want to see it right away.”
    The high that came with another addition to his collection, another new discovery…there was nothing like it. “Where is it?”
    Sean paled even more. “In the garage.”
    “The…Jesus. Okay.” Mentally he paged through his commitments that week, trying to recall if he was supposed to entertain anyone here at the house. Grant would know; that was his sole purpose. But Michael couldn’t exactly text him right now, considering his other half was likely sitting next to his assistant in a darkened movie theater.
    Michael tugged off his gloves and stalked through the echoing marble foyer, passing the curving staircase on his left. In the great room at the back of the house, just off the kitchen, was access to the garage through a door next to the two-story fireplace.
    Two of Cat’s huge canvases, protectively wrapped, sat propped side by side against the anemically filled bookshelves. These paintings were in his private collection, and ones he’d insisted Helen put in her show. Nothing like a placard saying “Property of Michael Ebrecht” to spark buying interest.
    A third canvas—the smallest she’d ever painted, one of her first—rested on the fireplace mantel. That painting was how he’d first met her, walking past her flapping tent in the Key West art fair. He’d bought it within fifteen minutes, after talking her down twenty-five bucks and imagining her naked in twenty-five ways. Imagining her elevated to his level. Two years later,
Ocean #2
came with him wherever he went.
    A low rumble detonated behind the garage door. Beside him, Sean froze.
    Michael swiveled to the kid. “What the fuck was that?”
    Sean swallowed, backed up a step. “The new one. When it started doing that, I called you.”
    Michael bolted for the door, threw it open.
    A giant box consumed one half of the two-car garage. It was made of a thick translucent material, but for some