by Nora Roberts
grinned and toyed with his own fingers.
“You know they’re going to lock the door on you, Clarence,” Ry said. “By the time you get out this round, you’ll be so old, you won’t be able to light a match by yourself.”
Clarence grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t hurt nobody. I never hurt nobody.” He looked up then, his small, pale eyes friendly. “You know, some people like to burn other people. You know that, don’t you, Ry?”
“Yeah, Clarence, I know that.”
“Not me, Ry. I never burned nobody.” The eyes lit up happily. “Just you. But that was an accident. You got scars?”
“Yeah, I got scars.”
“Me too.” Clarence giggled, pleased that they shared something. “Wanna see?”
“Maybe later. I remember when we got burned, Clarence.”
“Sure. Sure you do. Like a dragon’s kiss, right?”
Like being in the bowels of hell, Ry thought. “The landlord paid you to light the dragon that time, remember?”
“I remember. Nobody lived there. It was just an old building. I like old, empty buildings. The fire just eats along, sniffs up the walls, hides in the ceiling. It talks to you. You’ve heard it talk, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it. Who paid you this time, Clarence?”
Playfully Clarence put the tips of his fingers together, making a bridge. “I never said anybody paid me. I never said I did anything. You could’ve brought the gas, Ry. You’re mad at me for burning you.” Suddenly his smile was crafty. “You had nightmares in the burn ward. I heard about them. Nightmares about the dragon. And now you don’t slay the dragon anymore.”
The throb behind his eyes had Ry reaching for another cigarette. Clarence was fascinated by the nightmares, had probed time and again during the interview for details. Even if he’d wanted to, Ry couldn’t have given many. It was all a blur of fire and smoke, blessedly misted with time.
“I had nightmares for a while. I got over it. I got over being mad at you, too, Clarence. We were both just doing our job, right?”
Ry caught the glint in Clarence’s eyes when the match was lit. Experimentally, Ry held the small flame between them. “It’s powerful, isn’t it?” he murmured. “Just a little flame. But you and me, we know what it can do—to wood, paper. Flesh. It’s powerful. And when you feed it, it gets stronger and stronger.”
He touched the match to the tip of his cigarette. Still watching Clarence, Ry licked his forefinger and snuffed out the flame. “Douse it with water, cut off its air, and poof.” He tossed the broken match into the overburdened ashtray. “We both like to control it, right?”
“Yeah.” Clarence licked his lips, hoping Ry would light another match.
“You get paid for starting them. I get paid for putting them out. Who paid you, Clarence?”
“They’re going to send me up, anyway.”
“Yeah. So what have you got to lose?”
“Nothing.” Sly again, Clarence looked up at Ry through thin, pale lashes. “I’m not saying I started any fire. But if we was to suppose maybe I did, I couldn’t say who asked me to.”
“Why not?”
“Because if we was to suppose I did, I never saw who asked me to.”
“Did you talk to him?”
Clarence began to play with his fingers again, his face so cheerful Ry had to grit his teeth to keep himself from reaching out and squeezing the pudgy neck. “Maybe I talked to somebody. Maybe I didn’t. But maybe if I did, the voice on the phone was all screwed up, like a machine.”
“Man or woman?”
“Like a machine,” Clarence repeated, gesturing toward Ry’s tape recorder. “Maybe it could have been either. Maybe they just sent me money to a post-office box before, and after.”
“How’d they find you?”
Clarence moved his right shoulder, then his left. “Maybe I didn’t ask. People find me when they want me.” His grin lit his face. “Somebody always wants me.”
“Why that warehouse?”
“I didn’t say nothing about a warehouse,” Clarence said, pokering up.
“Why that warehouse?” Ry repeated. “Maybe.”
Pleased that Ry was playing the game, Clarence scooted forward in his chair. “Maybe for the insurance. Maybe because somebody didn’t like who owned the place. Maybe for fun. There’s lots of reasons for fire.”
Ry pressed him. “And the store. The same person owned the store.”
“There were pretty things in the store. Pretty girl things.” Forgetting himself, Clarence smiled in reminiscence. “It smelled pretty, too. Even prettier after I poured the gas.”
“Who told you to pour the gas, Clarence?”
“I didn’t say I did.”
“You just did.”
Clarence pouted like a child. “Did not. I said maybe.”
The tape would prove different, but Ry kept his probing steady. “You liked the girl things in the store.”
Clarence’s eyes twinkled. “What store?”
Biting back an oath, Ry leaned back. “Maybe I should call my friend back and let him talk to you.”
“What friend?”
“From last night. You remember last night.”
All color drained from Clarence’s face. “He was a ghost. He wasn’t really there.”
“Sure he was there. You saw him. You felt him.”
“A ghost.” Clarence began to gnaw on his fingernails. “I didn’t like him.”
“Then you’d better talk to me, or I’m going to have to go get him.”
Panicked, Clarence darted his eyes around the room. “He’s not here.”
“Maybe he is,” Ry said, enjoying himself. “Maybe he isn’t. Who paid you, Clarence?”
“I don’t know.” His lips began to tremble. “Just a voice. That’s all. Take the money and burn. I like money, I like to burn. Started on the nice shiny desk in the store with the girl things, just like the voice said to. Coulda done better in the storeroom, but the voice said do the desk.” Uneasy, he looked around. “Is he in here?”
“What about the envelopes? Where are the envelopes the money came in?”
“Burned them.” Clarence grinned again. “I like to burn things.”
* * *
Natalie very nearly burned the chicken.
It wasn’t that she was incompetent in the kitchen. It was simply, she told herself, that she rarely found the opportunity to use the culinary skills she possessed—meager though they might be.
With a great deal of cursing and trepidation, she removed the browned chicken from the skillet and set it aside, as per Frank’s meticulous directions. By the time she had the sauce simmering, she was feeling smug. Cooking wasn’t really such a big deal, she decided, if you just concentrated and went step-by-step. Read the recipe as if it were a contract, she thought, carefully sliding the chicken into the sauce. Overlook no clause, study the small print. And … Humming to herself, she set the cover on the skillet, then looked around at the wreck of her kitchen.
And, she decided, blowing the hair out of her eyes, clean up after yourself—because no deal should ever look as though you’d sweat over it.
It took her longer to set the kitchen, and herself, to rights than it had to prepare the meal. After one quick glance at the time, she dashed to light the candles and create the mood.
With a long sigh, she dropped onto the arm of the sofa and scanned the room. Soft lights, quiet music, the scent of flowers and good food, the golden glow of sedate flames in the hearth. Pleased, Natalie smoothed a hand down her long silk skirt. Everything was perfect, she decided.
Now where was Ry?
He was pacing the hallway outside her door.
Making too big a deal out of it, Piasecki, he warned himself. You’re just two people enjoying each other. No strings, no promises. Now that Clarence was in custody, they would start to drift apart. Naturally. No sweat, no strain.
So why in the hell was he standing outside her door, nervous
as a teenager on a first date? Why was he holding a bunch of stupid daffodils in his hand?
He should never have brought her flowers in the first place, he decided. But if he’d had the urge, he should have gone for roses, at least, or orchids. Something with class. Just because the yellow blooms had caught his eye and the street vendor had been pushing them, that was no reason to dump a bunch of backyard flowers on a woman like Natalie.
He thought seriously about dropping them in front of her neighbor’s door. The idea made him feel even more foolish. Muttering under his breath, he pulled out his key and unlocked the door.
Coming home. It was a ridiculous sensation, walking into an apartment that wasn’t his. But it was there, as bold as a ten-foot sign, as subtle as a peck on the cheek.
She rose from her perch on the couch and smiled at him. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
He had the flowers behind his back, hardly realizing the move was defensive. She looked incredible, the thin-strapped, flowing dress—the color of ripe peaches—skimming down, candle and firelight flickering over her. When she moved, he swallowed. The dress sliced open from the ankle to the trio of gold buttons running down her left hip.
“Long day,” she asked, and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
“Yeah. I guess.” His tongue had tied itself into knots. “You?”
“Not too bad. The good news has everybody pumped up. I have some wine chilling.” She tilted her head, smiling at him. “Unless you’d rather have a beer.”
“Whatever,” he murmured as she strolled toward the table by the window, which she had set for two. “It looks nice in here. You look nice.”
“Well, I thought, since we were celebrating …” She poured two glasses. “I had planned on doing this after the grand opening on Saturday, but it seems appropriate now.” With the glasses on the table behind her, she held out a hand. “I have a lot to thank you for.”
“No, you don’t. I did what I was paid to do….” He trailed off, seeing that her gaze had shifted, softened. With some discomfort, he realized it was riveted on the flowers he’d used to gesture her thanks away.
“You brought me flowers.” The simple shock in her voice didn’t help his nerves.
“This guy on the corner was selling them, and I just—”
“Daffodils,” she said with a sigh. “I love daffodils.”
“Yeah?” Miserably awkward, he thrust them at her. “Well, here you go.”
Natalie buried her face in the bright trumpets and, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, wanted to weep. “They’re so pretty, so happy.” She lifted her head again, eyes glowing. “So perfect. Thank you.”
“It’s no big—” But the rest of his words were cut off when her mouth closed over his.
Instant desire. Like a switch flicked on inside him. One touch, he thought as his arms came hard around her, and he wanted her. Her body molded to his, her arms circled. He fought back a desperate need to drag her to the floor and release the helpless passion she stirred up inside him.
“You’re tense,” she murmured, stroking a hand over his shoulders. “Did something happen with Clarence during the interview that you didn’t tell me?”
“No.” Clarence Jacoby and his moon-pie face were the last things on Ry’s mind. “I’m just wired, I guess.” And in need of some basic control. “Something smells good,” he said as he eased back. “Besides you.”
“Frank’s fricassee.”
“Frank’s?” Taking another step back, Ry reached for his wine. “Guthrie’s cook made us dinner?”
“No, it’s his recipe.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I made us dinner.”
Ry snorted into his wine. “Yeah. Right. Where’d you get it? The Italian place?”
Torn between amusement and insult, Natalie took her wine, “I made it, Piasecki. I know how to turn on a stove.”
“You know how to pick up the phone and order.” More relaxed now, Ry took her hand and pulled her toward the kitchen. He walked directly to the skillet and lifted the lid. It certainly looked homemade. Frowning, he sniffed at the thick, bubbling sauce covering the golden pieces of chicken. “You cooked this? Yourself?”
Exasperated, Natalie tugged her hand away and sipped her wine. “I don’t see why that should be such a shock. It’s just a matter of following directions.”
“You cooked this,” he said again, shaking his head. “How come?”
“Well, because … I don’t know.” With a little snap of metal on metal, she covered the skillet again. “I felt like it.”
“I just can’t picture you puttering around the kitchen.”
“There wasn’t a lot of puttering.” Then she laughed. “And it wasn’t a very pretty sight. So, no matter what it tastes like, you’re required to praise, lavishly. I need to put the flowers in water.”
He waited while she got a vase and arranged the daffodils on the kitchen counter.
She looked softer tonight, he thought. All feminine and cozy. And she handled each individual bloom as though he’d brought her rubies. Unable to resist, he lifted his hand to stroke it gently down her hair. She looked up, with surprise, her uncertainty at the show of tenderness evident.
“Is something wrong?”
“No.” Cursing himself, he dropped his hand to his side. “I like to touch you.”
Her eyes cleared, danced. “I know.” She turned into his arms, inviting. “The chicken needs to simmer for a while.” She nipped lightly, teasingly, at his lip. “An hour, anyway. Why don’t we—”
“Sit down,” he finished, to keep from exploding. He was not, he absolutely was not, going to drag her down and take her on the kitchen floor.
“Okay.” Left uneasy by his withdrawal, she nodded and picked up her wine again. “We should enjoy the fire.”
In the living room, she curled up next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. Obviously, he had something on his mind. She could wait for him to share it with her. It was lovely just sitting here, she thought with a sigh, watching the fire together as dinner cooked and an old Cole Porter tune drifted through the speakers.
It was as if they sat like this every night. Comfortable with each other, knowing there was time, all the time in the world simply to be. After a long, busy day, what better end could there be than to sit beside someone you loved and—
Oh, God. Her thoughts had her jerking straight upright. Loved. She loved him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She swallowed hard, fought to keep her voice even. “Just something I … forgot. I can deal with it later.”
“No shoptalk, okay?”
“No.” She took a hasty sip of wine. “Fine.”
She couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep when he wasn’t beside her. She’d had an irresistible urge to cook him a meal. Her heart turned over every time he smiled at her. She’d even been rerouting a business trip with him in mind.
Oh, why hadn’t she seen it before? It had been staring her in the face every time she looked in the mirror.
What was she going to do?
Closing her eyes, she ordered her body to relax. Her emotions were her problem, she reminded herself. She was a grown woman who had gone into an affair with the rules plain on both sides. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—change the terms in midstream.
What was needed was some clear and careful thought. Some time, she added, concentrating on breathing evenly. Then a plan. She was an excellent planner, after all.
His fingertips brushed lightly over her shoulder. Her pulse scrambled.
“I’d better check on dinner.”
“It hasn’t been an hour.” He liked the way she was curled against him, and wanted to keep her there. Stupid to be worried about where they were heading, he decided, letting himself get drunk on the smell of her hair. Where they were now was exactly the right place to be.
“I was … going to make a salad,” she said uncertainly.
“Later.”
He slid his fingers unde
r her chin and turned her face toward his. Odd, he thought, it seemed as though his nerves had drained out of him and into her. Experimentally he dipped his head, letting his lips cruise over hers.
She trembled against him.
Intrigued, he drew her lower lip into his mouth, bathing it with his tongue while his eyes watched emotions come and go in hers.
She shuddered.
“Why are we always in a hurry?” he murmured, addressing the question as much to himself as to her.
“I don’t know.” She had to get away, clear her head, before she made some foolish mistake. “We need more wine.”
“I don’t think so.” Slowly he brushed the hair back from her face so that he could frame it with his hands. He held her there, his eyes on hers. “Do you know what I think, Natalie?”
“No.” She moistened her lips, struggling to find her balance.
“I think we’ve missed a step here.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He pressed his lips to her brow, drew back, and watched her eyes cloud. “Seduction,” he whispered.
Chapter 10
Seduction? She didn’t need to be seduced. She wanted him, always wanted him. Before she realized she loved him, she had equated her response to him as a kind of volatile chemical reaction. But now, couldn’t he see …
Her thoughts trailed off into smoke as his lips roamed lazily down her temple.
“Ry.” She put her hand to his chest, told herself she would keep her voice light, joking … disentangle herself long enough to clear her mind and regain her balance. But his fingers were stroking along her collarbone, and his mouth was nipping closer, closer to hers. She only said, “Ry,” again.
“We’re good at moving straight ahead, you and me, aren’t we, Natalie?” But now there was something smooth and easy gliding through him. Fascinated by his own reaction, he traced his tongue over her lips. “Fast, with no detours, that’s us. I think it’s time we took a little side trip.”
“I think …” But she couldn’t think. Not after his mouth fit itself to hers. He’d never kissed her like this before, never like this, so slow, so deep, with a lazy kind of possession that shot simmering heat straight to the marrow of her bones.
Her body went lax, as fluid as the wax pooling the wicks of the candles around them. Beneath her palm, his heart beat hard, and not quite steady, and the low, helpless sound that vibrated in her throat quickened it. Yet he continued that slow, deep exploration of her mouth, as if he would be content with that, only that, for hours.
Her head fell back. He cupped it, shifting her slightly to change the angle of the kiss, toying with her lips, her tongue. Her breath caught and released, caught and released, shuddering once when his fingers brushed up over her breast.
Now, she knew, now would come the speed and the power she understood. There would be control again, in the sheer lack of control as they rushed to take each other. But his fingers simply skimmed up her throat and lay with devastating tenderness on her cheek.
In defense, she reached for him, pulling him tight against her.
“Not this time.” He drew back just enough to study her face. Confusion, need and arousal made a beautiful combination. However much his own blood was pounding, he intended to confuse her more, intended to see to each and every need, and arouse her until her body was limp.
“I want you.” She tore hurriedly at the buttons of his shirt. “Now, Ry. I want you now.”