Into the Fire

by Anne Stuart

  “What are you staring at?” he said, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the table.

  Mouser slapped his hand. “I thought you were trying to quit.”

  “I am. But not at this particularly stressful time in my life. I’ll wait till I don’t have guests,” he said, lighting one. “You didn’t answer my question. Why does the Duchess want you here?”

  “She wants me to find out what happened to Nate.”

  “He died.”

  The knowledge still hurt, but she wasn’t about to show it. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  He took a deep drag of the cigarette, his eyes narrowed over the exhaled smoke. “I could tell you a lot of things you don’t know, child. There are none so blind as those who will not see.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  “It means that even if I told you, showed you, you wouldn’t believe it. You’ve set up your own belief system long ago, and nothing could ever shake it. Not that it should. You can go back to Rhode Island and live in your safe little cocoon. Didn’t you ever want to leave there?” he added with a swift change of topic.

  “Not particularly.” It was a lie, but he wouldn’t know that. She felt stifled in the small college town where she’d spent her entire life. Anything, even a run-down garage in the middle of nowhere, would have been preferable.

  “So what’s needed to get you the hell out of here?” he said, reaching for the last cinnamon bun. It wasn’t until that moment that Jamie realized she’d eaten the other three, out of sheer nervousness.

  “My purse with all my credit cards and identification, for one thing.”

  “I haven’t seen it,” Dillon said flatly. “What about you, Mouser? Did you run off with the lady’s purse?”

  “Not me, Killer,” Mouser protested, absolutely innocent.

  Jamie was about to finish her coffee, but she set it back down with a steady hand. “Why do they still call you that?” she asked.

  He shrugged, stubbing out the half-finished cigarette. “Maybe I deserve it. Or maybe my fame follows me wherever I go. So no one knows where you left your purse. What do we do next?”

  “I need to have my car working, and I need enough money to pay for gas to get me back to the East Coast.”

  “Little enough to ask, and I’d be more than happy to pay you off to get you out of here. But your car’s been towed to a place across town, and Mick isn’t sure when he can get to it. And it’s against the law to drive without your license on you.”

  “I’ll risk it,” she said dryly. “Besides, when did you ever care about what’s legal and what’s not?”

  He shrugged again. “Just thinking of your lilywhite reputation, Ms. Kincaid. Accept it—the car’s out of reach for the time being. You can stay until it’s fixed, or you can come up with another solution.”

  “Like what? I need money. I need my credit cards. I need my cell phone and my driver’s license. I can’t rent a car or buy an airplane ticket without a credit card and proper identification.”

  “Then I guess you’re shit out of luck,” he said mildly. “And I’m doomed to have an unwanted guest for the next few days. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. Mick’s an old friend, and if he knows we’ll end up killing each other if you don’t get out of here he’ll put a rush on it. In the meantime, you’re going to have to sit back and put up with me. But then, you’re good at enduring, aren’t you? You’ve had to put up with the Duchess all your life.”

  “Stop calling her that! I love my mother.”

  “Of course you do. Even though she doted on Nate and barely noticed you were alive. You’re a glutton for punishment, Jamie.”

  “Not anymore,” she snapped, pushing away from the table. “I don’t suppose you have a car I could drive?”

  “None of my beauties. They’re worth too much to risk in the hands of an unlicensed driver,” he said in a lazy voice.

  “You know I really hate you, don’t you?”

  “I believe you’ve mentioned it before. As long as your mother’s whispering in your ear I wouldn’t expect you to change your mind.”

  She was already at the door. “Would you want me to change my mind?”

  She’d managed to startle him. He paused, clearly giving it some reflection. “It might prove interesting.”

  She slammed the door behind her.

  The sound of it was satisfying. The bite of the winter air wasn’t. She’d gone storming out with nothing but a sweatshirt and a pair of sneakers, and the snow was at least three inches deep on the ground.

  She turned back to look at the door. There was no way she could walk back in there, not after her grand exit. She was going to have to stand out there in the cold for at least a half an hour, and in that time she’d probably develop pneumonia, which would solve everything. She’d go into the hospital, or Dillon would creep into her room at night and open the windows over her fevered, prostrate body to hurry her along. And she wasn’t quite sure which of those options was preferable.

  She was shivering, her body racked with cold, when the door behind her opened. She should have stomped off, but Dillon’s garage was in a particularly unsavory part of an unsavory town, and even in broad daylight she didn’t feel too safe exploring.

  She didn’t turn, keeping her back rigid, trying to control the shivers. He could apologize until he was blue in the face. Though actually she was the one who was turning blue.

  “He’s gone into the garage to work,” Mouser said. “Come in before you freeze your…freeze to death.”

  She turned to look at the little man. “Dillon is an asshole,” she said flatly.

  Mouser’s wizened face creased in a smile. “Can’t argue with you on that one. He’s always been a difficult son of a bitch. Doesn’t mean you need to catch your death of cold. Because if you get sick while you’re here I don’t think he’s going to be bringing you chicken soup and aspirin. He’s not exactly the nurturing type, is he?”

  “Not exactly,” Jamie said, following him into the kitchen and closing the door behind her. It was warm, blessedly warm, and she rubbed her hands together to try to bring some life back.

  “You’re as stubborn as he is, aren’t you?” Mouser said. “That’s going to be trouble.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m going to get out of here and never see him again. I don’t know what his problem is—you can’t tell me he couldn’t come up with a car I could use and a hundred bucks to cover gas.”

  “I wouldn’t tell you that Dillon couldn’t do anything. He’s very resourceful. Must be he doesn’t want to help you.”

  “I can believe that. But I’d think getting rid of me would be more important than his dislike of me.”

  Mouser’s smile exposed a set of startlingly perfect teeth. Undoubtedly dentures. “You think he dislikes you?”

  “Of course. He dislikes me just as much as I dislike him,” Jamie said flatly.

  “Well, if you put it that way, that’s a possibility,” Mouser said in a dry voice. “But bottom line, Jamie, is that I’ve known him well for the last five years, and I know what he thinks about things. And in your case, dislike doesn’t have much to do with it.”

  “Okay, hatred,” Jamie supplied.

  Mouser shook his head. “Not exactly. You’ll have a chance to figure it out in the next few days, both of you. It’ll be a good thing. Too much unfinished business between the two of you.”

  “What makes you think that?” Jamie demanded. “I can’t believe he’s ever even mentioned me. Even thought of me in the last five years.”

  “You forget, Nate was here. You were mentioned. Why don’t you ask Killer about it. He just might tell you.” Mouser was shrugging into his heavy jacket, preparing to head out into the icy Wisconsin weather.

  “You think I won’t?” Jamie said. “I’m here for answers.”

  “Good for you. And if you pay attention, maybe he’ll give them to you. If you really want them.”

  And he closed the door
gently behind him, leaving Jamie alone in the kitchen. Wondering if she really did want all the answers, after all.

  He could smell the cinnamon and hazelnut floating up toward him. Funny, he’d forgotten what it was like to eat, to feel warm, to touch, but his sense of smell was still powerful. He could recognize the smell of Killer’s shampoo, he could tell when Jamie was moving far beneath him. Trapped as he was, he could feel everything, smell everything, know everything. Except how to escape.

  Unfinished business, isn’t that the sort of thing that kept ghosts tied to a place? Nate had unfinished business, and as soon as he figured out what it was, he’d be able to leave.

  It might be as simple as killing Dillon. Or getting someone to do it. Or maybe he had to be finished with Jamie, as well. A murder-suicide pact would be perfect, but highly unlikely. Unless Jamie could be persuaded to shoot Dillon.

  It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Anything could happen, and there was a lot of history between them. They were just as haunted by the past as they were by his shadowy presence.

  It still waited to be seen which of the two would prove the stronger. And the more destructive.

  6

  Jamie considered herself riddled with flaws, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. Yes, she wanted to get the hell out of there rather than confront the past and the possibly unpalatable truth about Nate, but fate, or her mother, had decreed otherwise. She was stuck here for at least a couple of days, and she wasn’t going to spend that time avoiding Dillon. Besides, the bigger a pain in the butt she was, the more motivated he’d be to help her leave.

  She shoved her hair back from her face and straightened to her full height. She was too short, almost a foot shorter than Dillon, and she always thought that he would have been easier to deal with if he didn’t tower over her. He thought he could bury his head inside a car engine and ignore her, but she was about to disabuse him of that notion. She was going to be a total pest until she got out of there.

  She opened the door to the cavernous garage and was immediately assaulted by noise, a vast rumbling that had been almost completely muffled. She closed the door behind her and began to sort through the cacophony. The rush of white noise was actually some kind of space heater, spewing hot air into the vast expanse of the room. The music was loud, too, Nirvana, Jamie suspected, though she’d never been that fond of the group. But Dillon had always favored the raw-pain sound of Kurt Cobain.

  Beneath it all was the rumble and roar of a car engine, punctuated with the steady sound of a hammer on metal. And then a stream of curses as Dillon emerged from beneath the hood of the Duesenberg.

  She’d half hoped to watch him for a bit without him realizing she was there, but he honed right in on her, his eyes narrowing. It was too loud to do anything other than shout, and Dillon wasn’t about to bother raising his voice. He simply disappeared back beneath the hood of the old car, leaving Jamie with two choices. She could go back into the kitchen and wait. Or she could go over there and make him talk to her.

  The kitchen option sounded immensely appealing, but Jamie was made of sterner stuff than that. She wasn’t about to turn off the heat—her sojourn in the alleyway still hadn’t worn off completely—but she could put a stop to the cacophony blaring from the huge stereo system.

  She walked over to it and punched the power button, and the noise level decreased substantially.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dillon demanded, emerging from the Duesenberg engine once more.

  “Turning off the noise. I want to talk with you.”

  He dropped the hammer on the cement floor and headed toward the stereo. And her. “I’m working,” he growled. “And when I work, I listen to music.”

  “If you call that music,” she scoffed.

  “You can’t fix cars to Mozart, princess, no matter what your mother might think. Not that the Duchess would think about anything as mundane as fixing cars, but you know what I mean. I promised to get this Dusey ready sometime before Thanksgiving, and obviously I’m running behind schedule. So if you’d take your cute little butt out of here and let me listen to my music then I won’t have to shoot you.”

  “Do you even have a gun?”

  “I’m a convicted felon. Not allowed to own firearms.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And I’m not going to.” He had moved up close to her, because she was fool enough to be blocking the stereo. He reached past her, pushed the power button, and suddenly the music was blaring in her ears.

  She punched the power button off again, glaring at him. Until she saw the thoughtful expression on his face, and realized she might have misplayed her hand.

  “Are you going to get into a wrestling match over Nirvana, Jamie?” he drawled, turning it on again. “I’m game if you are, but I can think of only one way it would end, and the floor of this garage is a rotten place to have sex.”

  She didn’t blush, didn’t flinch, though it took a great deal of effort. “In your dreams,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  The one-syllable word was even more unsettling, and she wisely decided it was time to change the subject. “Look, you’ve got at least half a dozen cars over there. Surely one of them is in good-enough working order that I could drive it back to Rhode Island. I’d have it shipped back to you, I promise. I just really need to get the hell out of here.”

  “Most of those cars belong to other people. That’s what I do for a living—restore cars for rich people who don’t have the soul or the knowledge to appreciate them.”

  “You can’t convince me you haven’t kept some for yourself.”

  He smiled then, a predatory grin that gave her pause. “As a matter of fact, three of those cars are mine, and two of them run. You want to check them out?”

  She didn’t trust him, didn’t trust that faintly smug expression. But it didn’t matter—she wanted to get out of there badly enough to risk it.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m not picky.”

  How could a smile be infuriating, unsettling, and sexy as hell? But then, that could describe everything about Dillon Gaynor, and always had.

  He strolled over to the row of cars along the far end of the garage, pulling the bright yellow tarp off the first one. At that point Jamie would have been willing to drive a stagecoach back to Rhode Island, but the sight of the old Model A Ford stopped her.

  “It runs,” Dillon said. “About twenty-five miles an hour, and the tires have to be replaced every hundred miles, or sooner if you have a blowout, and the hand crank is a bit tricky to start, but you’re welcome to it.”

  “I think I’ll pass. What’s next? The Hindenburg?”

  He yanked the tarp off the next one, and Jamie held her breath. It was gorgeous—an aqua-blue Thunderbird from the mid-fifties. “I’ll take it!” she breathed.

  “I didn’t know cars got you that excited, kiddo,” he said. “I would have tried it earlier. And no, you won’t take it. The T-bird is waiting for a new engine. It’s not going anywhere until then.”

  “You said you had two working cars. Why bother showing me ones that don’t work?”

  “Because you aren’t the type to take my word for anything.”

  She didn’t bother arguing. “Where’s the other car?”

  “Over there,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of a covered vehicle in the far corner.

  “Does it run?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  He wasn’t moving, he was just watching her, but she wasn’t about to let him spook her. If the old junker hiding under the blue tarp was her ticket out of there, then she’d embrace it willingly. Anything to escape.

  He was still halfway across the huge expanse of the garage, watching her, when she reached the car. She didn’t hesitate, yanking the plastic away from the machine. The first flash of yellow and chrome should have warned her, but it was already too late.

  It was the car Di
llon had owned twelve years ago, the same car she’d driven to that party in, the same car, the same front seat where he’d kissed her, touched her. The same back seat where…

  Her back was to him, a small blessing. She knew the color had bleached from her face, and she stood still, trying to figure out how she was going to handle this. How she was going to be able to turn around and smile calmly and tell Dillon that this car wouldn’t do, either. Because nothing in the world could make her get back on the cracked leather seats of the old Cadillac.

  Except the seats weren’t cracked anymore. Dillon must have restored them at one point. It was a small comfort to know those weren’t the actual seats where she’d been trapped…

  She couldn’t think about it. She took a deep breath, trying to control her reaction, so that she could calmly turn and tell him that she needed a different car. She could do this.

  Nirvana was still blaring, but she knew he was watching her. Watching for a reaction. And she knew there was no way she could fool him. So she didn’t even need to try.

  She let the tarp drop back over the old Cadillac. And then she walked over to the door leading to the kitchen, keeping her back to him so he couldn’t see her face. His imagination would fill in the gaps.

  She didn’t bother to slam the door—he wouldn’t hear it over the sound of Nirvana. She simply closed it behind her and burst into tears.

  Dillon was half tempted to go after her. It wasn’t his fault she’d gone snooping under the tarp—if she weren’t so goddamned determined to escape and get back to that old bitch she wouldn’t have gone poking her nose into places it didn’t belong.

  Of course, that was exactly what she’d do, as long as she stayed here. Maybe it was a good idea she’d found the Caddy, after all. She’d know that snooping could bring unwanted results.