Into the Fire

by Anne Stuart

  Her mother had taken it, of course. Ripped it and thrown it in the trash where it belonged, Isobel had told her, and proceeded to buy her a complete new sweater outfit that made her feel like a Catholic schoolgirl.

  She shook out the dress and looked at it. Maybe it was a little tacky, in retrospect, but she’d loved it. The ruffle at the neckline was ripped, but even Isobel’s strong hands hadn’t been able to do much damage to virgin polyester. She held it up to her face, breathing in the past.

  It smelled like the perfume she used to wear. Just a trace of it, something light and virginal that she’d gotten for Christmas. And the faint trace of gasoline and cigarettes. Dillon.

  Why in hell did he have it? Why in the first place, and why after all these years? It was crazy—he hadn’t even been aware of her when she was fifteen and had worn this dress.

  If she were really honest with herself she’d admit the truth about who she’d wanted to impress with this dress. There was only one person she’d wanted to notice her, only one boy she wanted to realize she was a grown woman. At fifteen, she thought ruefully.

  And that boy was Nate’s oblivious best friend, the wicked Dillon Gaynor from the wrong side of the tracks.

  She’d never understood why her mother had let Nate continue his relationship with someone as problematic as Dillon, the baddest of the bad boys, and yet had ruthlessly cut off Jamie’s relationship with Carly, whose only crime was a lesser pedigree. But then, Jamie knew the answer. Nate could talk his aunt Isobel into anything, and Isobel had gritted her teeth and bore it for Nate’s sake.

  She didn’t even want to begin to think about how the torn dress had gotten into Dillon’s possession. All she knew was she wasn’t going to leave it with him.

  It was past time she began to stand up to the people she loved. Past time she stood up to Isobel, with her plaintive demands and her disapproval. Hell, maybe she’d even wear the damned dress when she got back.

  She wasn’t going to let Dillon touch her again. The moment she heard him come up to bed she was going downstairs, climbing into the damned yellow Cadillac and driving out of there, even if she had to go straight through the wooden garage doors. She wasn’t going to be a victim to the people she cared about….

  Well, not that she cared about Dillon. She despised him, always had, since the night when Paul Jameson had raped her in the back of Dillon’s car.

  But then, she’d never known what had happened afterward. Never known that Dillon had beaten him half to death. And now, staring down at the dress in her hand, the dress he’d kept for more than a decade, she realized she didn’t know anything at all.

  The Volvo took Dillon longer than he expected, but by late afternoon it was running better than it probably had in years. There’d been no sign of Jamie—she hadn’t emerged from her fortress to eat or even to pee, as far as he could tell. Though he’d been blasting Nirvana again and it would have covered any noise.

  She was still up there, he had no doubt of that. He could feel her there, underneath his skin. Like poison ivy, he thought savagely.

  Mouser was right. Mouser was always right, damn him. He was like Jiminy Cricket, his fucking conscience. Friends you could trust were a hell of a lot more important than even the most longed-for piece of ass—he’d learned that the hard way.

  He was going to let her go.

  He backed the old Volvo out of the garage, feeling a trace of satisfaction in the sweet purr of the engine. The snow had almost stopped, the streetlights that were still in working order had come on, and the late-afternoon air was fresh and crisp. She had credit cards and a couple of hundred dollars in cash in her purse—she’d have no trouble finding a hotel room once she got away from here. He’d been prepared to put more money in her wallet if need be, but she probably would have noticed and had a fit.

  He pulled the Volvo in front of the garage and cut the motor. He considered leaving it running. She was going to leave like a bat out of hell, and the gentlemanly thing would have been to warm it up for her.

  But fuck it, he was no gentleman, and he was already being a revoltingly decent guy. Mouser was going to owe him, big time.

  Except that Mouser would tease him, mercilessly. He always insisted that Dillon was a better person than he knew he was. And this would just give him more ammunition.

  Couldn’t be helped this time. He never drove the Cadillac without thinking of Jamie, and that wasn’t likely to change. But he’d lived with it for twelve years—he could live with it for another twelve. Besides, he had other things to feel guilty about. Like Nate’s bloody death.

  At least he’d managed to keep Jamie from seeing the room. There’d been no way to get all the blood out of the old wood, not without ripping out the floors and replastering the place. And he couldn’t be bothered. Once the police had removed Nate’s bloody corpse, once the yellow tape had been taken down, he’d dumped all of Nate’s possessions in there and locked it. He should have sent the stuff back to the Duchess, but he’d never gotten around to it, telling himself he owed the old bitch nothing.

  But he knew the real reason. He was hoping Jamie would come to find it. Find him.

  She had, and now he was wishing to hell he hadn’t done anything so fucking stupid. But he was making up for it, salvaging things before they exploded in his face.

  The room still smelled like death, even three months later. The brown stains covered the floor and the walls, visible in the twilight, and he could see it all over again. The lifeless, battered figure, the face smashed in, the clothes soaked with blood. He’d seen a lot in his life, but that was something he wouldn’t soon forget. He had sat downstairs at the kitchen table and listened to the distant sounds of his former best friend being beaten to death. And done nothing to stop it.

  He told himself he didn’t feel guilt or regret. If he had to do it over again, he would, without hesitation. He simply had to live with the consequences. And he’d never complained about the price he had to pay.

  He dumped the two cardboard boxes into the trunk of Jamie’s car. She was as neat as she’d always been—no extraneous books or packages rattling around back there. It was as empty as her life.

  And who was he to judge? His life consisted of his work, a couple of friends, and getting laid when he was in the mood for it.

  That and meetings.

  He would have killed for a drink right then. The moment she was out of there he’d find a meeting. Hell, there were at least three in the city on a Sunday night, and he hadn’t needed one so much since he’d gotten sober. He should have known Jamie would put five years of solid sobriety in jeopardy. No woman was worth that.

  He grabbed her purse and her shoes from the safe. It was already growing dark, but he didn’t turn on the lights.

  He didn’t bother muffling his footsteps as he climbed the stairs—this time he wanted her to know he was coming. Give her enough time to hide. If there was one thing he knew, it was that he absolutely never wanted to see Jamie Kincaid again. For some reason he couldn’t see her without touching her, and he couldn’t allow himself that kind of weakness. All he did was hurt her, anyway—the sooner she was out of here, the better. After all those years he was finally ready to put that part of his life behind him.

  The door was still tightly shut, but there was no sound of tears from behind the thin pine. No sound at all.

  Maybe she’d already left, but he didn’t believe it for a minute. He’d developed a sixth sense about her, and he knew she was just on the other side, holding her breath, probably closing her eyes and praying for him to move on.

  Which he would, in just a moment. He rapped on the door, loudly.

  “Go away!” Her voice was still husky with tears, and he found he could smile. Fighting to the end. What would it feel like to finally be done with her? Liberating? Or empty?

  He set the bundle down on the floor outside the door. “Your purse and shoes are here,” he said. “The Volvo’s parked out front, with Nate’s things in the trunk. Just
a little word to the wise—if you’re going to drive such an old car you might at least keep up the maintenance on it. Your plugs and points hadn’t been changed in years. You should have no trouble getting back to Rhode Island in one piece—it’s running better than it has in a long time.”

  No answer from the other side of the door, but he hadn’t expected it. “If you need any more cash you’ll find it in the safe in the garage. I left it open for you. And don’t worry about having to see me again. I’ll keep out of your way until you’re gone.”

  Nothing. He hadn’t really expected a word, and God help him if she opened the door.

  He walked the rest of the way down the hall, noisily, and closed his bedroom door behind him.

  Jamie sat cross-legged on the thin mattress. The sound of his footsteps in the hall, his voice outside her door, only made things more complicated. She heard the thump of her shoes and purse on the floor, the sound of his door slamming, and then everything was silent.

  She stared at the door in disbelief. It had to be a trick, but she’d heard him walk away, heard the sound of the slamming door.

  Just when she thought she’d begun to understand him he’d thrown her a curve. She opened the door cautiously, half expecting him to be lying in wait for her, but the hall was dark and empty. And at her feet were her shoes and purse.

  She scooped them up before he could change his mind and shut the door behind her, scarcely believing her luck. He was letting her go, and nothing on God’s green earth would make her ever see him again.

  Except that God’s earth was white with early December snow, not green at all, as she peered out her window. The Volvo was sitting in the alleyway, just lightly dusted with snow, and if she hurried she’d get away from there before it was completely dark, before the snow came down harder, before she changed her mind….

  How could she possibly change her mind? Dillon Gaynor was the most dangerous thing in the world as far as she was concerned. He ruined her defenses, he didn’t take no for an answer, he terrified her, stole from her, lied to her. Why wasn’t she shoving her feet into her shoes and running out of there as fast as she could?

  If only Mouser were around, she could talk to him. Not that she had the faintest idea what she’d say. Tell him to watch over Dillon, maybe. Take care of him.

  Not that she cared. Not that it mattered. Not that she was going anywhere that night—she knew it with a sinking feeling. Nowhere but down the hall to his bedroom, to the rumpled white sheets. She was tired of being afraid.

  It was easy enough to turn off her brain, to move on autopilot. What she was doing made no sense, therefore she didn’t have to think about it. She stripped off the clothes she’d put on after her hasty shower—the jeans and T-shirt, the plain white cotton underwear.

  Maybe she’d known ahead of time. The pink silk bra and panties were tucked in a corner of her suitcase. They were even more risqué than the lavender ensemble she wore earlier—these consisted of nothing more than a few strategic scraps of cloth and silk ribbon.

  The dress still fit, though it hugged her riper curves more tightly than it had her coltish fifteen-year-old body. There was no mirror in her room, but she didn’t want one. She knew what she looked like. Too pale, tangled hair, eyes too big in her face. All the strain and exhaustion of the last few days coming due. If she saw herself she’d probably chicken out. And this was her last chance.

  If she was going to sleep with anyone on this earth it would be Dillon Gaynor. He wanted her—there was no question of that any longer. He wouldn’t have held on to her dress, wouldn’t have kept her trapped there. Hell, he wouldn’t have kissed her, wouldn’t have pushed her down on the sofa and had sex with her if he didn’t want her. Unless it was some twisted score he had to settle against Nate. And against her.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, but finishing what he’d started. Walking down that hallway and opening the door.

  The bedroom was dark, lit only by the flicker of the television screen. He was stretched out on the bed, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, and he turned his head to look at her. At the dress she was wearing.

  He was very still. He moved his arm, and she realized he’d muted the noise of the television, so that there was only silence in the room. She licked her lips, nervous.

  “I thought you wanted to leave.”

  “I did.”

  “I thought you were afraid of me.”

  “I am,” she said. He made no move to come toward her, to get off the bed. He simply lay back against the pillows, his smooth skin against the whiteness of the sheets, and watched her.

  “So what are you doing here?” There was no sultry welcome in his voice. Just cool suspicion, enough to make her want to turn around and run. Instead she closed the door, leaning against it. Her hand behind her back, still on the old iron door handle if she had to run.

  “You said we should finish what we started.” Her voice came out a little shaky, and she cleared her throat. “I’m not sure if I consider that a proper finish. If it was that disastrous you ought to give me a chance to improve.” She couldn’t believe she’d just said that. She couldn’t believe she was here in the darkened bedroom with him.

  There was only a flicker of reaction on his shadowed face. “You weren’t the one who was a disaster. Besides, you’ve never paid attention to what I’ve said before. Why now?”

  She let go of the doorknob. He didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in keeping her there—escape would be easy. And probably a very good idea.

  “I thought you wanted me. Apparently you’ve changed your mind, seen the error of your ways. Maybe once was enough. Too bad Nate isn’t around to see it—he’d be proud of you.”

  “Nate would never be proud of a noble gesture.” The reflection of the TV screen flickered over his chest. He was just as beautiful as he’d been twelve years ago, just as far out of reach.

  “All right,” she said. “Maybe I’ve just come to say goodbye.”

  He hesitated for just a moment, and then he seemed to come to a decision. “Then you ought to do it properly. Come here, Jamie.”

  “No.”

  The tiny smile at the corner of his mouth was the first expression to break through his distant, enigmatic look. “You started this. You came this far. Come over here and get on the bed.”

  For a moment she didn’t move, paralyzed. And then she took a step toward him.

  13

  He probably expected her to run. She probably should run. Instead she took the first step toward the bed.

  The wood floor was cold beneath her bare feet. Dillon obviously didn’t believe in rugs, Jamie thought.

  He sat up in the bed, watching her approach, making no move to touch her. He could be making this so much easier—just put his hands on her and take the decision away from her as he had earlier. But he just looked at her.

  She took another step. There wasn’t that great a distance between the door and the bed, and it wasn’t going to take long for her to reach it. Maybe she could take smaller steps.

  “Where’d you get the dress?” he asked.

  She’d forgotten she was wearing it. “In your middle drawer. I was looking for my things.”

  “They were in the safe in the garage. Not that that isn’t yours, as well.”

  “I know.” Another step. Too damned close, and her heart was slamming against her chest. “Why did you have it?”

  “I could tell you Nate had it, and he left it behind. Maybe he carried it with him wherever he went, maybe he had a sick fascination for you.”

  She halted, horrified, and he laughed.

  “And you might be naive enough to believe me,” he continued. “But the truth is, I stole it from the trash can that your mother stuffed it into. In memory of the most luscious piece of jailbait I’d ever seen.”

  “You expect me to believe that? You didn’t even know I was around.”

  “I knew. And you look even better now, though I wouldn’t have thought
it was possible. Stop stalling, Jamie. You’re the one who chose to come in here. Time to find out what you’ve been missing. What we’ve both been missing.”

  She took another step and came up against the side of the bed. It was a high, big bed, and the top of the mattress came halfway up her thighs. Her eyes met his, the same eyes that gave nothing away as he watched her. And she climbed up onto the bed, pulling her skirt around her, and sat back on her knees.

  She could feel her stomach twist. He reached for the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it on the floor beside the bed.

  “Take off your panties.”

  She let out a little sound of protest, but he ignored it. “They’re coming off sooner or later, and I know from experience they’re a bitch and a half to rip off no matter how appealing it may sound. Take them off, Jamie.”

  She reached under her short skirt and caught the thin bands of lace, sliding them down her hips. Getting out of them was tricky while she was kneeling, and she had no choice but to sit back on the bed and pull the tiny scrap of peach silk over her ankles. She was about to toss them on the far side of the bed when he stopped her, filching the panties out of her hand.

  “They’re too small for you,” she said in a caustic voice.

  “That’s not what I wanted them for,” he said amiably. “Now the bra.”

  “This dress is see-through.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  She stopped protesting. Instead she turned her back to him, pulling the knit dress down far enough to take off the bra.

  “You’re wasting your time trying to be modest,” he said, but she’d already pulled her dress back up over her bare breasts, and she turned back to face him.

  “I suppose you want this as a souvenir, too,” she said, dangling the bra from one finger.

  He took it from her, tossing it to his side of the bed. The bed, she thought in sudden horror. She was on a bed with Dillon Gaynor, one thin, semitransparent layer away from being naked.