Into the Fire

by Anne Stuart

  She reached out and grabbed the sleeping bag that covered the thin mattress, pulling it away to see if she’d left the watch in bed. And then she screamed.

  She ran full into Dillon as he came racing up the stairs, and she slammed against him, adding to her breathlessness.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Dead…” she gasped. “On the mattress…” She shuddered. “There’s blood.”

  He pushed past her, heading for her room. “Stay here,” he ordered her.

  She leaned against the wall, trying to control the shivers that ran through her body. She hated the hallway—she always felt as if someone was watching her, some pervert with graveyard breath and twisted thoughts. Silly, of course, when the only other person in the building was Dillon, and he was in her room, not watching her.

  “It’s a dead rat.” He appeared in her doorway, his voice matter-of-fact. “I told you I get them all the time.”

  “The other one didn’t have so much blood,” she said faintly. “And what was it doing in my bed?”

  “If it were a man I could think of any number of reasons, but since it’s only a very large dead rat, then I have no idea. It must have gotten into the rat poison I’ve had lying around, and it dragged itself up to your room to die.”

  “Lucky me. Why the blood? The other rat wasn’t bleeding. Until I stepped on it,” she added with a reminiscent shudder.

  Dillon shrugged, looking down at her. She was suddenly conscious of how very tall he was, how very strong. And they were alone in the hallway, and she’d just had sex with him. “Who knows? I could come up with all sorts of graphic suggestions, but I don’t think you really want to hear them. Besides, what does it matter? You aren’t going to be sleeping in there anymore.”

  “I’m not going to be sleeping here at all,” she said.

  His slow grin wasn’t exactly the reaction she’d expected. “Well, no, sleeping wasn’t what I had in mind, either. I’ll stay awake as long as you will.”

  “I mean I’m leaving here. Okay? Accounts settled. We’ve done what we needed to do. You got your revenge for spending a year in prison, I got to fulfill a teenage fantasy and now I can get on with my life. Case closed. I’m leaving.” She waited for him to explode in rage.

  Instead he tilted his head to one side, unperturbed. “Oh, really?” he said. “And what makes you think that? Personally I haven’t even begun to do what I’ve needed to do for the last twelve years.”

  For once he wasn’t standing between her and escape. Her purse and her suitcase were in the room behind him, but as long as she had her shoes and her car she was ahead of the game.

  “You can try and catch me,” she said, trying to hide the edge of nervousness in her voice, “but it won’t do any good. I’m faster—”

  “I’m not going to run after you, Jamie,” he said in a calm voice. “I told you, I’ll let you go. If you want to leave, go ahead. I put your car back in the garage, but you won’t have any trouble opening the doors. The keys are on the passenger seat.”

  She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “You’re letting me go?” she echoed, waiting for a burst of elation to replace the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Then would you hand me my purse and suitcase? I really don’t want to go back into that room.”

  “Certainly.” He disappeared into the bedroom, coming back with her possessions. “You want me to carry them down for you?”

  Now, why in hell did she want to cry? “I can manage,” she said, yanking them out of his hands. She spun around and started down the stairs, for once grateful for the darkness. She felt an odd stinging in her eyes, and the last thing in the world she wanted was for him to see them.

  He followed her, of course, keeping a safe distance. She couldn’t even remember if she’d brought a coat, but at least the heater in her car was a powerful one, built for Scandinavian winters. Once she got the car warmed up it would be fine.

  The kitchen was as cosy as usual, a deceptively welcoming space, and she set her suitcase down, steeling herself for a polite goodbye. But Dillon walked right past her to the back door onto the alleyway, a red-streaked sheet in his hands, and she knew he carried the dead rat.

  He tossed it out into the back alley, sheet and all, then stood there staring for a moment, down at the snow at his feet, at the alleyway that led out to the main street. And then he turned back, momentarily lost in thought, shutting the door behind him.

  “The car’s in the garage,” he said absently. “Don’t worry about closing the door after you drive out—I’ll take care of it.”

  It had all taken on a tinge of unreality. She couldn’t believe it could be that simple, that after all that had happened he’d simply let her take her car and drive away from here, without a word. It was exactly what she wanted, of course, but it felt almost surreal.

  She plastered her best social smile on her face, the one that her mother had drilled into her. “Well…” she said.

  “Well,” he said finally, turning his attention back to her. “You’ve got that Duchess look on your face. Sorry you had to pick that up. Next thing I know you’re going to want to shake hands with me and thank me for a lovely time.”

  Jamie dropped her hand surreptitiously behind her back. “Of course not,” she said in a frosty voice.

  “So what do you want to say?”

  “That’s easy enough. Goodbye.” She picked up her suitcase and purse before he could and walked into the garage.

  Her Volvo was there, all right, parked in a corner, snow melting off the roof. It also had at least two flat tires.

  She put her suitcase and purse down, just staring at it, as Dillon came up behind her. “What happened to the tires?”

  “Beats me,” he said, clearly untroubled by this latest development. “You must have run over something when you went off the road.”

  “And you didn’t notice when you were working on it?”

  “They hadn’t gone flat when I was working on it.”

  She turned to look up at him. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “I fixed your car.”

  “Anything to do with the flat tires. Did you let the air out of them?” It was a stupid thing to ask. Of course he hadn’t—he was more than happy to get rid of her at this point.

  “Yes.”

  “We could…yes?” she echoed in sudden shock, realizing what he’d said.

  “Yes. I let the air out of your tires. All four of them, as a matter of fact. Just in case you got it in your mind to run away.”

  “I thought you were going to let me go.”

  “I should.” He was trying to sound diffident, but even she could tell he was uncomfortable with the admission.

  “But you’re not.” It should have been anger, fear flooding her body. Not relief.

  “No, I’m not.”

  She set down her things on the cement floor, then turned to look at him. He frightened her—there was no question about that. But he was also nothing more than human, a bad boy who’d gotten his way for too long.

  “Then convince me to stay,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face and watching him calmly.

  Her face was pale, and she had circles under her beautiful gray eyes. And she was looking at him as if he were a cross between the devil incarnate and Prince Charming. He could have told her which one he was. He’d tried to convince her what a monster he was. For some reason he didn’t want to try anymore.

  The garage was warm—heat blasting from the corner fans. He still didn’t know why he’d ended up sabotaging her car at the last minute. If she wanted to go he should let her. Let her get on with her life. Let them both get on with life. But in the end he couldn’t do it. Maybe because it wasn’t the end.

  She was still looking at him, both hopeful and frightened. Those wide gray eyes of hers were absurd—no grown woman should look quite so vulnerable. She was a little too thin, but he could feed her up. She was a little too nervous, and he’d d
one everything he could to perpetuate that.

  And she was a little too irresistible. He should have been doing everything he could to scare her away, push her away, drive her away. Instead he’d done just the opposite.

  He walked past her, careful not to touch her, and headed toward the front wall of the garage. He knew exactly what he had in the CD changer, and he punched a couple of buttons. A second later music filled the room, like a blanket of sound that drowned out any possibility of conversation, and he turned back to her.

  She’d turned even paler in the harsh light of the garage. It was a cheap shot, and he knew it, and he should have been ashamed of himself. But he wasn’t.

  U2 filled the room, and suddenly he was back twelve years ago, on a one-way path to disaster, with a trembling virgin in his arms. And that trembling virgin was looking at him right now, remembering that song.

  He moved slowly, so as not to scare her, but she’d gotten brave in the last few hours. When he reached out for her she didn’t flinch away, and when he pulled her into his arms she went without hesitation, putting her arms around his neck, resting her head against his shoulder, as they moved to the music.

  He closed his eyes and danced with her, and he could see the old gym at the Marshfield School, tarted up with crepe paper and black lights. He should have taken her to that dance, should have had the balls to ask her. But then she’d been dating some purebred jock, a clone to Paul, and she never would have gone.

  But right now she settled her body against his like a lazy kitten, and she let him move her to the music, slowly, rocking, barely dancing in the dimly lit garage.

  He wanted her, craved her, more than coffee and cigarettes, more than the last drink he’d had five years ago, more than a free conscience. He needed her, and the more he fought it the stronger that need grew, until it threatened to destroy him.

  He could drive her away from him—it would be easy enough. The song was almost over, another CD would flip onto the changer, and then he’d tell her he loved her, and his life would be over.

  He had one chance to save himself. One chance to drive her away before it was too late for him.

  He stopped moving and put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her eyes were bright in the darkness, and she had a soft, blissed-out look on her face. And he could come just from looking down at her.

  But he had to get her out of there. Last-minute sanity reared its ugly head. So he said the one thing he knew would drive her away.

  “Get in the back of the car.”

  He waited for her outrage, for her to shove him away and run off. It would take him five minutes to put the air back in her tires, and then he’d take off, so he wouldn’t have to see her again, and he’d be safe.

  She looked up at him, her face pale, her mouth, her gorgeous mouth, tremulous. She stepped back from him, out of his arms.

  “Yes,” she said.

  15

  Dillon couldn’t believe his ears. But she turned and walked away from him, walked over to the old Cadillac, and she looked like she had when she was sixteen and he’d wanted her badly enough to risk going to jail. Wanted her badly enough to almost kill someone who hurt her. Wanted her badly enough right now that he was putting his entire way of life, peace of mind, in danger.

  He was unbuttoning his old flannel shirt by the time he reached the side of the car, but she put her hands on his, stopping him. And then she began to unbutton them herself, head down, concentrating on the task.

  She pushed it from his shoulders, her hands skimming his skin as the shirt slid to the floor. And then she leaned forward and put her mouth against his pounding heart, as her hands reached for his belt.

  She touched him. Through the thick denim of his jeans, she put her hand over him, her fingers slowly stroking, and he let out a strangled moan.

  “If we don’t get in the car now we might not make it,” he said in a rough voice.

  She looked up at him. Her pale hair had fallen in her face, and her cheeks were flushed.

  “We’re already here,” she said.

  “And I’m ready to drag you down on the cement.”

  She looked down at the cement floor beneath them. “Looks uncomfortable,” she said. She’d already unfastened the snap at the top of his jeans, and now she began to undo the zipper, her hands delicate, barely touching him, and the feel of her was more erotic than a practiced caress.

  “Get in the goddamned car,” he said in a choked voice.

  “In a minute,” she said. She pushed his jeans down his legs, and then sank to her knees in front of him, on the hard cement floor. And she put her mouth on him, just tasting him.

  He let out a groan of agonized pleasure, but she pulled away, looking up at him out of wide eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” he said. “God no.” And threading his fingers through her hair, he gently brought her head, her mouth, back to him.

  It was the most profoundly erotic experience of his life. She had absolutely no idea what she was doing, she simply experimented, touching, tasting, sucking. He didn’t have to guide her, didn’t have to say a word. He just leaned back against the old Caddy so his knees didn’t buckle and let her bring him to the point of explosion with her sweet, untutored mouth. And he knew she wasn’t ready for that. She was making soft whimpering sounds, and he realized that she was almost as turned-on as he was.

  He pushed her back, gently, though her hands still clung to his hips. He picked her up, easily, and swung her into the open convertible, into the back seat. She lay back in the corner, breathless, waiting for him, as he kicked off his jeans and climbed into the car with her.

  This time her underwear was the plain white cotton he knew she usually favored. And it was even more erotic than the stuff she’d been wearing before.

  He slid the panties down her legs, and she leaned back to help him. The back seat of the Cadillac was so huge it was almost a bed, and even though he was tall he knew it could be managed. He started to push her back down, but she shook her head. Instead she simply moved over and straddled him as he leaned back against the old leather seat.

  He reached under her damned skirt and touched her, and she was wet. Ready. Trembling.

  “Show me how to do this,” she whispered.

  The condoms were in his jeans outside the car. And nothing in this world could have made him stop. He took his cock and placed it against her, just touching her, feeling her quiver in reaction. “Just move slowly. You don’t want to hurt yourself, you don’t want to hurt me. See what feels good—” she was slowly filling herself with him, and he could barely speak ”—and then do it some more.”

  She took him at his word. Slowly, slowly she sank down on him, taking him inch by inch. She was so hot and damp there was nothing to stop her, but the agonizing slowness was unexpectedly powerful.

  He was only halfway inside her when she let out a sudden cry, and he felt her body contract around him. It shocked her so much that she almost started to pull away, but it was too late for that.

  Her dress was stupid, and he ripped it open, so that her breasts were free, and he covered them with his hands, his fingers touching her, caressing her, and he felt a second flutter of an orgasm tighten around his cock.

  She whimpered again, but by now he recognized that sound as pure need, and she finally took all of him inside her, coming to rest on him with her forehead pressed against his shoulder.

  She had exquisitely sensitive breasts, reacting to even his lightest touch. Her nipples were as hard as pebbles against his hands, and he wanted to put his mouth on them, needed to, when she moved her head and whispered in his ear.

  “I wanted you to come in my mouth.”

  He almost came right then. His cock seemed to expand inside her, and she looked at him, her eyes open wide. “But not yet,” she added. And she began to move.

  He let her. Let her do what she wanted, no matter how much he wanted to take over, no matter how desperate he was. She was learning what
she wanted, and he was willing to let her, even if he thought it might just possibly kill him.

  And finally she began to move, faster, and he put his arms around her, pulling her against him, as he thrust up to meet her plunging hips, and she was breathless, sobbing, crying out, and he was gasping, beyond words, until they both reached it at the same time. She let out a soft, keening howl, and her body clamped down around him, and his last bit of control vanished. He filled her with thrust after thrust, and she held on, until they both shattered.

  She was crying when she collapsed against him, a rag doll of a woman, but he didn’t make the mistake of thinking she was unhappy. He didn’t have much breath left himself, but he put his hand on the back of her neck and turned her face to his and kissed her, a soft, deep, hungry kiss. And he felt one more contraction ripple through her body.

  He left their clothes behind, scattered on the garage floor, kicking the door shut behind him. He carried her upstairs, up to his bed, and lay down with her, wrapping his body tight around her. And for the first time in his life, he slept with a woman.

  When Jamie awoke it was morning and she was alone. She hadn’t been alone all night—she knew that. She’d slept with his body wrapped around her, she’d wakened to him inside her. At one point they just lay there and kissed, endlessly. He knew how to kiss. He knew how to do everything.

  She was cold, sticky, aching all over. She needed a shower, she needed clean clothes, she needed food. But most of all she needed Dillon.

  There was no music pounding up from the garage. It was late morning—she couldn’t believe how long she’d slept. But then, she’d had a very busy twenty-four hours. She climbed out of his bed, taking the sheet with her and wrapping it around her body. She had no idea why she was feeling modest, after last night. Maybe it was because of last night. And earlier this morning.