by Nora Roberts
“How long have I known you?”
“Damn. Got me there. It’s off the scale.”
On a blink, Gina sat back. “You’ve never said that before.”
“Said what?”
“You always say, it’s great, or it’s intense. Sometimes, it’s fun or it’s mediocre. If I were to use a scale, I’d say you’ve peaked at around eight.”
Reena’s forehead furrowed. “I’ve had tens. And you’re entirely too obsessed with my sex life.”
“What are friends for? How is this the best sex of your young, adventurous life?”
“I didn’t say . . . Okay, it is. I don’t know. It’s great and intense and fun, and it is romantic. Even when it’s wild. And after last night, it’s over.”
“Why? What? I just got here.”
Reena poured more fizzy water, then just sat and watched the bubbles. “Dragging a guy to a scene—one in which you’re personally as well as professionally involved—having him see you running around in turnout gear, snapping out orders, some of them at him, with him knowing you’ve got some wack job focused on you? It takes the bloom off, Gina.”
“Then he’s got a really tiny dick.”
With a laugh, Reena shook her head. “He doesn’t. Figuratively or literally. We just started to dance, Gina. The tune changes this abruptly—it gets complicated.”
With a huff, Gina sat back. “Well, if that’s his attitude, I don’t like him after all.”
“You would like him. He’s likeable. I’m not going to blame him for stepping back.”
“Which means he hasn’t stepped back yet.”
“I got a sense of the back step last night. It’s just not official.”
“You know your problem, Reena? You’re a pessimist. When it comes to men, you’re a big pessimist. That’s why—” She broke off, frowned, sipped water.
“Don’t stop now.”
“Okay, I won’t because I love you. It’s why your relationships don’t last, why they don’t move into any real depth. It’s been that way since college. Since poor Josh. And it got worse after Luke. He was an asshole of major proportions,” Gina added as Reena sputtered. “No question. But what happened there messed with your head, if you ask me, and it’s blocked you from making real connections.”
“That’s not true.” But she heard her own voice, and the lack of conviction in it.
Gina reached over, took Reena’s hand. “Hon, I’m hearing you talk about this guy the way I haven’t heard you talk about a guy since we were kids. I’m seeing serious connection potential, and you’re ready to blow it off. Hell, you’re braced to. Why don’t you wait and see how it stands up before you put an X through his name?”
“Because it matters,” Reena said softly, and Gina’s hand squeezed hers. “Because he looks at me and it matters. I’ve never felt that before. Not once, not with anyone. It was all right that I didn’t, or couldn’t. Maybe wouldn’t. It was okay. I’ve got plenty in my life. My family, my work. If I wanted a man, there were plenty out there. But he matters, and it’s so quick, it’s so much, I don’t want to be flattened when he walks away.”
“You’re in love with him?”
“I’m teetering. I’m scared.”
Gina’s smile bloomed as she pushed herself to her feet, walked around to wrap her arms around Reena’s neck. Kissed the top of her head. “Congratulations.”
“I think I blew it last night, Gina.”
“Stop. Wait. See. Remember what a wreck I was when things started getting serious with Steve.”
Reena smiled. “It was cute.”
“It was terrifying.” She straightened, absently massaging Reena’s shoulders. “I was going to go live in Rome for a year, have a mad affair with some struggling artist. How the hell was I going to do that when some damn firefighter had me all twisted up? And he still twists me up, still scares me. Sometimes I look at him and think what would I do if anything happened to him, if I lost him? What if he fell in love with somebody else? Give this one a chance.” She eased around, laid a hand on Reena’s cheek. “I haven’t even met him, and I’m telling you to give this one a chance. Now, I’m going to go pick up my kids and get back to the circus that is my life. Call me tomorrow.”
“I will. Gina? You cheered me up.”
“Then my work is done.”
She slept for three hours, and woke with her heart pounding and the dregs of a nightmare clogging her brain. Fire and smoke, terror and dark—a jumble of elements that wouldn’t coalesce. That was probably best, she thought, curling up to wait for her pulse to level.
She had bad dreams now and then, especially if she was stressed or overtired. Cops were prone to them. Nobody saw what they saw, touched what they touched, smelled what they smelled.
But it would fade, as always. She could live with the images because the job meant she did something about them.
She sat up, switched on the light. She’d eat something, get a little work done. That would ward off the three A.M. spell of wakefulness and worry.
She was still muzzy-headed when she went downstairs. Gina was right, she decided as she trailed her fingers over a wall. She should get serious about paint, go pick up some chips, start making the house more hers.
Commitment phobia? she wondered. She’d dragged her feet about buying a house, even though it had been something she’d wanted for years. Now she was dragging them over putting herself into the house, making it reflect her taste and style.
Well, the first step was recognizing she had a little problem. So she’d buy some damn paint and make a stand.
She’d get through this case, close it down. Then she’d take a week off and do something for herself. Paint and paper, some trips to the antique stores, the thrift shops. She’d plant some flowers.
Without much interest, she poked around the kitchen. She didn’t actually feel like eating. She felt like brooding. It wasn’t her fault she was a cop and sometimes her work was unattractive and urgent. It certainly wasn’t her fault he couldn’t handle that.
Commitment phobic, my ass, she decided. She’d been on the verge of making one to him—her first—and he jumps off the ship at the first rocky wave.
Screw it.
He was the one who came on to her. Dreamy green eyes, sexy mouth. Son of a bitch. She got out garlic, Roma tomatoes, began to chop as she mentally ripped Bo to pieces. Dream Girl? Bullshit. She wasn’t anybody’s dream, and had no intention of filling the slot. She was who she was, and he could take it or leave it.
She heated olive oil in a skillet, got out red wine.
She didn’t need him. Plenty of men out there if and when she wanted one. She wasn’t looking for some charming, sexy, funny carpenter to fill any gaps in her life.
She didn’t have gaps.
She sizzled garlic, then jolted at the knock on her back door. Wound up, she told herself, but she picked up the gun she’d set on the counter.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Bo.”
Breathing out, she put the gun in her junk drawer. Rolled her shoulders, then unlocked the back door.
Her chest was tight, and there was nothing she could do about it. Tight chest, dry throat, and there was a heaviness in her belly. All this was a new and unwelcome kind of dread when it came to a man.
But she opened the door, gave him a small, casual smile. “Need a cup of sugar?”
“Not so much. You get my message?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I didn’t get home until after four, then I had company. I caught a nap. Just got up.”
“Figured. Your bedroom curtains were drawn when I got home, so I guessed you were getting some sleep. Thought I’d chance it when I saw the light back here. Something smells good—besides you.”
“Oh, shit.” She dashed back to the stove, saved the garlic. “I’m just fixing some pasta.” She added the diced tomatoes, a dollop of the wine. Maybe she wasn’t hungry, particularly, but she was glad to have something to do with her hands. She added some basil, g
round in some pepper, let it all simmer.
“I guess you being good at that comes naturally. You still look tired.”
“Thanks.” She heard her own voice, sour as lemons. “I love hearing that.”
“I was worried about you.”
“Sorry, comes with the territory.”
“I guess it does.”
“I’m going to have a glass of wine.”
“Thanks.” His eyes stayed on hers. “That’d be good. Anything more you can tell me about what happened last night?”
“Illegal entry, arson with multiple points of origin, messages directed at arson investigator. No loss of life.” She handed him a glass of red.
“Are you feeling bitchy because you’re tired, because this asshole’s complicating your life, or are you pissed at me?”
Her smile was as bitter as her tone. “Pick one.”
“Okay, I get the first two. Why don’t you explain door number three?”
She leaned back on the counter. “I did what I was trained to do, what I’m obliged to do, what I’m paid to do.”
He waited a moment, nodded. “And?”
“And what?”
“That’s what I’m saying, and what? Who’s arguing?”
She could be civilized, she told herself. Civilized and mature. She got out a pot, took it to the sink to fill with water. “I’ve made more than enough if you’re hungry.”
“Sure. Reena, are you chilling me here because I got in your way last night?”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“When somebody I care about starts to do something reckless, something dangerous, I get in the way.”
“I’m not reckless.”
“Not as a rule, I wouldn’t think. But he got under your guard.”
“You don’t know my guard.” She carried the pot to the stove, turned on the burner. “You barely know me at all.” And went very still when he put a hand over hers, when he turned her around to face him.
“I know you’re smart. I know you’re dedicated. I know you’re tight with your family, and when you laugh your whole face gets into it. I know you like baseball, and where you like to be touched. That you like lemon meringue pie and don’t drink coffee. I know you’ll walk into a fire. Tell me something else, then I’ll know that.”
“Why are you here, Bo?”
“To see you, to talk to you. And I’m getting pasta out of the deal.”
She stepped back, picked up her wine. “I assumed after last night you’d be uncomfortable.”
“With what?”
“Don’t be dense.”
He lifted his hands. “Trying not to be. Uncomfortable . . . with you.”
She gave a little shrug, took a small sip.
“And I’d be uncomfortable with you because . . . Okay, no multiple choice,” he decided when she said nothing. “Because we had a fight about you heading out alone? No, that’s not it, because I won. Because I had to stay out of the way? Can’t be because I’m not with the police or fire departments. You’re stumping me here.”
“You didn’t like that I went in.”
“Into a burning building?” He made a sound, a kind of spitting laugh. “Fucking-A right. I’m supposed to like it when you run into fire? Problem there, then, because that’s never going to happen. Adding to that it was my first experience with it, I think I behaved myself. It’s not like I ran after you, tackled you and dragged you away. Which did buzz briefly through my mind as a possibility. Is liking the risks you’ve got to take part of the requirements of us?”
She stared at him. “God. I am a pessimist.”
“What are you talking about? Can you please translate your strange female language into words I can comprehend?”
“Do you want to be with me, Bo?”
He threw up his hands, the image of a frustrated, baffled male. “Standing right here.”
She laughed, shook her head. “Yes, you are. You certainly are. I’m going to apologize.”
“Good. Why?”
“For assuming you were a jerk. For assuming you were breaking things off because you didn’t want to deal with what I do, with what I am. For working myself up so I wouldn’t care if you did. I didn’t get there, but I was putting some effort into it. For being mad at you when I was the one who wasn’t dealing with it. I’m beginning to realize I have issues in this area—the relationship area.”
She stepped to him, put her hands on his cheeks, pressed her lips warmly to his. “So I apologize.”
“Are we over our first fight now?”
“Apparently.”
“Good.” He put his hands on her cheeks, kissed her back. “That one’s always the tricky one. Let’s talk about something completely different while we eat, which I hope is soon because all I had tonight was a peanut butter sandwich.”
She turned away to get the pasta. “This is going to be a lot better.”
“It already is.”
FLASHOVER
The final stage of the process of fire growth.
About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
21
“I want to know more about this girl you’re seeing.”
Bo continued to hammer out the new garden shed Mrs. Malloy insisted she needed, pausing only to shoot her a wink. “Mrs. M., don’t be jealous. You’re still the love of my life.”
She sniffed, set the fresh lemonade she’d made him on a sawhorse. Her hair remained a brilliant red, and she was wearing trendy amber-lensed sunglasses. And a floral bib apron.
“You got a look in your eye, boy, tells me I’ve been replaced. I want to know about her.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Tell me something I couldn’t figure out for myself.”
He set aside the nail gun, picked up the lemonade. “She’s smart and funny and intense and sweet. Her eyes, they’re like a lioness, and she’s got this little mole, right here.” He tapped above his lip. “She comes from a big family. They run an Italian place in my neighborhood. She grew up there. Hey, maybe your brother knows her. Isn’t your brother a cop?”
“He is, these past twenty-three years. Has he arrested her?”
He laughed. “Doubtful. She’s a cop. Baltimore city. Arson unit.”
“So’s my brother.”
“Get out. I thought he was . . . I don’t know what I thought. They must know each other. What’s his name again? I’ll ask her.”
“It’s O’Donnell. Michael O’Donnell.”
Now he set down the lemonade, pulled off his safety goggles. “Okay, Twilight Zone music. He’s her partner. She’s Catarina Hale.”
“Catarina Hale.” Mrs. Malloy folded her arms. “Catarina Hale.