by Rebecca York
It flew open, and he spilled out into blessed oxygen-filled air, taking Alessandra with him. He was falling, and he remembered that he’d climbed a couple of steps when he’d entered the trailer.
He would have hit the ground hard, but hands caught him and eased him down.
Activity swirled around him as he lay panting, the cool air like springtime in his lungs. Someone grabbed his shoulders, helped him move away from the trailer.
He heard a gurgling sound. Water through a large hose. Some of it splashed his feet and legs.
“Alessandra? Where’s Alessandra? Is she all right?” he croaked.
Near him he heard coughing. “I’m…here. I’m all right.”
“Thank God.” He turned toward her, reached for her and felt her hand clamp onto his.
He held tight, relieved by the strength of her grip since it meant she couldn’t be injured too badly.
“I got all turned around. I wouldn’t have gotten out of there without you,” she gasped.
“It’s okay. We’re both okay,” was all he could manage. He kept his hold on her, listening to the babble of voices around him. If he opened his eyes, would he be able to see? He tried it and found that the shared vision trick wasn’t working. The first time it had shocked him. The second time had been deliberate. But apparently he couldn’t count on it always working. And in this case, he was grateful, because he really didn’t want to see a ring of hostile faces.
A woman was speaking, and Alessandra called her Sabina. The sister.
“What happened?” Sabina asked.
“Somebody set the trailer on fire,” Wyatt said.
“Who would do that?” a man demanded.
He recognized the voice from earlier. It was the cousin, Andrei.
“Maybe the same guy who knifed me,” Wyatt said. His mind was racing now. “Somebody who wanted to kill me—and Alessandra, too.”
“No!” the sister protested.
“Okay, what’s your explanation?”
Nobody answered. He heard another woman talking to Alessandra, asking questions in a low voice. Then he caught the distant wail of sirens. The fire department. And an ambulance.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he demanded.
“The trailer is smoldering. I think the fire is out.”
Unconsciously, his hold tightened on Alessandra’s hand. If she broke the contact, he’d be lost in the sea of people around him. People who hated his guts.
She must have sensed what he was feeling because she held tight to him and inched closer. She only let go when the paramedics separated them. An efficient team worked over him, assessing his injuries, which he kept assuring them were minimal.
Then he and Alessandra were loaded into an ambulance for a ride to the emergency room. Two hours later, they were both pronounced fit to leave. And they’d been interviewed by the local cops.
He knew her relatives were out in the waiting room, eager to take her home. Before they came through the door, he turned to her.
“I don’t want you going back there tonight.”
“But—”
“Somebody tried to kill both of us.” He sucked in a breath and let it out. “I don’t know much about your people. Would they turn on a woman who had taken up with a…gadjo?”
______
A little ripple of shock went through Alessandra. “You know that word?” she asked carefully.
“Yes,” he said, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Remember, I’m a…I was a cop. I do my research. In your language, Romany, the word for a male outsider is gadjo. The word’s a symbol of hostility to outsiders.”
“No,” she shot back. “It’s a symbol of the world’s hostility to us.”
He sighed. “Okay. That’s fair. But there’s no point in arguing about who did what to whom. The important question is, would some of your people turn against you for taking me in?”
“No,” she answered immediately, but unlike her previous response, there was no strength behind the denial.
“Then what? Might there be fanatics who would try to make an example of you?”
“I can’t believe one of my people would hurt me.”
“Well, somebody set that fire. But there could be another explanation. It could be somebody who thinks we can find out who really murdered Theresa Granville.”
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“That the real murderer was listening to us talking tonight—and got worried.”
“Then you think Carlo didn’t do it?” she asked, hope leaping in her breast.
“It’s a logical explanation. We need to go over my father’s papers as soon as possible. I want you to come home with me—away from the carnival.”
She looked down at her hands, knowing that by all logic, she should refuse. But logic wasn’t ruling her now. When she realized that Wyatt couldn’t see her warring emotions, she lifted her head.
His face was etched with tension as he said, “You could help me with the papers. First thing in the morning. The sooner we get started, the sooner we may find something.” He expelled a long breath. “We can get the cops to give us a ride home.”
“I think Andrei is still waiting for me.”
“Tell him you’ve made other arrangements.”
“You sound like you don’t trust him.”
“He didn’t want me staying in your trailer,” Wyatt pointed out.
“But he would never hurt me. You’ve got to believe that. We’ve been close since we were little. We grew up together. He’s always protected me and Sabina.”
Wyatt nodded. “Okay, I’ll accept your judgment. And—” he coughed “—there are other advantages to being a police officer wounded in the line of duty. I won’t have any trouble getting the local cops to keep my house under surveillance.”
“You think that’s necessary?”
“Yes. If someone can torch your trailer, they can do the same to my house.”
“You think it was deliberate?”
“If not, it was a hell of a coincidence.”
As she sucked in a sharp breath, he continued, “Now that that’s settled, we can make arrangements to leave.”
She cleared her throat. “Uh, would you mind if I ask Andrei to bring you some clothes? Yours are…uh…” She hesitated again. “They’re covered with dirt and soot.”
He looked embarrassed, and she realized he hadn’t thought at all about his appearance.
“We’re both a mess,” she added quickly. “I’ll ask Sabina to bring me something, too.”
“Why would Andrei do that for me?” he questioned.
“Because I asked him!”
“Sure. Fine,” he answered.
But once she’d introduced the idea, he went a step further, and she found out there were still more advantages to being a decorated ex-cop who’d been wounded in the line of duty. People were willing to do him favors.
When he asked if both he and Alessandra could take a shower before leaving the hospital, they were allowed to use the staff facilities. An hour later, they were both washed and dressed in clean clothing and riding in the back of a patrol car.
He was wearing navy slacks and a blue button-down shirt that probably belonged to Andrei. She was wearing one of her sister’s dresses—one that she’d admired in the past, actually.
She knew the emerald green and deep blue were perfect for her coloring. Then she remembered that wouldn’t mean much to Wyatt—unless she gave him a description, and she wasn’t willing to go that far.
As they rode to his house in the back of a black-and-white cruiser, she sat uneasily beside him, listening to him conferring with the uniformed officer who was driving.
“We don’t have the manpower for plainclothes surveillance of your house twenty-four/seven. But there will be someone outside for the next few hours. Then off and on until this is over.”
“Appreciate it,” Wyatt answered as they pulled up in front of a white Victorian with a wide front porch and a turre
t at the right front corner. It was four in the morning, but there was a streetlight directly out front, and as they came up the brick walk, floodlights snapped on.
Wyatt might be blind, but he hadn’t neglected the appearance of the house. The paint was fresh and the gardens well-tended, the flower beds filled with begonias and other plants she couldn’t name.
Alessandra couldn’t suppress the feeling of envy that had bedeviled her over the years. People like Wyatt lived in big, comfortable houses surrounded by nice gardens; they put down roots. She and her family lived in tiny trailers and moved from place to place.
She knew that some of her family would not be capable of living in one place for long. Traveling was in their blood. But she could easily imagine living in a house like this—planting flowers and tending them. Transferring the decorating skills she’d used in her tiny home to a much larger canvas.
Then, as Wyatt ushered her into a square front hall, it struck her that she no longer had even her little refuge. It had been set on fire—perhaps by someone she had trusted all her life. And anything that hadn’t been totally destroyed would be permeated with smoke.
She must have made a sound of distress, because he turned quickly toward her, his voice urgent. “What’s wrong? Do you see something?”
“No…no…it’s nothing to do with your house,” she stammered, silently acknowledging that she wasn’t telling the entire truth. “I just realized that all my things will be fire-damaged—or covered with soot.”
“It’s all my fault,” he muttered.
She reached out and gripped his shoulders. “No!”
“If I hadn’t come snooping around the carnival, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“Don’t put the blame on yourself. You said before that it’s because we’re going to help Carlo.”
There was a long moment of silence before he finally said, “I didn’t put it quite that way.”
“I know it didn’t start out like that for you. But now that someone’s come after us…we have to find out who, not just for Carlo.”
He sighed, looking weary. “Yeah.”
She was instantly contrite. “I’m putting a lot on you.”
“No more than I’m putting on myself. The only way we can guarantee our safety is to figure out what someone wants to keep us from finding out.”
“I…I talked to Andrei about Tony,” she said. “Tony’s sorry about sending you down that lane.”
“He wanted to get back at Louis Boudreaux’s son. I understand that.”
“But he didn’t attack you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’ve known him all his life. He’s a good man.”
“You know all the people out there. Somebody hasn’t lived up to your expectations.”
She had no answer for him. Without switching on a lamp, he strode into a sitting room and stood with his back toward her. She followed him into the shadowy room, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the window. She couldn’t see details—just a comfortable-looking couch and chairs. Polished wooden tables. A thick Oriental rug. Everything was scrupulously neat. Not like most men would keep their personal space. But necessary for a man who might trip over things left out of place.
He turned toward her, cleared his throat. “I wanted you to come here where you’d be safe. We can’t do anything constructive tonight. We both need some sleep. There’s a guest room upstairs. I’ll show you where it is and where I keep the clean towels.”
She ignored the housekeeping information and asked, “Does the cut on your ribs hurt?”
“Not bad. We both know I could have gone home tonight.”
“Thank God you didn’t, or I’d be dead.”
This time he was the one who protested the obvious. “No!”
In the shadowy room, she reached out and touched his arm, feeling his muscles jump under her fingers. “I didn’t get around to thanking you for saving my life. You risked your own by dragging me outside.”
“I wouldn’t have left you in there,” he said, his voice rough.
“I know.” She closed the space between them, reaching out and clasping his shoulders.
He made a strangled sound and folded her close. The intensity with which he clung to her took her breath away.
It was so natural, so right to lift her head and find his lips with hers.
He had kissed her hours before, and that kiss had told her something about herself—and about him. They might have parted in anger five years ago, but they both still cared—deeply. Now there was more—passion flaring between them like heat lightning.
He tasted like the rich wine her people kept for special celebrations. Births and marriages. And at the same time, like all the things she’d told herself a woman of her people could never have.
When he lifted his head, they were both struggling to drag air into their lungs. Hours before, they’d been struggling for breath in the fire. Now passion robbed them of oxygen.
“Don’t,” he said in a thick voice, taking a step back. But he kept his hand on her shoulder, as though he couldn’t bear to let her go.
That was a good sign, she told herself. She’d found out tonight that this man possessed strength she had never suspected. She understood beyond a doubt that he would send her to his guest bedroom if she didn’t let him know what she was feeling now.
She was a fortune-teller, a woman whose gift was spinning out the stories of other people’s lives in beautiful, evocative language.
In this unfamiliar house, she could barely find the words she needed to speak, although she knew she must.
Chapter Five
Because Alessandra knew he couldn’t see her face, even if his eyes had been open, she struggled to put what she was feeling into her voice. “Wyatt, you said you could have gone home tonight after you were cut. I didn’t want you to go home. I wanted to keep you close.”
“Maybe you saw the future—the fire,” he said, his fingers clenching her shoulder.
Either he misunderstood her or he was deliberately trying to make less of what they both felt.
“No, I can never see my own future. It wasn’t any sort of precognition that worked on me tonight. It was the past. I kept thinking about what happened five years ago.”
“You sent me away,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but I never stopped wanting you. Never. Even when I tried to tell myself I hated you for being Louis Boudreaux’s son. But I’m not going to walk away from you tonight. Not when we’re alone in this house—both wanting the same thing.”
As she spoke, she reached up and covered his hand, pressing her fingers against his.
“I should go get that cop outside to come in and chaperone us,” he growled.
“But you won’t. Because this is our second chance.”
“For what?”
“Wyatt Boudreaux, you’re an intelligent man. Don’t play dumb with me.” More confident now, she moved closer, so close she could feel the heat coming off him—and the need.
This time when she kissed him, a sound welled from deep in his chest, a sound that told her he’d tried and failed to let her go.
“Alessandra.” His warm breath fanned her as he spoke. Then his mouth was moving over hers again with an urgency that sent shock waves through her.
She needed to anchor herself to something solid—and Wyatt, with his wide, strong back, was her natural choice.
Her eyes drifted closed as she absorbed the impact of this man who had filled her thoughts on so many lonely nights. Seeking his warmth and strength, she pulled out the tails of his shirt, then slipped her hands underneath, stroking her fingers upward against his heated skin.
But that wasn’t nearly enough. “Touch me,” she murmured. “I need you to touch me.” As she spoke, she brought his hands to the row of buttons down the front of her dress.
Still with his eyes closed, he worked by touch. With fingers that weren’t entirely steady, he began to open the buttons. And her gr
asp was just as shaky as she helped him, their hands tangling as they met over her breasts.
“Lord, you’re not wearing a bra,” he breathed as he cupped her quivering flesh.
“Sabina forgot to bring me one.” She gave a strangled laugh. “I think we’re both happy about that.”
The laughter ended in a choked exclamation as he found her hardened nipples, first with his fingers and then with his lips.
When she could speak again, she said, “Maybe we’d better find your bedroom.”
“Up the stairs. The first room on the right.”
He slung his arm around her waist as they started for the stairs, and the journey took longer than necessary, because they kept stopping to kiss and caress and to remove articles of clothing. By the time they reached the second floor, her dress and sandals had been discarded, along with his shirt and shoes.
In the bedroom, he turned and pulled her fully against him, and the feel of his hair-matted chest against her breasts made her knees buckle.
She sat down abruptly on the bed. He was still standing, and she pulled him close so that she could skim his slacks down his legs. Apparently his borrowed outfit hadn’t included underwear, either.
His body was all taut muscle and magnificent arousal. With a low moan, she pressed her cheek and then her open mouth against his abdomen, feeling his muscles ripple under the intimate touch.
Then he was beside her on the bed, his hands stroking up and down her sides, sliding over her ribs, her hips, her thighs, then gathering her close.
His eyes were still tightly shut as he learned her body with his fingertips and his lips. And as he caressed her, he told her how much he had missed her, how much he wanted her, the hot, sexy words fueling her need.
Joyfully, she cradled his head against her breasts as his lips found one taut nipple and sucked it. The sensations were almost too exquisite to bear.
As she ran her hands down his back and over his taut buttocks, his fingers found the slick, hot core of her, and his knowing touch drove her wild.
“Wyatt…I need you now,” she gasped. “Please, now.”
He rose over her, claiming her, and for a breathless moment they both went very still as they absorbed the reality of their joining. Then he began to move with slow, gliding strokes that quickly became more urgent, more demanding. Gladness surged through her as she matched his rhythm.