Fire on the Moon

by Rebecca York

  “How about your name,” he tried.

  “My name,” she murmured. “Right, I’m Francesca.”

  He waited for a last name, but it wasn’t forthcoming.

  Trying to make the best of her reticence, he said, “You’ve been through a pretty bad experience. Why don’t you get some sleep? We can talk about it in the morning.”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  He noted her grateful look, but he was pretty sure she wanted to put some distance between them. Because he was coming across as too intense? Or because she was still sorting out her own problems?

  “Do you want something to eat first?”

  “I don’t think I could.”

  It was hard not to press her with more questions—like for example, do you want to call the police? And if not, why not? Instead he led her upstairs and showed her to one of the bedrooms he wasn’t using.

  Probably she didn’t want to sleep in her sundress. And if she took it off, was it one of those models where the bra was built in? He yanked his mind away from that train of thought.

  “Let me bring you something to sleep in.” He backed away and headed downstairs to the master bedroom. He came back with one of his tee shirts and set it on the dresser. “You can borrow this. There should be toilet articles in the bathroom.”

  “I hate to be putting you in this position,” she said, looking relieved that he was going to give her some space.

  “I volunteered,” he answered, then waited a beat to see if she’d part with any other information. When she didn’t, he turned and left the room, hearing her shut and lock the door behind him.

  He pictured her in there, taking off the sundress. She’d leave her panties on before she pulled his tee shirt over her head. He pictured it falling against her skin, pictured the way her breasts would fill out the front.

  With a silent curse, he turned away and started down the stairs again. He had always had an easy time with women. There was something about the animal nature of the werewolf that attracted them. He’d enjoyed a number of relationships, although he’d always made it clear that he wasn’t interested in anything long-term. In his early twenties, he’d figured he had plenty of time before he had to settle down. As he’d approached thirty, he’d felt a certain unease, like he was going to fall into something he wasn’t ready for. Still, he’d told himself he had choices. That had given him a false sense of security, and he hadn’t been prepared for his reaction to this particular damsel in distress.

  He was aroused by a woman he couldn’t trust, and that wasn’t doing anything for his mood.

  Doggedly he forced himself to focus on practicalities. Probably she’d be hungry by morning. The werewolf diet wasn’t exactly typical breakfast food. He was happiest with meat. But he supposed the house was well enough stocked so that she could find something that worked for her in the morning. He might have gone out to pick up some supplies, but he wasn’t going to leave her alone, in case something else happened—or in case she tried to slip away when his back was turned.

  That last thought made his stomach clench.

  But she wouldn’t, he told himself. Her uncle had been murdered, just after she’d come to see him. She had no money and no ID. And she definitely had something to hide; otherwise, she would have wanted to call the cops.

  Yeah, he thought, a great reason for a woman to stay with him.

  He didn’t even know if her real name was Francesca. And she conveniently didn’t have identification.

  He’d seen she was in trouble and jumped in to save her. Now he couldn’t help wondering if he was harboring a criminal. Or was he looking for an excuse to keep himself from bonding with her?

  Bonding? Was he letting his thoughts carry him that far?

  Yeah, he was, and he didn’t exactly like it.

  The house he’d rented had been outfitted with surveillance equipment because there had been some robberies in the area. He’d thought he didn’t need it, but now he was glad it had been installed. Turning on the monitor screens, he checked the cameras that gave various views of the property, then set the alarm that would alert him if anybody was sneaking up on the house.

  He left it on and retrieved some raw steak from the fridge which he cut into several chunks. Turning on the TV, he found a local news outlet and ate while he watched a breathless account of the fire, complete with video of the firefighters’ futile efforts to put out the blaze, although their quick efforts were credited with saving the houses on either side of the property. Arson was suspected, and so far there was no evidence of any fatalities. According to property records, the owner of the house was Angelo Lucci. And Francesca had also given the uncle that first name. Was her last name the same? Or were they even related? She could even be his mistress.

  No, that last thought was going too far. He hated doubting everything she’d told him, but her reluctance to give him any details made it impossible to trust her.

  Neighbors were talking about Angelo Lucci. Apparently he’d kept to himself, and of course he’d taken the unusual step of literally walling himself off. Nobody knew him well, although he hadn’t caused any trouble as far as anyone could recall. It was like the amazed reaction when someone turned out to be a serial killer, and everyone was shocked to learn he had a secret life.

  Zane sighed. With the alarm on, maybe he could afford to get a little sleep after he’d done some more investigation, but he’d better be ready for action at any time.

  He broke off his search for local information and sent an e-mail to Frank Decorah explaining what was happening and what he knew. Maybe his best bet would be to take Francesca to Decorah headquarters while he investigated the case.

  After the e-mail to Decorah, he went back to digging for anything he could find on Francesca. She had said she had come down here from the Boston area. If she was on the up and up, there might be an easy way to find some stuff out.

  He got into the Facebook account he rarely used and put in the name Francesca Lucci—and got nothing. Same with Instagram and Twitter.

  Either she didn’t use social media, or she was posting under some other name.

  Chapter Four

  Francesca hugged her arms around her shoulders as she turned in a circle, inspecting the bedroom.

  Zane Marshall had said he worked for a detective agency and had come down to Naples for a job. Just to do a little checking on his story, she opened drawers and inspected the closet in her bedroom. It was clear that the room wasn’t occupied by anyone on a regular basis, which might or might not prove anything. She had heard him go downstairs, and maybe she might have done a little more snooping if she hadn’t been sure she’d get caught at it. He had a way of listening and looking that made her think of an animal on the hunt. He’d told her he wanted to help her, but she had gotten the impression that he’d make a formidable enemy, and she didn’t want to do anything to get on his bad side.

  At the same time she knew she was attracted to him, which didn’t make any sense because she’d never been the kind of woman who dated men she considered dangerous. And that’s how she’d describe him.

  All that rattled around in her head as she lay in bed, wearing his tee shirt. It felt like much too intimate a thing to do. But she couldn’t sleep in her sundress and she certainly wasn’t going to lie here naked except for her panties.

  She was sure she wouldn’t sleep, not just because she was alone with a strange man—a man she couldn’t figure out. She’d been through too much with her uncle, the thugs, and the fire. She reached to clasp the locket her uncle had given her. He’d said it was a cherished family possession. He’d wanted her to have it, and now he was dead. Could she ask Dad about it? She winced. That would mean having to tell him the whole horrible story of coming down here.

  Her mind kept turning over the day’s events, but she was so wrung out that she did finally drift off. She woke with a start a few hours after the sun came up, yanked from a sensual dream with a dark-haired man whose face she couldn’t see. But
she knew it had been Zane Marshall, the man who had rescued her and brought her to his house.

  And now her dreams had turned him into a lover? She clenched her teeth, intent on banishing the implications. The dream didn’t make it any easier to face her host.

  She knew at once that there was no use lying in bed any longer. She’d only be hiding from whatever was going to happen today. She would either have to trust Zane Marshall or get out of his hair. As soon as that thought struck, she felt a powerful pang of loss. She wanted to stay with him. And then what?

  She’d still be in trouble. Longing to give her father the gift of connecting with his only brother, she’d found Angelo Lucci’s number and called him. But she should have stifled the impulse. It had been stupid to get tangled up with him again after all these years. She should have remembered all the negative things Dad had said about his brother before he’d gotten sick and started obsessing about his old life.

  Unwilling to face Zane yet, she spent some time in the shower, then wished she had something to wear besides the sundress and sandals that had seemed so right for Florida. She didn’t even have the jacket she’d worn on the plane because that had burned up last night.

  Finally she knew it was past the time for delay. When she came downstairs, she found him sitting in one of the living room chairs with his long legs up on a large footstool. Sometime in the night he’d changed into jeans and a pullover shirt.

  She studied him as she reached the first floor. It looked like he’d spent the night there. And he was a lot less worse for wear than she was. On the other hand, nobody had tried to kill him yesterday.

  “How are you?” he asked, making the question casual.

  “I wouldn’t say I’m great,” she answered honestly. “Maybe a cup of coffee would help.”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Really?” She looked around the kitchen and spotted a Keurig on the counter. “There are probably pods for this.”

  “I guess. I haven’t looked.”

  “What are you going to drink?”

  “Herbal tea.”

  She tried not to wrinkle her nose as she turned away and found a basket of pods.

  “There’s no milk,” he warned.

  “I get by with sugar,” she answered, eying the nearby basket of packets.

  While she fixed herself a mug of Donut Shop, he used the hot-water dispenser at the sink to fill another mug and put in a tea bag that smelled like ginger.

  She knew she was stalling as she opened the pantry and then the fridge looking for something to eat. The only thing in the fridge was meat.

  When she found a box of crackers in a cabinet, she pulled it out and bit into one. It was just on the edge of stale.

  Looking up, she saw him watching her. For a long moment, neither of them moved, and it seemed as though they were trying to share secret information that neither of them wanted to speak. But staring at each other wasn’t going to cut it. She swallowed. This was decision time. She was in a hell of a fix, and she couldn’t cope on her own.

  She watched him watching her. “All right,” she finally said.

  “All right what?”

  Her fingers tightened around the mug in her hand. “I guess you’re thinking that any normal person would go to the police, but I can’t do that because my father is in the witness protection program. He’s been known as Glen Turner for the past eighteen years. Before that, he was in the mob in New Jersey.”

  The words came out in a rush. She felt her face flush and wanted to look away, but she kept her gaze steady, judging his reaction. When she didn’t see condemnation in his eyes, she went on,

  “As far as I know, he never killed anyone.” She followed that observation with a nervous laugh. “I guess he beat some guys up when he was ordered to. But he was into robberies mostly. He got caught by the cops highjacking a truckload of cigarettes. Once they had him in custody, they used leverage against him. He ended up ratting out some of his friends because he didn’t want to go to prison and leave me and my mom. He got into the witness protection program and also a training program where he became a plumber. We lived a middle-class life where nobody knew his real background.”

  Again Zane didn’t interrupt, and she went on. “I was only eight when Dad went straight. I really don’t even remember his old life. I just used to hear my parents talking about it, sometimes late at night when they thought I was asleep. They had to leave their whole family behind and take on new identities. Mom died a few years ago, and now Dad’s got Parkinson’s disease. It’s gradually gotten worse, and he’s in a nursing home. He’s been talking about how much he missed his brother. And I decided to come down here and see if I could arrange a visit. I mean, when Dad’s dead, he won’t be in the program anymore. What harm could it do to let him see his brother one last time?

  She gulped. “That’s how I got myself into this mess.”

  She had dreaded admitting her shameful family background. Instead she felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Even better, Zane Marshall hadn’t told her he didn’t want to get involved, and he hadn’t thrown her out.

  Still facing her, he said in a steady voice, “And shortly after you arrived, men came into the house, killed your uncle, and tried to kill you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t know why?”

  “I told you, I haven’t had any contact with him since I was a little girl.”

  “Was your uncle in the mob, too?”

  She set the mug on the counter. “I don’t know. It wasn’t like he and dad discussed their business where I could hear them.”

  “Your last name is Turner—like your dad’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “But before he went into the witness protection program, it was the same as your uncle’s—Lucci?”

  Her head jerked up. “How do you know his name?”

  “TV coverage of the fire. After the house burned, it was all over the news last night.”

  She smacked her forehead. “Oh, right. It would be. Nothing like pictures of a house burned to the ground to generate interest.”

  “How did you know where to find him?”

  She flushed slightly. “I used one of those online services that locates people.”

  He started to ask her another question, when a series of beeps interrupted him.

  Cursing under his breath, he strode into the living room, opened a cabinet, and pulled out some kind of electronic device. When he flicked a switch, a monitor screen came to life. It didn’t seem to be showing any kind of program, just a static picture of some trash cans. He flicked the switch again, and the view changed. This time she saw the path that she’d come up with Zane when he’d led her off the beach. On the stepping-stones was a man creeping along the side of the house, gun in hand.

  As she drew in a quick breath, Zane changed the scene again. This time she saw shrubbery and another armed man moving along at a crouch.

  Chapter Five

  Zane hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but he was always prepared for trouble. Now he second-guessed himself as he wondered what he should have done. Maybe take Francesca to a safer location?

  But then he would have had to set up monitoring equipment.

  Neither of these guys had a bandaged hand. They weren’t the ones from last night. But they must be connected. Which meant the attack last night wasn’t just a two-man show. Lucci must be important. Or maybe they were really after Francesca. Why had they stayed away all night and come around now? To give him a false sense of security? Or was there something more strategic involved? Maybe they’d figured that as long as he and Francesca stayed put, they could pick their time to attack. Or perhaps they’d been hoping he’d leave Francesca alone so they could swoop in.

  All that zinged through his mind as he watched the men coming along either side of the house, toward the front. Probably there was another thug on the beach side.

  He took her arm. “Come on.”

&n
bsp; “Where?” she asked, her voice high and wavery.

  “Away.”

  He handed her his laptop. “Take this for me.”

  When she’d clutched the notebook-sized machine in her arms, he reached under his shirt and drew his own weapon from a holster at his belt. Francesca glanced at the semiautomatic as he led her quickly through a little hallway at the side of the kitchen before stopping at the door to the garage, He moved her to the side, out of the line of fire if anyone was waiting for them to emerge. With a rapid jerk, he pulled the door open with his left hand, his weapon in his right. Scanning the garage, he saw with relief that the area was clear. Just a dim, orderly space with his rented SUV parked inside.

  He put his finger to his lips, then gestured toward the vehicle, which he’d pulled close to the door, glad that he’d taken the extra time to park it facing outward.

  “Get in the back, and scrunch down on the floor,” he whispered.

  She had sense enough not to argue as he quietly closed the door behind her.

  Because he was driving a rental, there was no garage remote on the visor. He had to activate the door from the wall switch, then quickly slip behind the wheel.

  The grinding noise of the door mechanism had him bracing for the attackers to rush the front of the garage. He wasn’t disappointed. As the door lifted, the two men he’d seen came pounding around to the front of the house, weapons raised.

  He ducked low as the car shot out of the enclosure, bracing for bullets to hit the windshield, but the men were apparently unwilling to risk shots in a residential neighborhood. He barreled down the block and blew through the stop sign, narrowly missing a car that had entered the intersection.

  The guy’s horn blared after him as he continued down to the next intersection, then took a right and a left, winding through the upscale neighborhood, glancing frequently in the rearview mirror. He’d gotten away, and now he dared to pull to the curb.

  “Get in the front.”

  Francesca exited away from the street and slid into the passenger seat.