Slow Burn

by Ednah Walters

  “Good luck,” they said in unison as she headed toward the entrance.

  She waved and exited the museum. It was a beautiful spring afternoon, but her mind was too preoccupied with the imminent meeting to appreciate it. A cloud of apprehension loomed over her, and butterflies did a jig in her tummy. She’d had two days to prepare herself since her realtor set the meeting, two long days of self-doubt and nervous tension. How should she present herself to Nina? Pretend the past didn’t happen? Bring it up just to get it out of the way? Should she divulge her plans for Carlyle House?

  At one time the house had been the in-place for new and upcoming entertainers, the place for creating stars. Even her parents had launched their careers in its banquet hall. Tearing it down would be erasing a part of music history, which made her feel like such a monster. But her sanity was at stake. How could anything compete with that?

  Here I go again, stressing. If Nina’s assistant hadn’t called this morning to move forward their meeting, she’d have had one more day to compose herself, to think things through, to…what a crock of crap. She would have continued on the spiral path to nervous wreck-land. Why did the woman insist on meeting buyers anyway? It was a ridiculous stipulation.

  Ashley put the top of her Mustang convertible down before she eased out of the parking lot. For once, traffic in the downtown area was slow. It gave her a chance to run through the speech she was preparing for Mrs. Noble.

  To be honest, her nervousness went beyond the meeting with Nina. Ever since Ron Noble dropped that bomb about investigating the fire at Carlyle House, she’d lived with constant worry. It stared at her in the mirror every day, and stole her sleep most of the night. The fact that he hadn’t contacted her or dropped off his grandmother’s pictures didn’t help either, although she’d expected him to hound her for an answer about his investigation.

  Why did he have to stir things up? What did he hope to gain? He was nuts to think she’d want to revisit that night just to help him. On the other hand, he’d said none of his father’s former colleagues was willing to talk about the fire. Could the men be shielding an arsonist, maybe one of their own? The person responsible could be out there, getting away with murdering her parents.

  No, stop it. The copy of the report she’d gotten from the county records said faulty wiring started the fire. Her aunt, whom she’d spoken with after Ron left, had confirmed it, which should be reassuring but unfortunately wasn’t. Every time she thought about Ron, the flash of determination in his eyes when they spoke, she knew he wasn’t going to let this go. He was probably biding his time, giving her a false sense of security before he pounced. Icy fingers clawed up her spine at her thoughts, making her shiver. Better not think about that now.

  Ashley was getting ready for the shower when she realized all her suits were still at the drycleaners. If Mrs. High and Mighty Noble had stuck to the original plan, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. The older woman’s blatant arrogance annoyed her. A moan of frustration escaped her as she grabbed the phone and dialed the drycleaner’s number.

  “No, no, Ms. Fitzgerald. Not now. Five o’clock. I told you five o’clock, yes?” the Pakistani said.

  “I don’t want the whole load, Mr. Noor. Just one.”

  “Not possible, Miss. I do rush job, yes? Have it ready by three. Three o’clock good, yes?”

  “Three o’clock no good.” She was beginning to sound like the man. She stopped short of begging him and hung up. Not only was she on a time crunch, she had nothing decent to wear.

  Twenty minutes later, Ashley stepped out of the closet with yet another outfit and held it against her frame. “Ew,” she said and threw it on top of the growing pile on her bed.

  Every dress she’d pulled out of her closet had something wrong with it. They were too casual, too old or just plain. Ashley rocked on her heels and took a deep, calming breath. There was no point in stressing over this. Whatever she wore wasn’t going to change Mrs. Noble’s decision about selling her Carlyle House or ease her worries about Ron’s investigation.

  The next garment she pulled out was a straight black skirt with a slit on the side. Pursing her lips in thought, she studied it. She placed it on her dresser and turned to dig in the pile of clothes on her bed until she pulled out a silk fuchsia shirt with black buttons. A slow, satisfied grin spread on her lips as she held the skirt and the top against her frame and looked into the mirror.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all,” she murmured.

  She put on the skirt and studied her image. A little tight around the hips, but it would have to do. She patted her tummy, checked her backside one last time and murmured, “Knew that late night chocolate chip mint ice-cream had to be going somewhere.”

  She put on the top and stared in the mirror. The gentle swell of her breasts above the décolletage elicited a frown, then a sigh. She couldn’t do much about her well-endowed chest if she tried. This was as good as it was going to get.

  As she sat down to apply make-up, her thoughts turned to the past week. Working on the murals at the new museum had kept her busy. Unfortunately, she had done nothing on her exhibition pieces. She’d already gone through three male models, but none had inspired her to create a masterpiece. At this rate, she’d have to cancel the show.

  She checked the time, smothered a curse and jumped up from the dresser stool. Grabbing her high-heeled, black sandals and purse, she hurried down the stairs. She stopped briefly to scribble a reminder note to herself on a Post-it, slapping it on the fridge door before she exited the loft.

  ***

  Ashley made it to the Noble’s home just as a silver Jaguar drove through the gate. A tall, buffed guard marched from behind the security booth, raised his massive arm and signaled her to stop. The sun reflected on his brown skinhead as he stared at her suspiciously from above dark glasses.

  “Wait here,” he said when she gave her name.

  She watched the guard walk back inside the security booth and resigned herself to waiting. From what she’d seen while driving, the homes in the area were huge, beautiful and well maintained. But she couldn’t admire Nina Noble’s home while she waited. Trees obstructed the house. Sighing, she turned her attention to the rear view mirror.

  There was a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. Convertibles were great when they were in motion, but when parked, the sun was relentless. She turned up the AC and cool air fanned her face. She would have loved to pull the top up but she didn’t think her nerves could stand the confined space—a phobia she could never explain. No need to fret over it, though. She always found a way around her demons, choosing convertible instead of a normal car, an airy loft instead of an apartment, rarely taking the elevator unless she absolutely had to. The list was long.

  Not liking the direction of her thoughts, Ashley pulled out her powder and blush to repair damages to her make-up. It was another five minutes before the guard finally waved her through. She gave him a stiff smile and drove up the curving road to the cobbled, circular driveway.

  Several cars were in the driveway, including a dark green pickup truck. As soon as she parked beside the truck and switched off the engine, the sound of piano music reached her ears. If she weren’t so tense, she would have enjoyed the lovely tune and Nina Noble’s beautiful home. Instead, she gave the well-tended lawn and colorful patches of flowers a sweeping glance as she hurried to the pillared entrance. Before she could knock, a tall brunette in navy-blue pants and a pink shirt opened the door.

  “Ms. Fitzgerald, Connie Wilkins.” They shook hands. “Come in, please.”

  Ashley glanced with awe at the two-story foyer with its gleaming staircase. Two earlier works of Francis Bacon shared a wall with a Chagall, and preserved plants were strategically placed around the room. The beautiful music she’d heard earlier appeared to come from a room to her right.

  “This way, please,” Connie said.

  Ashley followed Nina’s assistant across the foyer, past an arched entrance and into what was eit
her an entertainment or a living room. A tall, lithe figure rose from a chair.

  “Ron,” she whispered. Her heart skipped a beat, then thundered away.

  Their eyes locked and time seemed to disappear. An electrifying sexual charge zipped between them. She struggled to breathe. For a beat, he didn’t move, then his sexy, quirky smile appeared.

  “Ashley. It’s nice to see you again.” He closed the distance between them and engulfed her hand with his large one.

  His scent, musky and male, teased her senses. Her temperature went up a notch and her breath lodged in her chest.

  “I didn’t expect to find you here,” she managed to say. Her voice was steady, thank goodness.

  “I hope you don’t mind. Please, join me.” He took her arm to lead her to a chair beside the one he’d occupied. A bottle of Heineken was on a table beside it.

  She turned to thank Connie, but the woman had long since disappeared. It was just the two of them. The thought was exciting and a little discomforting.

  She freed her arm and clutched her purse with both hands. “There must be a mistake, Ron. I’m supposed to be meeting your mother.” She caught herself fidgeting with the clasp of her purse and forced herself to stop. It was bad enough having his presence throw her off but quite another to make him aware of it. “The meeting was supposed to be tomorrow, but her assistant called and changed it.”

  “I know.” A slow grin settled on his mouth, then spread to his cobalt blue eyes. “My mother is not feeling too well, so I hope you don’t mind if you and I talk instead. Would you like something to drink?”

  A drink would steady her nerves, but that would mean spending time in his company. The speech she’d prepared was meant for his mother, not him. His agenda didn’t exactly coincide with hers. Plus, there was the attraction between them. It kept catching her off guard.

  “No, thank you. I’d rather—”

  “Come on, Ashley. One drink. I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

  As if that had anything to do with why she was wary. “Okay. White wine, please.”

  While he walked to the bar to get her drink, she sat down and took a fortifying breath, then another. He’s just a man, one that I can handle. The word ‘handle’ brought to mind images that had nothing to do with Carlyle House. She found herself peeking at the way he filled his jeans and the ease in his swagger.

  Focus, Ashley. She was supposed to be thinking about what she would say once he brought up his investigation not how he would look bare-chested. This was so insane, so unlike her.

  “Here you go,” Ron said as he handed her a crystal glass.

  “Thank you.”

  He picked up his Heineken bottle and touched it to her glass. “Here’s to friendship.” Then he waited and watched her as she took a sip of her wine. His gaze lingered on her lips before snaring hers. “Is it okay?”

  “Perfect.” She studied him from above the rim of her glass as he sat down and took a swig of his beer. She would never have guessed he was a straight-from-the-bottle beer drinker. But then again, she knew nothing about him. The blue shirt he wore played tricks with his eye color, making them appear darker than usual, and the faded jeans couldn’t hide his muscular thighs or strong legs.

  He shifted, drawing her attention back to his face. The smile on his lips indicated he’d been aware of her scrutiny. Heat suffused her face and she rushed into speech.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Carlyle House.”

  The man was direct if anything. “If this is about your investigation, then you should know I have done a little of my own. I stopped by the Public Records Office again a few days ago and picked up a copy of the fire report on the house. Faulty wiring was the verdict. Also my aunt and uncle hired a detective to check into it right after it happened. The P.I. never found anything to indicate foul play.”

  Ron leaned back against his seat, stretched his long legs and studied her from under lowered lids. Her gaze stayed locked with his.

  The silence grew tense, unnerving. Whoever was playing the piano stopped, and the house became eerily quiet. Ashley started to sweat. Hoping her hand didn’t shake, she lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip of her wine. Swallowing was damn near impossible but she managed it.

  “Well?” she asked, cocking her eyebrows.

  Admiration flashed in his eyes, then quickly disappeared. “I wasn’t talking about my investigation although I’m happy you took what I said seriously. With my mother flying back to New York tomorrow, I’m in charge of Carlyle House. Anyone interested in it must now deal with me.”

  That was the last thing she needed. “When will she be back?”

  He shrugged. “Next weekend, perhaps. She’s producing a play, so I don’t know for sure. Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why Carlyle House?”

  Ah, the dreaded question. Here goes. “It’s location near Culver City Art District makes it perfect for an art center. It was what my parents had planned before they died. They made their first public appearance at the old Carlyle Club and spoke about it with nostalgia.” She smiled, remembering. “You know they used to say to work, sweat and dance in Carlyle Club was to be part of a tradition. A tradition an aspiring artist should be honored to be a part of.”

  He smiled with approval, and Ashley wondered how he’d react to her next words.

  She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I plan to demolish it and rebuild.”

  Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m not. It’s old. With its asbestos, lead and fire-safety problems, it wouldn’t pass the building codes.”

  “Why not just refurbish it? It is cost-effective.”

  She’d checked into that and didn’t have a good enough excuse except, “Meeting the new fire codes would cost me a fortune. As a part-time firefighter,” oh yeah, she’d checked and knew about his volunteer work with the Kern Valley Hotshot wildfire crew, “you know the city requires sprinklers systems in commercial buildings rather than the old fire-escape routes from upper stories.” She knew she got him when his eyes grew thoughtful and he leaned forward, his gaze not wavering. “Also, I wouldn’t want anyone developing cancer years from now because of asbestos. They used it in everything prior to the seventies—flooring, ceiling spackle, roofing, siding, pipes, ducts, walls, gaskets, even soundproofing. But I plan to use the original architectural designs to recreate a replica of the house.” She held her breath and waited for him to say something, anything.

  Ron released a deep breath and leaned back. “Sounds like you’ve thought this through.”

  She’d picked her cousin’s brain. Without Lex’s expertise, she wouldn’t have known where to start when it came to old buildings. “I mean to fulfill my parents’ dream.”

  “I can understand that, except there’s a slight wrinkle in your plans.”

  “What?”

  “There’s another person interested in the house.”

  Her eyes widened. “Who?”

  His eyes were watchful as he added, “Ryan Doyle of Doyle Enterprise.”

  Ashley’s heart dropped. Ryan Doyle was a real estate shark with rumored connections to organized crime. Born and raised in Los Angeles, he was street smart and ruthless. Rumor had it he made his first million at thirty by questionable means, billion at forty and was now worth a lot more than was usually reported in magazines. Despite his wealth, he was still considered a thug by the business world. There was no way she could win a bidding war against him.

  “What could he possibly want with Carlyle House?” Ashley asked.

  “According to my mother, he’s moving his headquarters to Los Angeles. He intends to have his main office in the downtown area and in Culver City. He owns a large slice of undeveloped property nearby, a situation he means to rectify, and he wants to restore Carlyle House. Why, I don’t know.”

  Ashley sunk back into her seat. Whatever offer she made, Doyle could
easily top it or double it without putting a dent in his bank accounts.

  “I’m not getting the house, am I? I mean, how could I possibly win a bid against Doyle?” And he wanted to revamp it, damn it. How could she even begin to compete?

  “No one is starting a bidding war, Ashley. Besides, you can have me on your side.” He wiggled his eyebrows as a naughty smile curled his mouth.

  “That would be unethical. Kind of like insider trading.” And tie a noose around her neck? She knew exactly what he’d want in return.

  He laughed, the sound deep, warm and rich.

  He knew he had her cornered. She scowled at him. “Fine. I do want you in my corner. I deserve to get the house since I offered first. Besides, I intend to pay market value. No fuss, no negotiations.”

  He winked at her. “Then feel free to use me. All you have to do is ask and I’ll make sure you get the house.”

  So cocky, so sure he’d get his way. She ought to decline his offer but she wouldn’t achieve her goals by being bull-headed. What if she waited for his mother to come back? Would that hurt her chances of getting the house?

  She stole a glance at him through lowered lids. Ron gave the illusion of being relaxed, yet there was edginess in him that was part exciting and part unsettling. Despite his casual attire and relaxed manners, he projected an air of authority and self-confidence few men possessed. She didn’t know how old he was, but she’d bet he was only a couple of years older than she. The polished veneer of sophistication was probably due to growing up among showy jetsetters. And the way he carried himself and the calm in which he spoke exuded a rare sensuality that was hypnotic.

  His head lifted and their gazes locked. Raw desire sizzled between them, and for a moment, Ashley couldn’t think or breathe. When he arched an eyebrow, annoyance coursed through her. He was enjoying toying with her.

  “Well? Do you want my help in getting the house?” he asked.