While the Fire Rages

by Joan Hohl

  Habits formed, good or bad, are not easily set aside. With less than four hours sleep, and that not very restful, Jo woke at her usual early hour. Filled with periodic spells of weeping and tossing, the long night had produced little comfort. As Jo lay staring through the large, square window at a brilliant blue Indian summer sky, her tired mind held on to the two concretes it had formed while blackness painted the window.

  For good or ill, and very probably forever, she loved Brett Renninger—that was concrete number one. Concrete number two was wrapped around the fact that, at all costs, she had to diligently work at preventing Brett from discovering concrete number one.

  How this feat was to be accomplished when the mere thought of Brett’s existence on the earth was enough to activate the inner melting process, had been the major cause of Jo’s sleeplessness. The thought had occurred of secrecy through distance. All she had to do to remove herself from temptation was resign her position as his assistant; she’d have as soon resigned her soul to purgatory.

  As daylight seemed to have little effect in diverting her endlessly circling thoughts, Jo pushed back the covers, deciding she might as well face the morning—and her own haggard reflection in the mirror.

  Thirty-five minutes later, securely hidden behind the magic of expertly applied cosmetics and a neatly tailored, pearl-gray suit with a complementing heather-blue blouse, Jo walked briskly into the apartment-cum-office and came to a disbelieving halt, incredulous at the sight her sweeping gaze encountered.

  Attired for the work day in navy suit pants, crisp white shirt, and a blue-on-gray diagonally striped tie, Brett presented to her widened eyes the picture of domesticity as he turned to greet her from his position at the stove in the compact kitchen.

  “Good morning, JoAnne. Pull a stool up to the counter, breakfast is almost ready.”

  The counter was atop a room divider that separated the living-room area from the kitchen. Shelves lined with books, both hardcover and paper, faced the living room. On the kitchen side, three stools, fashioned of cane, with padded seats, filled the space under the marble counter.

  “Breakfast?”

  Jo heard the blank confusion her voice conveyed to him and, hearing it, strove to correct the impression of early-morning dullness.

  “You’re cooking breakfast? For me?”

  She had to repress a wince at the expression of boredom that flirted with his features. True, the voice now held alertness; it was the question that, being obvious, was therefore stupid.

  “I could hardly fix breakfast for myself alone”—Brett assumed the exaggerated drawl—”and still call myself a Southern gentleman, now could I?”

  I could hardly smack your too-superior-looking face, Jo retorted bitterly, if silently, and still call myself any kind of rational woman, could I? The temptation to put thought into action was so strong Jo curled her slender fingers into her palms and held them rigidly at her sides, her body tightening with her determination not to respond to his taunt

  Brett’s expression of boredom gave way to amusement as his sharp-eyed gaze swept over Jo’s stiffening form. For some reason she could not begin to understand, he seemed to derive great satisfaction from knowing he had the power to rattle her composure.

  A derisive half smile curving his far too attractive mouth, Brett swung back to the compact stove to dish up bacon and eggs.

  “As is obvious”—a jerk of his head indicated the two place settings, complete with small glasses of orange juice and tall glasses of iced water, on the countertop— “everything is ready.” Two steaming plates in hand, he turned to her. “If you will seat yourself, Ms. Lawrence, I will serve.” His smile grew openly mocking. “You will then be among a small, select group of women who have the right to claim they have been waited upon by Brett Renninger.”

  What is he trying to do ? Holding his glittering gray stare with assumed carelessness, Jo walked slowly into the small kitchen. And why is he trying to do it? The questions teased her mind repeatedly as she slid her trim, rounded bottom onto the thickly padded seat. Had she lost all perceptiveness entirely, or was his mockery self-directed?

  The Brett Renninger? Mocking himself? Sure—with the first frost to paint the nether reaches of hell! Why mock himself when he had a much more likely target in the form of his unwanted, unwelcome, uncared-for assistant?

  “My meager efforts do not appeal?”

  The vocal nudge came from beside her, one stool removed. Blinking, Jo focused first on the bit of gray visible through narrowed lids, then, shifting her glance, to the golden toast, creamy scrambled eggs, and perfectly crisped bacon on her plate. When had he poured the coffee? This as her gaze was caught by the aromatic, dark brew in a cup near her right hand.

  “No ... I mean, yes, of course ... I’m sorry, I...” Why wouldn’t her mouth work this morning?

  “How fascinating.” The drawl was more pronounced now. “Are you always this articulate first thing in the morning?” Brett arched one beautifully shaped blond brow.

  Why did I have to fall for this stiletto-tongued, twenty-first-century Adonis? Jo wondered, staring helplessly into a pair of gray eyes that danced with amusement at her expense. She had amused Gary at the beginning too. Perhaps it’s true—the psychological thesis claiming women keep seeking out the same type of man. A vision of another Adonis, one with tanned skin, blue eyes, and dark hair, formed in her mind.

  “Ah ha! I’ve solved the mystery!” Jo blinked at the sharp click of Brett’s snapping fingers. “You’re a somnambulist and not really aware of being here at all.”

  “How fascinating.” Jo managed a fair imitation of his drawl. “Are you always this brilliant first thing in the morning?”

  “I’m always this brilliant, period,” Brett retorted dryly.

  “Modest too!” Jo simpered, oversweetly. Turning away with slow deliberation, she picked up her fork and stabbed at her eggs—prudently denying the urge to sink the long prongs elsewhere. Much too aware of his sudden stillness, she conveyed the utensil to her mouth, chewing consideringly before offering, sincerely, “Very good; creamy. Mine always come out too dry.” She sampled the bacon.

  “Perfectly cooked.” The coffee came under her serious consideration. “Nectar,” she concluded after one delicious sip. “You could very easily spoil a working woman with a passion for breakfast”

  “And you have such a passion?”

  His quiet tone and steady regard should have warned her. It didn’t. She walked right into it.

  “Yes,” she admitted, “I’m a so-so cook who’s a breakfast freak.”

  “I always fix my own breakfast when I’m at home.” Brett ran a cool gaze over her before returning to her face to pin her with gray eyes that suddenly flared to glittering brilliance. “I would gladly perform the service for you”—a tiny pause—”in exchange for an even more basic service from you.”

  Jo’s forkful of eggs hung suspended in midair. Was she pushed? Or had she jumped? Jo was uncertain of what method had brought it about, but she felt sure she had finally gone over the edge. She must have, it was the only reasonable explanation for this sensation of free-falling through space. As if it could anchor her to the stool, Jo gripped the handle of the fork and scoured her mind for a suitably scathing put-down. She couldn’t find any— which was just as well, for she felt positive she’d misinterpreted his remark.

  “I beg your pardon?” She certainly hadn’t had to force the note of confusion into her tone; Jo was thoroughly confused.

  “Is that a no?”

  Jo blinked herself free of his impaling stare. He was serious! Incredible as it seemed, Brett Renninger, in his own peculiar fashion, had actually invited her—her!— into his bed!

  Too damned much!

  The temptation to thankfully, humbly, submissively accept his oddly offered proposition was so strong Jo’s teeth ached—understandably, as they were locked together. Her answer required every ounce of willpower she possessed.

  “Yes.”

&nb
sp; “Yes, that is a no?” Brett drawled mockingly. “Or, yes, you’ll buy the first meal of the day”—a smile flirted with his lips—”with the last act of the evening?”

  Cancel all doubt.

  She had not slipped over reason’s edge.

  She had not misinterpreted him.

  She had not passed go.

  She had not collected two hundred dollars.

  She had been propositioned.

  The only doubt remaining had to do with her ability to refuse him.

  “Yes, that is a no.” Had she actually replied in that oh-so-cool, touch-me-not tone? Had she actually declined, when she was on fire and he was the only extinguisher? Was she, infect, completely out of her mind? Hadn’t she wept and writhed through most of the previous night in an agony of need for his touch, his possession?

  The questions tumbled, rapid fire, through Jo’s mind while she strove to maintain a modicum of composure. She wanted him—yes, but not like this! Not at the casually proposed offer of breakfast. Breakfast, for heaven’s sake!

  The rotten bastard! Jo shocked herself with the silent accusation. But she loved him, she excused herself. While he, he has the unmitigated gall to suggest he share my bed—-for the paltry sum of filling my stomach!

  Jo was forced to lower her fork to the table as a shudder shook her slender frame, Brett obviously saw and misinterpreted her movement.

  “Have I shocked your sensitive little soul?” he taunted softly. With a minimum of expanded energy, he slid from his stool to the one beside her. As he leaned still closer Jo felt his warm breath caress her ear. “I can guarantee satisfaction with both performances—in the kitchen and the bedroom.”

  Jo, teetering on the edge of capitulation, and desperate because of it, steeled herself against the entreaty in his soft tone. When the much yearned-for male lips brushed her ear, she jerked away frantically.

  “Stop it!” Jo did not have to fabricate the angry tone; she was angry! All of a sudden she was explosively angry. The only explanation for his behavior that made any kind of sense was that she’d betrayed herself, her true feelings, to him. Positive he was merely tormenting her for having the temerity to fall in love with a Renninger, Jo lashed out at him defensively. “No, you have not shocked my sensitive little soul. I’ve been propositioned before.” With cold deliberation, she injected a sneer onto her lips, venom into her tone. “And one does not take note of an amateur when one has been approached by an expert.”

  Jo hadn’t the vaguest idea what she was saying, yet, whatever it was, it worked. Brett, his expression suddenly blank, went stiff all over. Moving slowly, he straightened, then stood up and carried his barely touched meal to the sink. The sound of the food being scraped into the disposal was loud and abrasive,

  “An expert!” Brett’s soft, considering statement was not aimed at her. Still, made fearful by his stillness as he stood beside the sink, she raised challenging eyes to his.

  “An expert,” he repeated even more softly. “Of course.”

  The challenge in Jo’s eyes was replaced by bafflement. Something in his tone conveyed acceptance—of some truth or other. But what? She had no idea what she was even talking about; how could he?

  “Brett?” Jo didn’t have an inkling of what to say to him. All she knew was she had to break through his strange stillness.

  “Never mind.” Moving abruptly, Brett strode from the kitchen. “Let’s get this work cleaned up so we can get out of here.”

  Following his example, Jo scraped her own plate, then stacked their dishes in the dishwasher. As she absently performed the light kitchen duty, Jo told herself she absolutely had to get more sleep. She was beginning to talk off the top of her head, which, in itself, was bad enough. But, it would appear, she was also beginning to believe Brett fully understood her gibberish, and that was scary.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  You are without doubt the most blundering of blundering fools on the entire East Coast.

  Brett was, again, taking up space in front of the wide window. It was now some two hours since he’d stormed— childishly, he admitted to himself ruefully—out of the kitchen.

  What devil had possessed him, prompting him to issue such an idiotic proposition? He didn’t even like the woman, let alone desire her!

  So your mind says, now convince your body!

  Like or dislike, the cold fact was that he desired her with an intensity the like of which he’d never experienced before, and he’d known some raging passions.

  I probably should simply fire her and have done with it.

  The tip of Brett’s tongue slid along the edge of his bottom teeth, and his unseeing eyes stared at the sun-sparkled Atlantic whitecaps.

  If not firing then, at the very least, making her life pure misery was in order.

  Damn!

  Moving restlessly, Brett shoved his itching hands deep into the pockets in his pants, a wry, self-derisive smite curving his lips. He knew the itch in his palms was not caused by the need to inflict violence; the itch came from the need to caress her soft, pale skin.

  God, he wanted her, wanted her as he’d never wanted another woman.

  This is sick!

  Brett’s shoulders moved, as if trying to dislodge an unwelcome rider on his back. His purpose had been so clearcut at the beginning. What the hell had happened to confuse the issue? Not to mention him?

  Even though it had been ridiculously easy to reassure his sister-in-law concerning his brother’s fidelity, Brett’s own newly aroused suspicions were not mollified.

  In relating to his sister-in-law Jo’s reasons for being in Boston on the day of Wolf’s accident, Brett had injected a business like briskness into his tone. Couched in that manner, Jo’s explanation sounded plausible. Micki had, gratefully, swallowed it whole. But, then, Micki had not been there to witness the face of fear Jo had worn regarding the accident. Nor had Micki been in the New York office several days later to see, firsthand, Jo’s face whiten on hearing the full extent of Wolf s injuries.

  Brett had been there. He had kept a sharp eye out for her slightest reaction to his news, only to find a sharp eye had not been necessary; Jo’s dismay had been obvious.

  Now, three weeks later, Brett realized it had been at the moment she’d displayed the most pain that he’d decided Micki’s fears were based on fact and Jo was, indeed, Wolf’s mistress.

  Again Brett’s tongue snaked across his teeth. It was also at that exact moment, he finally acknowledged, that he’d felt the first lick of physical desire for her.

  That moment had occurred after his detailed account of Wolf’s injuries. Jo had gone deathly pale, then had nearly fallen into the chair by Wolf’s desk, hand groping at the chair arm for support. It was when she’d lowered her lashes in pain that he’d allowed his gaze to leave her face to roam freely over her slender body. It was then he’d suffered the first stirring of need for her.

  The question of whether he wanted Jo because she was, or had been, Wolf’s reared its nasty little head. Instantly, Brett assured himself that their past relationship had nothing to do with his present yearnings. Hard on the heels of that self-assurance came the fervent hope that he was not lying to himself.

  Brett was well aware of the depth of feeling he held for his older brother. He had idolized Wolf for as long as he could remember, had always tried to emulate him. But to carry his hero worship to the point of wanting to possess Wolf’s mistress was not only ludicrous, it was downright unhealthy.

  The fact remained that Jo had belonged to Wolf; in his own mind Brett was now certain of that. He had uncovered just too damned many incriminating signs during the previous three weeks for their liaison to be strictly business. One of those signs now lay snugly in a long envelope inside his breast pocket, crackling faintly every time he moved. Brett had even had the fanciful idea that the blasted envelope was laughing at him every time it crackled.

  You are sick!

  The self-admonition was silently issued in an
attempt to quell the strong urge gripping him to turn and feast his eyes on Jo’s tall, delicately formed body.

  Feast his eyes, hell! He wanted, longed, ached to feast his mouth, tongue, hands, and body on top of hers.

  Again his tongue flicked at his teeth, barely withdrawing in time to prevent being lacerated by his descending hard upper teeth. Will you knock it off? She belongs to him! His hard white molars clamped together in frustration and self-disgust.

  She belongs to him.

  Without conscious thought, Brett’s spine straightened and his shoulders squared. Face it, chum, he advised himself reluctantly. When Wolf comes back, should he so choose, it will be to take over Jo as well as the region.

  Hot rebellion, more fierce than he’d felt throughout his rebellious teenage years, seared Brett’s emotions. In an effort at maintaining control, he breathed in, slowly, deeply repeating the same phrase over and over in his mind: You’re out of line here, she is his.

  His ploy at self-chastisement was a total failure, for the rebel in his mind chanted back: He can no longer have her, I will make her mine.

  Back and forth, the battle raged between control and rebellion, rendering him temporarily motionless while both vied for supremacy. The deciding factor came not from within but from without.

  “Brett, I’m sorry to bother you.”Jo’s voice was entirely free of facetiousness. She genuinely sounded sorry about having to intrude on his thoughts; she also sounded genuinely confused. ‘There’s something here I don’t quite understand.”

  His given name, coming voluntarily from her soft lips, whipped Brett around as if he were attached to a string she held tightly in her slim fingers. Brett breathed a sigh of relief on realizing Jo had not witnessed his humiliatingly swift snap to obedience. Gleaming head bent, Jo scowled in consternation at the folder in her hands.

  “Concerning what?” Strolling slowly—to make up for his earlier quickness?—to the desk, Brett held out one hand for the source of her confusion.

  “The Vermont project.” Unaware of his outstretched hand, Jo pursed her lips at the printed words under her perusal. “I thought Wolf had decided to scrap the idea of yet another condominium complex aimed at the skiing set, but, from the info here, he must have continued the preliminary investigation on his own.”