Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  Perversely, the fire itself calmed her as nothing else had and she forced herself to take inventory of the situation. She could feel her toes. And if she strained she could even see her left arm. Her fingers wiggled reassuringly.

  One of the crates was lying on her arm. Gritting her teeth, she pushed against it as hard as she could. It rose a little and then toppled over, leaving her arm free. She lifted it gingerly, flexing the muscles, relieved to see that it wasn't injured.

  She pushed her hair out of her eyes, surprised to see her hand come away covered with blood. Even little head wounds bleed like the dickens, a voice in her mind soothed. She crinkled her forehead. It didn't hurt. Surely that was a good sign.

  The canopy was back. She watched mesmerized as the flames writhed above her.

  A small explosion somewhere behind her, brought her sharply back to reality. She had to get out of here.

  She tried to push against the weight on top of her, her hand recognizing the smooth metal of a filing cabinet. It was warm to the touch, but not hot. Not yet, the little voice whispered. She coughed again, grimacing. Her throat was raw from breathing the rancid smoke. At least she was trapped on the floor. There was more air down here.

  She tried to look at the filing cabinet, but all she could make out clearly was the tip of her nose, the effort making her cross-eyed. She gave up. The thing must be jammed against something else. If it had landed on her directly, surely it would have crushed her.

  Something was braced against her head. When she tried to move, she could feel it shift. Better to hold still. The smoke seemed thicker now. She worked to keep her breathing shallow, her eyes darting back and forth, watching for the fire, waiting for it find her, devour her.

  Fear threatened to consume her again. She watched as a burning ember dropped from the ceiling onto the wooden floor. It smoldered, but didn't catch and she felt an absurd rush of relief. She tried to move her right arm, but it was securely pinned at her side. She was trapped. The only thing she could do now was wait, and hope that someone would come.

  Michael.

  His face filled her mind, and she felt immediately calmer, almost as if he was actually there with her. Surely fate hadn't sent him all the way through time, only to let him watch her die.

  She shook her head, biting down on her lip, the resulting pain pulling her from her morbid thoughts. This kind of thinking just wouldn't do. She had to hang on. Michael would come. He'd saved her before and it looked like he was going to have to save her again. She closed her eyes, blocking out the menacing fire. All she had to do was wait.

  Flames shot between broken shards of glass in the front window. Michael was aware of people in the street, of shouts and cries for help, but all he could focus on was the fire raging inside the gallery.

  Cara. He had to get to Cara.

  As he ran for the front door, a wave of heat rolled across the sidewalk, enveloping him. Swearing, he backed away, hands in front of his face. A shrill wail filled the air. He wasn't certain what a modern day fire wagon would look like, but he recognized a siren when he heard one. He released a breath. Help was on the way.

  Turning back to the building, he watched as smoke and sparks fill the night sky, obliterating the stars. The wailing was nearer now, and down the street, he could see flashing red lights.

  With a shattering crash, a window exploded, sending bits of glass tinkling down on the street like rain. He whipped around, fear lashing through him. He had to act now. There wasn't time to waste. Sprinting around the corner of the building, he prayed that the gallery had a back door.

  The backside of the gallery glowed with firelight, but the fire had yet to gain a death hold here. A single streetlight lit the area around a small ramp leading up to a back door. Sending a chorus of thank-yous heavenward, he ran up the ramp and grabbed the doorknob, relieved to find that it was cool.

  He pulled. Nothing happened. The door was locked. Cursing, he rammed a shoulder into the door. It didn't budge. He stepped back, his mind racing. There had to be a way in. A bush next to the ramp waved in the draft from the fire. Something behind it sparkled in the light. A window. There was a window. Bending down, he picked up a discarded piece of wood, and swinging it with all the force he could muster, slammed it into the windowpane. Glass flew, and mindless of the remaining shards, he forced his way through the gaping hole.

  Dropping to the floor on the other side, he removed his jacket and held it over his face like a shield. The air was heavy with smoke and he could see flames shooting from the ceiling and walls. "Cara." He called her name, then waited, ears straining for an answer.

  "Cara, can you hear me?" Not now, his heart pleaded. Oh please, not now. They'd only just found each other. Surely they wouldn't be separated again so soon. Not like this. "Cara." He screamed, trying to pitch his voice above the roar of the fire.

  A small noise separated itself from the bedlam around him. Heart pounding, he ran in the direction of the sound, skidding to a stop in front of a smoldering mound of debris. Cara's desk leaned drunkenly against the wall, a metal cabinet of some kind balanced against the edge. Two empty packing crates lay next to the desk, one upended and the other slanting against the cabinet. The end of a screen protruded from beneath the cabinet, holding it off the floor.

  "Cara?" He waited, his heart fluttering in his throat.

  "Michael?" Her voice was low but audible.

  He grabbed the free standing crate and tossed it aside. An arm extended from beneath the cabinet. "Cara, honey, can you move your arm?"

  Her fingers wiggled and he strained to see her face in the shadows underneath the cabinet. He moved the other crate and knelt down, his face close to the floor. Her lips lifted in the tiniest of smiles. "I knew you'd come."

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it. "Hold still, I'm going to try and move the cabinet."

  A sound like thunder filled the air as a section of the ceiling caved in, sending flames shooting down from the floor above. Michael felt a rush of fear. There wasn't much time.

  "Hurry," Cara whispered, echoing his thoughts.

  He stood up and wrapped his arms around the cabinet. Bracing himself, he sucked in a breath and pulled up, stepping backward as the heavy cabinet lifted. Once he was certain it was clear of Cara, he dropped it, the resounding thud shaking the floor.

  Kneeling beside her again, he lifted the screen off her. It had probably saved her life. Her face was covered with blood, but a quick examination reassured him that she only had a small cut at her hairline. "Can you move?"

  "I think so."

  He put a hand behind her to brace her back, and she sat up slowly. He ran his hands along her torso and legs, searching for injury, relieved to find none. The fire was growing hotter, feeding on the gallery in frenzied gluttony. The screen beside them burst into flame.

  Michael, scooped Cara into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. "What do you say we get the hell out of here?"

  "I'm with you." Her whispered words held a hint of bravado.

  He pulled her closer, feeling her hands lock together behind his neck. She was one hell of a lady. Dodging a burning beam, he headed back the way he had come, only to find that the wall was now ablaze, the window completely engulfed. Again fear clutched at his belly. He spun around, frantically searching for another way out.

  Suddenly, with a rain of sparks and cinders, the wall gave way, and through the smoke and haze, he could see the placid night sky.

  "Hold your breath, we're going to make a run for it," he yelled, pitching his voice so that he could be heard above the increasing roar of the inferno. She nodded and buried her face in the hollow at the base of his throat. Sucking in a breath full of scalding smoke, he closed his eyes and ran.

  The cool, night air felt almost frigid after the heat in the gallery. Carefully, he let Cara down, reveling in the feel of her body, warm and alive, sliding against his. They stood in the glow of the flames, watching as men scurried to and fro, trying to contain the fi
re.

  She clung to him, tears coursing down her soot streaked face. He wrapped his arms around her in an effort to shield her from the fire's brutal annihilation of the gallery. Stroking her hair, and murmuring nonsensical words, he tried to soothe her, to ease her pain. Knowing, in his head, that nothing he could say or do would bring back what she had lost. Knowing, in his heart, that he still had to try.

  Cara sat on a cot in front of an ambulance, drinking luke-warm coffee. Michael was nearby talking with a fireman. He was an amazing man. Watching him wave a hand to emphasize his point, she realized that no one would ever guess he'd just recently popped into this century. He seemed to take everything in stride.

  She shivered and snuggled deeper into a borrowed blanket. Her head ached and it hurt to swallow. But except for the cut on her head, she'd avoided serious injury.

  Thanks to Michael.

  He glanced in her direction, the smile in his eyes making her stomach turn to jelly. She sucked in a breath and turned to look at the smoldering remnants of her gallery. Everything was gone. All her paintings reduced to cinders and ashes. She felt tears threatening again, but angrily pushed them away. It wouldn't do any good to cry.

  This was all her fault.

  The man who'd sold her the building had warned her about the space heaters. Even Nick had recommended that she install central heat. But it was expensive and she'd decided that as long as she was careful, avoiding open flames, she'd be able to make do.

  Famous last words.

  "Cara, my God, I came as soon as I heard." Nick sat down on the cot beside her, his face flushed, as if he'd been running. "Are you all right?"

  She tried for a smile but missed. "I'm fine. Really."

  "I told you to replace those damn space heaters." There was a note of anger in his voice.

  "I know you did. But right now I'm not up to a lecture. Okay?" She closed her eyes, wishing he'd just go away.

  "I'm sorry, Cara mia. It's just that I heard the fire engines, then I saw the gallery..." His face softened, his anger dissipating. "What were you doing in there?" He gestured to the smoking rubble. "When I saw you, you were headed to Belle's for ice cream."

  "I forgot to sign the manifest."

  "The shipment with the Promise?"

  She nodded her head, miserably. Of all she'd lost, the paintings of the mine had been the most precious to her, work that could never be duplicated.

  He frowned, then grimaced, the full impact of her words hitting him. "You lost the entire series? Even the ones that had already been crated?"

  Cara nodded her head, a tear sliding down the crevice between her nose and cheek.

  "Pity." The word hung between them, and Cara wondered if Nick was feeling sorry for her or for himself. "Shall I drive you to the hospital?"

  "No." The word came out more sharply than she had intended. "I just want to go home."

  "Let me take you, then." He laid a hand on her knee and she shivered at the contact, pulling away.

  "I'll take her home, Vargas." Michael reached the edge of the cot and held out a hand. "Are you ready?"

  "Is it okay for us to go?" She took his hand and stood, grateful when he slipped an arm around her for support. "Thanks, I guess I'm still a little wobbly." She leaned against him, feeling his hard body against hers.

  He smiled down at her. "No problem. I'd say turnabout is fair play."

  "Well, I can see you're in good hands." Nick rose, too, making no effort to conceal the sarcasm in his voice. "You obviously don't need me." He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek, shooting an angry glance in Michael's direction.

  She felt Michael tense and his arm tightened around her. Nick's eyes met hers and his lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. Then, with a brief nod, he turned and walked away. Cara blew out a breath in relief.

  "Where did he come from?" Michael watched through narrowed eyes as Nick disappeared around a corner.

  "From the bar, I guess. He heard the sirens."

  "You folks all right? We're fixin' to head back to the station." The fireman's teeth gleamed white against his charcoal stained face.

  "We're fine. Thanks for everything." Michael released her and shook hands with the man.

  Cara tried to summon the words to show her thanks, but suddenly, she wasn't sure that she had anything to be thankful for.

  "Any idea what caused this?" Michael's words burned like acid against skin. She swallowed, watching the fireman's face, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  "Can't say for sure, but looks like it was a propane heater. Those things are accidents waiting to happen, and when you add paint solvents to the mix, well…" He shrugged.

  Cara felt sick. It was her fault. She clenched her fists, trying to control the agony welling up inside her. Michael and the man were still talking, but the words stopped making sense. They ebbed and flowed around her, but she was no longer listening, her eyes fixed on the charred remains of the gallery.

  Wisps of smoke curled lazily among the broken beams and shattered walls that marked all that was left of her studio. In the span of a few short hours, her life's work had quite literally gone up in smoke.

  Michael's strong fingers curled around hers, his touch sending shivers of warmth coursing through her icy heart.

  "It's all gone." Her voice quivered, echoing the pain inside.

  His hand tightened on hers. "No, Cara, not everything."

  She tipped her head up to meet the intensity of his gaze, her belly tightening as he bent his head to brush his lips against hers.

  "Let's go home," he whispered.

  Michael paced back and forth across Cara's living room floor. What the hell was taking her so long. It seemed that she'd been in there forever. He looked at the closed bathroom door, willing it to open, his body coiled tighter than a rattler ready to strike.

  Finally, telling himself that he needed to make sure she was all right, he flung open the door. She was standing in front of the mirror, staring blankly at her naked reflection, tracks from her tears still etched in the black soot on her face, her silver pendant hanging from the fingers of one hand.

  "Cara?"

  She didn't move. Her other hand gripped the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles were white. He'd seen this before. One summer when he'd worked at the mine, there'd been a cave-in. Three men were trapped inside and only one had escaped. At first, the man had been fine, even making jokes about it all. Then, a couple of hours later, he'd started shaking, his eyes fixed and staring. The doctor had called it shock.

  He took the necklace from her hand, laying it by the sink and gently loosened her grip on the counter, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her into the curve of his body. Their eyes met in the mirror and he was relieved to see a spark of life. He rubbed his hands over her, trying to warm her, trying desperately not to think about the silky skin beneath his fingers.

  "You're cold. We need to get you into the shower."

  She nodded, her eyes still locked with his in the mirror.

  "Cara, say something, I need to know you're all right."

  She tilted her head regarding their reflection. "Michael?"

  "Come on, Cara, you've got to help me."

  She nodded, but made no effort to move. He spun them around, away from the mirror, and reached out to turn on the spigots. Water gushed out and he marveled again at the ability to get hot water with only a turn of a handle.

  He urged her forward, trying to get her to step into the warm stream of water. But she shook her head and nestled closer to him, evidently unwilling to leave the circle of his arms.

  "All right, then we'll have to do this together." Holding her with one arm, he maneuvered them into the stall that held the shower. The water ran over them like gentle fingers, soaking his shirt. She stood still, letting the water run over her, washing away the remnants of the fire. Black water pooled at their feet running down the drain, leeching away until the water ran clear.

  Michael took the bar of softly sc
ented soap and slowly, gently began to massage it into her, starting with her shoulders and working down in slow soothing circles, until she was slippery with soap. Gritting his teeth, he tried not to think about what he was doing, what he was touching. He tried to ignore the single-minded part of his body already tightening with need. A groan emanated from somewhere deep inside him as he tried to forget just how badly he wanted this woman.

  Cara sighed with contentment. She had thought she'd never feel warm again, but there was heat spreading inside her, starting with her belly and inching outwards. She arched her back, allowing the soothing fingers of water to stroke her.

  They urged the heat onward, and she strained for more, moving her body against the gentle rhythm of the water. Soap slid down her and the contrast of the water against its slick lather was almost unbearably wonderful. She felt her nipples harden and swallowed a shallow moan.

  She ran a hand down her body, lightly touching her breasts and belly, and then stopped, puzzled when her hand encountered another hand. One that definitely didn't belong to her. Her eyes flew open and she turned to meet cobalt eyes.

  Michael.

  Her breath caught and she smiled slowly, feeling the heat building in intensity. He stepped back, frowning, his eyes searching hers. Immediately she shivered, missing the warmth of his body against hers.

  She bit her lower lip, suddenly uncertain. Was this a dream?

  With a slow deliberate movement, she raised her hand and ran it along the curve of his jaw, feeling the rough beginnings of his beard. She trailed her fingers across his lips, pleased when she felt his body tremble at her touch. No, he was definitely real.

  With both hands she began to unbutton his shirt, her eyes never leaving his. His breathing was harsh and his eyes were still full of questions, but he let her remove his shirt.

  Steam from the shower swirled around them and she reached out to pull him closer. Her soapy skin slid against his, the hair on his chest rasping against her already aroused nipples. With a groan he bent his head, taking possession of her mouth. She traced the line of his lower lip with her tongue, tasting him, teasing him—wanting him.