“What are we doing?”
“Don’t unlock your door yet. I want to make sure no one followed us.” He looked around the parking lot. “The right amount of cars are here. No extras.”
Sloane hissed in a breath. “Do you think they know where you live?”
“They?” He turned to her but couldn’t see her face in the darkness.
“Well, whoever blew up your car.”
“So you didn’t remember something?”
Sloane’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, Mason. Nothing specific. The word just rolled off the tip of my tongue.”
He nodded, not sure if she would see it. The parking lot was still quiet, his apartment dark. “Okay, I think it’s all right. Let’s go on up. I’m sure you could use a good night’s rest.”
“You don’t have to go sleep at the fire station,” Sloane said, climbing out of the car. “In fact, I think I’d rather have you at the apartment. That is, if you don’t mind staying.”
Mason smiled. “Not at all.” Still cautious, he led the way up the stairs and along the balcony until he reached his apartment. As unobtrusively as possible, he checked the door and the lock. Nothing looked disturbed. Nothing scratched. He slipped his key in the lock, resisting the urge to cringe as he turned it. Moron. It would be difficult for anybody to sabotage his apartment door. His neighbors, several of whom were home during the day, would’ve noticed anything odd. Nevertheless, it paid to be careful. Especially now.
As soon as they entered the apartment, he pressed Sloane against the wall just inside the door. She let out a small gasp at the sudden contact. “Sorry. Just wait here, please, while I check out the rest of the apartment.” She nodded quickly and stayed where she was, but the fear was back on her face. Damn it. Couldn’t he do anything right today? He quickly checked through the other rooms. Empty.
When he returned, Sloane nodded and then headed for the bedroom. “I think I’ll take a quick shower. You mind?”
“Not at all.” He paused. “Wait, you don’t want to get that bandage on your arm wet, at least not yet.” He gestured with his chin. “Come on into the kitchen. I’ll wrap and tape it.”
She nodded again and Mason stepped into the kitchen and reached for the cabinet beneath the sink. He pulled out a plastic grocery bag and tore a small hole in the bottom of the bag, then he gestured toward Sloane’s arm. She was looking vaguely in his direction, but her eyes were unfocused. “Sloane? Give me your arm.”
She held her arm out in front of her, staring down at the bandage is if it belonged to someone else. Mason’s stomach clenched. Just the memory of the piece of shrapnel sticking up out of her arm angered him. As he took another step closer to Sloane, his emotions warred between fury and fear. Life was uncertain; his job had already taught him that. He ran into burning buildings every day, but still, he didn’t think about dying very often. But after a night like this—to have someone deliberately target Sloane, trying to murder the woman he loved, that was something entirely different.
Fuck. He loved her. He’d never stopped loving her.
No, he couldn’t deal with that. She needed him strong. He couldn’t keep her safe if he was busy mooning over his emotions. Mason pushed the thought from his mind and turned his attention back what he was doing. He carefully wrapped the bag around Sloane’s arm, and then reached for the drawer next to the stove. His junk drawer. He rummaged around, digging out a roll of electrical tape. He glanced at her with an apologetic expression. “Not perfect, but it will hold better than Scotch tape.”
Sloane nodded. After her arm was suitably protected, she thanked him quietly and then turned to leave the kitchen. It was fucking obvious the day’s events were bothering her, but she wasn’t talking about it. Maybe after she’d washed off the last of the grime from the day she’d want to talk. As soon as she did, he’d be ready. Mason turned back toward the counter and turned off the coffee maker. He doubted if he’d be sleeping much tonight, and despite the hour, a hot drink might help Sloane relax further after her shower. Speaking of which, while she was out of earshot, he’d call and check in with Brian Atkins at the Sheriff’s Office.
The moment he heard the click of the bathroom lock, followed a few seconds later by the sound of running water, he dialed Ryan’s number. While he waited for his friend to answer, he dumped a couple of scoops of grounds into the machine and filled the water reservoir. As the machine gurgled to life, his friend answered.
Mason quickly filled Ryan in. “Have you been able to find anything else about Sloane’s history? Or about her boss?” Ryan didn’t reply immediately. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” Ryan said. He spoke softly, as if cradling his hand around the mouthpiece of his phone. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“There’s nothing about this I like. What is it?”
“I talked to a guy I know at the Justice Department. Turns out that Novas Antiquities has been involved in some fairly shady stuff. At least the Feds think so. Problem is, they won’t tell me any details. After all, I have no official connection to your case.”
“Any idea what the shady stuff is?”
“All I could find out, and I’ll tell you it took some doing so you owe me one, was that it’s all over a few questionable shipping invoices.”
“Shipping invoices?”
“Yeah. Which is weird, because it’s an antiquities business. That’s what they do, right? Ship stuff. I did some digging and was able to find the schedules. They send stuff from the company’s main office in Charleston to places all over the world. Why a few shipping invoices would elicit curiosity, I have no idea.”
Mason rubbed a hand over his forehead, the last of the day’s energy sapping from him. Another fucking dead end. “Thanks anyway, Ryan. If you learn anything else, keep me posted.”
“Of course. But in the meantime, I would suggest you keep an eye on your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” Sloane definitely didn’t need him pushing any sort of romantic relationship right now.
“Whatever you say. I’ll see if I can get a copy of the police report from the incident in Savannah. If I find anything out, I’ll give you a call.”
12
Sloane
Sloane stood under the spray of the shower. The hot water poured down her back, easing some of the tension she had been desperately trying to hide from Mason. He had barely taken his eyes off her since they left the hospital, his gaze so intense she had to restrain a shiver. Just the thought of his car exploding caused her heart to hammer again. She held her plastic-encased arm out of the water as much as she could, bracing it on the glass shower door, sucking in deep breaths.
She thought back to her comment in the car just as they’d arrived back at Mason’s apartment. While she’d been telling the truth when he’d asked if she remembered anything, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been correct. They. Do you think they know where you live? A snippet of memory, something that she couldn’t quite grasp but there nevertheless, needling at her brain.
Despite her mumbled protests to Mason that she didn’t remember anything, she might be wrong. It was just so damn ethereal, a tiny almost thought that slipped away as soon as she tried to pay attention to it. Was it simply nerves from the explosion, or was she actually remembering something? Another memory of a billowing ball of fire somewhere else? At the scene of the explosion this afternoon, the smell of motor oil and burning rubber had been intense, along with the chemical stench of burning foam padding. The smells at the abandoned auto shop had been intense too, but different, focusing on the smell of gasoline.
She hadn’t remembered that before. Until the explosion that afternoon, everything before she’d woken up lying on the pavement outside was blank. Was she starting to remember? Did she want to? Sloane sighed, the sound echoing against the tile. The sound of her boss’s voice on the phone this afternoon hadn’t triggered any memories, and while it was nice of him to offer to let her come back to work, why w
ould he? What could she possibly do for him? Maybe he simply wanted to help her remember. She’d think about it.
A cold trickle of water brought her back to the world. The shower had grown lukewarm while she’d been stuck in her mind. She adjusted the faucets, but there probably wasn’t much hot water left by now. Sloane quickly soaped up, scrubbed her skin and then her hair, trying to keep her bandaged arm out of the water as much as possible. By the time she finally turned off the water, she actually felt a little better. Sliding the glass door open, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in one of Mason’s gigantic towels. For all the man-cave style of his apartment, the man knew how to choose good linens. She snuggled deeply into the towel. It was almost as soft as the sheets on his bed.
Damn. She’d walked straight into the bathroom without stopping to grab a change of clothes. There was no way she was putting the same clothes back on again. They were drowning in the stench of the day and she could barely stand to be near them, much less dress in them again. She’d just have to ask Mason to stay clear while she grabbed some. Sloane took a few steps toward the bathroom door before stopping in her tracks.
She didn’t have any. The few items that she’d managed to collect since waking up on the pavement had been crammed into a backpack. A backpack that she’d taken to Savannah, and that had been in the back of the Jeep when it had blown up. Crap. Sloane bit her bottom lip. She was not going to cry!
Well, there was nothing else she could do. She opened the bathroom door, letting a gush of steam to escape. “Mason?” She smelled coffee.
He appeared at the end of the hallway within seconds. “Is something wrong? You okay?”
“I, umm, don’t have any clothes to put on. Do you have a pair of sweats or something I could borrow?”
“Sure,” he nodded, heading down the hallway. If he realized what she meant—she had literally nothing—he wasn’t going to bring it up. As he passed the bathroom door, he deliberately avoided looking at her as he disappeared into his bedroom. She heard him open a drawer and then slam it shut, emerging several moments later with a pair of gray sweatpants and a dark blue T-shirt with the emblem of the Monroe Fire Department emblazoned on the chest.
“These okay? We can go to pick up a few more things for you tomorrow.”
So he knew. Sloane said nothing as she reached for the clothes he extended toward her. She took them and then closed the door softly. She had some decisions to make. She couldn’t rely on Mason’s generosity forever. She had to find out more information and the sooner the better. Had she driven to Monroe, come from Savannah, or had she flown in? And what was she going to do about a job? Could she do anything while she didn’t remember a damn thing?
She had another problem in addition to her memory, or lack thereof. While Mason had been a perfect gentleman since their kiss, the attraction between them was only growing more intense. It wasn’t just that he was keeping her safe, protecting her; a hero saving the damsel in distress. Even with bits of exploded car falling about her, she felt safe wrapped in his arms. But it was more than that. There was something else there, something deep inside her. Every time she looked at him, her heart tripped over itself. Just sitting across from him, a pulsing grew in her core. Her nipples tightened. Her breaths shallow and pulse racing.
She didn’t remember him, but her body did. Something deep inside of her, maybe even her soul, knew exactly who he was. Just now, when he stood in front of the doctor holding the clothes out for her, she’d seen it. Like everything else, a brief flash that was gone as quickly as it came. But with Mason, the sensations remained behind long after the trace of memory was gone. She held onto that as she dressed, turning it over in her mind, studying it. The expression on his face, the way he had looked at her. His very presence triggered something. It was fuzzy, but it was real.
Sloane quickly slipped on the clothes and then towel-dried her hair, running her fingers through it, at least enough to tame it into some semblance of order. Stepping out of the bathroom, she moved down the hallway and stood at the opening to the kitchen. The aroma of coffee floated through the apartment. It triggered another memory, one from her childhood. She remembered running down the hallway, giggling as her father chased her through the house and into the kitchen, her mother standing at the counter, coffee pot in one hand, a cup in the other.
Her heart skipped a beat.
“You all right?”
Sloane ignored the voice, concentrating on the memory, trying to tug it loose. To unravel the knots. “I think I just remembered something.”
She looked up. Mason was staring at her, his mouth hanging open. “What was it?”
“When I was a kid. The smell of coffee. I remember running down the hallway, my dad chasing me.”
“That’s good, Sloane. That’s really good.” He leaned back against the counter. “You want some coffee? Or some wine? You were always fond of Riesling.” He reached for the cupboard. “Might help you relax before bed. We’ve both had a pretty long day.”
She shrugged and nodded. “Sure.” He pulled a wine glass from the cupboard and then turned to open the refrigerator. He extracted a half-empty bottle of Riesling, pulled out the cork, and poured half a glass before handing it to her. She reached for it and then she instinctively held the glass under her nose, inhaling the scent of the wine. Another memory, albeit a brief one. She was in bed, naked, her body on fire, desire coursing through her. Another flash of a memory, only seconds, appearing and disappearing like the flash of a light bulb. Standing in front of Mason, her ass tucked into his groin. His hand under her blouse, tweaking her nipples. His other hand shoved down the front of her unzipped jeans, his finger sliding in and out, her internal muscles clenching around him while his thumb fingered her nub, eliciting sensation after sensation . . .
“You all right?”
Sloane startled, jerking her head in his direction. Heat flamed on her cheeks. The desire within her was intense, immediate, aching for release. “I—I think I’d better sit down. Got a little light-headed for a second there.” That wasn’t a lie, not really. She was feeling distinctly light-headed. Maybe the knock on her head this afternoon really had triggered some memories. Maybe she was starting to remember. Nothing concrete. Just flashes. Were they real or her imagination kicking into high gear? Was she seeing memories or fantasy?
Without conscious thought, she placed the wine glass down on the table and stepped toward Mason. He stood, staring at her, almost wary. Sloane placed her hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the strength of the muscles beneath her fingertips. Her heart beat fast and she felt a rush of sensations surge through her, sparking a tingling, hot sensation deep inside.
Mason didn’t move, but his gaze heated and locked on her. Sloane lifted slightly on her toes, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips to his. At first he didn’t respond. She wasn’t feeling anything, either, except maybe embarrassment, until his lips returned the pressure. Not forceful, but soft and tender. Gentle, tentative at first. Did he feel it, too? The same sense of memory, of connection between them, that she did? Way back in the recesses of her brain?
A sound distracted her. A few seconds later, Sloane realized the moaning was coming from her, the sound low in her throat. The next second, Mason’s arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close, her body melded against his. Was this real? Was she simply reenacting their past, or was this something she wanted now, today, at this moment? The kiss intensified. His warm tongue traced the contours of her lips and then delved further inside. Her body responded to his every caress, her hardening, aching for his touch. A flame of heat spread slowly downward from her breasts into her belly, and then lower. Her legs felt boneless, so much so she was afraid she would collapse into his arms.
Blood raced through her veins. A soft moan sounded again as she tightened her grasp on his shoulders and then brushed her hands lower, down to his impressive pecs. Then, as abruptly as she had practically thrown herself at him, realization dawned. She broke off the k
iss, eyes wide as she leaned back, looking up at him, at his startled expression.
“You remembered something else, didn’t you?” His breath was warm on her lips. Sloane’s senses were alive and attuned to every nuance of his expression. The warmth of solid muscle beneath her fingertips. His burgeoning erection pressed against her belly, the scents of gasoline, asphalt, and his aftershave or maybe it was just the scent of his skin. Her gaze traveled over his face, noticing the slight lift of an eyebrow, the appearance of the dimple in his left cheek.
She said nothing but simply nodded, lifted up on her toes, and kissed him again. Memory or not, he was absolutely delicious. This was where she felt safe. This, right here in his Mason’s arms, was where she felt a sense of presence, of being. Unless he stopped them again, she was going to take it all the way. She had to. Sloane wanted nothing else but to make love with him. There was a deeper connection there, beyond any memory, forgotten or not. An old rhythm, a sense of familiarity and comfort. She had to explore that. Was it all just echoes of the past, or was she falling in love all over again? Did Mason feel the same way about her? If not, she would move on, as much as it would break her heart all over again. She had to.
Mason broke off the kiss this time. He stared into her eyes for several moments, and then reached for her hand. Sloane relished the warm strength, the gentleness, and the surge of excitement that raced to her core at his touch. Sexual chemistry—it was all very real when it came to Mason. He tugged gently on her hand, leading her through the house. As she followed him into the bedroom, she stared at his back; the way his t-shirt clung to his broad shoulders, his narrow waist, and then his ass.
The minute they passed through the threshold to his bedroom, he turned and bent to kiss her again. Sloane melted into the kiss, pressing her body up against his. His hardness pushed against her upper thigh and a thrill ran through her at the thought that she had elicited such desire in him. In him? She thrummed with it, the heat surging through her in pulsating waves. She wanted more.
From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1) Page 9