"Why?"
"Is this an interrogation or an engagement?" she demanded.
"Both, but this is the last one. Why are you going to marry me?''
"Because you nagged me until I broke down. And I felt sorry for you, because you seemed so set on it. Besides, I love you, and I've kind of gotten used to you, so—"
"Hold on. Say that again."
"I said I've kind of gotten used to you."
Grinning, he kissed the tip of her nose. "Not that part. The part right before that."
"Where I felt sorry for you?"
"Uh-uh. After that."
"Oh, the I-love-you part."
"That's the one. Say it again."
"Okay." She took a deep breath. "I love you." And let it out. "It's tougher to say it all by itself that way."
"You'll get used to it."
"I think you're right."
He laughed and crushed her against him. "I'm betting on it."
Epilogue
"I think I need to consider this again."
Althea stood in front of the full-length mirror in Cilia's bedroom, staring at her own reflection. There was a woman inside the mirror, she noted dispassionately. A pale woman with a tumble of red hair. She looked elegant in a slim ivory suit trimmed with lace and accented with tiny pearl buttons that ran the length of the snugly fitted jacket.
But her eyes were too big, too wide, and too fearful.
"I really don't think this is going to work."
"You look fabulous," Deborah assured her. "Perfect."
"I wasn't talking about the dress." She pressed a hand to her queasy stomach. "I meant the wedding."
"Don't start." Cilia tugged at the line of Althea's ivory silk jacket. "You're fidgeting again."
"Of course I'm fidgeting." For lack of anything better to do, Althea reached up to make sure the pearl drops at her ears were secure. Colt's mother had given them to her, she remembered, and felt a trickle of warmth at the memory. Something to be handed down, his mother had said, as they had been from Colt's grandmother to her.
Then she'd cried a little, and kissed Althea's cheek and welcomed her to the family.
Family, Althea thought on a fresh wave of panic. What did she know about family?
"I'm about to commit myself for life to a man I've known a matter of weeks," she muttered to the woman in the mirror. "I should be committed."
"You love him, don't you?" Deborah asked.
"What does that have to do with it?"
Laughing, Deborah took Althea's restless hand in hers. "Only everything. I didn't know Gage very long, either." And had known the depths of his secrets for an even shorter time. "But I loved him, and I knew. I've seen the way you look at Colt, Thea. You know, too."
"Lawyers," Althea complained to Cilia. "They always turn things around on you."
"She's great, isn't she?" Pride burst through as Cilia gave her sister a hard squeeze. "The best prosecutor east of the Mississippi."
"When you're right, you're right," Deborah returned with a grin. "Now, let's take a look at the matron of honor." She tilted her head to examine her sister. "You look wonderful, Cilia."
"So do you." Cilia brushed a hand through her sister's dark hair. "Marriage and motherhood agree with you."
"If you two will finish up your admiration hour, I'm having a nervous breakdown over here." Althea sat down on the bed, squeezed her eyes shut. "I could make a run for it out the back."
"He'd catch you," Cilia decided.
"Not if I had a really good head start. Maybe if I—" A knock on the door interrupted her. "If that's Nightshade, I am not going to talk to him."
"Of course not," Deborah agreed. "Bad luck." She opened the door to her husband and daughter. That was good luck, she thought as she smiled at Gage. The very best luck of all.
"Sorry to break in on the prep work, but we've got some restless people downstairs."
"If those kids have touched that wedding cake…" Cilia began.
"Boyd saved it," Gage assured her. Barely. With the baby tucked in one arm, he slipped the other around his wife. "Colt's wearing a path in the den carpet."
"So he's nervous," Althea shot back. "He should be. Look what he's gotten us into. Boy, would I like to be a fly on the wall down there."
Gage grinned, winked at Deborah. "It has its advantages." He nuzzled his infant daughter when she began to fuss.
"I'll take her, Gage." Deborah gathered Adrianna into her arms. "You go help Boyd calm down the groom. We're nearly ready."
"Who said?" Althea twisted her hands together.
Cilia brushed Gage out of the room, closed the door. It was time for the big guns. "Coward," she said softly.
"Now, just a minute…"
"You're afraid to walk downstairs and make a public commitment to the man you love. That's pathetic."
Catching on, Deborah soothed the baby, and played the game. "Now, Cilia, don't be so harsh. If she's changed her mind—"
"She hasn't. She just can't make it up. And Colt's doing everything to make her happy. He's selling his ranch, buying land out here."
Althea got to her feet. "That's unfair."
"It certainly is." Deborah ranged herself beside Althea, and bit the inside of her lip to keep from grinning. "I'd think you'd be a little more understanding, Cilia. This is an important decision."
"Then she should make it instead of hiding up here like some vestal virgin about to be sacrificed."
Althea's chin jutted out. "I'm not hiding. Deb, go out and tell them to start the damn music. I'm coining down."
"All right, Thea. If you're sure." Deborah patted her arm, winked at her sister, and hurried out.
"Well, come on." Althea stormed to the door. "Let's get going."
"Fine." Cilia sauntered past her, then started down the steps.
Althea was nearly to the bottom before she realized she'd been conned. The two sisters had pulled off the good cop-bad cop routine like pros.
Now her stomach jumped. There were flowers everywhere, banks of color and scent. There was music, soft, romantic. She saw Colt's mother leaning heavily against his father and smiling bravely through a mist of tears. She saw Natalie beaming and dabbing at her eyes. Deborah, her lashes wet, cradling Adrianna.
There was Boyd, reaching out to take Cilia's hand, kissing her damp cheek before looking back at Althea to give her an encouraging wink.
Althea came to a dead stop. If people cried at weddings, she deduced, there had to be a good reason.
Then she looked toward the fireplace, and saw nothing but Colt.
And he saw nothing but her.
Her legs stopped wobbling. She crossed to him, carrying a single white rose, and her heart.
"Good to see you, Lieutenant," he murmured as he took her hand.
"Good to see you, too, Nightshade." She felt the warmth from the fire that glowed beside them, the warmth from him. She smiled as he brought her hand to his lips, and her fingers were steady.
"Happy Thanksgiving."
"Same goes." She brought their joined hands to her lips in turn. Maybe she didn't know about family, but she'd learn. They'd learn. "I love you, very much."
"Same goes. Ready for this?"
"I am now."
As the fire crackled, they faced each other and the life they'd make together.
--4 Night Smoke (09-1994)--
Prologue
Fire. It cleansed. It destroyed. With its heat, lives could be saved. Or lives could be taken. It was one of the greatest discoveries of man, and one of his chief fears.
And one of his fascinations.
Mothers warned their children not to play with matches, not to touch the red glow of the stove. For no matter how pretty the flame, how seductive the warmth, fire against flesh burned.
In the hearth, it was romantic, cozy, cheerful, dancing and crackling, wafting scented smoke and flickering soft golden light. Old men dreamed by it. Lovers wooed by it.
In the campfire, it shot its sparks
toward a starry sky, tempting wide-eyed children to roast their marshmallows into black goo while shivering over ghost stories.
There were dark, hopeless corners of the city where the homeless cupped their frozen hands over trash-can fires, their faces drawn and weary in the shadowy light, their minds too numb for dreams.
In the city of Urbana, there were many fires.
A carelessly dropped cigarette smoldering in a mattress. Faulty wiring, overlooked, or ignored by a corrupt inspector. A kerosene heater set too close to the drapes, oily rags tossed in a stuffy closet. A flash of lightning. An unattended candle.
All could cause destruction of property, loss of life. Ignorance, an accident, an act of God. But there were other ways, more devious ways.
Once inside the building he took several short, shallow breaths. It was so simple, really. And so exciting. The power was in his hands now. He knew exactly what to do, and there was a thrill in doing it. Alone. In the dark.
It wouldn't be dark for long. The thought made him giggle as he climbed to the second floor. He would soon make the light.
Two cans of gasoline would be enough. With the first he splashed the old wooden floor, soaking it, leaving a trail as he moved from wall to wall, from room to room. Now and again he stopped, pulling stock from the racks, scattering matchbooks over the stream of flammables, adding fuel that would feed the flames and spread them.
The smell of the accelerant was sweet, an exotic perfume that heightened his senses. He wasn't panicked, he wasn't hurried as he climbed the winding metal stairs to the next floor. He was quiet, of course, for he wasn't a stupid man. But he knew the night watchman was bent over his magazines in another part of the building.
As he worked, he glanced up at the spider-like sprinklers in the ceiling. He'd already seen to those. There would be no hiss of water from the pipes as the flames rose, no warning buzz from smoke alarms.
This fire would burn, and burn, and burn, until the window glass exploded from the angry fists of heat. Paint would blister, metal would melt, rafters would fall, charred and flaming.
He wished… for a moment he wished he could stay, stand in the center of it all and watch the sleeping fire awaken, grumbling. He wanted to be there, to admire and absorb as it stirred, snapped, then stretched its hot, bright body. He wanted to hear its triumphant roar as it hungrily devoured everything in its path.
But he would be far away by then. Too far to see, to hear, to smell. He would have to imagine it.
With a sigh, he lit the first match, held the flame at eye level, admiring the infant spark, mesmerized by it. He was smiling, as proud as any expectant father, as he tossed the tiny fire into a dark pool of gas. He watched for a moment, only a moment, as the animal erupted into life, streaking along the trail he'd left for it.
He left quietly, hurrying now, into the frigid night. Soon his feet had picked up the rhythm of his racing heart.
Chapter 1
Annoyed, exhausted, Natalie stepped into her penthouse apartment. The dinner meeting with her marketing executives had run beyond midnight. She could have come home then, she reminded herself as she stepped out of her shoes. But no. Her office was en route from the restaurant to her apartment. She simply hadn't been able to resist stopping in for one more look at the new designs, one last check on the ads heralding the grand opening.
Both had needed work. And really, she'd only intended to make a few notes. Draft one or two memos.
So why was she stumbling toward the bedroom at 2:00 a.m.? she asked herself. The answer was easy. She was compulsive, obsessive. She was, Natalie thought, an idiot. Particularly since she had an eight-o'clock breakfast meeting with several of her East Coast sales reps. No problem, she assured herself. No problem at all. Who needed sleep? Certainly not Natalie Fletcher, the thirty-two-year-old dynamo who was currently expanding Fletcher Industries into one more avenue of profit.
And there would be profit. She'd put all her skill and experience and creativity into building Lady's Choice from the ground up. Before profit, there would be the excitement of conception, birth, growth, those first pangs and pleasures of an infant company its own way.
Her infant company, she thought with tired satisfaction. Her baby. She would tend and teach and nurture—and, yes, when necessary, walk the floor at 2:00 a.m.
A glance in the mirror over the bureau told her that even a dynamo needed rest. Her cheeks had lost both their natural color as well as their cosmetic blush and her face looked entirely too fragile and pale. The simple twist that scooped her hair back and had started the evening looking sophisticated and chic now only seemed to emphasize the shadows that smudged her dark green eyes.
Because she was a woman who prided herself on her energy and stamina, she turned away from the reflection, blowing her honey-toned bangs out of her eyes and rotating her shoulders to ease the stiffness. In any case, sharks didn't sleep, she reminded herself. Even business sharks. But this one was very tempted to fall on the bed fully dressed.
That wouldn't do, she thought, and shrugged out of her coat. Organization and control were every bit as important in business as a good head for figures. Ingrained habit had her walking to the closet, and she was draping the velvet wrap on a padded hanger when the phone rang.
Let the machine get it, she ordered herself, but by the second ring she was snatching up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Fletcher?"
"Yes?" The receiver clanged against the emeralds at her ear. She was reaching up to remove the earring when the panic in the voice stopped her.
"It's Jim Banks, Ms. Fletcher. The night watchman over at the south side warehouse. We've got trouble here."
"Trouble? Did someone break in?"
"It's fire. Holy God, Ms. Fletcher, the whole place is going up."
"Fire?'' She brought her other hand to the receiver, as if it might leap from her ear. "At the warehouse? Was anyone in the building? Is anyone in there?"
"No, ma'am, there was just me." His voice shook, cracked. "I was downstairs in the coffee room when I heard an explosion. Must've been a bomb or something, I don't know. I called the fire department."
She could hear other sounds now, sirens, shouts. "Are you hurt?"
"No, I got out. I got out. Mother of God, Ms. Fletcher, it's terrible. It's just terrible."
"I'm on my way."
It took Natalie fifteen minutes to make the trip from her plush west-side neighborhood to the dingy south side, with its warehouses and factories. But she saw the fire, heard it before she pulled up behind the string of engines. Men with their faces smeared with soot manned hoses, wielded axes. Smoke and flame belched from shattered windows and spewed through gaps in the ruined roof. The heat was enormous. Even at this distance it shot out, slapping her face while the icy February wind swirled at her back.
Everything. She knew everything inside the building was lost.
"Ms. Fletcher?"
Struggling against horror and fascination, she turned and looked at a round middle-aged man in a gray uniform.
"I'm Jim Banks."
"Oh, yes." She reached out automatically to take his hand. It was freezing, and as shaky as his voice. "You're all right? Are you sure?"
"Yes, ma'am. It's an awful thing."
They watched the fire and those who fought it for a moment, in silence. "The smoke alarms?"
"I didn't hear anything. Not until the explosion. I started to head upstairs, and I saw the fire. It was everywhere." He rubbed a hand over his mouth. Never in his life had he seen anything like it. Never in his life did he want to see its like again. "Just everywhere. I got out and called the fire department from my truck."
"You did the right thing. Do you know who's in charge here?"
"No, Ms. Fletcher, I don't. These guys work fast, and they don't spend a lot of time talking."
"All right. Why don't you go home now, Jim? I'll deal with this.
If they need to talk to you, I have your beeper number, and they can c
all."
"Nothing much to do." He looked down at the ground and shook his head. "I'm mighty sorry, Ms. Fletcher."
"So am I. I appreciate you calling me."
"Thought I should." He gave one last glance at the building, seemed to shudder, then trudged off to his truck.
Natalie stood where she was, and waited.
A crowd had gathered by the time Ry got to the scene. A fire drew crowds, he knew, like a good fistfight or a flashy juggler. People even took sides—and a great many of them rooted for the fire.
He stepped out of his car, a lean, broad-shouldered man with tired eyes the color of the smoke stinging the winter sky. His narrow, bony face was set, impassive. The lights flashing around him shadowed, then highlighted, the hollows and planes, the shallow cleft in his chin that women loved and he found a small nuisance.
He set his boots on the sodden ground and stepped into them with a grace and economy of motion that came from years of training. Though flames still licked and sparked, his experienced eye told him that the men had contained and nearly suppressed it.
Soon it would be time for him to go to work.
Automatically he put on the black protective jacket, covering his flannel shirt and his jeans down past the hips. He combed one hand through his unruly hair, hair that was a deep, dark brown and showed hints of fire in sunlight. He set his dented, smoke-stained hat on his head, lit a cigarette, then tugged on protective gloves.
And while he performed these habitual acts, he scanned the scene. A man in his position needed to keep an open mind about fire. He would take an overview of the scene, the weather, note the wind direction, talk to the fire fighters. There would be all manner of routine and scientific tests to run.
But first, he would trust his eyes, and his nose.
The warehouse was most probably a loss, but it was no longer his job to save it. His job was to find the whys and the hows.
He exhaled smoke and studied the crowd.
He knew the night watchman had called in the alarm. The man would have to be interviewed. Ry looked over the faces, one by one. Excitement was normal. He saw it in the eyes of the young man who watched the destruction, dazzled. And shock, in the slack-jawed woman who huddled against him. Horror, admiration, relief that the fire hadn't touched them or theirs. He saw that, as well.
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