by Jenna Mills
“No!” she rasped, tugging at him even as her hands slid against his damp shirt. “The chairs!”
Smoke filled the room, but squinting against the sting, he twisted and saw what she saw: the old wooden chairs at the small table. Lifting an arm to shield his face, he ran for the chair and grabbed it, snagging an old blanket from the floor near the sofa on the way back to the window.
“Cover up!” he instructed, tossing it toward her. The second the window broke, air would rush in. And the fire would feed.
In seconds the cabin would be engulfed.
“No!” Evangeline barreled into him, slamming her body against his even as he swung. She yanked the blanket over them both as glass shattered.
The cool air hit with stunning force. Gabe scooped up Evangeline and vaulted through the window, felt the fire lash at his legs. He hit the porch hard and ran, legging it out and leaping to the ground, not stopping until he reached the safety of the trees.
At an old oak he stopped and braced a hand against the trunk, sucked in hard gulps of oxygen. The air was clearer out here, cooler, but each breath seared his lungs. Rasping, he twisted toward the house, saw the flames taunting from the roof and the windows. “Sweet God…”
“Your arms,” Evangeline breathed, but before she could touch him, before she could see, he had her on her feet and his hands along her body.
“Tell me where it hurts—”
“No…” The flood of horror was immediate, dark and greedy and drowning out everything else in her eyes, the terror and the pain. The relief. And then she shouted, “No!”
Before he realized her intent, she was pulling away and running back to the house.
“No!” He took off after her, ignoring the dull throb when his foot came down on a cypress knee. “You can’t!” At the steps he caught up with her, snagged her by the wrist and pulled her back. “It’s too late!”
She twisted against him and pushed. “The evidence! We have to—”
“It’s gone.” The words, the truth, tore out of him. He kept his hands on her and tried to calm her, didn’t want to use force. But their bodies were hot and slick and it was impossible to hold on. “There’s nothing left—”
“But how do you know? There could be something—”
“There’s not! The fire started there!” In the bedroom. Behind a door he’d left open, but had been closed.
“We have to try!” And she broke from him again, because he’d not held on tightly enough.
This time she ran around the burning house, toward the back. And again he caught her, again dragging her against his body. “Let it go!” He coughed against the smoke searing his throat and his lungs. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s gone!”
She twisted hard and pivoted to look up at him, to stare up at him with hair falling into her face and soot staining her face, but this time it wasn’t fear or alarm that the light of the fire illuminated in her eyes. But shock—and suspicion.
What’s in this house could sink the case against Lambert, but you…didn’t pretend you hadn’t seen anything…
“Evie.” Her name scraped on the way out. “No—”
She shoved against him and backed away, never taking her eyes from his. “Those letters—” she coughed “—they could have exonerated Lambert.”
They could have. But now they were gone. Destroyed. By a fire set while the lead prosecutor had slept. It would be her word against his. “Don’t fall for it,” he said, and hated the way his voice went hoarse on the words. “Don’t you see?” Because, damn it, he did, and it was more punishingly clear by the second. “This is what they want—just like the night in the warehouse—to pit us against each other.”
But she continued to shake her head. “This has nothing to do with the night in the warehouse.”
The flames licked higher against the night sky, even as the rear of the house started to fall in on itself. “Get back!” he warned, but before he could touch her, before he could reach her, she jerked away—and ran.
Chapter 8
E vangeline wasn’t a woman to run. Not when her father died. Not when her mother started to drink. Not when Jimmy’s employer was found naked and murdered; her brother arrested. Convicted.
By Gabe.
She hadn’t run then; she’d stood her ground and fought, done what had to be done, gone to school and learned, prepared, walked into a world that disgusted her, offered a smile to the man who’d put ambition above justice. She’d given him the Trojan Horse of her friendship, then God, somehow she’d given him more, wanted more. Taken more. She’d wanted to reach for him when he hurt, to hold him while he bled.
Even after she’d driven that first knife into his back, she’d sometimes awakened at night with her chest aching, wanting nothing more than to go to Gabe, to put her arms around him and tell him she was sorry. Promise him everything would be okay.
But she had not run, had not let all those nasty, swirling shades of gray sway her from the course she’d charted. She’d pressed on, and she’d found her way back into Gabe’s life.
Now she welcomed the slap of the cool night air as she ripped at the tangled vines of Spanish moss. She tried to breathe, to think. She knew that Gabe followed. She could hear him, feel him.
Because of the fire, she told herself. That’s why she ran. Because the house had started to collapse, sending smoldering debris against the night sky. It had nothing to do with Gabe. Or the truth. The lie.
She’d slept. She hadn’t just lowered her guard, she’d let it crumble around her and, for the second time in two days, she’d closed her eyes to Gabriel Fontenot. The first time he’d tossed her apartment. This time, he’d destroyed crucial evidence.
It had to have been him. Nothing else made sense. She’d marveled at the way Gabe had taken the poems and letters in stride, even as their mere existence dealt a significant blow to his dream of bringing down Marcel Lambert.
But now they were gone, every tender word, every promise and vow, every snapshot of a relationship that had been painted as sordid and abusive.
Because of a fire set while she slept.
That’s why she had to stop. Because when she’d backed away from Gabe and felt the suspicion leak through every cell of her body, when she’d lifted her eyes to his, the horrified glitter she’d seen staring back at her, the raw, boiling hurt, had stripped her to the bone.
And against every scrap of logic and reason, in violation of everything she knew about right and wrong and survival, she’d wanted to believe him. That he hadn’t set the fire, hadn’t destroyed the evidence. Hadn’t tampered with the jury that stole her brother’s future, hadn’t made sure juror number three never had the chance to disclose what she knew.
That he wasn’t the man she’d always believed him to be—but the man she wanted him to be.
That’s why she threw on the brakes as the first sirens sounded. That’s why she stopped, would not let herself run anymore. Not from this man, or the dangerous truth he represented.
“Evie—” his voice was low and hoarse and…urgent, and it slipped through her with visceral force “—don’t do this.”
This is what they want, he’d reasoned before. Just like the night in the warehouse…to pit us against each other.
But there was no one from the night at the warehouse. She was the one who’d staged that meet to gain entrance back into his life. But if she was the one who’d staged that night…
What kind of man do you think I am? he’d asked earlier. And with the fire spitting against the night sky and the red lights flashing closer, the truth sliced deeper than the guilt.
He was a man who would do anything to get what he wanted.
“Please,” he said now, and with the word he touched her arm but did not tighten his fingers, did not try to make her turn.
She did that on her own. “Don’t,” she whispered. Touch her. Not with his hands or his voice, his words.
He winced, as if she’d taken a knife to his gut. “I know y
ou’re scared,” he said. And, God help her, it hurt to hear his voice, so rough from the smoke and the fire. “But you need to trust me.”
Need. To trust. Him.
“I fell asleep.” He gritted out the words as headlights cut through the clearing, followed by a fire engine. “The smoke woke me.”
It was hard, but she resisted the urge to step closer and lift a hand to his face, wipe the smear of blood from his cheek.
“I want Marcel Lambert,” he added, “but not like this.”
Her heart kicked hard. She stood there staring up at him, at the shirt that was now filthy and torn and hanging open, the sleeves rolled up, revealing the dried blood against his forearms.
“I would never risk your life!” he said, and the words sounded torn from somewhere inside of him.
But she did not let herself sway, just lifted her chin as she did in the courtroom when a witness offered a pile of lies.
Behind them a squad car screeched into the clearing and the door swung open, a man shot out. “Gabriel!”
He stiffened but did not turn, just looked at her through the most scorched-earth eyes she’d ever seen.
“Jesus, Gabriel!” the tall man shouted from behind them, and against the glow of the fire she could see him sprinting toward what remained of the house.
“My God…he thinks we’re in—”
But Gabe was already running back. “Jacques, no!” he shouted as the other man vanished from sight.
Within seconds, Gabe, too, was gone.
Horrified, Evangeline started after them, trying not to trip on the maze of roots. But the second she rounded the house, she stopped. Because she saw them, Gabe and the other man, staggering from the smoke-filled front door. Two firefighters rushed toward them, as two more dragged a hose toward the front porch.
Then everything slowed. She watched, couldn’t make herself move, not when cool, calm, always in control Gabriel Fontenot pulled the man he’d called Jacques into his arms. Not briefly, like men tended to do, but hard and full. Like brothers.
They pulled back abruptly and squared off…again like brothers. “Merde, frère,” Jack muttered, “you damn near got me killed.”
“Sorry about that,” Gabe said, and then the strangest thing happened. They laughed. And thumped each other on the back.
The fascination came on a near-violent whisper. Evangeline stood in silent witness and watched, felt her heart break all over again. Jimmy had had a best friend. Seth. They’d been like brothers.
But Seth was gone now, killed in a freak motorcycle accident. And she’d had to tell Jimmy. She’d had to sit in that brightly lit little room at Angola and tell her brother that his best friend had died. Alone. She’d had to sit there and watch him cry, unable to do anything—except this.
From the recently arrived cars two men strode toward Gabe and Jack, while a woman in a ponytail ran. She got there first, launching herself into Gabe’s arms and hugging him hard. Then the men joined them, both tall and with the kind of commanding presence that made Evangeline’s breath catch, even from a distance, followed by a second woman she’d not noticed initially.
Gabe stood with his back to her, his arm around the woman in the ponytail, encircled by the rest of the group. He never turned back, not even a glance. But the women did, first the tall blonde, then the one with the ponytail. And the accusation in her eyes sliced through Evangeline even from twenty feet away.
The jagged realization of how hideously her plan had backfired stunned her. Gabriel Fontenot was not her friend. She was not part of his inner circle, not his confidante. She’d come into his life with one purpose and one purpose only: to bring him down.
But she’d never counted on his smile. Or his touch, the way everything inside her warmed and wanted. She’d been wrong to think she could pose as his friend and keep herself apart from him. Wrong to think there would be no gray.
Now she knew, and as she watched the woman in the ponytail wipe the soot from Gabe’s face, she ignored the way her own throat went tight.
She wasn’t sure how long she watched before the blonde broke from the group and strode toward her. She was a striking woman, Evangeline noted as she neared. Even without a shred of makeup. Her hair was long and loose around her face, her gait confident but comfortable.
“I’m Savannah,” she said as she approached, and the name clicked. Savannah. Fiancée to Gabe’s cousin, Cain, a woman thought dead for almost two years. Were it not for Gabe, Cain surely would have gone to prison for a murder he not only hadn’t committed, but a murder that hadn’t happened. “I’ll be taking you back to New Orleans.”
The measured words sliced through Evangeline. She told herself not to react, not to hurt. She was the one who’d pushed Gabe away. She was the one who’d accused him of starting the fire, destroying the evidence. Because that’s what the man she’d always believed him to be would do.
But in accusing him of destroying evidence, she, in turn, had destroyed the fragile bonds she’d been working hard to restore. “Thank you,” she said, forcing a smile.
But Savannah frowned. “Are you cold?” she asked, starting to shrug out of her jacket. “You can—”
“I’m fine.”
And with that Evangeline let Savannah lead her to a sleek little black Mercedes convertible. She knew better than to look back, knew what she would see: the firefighters working against the collapsing house and Gabe circled by his friends.
But she looked anyway.
And saw Gabe. Standing with his feet shoulder width apart, tall and untouchable against the fading flames, his shirt torn, his jeans covered by soot. But somehow he still looked like the man she’d seen dominate countless courtrooms.
Even with his back to her.
“Gabriel…hold still.”
The command in his cousin’s voice stopped him. She may have been the only female present and smaller by many inches and pounds, but he’d learned long ago not to cross Saura Robichaud. She possessed the same stubborn streak as her male cousins, just with a whole lot prettier packaging. Which gave her a whole lot more power.
If he snatched his arm from her, she’d simply track him across the room.
So, instead, Gabe forced himself to keep straddling one of the chairs at Jack’s dining-room table. Jaw clenched, he glared at the alcohol-drenched cotton balls Saura used to clean the dried blood against the series of scrapes and scratches along his forearm. “Ow!” he forced himself to growl, because ow was absolutely not what he wanted to say. White flashes streaked across his vision. “That stings.”
Almost blithely, Saura went for a deep cut against his wrist and squeezed the cotton, letting the alcohol drip. “Healing usually does.” Her voice danced somewhere between maternal and demonic. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn she was enjoying this a little too much.
Then again, he wasn’t sure he knew better.
“Maybe you’ll think twice before smashing out windows with your bare arms again,” she added, going for another scrape.
“I’ll make note of that for the next time someone tries to kill me,” he said drily.
This time she stopped. And this time she looked up at him. With a single long braid draped over her shoulder, she looked deceptively harmless. From the dark glow in her Robichaud eyes, he knew she was anything but.
“Well, well,” she drawled. “Look who’s back, sugary insolence and all.” Then she smiled and bent toward him, kissed him on the cheek. “If I’d known all it was going to take was a little fire—”
“I’ll just bet you would have,” he said drily.
“Careful,” her fiancé called, emerging from Jack’s kitchen, and though D’Ambrosia’s tone held warning, his eyes gleamed. “She doesn’t need any encouragement.”
“She has an evil streak, that one,” Cain agreed, joining them with a large storage crate in his arms. He set it on the table just as Jack emerged from the back room with a smaller box. “But then,” Cain added, “you already know that.”
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He did. And for a disjointed moment twenty years fell away and they were kids again, Cain and Jack and Saura, himself, gathered around a kitchen table and studying his father’s notes.
And Camille. She’d been there then.
“At least, I thought you were back,” Saura said, and with another drizzle of alcohol, time surged forward and Gabe jerked, snatching his arm away.
But Saura had already seen, and she already knew. “I know,” she whispered. “She should be here.”
And then he couldn’t sit any longer, couldn’t just wait at the kitchen table while Saura tended to his arm, not when Marcel Lambert was once again playing puppet-master to their lives. The bastard had already taken too much.
“It’s all a game to him,” he said, shoving back from the chair and standing, pivoting toward the antique buffet on the other side of the room. Through the mirror he saw them all watching him—Saura with concern and Cain with the same contempt that coursed through Gabe; Jack, a dark combination of regret and anticipation. Gabe’s family wasn’t the only family that had been destroyed that night.
“Everything,” he said. The missing files from his courthouse office and the chance meeting with Evangeline at the warehouse, the waitress who’d never shown. She was probably enjoying a vacation in the Bahamas somewhere, courtesy of her boss, Marcel Lambert. “He knew I was coming to Wild Berry.” Just as the bastard seemed to know everything else. “He wanted me to find the house,” he added, as he’d speculated earlier with Evie.
Evie.
Christ, he could still see her as she’d turned to face him, the way she’d backed away as if she were afraid—a-freaking-fraid—of him touching her. She’d stood with her hair in her face, trying to catch her breath, staring at him with eyes far, far too dark and skin far too pale. Any trace of the woman from earlier in the evening, the woman who’d pushed up on her toes and met his mouth with her own…gone.