Consumed by Fire (The Fire Series)

by Anne Stuart

  “Why not?”

  “I could break your jaw, you know.”

  “We’ve already tried that,” Ryder drawled. “We’re evenly matched. Evangeline has been through hell and back, and there’s only one thing she wants and deserves after all the shit she’s put up with.”

  “The dog,” Bishop said flatly.

  “Okay, make it two things, and the dog’s the more important one. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m no good for her.”

  “Agreed. She still wants you. Give it up, Bishop, and stop acting like an asshole. What are you going to do?”

  Bishop just looked at him, wishing to hell he could summon enough self-righteous fury to slam him across the jaw. “What do you think I’m going to do?” he growled. “I’m going to buy her a fucking Winnebago.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The new school year had started, but Evangeline didn’t care. She was still supposed to be out on sabbatical, and it was easy enough to hand in her notice, much to the shock of the dean. After all, she was tenured, well respected—one didn’t just throw that away.

  But that was exactly what Evangeline was doing. It had been two weeks, and there was no word from Bishop. She’d put the house on the market, prepared for it to take months or even years to sell, but to her shock it sold in three days, leaving her essentially homeless in less than a month. Her research had shown up at her house one day, already preloaded on a brand new Mac, and she knew she could thank Ryder for that. Bishop had already forgotten about her.

  She still couldn’t decide whether she was married or not, but since she never planned to go near any man again, it hardly mattered. Everyone who wanted her dead was gone—the members of the Corsini family, including that wretched old man, were out of the picture, and Claude had drowned in Texas, though as far as she could tell his body had yet to turn up. She was safe to continue on with her life, just as if James hadn’t walked back into it.

  She wasn’t sleeping well. She missed Merlin, she told herself, knowing full well there was more than that troubling her. Maybe Ryder could get him back for her. Bishop was probably incapable of caring about anything, including an animal, but Ryder seemed reliable, at least. Or maybe she was wrong. Maybe Bishop could love something. Merlin, not her.

  It was only seven o’clock when Evangeline dragged herself out of bed one late-September morning. She’d fallen asleep sometime after three, and she wanted nothing more than to bury her head under her pillows and shut everything out again.

  But something had woken her, some unexpected noise, so she dragged herself out of bed, threw on a pair of sweats and an old T-shirt, and headed downstairs for her first cup of coffee, dodging all the packing boxes that blocked her way. She still had no idea where she was going—her current plan was to put everything in storage and simply take off. There was no reason to make any plans, no one else who mattered in her life. Everything was up to her. She ought to revel in the freedom.

  She brewed a pot of Sumatran coffee, poured herself a nice black mug of it, and leaned against the kitchen sink to take her first sip.

  Suddenly she dropped the mug into the sink with a crash, splattering herself with scalding coffee. She leapt back, cursing, before looking out the window once more.

  There was no sign of the boring car she’d bought to replace her lost pickup. Instead there was a brand-new dark-blue extra cab Silverado, with the most beautiful vintage Airstream trailer attached to it. It was bigger than Annabelle had been, it would be a bitch to maneuver, and she was in love.

  She didn’t bother putting on her shoes, ignoring the chilly ground as she ran down the back steps and around the side of the camper, staring at it in awe and wonder. It was a thing of beauty, and she was almost afraid to touch it. But then, she wasn’t afraid of anything.

  She opened the door and stepped up into the camper.

  He was there, of course. She barely had time to see him before Merlin launched himself at her, smothering her with doggy kisses and whines of delight, and she hugged him, determined not to look up. She got down on her knees and wrapped her arms around him, saying all sorts of silly doggy things to him.

  “Oh, God, don’t call him a puppy!” came Bishop’s pained voice. “You’ve already turned him into a major wuss.”

  She had to face him, sooner or later, so she lifted her head. He was sitting at the dinette, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked entirely at ease, cynical, sarcastic, the man who’d abandoned her. But his hand was shaking, just slightly, and that cynical smile was just slightly off, and suddenly she knew it was going to be all right.

  Once she made him crawl through the mud on his belly like a reptile.

  “What are you doing here?” she said coolly, rising to her feet. He’d made a pot of coffee, and it smelled divine. He’d always made good coffee, she remembered, so she walked past him, found the mugs, and poured herself a cup.

  “I told you I’d replace your truck and camper.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Up close he looked even more nervous. There were shadows under his beautiful eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. Good. “Did you, now? I seemed to have forgotten that little detail. You decided not to give me a choice in the matter?” He’d picked exactly what she would have wanted but couldn’t afford—something funky and stylish and comfortable, something with soul. The inside of the vintage trailer had been rebuilt with hardwoods and rich textiles, like a gypsy caravan crossed with a rock star’s tour van, and she could see the bed behind him. Wide, comfortable, curtains all around it.

  He was buying into all of this. “If you don’t like it I can get you something else,” he said stiffly, and she wanted to laugh.

  Sliding into the seat opposite him, she kept her face impassive as she took a sip of coffee. Sumatran, of course. He really did know her so well, even if he didn’t seem to understand she was so in love with him she was probably going to die from it.

  She shrugged. “It’ll do,” she said smoothly. “What were your plans?”

  “Get a taxi to the airport. I couldn’t get away from New Orleans until now, and I expect Ryder wants me back as soon as I can make it.” He was cool now as well, and she was suddenly uncertain, not knowing whether she’d imagined his nervousness. Was it wishful thinking?

  “Oh,” she said lamely. She glanced around her. “This is bigger than Annabelle was.”

  “Don’t worry—the truck’s big enough to handle the extra load.”

  She nodded. “Okay,” she said, suddenly defeated. “Do you want me to give you a ride to the airport?”

  He leaned back, his long fingers cupping the mug, the long fingers that had touched her with such exquisite cleverness. “I don’t think so.”

  So that was that. Once more she’d let herself hope for the impossible, and once more she’d lost.

  “In fact,” he said, “I’m not sure you’re up to driving such a big camper without some practice. I wouldn’t feel right leaving you without knowing you were up to the challenge.”

  Her eyes met his. His blond hair had grown out a bit, his scruffy beard made him even sexier, and his blue eyes were staring into hers. “You wouldn’t?” she echoed.

  He shook his head. “I think I need to make sure you’re qualified to handle something like this. This is the sort of thing that could take a lifetime to master. That is, if you even want to.”

  He wasn’t talking about the camper anymore. “I want to,” she said. “I love . . . campers.” Her courage failed her at the last minute.

  His grin was slow, devastating, as he slid from behind the table and pulled her out into the walkway. “I love . . . campers too,” he said, his mockery light and gentle. He brushed his mouth against hers, and she wanted to breathe him in, like he was the oxygen she’d been deprived of for too long.

  She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her, and she could f
eel his body hard against hers, the familiar bone and muscle, the erection pressing against her stomach. He lifted his head to look down at her, and there was a questioning expression in his eyes. “I made sure they put a good mattress in for you.”

  “Maybe we’d better check . . .” she began, but before she could finish, he’d picked her up and set her down on the wide mattress, gently, carefully, as if she were breakable and the most precious thing in the world. She reached up and pulled him down with her, reveling in his weight on top of her, his legs between hers.

  They took it slow and easy, taking joy in each other’s body, sliding over the thick mattress and the expensive sheets he’d gotten for her. She took him in her mouth—she’d been dreaming about it for weeks, wanting the taste of him again—and he moved her into the positions he wanted, taking his time, loving her so exquisitely she almost thought she might die from sheer bliss. And then they went faster, harder, deeper, and no sooner did she begin to come apart than he joined her, shaking with the power of his climax, and they sank against each other, replete.

  James rolled off her, onto his back, but he took her with him, his strong hands stroking her back, keeping her against him. They had said nothing as they made love, but now he spoke. “Maybe I ought to mention that I love you.”

  There were a thousand things she could say. What took you so damned long? Where the fuck have you been? What made you finally realize? She said nothing, smiling up at him. “Really? You’re not just trying to get my dog away from me?”

  Merlin had been sleeping peacefully on the floor at the side of the bed, discreetly keeping his head on his paws, but at the word “dog,” he lifted his head for a moment. Apparently content with what he saw, he dropped it back down again.

  “Don’t forget the camper,” James said. “Not to mention Ryder would kick my butt if I showed up without you. He says you’re in love with me.”

  Her heart was so full she could barely speak, but he could read it in her eyes. She wanted to sound cool, flippant, but she was breathless, tears in her eyes, dying for him. “And what do you think?” she whispered against his damp skin that smelled so divinely familiar, his own special scent that she could surround herself with forever.

  He smiled down at her with such tenderness, her tears spilled over onto her cheeks. “I never had any doubts, Angel,” he said, pulling her tight against him.

  From the floor beside them, Merlin began to snore.

  About the Author

  Anne Stuart is a grand master of the genre—winner of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Lifetime Achievement Award and survivor of more than forty years in the romance business—and still just keeps getting better.

  Her first novel was Barrett’s Hill, a gothic romance published by Ballantine in 1974, when Anne had just turned twenty-five. Since then she’s written more gothics, regencies, romantic suspense, romantic adventure, series romance, suspense, historical romance, paranormal, and mainstream contemporary romance.

  She’s won numerous awards, appeared on most bestseller lists, and speaks all over the country. Her general outrageousness has gotten her on Entertainment Tonight, as well as in Vogue, People, USA Today, Woman’s Day, and countless other national newspapers and magazines.

  She’s just celebrating her fortieth wedding anniversary with her luscious husband, and she lives by a lake in northern Vermont, where she enjoys an empty nest, fabulous grandchildren, and overacting in local theater. She has so many books she still wants to write that she plans to live forever.