Hall, Jessica

by Into the Fire

  Sitting in the truck, listening to the music. Trying not to feel the duckweed and the mud that were slowly drying into the delicate layer of creamy lace covering the front of her dress—her mama's best dress, that Sable had stayed up every night for the last week altering so she could wear it to the Summer Magnolias Graduation Dance. It kept her from thinking about the pretty faces of the other girls.

  What they'd shouted at her, however, kept ringing in her ears, sending surges of heat up her throat and into her face.

  "Hey, coon-ass! Where's your boyfriend?"

  Sable had never suspected that they would be waiting for her outside the dorm. Jean-Delano always picked her up for their dates, but he'd left a message at the desk saying he would be late and asking her to meet him in back of Smith Hall. Maybe if she hadn't been so nervous about going to the dance with him she would have realized that something was wrong.

  Jean-Del had never left messages, because he'd never been late before. If anything, he'd shown up early.

  She'd hurried out of the dorm, worried thai someone had tried to talk him out of taking her as his date, and had walked straight into them. Sixteen football players and their sorority girlfriends, standing in the shadows behind the old dormitory, waiting. All of them were dressed up just like her—only better. She'd stopped and stared at them in disbelief. J. D. wouldn't bring his friends with him, not to pick her up.

  But J. D. wasn't there.

  "Going somewhere, fish bait?"

  The boys wore fine black tuxes, eerily identical, like their game uniforms. They wore them with the confidence of boys who didn't have to rent their formal wear.

  It was their dates who were truly breathtaking. All the girls wore dazzling pastel-colored silk gowns, with fancy trims and beads that made them appear like young, chic brides. Sable's ecru lace dress, which had seemed so feminine and classic in her dorm room, appeared dingy by comparison. The expensive diamond and gold jewelry they wore made her only necklace—a single strand of faux pearls— look painfully cheap.

  One thing was clear—from the looks on their faces, they hadn't come to walk her over to the dance for Jean-Delano.

  She'd tried to move around them, but they'd formed a tight circle, closing her in an envelope of designer perfume. "Where did you get that little rag? Kmart? The Salvation Army?"

  She knew what they were like from six months of similar torment, and although her heart rabbited in her chest, she kept her voice calm and asked them to leave her alone. The girls had laughed at her. They were a tight-knit, arrogant group, all pledged to the same sorority, all dating jocks, all children of old, established Creole families. Just like their boyfriends.

  Sable was none of those things. She had never beeninvited to join their clubs and social circles. Her scholarship only covered her tuition, so after classes she worked serving and busing tables in the school cafeteria, and even then she had to count her pennies. The awful uniform and hairnet the administration insisted that the cafeteria staff wear made her an easy target for the wealthier, privileged girls whose parents paid for everything. When she'd started dating one of the best-looking guys on campus, that only compounded the problem.

  It wasn't just her poverty and her lack of pedigree that made the girls hate her, though. It was the way their boyfriends looked at her when Jean-Del wasn't around to see.

  She'd given up on reasoning with the group and had tried to break through the circle. One of the boys had pushed her back, and she'd nearly fallen in the mud, only just stopping herself with one hand.

  Sable shifted in her seat and wrapped her arms around herself.

  Before she'd left the dorm, she'd tucked her new gloves in her purse so they wouldn't get dirty. Having saved up her tips, she'd taken the long bus ride to the city to buy them. Ml the other girls wore white gloves to the senior dances, and Sable hadn't wanted to embarrass Jean-Del by showing up with bare hands. Bad enough she'd had to make over one of her mother's dresses to have something decent to wear.

  Thank goodness she hadn't put them on; they would have been ruined by the mud.

  "Euuww." One of the girls pointed at Sable's mud-smeared fingers. "If she's serving the punch, I'm not touching it!"

  "I don't want to do this," one of the other girls said, sounding a little frightened. She was a petite blonde, the quietest one of the group. "Let's go now."

  The boy with her had scoffed. "What are you, afraid of a coon-ass?"

  Sable hadn't been foolish and shouted at them. That would have only made things worse. Besides, she could always wash her hands. She looked at the girl who had tried to stop them, saw the pity in her eyes. She tried making an appeal to her. "Please, I have to go. I don't want to be late."

  The girl looked as scared as she felt, but Sable's plea made no difference to the others. "What's the matter," another girl had cooed. "Afraid he'll stand you up for someone with shoes?"

  Trying to run only got her shoved back again, and this time she went down, face first. Mud splattered her face, her hair, and the front of her dress. While the others laughed, she stayed down, knowing it was over then, wishing she were dead. This wouldn't wash off. She couldn't go to the dance; she couldn't be with Jean-Del.

  They would never let them be together. "I promised him I wouldn't be late," was all she could think. "He's going to be so upset."

  Everyone laughed as she got up on her hands and knees.

  "I think she needs a little bath," one of the girls drawled.

  The one girl who had protested tried to stop them. "Don't do this, she's had enough!"

  The boy carrying the bucket shrugged the girl off and then tossed the contents of the bucket at Sable.

  She didn't know where they'd gotten the duckweed—they were twenty miles from the nearest bayou. But suddenly she was covered with the slimy green stuff, and soaked with the cold, brackish brown water it had grown in. All she could do was shield her head with her arms and keep her eyes and mouth closed until it was over.

  Like now.

  Sable knew what she had to do. She had to protect herself until she could get away. Then she would run—run as fast and as far away as she could.

  J. D. didn't want coffee. He wanted to grab Sable, march her out of the station, and take her somewhere quiet. Then he wanted to shake the truth out of her. She was hiding something; he could see it in her eyes—but what? What possible connection could she have with Marc LeClare? She was dressed like a businesswoman; it might be just as she'd said—she'd been looking to rent some property and she'd gone to the warehouse for business reasons only.

  But why did his gut tell him there was more to it than that?

  She's young and beautiful; Marc LeClare was old and rich. Doesn't take a genius to figure out that equation.

  The thought of Marc putting his hands on Sable made J. D.'s hands curl over into fists. It had better damn sight be business only.

  "I don't like that look on your face," Terri said as she walked up and handed him his mug, then sipped from her own. "That look says 'I'm thinking with the little head. I'm going to do something macho and idiotic and get myself suspended.' "

  He swallowed the boiling-hot coffee without feeling the burn. "I'm not thinking with my dick."

  "A rare and valuable trait not often found in the male of the species. I'll have to alert the media." Terri gestured toward the interview room where he'd left Sable. "Does she know that?"

  "She's just shaken up."

  "I imagine nearly being burned to death creates something of a shock to the system. So does being questioned by your ex-boyfriend. You break up with a guy; you just never want to see his ugly face again." Terri took a sip from her mug. "By the way, your current girlfriend stopped in. You were supposed to take her to lunch. Do call her."

  Moriah. He hadn't given her a single thought.

  "I told her you were tied up taking a statement from our witness," his partner said. "And Laure LeClare will be here in a few minutes. I don't think she'll be too happy to hear you used
to be sweethearts with the girl her hubby was likely bopping on the side, do you?"

  Before he could snap her head off, a uniform from the front desk approached them. "Uh, Lieutenant Gamble? Captain wants you and Sergeant Vincent downstairs now. Press is swarming."

  "Thanks," Terri said, and waited until the officer retreated before hunching her shoulders. "Damn it, I knew I should have taken that vacation time this week."

  "You go," J. D. told Terri. He was in no mood to deal with the media. "Tell Cap I'm showing Sable some mug shots."

  "That had better be the only thing you show her," his partner warned as she tugged on her jacket and headed for the stairs.

  He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and added a spoon of sugar, then took it with him to the interview room. Sable looked up as he came in and then down at the phone.

  "Did you get in touch with your family?" he asked as he set the cup in front of her. She didn't touch it or answer him. "Black, one sugar, the way you like it."

  She shook her head a little and glanced at the window.

  Dark thoughts had been humming inside his head since he'd seen her at the fire rescue unit, but now they bloomed into something primal and violent. She wouldn't speak to him; she wouldn't touch the coffee. She rejected him now as completely as she had ten years ago.

  J. D. didn't like it any more than he had then, but now it wasn't about a stupid dance or slinging mud at some of his friends. Now her life was on the line.

  "Listen to me," he said, keeping his voice low and even. "You hate me—that's fine. I'm not real fond of you, either. But I'm the only friend you have here. Talk to me."

  She met his gaze. Something had changed—the fear in her eyes was gone, replaced by something darker and angrier. "I don't need your help." Each word dripped with contempt.

  She wasn't going to play him this way. Not this time.

  "Wrong. There's nowhere for you to run. No place to hide." His vision sharpened as he focused on her face and smiled. "I've got you, baby, and you're not going anywhere."

  She shoved back away from the table, out of reach. "Don't touch me. I swear to God, I'll scream my head off."

  His mouth thinned. "Then I'd have to shut you up." He came around the table, pausing only to wedge a chair against the doorknob. "Which I would enjoy. Please, be my guest."

  Sable stumbled out of the chair, knocking it over as she frantically looked for an avenue of escape. "I'll talk to the other cop—that woman, your partner." Her teeth were almost chattering. "Not you."

  He hesitated, tilting his head to one side as he regarded her. Yes, she was angry, and frightened of him—which was smart; he hadn't felt this furious in years. But why would she choose Terri over him? Terri didn't know her. He wanted to shake her; he wanted to hold her in his arms and comfort her. "Why are you doing this?" He made his tone gentle and soothing. "Let me help you."

  "I don't need your help." She jammed herself between the watercooler and the wall. "I don't need anything from you."

  "Maybe you're right." He started advancing again. "Marc LeClare and my family have been friends for years. He was a good, decent man who wanted to make things better for everyone. You're just some girl I dated in college." Which was a lie. She was the girl he'd loved, the only girl he'd ever loved. He'd planned to ask her to marry him at the dance, the night she'd run away from him. "Something happened in that warehouse, and you're going to tell me—if I have to beat it out of you."

  Somehow that got to her, because color flooded back into her face from the neck up. She started moving her head from side to side, slowly, like a dreamer in denial.

  "Yeah," he said softly. "You will." It gave him deep, fierce satisfaction to have her under his total control. She couldn't escape him this time, and once he straightened out this mess, he'd make sure she'd never run away from him again.

  Before he could touch her, she shoved at the heavy watercooler, and knocked it over.

  Chapter Three

  Terri wanted nothing more than to ditch the impromptu press conference and get back upstairs before J. D. did something unforgivable—or worse, prosecutable. But Captain Pellerin was in a lousy mood, and the reporters smelled blood. Someone had leaked the news that gubernatorial candidate Marc LeClare had been found burned to death in one of his own warehouses, and aside from Mardi Gras, there was no bigger news than that.

  She stood at Pellerin's side as he issued a terse, no-frills, no-details statement, refusing to identify the victim until the next of kin were notified; then he parried a few pointed questions before dismissing the media. The reporters tried to suck her into spilling something, but Terri knew better than to open her mouth.

  "I want you and Gamble in my office," Pellerin told her as they went back upstairs. He was a short, heavy-set man who looked like a rabid bulldog on his good days. "As soon as he's done with the witness."

  "Yes, sir." She kept her expression blank, but her stomach knotted. Pellerin didn't get steamed without good reason—and it wasn't just the media sharks. Every friend Marc LeClare had—and he had them all the way up to the White House—would be calling and demanding answers.

  And when they found out about the girl? All hell would break loose.

  She went to her desk to pull the necessary report forms for Laure LeClare to fill out, when her phone rang. "Detective Vincent."

  "It's me," a familiar deep voice, almost identical to J. D.'s, said. "What's going on down there?"

  Every one of her muscles tightened; Terri could think of no one she'd rather speak to less. The voice belonged to Chief Fire Marshal Cortland Gamble, another person her partner should have dealt with himself. Unlike his brother, Cort was rigid and serious, and devoted himself utterly to the job. He was universally respected and the best fire marshal the city had had in years.

  None of which explained why she'd fallen for him years ago.

  Terri was still so ridiculously infatuated with Cort Gamble that she didn't trust herself around him. One kind word from him would have punched through the fortress she'd built around her heart and wrecked her forever, and she couldn't allow that. Wouldn't allow him to do that to her. So she avoided him, and hoped in time that she could starve her stupid female feelings to death.

  It hadn't worked so far, but there was nothing else she could do. Like J. D., Cort liked high-maintenance, low-IQ women who looked good on his arm. Terri Vincent was as far from that as a woman could get and still qualify as a member of the female gender. "Arson, murder, mayhem, the usual." She kept her tone light and happy. Cort hated light and happy "How's the weather in Biloxi, Chief? You working on your tan?"

  "I just got word from my department," he said, his voice dropping from chilly to flash frozen. "Who killed Marc LeClare?"

  "We're investigating that." She wasn't going to tell him that his brother's ex-girlfriend was mixed up with his father's best friend; the phone lines couldn't handle that kind of volume. "Maybe you should come on home; I think J. D.'s going to need some help on this one." Though what Cort could do for him, she didn't know. Cortland Gamble was as by-the-book as a Supreme Court judge.

  "I'll catch the first flight I can get. You tell J. D."

  Am I his partner or his answering service? That was when Terri heard the crash from the direction of the interview rooms. "Gotta go. See you around, Marshal."

  She slammed down the phone and sprinted across the squad room toward the corridor. Water was gushing out from under the door—had J. D. punched out the watercooler? She should have listened to her gut and never have left him alone with Sable Duchesne.

  She grabbed the door, but it was jammed from the inside. "J. D.?"

  The crash was so loud it seemed to rattle the walls. The five-gallon container atop the refrigeration unit broke free and began gushing water all over the floor.

  J. D. ignored it, and caught Sable as she darted for the door. "Damn it, Sable, no."

  The water made her flat-soled shoes slide, and she had to clutch at his jacket to regain her balance.
That brought her body up against his from thigh to chest.

  "Let go of me," she said, arching away.

  "So you can fall on your ass and get wet? Hold still." He controlled her with his hands and arms, keeping her pressed up against him as the water jug emptied out. His breath touched her face. "Every reporter in town is downstairs. Did you think you could just walk out of here?"

  "I wouldn't have walked." She looked down at the floor and felt suddenly ashamed. "Dim, what a mess."

  "Floor needed mopping anyway." He brushed her dirty hair away from her face. "Someone will deal with it later."

  Just like the rich Creole boy he'd been, always assuming someone else would clean up after him. "But not you." She twisted, jerking within his grasp, but he wouldn't let her go.

  J. D. locked his arms around her, forcing her up against his rigid frame. She felt her breasts swell as they pressed into his chest, felt the shocking ridge of his erection burning into her hip. Liquid heat started to pool between her thighs as her body responded to what her mind could not accept.

  Dear God, no. I was over this; I was over him.

  "Shit." He hissed in a quick breath when she moved, trying to put space between them but only rubbing the curve of her hip against him. "Stop doing that."

  Something heavy slammed into the door, and the chair jamming it slid away from the knob. Terri Vincent charged in, sized up the situation, and quickly slammed the door shut behind her.

  She looked from the water to Sable to J. D. "Unbelievable. Do I have to get a hose?"

  J. D. kept Sable in his arms as he turned to his partner. "What do you want?"

  "Besides a mop? A new partner. One with a functioning brain." Before J. D. could reply, Terri held up a hand. "No, no, don't tell me. I really don't want to know, and we've got other problems to deal with besides the flood here."

  He slowly released Sable, but as she tried to step away, curled his fingers around her right wrist. "Stay put," he said to her, then looked at Terri. "Like what?"

  She told him, ticking points off her fingers as she did. "Someone leaked crime scene info to the press, so they already know the vic was Marc LeClare. Captain Pellerin wants us in his office so he can chew both our asses up one wall and down the other. LeClare's widow will be here any minute—she's coming from IDing the body at the morgue—and we need to interview her. Oh, and your brother's flying back from Biloxi to help you with our case. Won't that be fun?"