Hall, Jessica

by Into the Fire

  After Colette refused to let her do anything but drink sweet hot tea, Sable curled up in one of the ancient armchairs and listened to the baseball game Old Martin was following on his ancient Philco radio. She tried not to notice when J. D. came out of the bathroom, wearing the grandson's well-worn jeans and shrugging into one of Old Martin's faded plaid shirts, leaving it unbuttoned because it was three sizes too small for him. He glanced at her before disappearing into the kitchen, and didn't come back out.

  She tried to concentrate on the game, but the sound of J. D.'s voice and pans rattling finally drew here from the armchair. He was probably only keeping the old lady company while she prepared the evening meal, Sable told herself, then stopped in the doorway to the tiny kitchen.

  J. D. was standing in front of the Martins' old gas stove, and he was shaking a small green can over a bubbling pot while stirring it at the same time. "It looks thicker than my father's version," he said to Colette as he sampled a spoonful. "Tastes better, too."

  "Folks in the city use kidney beans instead of proper Luziann' red beans." Colette was seated at the kitchen table and placing rounds of biscuit dough on a tin baking sheet. "End up too mushy. Real red beans like to simmer all day on the stove while you hang out the wash—that's why we have 'em on Mondays. You use the bone from Sunday dinner, and you don't have to tend it close."

  J. D. placed a lid on the simmering pot and removed another, smaller saucepan from the heat. "Might be the ham hock, too. I've never seen one that size." As Sable joined him at the stove, he held up the spoon. "Try this."

  She came over and sampled it. Red beans and rice was a classic Monday night dish that Cajuns ate almost religiously, and any other time she would have loved it. Yet now she could hardly taste the spicy stew. "It's wonderful. I didn't know you could cook."

  His mouth hitched. "Mrs. Martin did the hard part; I'm just keeping it from scorching." As Colette came over to pop the biscuits into the oven, he guided Sable over to a chair. "We've got it covered. Sit."

  As she watched J. D. help the old lady prepare the simple dinner, Sable tried to make sense of it. When they were dating in college, J. D. had taken her to the finest restaurants, often his father's place, and had been very nonchalant about ordering rich Creole dishes and expensive bottles of wine. The one time she'd had dinner with his family, the meal had been prepared by a cook, and served by the housekeeper and a maid. That was one of the reasons she had never taken him home to meet her parents. She could never see the rich, pampered boy she had known being comfortable peeling steamed crawfish over newspapers spread on her mother's battered dining room table.

  Now he was stirring pots and joking about backwoods recipes being better than his father's gourmet dishes. Maybe I didn't know him as well as I thought I did.

  The surreal quality of the evening didn't end over dinner. Without batting an eyelash, J. D. set out the Martins' worn earthenware plates and utensils that were pitted and scarred from continuous usage, then helped Colette dish out the spicy andouille pork sausage along with the red beans and rice. After joining in a short prayer of thanksgiving with the old couple, he ate heartily and with visible pleasure.

  His parents ate off fine china, Sable recalled, with enough polished silverware at one meal to outfit three Cajun families for life.

  "So how'd you end up going with the police, son?" Old Martin asked. "Seems like an educated city fella like you'd be a lawyer or a doctor or some such."

  "When we were kids, my brother and I were caught in a kitchen fire at my father's restaurant, but a beat cop and a firefighter kicked in the door and got us out."

  "What a terrible thing to happen to you boys." Colette put an extra helping of rice on J. D.'s plate. "Y'all weren't hurt, were you?"

  "No one was, thanks to those two men." J. D. passed the plate of sausage to Old Martin. "I never forgot what they did for us, and when the NOPD recruiter came by campus just before I graduated, I decided to check out the academy program. My brother went to the fire department."

  Sable picked at her food and listened as he talked about the heroic police officer and fireman. It was obvious that he had admired the two men deeply, but again it didn't make sense. Elizabet Gamble might have given a hefty reward to the beat cop and the firefighter for saving her family, but she wouldn't have wanted her sons to follow in their footsteps—both Cort and J. D. had been enrolled in prelaw at Tulane.

  "Did you ever go to law school?" Sable heard herself ask during a lull in the conversation.

  "I tried." The smile faded from his face. "I dropped out after the first semester."

  That puzzled her. "Why didn't you go back?"

  "The idea of spending my life in courtrooms lost its appeal." He rose and began collecting the dishes, for which Colette scolded him soundly.

  "You done enough, boy, and Isabel looks about ready to fall over," she said, shooing him away from the table. She caught Sable's eye. "I put clean sheets on the spare bed in the garqonnière upstairs, chère. Best I can do for you young folks tonight."

  Sable had forgotten the Martins only had one small bed in the attic loft—reserved for visiting relatives— which meant she and J. D. would have to sleep together.

  "That will be fine, grand-mère, thank you." She rose carefully, wincing at the pull on her bruised shoulder, and automatically leaned against J. D. as he put a hand on her waist to steady her. The heat of his palm made her stiffen a little.

  "Thanks for the great meal, Mrs. Martin," J. D. said, guiding Sable toward the stairs. "Good night."

  The Martins' spare bedroom was cool and dark. Moonlight from the attic window showed it was mostly empty, except for the old rope bed and a battered wooden clothes chest at the foot of it.

  The bed was covered with a thick old quilt, but was only slightly bigger than a twin. She watched him strip off Old Martin's too-small shirt and said, "I can sleep on the floor."

  He reached down and untied the belt of her robe. "You'll sleep in the bed, with me." He slipped his hands inside to rest them against either side of her waist. "We'll fit."

  Only if she wrapped herself around him and slept on her side—assuming she could close her eyes under such conditions. "I don't think that's a good idea." Actually, standing here, a few inches from the muscular wall of his bare chest, she was convinced of it.

  "You're safe. I won't jump on you."

  "It's not that." More like her jumping on him.

  "You said you weren't afraid of me." He gently eased her robe off her shoulders and dropped it on top of the clothes chest. "You change your mind?"

  "Yes. No. Oh, I don't know." Exhaustion made her voice thready. "Jean-Del, this day has been one endless nightmare. I can't think straight anymore."

  "You just need sleep." He led her over to the bed, and pulled back the quilt and sheets. "Get in."

  With a sigh she climbed onto the thin mattress, then moved over to the edge as he stretched out next to her. She tried to preserve the scant space between their bodies, but his arm came around her waist and tugged her back against him before he pulled the covers over them both.

  "Relax." His breath was warm against her hair, and the heat from his body penetrated the thin flannel of her nightgown. "Your shoulder okay?"

  "Yes." She couldn't feel her shoulder. She could feel other things, though, and shifted her hips forward an inch, so that the curve of her bottom wasn't pressing into the crotch of his jeans. She could smell the soap he'd used in the shower, and felt the steady thud of his heart just below her nape.

  Say something. "Are you comfortable?"

  "I'm all right." He ran his hand over her hair, smoothing down some wayward strands. "I'm used to more room, though."

  Didn't he have a girlfriend? "I have a double at home. As big, I mean, as tall as you are, I guess you'd need a king-size." Oh, God, she was starting to babble. She squeezed her eyes closed and faked a yawn. "I'll think I'll go sleep now."

  He put an arm over her, letting it rest at her waist. "Good night.
"

  It was not going to be a good night—she knew that three minutes into trying to force herself into unconsciousness. Where before she'd felt dull-witted and tired, now every inch of her skin seemed to bunch with nerves. It didn't help to be so close to him, not when he was generating so much heat that they could be lying naked without a sheet and she wouldn't feel the chilly night air.

  Sweat prickled her brow as she recalled the last time she'd been this close to him. Since he'd lived at home with his parents, and she'd had a roommate, they'd never shared a bed at college. It hadn't stopped them—they'd made do with a blanket spread over the grass in a shadowy corner of the park, and once they hadn't made it out of the front seat of his car.

  In those days, she'd been so awkward and inexperienced, and Jean-Delano had had to teach her everything. He'd never made her feel clumsy, though. He'd taken her from good-night kisses to more sensual delights gradually, making the time they spent alone into a journey of the senses. He'd lured her out of her embarrassment about intimacy, convincing her to explore him and showing her what he liked. At the same time he taught her things she had never known about her own body.

  Touch me like this, he had murmured to her once when they were parked by the lake. He'd slid his hand into her panties and guided her fingers into the open zipper of his jeans. As she curled her hand around his hard, satiny length, and stroked him with the same slow rhythm that he was using to caress her, he'd groaned. Like that, yeah.

  He'd never once forced her to do anything she didn't want, but he'd never had to. On the night they'd had sex for the first time, she had been more than ready to tear her clothes off and beg him to make love to her.

  It's just a subconscious reaction, she told herself as she surreptitiously squeezed her thighs together against the growing, empty ache between them. I've been running on fear and adrenaline, and my body wants some comfort.

  "Are you hot?"

  She nearly jerked upright, and then turned toward him, ready to leap out of the bed if necessary. "What?"

  "I'm hot." J. D. propped himself up on one elbow and wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple. As he did, her hip connected with the solid ridge under the front of his jeans. "So are you."

  "I'm..." Sweating, aching, wanting. Wanting to slip my hands in your jeans and stroke you, the way you taught me to do it. "I guess we don't need the quilt."

  He sat up and pushed the patchwork coverlet down toward the end of the bed. As he did, she watched the silvery light from the window play over the muscles of his back. The faint sheen of his sweat made her want to reach out and run her fingers over his skin.

  No, I want to put my mouth on him and taste it.

  Of all the men she'd ever been intimate with, only J. D. had ever made her feel so uninhibited and excited—and not because he had been her first lover. She'd tried to forget him and fall in love again, but she'd never experienced with any other man the emotional connection she and J. D. had shared. Every relationship she'd had since college had been brief and disappointing. Oh, she had enjoyed the sex, but she'd never found the sense of completion that she and Jean-Del had given each other—that indefinable feeling that they were whole only when they were together.

  He wrecked me for good, she thought, suddenly filled with resentment, but he probably didn't think twice about me after I left. A pang of guilt shot through her as she recalled what he'd said about law school at dinner. He would have enrolled that fall, just after their breakup. Or maybe he did.

  "Better?" He lowered himself down beside her.

  "Yes." She shifted over onto her side again, but the question wouldn't leave her in peace. "Jean-Del?"

  He moved in, cradling her with his frame. "Hmmm?"

  "Did you quit law school because of me?"

  He was silent for so long that she almost told him to forget that she'd asked. Finally he sighed and said, "We'll talk about it another time. Go to sleep, Sable."

  Absently she rubbed her hand over the back of her neck where his breath tickled it, then winced as her hair caught on the broken skin of her palms.

  He tensed behind her. "What now?" He sounded impatient this time.

  "My hand is a little sore, too." She flexed it, inspecting her palm with tired eyes in the scant light from the window. The window... She yawned. "I got them when I was trying to get out of a window. Upstairs."

  He went still. "Got what?"

  "This morning you asked me where I got the splinters in my hands. I tried to get out of a window at the front of the warehouse upstairs." She'd been so frantic to get away from the fire, she hadn't clearly remembered the moment. Now she was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. "The windows were boarded up; I couldn't pull them off."

  "Couldn't you find the door?"

  "Downstairs?" She yawned. "I tried, but it wouldn't open."

  Her last thought before she fell asleep was of the door of the warehouse—the same door she had used to enter it. It had been open when she came in.

  Whoever had killed Marc and started the fire must have locked her in.

  While Sable slept, J. D. stared at the chinking between the wooden planks of the ceiling. Several hours passed before he gave up on sleep and got out of the tiny bed. He watched as she rolled toward the now-empty space in the bed, unconsciously reaching for him before snuggling into his pillow.

  He didn't have to stand there and look at her, but he did. There was just enough light for him to see the serenity of her face as she slept on. Enough to penetrate the thin stuff of her nightgown and outline the way her breasts swelled and curved on either side of the buttons, the jut of the blunt angles of her hipbones, and the suggestion of a dark triangle at the top of her thighs.

  He was tired, and bruised, and still as painfully erect as he'd gotten the moment he'd lain down beside her.

  Get away from her before you do something more stupid than losing her at the hospital.

  A quick check downstairs revealed that Old Martin and his wife were also in bed asleep. Silently J. D. went to retrieve his cell phone where he had left it to dry out in the kitchen, then slipped out to the porch. He needed time to think, to talk to his partner, to find out what was happening back in the city. He also needed to put some space between his imagination and Sable's body.

  Once outside, he switched on the phone and was gratified to see it was working again. He checked his watch—2:34 A.M.—then dialed Terri Vincent's home phone number.

  It rang six times before a disgruntled female voice slurred, "'Lo?"

  "Terri, it's me."

  "I just got to sleep—me had better be God." There was a rustling sound, and a groan. "J. D.?"

  He smiled in spite of his brooding mood. "How many partners do you have?"

  "More than I can handle." She yawned noisily. "After he was done gnawing on my posterior, Captain Pellerin said to tell you that if you're not sick or dead, that you're on administrative suspension, effective yesterday. So tell me you're puking up a lung."

  He could imagine what their boss had said to her, punctuated in words of four letters and little compassion. "I got shot at tonight—does that count?"

  "Only if he hit a vital organ." There was a click and an inhalation as Terri lit a cigarette. "Who's shooting at you and how can I reward him?"

  He gave her the details of what had occurred since he'd brought Sable to Mercy Hospital earlier that day. "We're okay now," he added at the end, "but I need to move her to a secure location."

  Terri exhaled. "So bring her in and we'll put her into protective custody, like we were supposed to this morning. Our safe house is extremely secure, and it's protected by some very large, mean men with many guns."

  "No." What he planned to do would likely cost him his career, but he couldn't think about that now. He couldn't trust Sable's safety to anyone else, not until they nailed whoever was trying to kill her. "I'm not bringing her in, Ter."

  There was dead silence for a minute, and then Terri snarled, "You're aware that you're out of
your tiny fucking mind, I hope."

  "Probably."

  "She stole a car—"

  He rubbed his eyes. "She borrowed it."

  "Stole, J. D. And now you're building a little swamp love nest with her?" Terri's voice became strangled, and she coughed for a minute. "Jesus Christ, Pellerin isn't just going to take your badge—he's going to enamel your molars with it."

  "I can take the heat."

  "Let me turn up the thermostat, then. Marc LeClare was murdered; someone beat his skull in before setting the fire. An X-ray technician who was working on Sable at Mercy was found strangled. Have you noticed how men are dropping like flies around this girl?"

  "It's not her fault."

  She drew in some smoke and blew it out. "Has she told you anything yet? Or is her memory still on vacation?"

  "We haven't had time to talk."

  "Sable Duchesne comes from the bayou, and bayou people stick together. She could be trying to protect someone."

  "No, not her." He reined in his temper. "She came after Caine Gantry by herself tonight. When I got there, he was about to beat the crap out of her. In front of his crew."

  "Bullshit." But suddenly Terri sounded uncertain. "J. D., I found the murder weapon tonight. It was a culling pole."

  "Then you should be checking out Gantry."

  "I will, but in the meantime, Sable is our only witness. She's the only one who knows who it belongs to." When J. D. didn't say anything, she sighed. "What am I going to tell the captain? Or your brother, for that matter?"

  He hadn't considered what his family must be thinking, either. "Cort's back in town?"

  "Oh, yeah, just like Jesus—Cort's back, and he's really pissed." She sighed. "Don't do this, J. D. Tell me where you are, and I'll come out and help you bring her in. We'll keep her in protective custody while we run the investigation. Be reasonable."

  "Someone told the killer that she was at Mercy. The only people who knew where she was were cops. I can't risk it. Sorry."

  "Is there something you're not telling me here?"

  He trusted his partner. "Off the record."