If Pops was safe, then she’d have to believe Mandy was fine. If only she knew about Cissy...
Breaking free, Rory ran across charred grass, ignoring the heat and the smoke searing her skin and eyes. Hot embers burned through the soles of her pumps, water squished through the holes, but her shout of “Pops, where’s Mandy?” caused her father to look up.
The relief on his bearded face was so blatant, she ran into his arms, weeping, getting soaked by the dripping hose for her efforts.
“I sent her to help old Annie out and to look for your sister. Figured the police would keep her away.” Shakily he hugged her before glancing up at Clay. “Why the hell did you bring her back in here?” he roared with more than his usual force.
“You want to try to keep her out?” Clay asked, having followed in her path. “Give me the hose and you make her leave.”
“I’ll get the hose around back.” Since they talked as if she couldn’t hear, Rory ignored their commentary. “Pops, I think Cissy wrecked the car up the road. I can’t find her. Someone said the ambulance may have taken her to town. You know the guys out there better than I do. Go find out what happened, please? It’s killing me.”
She could see the fear and uncertainty in her father’s eyes. His leg had to be hurting. He couldn’t run if the fire turned back in this direction. But he didn’t want to be thought a coward for abandoning his daughters’ house.
“Your family needs you.” Clay took the hose from Jake’s hands. “I can do this. I’ll get Aurora out if it looks bad. I’ll never budge her if you stay.”
“Don’t know how much longer the well will last,” Jake warned. “The house ain’t worth saving if the fire turns back this way. You haul her out the instant it does, y’hear?”
“It’s chaos out there.” Clay reached in his pockets and handed Jake his truck keys. “If you find Mandy, take her over to my place and wait for us there. You can start calling hospitals if you can’t find Cissy. That way we’ll know where everyone is.”
A wave of relief nearly toppled Rory as Pops reluctantly took the keys and directions to the truck. Leaning on a crutch as he never did, he limped down the drive toward safety. She wanted to hug Clay in gratitude and cling to him for reassurance at the same time.
She didn’t dare do either one or she’d break down and totally lose it.
“I’ll go through the house, change, and get the hose out back.” Without waiting for Clay’s approval, Rory sprinted inside.
The house reeked of smoke but was blessedly untouched. Rory stripped off her wet suit and ruined pumps in favor of shorts and sneakers. The occasional patter of water against the thin roof reassured her that Clay had things in hand.
With a sudden terrifying thought, she jerked open her underwear drawer, located the precious bottle cap, and, with another prayer of thanks, shoved it deep into her pocket.
Having preserved the one valuable she could keep on her, she dashed outside, located the hose, and began to soak the shrubbery on the drive to her father’s workshop. That he’d ignored his home and work and precious motorcycle in favor of saving his daughters’ possessions brought another choking sob to her throat, but she fought it back. Tears could come later.
She kept a watch on the night sky and the flames flickering through the trees in the marsh. How well did cypress burn? Would Grandma Iris and the others back there be safe?
She couldn’t tell the exact location of the leaping flames in the distance except that they seemed to be caught on the ocean breeze from the east and heading west.
Cleo’s house and Clay’s cottage were west of the Bingham swamp.
A smoldering ember caught in the pine mulch around the enormous azaleas camouflaging the old toolshed. Rory dragged the hose from the drive and back to the wooden structure, turning it on the flames licking at the dry bushes. The fire grew faster than she could spray, and she panicked.
She tugged at the hose to get closer, but she had reached its length. The water pressure dwindled, dripping just short of the fire licking along the termite-riddled wood. If the fire reached the shed’s roof, it could easily leap into the trees overhanging the house.
Apparently losing pressure in the front hose, Clay jogged around the corner of the trailer. Grasping her predicament, he grabbed a heavy concrete birdbath full of water, flung the contents on the low-lying flames, and ran for a nearby fountain. “What’s in there?” he yelled.
“Old mowers, tillers, junk,” she shouted back.
“Gasoline?” He dropped the birdbath he’d lifted and planted himself in front of her, apparently prepared to push her out of the reach of danger.
Rory shook her head. “Pops said the place is a firetrap. He keeps the gas with his bike.” His expression of relief warmed her, giving her the strength to continue instead of giving up and getting out.
In silence they worked to combat the leapfrogging sparks, Rory with her trickle of water from the hose filling every available container, Clay lifting and emptying one concrete lawn ornament after another to the tinder dry shack. The roof collapsed in a rain of flame and smoke, but the thoroughly doused shrubbery burned slower.
By the time Clay had climbed a fence to drop a Byzantine structure of spouting fish and mermaids on the last embers, Rory was crying tears of laughter as well as relief.
“I never thought that monument to Poseidon’s bad taste would ever have a use.” Her voice cracked and sounded hoarse. Abandoning the dry hose, she wrapped her arms around Clay’s waist and kissed him.
He stank of wet smoke, and his fancy dress shirt was soaked in sweat, but he tasted more wonderful than strawberries and chocolate together. His mouth hungrily covered hers, not entirely in a sexual way, but seeking the same life-affirming reassurance she needed. Finding bliss in this mutual understanding, Rory was reluctant to release him when the kiss became something more demanding.
He pulled her roughly into his arms and deepened the connection with tongue and lips and an urgency that dragged her off her feet.
A hail from the driveway abruptly slapped them back to reality. “Everyone all right in here?”
With a curse, Clay set her back enough to break the spell. He lifted his smoke-smudged face to check the location of the fire, listened to the sirens in the distance, then watched her expression. “I think it’s under control here,” he called to the policeman on the drive.
In a lower voice, he added to her, “I’ll talk to the cops, see what I can find out. Why don’t you check the phone and see if you can call my place?”
Cissy. Without wasting time on words, Rory raced for the house. She had to know about Cissy.
Shivering, she flipped on a light, grateful the electricity still worked. Her fingers flew through the box of business cards and notes beside the phone, locating the index card she’d scribbled Clay’s number on. Punching the numbers in, she collapsed against the counter while it rang.
“McCloud residence,” a female voice announced curtly.
“Cleo!” Terror took root as she pondered the reason for Clay’s sister-in-law’s presence at the beach house. “This is Aurora. Is my family there?”
“Thank God!” Cleo’s voice gained more animation. “We have two of them here, refusing to leave until they hear from you. Where’s Clay?”
“Harassing policemen. My sister? Have they heard from Cissy?”
“Let me give you to your father before he pounds a hole in the floor with that cast.”
“Rora?” he roared into her ear before Cleo could add any niceties. “You okay?”
“It’s all okay. The well ran dry, we lost the toolshed, but I think we got all the hot spots. Clay’s checking to see what else we need to do. Is Mandy there? Have you heard from Cissy?”
“Mandy’s fine. We found Ciss. Your fancy car had air bags, so she’s bruised up some, but she was walking, looking for us when the neighbors found her. They sent her in for observation. We were just waiting to hear from you before we catch a ride into Charleston. Are you gon
na be okay?”
Exhausted, Rory knelt on the vinyl kitchen floor and pressed her forehead against the cabinet wall. Whispering silent prayers of thanksgiving, she couldn’t immediately reply. Tears stung her swollen eyes, and she swiped at them while she tried to find words to reassure her father. “We can take your bike over, then drive in and pick Cissy up.” She hoped she sounded sensible.
“Nah, don’t you bother. You gotta keep an eye on the house. Never know what sumsabitches will be poking around, looking for trouble. Keep McCloud there until we get home. I figure they won’t let Ciss out until morning.”
She couldn’t think straight enough to argue. Her father put Mandy on, and they exchanged encouraging words before hanging up.
Cissy was safe. Her family was all right.
Her life would never be the same again.
She managed to stumble into the bathroom, wash her face, and pull her tangled, smoky hair into a ponytail. Clutching the bottle cap in her pocket, she blocked out all thought of more hospital and ambulance bills. Instead she worried over the neighbors, checked the night sky to see if more flames had cropped up, and walked the yard to search for hot spots.
When she recognized Clay’s shadow jogging up the drive, she ran toward him, halting awkwardly just before she reached him. Ignoring her uncertainty, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and hugged her wearily, then steered her toward the house.
“Cissy’s okay,” she said breathlessly, trying to spill all her news before her voice gave out. “They have her in the hospital for observation. Mandy and Pops are going in to see her.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Your sister’s tough. She’ll probably sneak out of bed and run away rather than face you over the damned car.”
Rory hadn’t thought of that. She didn’t care about the car. Somewhere during the evening, it had lost its importance. “I ought to go and talk to her, but Pops says we should guard the house.”
“Let your sister rest. The cops have a patrol car driving up and down the road, but someone needs to stay here. The swamp halted the worst of it, but it’s impossible to know if they’ve got all the hot spots. I told them I’d be here if the neighbors needed any help.”
He’d be here. With her. In an empty house.
Rory tilted her head back to read his expression in the porch light.
Gray eyes returned her look, watching warily.
After all they’d been through, she couldn’t turn him away. Didn’t want to turn him away.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’ll fix coffee.” Rory held the door open for him to catch.
Clay supposed he should be relieved that she hadn’t told him to sleep on the lawn after he’d nearly molested her in the backyard under completely inappropriate conditions. He wasn’t a demonstrative man, but seeing her running toward him, unharmed and with open arms, had jolted awake a starving need he didn’t recognize. He’d wanted to hold her and never let her go. And then he’d nearly devoured her until she’d had to push him away. Not precisely hero behavior.
Maybe her southern hospitality required that she invite him in before throwing him out. Or she wanted to pump him on what he’d found out about the accident.
He hoped it wasn’t the latter. His suspicious mind had fixated on Aurora’s car and destructive fires, and he wasn’t liking his conclusions. The policeman hadn’t been telling him everything. If she threw him out, he’d sleep on the lawn rather than leave her here alone.
“Water is fine,” he replied, before remembering the water had run out. “You can’t do either without water. Whatever you have will do.”
“The house is on the water line. Only the hoses are on the well.” She led the way back to the kitchen and removed ice cubes from the freezer.
He thought she might still be running on adrenaline and shock. She sounded hoarse. He could see where she’d attempted to wash the soot off her face, but it was ground into her hairline. She still brightened his world like sunrise. He didn’t know how to deal with that feeling.
His stoic upbringing hadn’t taught him to deal with rioting emotion. He really didn’t want to be the one in the line of fire when Aurora’s brain kicked in and she started asking questions. He’d much rather fall back on mind-melting kisses than face her fear and fury.
Kisses apparently overruled self-preservation. He stayed put.
He let the iced water slide down his parched throat. He stank to high heaven and probably looked like a chimney sweep. He needed a shower before he could think about being alone with the woman he wanted so much that he walked around with a permanent hitch in his stride.
Maybe he just had smoke in his eyes.
“If the water’s working, would you mind if I took a shower?” Clay set the glass down on the counter. If he was staying here all night, he wanted her to be comfortable with him, but he wasn’t certain this was the time or the place to ask for anything more.
She nibbled her luscious lip. He hoped he wasn’t imagining the look of fascination in her eyes. If she would simply let loose of her iron-clad control, maybe he could see stars and soft violet nights, and they could wipe out this night of horror. His heart set up a jungle beat, and his palms were moist from something other than his glass of water.
“Not at all. You know where it is,” she answered, her gaze dropping to his mouth.
“We could always shower together.” He lifted one eyebrow in a leer, only half joking. The adrenaline high had hit both of them. He knew now wasn’t the time to act on it. He just wanted the attraction between them out front and acknowledged. Maybe he needed to confirm that it was mutual.
She looked slightly shocked, then thoughtful. At least she hadn’t socked him one.
“Yeah, but I won’t.” Crossing her arms over bounteous breasts outlined by her damp T-shirt, tilting her chin up, she backed away. “I’ll use Cissy’s shower.”
Uncertain how to follow up on such a conflicting declaration, Clay held his ground. He didn’t want a woman in his bed if she didn’t want to be there. He simply wanted to understand. He waited, saying nothing.
She glared at him and rubbed a nervous hand over her disheveled hair. “It’s just adrenaline and hormones. I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t have to explore every urge that comes along.”
The feeling was mutual. He could settle for that. For now.
“Neither do I.” His voice sounded gravelly, even to him. Too much smoke, he supposed. “Just because a woman makes herself available doesn’t mean I hop into bed with her. I prefer waiting for someone special.”
Without trying to explain the inexplicable, Clay turned and walked away. He needed a shower, but he couldn’t decide if cold or hot would work best in his current physical state.
o0o
After sudsing her hair a half dozen times in Cissy’s herbal shampoo, and dawdling until the hot water ran out, Rory emerged from the shower and donned an ankle-length denim dress she’d grabbed from her closet.
She felt clean on the outside, but smoke still seemed to whirl and obscure the inside of her skull.
She fretted over Cissy. She worried the fire would return. She didn’t know where to put her bottle cap. And Clay was wandering out there somewhere, wanting something she wasn’t prepared to give him.
Just because a woman makes herself available doesn’t mean I hop into bed with her. Did that mean he wanted her because she wasn’t available?
She had to take her lust-stricken mind elsewhere.
Now that she’d stopped shaking, her thoughts tumbled back to the bottle cap in her dress pocket. It could have burned in the fire. A million dollars, gone, because she’d been too stupid to take it to a bank in Charleston.
Although, with her luck, the bank would probably have burned down.
But if she concentrated on her family and the bottle cap, she had less time to fret about the virile male pacing her front room. The way she felt right now, he could roar the mating call of a hungry tiger, and she would respond in kind.
&n
bsp; Dallying, she twisted her damp hair into a braid and stuck a few pins in loose ends. She searched Cissy’s drawers for cosmetics but couldn’t find any suitable. When she ran out of excuses she returned to the main room. She could start a to-do list while watching the smoldering yard. Surely she had enough crowding her mind to shut out the needs Clay’s devastating kiss had awakened.
Instead of pacing the room as she’d expected, her guest had moved her computer in front of the TV. She could practically feel his vibrations across the room, but he was tamely sitting on the couch, shooting purple mushrooms drifting across the screen while keeping an eye on the big picture window behind him to be certain the yard wasn’t engulfed in flames.
Weren’t those games supposed to have guns and blood and other appalling visuals to relieve male testosterone poisoning? She’d almost feel better if he were noisily blowing up trucks on screen instead of smoldering quietly. And where had the game come from? She didn’t keep games on her computer. Had Mandy been playing with it?
How could he appear so in control when she felt as if she might jump out of her skin at any moment?
He glanced up at her appearance, and the glow in his eyes leaped into flame, shaking her even more. She’d never known a man like Clay McCloud before. She couldn’t call him a biker or a beach bum anymore. Without labels, she didn’t know how to handle him. Just exactly who was he, anyway?
His damp hair curled against his strong brown neck. She’d given him an old work shirt of her father’s that she’d borrowed years ago. Jake was a burly man, but Clay wore the shirt unbuttoned and still filled out the shoulders, although the rest of it billowed around him.
She’d not had any substitute for his damp and dirty khakis. He’d wrapped one of her big shower towels around his middle, so he must have dropped them in the wash. She could hear the dryer running—a man who knew how to do laundry! Much better to think about that than what the towel concealed.
She cast a discreet glance to his lap but caught only a glimpse of muscled thigh covered in golden hair.
Shivering at the level of arousal one glimpse could generate, she ignored the inviting lift of his eyebrow and began setting out fans to clear the air of the stench of smoke.
Carolina Girl Page 16