Burning Up

by Anne Marsh

  “Jack Donovan,” she said finally, and, no, she didn’t sound pleased to see him. He could kiss his fantasies good-bye.

  “Why are you here?” She made it sound as if her front porch was off-limits, and that just put his back up. He’d learned a thing or two about holding his ground, and no way she was going to push away him now.

  “It’s fire season, and there have been a number of small incidents around your farm,” he growled. “I need to give you some fire safety pointers.” His social skills were rusty, but he expected her to make some polite noises. Ask a few questions. Hell, maybe he’d been expecting an invitation to share a lemonade—he didn’t know, because, as always, she had him at sixes and sevens—but what he didn’t expect was her reaction.

  Her face paled, the sudden white a startling contrast with that golden suntan of hers. She was scared. Not of him, he was betting, because then she would have been backing toward the door. No, her eyes went straight over his shoulder, as if she expected to see a fire burning in the middle of her driveway.

  “Where were the fires?” she said, and he wondered if she knew her nails were carving small pink crescents into her palms. He recognized the scent of fear and desperation. He’d seen it too many times when he’d had to confront a homeowner who wouldn’t accept that nature had her own plans for that person’s house and property and that there was nothing Jack Donovan could do to stave off the disaster.

  He reached out and smoothed a hand against her cheek before he could stop himself. He was attracted as hell, and she was scared. That made him, he figured, a bastard of monumental proportions, because he couldn’t decide between wrapping her up in his arms to comfort her and hauling her off to his bed to seduce her. He wanted her, but he would never, ever hurt her. They both knew that. So he’d find out what was wrong here, and then he’d fix it. Her skin felt so warm against his hand.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  Larger than life, Jack Donovan filled a space and sucked the air straight out of it. That hard body of his was a weapon and a warning. He’d hold his own with anything life threw at him. His short hair was plain practicality, he’d told her once. Any longer, and fire would just singe it off. Looking at him now, with his dark eyes and sun-tanned skin, she saw he hadn’t changed. Not in any way that mattered. He was the sort of man who was always outside; no one could lock him up or pin him down.

  She’d always been cautious. Practical. Even back when she’d been ready for a high school sweetheart, Jack Donovan had been a delicious treat—and completely off-limits. He hadn’t been a forever kind of boy, and she’d known she didn’t really want to pay that kind of price. Flirt with it, sure. But loving Jack would have cost too much.

  He was a damned hero, and she needed him off her porch. Now.

  She’d heard through the grapevine that he’d done a few tours with the Marines, then started a private firefighting company. Now he was the hired gun on the largest, most dangerous wildfires. He put his men up on planes and then followed them out the door, jumping into the thick of the smoke and the heat to wage war. He was pure trouble.

  “Fire.” She forced herself to step away from him, but she knew her stiff smile was a tell she couldn’t afford. Jack had never been stupid, and the last thing she wanted right now was to draw attention to herself. “You drove out here to tell me there have been fires.”

  Surely he meant wildfires, and that meant she was still safe. Thank God. Summer wildfires weren’t personal. Dangerous as hell, if they blazed out of control. But not personal. He hadn’t found her.

  Jack’s dark eyes watched her retreat. God, she’d loved his eyes. Those eyes had made her feel like the center of the universe. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “You know what I do, Lily. And it’s fire season up here.” He hesitated. “Donovan Brothers is filling in.”

  This summer was even drier than most. She watched the weather forecasts every night, tracking the elusive rainfall with spreadsheets and lists the hot California summers devoured. All the experts in the world couldn’t coax a drop from those burning blue skies. She had to sit back and wait, hope and pray that the skies would eventually fill up and spill their bounty onto her fields. And that burning heat was only part of the trouble she had.

  “You volunteered, you mean,” she said, keeping her voice deliberately light. She knew what his team cost. No way this town could afford them, so he was here because he had a soft spot for his childhood home, after all. That soft spot shouldn’t make her want to smile. They weren’t children. Not anymore.

  “You need to be careful, Lily.” She didn’t know whether he was talking about the upcoming fire season—or something else. Those eyes of his didn’t move from her face. Uneasy, she tugged self-consciously at her shirt, and that made her angry. He was just a man. A childhood acquaintance all grown up. “Maybe think about leaving till things quiet down,” he urged.

  She took the pamphlets he held out to her, his fingers brushing hers. Before San Francisco, she might have considered seeing where the spark of attraction led. Now all she wanted to do was lie low. She’d come here for the safety and familiarity of Strong. In running home to her roots, she’d found something even better. What she could build here was special. When she finally made it into bed at night, she might still be alone, but she knew she’d found something she needed here. Peace. Space. Healing.

  The farm was her life now. She’d emptied her 401K, quit her high-powered advertising job, and bought this. She hadn’t known a damned thing about lavender. Hell, she hadn’t known a damned thing about gardening. She hadn’t been home enough to keep a potted plant alive. The farm was more than money—those fields were a future she’d literally built for herself. Each plant she set into the ground was a promise. No one was running her off.

  Not again.

  “You’re sitting in the middle of a firetrap, Lily.” He leaned back where he was sitting on her porch railing, folding his arms over his chest. As if he wasn’t going anywhere, even if she hadn’t had the decency to invite him inside.

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” She turned and walked inside, trying to ignore the man on her heels, and tossed the pamphlets onto the coffee table. “Consider me well warned.”

  He ignored her, of course. The Donovan brothers had always been stubborn. “You need to cut back your grass, for one thing.”

  She knew that, but her farm crew didn’t really get started for a couple more weeks, and she’d been nervous about hiring anyone new to help. There was only so much she could do by herself. “You volunteering to cut my grass?”

  “That canyon out there is dry.” He came up directly behind her. She hated herself, but she froze. His hands settled on her shoulders, turning her toward the screen door. “Look out there, and tell me what you see.”

  Most of the farm was planted with thick, mature bushes of Grosso lavender. From where she stood, she had a clear view of the spike-laden plants marching north-south, the tidy rows of plants blurring into rich sweeps of purple. The green and violet flower buds were picture-perfect, curving up into the June sunshine. Dreamy. Otherworldly. The heated press of the sun against her skin and the thick blanket of scent drowned out all other sensations. Almost enough to drown out Jack. That was her farm. Her dreams. The contents of her 401K.

  Her lips curved. “Wildfires have been happening all our lives, Jack. What makes this summer any different?”

  Pointing to her beautiful lavender gardens, where they came right up to the house, he growled, “There shouldn’t be so many fires this early in the season, and you’ve got a lot of fuel right there. Fire is going to jump from those bushes to here before you can blink. You’ve given it everything it needs. Food. Opportunity.”

  “You’re not suggesting I lose my fields, are you? This is a business, Jack. Believe it or not, those gardens aren’t there because I like picking flowers.” She hated how her voice shook. He’d always managed to get under her skin. “Those plants represent an investment.”

  “It doesn’t matt
er if you think you can make a living growing this stuff. Fire’s going to go straight up that damned lavender and into the trees.” He indicated the elm trees lining the edges of the field with a strong, tanned hand. “You’ve planted a damned ladder, Lily. Fire goes up and hops into the trees. From that point, there’s nothing between the fire and the house. You’re uphill, and that will make the spread even faster. You’ll lose the place before you can finish dialing 9-1-1.” His breath whispered against her ear. “I can’t let that happen. Not on my watch.”

  “I bet you feel like you’re doing me a favor.” She eyed him. “I know what fire season is, Jack. I can take care of myself, and I’m not going anywhere. This is my home.” Now.

  “You’re not staying here if it’s not safe.” His voice was implacable.

  “I’m not going anywhere. Back off, Jack.”

  He moved fast, backing her into the screen door so quickly, she didn’t have a chance to protest. Part of her wondered if she would have. Trapped between his hard arms and the door, she gave in to her curiosity. Resting her head against screen, she stared up at him.

  “You go when I say you go,” he growled. “That’s how it works, Lily.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  He shot her a look that dared her to disagree again. So she did. Arguing with him made her feel stronger. Better. “Let’s see, Jack. This is my property. My house. Oh, and my life.” She ticked her points off on her fingers, watching his eyes flare with emotion.

  He slid forward, deliberately crowding her. One powerful forearm came up, braced over her head. The other closed around her fingers. “I’m not letting you stay in harm’s way, baby.”

  Raising her fingers to his mouth, he pressed a small kiss against her palm. Folded her fingers over the palm of her hand. “Don’t push me on this one. You need to stay safe.”

  He’d been tender-strong that night ten years ago, too.

  “Thanks for the ride.” She’d been nervous about accepting a ride from him—everyone talked about how wild those Donovan brothers were—but she hadn’t wanted to walk home in the dark from the swimming hole, either. He’d been the answer to a prayer she hadn’t known she’d uttered.

  “No problem.” He was already sliding out of the driver’s seat, coming around to open the door for her. No one had warned her Jack Donovan could be a gentleman.

  After he helped her out of the truck’s cab, he hesitated. Tipped his head down toward hers.

  He was four years older than she, already in college. He’d come back this summer to work in the local firehouse, and the town had had a field day with his return. He was taller, stronger. Darker. Already, he’d seen things no one here ever would, and he was growing away from them.

  “Christ,” he whispered, and he lowered his head toward her. “I shouldn’t do this.”

  “We shouldn’t do this,” she argued, because she was here, too. Jack Donovan wasn’t happening to her—they were doing this. Together. And, God, she wanted him to kiss her. She’d dreamed about it for years, and somehow she knew that this would be the only chance she got.

  So she slid a hand up his shoulder, wrapped her fingers around his neck, and tugged his head down toward her. His dark hair, freshly cut, was deliciously soft beneath her exploring fingertips.

  “Kiss me, Jack,” she said, and he did. Kissed her with all the expertise and gentleness he had. Slow, hot kisses that had her insides melting and her body wrapping itself around him.

  Then he was setting her away from him, watching her with those devil’s eyes of his. “I can’t stay, Lilybell, not even for you.”

  That had been their first—and only—night of kisses. He hadn’t pushed her for more than she’d wanted to give that night, but they’d both known he was miles out of her league. He’d spent a hell of a lot of time embracing life in the back of that pickup truck he worshipped, and she—well, she’d been a shy, introverted girl who’d been handed a shot at living out a fantasy. She’d taken it—and then she’d moved on. She’d lived her life the way she was supposed to live it. Going to college, getting herself a job. Except that, instead of happily-ever-after with a nine-to-five and a man she loved, she’d found herself trapped in a nightmare.

  Because someone had decided to watch her. Stalk her.

  And then to set fires all around her.

  She didn’t know how long her stalker had watched before he’d set the first fire, but she did know he’d burned the life right out of her. Six months of that, and she’d run home.

  “You tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll fix it.” That strong, capable hand cupped her jaw, and she fought the urge to melt into his touch. He wouldn’t stick around, and she couldn’t afford the pain. Not again. “Just tell me, baby.”

  “There’s nothing to tell, Jack.” She didn’t want him mixed up in her business. Didn’t want him mixed up in this. He was too large, too dominant. He was a man who took what he wanted, and she wasn’t strong enough for that right now. The man who’d stalked her had done a number on her. She knew that. Knew she needed to retreat and lick her wounds a little before she rejoined the rest of the world.

  Jack Donovan wouldn’t ever allow her to retreat.

  Once she let him in, he wouldn’t let her back away from the sensual heat that was burning up the too-small space between them. So she’d keep him out, despite all those fantasies she’d stored up over the years.

  “I can take care of myself.” Stepping away from the warmth of that hand was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but she did it. “You need to go, Jack. There’s nothing here that needs your fixing.”

  Reaching behind her, she fumbled for the latch on the screen door. Pushed it open a little more forcefully than necessary.

  The expression on her face must have been warning enough, because Jack just nodded curtly, stepping past her. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Lily,” he growled. “Whatever’s going on here, you’re going to tell me all about it, sooner or later.”

  Ten years had only increased his arrogance. “Dream on,” she said sweetly, and she slammed the door behind him.

  Lying on his stomach, he watched from the cover of the trees as Jack Donovan drove away in a cloud of angry dust, the big truck’s tires spitting gravel as the driver took out his frustrations on the gas pedal. His Lily thought she’d been so smart, pulling up stakes and moving here. Across the state and tucked away in a small town. It had taken him several months to track her down, to realize she’d finally run home, but he’d always known it was only a matter of time before he found her again.

  She’d rejected his advances.

  Deliberately, he’d made the first fires small.

  Fires she could dismiss as coincidence. A small grass fire near the beach where she sometimes ran. A car fire on her street. Nothing too personal. Nothing too close. Then he’d made it personal. A fire in the carport of her San Francisco town house, hot enough and close enough to singe the paint job on her new car. Then the tiny bonfire in her kitchen. He’d made that fire too close, too carelessly. She’d seen him at the scene, and she’d bolted. Run. It had taken him months to find her again.

  Running was unacceptable.

  She belonged to him, and it was time she accepted that truth.

  He’d given her some time to get used to the idea, because he knew his Lily was a shy girl. A good girl. He hadn’t expected her to fall straight into his arms, but her time was up.

  Fear always worked. His little Lily needed to learn who was in charge here. Her body had accepted it with her first fear-laced rush of adrenaline.

  He inched forward on his stomach, the dry grass prickling against his skin.

  His father—before his grandfather had finally admitted that there was a problem and had taken care of business—had taught him how to hunt a woman. How to claim her.

  As a child, he’d discovered that setting fires released his tension. Of course, the fires got larger and larger as he grew up, but he blamed that on his grandfather. Bastard had imposs
ibly high standards. On the day he’d finally been accepted into Harvard, he’d set his first wildland fire.

  Sliding one hand into his fatigues, he let his fingers stroke the matchbook in his pocket, a touch that shot straight to his cock.

  His other hand brought the binoculars to his eyes. Watching his Lily storm through her house was satisfying. Her visitor had pissed her off. Good. He wouldn’t tolerate competition for her.

  Fortunately, the smoke jumper would be easy enough to take care of. After all, he’d already started a few small wildfires. Given the weather and the bone-dry vegetation, starting a larger one would be simple. And once the fire started, everyone knew accidents could happen. Maybe the smoke jumper wouldn’t come home. Maybe he’d land poorly or end up overrun by flames. He figured he could make any one of those things happen.

  Plus, he always felt better after each fire. His emotions cooled off, like he was slipping into the pool on a hot summer day. Too bad the calm never lasted. Within weeks or even days, he was agitated again. Ready to burn something else. He knew he couldn’t give in to the need too often; one clever cluster analysis, and law enforcement would finally spot the pattern. He’d been careful, but he knew the odds.

  Lily was worth the risk, however, even if she hadn’t appreciated his love notes. He’d been careful before, but now it was time to step up his game. To prove how much she meant to him. Opening the plastic bookstore bag, he let the colorful novel tumble out. The title itself didn’t matter, only that he’d seen Lily purchase it—and then read it. She’d bought a copy for herself, so he’d bought one, too. And brought it here.

  The book fit nicely into the little ring of stones he’d assembled. He’d burn the book—just part of the book—and then he’d leave it where she’d find it. She’d know he was thinking of her.