Twice Burned

by Pamela Burford

  He suspected that as soon as Logan left, they’d called Mac and warned him to stay away.

  After unlocking the chain-link fence and parking the BMW near the warehouse’s loading bay, Logan let himself into the building he laughably called a “safe house” and rode the creaky old freight elevator to the fifth floor. He unlocked the door, questioning his sanity for giving Zara a key. How in the hell had she managed that one?

  Movement drew his eye to the middle of the room. Zara was exercising, using a sleeping bag as a mat. She was dressed in skintight purple bike shorts and one of those little sports bras that doubled as a gym top. Canary yellow. She was doing crunches, lying on her back with her fingers linked under her head, raising her shoulders and bent legs together.

  He watched her abdominal muscles tighten with each rhythmic crunch, her breath coming in sharp puffs. Her skin glistened and her short hair was spiky with sweat. She lay back on the sleeping bag a few moments, panting, then gracefully rolled up to sit cross-legged. She grabbed the hand towel she’d placed nearby and wiped her face.

  “He didn’t show,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “No.” In seconds he was out of both his windbreaker and his holster. He tossed them on the desk and sprawled on the bare mattress. The shade of the nearby floor lamp was tipped toward the wall, so his eyes were spared.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  You don’t want to know.

  He turned his head and stared at her sitting there in the shadows, her eyes big and dark and trusting. You brought me here for my protection, right? she’d asked him. He hadn’t denied it.

  His plan had made sense days ago, before he’d met the lady. Now, somehow, the idea of using her that way seemed a lot less palatable.

  She said, “Maybe…maybe there’s something I can do. Some way I can help.”

  Was she thinking along the same lines he was? Was the offer sincere? He doubted it. This wasn’t the type of woman who willingly placed herself in harm’s way, for any reason. Not a spoiled, self-absorbed fashion plate like Zara Sutcliffe. This type of woman was accustomed to having other people do her dirty work for her. People like Logan Byrne. With that in mind, he couldn’t help baiting her.

  “Like what, Zara?” He rolled onto his side, propped his head on a hand. “How do you figure on helping out?”

  She didn’t answer. Probably trying to find a way to weasel out of her halfhearted offer. Good luck. When the time came, she’d have to be involved, despite her reservations—and his. He just hoped he could count on her to keep her head.

  He said, “Do you usually exercise at night?”

  “No, in the mornings. But I was nervous, waiting for you to come back, wondering what happened. Couldn’t keep my mind on the novel I was reading.” They’d purchased a few paperbacks and magazines on their way back from the museum. “So I decided to give myself a good workout.”

  “Did it help?”

  “No.” She came to her feet. “I’m going to go shower off.”

  The next minute he lay there listening to the muted sounds of the needle spray pelting fiberglass. The sound shifted, and he pictured Zara moving around in the shower stall, soaping up. She probably had to contort herself a bit in that tiny stall, as he had, to get thoroughly clean.

  Was she rinsing off now? Running her hands over her body, making sure she got all the soap off?

  Cleanliness is next to horniness.

  “You’re pathetic, Byrne,” he growled. He’d never even been attracted to polished corporate types like Zara Sutcliffe. Must be those naughty undies she wore. When you knew that underneath a woman’s don’t-mess-with-me power suit you’d find a half-cup see-through push-up bra and matching garter belt, your interest couldn’t help but be piqued.

  Along with other things. Logan contemplated his bulging fly with disgust. “This isn’t part of the game plan,” he told his erection. “Settle down.”

  The shower stopped and his mind’s eye pictured her toweling off, carefully drying every nook and cranny. A half minute later the bathroom door opened and he rolled onto his stomach with a muttered curse, resting his head on his folded arms.

  He heard her quietly replacing items in her luggage, then nothing. The light touch of her hand on his back made him flinch.

  “I thought you might be asleep,” she murmured.

  He felt her sit next to him, felt her soap-andshampoo-scented warmth. Turning his head, he saw she was wearing a black tank top and orange satin boxers.

  “You look like Halloween.”

  “Not the fashion statement I was aiming for.”

  He reached over and plucked the slippery satin. “How many colors do you have these in?” “How many colors are there?”

  He smiled, deciding he liked satin boxers on women. On this woman at least.

  She half turned to bend and look him in the eye. “I’m serious, Logan. What’s the next step? How are we going to find my mother?”

  “Here’s what I want you to do.” How much should he tell her? “You’re going to call Mac’s machine again. Apologize for missing the meeting and reschedule. Something came up.”

  “Will he believe that?”

  “Probably not. He might figure you’re on to him, maybe even that you’ve contacted the police.”

  “I’ve been thinking that might not be such a bad idea.”

  “The cops?”

  She nodded.

  He rolled to his side and propped himself on an elbow, comfortably flaccid once more. “Listen to me, Zara. If Mac suspects the police are involved, he might just snap.”

  “And hurt my mother.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you said he doesn’t want to kill her.”

  “I don’t think he does, but you’ve gotta understand, the guy’s unstable. Unpredictable. Anything can put him over the edge.”

  “He won’t show up to meet me if he thinks I’m on to him.”

  Logan chose his words carefully. “He might, with the right incentive.”

  “What would that be?”

  “We’ll discuss that when the time comes.”

  “I feel so helpless, sitting around here while Mom is God knows where, at the mercy of that.” She sighed raggedly.

  “Something tells me Candy Carmelle can hold her own.”

  “She’s spunky, it’s true. Streetwise. But.”

  He heard the catch in her voice. His hand automatically settled on hers. Her wet hair was combed back, but some strands fell on her forehead. He pushed them back and she met his eyes, her own shiny. He sensed she held herself together with an effort.

  Whatever else he might think of her, she wasn’t devoid of feeling. As much as he hated to admit it, there was more to Zara Sutcliffe than the onedimensional business shark profiled in the media. This lady was no caricature.

  Her voice was hoarse. “I don’t fall apart easily. I mean, it takes a lot. I can put up with…well, practically anything if it’s in normal doses.” A watery chuckle. “But when the stress just keeps up, with no end in sight…well, I feel like I’m going to crack.”

  Her candidness moved him.

  She said, “That’s how it was with my divorce. It was…ugly. And it dragged on so long. Tony was so damn vicious, so greedy.” She took a deep breath, not meeting his eyes. “I want to be strong, Logan. I want to help you, not hinder you. I just hope…” She shrugged helplessly. “I just hope I can. For Mom.”

  He held her quivering chin and made her look at him. “I’ll help you get through it,” he murmured, and smiled gently. “You help me and I’ll help you. Deal?”

  Her eyes brimmed. She looked about twelve. “Deal,” she whispered.

  He leaned toward her without intending to and touched his lips to hers. He felt a little shock course through her. He knew he should move back, break this kiss, which had started as a token of comfort, but he couldn’t. Her eyes closed and overflowed at last, twin tears trailing down her cheeks.

  He relinquished her
soft lips and pressed his mouth to the glistening track of a tear. His hand caressed the back of her neck, damp from the wet ends of her hair.

  Logan didn’t hear her soft breaths, but he felt them, fanning his cheek, his ear. Felt her breasts brush his chest in the same agitated rhythm. His hand slid down her back to press her to him, to trap her softness against him.

  He claimed her mouth again, harder, fiercer, the warnings of his rational mind a faint whisper under the roaring din of his hunger. He opened her, sought her tongue, explored her mouth in a ruthless possession. She stiffened, and instinctively he intensified the kiss, nudging the answering passion he sensed within her.

  Pressing her into the mattress, he angled his body over hers. She gasped and wrenched her head aside, her nails like talons through his T-shirt. He barely heard her breathless “No!”

  Logan went still. He muttered a curse, rolled off her and got to his feet, putting some distance between them. She sat up shakily and wrapped her arms around her knees. She was ashen, avoiding his eyes, prompting him to replay the last few moments in his mind. His gut knotted. What did she think he was going to do—force her?

  After a hellish silence he said, “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  She said nothing, just tightened her grip on her knees.

  “It won’t, again.”

  She nodded stiffly.

  He blew out a sharp breath and shook his head at his own folly, his loss of control. He crossed to an open window and filled his lungs, tried to chase away the lingering fog of desire. He said, “This is a…an awkward arrangement we have here, Zara, the two of us cooped up together. Hopefully it won’t be for long. Meanwhile, let’s just…keep our distance.”

  No reply.

  “Will you say something?” he barked.

  “Agreed.” It was a hoarse whisper. Her eyes flicked to him, then away. She opened her mouth to say something, but didn’t.

  “All right, then,” he said.

  He laid out his sleeping bag—near the windows, a good fifteen feet from the mattress-and fled the building for a long, solitary walk. He returned an hour and a half later to find the lights still on and Zara sound asleep in her bag, clutching a book, a psychological thriller that had just come out in paperback. He smiled, imagining the valiant battle she must have waged to keep her eyes open.

  He got ready for bed and crawled into his own bag, as jumpy as when he’d walked out, resigned to lying awake most of the night. He envied Zara the oblivion of sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Candy stared at the ceiling of her basement prison, tracking the sound of Mac’s pacing one flight overhead. Whenever the footfalls reached the wall, they paused for a few moments, and she imagined him gazing out a window. Was it nice outside? No light made it past the plywood boarding up the basement window.

  Mac was talking on the phone, she could tell. Once in a while some loud exclamation made it to her ears. She glanced around, not entirely sure what she was looking for. She went into the small laundry room and scanned the assortment of household detritus piled near the furnace.

  In seconds she was back in the main room, dragging a straight chair near the wall. She stepped up on it and lifted her find, a three-foot section of PVC piping. She pressed one end to the ceiling—the undersides of the upstairs floorboards. She nearly toppled contorting herself to angle her ear to the other end. But it paid off.

  “…have a deal, William!”

  Who’s William?

  “Save your threats,” Mac snarled. “Trying to live up to your name, huh? You wanna play hardball, I’ll show you hardball. Your precious Candy Carmelle with two little Xs for eyes.”

  Candy felt a wave of icy dread even as she asked herself, Whose precious Candy Carmelle? Who could he be talking to? Only Emma and Zara would care about her fate. Could William be the mysterious “cowboy” who’d given Mac such a walloping? Somehow she doubted it. Her side was beginning to cramp from her awkward position.

  “Then keep your end of the bargain. Two days, William. You’ve got two days to get me the money.”

  Candy swallowed hard.

  A long pause. “Four, then. Exactly ninety-six hours from now I better be eight million dollars richer or she’s dead.”

  Eight million! She nearly lost her footing on the chair. Who did she know with eight million dollars!

  He said, “I’ll be in touch.” Immediately his heavy footfalls cut a path to the basement door. Candy leapt from the chair and shoved the pipe under the sofa as the key scraped and the door flew open.

  Mac pounded down the steps and stopped short when he saw her. She knew she was flushed, breathing hard. His eyes narrowed.

  “Aerobics,” she said, jogging in place as if she were cooling down. “High impact. You oughta try it.”

  His gaze homed in on her body, bouncingly displayed in his own short terry cloth bathrobe. She could see the internal struggle; he didn’t want to find a woman a quarter century older than himself attractive.

  Touch luck, she thought. She was still a hot item.

  “Where are your clothes?” he asked.

  “Washer. I took a sponge bath at the utility sink, but I didn’t want to put my dirty things back on. I found this in the dryer. Didn’t think you’d mind. You don’t mind, do you, Mac?”

  He didn’t respond, just lifted the tray with her empty breakfast dishes and disappeared upstairs.

  “WHY CANT I just talk to her?”

  “Why can’t you just trust my judgment?” Logan slid his gun into his shoulder holster and picked up his windbreaker.

  “Because she’s my sister!”

  “I thought you realized I know what I’m doing, Zara. Don’t you think I have reasons for my decisions? Or do you think I get my rocks off playing the tyrant?”

  “Maybe.”

  He threw up his hands. “Why the hell am I explaining myself to you? You’ll talk to Emma when this whole thing blows over. Not a minute sooner.”

  She trailed him to the desk, where he’d left his keys and phone. “Where are you going?”

  Surly silence greeted this query.

  “When will you be back?”

  “Tonight’s bowling league, remember, dear? Keep the meat loaf warm and kiss the kids good-night for me.”

  She leveled what she hoped was a withering glare, even as her face warmed. He was right, damn him, she did sound like some shrewish housewife!

  He slipped his slim little cellular phone in a pocket of his windbreaker. How she wished he’d get careless and leave it behind! He wagged a finger at her. “Remember, don’t open the door for anyone.”

  “I won’t, dear,” she said in cloying tones. “Oh, and don’t forget to take out the garbage, precious.” She grabbed the paper sack containing the remains of their dinner—Chinese takeout—and tossed it at him. Hard. Grinning, he caught it one-handed, unlocked the door and was gone.

  She moved to the windows and stood staring down on the quiet street. It was 8:00 p.m. on Sunday, and this industrial neighborhood was nearly deserted. The sky was a bruised purplish hue, and the long shadows in the warehouse had given way to a pervasive gloom. But she didn’t want to turn on the light just yet. The dark was where her deepest thoughts dwelled. She could corral them better on their home turf.

  That afternoon she’d left another message on Mac Byrne’s answering machine, apologizing for missing their meeting at Vincenza’s and promising to call the next day to reschedule.

  She hoped she’d sounded convincing, but she was so bleary and exhausted, it was hard to judge. After Logan had stepped out last night, she’d drifted off while reading, only to be booted awake by a chilling dream in which her parents argued about her and Emma. Dad, bombastic and cruel; Mom, tearful, pleading.

  Candy had left them when she and Emma were just over a year old. Could this dream be some deepscated memory or just a cruel trick of her overtaxed mind?

  She’d fallen asleep with the light on but woke up with it off. Squinting into the g
loom, she’d made out the hump of Logan’s sleeping bag under the windows. She’d found solace in his presence, just knowing she wasn’t alone.

  Once she was awake, further sleep had eluded her. Her mind had raced, her roller-coaster imagination conjuring one horrific scenario after another. Her only consolation had been in knowing she wasn’t the only sleepless one. Logan’s restless shifting and irregular breathing had given him away.

  Ironically, that wretched night had preceded a pleasant, even serene, day. She and Logan had spent the morning chatting and noshing and reading the Sunday New York Times like some old married couple. She’d told him much more about herself than she ever meant to. Despite his often rigid demeanor, there was something about him that invited confidences, impelled her to open up. As different as they were, she sensed a kindred spirit.

  She’d told him about her upbringing at the hands of John Sutcliffe, remembered things she’d long forgotten, painful incidents she’d managed to bury beneath the slick veneer she presented to the outside world. It had been a catharsis, sharing some of that. She’d come away with one inescapable truth, something she’d been reluctant to acknowledge: her father had been an unrivaled son of a bitch.

  He’d raised his daughters in an inflexible environment of strict discipline and emotional manipulation. He’d wrested custody of Emma and Zara from their mother, not for the girls’ sake, but because Candy had had the temerity to leave him. His daughters had become spoils of war. It hadn’t mattered that Candy had been a good mother. It hadn’t mattered that her babies needed her.

  In the end, John Sutcliffe had controlled everything and everyone around him. Had he died happy?

  God help her, she hoped not.

  She’d told Logan about her unhappy marriage. Not all of it—there were some things she’d never speak of.

  But the rest she’d shared with him during that long, lazy day, and in his understated way he’d seemed interested. He’d asked leading questions and actually listened to the answers.

  Naturally she’d asked him about his own life. What had his childhood been like? How had he gotten involved with the FBI? He’d neatly dodged most of her questions, but in so doing revealed more about himself than she thought he meant to. She’d detected traces of the man within, even in his evasions. Anguish, pride, betrayal. They were all there.