Firebird inspected her plate, piled high with a cholesterol-rich feast. ‘‘Looks great! No, I don’t think Douglas knows I live in the neighborhood.’’ Although perhaps he did. Discovering he lived so close had caused Firebird a pang of alarm. He was, after all, a hunter, and one unlikely to forget prey that had escaped him.
Gloria nodded. In the west, with its vast spaces and towering mountains, its brutal ocean and winding roads, ‘‘the neighborhood’’ encompassed anywhere within a day’s drive. ‘‘The Quackenbush place seemed like an odd choice for him. It’s in a little need of repair.’’
‘‘Douglas is good with his hands.’’ Firebird blushed again, harder this time. Had she been hiding at home so long she couldn’t even make normal conversation?
‘‘I suspected that about him, too,’’ Gloria agreed, and her eyes twinkled. ‘‘It’s the quiet ones, or so I’ve always heard.’’
‘‘He doesn’t talk much.’’ Because he was so busy hiding secrets.
‘‘He’s done a lot of the big jobs already—had all the wiring and plumbing replaced, and the whole place reinsulated. He’s started on the interior— Sheetrock and paint, flooring and cabinets. It’s a gigantic effort, not worth it, in my opinion—but he’s not interested in my opinion.’’
‘‘I don’t know that he ever listens to anyone.’’
‘‘Not to mention the fact that he has to be independently wealthy to afford to buy the place—the location is prime real estate—and renovate it.’’ Gloria’s face warmed with curiosity, and she leaned forward, ready to hear any confidences Firebird might share.
‘‘I don’t know about his finances. We’re not that kind of friends.’’
Gloria’s face fell. The bell tinkled at the door, and she wandered off to take care of a party of four— travelers, by the look of them—then two guys dressed like construction workers who sat at the bar.
Gloria came back when Firebird had demolished most of the food on the plate, and warmed up her cup of coffee. ‘‘Looks like you’re slowing down.’’
‘‘I’m going to have to admit defeat, but you guys aren’t kidding. This is the world’s best napoleon.’’ Firebird sighed with pleasure.
‘‘I’m living testimony.’’ Gloria patted her ample waist. ‘‘Listen, I don’t think he’s home.’’
‘‘Douglas?’’
‘‘Early this morning, I saw him heading out toward one-oh-one. Probably out there picking up folks for speeding. Picked me up once. Gave me a lecture on how important I was to the community, and how speeding was going get me killed, and all the while he watched me with those dark brown eyes, like he was reading my future.’’ Gloria shivered. ‘‘He scared the hell out of me, I’ll tell you.’’
‘‘You don’t speed anymore?’’
‘‘I do, but I watch my mirrors a lot more closely.’’ Gloria handed over the receipt.
Firebird laughed and dug out her wallet. Gloria peered at her driver’s license, but Firebird kept the name turned away. She did not need Gloria, who obviously knew all the comings and goings of Rocky Cliffs, talking about the young woman with the odd name who’d come looking for their local state cop. Not that Firebird expected to sneak up on Douglas; that wasn’t possible. But not everybody in town needed to know her business.
‘‘Need directions to the old Quackenbush place?’’ Gloria asked.
‘‘I MapQuested it.’’ Firebird caught Gloria’s wrist. ‘‘I’m hoping to surprise him.’’
Gloria looked at Firebird’s hand, then searched her face. ‘‘You don’t look like a former wife with a grudge or an international terrorist. Darn it. So I guess I can keep my mouth shut until you find him.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ Firebird left a generous tip. She put a stick of gum in her mouth and headed back to her car.
The two guys at the bar thoroughly and obviously checked her out.
Jerks.
Not that she didn’t look good. She’d dressed carefully for this encounter, wanting to look casual and carefree, professional and responsible, youthful yet mature. She’d finally settled on comfortable and warm—a pair of dark jeans, a green cashmere turtle-neck, and black, low-heeled ankle boots. Her coat was a bulky, calf-length, rain-repellent hooded beast, but Firebird remembered exactly how cold it could be near the Pacific this time of year—or any time of year.
She stopped in the doorway and donned the coat.
The guys at the counter whistled.
Douglas could teach them a thing or two about showing subtle appreciation for a good-looking woman. He had a way about him that had made her abandon the rigid morals her parents had taught her and fall into bed without a thought to the future.
She headed outside.
As she followed the directions to the old Quackenbush house, she knew that was the problem. He had so easily seduced her before. He had made her love him. And after she left him, no matter how angry and betrayed she had felt, she still wanted him. Loved him.
Now, perhaps . . . perhaps all the pain and worry had been for nothing.
Now she had something entirely different to worry about.
She turned off Main Street and onto Sutterman Drive, a narrow, winding road that climbed the cliff at the far end of the town. Just before she reached the top, she knew she’d found it; Seaview Road turned right, toward the Pacific Ocean, and a thirty-second drive got her to the lone house on the street, perched at the very top of the cliff. Douglas’s house. She took it in with one encompassing glance. ‘‘This is the Quackenbush place?’’ she muttered. ‘‘Looks more like the Addams family lives here.’’
The house was Victorian, tall and narrow, with a lot of porches, balconies, and bric-a-brac, and a weather vane perched on the top cupola that spun in the ocean breeze. To say it needed paint was putting it politely. In some spots, the salt water rotted the boards, leaving no place to paint. The steps leading to the wraparound porch had been replaced, and a cable was strung between there and the front door, creating a walk here path.
Douglas had never seemed the homebody type. So what was he thinking by purchasing this behemoth?
She followed the driveway around to the side of the house. There was a tumbledown single-car garage with a BMW X5 parked inside. A BMW X5 had been Douglas’s dream car. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
She parked on the gravel parking area and got out. As she scurried around to the stairs, the wind and salt scoured the tender skin of her cheeks, and far below, at the bottom of the cliff, she could hear the waves pounding at the rocks. She walked carefully on the wobbly boards on the porch and to the door. She rang the bell and knocked at the same time, but no one answered.
Hadn’t Gloria warned her he was off in his patrol car?
Firebird didn’t want to go away and wait. She was afraid that if she did, she would lose her nerve.
She tried the knob. The door was locked, but the whole lock mechanism rattled as if ill seated in the frame.
She could get in here if she cared to try—and trying beat running away.
It took one efficient slip of her credit card, and she was inside. She shut the door behind her and relaxed, basking in the warmth.
To the left were the sad, faded remnants of a large study. To the right the sad, faded remnants of a large living room. Straight ahead the sad, faded remnants of a magnificent stairway. As Firebird moved through the house, she saw nothing but sad, faded remnants— until she reached the massive kitchen.
The kitchen had been completely refinished, with a black slate floor, cabinets stained a pure, glorious red, a black basalt countertop, and Tuscan gold walls. The long table in the center looked antique, a substantial plank of oak resting on sturdy legs with a single master’s chair set at one end.
The colors should have been outrageous. Instead the room was warm. Welcoming.
Absentmindedly, she hung her coat on the chair, wandered over, and looked out the wide windows . . . and at last understood why Douglas had bought this house.
&
nbsp; Behind the house, a garden of ocean-hardy plants grew in untended profusion. The edge of the cliff was fifty feet from the back of the house, and lining it, like ragged teeth, a row of boulders protected any idiot who might try to drive into the ocean.
Beyond that, the dark green sea rippled and breathed. Patches of seaweed rocked back and forth in the tides. Sea lions basked on a warm, flat, stony outcropping, and gulls soared through the gray clouds and into the bright blue sky. Far out in the sea, white waves foamed and broke against the giant, towering rock stacks. And beyond all that . . . the view stretched to the far horizon and thence into eternity.
On the surface, this place looked like the epitome of civilization, but in fact it owed its whole existence to the wildness and glory of nature.
The house was just like Douglas.
She needed to remember that.
She ditched her gum in a stainless-steel trash can, poked around the ground floor a little more, then headed up the stairs to the second floor. The finish was worn, the detail battered, but the wooden treads and handrail remained sturdy. On the landing, she turned and looked back. Yes, the house was dusty. Yes, it was faded. But while the outside had been battered by the elements, the bones of the inside remained intact, and for a brief second, she saw the former glory of the house, and what it could be again.
Yet . . . Gloria had a point. How could Douglas, on a state trooper’s salary, pay for this renovation?
The upstairs was a match for the ground floor, faded and shabby, with bedroom after bedroom in shambles, and the one bathroom she saw filled with white chipped tile and antique fixtures. Two doors were closed: one at the end of the hall, and the wide double door at the end to the left.
She reached them, and, feeling like Bluebeard’s wife, she opened the door on the left.
The room was small, partially remodeled, and held a desk, an office chair, a file cabinet, and a laptop connected to a keyboard and printer.
His office.
Moving swiftly, she went in and touched the keyboard. The monitor sprang to life.
She felt as if she were invading Douglas’s privacy, but this had to be done. She got into the browser, went to her e-mail provider, and typed a quick message to her mother.
Arrived okay. Have found Aleksandr’s father. Will update you when possible. Love to everyone. Kiss Aleksandr.
Then quickly, without looking at anything, she put the computer back to sleep and backed out.
Going to the double doors at the end of the corridor, she opened them and found the master bedroom, completely renovated and updated, an oasis of calm and welcome, with a warm gray carpet and matching walls. On one wall, the gray slate fireplace rose to a high white ceiling raised higher with decorative cove molding, and two overstuffed navy blue chairs waited with a small round table for someone— Douglas and a friend—to sit with glasses of wine. On either side of the low bed were wide windows facing out to the ocean, and above the bed . . . Firebird’s breath caught. Above the bed was an original oil painting, a glorious splash of orange and red, a single exotic flower opening to the world.
She walked toward the painting, put her knee on the mattress, leaned forward, and read the scrawl of a signature: f. wilder.
In college, she had been willing to slap paint on a canvas in wild exuberance, to show the world in the most vivid manner possible that she was in love. Not just in love—stupid in love. Stupid, because look what the results had been.
She lifted her fingers and gently stroked the lifted ridges of the yellow stamen—and behind her, he asked, ‘‘What are you doing in my house? What are you doing in my bedroom?’’
Chapter Eleven
She didn’t jump; he’d give her that. But Firebird wilder had always had balls of steel, and now as she turned coolly to face him, she proved those balls were stainless.
‘‘Hello, Douglas. How are you?’’
Douglas. He’d tried to forget her, to tell himself that she had never been worth his spit, that she’d changed from the spirited girl whom he’d captured and who in turn had captured him, that he wouldn’t care for her anymore. Then she called him Douglas— not Doug, like everyone else—and the old memories came rushing back. The old vulnerabilities.
‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he repeated. ‘‘Why did you break into my house?’’
‘‘It was cold on the porch.’’
‘‘Then you should have left.’’
‘‘I drove a long way to see you.’’ She glanced back at the painting she’d left behind when she fled Brown University. ‘‘You still have it.’’
‘‘Why would I not?’’ He’d tried, but he couldn’t bear to get rid of it.
‘‘I thought you might have thrown it out when I left without telling you where I was going.’’ She sat on the bed, smoothing the spread with the flat of her hand.
She looked the same, and yet . . . she used to wear her long blond hair down, or caught at the back of her head in a clip. Now it was cut into a retro twenties style straight across her forehead, then straight back from her chin.
He didn’t like it.
She still looked taller than she was, but she was no longer gymnast skinny. She’d filled out: Her waist was tiny, curving seductively outward to her hips and breasts.
Before, she’d been a girl.
Now she was a woman.
But then, he knew that. He’d been watching her.
He walked toward her, unsmiling. ‘‘Breaking and entering is a crime.’’
As he loomed above her, she stopped smiling, stopped pretending that everything was normal. ‘‘I found you on the Internet.’’
‘‘I’m not hard to find.’’
‘‘No.’’ Her razor-sharp blue eyes flicked up at him. ‘‘I was surprised at how easy it was.’’
‘‘You, on the other hand, are extremely difficult to find. After you ran away . . .’’ He paused, waiting to see if she would deny it.
She didn’t.
‘‘After you ran away, I did everything in my power to find you. I couldn’t. And I’m good at research.’’
‘‘Because you’re a cop.’’
‘‘A cop who uses all the resources available.’’ He’d learned for a very good reason. ‘‘But you disappeared into thin air.’’
‘‘I did tell you I lived in Washington.’’
She had. She’d been chary with information about herself, but once she’d decided to trust him, she gave him information. As it turned out, she hadn’t given him enough information, because he had searched, and the mountains had swallowed her without a trace.
‘‘My oldest brother has a thing about privacy.’’ She managed to sound completely open and frank, when he knew the opposite was true. ‘‘He makes sure that my family isn’t bothered by—’’
‘‘Undesirables like me?’’ His temper crackled.
It would have been better for Firebird if she hadn’t come right now, while he was still shaken by Ashley Applebaum’s death. Right now he was angry about the waste of a life, about the cruelty in which Applebaum delighted, and at Ashley for succumbing to the terror in which she lived. He knew, he understood, how men like Applebaum used their superior strength and craftiness to victimize their wives and families.
But that baby would forever wear that brand burned into her skin. He recognized the signs of abuse on both children. And he wanted to know why, why Ashley hadn’t left sooner.
And he hated that Firebird had run from him, who would have always defended and cared for her, and back into the arms of her controlling family.
‘‘I was going to say, Jasha makes sure that my family isn’t bothered by a ton of catalogs in the mail and salesmen calling during dinner.’’ Again, Firebird showed him what a very cool customer she was. ‘‘But you found me finally.’’
He could be as composed as she was. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘You were at my house last night.’’
He looked her right in the eye. ‘‘If that’s w
hy you’re here, you’ve made a mistake.’’
She stared right back, searching his face for the truth. ‘‘Are you claiming you were not at my house last night? Not on the Wilder property at all?’’
‘‘I was not.’’
She set her mouth in disgust.
‘‘Do you have a stalker?’’ he asked. ‘‘Is that why you came here? Because I’m a state patrolman and can look into the matter?’’
‘‘No. My father and brothers will handle this.’’
‘‘Your father and brothers could get in trouble if they challenge an intruder. They might get hurt.’’ He scrutinized her, wanting to see how she felt. Were his suspicions correct? Was she afraid of her father and brothers? Was that why she’d sought him out at last?
She looked a little amused and slightly quizzical. ‘‘That’s unlikely. They’re very capable men. The intruder is more likely to regret his decision to, um, intrude.’’
‘‘That could end in a lawsuit. They could end up in prison.’’
‘‘The men in my family take care of themselves.’’
Yes, but who takes care of you?
‘‘Don’t worry, Douglas. It’s not your problem. Not yet.’’ Reaching up, she caught his hand.
Her grip hadn’t changed. She held a man strongly, as if she would never let him go.
‘‘Sit down. I have to tell you something. Something important.’’
‘‘Then perhaps I should stand.’’
‘‘Sit.’’ She tugged hard.
He sat. And waited, his gaze cold and level.
She was nervous. If he weren’t a law officer, he might never have known, but he’d been trained to spot the telltale signs: the carefully controlled breathing, the cold fingers, the flush on her neck and chest.
For the first time since the alarm had alerted him of an intruder in his house, he wondered if she’d come here not because she knew about him, but because of another reason, one he had not foreseen. ‘‘If you didn’t come for my assistance . . . ?’’ He lifted his eyebrows, once more wanting assurance.
Into the Flame Page 9