Consumed by Fire (17 page)

She sat up too quickly, and her wounds screamed in protest, her head spun, and Merlin stayed asleep. “That man hurt you.” It was a stupid thing to say—obviously he had.

There was an air of hidden tension about him—the violence of the afternoon still hung in the air, but he answered her anyway. “I should have been faster. I was trying to get him away from you before I killed him.” He paused. “Violent death is never easy to witness, and I was trying to spare you. But would you fucking listen? Of course not.” He stabbed himself with the needle again, not even wincing.

“Why are you doing that? Aren’t there any more butterfly bandages?”

“This one’s a little too deep for bandages, and you don’t have surgical glue or staples on hand, which would have made things a lot easier. I didn’t expect we were going to run into this kind of trouble when I came after you.”

“You came after me?”

He looked up again. “You didn’t think it was an accident, did you? I thought you were brighter than that. Clement and his buddies were looking for a way to get to me. I thought disappearing into the Canadian wilderness was a smart idea, and then I could meet up with you when you were crossing the border.” He stabbed the needle in again, and Evangeline winced.

“And you expected a warm welcome from me?” She wasn’t about to show him any sympathy, even with the odd mood he was in. Tension was coming off him in waves, and it was washing over her, but she had every intention of ignoring it. She wasn’t going to tiptoe around his feelings.

“Not particularly. I’ve always been a realist. But I figured I could handle you.” He pulled the thread through, pulling his torn flesh together, and then wiped the blood off with a paper towel. He was doing a lousy job of it and she wasn’t sure how he could even reach the end of the long slash.

She pulled the sheet from beneath the sleeping dog, and Merlin didn’t move. She wrapped it around herself, tying it at the neck so it made a makeshift toga, and then slipped out of the bunk, her feet on the floor of the camper.

Weakness shot through her, and for a moment she thought she was about to collapse. She heard Bishop curse. “Get back in bed,” he snapped.

As if she was going to obey his orders. She held on to the stove, then the narrow kitchen counter, as she made her way back to him, and he glared down at her with profound distrust. “What do you want, Angel?”

“I want you to stop calling me angel,” she said. “Move.”

“Move where? There’s not a whole lot of room in this trailer. Couldn’t you have chosen something a little more spacious? Some nice cushy RV instead of this vintage tin can?”

“Annabelle is a treasure,” she said, moving past him and perching herself on the seat of the dinette. The medical supplies were spread out on the table, some of which she’d never seen before, and the Formica was littered with blood-soaked paper towels. His shirt lay on the other side of the dinette, and it was soaked with blood as well. “You’re making a hash of that. Come here.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re offering to stitch me up?”

“I’m not offering, I’m ordering. You’re doing a terrible job of it.”

“And just how many people have you stitched up?”

She shrugged. “No one. I can’t do a worse job than you’re doing, and any squeamishness I might have will be wiped out by the pure joy I’ll get from stabbing needles into you.” She found a pair of gloves and began pulling them on. “Not that I don’t trust you,” she added in a limpid tone, “but I don’t intend to expose myself to your doubtlessly tainted blood.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then moved closer, right up against her, handing her the needle. She hadn’t taken that part into account, that she would have to be so close to him, touching him. She looked at the torn flesh in front of her and considered throwing up.

“If you’re going to do it, then stop farting around. I don’t want you puking all over me. It helps if you look at it as something other than human flesh. Think of it as repairing a rip in a tarp.” His hostility was aimed directly at her, and she tried to think of some terrible thing she might have done. He was the bad guy here, not her. He had a lot of nerve dumping all that anger on her.

He was also wounded and probably in a lot of pain, even though he didn’t show it. She could give him just a little bit of slack. She swallowed, then stabbed the needle through his skin. He didn’t even blink as she pulled it through.

“So tell me,” he said. “Why do you call your camper Annabelle?”

She frowned, concentrating. He was trying to distract her, and probably himself as well, and she was willing to let him. “It seemed like a good name for her. She’s a little old-fashioned, very sturdy, nicely retro. I like to personalize inanimate objects—it makes life pleasant. My GPS is Grace, my truck is Dolores.” She bent her head. She could smell the coppery scent of his blood, could smell the familiar scent of his skin.

“That way you can be surrounded by machines you’ve turned into people and not have to deal with anyone at all. Is that particularly healthy?”

She jabbed the needle with a little more force, but he still didn’t react. “I find that inanimate objects are more trustworthy. They break down, but you can always fix them, and if they really screw up, you simply replace them. Much easier than putting up with humans.” She grabbed a paper towel and wiped more blood away, then took another stitch. “I’ve learned people are dispensable, and I’m mostly better off without them.”

“Including your family?”

“Most especially my family. My parents couldn’t care less, my sister dislikes me and seems to want everything I have. Maybe I should send you to her.”

“You think you still have me?”

She ducked her head, feeling heat flood her face. “Oh, she likes anything I ever had. I think you two deserve each other.”

He said nothing for a moment. “So if you don’t like your parents, why did you become a college professor just like them?”

That made her jerk her head up, and she was much too close to him. She was breathing him in, and it was like a drug, like hashish fumes clouding her senses. “How do you know about my parents? Why would you remember something like that?”

“I know everything about you,” he said.

She tied off the knot, then surveyed her handiwork. Very neat, and the bleeding had stopped. “I sincerely doubt that,” she said, making her voice cold, even as her body warmed. She set the needle down on the table and looked for bandages.

He had gauze pads and strips of surgical tape already prepared. “I can handle this part.”

“Shut up and let me finish.” She covered the long gash with antiseptic ointment, smearing it on lightly. “I assume you cleaned this properly before you started sewing?”

“Rinsed it with your bottle of rum.”

Her eyes shot up. That had to have hurt like hell, and he hadn’t made a sound. “Just as long as you didn’t touch my Scotch,” she said, applying the bandage, smoothing it carefully over his torn flesh.

“I’m not a complete savage. That’s an unopened bottle of a very fine single malt you have. My brand, in fact. You never used to like Scotch—I had to drink it alone. What made you change?”

She shrugged, and her shoulder protested at the unexpected movement. “Maybe I developed a taste for quick oblivion.”

“Now
that
is a terrible waste of Scotch.” He was watching her. She could feel the heat coming off his body, seeming to surround her, and she needed to get away from him. She applied the second strip of tape with a little too much force, but he didn’t even blink.

“Since it’s my Scotch, I don’t worry about it.” She pulled back, then looked up at him. She couldn’t move—he was blocking her, keeping her trapped on the dinette seat, and there was something menacing about him, a menace she hadn’t felt before. It was sex and anger, and her nerves tightened. She had to wait until he moved away, and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to do so. “And you didn’t know I started drinking Scotch five years ago. Clearly you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

“Five years ago? That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Just that you started drinking my brand of Scotch right after I left you. Seems like a kind of sentimental, romantic thing to do.”

“Romantic?” She was outraged, partly because when she’d started drinking it she would close her eyes and taste his mouth on hers. “There’s nothing romantic about Scotch. I was trying to scour you out of my system.”

“Did you try prune juice?”

“We never did it that way.”

His laugh was cold. “Well, if you’re interested . . .”

Instinctively she shoved him, not caring if she hurt him. It was a mistake. He caught her hands the moment she pushed at him, and he held them against his skin, staring down at her, his eyes hooded. “You need to be careful, little girl,” he said softly. “I’m not in a tolerant mood. I don’t like killing, even when it’s necessary, and it makes me impulsive.”

After her first attempt at pulling away she stayed still, knowing she was no match for his strength. She could always butt her head against his wound, but he seemed impervious to pain, and it would only annoy him. Or worse. “Impulsive, how?” she said, but it came out in a breathy tone.

“Impulsive in that I could easily turn you around, shove you against the dinette, and fuck you senseless. It would take very little to make me do it, and you wouldn’t stop me.” His voice was flat, expressionless, as if he were talking about math equations or directions to the nearest Walmart.

“You mean I
couldn’t
stop you,” she said, her voice cold, her body flaming.

“No, I mean you
wouldn’t
stop me. And you know it as well as I do.” They stayed motionless, staring at each other, her hands splayed across his warm, muscled stomach. There was nothing between them but anger, she told herself, and she didn’t want to make him any angrier.

Aggression was rolling off him in waves, and he would turn that aggression on her. If she admitted the truth, he was right, she
would
let him. She lowered her gaze and her head, like a submissive bitch, she thought bitterly, but it worked. He released her hands and backed off. “Get your clothes on,” he said, “and grab some extras. We’re getting out of here, and we’re leaving Anastasia behind.”

“Annabelle,” she corrected automatically, able to breathe now that he had stepped back. “And I’m not leaving her anywhere.”

“You don’t have a choice in the matter. She’s too noticeable. You and Merlin and I are going ahead on our own. I need to be in New Orleans in three days, and I’ve already wasted too much time.”

She didn’t bother arguing—she wouldn’t win. She had no intention of agreeing either; she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. She simply started toward the bed and the drawers of clothes built in underneath it.

The trailer was very small. She practically had to rub against him in the narrow passageway, and she found she was holding her breath. All that skin. All that firm, golden, muscled flesh. “Is there any chance you could give me some privacy?”

He looked at her, and for a moment she was sure he was going to say no. But then he said, “Five minutes,” and left without another word. She dressed as quickly as she could, taking care with her wounds. They were already looking better, but she didn’t want to do anything to aggravate them. She could hear Bishop unfastening the coupling between the trailer and the pickup, and she bit back her fury. There was nothing she could do about it right now.

Her only real decision was whether or not to bring her research. In the end she tucked it beneath her mattress. A lot of it was scanned onto her computer and safely tucked in the Cloud, including the first month of her notes, but she’d left the two American sites for the end of her trip, and that was looking iffy. Then again, her ex-husband could always show up and steal everything again, though right then Pete didn’t seem like much of a threat. He hadn’t published anything since he’d put out her research as his own, so she imagined he must be feeling a little desperate.

God, she had lousy taste in men! Most disturbing of all was her reaction to Bishop’s presence. She could thank God he had no idea what she was feeling, what she was thinking. It was weak, shameful, unutterably stupid, and she hated herself for it. He was the enemy, she reminded herself, on every single level. He’d as good as kidnapped her, and she’d watched him commit murder. The man had been stunned, helpless, and Bishop had simply cut his throat with a horrifying efficiency. And she’d ended up wanting to fuck him.

She needed to get away from him, she’d always known that. That wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon, but if she behaved herself he might lower his guard. She had credit cards, money in her wallet . . .

In the truck. It was in the glove compartment, and there was always the chance he hadn’t looked there. A chance in hell, she thought.

Merlin was awake, trying to sit up, his legs wobbly underneath him, and she knelt on the bunk, helping him. Merlin was more important than a thousand Bishops. As long as he was okay, she could deal with a trifling annoyance like her ersatz husband.

The door slammed open, and the trifling annoyance stood there, a damned sight bigger and more annoying than she’d hoped. “You ready?”

“Merlin needs help,” she began, but he stepped into the camper and caught her arm, spinning her around and pushing her out the door.

“Get in the truck,” he said tersely. “I’ll bring him.”

She stayed on the bottom step. “I don’t want to go out there.”

“For God’s sake, why not?”

“Is . . . is that man still there?” If he was, she would get sick again, and that was the last thing she wanted. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, and as far as she was concerned she could wait a hell of a lot longer. The thought of dry heaves, however, made her think twice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bishop said flatly.

She blinked. “Clement. The man you killed. He was lying in a pool of blood just outside the camper.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t kill anyone. You must have been having nightmares.”

“But I . . .”