Consumed by Fire (29 page)

The damage was done. It was a good thing, he told himself. Her shattered expression was as good as any brick wall between them.

“You didn’t miss any,” she said in a hollow voice. “It took me a while to come to my senses, and I didn’t realize how many there were until a couple of years later. I couldn’t bear to think about it for a long time. I still don’t like to remember, but I should. I need to remember so I’ll never get so broken, so needy, again. Sex doesn’t fix anything; it couldn’t push you out of my system and make me forget.” She turned to look at him. “I take it you were spying on me. Do you have any interesting videos you could put on the Internet?”

In fact, he did. It was a mistake, and he’d watched it once. Then he had taken his laptop and thrown it against a wall, destroying it. He’d thought it would help him let go. Seeing her in another man’s arms had made him furious, seeing the desolate look on her face had almost sent him after her, until he remembered what being around him would do to her. He’d made sure all copies were destroyed, and there was no reason she had to know one had ever existed. “Of course not,” he said.

She had almost the same expression on her face now as she’d had in that fucking video as she lay beneath a man who wasn’t him. Shattered. Empty. He’d betrayed her, once again. Good, he reminded himself. It was a good thing.

She slowly unfastened her seat belt. “I’m going to lie down for a little while,” she said. “Wake me when we get there.”

“We’re five minutes away.” He didn’t want her to go, he wanted to make things better, but he didn’t know what to say.

“That’s good,” she said in a dull voice, rising and moving past him into the small cabin of the RV, Merlin trotting happily behind her.

Leaving the world’s worst bastard alone in the driver’s seat, driving into nowhere.

Chapter Fifteen

She didn’t cry. At first Evangeline had wanted nothing more than to get away from him before he saw how raw his words had made her. She expected to fall on that bunk and bury her face in the pillow and weep, and then face him again with the calm expression that drove him crazy.

There were no tears. She wanted to throw up, as that sick, desperate feeling filled her again, reminding her of that horrible year. She could see them, smell them, hear the mindless buzz of their lame come-ons. She’d never gone to bed sober, not with any of them, but it still didn’t wipe out the snippets of memory, and her stomach churned with disgust. Disgust with them, disgust with the situation, most of all disgust with herself. She thought she’d made peace with it, but just a few words from Bishop and she was an angry little ball of shame once more.

She felt Merlin’s nose nudge her, and he made a soft whining noise of support. She laughed, a weak, rusty sound, and slung her arm around his neck, burying her head in his fur. “You don’t think I’m terrible, do you, baby?” she murmured, low so that Bishop couldn’t hear her. “I was just hurting so badly, and I was trying any way I could to feel better.” Her voice almost broke on that one, and she couldn’t decide whether throwing up or weeping was a better choice. Stoic non-reaction was what she should aim for. Bishop couldn’t know how he got to her. Couldn’t know that deep inside she was just as weak and stupid for him as she’d been five years ago.

She felt the camper tip and rumble over something that could scarcely be called a road, and then move through water, and she knew a sudden panic. Her cousin had died when his car had been swept away in a flood, and she’d always been nervous about vehicles and water ever since. Then again, if the Winnebago was carried away in a flood it would solve all her problems.

She sat up, looking out the narrow window beside the bunk. It was sunset, and she could see a farmhouse in the distance; it looked like the Bates Motel—derelict and depressing. It was probably the Taj Mahal inside, she thought grumpily. At least he’d promised a separate bedroom, which had somehow felt like a slap in the face. He didn’t want to get involved with her any more than she did with him, and he wasn’t hindered by foolish emotions. In his case it was simply lust, something he could control.

So could she. She could control everything about herself until she got away from him. Then she could let go, scream and rail and throw things, get rid of everything she had ever kept locked tight inside her, and he wouldn’t know what he did to her, how he made her mixed-up and crazy and fragile and furious. How she still loved him.

She sat up abruptly.
Jesus, where did that come from?

It was the simple truth: no matter how much he had lied, used her, no matter how dangerous a man he truly was, she still loved him, and the more she tried not to, the tighter the bonds grew.

She’d thought she was over him. She had barely thought of him in the last few years, and when she did her reaction had been fury, pure and simple. Hurt and betrayal had vanished in her righteous rage.

But now it was back full force, reminding her of just how much she still felt for him.

One day away from New Orleans, and he’d happily pass her off to someone else. One night in the creepy-looking farmhouse, a day on the road, and she could say good-bye to him forever. She just had to hold out that long.

He stopped the vehicle, then came back into the camper. She met his gaze stonily, which clearly didn’t bother him. “Stay put,” he said. “I need to check the place out first, then I’ll come back and get you.”

“All right.” It was shadowy enough that he wouldn’t see the tears on her cheeks. She glanced at the dog beside her. “I think Merlin wants to go with you.” The German shepherd had risen, his body tense, almost like a soldier standing at attention.

Bishop raised his eyebrows. “You mean he’ll leave your side? Miracles never cease. What kind of magic potion did you put in his food anyway, to turn him into such a pussycat?”

“Love.” The answer was out before she could think twice, and the silence in the cabin was as thick as the humid Texas air coming in the open door.

Finally he spoke. “Well, I’m fresh out of that.” Merlin bounded past him into the gathering darkness. “Stay put,” he said to her again, and he was gone.

Shit. He’d made her cry. He was every bit the asshole she’d called him. He’d heard every word she’d whispered to Merlin—
You don’t think I’m terrible, do you? I was just hurting so badly
—and he wanted to punch something. Why the fuck had he done that, thrown it in her face like she’d done something wrong? He didn’t give a shit how many people she’d fucked.

Well, he did care, because he begrudged every damned one of them, and because it had hurt her. And still hurt her, even though she’d been looking for something to ease the pain. The pain he’d caused her. Around and around it went, in circles of cruelty he hadn’t planned on, but it didn’t mean shit whether he planned it or not. It had happened, and he couldn’t fix it. He only made it worse.

The air outside the camper was so thick with heat and humidity that it felt like a steam bath, and it was well past the heat of the day. What would it be like midday?

Probably just what New Orleans would feel like, the city he’d chosen to house the new branch of the Committee. He’d picked the city; Ryder had picked the house. Bishop was impervious to weather—it took him just moments to acclimate, to move from the refrigerated cool of the RV to air so thick you could eat it with a fork. Would Evangeline be able to adapt as easily? Then again, she wouldn’t have to for long. As soon as it was safe, she’d be back in her ivory tower in northern Wisconsin with a brand-new camper and truck thanks to the Committee, and she’d never have to think about him again. He just wished he could say the same thing for himself.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her, worrying about her, and he was destroying her. Huge live oaks surrounded the front of the farmhouse, and he wanted to punch one. He’d break bones in his hands and put them in more danger, he reminded himself. No, he didn’t have the luxury of taking his frustration out on inanimate objects. He had to stay on task, shut out any extraneous feelings he might have.
Feelings
. He wanted to laugh. He wasn’t allowed
feelings
, and he damned well didn’t want them.

Merlin returned from his pace around the building, which meant the place was clean, but the dog was still unusually tense. “What’s up, boy?” Bishop murmured, squatting down beside him. “Something wrong?”

Merlin looked at him for a moment, then toward the RV, and Bishop sighed. “Yeah, you don’t like being away from her, do you? She’s got you suckered good. Join the club.”

All the security measures were still in place when he climbed up the sagging front porch and unlocked the front door. The air-conditioning had been turned on, and cool air spilled out into the evening air.

His search of the place was deliberate, despite the security measures and Merlin’s approval. He never took anything for granted, and they were up against very smart, very dangerous people. When he was finally convinced the house was safe, he headed down the stairs to the front hall.

Evangeline was standing there, the door shut behind her, her backpack in one hand, Merlin resting against her side, and he wanted to explode in fury. Why the fuck couldn’t she ever do what he told her to?

He closed his eyes and counted to three before acknowledging her presence. He didn’t want to make things worse by yelling at her.

“I told you to stay in the camper,” he said in a dangerously calm voice.

She’d gotten her second wind, and no longer looked so fragile. “You took too long, and that place is like an oven when the air-conditioning is turned off. I figured if you weren’t done by now you were probably dead, and I would be too, and I wanted a shower before I died. I decided that wasn’t too much to ask from the universe.”

“You think too much,” he growled. “We’ll keep to the first floor—there are three bedrooms on this level and I don’t intend to sleep, so take your pick. No, take the one at the back. It’s closest to the door if you need to get out fast.”

Of course she picked up on it. “You don’t intend to sleep? You’ve been driving nonstop for two days, and you plan to drive . . . what . . . another eight hundred miles tomorrow?”

“It’s only about five hundred miles. And I don’t need much sleep.”

“I believe it. But that doesn’t mean you don’t need any. If this place is as safe as you say it is, then there’s no reason you can’t get a few hours’ sleep.”

“I’ll think about.” He pinned her with his stare. “Why do you care one way or another?”

“I don’t,” she said immediately, and he knew it was a lie. “I’d just rather not die in a fiery crash on the highway when you nod off and drift into oncoming traffic.”

“Sensible,” he said evenly. “Dump your stuff in the third bedroom and take your shower. I’ll see what we have for grub.”

“I think I’ll take the front bedroom . . .” she began, but before she could finish he leapt down the last few stairs, picked her up, and threw her over his shoulder.

“You’ll do what I fucking tell you,” he muttered, absorbing the feel of her, the smell of her skin, the sweet softness of her. The damned hardness of him. He dumped her in the third bedroom while she was still sputtering in protest, and nodded toward the door at the back of the room. “There’s the shower. I’ll have dinner for you by the time you’re done.”

She glared at him. Good. Getting mad at him was much better, much healthier than that stricken, shamed look on her face.

And he had to get the hell away from her before he pulled her back into his arms and moved her over to the double bed. He kept his hands at his side, determined not to touch her again.

“I’ll do . . .” she started in a rebellious tone of voice.

“You’ll do exactly what I tell you to do,” he snapped. “I’m trying to save your fucking life, not make it miserable.”

“Lucky for you you’re doing both,” she said sweetly.

He slammed the door as he left.

That dog was too damned smart, the man thought from the safety of his hiding place. Granted, the fucking canine had missed him, as had the invincible James Bishop, but they’d come too close, and he didn’t think either of them were entirely convinced. The farmhouse was basically an island—the river had changed course years ago and ringed the land, and the only place shallow enough to cross was so rough that you’d need four-wheel drive and even then you’d be lucky to make it across. Of course he hadn’t driven.