Fan the Flames (14 page)

The second his mouth touched her skin, she felt like she'd caught fire. When she tried to tell him good night, the only thing she could force out of her tight throat was a very unladylike grunt. He grinned at the sound and then left the closet, pulling the door closed behind him.

Once he was gone, the tension seeped out of her muscles, leaving only exhaustion. She was tempted to crawl into the sleeping bag fully clothed, but she knew that what she had on was her only wearable option, besides enormous sweatpants and T-shirts. With a quiet groan, she stripped down to her underwear.

“Here's—” The closet door opened, making Rory suck in a startled breath and twist around so her back was to Ian. “Whoa.”

“Do you mind?” she snapped, glaring at him over her shoulder, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Although she was wearing a bra that was more serviceable than sexy, and panties with enough coverage to satisfy the average grandmother, Rory still felt naked. She reminded herself that a bikini would cover less skin than what she was wearing, but it didn't matter. She'd never been in a bikini, much less in a bikini in front of anyone—much, much less in a bikini in front of
Ian
, who was still staring at her. The hungry look in his eyes made her skin flush with heat, and she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

“No,” he said, sounding a little dazed. “I don't mind at all.”

Obviously, she needed to be more direct. “Get. Out.”

Ian blinked and then held out a T-shirt and sweatpants. “I brought something for you to sleep in.”

“Thank you.” Her tone did not convey much gratitude. Between her mostly naked state and his smoldering stare, she was clinging to her composure by her fingernails. Awareness rushed through her, awakening feelings she didn't even know she could have. Her flush darkened, and she knew she was blushing
everywhere
. “Now will you please
leave
?”

“Right.” After running his eyes over her almost-naked back once again, he took a step toward the door. “I knew you had a nice ass, but I'd have never guessed it was
that
nice.”

“Out!” she practically shrieked, barely catching herself before she whirled around to point at the door. If he was mesmerized by her underwear-clad back half, she definitely didn't want to see his reaction to her front side—or
her
reaction to
his
reaction. Her stomach did a flip.

He held up his hands in front of him. “I'm going! I just need to take a mental picture first.”

With a growl, she looked around for something to throw at him. Of all the times not to be armed…

As if he could read her thoughts, he chuckled and exited the closet. “I know what I'm dreaming about tonight,” he said as he closed the door.

Her growl morphed into a snarl as she grabbed the first thing within reach and threw it where Ian had been standing. The plastic hanger bounced harmlessly off the wood panel, and Rory was pretty sure she heard him laugh again.

Muttering curses, she pulled on the T-shirt and pants, trying very hard not to notice the scent of his detergent clinging to the fabric. She turned off the closet light and crawled into the sleeping bag. She felt warm all over from her whole-body blush.

Although the room and the makeshift bed felt foreign, the darkness of a windowless space was reassuring. With a little effort, she could pretend she was in her underground bunker, only without her security lights. With a quiet huff, she flipped onto her side, trying to cool the embarrassment and uncomfortable excitement that flowed like fire through her veins.

As she closed her eyes, the movie began, rewound, and replayed. Rave crumpled to the floor again and again, until her eyes popped open, and she stared into the dark. She'd take humiliation and unfamiliar arousal over the looping visual of the man she killed bleeding his life away on the floor of her shop.

Instead, she shoved both Rave and Ian out of her head and mentally field-stripped an M16 over and over until she fell asleep.

* * *

A knock on the closet door woke her much too soon. With a groan, she yanked the sleeping bag over her head, but she could still hear the second, more insistent knock.

“What?” she demanded.

“State investigator's here to talk to you.”

That woke her completely, and she wriggled out of the sleeping bag. “Out in a minute.”

Ian had sounded surly. Rory wondered if that was because he was as sleep-deprived as she was, or if his interview hadn't gone well. With a frown, she donned her clothes, wishing she had something a little…fresher. Although they weren't actually stinky yet, the jeans and long-sleeved shirt had had a long night under her bunker gear. Lately, she'd had the foreign and unwelcome desire to look nice for Ian. She'd even considered breaking her self-imposed ban on buying factory-made clothes and stopping into the Screaming Moose for a dress, of all things. The thought of wearing a dress and high heels made her wince—she wouldn't even be able to walk out to feed the chickens, much less run from an attacker. She'd be safer in her jeans and combat boots. Too bad they weren't a little more…well, feminine.

When she opened the closet door, Ian was waiting, not looking at all happy. His eyes warmed when he saw her, but he didn't smile.

“That bad?” she asked.

His answer was just a short nod.

Making a face, she headed for the bathroom. An unpleasant interview with a state investigator about the man she'd killed wasn't the best thing to wake up to. “Three minutes, and I'll be ready.”

He caught her hand, pulling her to a stop. When she turned her head, Ian was right there. He dropped a quick kiss on one corner of her mouth.

“You're even beautiful when you first wake up.”

Giving her hand a final squeeze, he walked toward the stairs. Rory, her body on fire from that simple kiss, stared after him.

It actually took her only two and a half minutes before she was moving quietly down the stairs. Ian, having been preemptively banned by the investigator from being present at her interview, stayed upstairs with Jack. Only one man was waiting in the living room. Since his back was to her, she was able to observe him before he realized she was there. Although he wasn't very tall or bulky, he had a lean strength that reminded her of her father. The similarity made her stomach lurch. Her dad had been the first—although not the last—man to try to kill her.

The investigator's dark hair was neatly combed from the side part, and it was carefully trimmed above the nape of his neck. His clothes were appropriate for the mountains in March—warm and casual layers—but something about how he wore them made Rory feel extra mussed in her recycled outfit.

He turned and saw her then, so she descended the final stairs and crossed the living room, stopping several feet away from the investigator. They eyed each other, and neither extended a hand to shake. His eyes were calm and as cold as the snow outside.

“Rory Sorenson?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes.”

“I'm Investigator Paul Strepple with the Colorado BCA.”

Since she wasn't sure how to respond to that—as “Nice to meet you” didn't seem appropriate—Rory settled for a nod.

“Have a seat.” He gestured toward Ian's couch, and Rory had to restrain a tense smile at the investigator's attempt to claim the space and gain the upper hand. There was no way she was going to sit on the sofa, since it faced a wall of windows, so she headed for the doorway.

“Mind if we talk in the kitchen?” she asked over her shoulder. “I was too tired to eat this morning when the shift ended, so I'm starving.”

He followed her. Having a stranger behind her made her twitchy, and she wished Ian could've been there. The thought surprised her. Since when did she consider anyone—even Ian—trustworthy enough to watch her back?

Strepple leaned against the counter as she explored Ian's cupboards. To her surprise and delight, he had the cereal with the marshmallows in it. She'd never tried it as a kid, but the box had fascinated her during their rare trips to the grocery store. After her parents died, she'd bought a box of that cereal and ate the entire thing in one sitting. Afterward, she'd been sicker than she'd ever been in her life, but the taste had been worth it. Grinning, she grabbed the cereal box and started hunting for a bowl.

“New to this place, are you?” Strepple asked, reminding her of his presence and bringing her back to reality with a jarring thump. The cereal find had been distracting. Pausing her bowl hunt, she glanced over her shoulder.

“This house, you mean?” At his nod, she said, “Yes. Ian's letting me stay here until my shop's no longer an active crime scene.”

“You two aren't together, then?”

There was a set of mixing bowls in the next cupboard she opened. Grabbing the smallest one—which was still large enough to hold half the box—she focused on closing the cupboard doors, keeping her back turned so Strepple wouldn't see her blush at the question. She didn't want to show the investigator any weaknesses, and the vulnerability and uncertainty that flared up when she thought about Ian definitely felt like weaknesses. “No.”

“Huh.” His weighted tone made her look at him. “Not what he said.”

There was no way to hide her blush at that, but she did her best, diving into the fridge and taking a long time to find the milk. “Oh. Well, we… Uh, he…” Talking wasn't helping, so she clamped her lips together.

When she emerged with the milk carton, she saw a small smile on his face. Scowling, she asked, “Didn't you come here to ask about what happened at the shop?”

“I did.” Strepple had an unsettling way of watching her. It was cool, almost clinical, and it made her feel flustered. She tried to hide it, focusing again on her cereal, dumping an excessive amount into the mixing bowl. After pouring the milk and then putting it away, she found a spoon in the third drawer she checked.

The cereal was as good as she remembered. Processed sugar and artificial flavoring were amazing things, and they were a temporary distraction from the piercing regard of the investigator. After a few bites, she waved her spoon at Strepple. “So?”

“How long have you known Ian Walsh?”

Frowning, she answered, “Since I was twelve. What does this have to do with the burglary?”

“I'll ask the questions.” Instead of sounding hostile, his tone was completely even. Somehow, it still made her want to cringe and apologize. Biting the inside of her cheek, she straightened her shoulders and mentally told herself to quit being weak. “How long have the two of you been dating?”

“We're not.” When he raised an eyebrow and remained silent, she continued, “We've been spending time together because he was worried about someone trying to break in to the shop. It's not dating, though.”

“So, you're spending lots of time together, including dinner at a restaurant, and you're staying at his house, but you're not dating.”

“Right.” Rory quashed the urge to babble by shoving a huge spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

“Do you know Willard Gray?”

The change of topic made her blink. “Willard Gray? That sounds familiar, but I can't place him.”

“He owned a shotgun he bought at your shop two years ago.”

“What kind?”

“A Remington tactical shotgun.”

Tapping the spoon against her lips, she thought. “Quiet guy in his fifties or sixties? About your height and weight?”

“Sounds about right.”

“He bought the 870.” Although she didn't like talking about her customers and their purchases, Strepple already knew what the guy had gotten from her, so Rory figured it wouldn't do any harm to confirm it. Plus, talking about guns calmed her. After another bite of cereal, she added, “Over a week or so, he stopped in three or four times. I was starting to think he was just a lookie-loo, but then he got the Remington. That's a nice shotgun. Dependable. Kind of heavy, though.”

“Did you have any other interactions with him?”

Since her mouth was full, she waited to answer until she swallowed. “I didn't see him again after that.”

“What about Walsh?”

Rory lowered the spoon still loaded with cereal. “What about him?”

“What was his relationship with Gray?”

“No idea. You'd have to ask him.”

Strepple eyed her for a long moment. Feigning nonchalance, she stuffed another spoonful of cereal into her mouth and chewed, not dropping eye contact with the investigator. His questions about her personal life made her babble, but she didn't hesitate when it came to defending Ian.

“Tell me about Walsh's involvement with the Riders.”

“No.”

His calm expression faltered a little. “No?”

“I don't know anything about that,” she said, dumping her leftover milk down the kitchen sink drain. It had turned a pastel green from the dye in the marshmallows. “That's another thing you're going to have to ask him directly.”

“You can get into a lot of trouble by impeding an investigation.”

Rory took her time rinsing the bowl before setting it carefully in the sink. Turning, she met Strepple's gaze. “I can't tell you what I don't know.”

They had another stare-down before the investigator spoke, breaking the tense silence. “Why don't you tell me what happened the night of the shootings.”

“You mean the night of the burglary, when an innocent shop owner and her…friend defended her residence and their lives as allowed by law?”

It almost looked as if he were holding back a smile. Inclining his head silently, he gestured for her to proceed.

As she told the story for what felt like the hundredth time, the mental movie started to play, but she shut it down fast. It was hard enough getting through this interview—or interrogation—without the added stress of seeing Rave's death over and over again.

When she finished, Strepple asked a few questions about how she knew Rave, which she answered as succinctly as she could. With her belly full of artificial goodness, she was starting to get tired again, and she didn't want to slip up and say something she shouldn't.

When Jack trotted into the kitchen, followed by Ian, relief surged through her. Rory couldn't hold back a smile when she met his gaze.

“Mr. Walsh.” Strepple pushed away from the counter and drew himself up to maximum height. “I thought you were aware that you couldn't be present while I was speaking with Ms. Sorenson.”

“And I figured that two hours was a long enough time for you to grill her, when she had a twelve-hour shift at the fire station last night.”

As if sensing the tension in the air, Jack's ears pricked forward, and he moved to stand in front of Rory, creating a dog-shaped wall between her and the men. She reached down to scratch him under his collar. Although his tail thumped against her leg in appreciation, his attention stayed fixed on the guys currently locked in a staring contest.

“I think we were about done, weren't we?” Rory asked.

Although he didn't look happy about it, Strepple gave a reluctant nod. “I'll let you know if I have any other questions.”

After Ian ushered the investigator to the door, both he and Rory watched from the living room window as Strepple's SUV pulled away from the curb in front of the house. They both stayed silent, standing close enough that their shoulders touched, until the vehicle turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Rory was amazed by the comfort that small contact gave her.

“Why was he fixated on Willard Gray?” she asked, turning to look at Ian.

His expression was grim. “He's the headless body found in Mission Reservoir a few weeks ago—the one Lou discovered during that ice-rescue training exercise. She and Callum are unofficially investigating his death, since the local guys and the state investigators are all running in circles. Will was a reclusive guy who lived in Simpson. Apparently, no one except an old army buddy realized he was missing.”

She winced, remembering the quiet man who'd visited her shop. “He's the one they found in the reservoir?”

“Yeah.” The muscles in his jaw were tight.

“The Riders are implicated in Willard Gray's murder?”

With a rough sigh, he scrubbed a hand over his face. “
I'm
the one implicated. I owned a pendant with the Liverton Riders' mark on it. My dad—not Julius, but my biological dad—wore it until he died, and then my mom passed it to me when I was fourteen. It was found by the body.”

Startled, she blinked at him.

“I lost it a month or so ago. It disappeared while I was showering at the clubhouse. I turned that place inside out but couldn't find it. I have no idea how it ended up next to a dead guy.”

She was quiet for a few moments, absorbing this. “So Strepple thinks you killed Willard Gray.”

“He didn't actually come right out and say it, but yeah. That's probably a safe assumption.”

Looking through the window at the other houses, automatically picking out all the locations a sniper could be positioned, she shivered. It seemed like everyone—the Riders, the BCA, the local sheriff's department—were gunning for them. It wasn't enough to hide in her bunker anymore, though—she had to protect Ian, too. If only his house didn't have so many windows. “Do you mind if we continue this discussion in my closet?”

“Your closet?”

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “
Your
closet.”

“I didn't mean…” He shook his head. “Never mind. Yeah, we can talk in the closet. Can we run an errand first, though?”

“What's that?” Rory took a couple of steps back from the window. She didn't know how Ian could relax surrounded by glass. It was so easily broken and so
transparent
. Anyone could see her.

“I've called him a few times, but I haven't been able to check on Julius in person for a couple of days.”

“Oh.” She suddenly felt selfish. Her problems had completely absorbed Ian's life. “Of course. Do you mind if I come along?” Although the question made her feel clingy, she didn't want Ian out of her sight with everything going on. “I should check on the chickens, too.”

Ian scowled. “I'd rather you not go by yourself. Billy's pissed. He posted Zup and Duke's bail, so those two are around, too.”

“Both of them?” Rory could understand bailing out his son, but Duke, too? That just seemed strange.

“Yeah.” Ian was still frowning. “Why don't you come with me to visit Julius, and then we'll both go to your place. I'm sure the chickens are fine, though. Squirrel's been taking care of them, and he's like the poultry whisperer or something.”

She smiled. “I know. I just want to see for myself that they're okay.”

Accepting that with an easy nod, he changed the subject. “Did you get something to eat?”

“Yes.” A beatific smile curled her lips as she thought about her breakfast—lunch, really, she mentally amended as she glanced at the clock.

His gaze seemed to be locked on her mouth. “What food caused that look?” he asked, his voice a little raspy.

“Cereal,” she told him, her smile growing. “With marshmallows.”

Ian laughed, his intent expression fading. “You ate that disgusting stuff? I just got it because Steve's kids stayed over one night.”

Frowning at him, she said, “It's not disgusting. It's amazing. And you babysit?”

“Sure. We all take turns helping out. That time, Steve got knocked on the head on a call. They kept him in the hospital overnight, so his four kids crashed here.”

“He's a single dad, then?”

“Yeah. His wife died about five years ago.”