Into the Fire (16 page)

“What the fuck were you doing in there?”

She was glad she didn't have to see the fury in his face. Her left leg was beginning to throb, and her entire body was trembling with the aftermath of shock.

“That was where he died, isn't it?” Her voice was low, strained. “That's where Nate was murdered. That's his blood all over the place. For God's sake, couldn't you have at least cleaned up the blood?” she cried.

Silence. She could barely see his shadow in the darkened hallway—his expression was beyond reading. “I didn't expect you to go nosing around where you didn't belong.”

“Hell, I don't belong here, anywhere here, and we both know it! I certainly don't belong in your bed.”

“Or in the back seat of my car. Or on the floor of the garage. Or on the kitchen table, or anywhere else we end up doing it. Whether you belong or not is beside the point. It's where you want to be.”

The pain in her leg was nothing compared to the harshness in his voice. “Go to hell,” she said. She pushed away from the wall, but her leg buckled beneath her. It should have been too dark for him to see, but she should never have underestimated the Killer.

He picked her up, and she hit him, trying to squirm out of his arms. He was much stronger, of course, and it only took him a moment to pinion her arms between them. “Stop fighting me,” he said gruffly. “It puts me in a bad mood, and you don't want to see me in a bad mood. You're hurt, you can't walk, so you might as well shut up and let me help.”

“I could crawl,” she snapped.

“A lovely thought, but we'll wait till I'm not so pissed at you to play those games.”

“You're disgusting.”

“By your standards, yes.” He was totally unmoved by her struggles or her fury, and she could tell by the strength and tension in his body that he was just as angry with her.

He carried her down the stairs. Down two flights
of stairs, thank God, not stopping at the floor with the bedrooms. The kitchen was filled with warmth and light—a shocking contrast to the bleakness of the third floor, and she could smell something cooking. Something wonderful, and her empty stomach growled in sudden hunger.

He set her down on the oak table, and she immediately tried to jump down.

“Don't waste your time, and don't piss me off more than I already am,” he growled. “You screwed up your leg big time, and I don't want you turning around and suing me. I don't have any kind of insurance, and while I know you'd like nothing better than to take this place away from me and burn it to the ground as a tribute to your darling Nate, I've worked hard for it and I'm not about to let it go. So hold still and let me see how badly you're hurt.”

She still tried to scramble off the table, but he was stronger than she was, holding her there, and she gave up fighting.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Shit,” she echoed, looking down at the blood-matted leg of her jeans. No wonder it was throbbing.

“Stay put,” he said, and by now she wasn't fighting. He went to a drawer, grabbed a bunch of things
and turned back, cutting her pants leg to her knee with a pair of scissors before she could protest.

There were three gashes on her leg. At least the bleeding had stopped, though her entire foot was soaked in blood.

“Lie back on the table.”

“I've heard that before,” she said in a caustic voice.

“Behave yourself, Jamie.” He pushed her, surprisingly gentle, and she lay back, closing her eyes. It wasn't the same push that had sent her hurtling forward into that room. Different hands, yet who else could it be? Who else was here?

“Did you push me?”

He was cleaning the scrapes with infinite care, and he didn't hesitate. “You know I did. And if you try to sit up again I'll sit on you.”

“I don't mean now. I mean on the third floor. Did you push me into that room?”

Only the slightest hesitation, so slight that most people wouldn't have noticed it. “I didn't want you up there,” he said finally. “Why would I have pushed you in? Especially with the floor rotting away like that. The roof over the place has leaked for years, and I just got it redone this spring. I haven't had enough money to take care of the damage on that floor, and I assumed no one would be
wandering up there or I would have warned you. What in hell made you go up there in the first place?”

“I heard someone moving around up there. I thought you'd gone upstairs for something.”

“I was in the garage.”

“I didn't hear you down there.”

“You think I'm lying?” The question was very casual, but she didn't miss the edge.

“No,” she said. Hoping she meant it.

“You know this place has rats. They've taken a particular affection for you. You must have heard one moving around up there. The place is probably teeming with them. No one ever goes up there.”

She shuddered. “Why don't you get rid of them?”

“I told you, there's plenty of poison lying around. That's why they suddenly show up dead at your feet. What can I say—you and rats have a certain affinity.”

“Are you talking about Nate or about you?”

“Take your pick. Why don't you find some nice banker and marry him and make your mother happy?”

“Nothing would make my mother happy,” she said flatly.

“Well, you've learned that much over the years. Sit up.”

She actually didn't want to. She wanted him to climb up on the table and kiss her, to wrap his arms around her and soothe her irrational fears. Because there was nothing to be afraid of, was there?

But she sat up, looking down at her bandaged leg, looking up into his shadowed face. He had her blood on his hands.

“Are you all right?” he asked finally, almost unwillingly. “You look as pale as a ghost.”

“There's no such thing as ghosts, right? Nate's dead and gone—he can't come back.”

“He's dead and gone. I identified his body, Jamie. There wasn't any doubt, despite the condition he was in.”

“Condition?” she echoed in a faint voice.

“Come on, Jamie, you know what shape he was in. He was beaten to a bloody pulp. The Duchess herself wouldn't have recognized him, except for the jewelry and the clothes.”

“So there couldn't have been a mistake?”

Dillon shook his head. “I was here at the time, Jamie. Nate didn't leave.”

The first trickle of doubt began to form in the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean, you were here? You knew what was happening?”

He didn't look at her. “I wasn't Nate's babysitter. He stayed on the third floor, remember? I work in the garage with the music cranked up.”

It wasn't an answer, not a real one. He'd gone to the sink, washing her blood from his hands, and she could see the tension in his tall, lean body.

“You're lying to me,” she said.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “What are you accusing me of, baby girl? Killing Nate? Luring you upstairs to try to kill you? Couldn't I have just strangled you in bed?”

It shouldn't have made her blush. Doubt filled her body, and she made herself slide down off the table. Her ankle hurt, but it bore her weight.

“I don't know what to believe. All I know is you're lying.”

He turned around, leaning back against the sink. “Yeah?” he said. “And do you want me to show you how much you care?”

“What do you mean?”

He started toward her, a slow, stalking gait, and she froze. He was threat personified, and all her instincts said “run.” And all her instincts said “stay.”

He came right up to her, towering over her, his body brushing hers. He leaned his head down and whispered in her ear. “You don't care whether I
killed Nate or not. You don't even care if for some crazy reason I want to kill you. All I have to do is touch you and you don't care about anything but me.” He slid his hand between her legs, and even through the denim of her torn jeans she quivered, swaying toward him.

He brushed his lips against the side of her neck, and she arched. “It's called power, baby girl,” he whispered. “Sexual thrall. I own you, and it doesn't matter what I did, what I will do. All that matters is you'll do what I say. Won't you?”

He was stroking her, and she could feel herself getting damp. He moved his lips to the corner of her mouth, and he moved one leg between hers, pressing. “Won't you?” he said again.

She wanted to touch him. She wanted to put her arms around his waist and pull him tighter against her body, she wanted to sink down on the floor and finish what she'd started earlier. She wanted to do anything he asked of her, and more.

But she couldn't. She looked up into his dark eyes, and she wanted to disappear into the darkness, into the heat and power. But she couldn't.

“Did you have anything to do with Nate's death?” She could barely get the words out.

She expected him to pull away. He didn't. He pushed his leg between hers, pulling her forward so
that she rode against his hard thigh, and she moaned. “Do you trust me?”

God, she wanted to. She wanted to empty her mind and her heart of everything but Dillon. He was going to make her come this way, and she didn't want to. She wanted him to stop, to talk to her, to tell her there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to worry about, that she could trust him with her life.

“Do you trust me?” he asked again, his leg sliding against her, harder, and she felt the quivering of an incipient orgasm begin to wash over her. She was having trouble breathing, and if she weren't supported by the table behind her and his leg between hers she would have collapsed.

She was almost there, and he knew it. He knew everything about her body in this short time. “Do you?” he asked, one more time, brushing his mouth against hers, and she wanted more, she wanted his tongue, she wanted everything. Everything but losing herself.

“No,” she whimpered.

“No? No, don't do this, or no, you don't trust me?”

“I…I…” She could barely speak, she was shaking so hard. He could finish it if he wanted to, but he was holding her just on the edge, taunting her.
“No, I don't trust you,” she said. “And no, don't stop.”

He pulled away from her, so abruptly she fell back against the table. She looked up at him, dazed, but he'd already stepped back.

“Sorry, baby girl. You can't have one without the other.”

And he walked out into the night, into the snow, without another word, slamming the door behind him.

H
e hadn't taken a coat, and he didn't give a shit. He didn't get cold easily, an advantage in this climate, and the flannel shirt would be enough to get him away from Jamie. He should have known, of course. She'd been raised by the Duchess, side by side with Nate. There was no way she could have come through life untainted, no matter how innocent she seemed. Fucking him was all well and good—she'd do anything he wanted her to if he just touched her the right way. Anything except trust him.

Crazy that that would bother him. Why the hell would he need her to trust him, when all he really wanted was her ass? To burn off twelve years of frustration in the shortest possible time.

Maybe it was because she'd trusted Nate, believed in him as she'd never believe in Dillon. Nate was the most treacherous creature Dillon had ever known, including the thugs he'd met during the year and a half he'd spent in prison, and Jamie still
thought he walked on water. And she looked at Dillon and saw a bad boy and a good time.

Hell, he shouldn't object. Isn't that how he saw himself? Isn't that all he wanted to be to her?

Mouser would smarten him up. He could always count on Mouser to make him see things clearly, whether he wanted to or not. And Mouser would always go to a meeting with him. He'd walk over to his place and talk him into driving him to St. Anne's. It was getting cold. He'd run over to his place before he froze his balls off.

But Mouser's place was dark. He lived on the first floor of a decrepit apartment building, and he slept with a light on. He was afraid of the dark—a weakness he admitted to few, but Dillon knew it. Yet his apartment was pitch black.

He knew where Mouser kept the spare key, and he heard the cats before he even opened the door. It had always been a source of amusement to him, Mouser's fondness for cats. He was a sucker for any stray that wandered by—it was no wonder he was so protective of Jamie. He currently had three cats who were now weaving their way around Dillon's ankles, making plaintive, hungry noises.

He'd always told Mouser he didn't like animals, and of course Mouser didn't believe him. He leaned down and picked up one scraggly bundle of fur,
rubbing the head of another, and headed into Mouser's tiny kitchen.

The cat food dish was empty. Which was crazy—Mouser doted on his felines. He never would have left them without food.

He poured some food into the bowls, and was immediately rewarded with a couple of loud purrs, another body weaving around his ankle, while a third decided to sharpen his claws on his shin before settling in to eat.

He flicked on the light in the kitchen. Supposedly cats could see in the dark, but Mouser wouldn't want them left in an unlit apartment.

He should leave him a note before heading out to the meeting. But he had a cold, certain feeling that Mouser wasn't coming back.

Mouser's upstairs neighbor, a plump widow with a similar fondness for strays, promised to look after the cats until Mouser returned. At least they wouldn't starve to death in the apartment. Mouser would never have forgiven him if he let that happen.

He walked down the snowy street, heading toward St. Anne's. It was a long walk, he didn't have a coat, and he didn't give a shit. Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He was usually the most cynical, pragmatic, grounded person
he knew. Now he was having morbid fantasies and was on the verge of falling in…

Hell, no. He just needed a meeting to help clear his head. He'd swing by Mouser's apartment on the way home, where he'd find his old friend with a perfectly reasonable excuse for why he'd disappeared. And when he went back to the garage, if Jamie wasn't gone, he'd pick her up, drop her in her car and lock the doors behind her.

Or maybe he wouldn't pick her up. Touching her tended to get him into trouble. If she hadn't left he could drive her out with words easily enough.

But he was counting on her to leave.

He lit a last cigarette before heading into his meeting. Sunday night at St. Anne's was a crowded one, and the coffee was awful, but it would be hot. And maybe things would start to make a little sense.

 

Jamie sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, staring at the door in disbelief. He'd simply walked out on her. Brought her to that point, so that her nerve endings screamed, her skin prickled, and she could barely breathe, and then walked away.

He must have gotten over his obsession awfully fast. It hadn't taken much to get him past twelve years of wanting, she thought bitterly. Whereas in her case, she was just starting.

Fuck him. Fuck them all. She was tired of feeling vulnerable, needy, helpless. He'd let the air out of her tires? She'd seen the compressor, and she was equipped with a brain and determination. She could figure out how to fill the tires with air and then get the hell out of there before he returned. That's what he wanted, wasn't it? That was what they both wanted.

And if she couldn't, then she'd simply take any car she could start. Except for the yellow Cadillac. If that was her only choice she'd walk barefoot through foot-deep snow rather than get back in that damned car.

She'd never been alone in the huge old building before, at least, not that she'd been aware of. Without Dillon's music thundering through the place it felt empty, desolate. Almost haunted.

Her sneakers were bloody from her fall through the floor, but that was the least of her worries. She shoved her feet back in them, then headed into the garage, refusing to look behind her. She never could rid herself of the feeling that someone, something, was watching her, and now, in this empty place, that feeling was more powerful than ever.

She could hear the old building creak in the cold. The faint sound of movement overhead—more rats, presumably. The howl of the strong Wisconsin
wind, rattling the windows and shaking the garage doors. And the sound of her footsteps as she walked across the cement floor to her poor old Volvo.

She kept her gaze averted from the Cadillac, deliberately. She could have kicked herself for her behavior earlier. She'd done just what he wanted, playing into his hands perfectly. He got to have her in the back seat of his goddamned convertible, where he should have had her years ago. Dillon, not Paul.

Oh, not that she'd had anything to do with it, she mocked herself, heading toward the stereo. Whose idea was it to go down on him, when the very thought used to disgust her? Who was still teetering on the brink of arousal, and which of them had walked away without a second thought?

Fooling herself was a waste of energy. She may as well face the facts—she'd always wanted Dillon Gaynor, and chances were she always would. He was a teenage fantasy come true. But it was time to grow up.

She couldn't stand the eerie silence of the garage. She wasn't about to put on Nirvana, but he had some REM as well as some U2 CDs, and she put one on at random, cranking the volume up loud before she approached her car.

The compressor was a little more complicated
than the kind they had at gas stations, and it didn't come with a pressure gauge. There was no way she could tell how much air she put in the tires, but she figured she'd just fill them by sight and then stop somewhere once she got out of this place and have a professional adjust them.

Three of the tires filled easily enough, but the fourth decided to give her shit. After the third try she realized the damned tire had been slashed.

Why would Dillon do that when he'd only wanted to slow her down? Why would he ruin one of her tires? He was more likely to take a sledgehammer to the front windshield—if there was one thing Dillon Gaynor wasn't, it was petty.

And if there was one thing Jamie Kincaid wasn't, it was defeated. She'd changed tires before—she could change them again.

She stood up, feeling suddenly light-headed. Not enough food, she thought absently, putting a steadying hand on the bumper of the car. Except that the very thought of food made her stomach lurch.

She'd take care of feeding herself as soon as she got the hell out of there. She walked around to the trunk of the Volvo. There was a dark stain spreading on the cement beneath it, and she cursed beneath her breath. So much for Dillon's assurance that her car was running better than ever. It had
some kind of oil leak, or brake fluid. Something dark and viscous in the shadows beneath the car.

She was just about to open the trunk when the stereo switched to the next song. And she froze.

Bono's plaintive voice filled the garage, and Jamie didn't know which hurt more, her churning stomach or her heart. The music was love and sex, howling through her soul.

Her head wasn't feeling too hot, either, but she pushed away from the Volvo, determined to stop that damned song before it made her burst into tears. She would have run, but for some reason she seemed to be moving in slow motion. The smell of exhaust that always permeated the garage was stronger than ever, and by the time she managed to figure out how to turn off the thundering stereo that had been so easy to work a short while ago, she was ready to pass out.

There should have been silence in the empty garage. But there wasn't. A car engine rumbled ominously.

She started toward the cars parked along the left side of the garage, only to realize that the sound was coming from all around her. More than one car engine was busy pumping carbon monoxide into the room, and it was no wonder she was either going to throw up or faint.

Her best bet was to get the hell out of there before she passed out. She tried to run toward the kitchen door, but it was like running in Jell-O. She stumbled, and her feet got tangled up beneath her, and she went sprawling onto the cement floor.

She tried to push herself up, but her arms were like spaghetti beneath her. She sank back again, her cheek resting against the rough pavement, and she felt her eyes begin to close. If she didn't get up she was going to die. It was that simple. There was only one person who could have turned on those engines, one person in this big empty building. Dillon must have come back when she wasn't looking, to finish what he started earlier.

It didn't make sense. He had no reason to want to kill her. But maybe a man named Killer didn't need a reason. And maybe he was just tired of having to deal with her.

She tried to move, to drag herself toward the door, but she couldn't. She tried to open her eyes, and she thought she could see someone standing just inside the closed doorway.

“Help…me….” she said in a croak, but the narrow figure didn't move. Any why would she think he'd help her, if he was the one who'd done this to her?

Her eyes felt like lead, but she forced them open, staring at the man in the shadows.

And then she knew she was dying, and there was nothing she could do about it. Because Nate was there, standing over her, waiting for her to join him. And she stopped fighting.

 

He looked down at her with real affection. It didn't matter that she and Dillon had been going at it like rabbits. She'd always been his little sister, she'd always thought he was wonderful, and he'd liked that uncritical appreciation. Of course, she had no idea who and what he was. Adoration based on ignorance wasn't worth much in the long run.

Aunt Isobel, on the other hand, knew exactly who he was. And what he'd done. The things he'd keep on doing. And she loved and protected him, anyway. Smothering him with her unquestioning protection. And not just for her dead sister's sake. She saw him as her real child. She'd married her second cousin to keep the Kincaid line strong, and in the end she'd been unable to conceive. Only Nate was left, and he was the center of her life. Jamie had always been more of an afterthought, at least as far as Isobel was concerned.

Dying had been the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. For the first time he'd been
released from Aunt Isobel's obsessive devotion, and it was enormously freeing. He'd recommend death to almost anyone—his ghostly existence was by far his favorite part of his life so far.

Jamie had passed out completely, and he walked over to her, staring down at her sprawled body. There was a special pleasure in killing someone who loved you—a thrill that couldn't be found any other way. Jamie had given him that gift, and he felt almost tearful with gratitude. He squatted down, touching the pulse at the side of her neck. Slow. Almost nonexistent. He rolled her onto her back. Dillon had been inside her—he'd watched them. If he screwed her dying body it might almost be like screwing Dillon. Something he'd wanted for a long, long time.

But the room was filled with poison, and he couldn't linger. Besides, Dillon might come home.

He pulled her loose T-shirt up, took a knife and sliced through her bra. She had marks on her breasts, from Dillon's mouth, from the roughness of his beard.

The knife was very sharp. He'd cleaned it after he'd finished with Mouser, sharpened it again. He was a man who appreciated his tools and took loving care of them.

Her skin was pale, soft. It shouldn't just be Dil
lon's mark on her flesh. He took the razor sharp tip of the knife and pressed it against Jamie's skin.

When he finished he pulled the T-shirt back down, and the tracings of blood began to soak through the cotton. He leaned over and kissed her slack mouth, using his tongue. And then he rose.