Into the Fire (8 page)

It came back to her, a flood of memories, his voice in her ear, his hands on her body in the front seat of that car, and she felt hot color wash over her. She pushed her entire pile of chips into the middle of the table without a word, then looked up at him with a stony expression.

He stubbed out his cigarette, a faint smile drifting over his mouth. That mouth. It was no wonder she was feeling unsettled, crazy, wanting to hide. It was bad enough that she was trapped and helpless, a thousand miles from home.

Trapped with Dillon Gaynor was her worst nightmare. “You show me yours and I'll show you mine,” he said softly.

She lay the cards out on the table, slowly, deliberately, savoring his inevitable discomfort and frustration.

He didn't look the slightest bit frustrated as he glanced down at her cards. “Very nice,” he said in a lazy drawl. “But not nice enough.” He spread four kings on the table.

She couldn't move, couldn't speak. There was no
way he could have all four kings—the likelihood was just too damned improbable. Not when so much was riding on it. Not the money—she'd started with nothing and she'd end with nothing. But it felt like her very life hung on the turn of a card. Or, in this case, four cards.

She pushed back from the table. She'd had just enough beer to make her foolhardy—never a good thing. She put her hands on the table and leaned across, looking into his eyes.

“Come on, Jamie,” Dillon said. “Accuse me of cheating. I'm waiting for it. You probably think that's the only way I can beat you. The only way I can accomplish anything in this world. By cheating.”

There was no missing the touch of acid in his voice, but she wouldn't react. “You tell me.”

He simply grinned up at her. “I don't give easy answers.”

“Do you give hard ones?”

An awkward, suggestive silence, but she didn't back down. “I've been known to,” he said. “Why don't you try me?”

She didn't like where this was going, not at all, so she pulled back, moving away from the table, heading toward the refrigerator.

“There's not much in there,” he said, rising from
his seat in front of that mountainous pile of poker chips. Coming toward her.

She held on to the refrigerator door like it was a life preserver. “I don't need much. A glass of milk should help me sleep.”

“The beer should help you sleep,” he said. He reached past her, into the open refrigerator, and pulled out the carton of milk. He opened it and tipped back his head to drink straight from the carton. Then he wiped his mouth and held it out to her.

Too close, but she wasn't going to run. It was a matter of pride. If she ran now she'd never be able to stand up to him. His hand was on the top of the refrigerator door, his arm effectively trapping her. “I'd like a glass, please.”

“Of course you would. I don't have any.”

She knew that was a lie—she'd had orange juice for breakfast out of one. But he was barring her access to the sink.

“Forget it. I don't need milk.”

“Milk builds strong bones,” he taunted her. “What are you afraid of? Never done it before?” He moved closer, crowding her, his hips almost brushing against her. “Come on, you'll learn to like it, you know you will. Don't worry so much about it. You just open your mouth. Let it slide down your throat.”

“You're not talking about milk,” she said in a hoarse voice.

“No, I'm not.” He leaned closer, and she could smell the milk on his breath. “Be brave, Jamie. You want it. It tastes good.” His mouth was almost touching hers, and she did. She wanted it. She wanted everything he was talking about, everything she'd never done, and she swayed for a moment, toward him, and it was so close, so dangerously close.

She didn't know what saved her. Maybe the ghost of Nate, watching over her. Maybe her own buried common sense. She heard a noise from outside the building and she pulled back, ducking under his arm and heading for the stairs at a run.

She expected his hand on her shoulder, spinning her around, and then he'd kiss her, and she wouldn't have any choice but to kiss him back, because she was trapped and it wasn't her fault, was it?

But he hadn't moved. She took one last furtive glance behind her as she darted up the dark, narrow staircase, and he was still standing in front of the open refrigerator, a carton of milk in one hand, watching her panicked retreat.

H
e should have let her win. He'd be a hell of a lot better off if she took Nate's box of possessions and headed back to Marshfield, Rhode Island, and the chilly bosom of the Duchess. Once she left, he'd never have to see or think about the Kincaids. That part of his life would be over, and it was long past time.

He'd been acting on impulse since he looked up from pummeling Tomas and saw her standing there like the little match girl, a waif in the snow, her eyes wide with shock. She'd probably never seen a fight in her life. Even if she'd caused at least one major one.

So he'd let her in, put her to bed and gone from there. Her Volvo was in rough shape, but it wouldn't take much to at least get it running. And he'd lied about his tools—the Duesenberg was a German car and it needed metric tools. So did any number of other ones he'd worked on. But she'd believed him, because she'd always been gullible,
and clearly she still was. She'd believe just about anything he told her, a fact he found highly tempting. Then again, he found everything about her highly tempting, and always had.

Taking the purse had been an impulse. He'd liked the thought of having a Kincaid in his power, even if it was the most powerless of them. Mouser had lectured him, but it had done little good. He'd only considered letting her win at poker for a brief moment. He was a far better player than she was, and a far better cheater than the hapless Tomas. Mouser and Henry knew what he was going to do, but then, they knew him well. To Jamie Kincaid he was a total enigma.

Keeping it that way was a good idea.

It was a good thing she'd run. In another minute he would have had her ass on the kitchen counter and her thighs wrapped around her hips. And, whether she realized it or not, she would have let him.

But he'd let her run, when he'd wanted nothing more than to see how far she'd let him go. And one reason he'd wanted to touch her was for the simple reason that Nate would have hated it. For any number of complicated reasons, the thought of Dillon putting his hands on Jamie Kincaid would have driven his friend into a rage.

But Nate was dead. It was only his ghost to worry about, and Dillon didn't believe in ghosts. It had been more than twelve years since he'd kissed Jamie. Twelve years could build up a hell of a lot of hunger. Particularly when he'd spent eighteen months in jail because of her.

He should let her go. He wasn't going to. He was going to take his own sweet time, and when he finished with her she'd be ruined for any other man. And this time there'd be no Nate around to get in his way.

Because he didn't believe in ghosts.

 

She hadn't seen him as she she'd run into her room and slammed the door behind her. He could hear her fumbling with the lock, and he wanted to tell her the skeleton key wouldn't do any good. Even a dead bolt wouldn't stop Dillon if he wanted to get in.

But she wouldn't have heard him any more than she'd have seen him. She knew he'd died three months ago, and she wouldn't let herself see ghosts. Not when that was what she wanted to see.

She would have been the one who mourned him the most. With a clear conscience and a broken heart. Aunt Isobel would have carried on like a character in a Greek tragedy, but Jamie would have
grieved quietly, deeply. The thought charmed him, almost enough to tap her on the shoulder when she least expected it.

But he wasn't about to reveal himself until he was good and ready. Until he had the most to gain from reappearing. He wasn't quite sure when that would be, but he knew that Dillon figured prominently in his timing. As long as he kept Jamie there it made matters relatively simple. And he knew Dillon well enough to know he wasn't about to let her go easily. Not this time.

Dillon would get her into bed sooner or later, he thought resignedly. He'd wanted her from the first moment he'd seen her, when she was an innocent fourteen-year-old in awe of her cousin's wicked friend. Fourteen years was a long time to fantasize about someone, and Dillon wasn't the sort to live in a fantasy world. Now that she'd delivered herself to his doorstep he was going to take her, and there was nothing Nate could do to stop him. Rattling chains, bumps in the night—nothing would slow Dillon down once he decided to go through with it.

He had no choice but to resign himself to the inevitable. At least he would have the chance to watch
.

 

The room was dark except for the intermittent flash of neon, but Jamie was too concerned with
locking the door to worry about turning on the light. She'd taken the key from the bathroom, and while it wouldn't stop a determined man, it might slow him down. Give her time to escape out the window.

Except there was nowhere out the window to go but down, into the trash-littered alley. The thin covering of snow would do nothing to break her fall, and then she'd be in even worse shape.

She pulled the key out of the lock, then shoved her suitcase against the door before throwing herself down on the thin mattress. She didn't know what she was panicking over. Dillon hadn't done anything but talk. He hadn't done more than that in years, and then it had just been out of boredom. He wasn't going to come storming up the stairs like some swashbuckling pirate and knock down her door to have his wicked way with her.

But still she clutched the key tightly in her hand, for what comfort it could give her.

He hadn't kissed her. Hadn't even touched her. And yet she felt stripped, seduced, vulnerable and shaken. He'd always been able to have that effect on her. And this time there was no Nate to interfere. Dillon would do exactly what he wanted, just as he always had. Whether she wanted him to or not.

And the wretched, miserable thing was part of
her wanted him to. To touch her. Kiss her. Even though she knew better.

She closed her eyes, but she could still see the neon flashing behind her eyelids. She had to get out of here. Maybe tomorrow she'd be able to talk him into helping her. Unless he had some other reason for keeping her there. Some reason she hadn't yet figured out.

In the long run it didn't matter. What mattered was just getting the hell away from there. She could buy a new car—she should have years ago. She could just abandon her old Volvo and buy something new. But in the meantime, if Dillon wasn't going to let her go, she'd have no choice but to take matters into her own hands.

And steal one of his cars.

She could do it. She could do anything if her motivation was strong enough. And all she had to do was think back to that terrible night so long ago and she knew what she had to do.

Twelve Years Ago

“I thought you'd be at the prom with Zack Gunther,” Paul Jameson said. His voice was slightly slurred, just enough to put Jamie on guard. He was wearing a powder-blue tuxedo that would have
made her mother faint with horror. In fact, Jamie wasn't impressed with it, either. It didn't fit him very well—it strained over his bulky shoulders and came up too high on his wrists. He was still the best-looking boy in the junior class, and Jamie told herself she should be more appreciative.

“We broke up,” she said. “What about Charlene? Is she here?”

“Hell, no. She dumped me, too, on the way to the prom. Rented this fucking tuxedo for nothing. Looks like you didn't get that far.”

Jamie thought of her pink confection of a dress back home on her bedroom floor. “No, I didn't get that far.”

“I figure I can have a better time here, anyway. There's lots of weed, lots of beer, and I heard that someone was bringing blow. Probably that boyfriend of yours.”

“Blow? Boyfriend?” she echoed, confused.

“What are you, retarded? No, I remember. You're an honors student, aren't you? Lemme explain some of the facts of life to you. Weed is marijuana. You smoke it to get high.”

“I know what weed is,” she said, getting irritated.

“Beer's an alcoholic malt beverage much preferred by high school students. Me, I prefer tequila,
and you'll be pleased to know I brought a bottle with me. Blow is cocaine, and your boyfriend is Dillon Gaynor, who provides the marijuana and the blow around here.”

“Says who?” It was only logical, but for some reason she didn't want to believe it.

“Just ask your brother Nate.”

“Cousin,” she corrected absently. “And Dillon's not my boyfriend. I just got a ride out here with him.”

“Yeah, you're not really Killer's type. And if you were, he wouldn't have handed you off to me.” He reached out and grabbed Jamie's hand. “Let's go find us a little privacy and maybe I'll show you how to drink tequila.”

“I'm sure I can manage it without any instruction.” She looked around her, but the people who'd greeted them had disappeared, and they were alone by Dillon's battered yellow Cadillac. With no sign of Nate or Dillon anywhere around.

“Where'd they all go?” she asked.

Paul grinned down at her, sliding his hand up her arm. “Don't worry about it, baby. I'll keep you company.”

In the end, maybe it was her fault. She'd taken one look at Paul's handsome face and known he was drunk. He didn't force her to put the bottle of
tequila to her mouth and drink. And drink. He didn't force her to climb in the back of Dillon's parked car and let him put his hands all over her, kiss her with loose, rubbery lips, grinding his crotch against her as he shoved his hands under her shirt. So why should she have expected him to listen when she finally did say no?

She lay pinned beneath him, no longer fighting, as he pumped away at her, cursing and grunting, his fingers pinching her breasts, his tongue running over her teeth. She should have had more to drink, enough to knock her out, enough, maybe, to make her like what he was doing. He'd told her she'd like it. He told her she was a frigid bitch and a cock tease. And then he stopped saying anything, stopped talking, just put his hand over her mouth and unfastened his pants.

He ripped off her plain cotton underwear, and it hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain of him pushing inside her, forcing her, and she tried to push him away. She felt like she was tearing inside, and then she was, as he ripped through her virginity without anything more than a grunt.

The longer it took the better it was, or so she'd been told by her more experienced friends. They'd lied. He went on forever, hunching, grunting, and
there was nothing she could do but lie still beneath him and cry.

With a final string of obscenity he finished, collapsing on top of her for a brief moment. And then he sat back, fastening his pants again, looking at her out of hooded eyes.

“Jesus, are you crying?” he demanded. “I hate girls who cry all the time. They're just trying to get you to do what they want, but I'm not buying it. If you think just because you put out it means we're dating then you're wrong. Charlene will come back to me—she always does. And if she doesn't, no offense, but I can do better than you.”

She'd found her jeans on the floor of the car and managed to pull them back on, and she scuttled into the corner of the back seat. She could see her blood on Dillon's leather seats. He wouldn't like that.

She looked at Paul, but she couldn't see him very well, probably because she couldn't stop crying. She was making embarrassing little hiccup noises, and he was looking even more disgusted.

“For fuck's sake, shut up!” he snapped. “You don't want to be making a scene, do you? Here!” He shoved the bottle of tequila at her. “Have a drink and stop crying.”

The smell of the tequila made her stomach roil. She shoved at the door, blindly, but it wouldn't
open beneath her desperate hands. She climbed over the side, tumbled out and made it into the woods just before she threw up.

When she finished she collapsed in the dirt, crying silently. It was too late for tears, but she couldn't stop. She just lay there, weeping, curled into a ball.

And then she heard the voices. Drunken laughter. She sat up, trying to wipe the tears from her face in case someone decided to come in search of her.

She should have known it would be her worst nightmare. Dillon and a woman had arrived back on the scene, probably to use the back seat of his car. Whether it was the same woman he'd been kissing earlier or a different one was immaterial.

“Hey,” Dillon said. “We want a little privacy, man.”

Paul hadn't wandered off, after all—she heard him grunt in response. “Hey, I'm outta here. Next time you ask me to take care of someone you might pick someone who knows her way around. Virgins are a pain in the butt.”

“What do you mean?” Dillon's voice was casual.

“Man, all she did was cry. Do you know how hard it is to ball someone when they're crying all the time? Took me for-fucking-ever. And even then
she wouldn't stop crying. We made a mess of your back seat—you should have told me she was jailbait.”

“Killer, you're hurting me” came a plaintive female voice. “Let go.”