Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #paranormal romance

Into the Flame (16 page)

BOOK: Into the Flame

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He saw the moment she realized how far and how deftly he’d pushed her—and how easily he could push her all the way. Her hands flew to his shoulders; she shoved him.

He didn’t sway.

She didn’t have a chance against him. Not now. He’d been waiting almost three years for this moment. He’d imagined it, planned for it, laughed at how he would make her come over and over . . . and in the deep, secret hours of the night, he had
longed
to make her come over and over.

His longing was his weakness.

But she didn’t have to know that.

Catching another pinch of the rich, warm, soft cashmere, he moved to the other nipple and rubbed again.

With each circle, he felt her yield.

‘‘
Douglas
. No. We haven’t talked. We need to discuss . . . discuss . . .’’

He lifted her farther onto the bed. Her legs dangled, but she was prone on the mattress, stretched out like a pagan offering. He straddled her, shoved her sweater up to her rib cage, and unzipped her jeans.

She’d always had the best stomach, flat and strong, with a mole beside her belly button that drove him crazy. Her belly was still flat, still strong, but now he traced the pale white lines that proved she’d carried their child . . . and an unwilling smile crooked his mouth. He could imagine her pregnant, swelling every day as their son grew. . . . He looked up.

She gazed at him, the lines of her wide, soft mouth shattered by anxiety.

‘‘Beautiful,’’ he whispered.

She closed her eyes with relief.

Had she worried he would be so shallow as to condemn her for a body changed by childbirth? By the birth of his son? Foolish woman. She knew him not at all.

He had made sure of that.

When he met her on campus, he had already known who she was. That was why he’d taken the job. That was why he’d sought her out. He had intended to use her for his own purposes.

Instead, she’d made a fool of him.

What a mistake she’d made returning to him now.

As he slid the jeans off her hips, her eyes flew open again. ‘‘Please,
Douglas
. There’s so much to say, and we can’t take up where we left off—in bed.’’

‘‘We’re not going to take up where we left off. This time, it’s going to be more. Much more.’’

She wore a pair of plain white hipster panties.

Did she think that would subdue him? She could wear granny panties, and his cock would still do an imitation of one of the rock stacks offshore.

Using the banding around the edge of her sweater, he rubbed it across her abdomen, making her stretch and sigh. Then, as if to deny her weakness, she sat up on her elbows and said sternly, ‘‘That’s enough, Douglas.’’

‘‘Did you learn that tone while talking to your son?’’

Her face softened at the mention of Aleksandr. ‘‘It’s effective.’’

‘‘No. Not with me.’’ He moved swiftly to take advantageof her tenderness. Taking her shoulders, he lowered her back to the bed and kissed her. Kissed her with all the repressed passion that raged within him.

When her hands had crept around his neck and her breathing matched his, he spanned her belly with his long fingers.

Her skin felt like velvet, and as he stroked her, her legs moved restlessly.

She’d always been like this, wanting him with a desperation that drove him beyond his black-and-white sphere of wisdom and prudence and into a world splashed with vivid color. And all her passion had been for him. He’d never doubted that.

Now once again he would sink into her body, hear her cries in his ears, know that in this one time and with this one woman, he belonged—

A vibration on his belt froze him in place.

His pager. His pager had gone off.

Like a splash of icy water, the call of duty brought him out of his passion-induced coma and back into the real world, where everything was black and white, and he was just where he belonged.

Chapter Thirteen

Douglas
stood up. Looked at the pager on his belt. Said, ‘‘I have to go.’’ Straightened his tie and walked out the door.

Just like that.

Firebird lay there, sprawled on his bed, her jeans around her ankles, her bra around her neck, her sweater above her belly—and
he straightened his tie
?

She came to her feet so fast she stumbled on her jeans.

He straightened his tie.
That was all he needed to look exactly as he had looked before he had kissed her, run his hands over her, removed her bra and used her sweater to . . . She shivered as she remembered the sensation of cashmere against her nipples.

Then his pager beeped, he stood up, granite faced,
straightened his tie,
and he left her here looking like a slut.

She pulled up her pants. She fastened her bra. She pulled down her sweater.

That bastard.

She had to get out of here. She had to get out of here now.

She marched downstairs and plucked her coat off the kitchen chair.

She would drive straight through to Blythe, to her family, to her son. They’d be disappointed when she came back without solutions. Aleksandr would be upset when she didn’t bring his daddy. But they’d still be happy to see her. She might not belong to them, not really, but they loved her. They
did
.

She walked out the door. The wind struck her like a slap to the face. She ran to her car, got in, and slammed the door as hard as she could—and wished she could do it again. She turned out of
Douglas
’s driveway; her tires squealed.

As she drove into Rocky Cliffs in search of a post office, her cell phone rang. She didn’t answer. Because she was driving, she told herself, but the truth was, she didn’t want to talk to her mother or her brothers or her sisters-in-law. She didn’t want to explain what she was doing and why, or assure them that she was well and they didn’t have to worry. She wanted to do what she had to do and enlighten them later.

And it was petty, but she wanted them to worry a little.

The ring that alerted her to a message sounded, and with a sigh she pulled into the post office parking lot and called her voice mail.

‘‘Hi, Firebird, it’s Ann. Jasha wanted to talk, but I knew he’d nag you to come home, so I wouldn’t let him. But we thought you should know the boys and your mom went to visit Miss Joyce this morning. She confessed to switching babies. She, um, didn’t exactly say where she got you. She only said that you were one of ‘the abandoned ones.’ I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.’’ Ann cleared her throat uncomfortably.

One of the abandoned ones . . . What exactly did that mean?

But Ann continued, ‘‘But she also said she took the newborn boy and drove to
Nevada
and left him in the desert. Very biblical.’’

There was more. Some fond comments, a report on what Aleksandr ate for breakfast, a few discreet questions about Aleksandr’s daddy, and Ann signed off.

Crap.

Firebird beat on her steering wheel.

She didn’t want this. She didn’t need this. She was an independent woman. If there was one advantage to discovering she was not a Wilder, it was that she wasn’t bound to the pact.

Yet here she was, having second—or was it third?—thoughts.

Because what had really changed?
Douglas
had been furious at her. She had been defensive. Her pride had taken a knock. Her faith in her own will-power had been justifiably shaken.

Yet he was still the father of her child.

She pulled the DNA test out of her pocket and looked at the prepaid envelope. The lab techs at the
Seattle
Swedish
Hospital
knew the Wilder family, and they’d promised to expedite the proceedings.

She deposited it into the drive-up mailbox and headed back to the street.

Her personal feelings didn’t count. Not now. She couldn’t allow herself to be driven away by a few harsh words, by
Douglas
’s doubts in her, by the tantrum she wanted to throw because fate had done her wrong. The destiny of her family, the only family she’d ever known, rested in
Douglas
’s hands.

More important, Ann had reminded Firebird of a very important fact—the house was small, the family loving, and a person who lived with them had no privacy. Firebird missed her baby, but she didn’t want to go home yet.

She turned her car toward
Douglas
’s house. She took a deep, calming breath.

She hadn’t slept for over thirty-six hours, and in those thirty-six hours, she’d faced more trauma than any one person should have to face. She was pooped. Maybe she had been overreacting. Certainly, as her anger faded, she knew she was walking back into the lion’s den. But she would return to the old Quackenbush place. She was going to climb in
Douglas
’s bed and take a nap, because he might be a cold, heartless bastard who made love to a woman, then stood,
straightened his tie
, and walked out, but at least he never asked questions about her feelings. As far as she could tell, he didn’t care about her feelings, and right now, that was okay with her.

She pulled into the driveway, around the side of the house, parked, and got out.

Douglas Black cared about one thing—himself.

As Doug pulled up to the front of his house and parked his patrol car—the town still called it the Quackenbush place, but it was
his
—he told himself it would be a hell of a lot easier if Firebird had left. And she had. She’d laid rubber getting out of his driveway. Guess she didn’t want him for her son’s father as badly as she thought she did.

He slammed the car door and strode into the house.

Too bad. She couldn’t call him off now. He knew about the kid, and damned if he was going to let his son grow up like he did, always wondering who his parents were, what he’d done to make them hate him so much.

He glanced around the kitchen. It was empty.

And damned if he was going to let those brothers she adored so much be substitutes for him. She could just get used to the idea that Doug Black was in her life for good.

He climbed the stairs, his boots thumping hard on each tread.

She didn’t realize it yet, but she was going to need him when—

From down the hall, he caught her scent, lingering persistently.

She was going to need him when his plans came to fruition. It wouldn’t be too long now before . . .

He stood in the doorway of the bedroom and stared.

There was a woman-shaped lump under his comforter.

He walked with belated caution to the side of the bed and stared down.

Her blond hair was mussed on the blue linens. One side of her face was rosy and impressed with wrinkles from the pillow. Her eyes were open, and she stared up at him in disgust. ‘‘Could you
be
a little louder?’’

‘‘I thought you’d run away.’’

‘‘Run away?’’ She sat up and stretched. ‘‘From what?’’

Okay. She did a good job of putting him in his place.

Whatever place that was. Casual lover? Aleksandr’s father?

What would she think when he became her savior?

‘‘What are we doing for dinner?’’ She swung her legs out of bed.

She was completely dressed.

Damn it.
‘‘We could eat here.’’

‘‘Your refrigerator is empty.’’ She sounded so like the girl he’d known, the one who loved to cook and eat, the one he’d built his kitchen for. . . .

BOOK: Into the Flame

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