Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #paranormal romance

Into the Flame (19 page)

BOOK: Into the Flame

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Glancing up, he saw Quentin watching her with the same fascination and longing he felt.

The bastard.

Doug slapped his hand over Quentin’s and squeezed. Hard.

Quentin jumped. His guilty gaze flashed to Doug’s.

Doug glared.

Quentin blanched, poured more wine, asked if he could get them anything else, and hightailed it out of there.

Firebird watched, puzzled. ‘‘What got into him?’’

‘‘He probably had another order up.’’ Doug picked up the server and slid a slice of pizza onto her plate. ‘‘Enjoy.’’

She took a bite. Her strong, white teeth sank into the cheese, through the crust, and she sighed as she chewed. ‘‘That’s fabulous. In Blythe, we’ve got a café that serves breakfast and lunch, and that’s all.’’

‘‘You live in Blythe?’’ he asked smoothly. ‘‘Isn’t that a little town in the Cascades?’’

She looked at him, looked hard, then relaxed, as if she’d made a decision about him. ‘‘Blythe is so small, the mice are round-shouldered.’’

His mouth crooked up at one corner.

‘‘My family lives outside of town on six hundred and forty acres.’’

‘‘That’s . . . big.’’ He ate a bite of pizza, made sure she had another piece before she finished the first one, and kept her wineglass topped off.

‘‘We’ve got a valley planted mostly in grapes, and a lot of woods around us. My dad and mom got the land cheap because no one else wanted it. Now it’s prime property.’’ She smiled proudly. ‘‘They’ve done well for immigrants who came to this country with nothing.’’

‘‘When I meet them, I know I’ll like them.’’

‘‘Yes. They’ll like you, too.’’ Firebird’s eyes got almost teary.

He couldn’t imagine why, but the idea of Firebird crying terrified him. What would he do? Sit there like a log? Pat her on the back? Kiss her and . . . ?

‘‘This Mrs. Fuller—how long did she work on you before you reformed?’’

Man.
Firebird recovered fast, and when she wanted information, she was like a heat-seeking missile.

Luckily for him, he was the heat. ‘‘The first year was rocky.’’

‘‘What turned things around?’’

‘‘By the time I got to Mrs. Fuller, I was not about to be tamed. I was out there on the streets, picking pockets and running errands for the guys who owned the casinos. She kept telling me she could see the potential in me. She would tell me about great men who had risen above their tough beginnings. She told me to use my head, think things through, go to college and make something of myself. Be the boss, not the gofer. She said if I kept going like I was, I was going to get myself killed before I was twenty.’’ He finished off the last slice of pizza and settled back in his chair. ‘‘Most important, she told me I could talk to her about anything and she’d understand.’’

‘‘She sounds great.’’

‘‘She was, but I wasn’t listening. I would have sworn I wasn’t listening. I was such a smart-ass little shit. I thought I knew better than an old lady in a house crowded with those stupid little Hummels. God, I hated those smug, round Swiss faces, so sweet and innocent. I didn’t have a damned thing in common with them. Then . . . I landed in the wrong place, doing an errand for the wrong guy, and just about got myself raped.’’

‘‘Oh,
Douglas
.’’ Firebird reached across the table and took his hand.

Not that he needed the comfort. That had been years ago, and over time, the horror and the helplessness had faded. But he let her hold him anyway, turning his hand to fit under hers. ‘‘Lucky for me I was a big kid, and I was mean and a fighter. I got away, no one was any the wiser, and I was not about to tell anybody.’’

‘‘Especially not Mrs. Fuller.’’

Firebird was one smart woman. ‘‘Especially not her, because I knew she’d say, ‘I told you so.’ ’’

Quentin appeared, carefully did not look at Firebird, and asked, ‘‘Dessert? Our tiramisu is world-famous.’’

‘‘There’s a lot of world-famous food here in Rocky Cliffs. But I couldn’t eat another thing,’’ Firebird said regretfully.

‘‘Coffee, then?’’ the waiter asked.

‘‘Decaf, please,’’ Firebird said.

‘‘Full octane.’’ Doug had had one glass of wine, yet the bottle was empty. He wondered if Firebird realized she was buzzed, whether she knew her gestures were freer, her eyes warmer, her voice slightly slurred. He wondered if he would feel guilty for taking advantage of a woman under the influence. He suspected not. He didn’t care how or why as long as she would fall into his arms.

Quentin placed the coffees, one caf, one decaf, on the table, with cream and sweetener, and faded away again.

Doug watched Firebird pour half the cream into her cup, add three yellow packets, and stir vigorously. She offered him the cream pitcher, but he shook his head. ‘‘I take it black.’’

‘‘Of course you do,’’ she said. ‘‘So how’d Mrs. Fuller find out?’’

‘‘I curtailed my street activities—man, I was scared the molester would find me and off me in some horrible way. I hit the books. Behaved like a model citizen.’’ The coffee was hot and full-flavored, exactly what he needed after a day like today. ‘‘Thought I was being discreet about the whole incident.’’

‘‘I’ll bet.’’

He lifted his eyebrows at her skeptical tone.

‘‘I know exactly how discreet a dumb boy can be,’’ she explained. ‘‘Remember, I have three brothers. You probably might as well have sent up fireworks.’’

‘‘Yeah. Well. Mrs. Fuller sat me down, gave me a cup of tea, some cookies, softened me up. . . .’’ He’d never thought about it before, but Mrs. Fuller would have made a great police interrogator. ‘‘Then, bam! She asked me what had happened, and I cracked. Made a total fool of myself. Sobbed on her lap. Told her everything, just like she said I could. I was so embarrassed.’’

‘‘Did she straighten you out?’’

‘‘She didn’t have to. After that, I pretty much straightened myself out.’’

‘‘You went to school, got smart, and gave up a life of petty crime?’’

‘‘Mostly.’’

‘‘What about the guy who tried to rape you? Did you still have to dodge him?’’

‘‘Interesting thing about him.’’ Doug’s eyes narrowed as he remembered. ‘‘Mrs. Fuller went down to the casinos, and the next day . . . he disappeared from
Las Vegas
, never to be seen again.’’

‘‘Wow. Mrs. Fuller had connections.’’ Firebird mulled that over. ‘‘I’ll bet she raised a few kids who ran the casinos.’’

‘‘Good possibility.’’ He brooded over his coffee. ‘‘I lived with her for four years.’’

‘‘Four years? Why only four years?’’ Firebird stared at him over her cup.

‘‘I had to leave.’’ The memory still hurt.

‘‘Leave? But you must have been . . . what? Twelve?
Why’d
you leave?’’

Should he tell her? She would understand in a way most women never could. But Firebird was smart, too damned smart. When he told her, she’d realize that their first meeting had been no coincidence. She’d know that he’d stalked her, and she’d figure out why.

He was pretty sure he didn’t want to engage in that conversation in public, because he was pretty sure she was going to get mad. While he signaled for the waiter, he told her, ‘‘It turned out I couldn’t tell her everything. Some things Mrs. Fuller was not ready to hear.’’

‘‘Like what?’’

‘‘It’s not a subject for a public place,’’ Doug said. ‘‘I’ll tell you . . . later.’’

Chapter Sixteen

Later.

Firebird considered
Douglas
, starting with the top of his tousled blond head, moving across his broad shoulders and muscled arms, and settling on his expressionless face.

Expressionless. When had the man acquired the art of betraying no emotion? He hadn’t been that way before. He used to smile more than once every blue moon, and move more like a man and less like a punched-out cardboard figure.

He also gave the impression of complete and total certainty. Like right now, he acted as if he knew, without a doubt, that she would return with him to his house.

If she did, what would happen? She needed to think very carefully before she agreed, because he had one bed, and she didn’t think he intended to sleep in a chair. In fact, she didn’t think he intended to sleep at all.

Then he said it. The one thing guaranteed to divert her from her worries about her virtue. ‘‘Now it’s my turn to ask the questions.’’

‘‘Okay.’’ She put down her cup, and her hand trembled. ‘‘Go ahead.’’

‘‘You never asked me about myself before. You weren’t curious about my background. Why do you care now?’’

‘‘Because of Aleksandr.’’

‘‘You want to know what kind of a person his father really is.’’

‘‘Right.’’

‘‘Why, after so long, did you decide to tell me about him
now
?’’

Trust
Douglas
to see right to the heart of the matter. ‘‘You want the truth?’’

‘‘That would be a novel change.’’

‘‘Okay, I’ll tell you.’’ She smiled, but with a tight edge. ‘‘But I’ll tell you . . . later.’’

Almost without flickering an eyelash, he managed to look amused. ‘‘
Later
is going to be one long, amazing experience.’’

She retorted, ‘‘Later is going to involve a lot of talking and not a lot of—’’

Mario appeared beside the table. ‘‘You enjoyed your dinner?’’

‘‘It was wonderful. Everything was wonderful, but your crust!’’ Firebird kissed her fingers, tossed them in an extravagant gesture, and realized, in a sensible corner of her mind, that she’d had a little too much wine. ‘‘Such a tangy flavor. The perfect sourdough. My mother would kill for your recipe.’’

Mario beamed and waggled his hand. ‘‘No, no. It is a family secret from my dear old grandmother in
Sicily
. But you bring your mother, and we’ll talk.’’

‘‘I would love to. We’ve got a few things to finish up, but after that she’ll deserve a vacation.’’ Firebird still smiled, but with a wry edge.

In that deadpan voice that made her want to wallop him,
Douglas
said, ‘‘I need the check.’’

‘‘Tonight, it is on me.’’ When
Douglas
would have protested, Mario adamantly shook his head. ‘‘You come-a in every week with your trooper friends or by yourself, and I let-a you pay. But tonight, you have a beau-tee-ful young lady, and I would-a be remiss if I didn’t buy her dinner.’’

Before
Douglas
could curtly refuse, Firebird thanked him. ‘‘Mario. You are a dear!’’

‘‘I know. And if-a this big galoot did not carry a gun, I would-a take you away from him. But alas.’’ Mario put both hands on his heart. ‘‘I must suffer, or die.’’

‘‘Yeah, because your wife would kill you,’’
Douglas
said.

‘‘She is a jealous woman. But who-a can blame her? Now.’’ Mario signaled Quentin, who arrived carrying a to-go box and a long paper bag. ‘‘I give-a you two tiramisus and a bottle of wine.’’ Leaning over
Douglas
, he spoke into his ear, all pretense at an accent gone, and loudly enough for Firebird to hear: ‘‘To enjoy after.’’ He clapped him on the shoulder, then held Firebird’s coat as she slipped into it.

As they walked across the restaurant, Firebird was very aware of Mario babbling romantic compliments in that extravagantly phony accent, of the two construction workers glancing at her and talking to each other, and most of all, of Douglas stalking after her . . . no, herding her toward the door.

When
Douglas
opened the door, the wind whipped in.

Mario backed away fast enough. ‘‘The storm’s coming.’’

BOOK: Into the Flame

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