Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) (20 page)

"Easy there, Smurf—Melanie. You don't want to take a header down the stairs."

The sound of her name, spoken in
his
voice, made her stop, one foot already in mid-air, searching for the first step. Melanie swallowed her gasp of surprise, nearly choking on it as her hands tightened around the edges of the frame.

Dale was right in front of her. She could actually feel him. All she had to do was lower the painting and she'd be looking at him. Would his deep brown eyes be amused? Shadowed? Carefully hooded or abysmally blank? Would dark stubble cover his chiseled jaw or would he be freshly shaved? It was early afternoon and he wasn't working today. At least, she didn't think he was. So yes, his jaw would probably be covered in a little of the masculine scruff that she found so appealing.

All she had to do was lower the painting. Just a few inches, that was all.

Her fingers gripped the edges of the frame, the canvas and wood biting into her flesh. Something sharp pinched the tip of her finger. One of the heavy staples she used, no doubt. A sudden image of Sleeping Beauty came to mind, succumbing to a silly prick of her finger from a silly spinning wheel, only to be saved by her Prince Charming.

Hysterical laughter bubbled in her chest and she choked, her breath catching in her lungs before rushing out in a sharp wheeze. She coughed, cleared her throat. Coughed again.

"Are you okay back there? You sound—"

"Fine. I'm fine." The words were rushed, too high-pitched and hurried. Melanie grimaced, suddenly thankful that she couldn't see him. That he couldn't see her. Surely her face had turned an embarrassing shade of ghastly tomato red.

"Sweetheart, do you have your keys? I don't want to—oh. Dale. What a surprise. So nice to see you again."

Melanie glanced over her shoulder. Her mother was standing just outside her apartment, the other painting held carefully in one hand. She certainly didn't look surprised. In fact, she looked suspiciously cheerful. Had her mother somehow known Dale was coming in? No, she couldn't have. Could she?

"Mrs. Reeves."

"Please, call me Michelle. Could you do me a favor? Carry this out to Melanie's car while I grab her purse and keys."

Melanie's eyes widened and she shook her head, mouthing
No!
Her mother merely looked at her and smiled—then promptly ignored her. Sweets! What did she think she was doing? Her own mother!

She heard Dale move away from her, felt cool air brush over her as the heat of his nearness faded. A bare arm came into view, followed the short sleeve of a dark red t-shirt stretched over a muscled bicep and shoulder. Melanie almost squeaked and turned away before she could see his face, before he could see her.

She managed to hurry down the stairs without tripping or falling then pushed through the front door. The sun shone brightly overhead, so bright she squinted. The air was pleasantly warm, free of the humidity that would settle over them like wet wool in the coming months. Melanie paused to take a deep breath, enjoying the smells of early Spring, enjoying the sights of the spectacular colors swirling around her.

But only for a second. She didn't dare take longer than that, not when Dale was surely right behind her. She had to get to her car, open the back and get the painting inside. If she was lucky, she'd have that done quick enough so all she would have to do was stand aside while Dale put the other painting in the car.

Luck wasn't with her.

She was still struggling to get the painting into the backseat when Dale came up behind her. He was standing too close, the heat of his body, the warmth of all the colors that swirled around him too strong. Too near. Too powerful. Too
him
.

She finally got the painting inside then stepped back, her bottom bumping against his hip. Or maybe his thigh. She didn't know, didn't want to know.

"Sorry." She mumbled the apology and quickly moved out of his way, not daring to look at him. Was that a chuckle she heard? No, it couldn't be. Why would he be laughing? This wasn't funny. None of this was funny. And where was her mother? She should be here. As soon as she got there, they could get in the car and leave and she wouldn't have to stand here, pretending that Dale wasn't standing so close to her.

There she was, walking toward them, Melanie's purse and sandals held loosely in one hand and a bright smile on her face. Finally! Now they could leave…except why was she smiling like that?

"Sweetheart, something came up and I need to leave. I locked everything up for you so you wouldn't have to go back inside. I know you're in a hurry to get to the gallery."

What was her mother talking about? She wasn't in a hurry. It made no sense. But her mother was pushing the purse and sandals toward her, that wide smile still on her face. "But—"

"I know, but you don't need to worry." She leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss against Melanie's cheek then stepped back. "Dale has agreed to go to the gallery with you and help you unload. I'll talk to you later."

"But—" It was too late, her mother was already walking away, her steps much faster than her normal relaxed gait. Melanie stared after her, bewilderment and betrayal mixing inside her, leaving her stunned. Why? Why would her mother do that to her?

"Guess it's just us two, huh? I'm driving."

Melanie gasped as he grabbed the keys from her loose grip and climbed into the driver's seat of her little car. "But—"

"No buts. Climb on in, sweetheart. Your chariot awaits." He grinned, laughter shining in his eyes.

"But—" She never got a chance to finish because he winked then closed the door, shutting her off. Melanie pursed her lips then moved around to the passenger side, her steps slow, like she was in a daze.

How could her day have taken such a drastic turn like this? And what was she going to do about it?

What
could
she do about it?

Dale had thought that Mrs. Reeves' suggestion to drive Melanie to the gallery was a good one, one he'd gladly agreed to. Driving Melanie and helping her with the paintings should have given them plenty of chance to talk. It should have helped break the ice or bridge the gap or help fix whatever the hell had happened between them.

It didn't.

She barely spoke to him during the entire drive downtown, except to give him directions. And those were given at the last minute, which ended up with him doing some creative driving in the city traffic. There were a few times Dale wondered if she even knew where they were going. She'd look out the window and glance around, a frown on her face, like she wasn't quite sure where they were. And her hands kept twisting in the fabric of her skirt until the hem pulled up past her calves and she had a large wad of material bunched in her fists.

Every single time he tried talking to her, she either ignored him, shook her head, or answered with a single-syllable reply.

How had she been the last week?

That one was ignored.

Are these the only paintings she'd have on display or for sale or whatever they were for?

She tossed him a dirty look at that one and shook her head.

Was she excited about the sale or auction or whatever tomorrow night?

Sure.

Then, after one last-minute instruction to make a turn had him cutting across two lanes of traffic on President Street, he'd made the mistake of asking if she knew where they were going.

She'd glared at him, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed and something that felt like cold anger rolled off her. It would have been almost amusing, the fact that he could actually
feel
her anger, except for the fact that she was really angry. Angrier than what made sense.

She hadn't said a single word since then, wouldn't even look at him. She'd just point, left or right or straight ahead, until he finally pulled the car into a parking spot on lower Broadway in Fells Point. He cut the engine and got out of the car, looking at the storefronts lining the street. Most of the buildings were old rowhomes dating back to the 1800's, now converted into businesses or bars, some with apartments on the top floors. One building stood out from the others, its brick painted white with wrought iron handiwork framing the door and windows. A small sign hung above the door, neat and unobtrusive: Gallery 1900.

It didn't look like much but what did he know?

He moved to open the back door but Melanie beat him to it, already struggling to pull the paintings out from the passenger side of the car. He muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to give him a dirty look. She hesitated, which gave him time to lean in from his side and grab the first oversized canvas. He glanced down at it, frowning, wondering what it was even supposed to be. But he was smart enough not to say anything, especially considering the look she was giving him.

She fisted her hands and placed them on her hips, watching him with narrowed eyes. "I don't need your help."

The color of her eyes had gone from a deep ocean blue to that stormy gray again. He'd noticed it before, how the color changed whenever she was angry or frustrated. He kind of liked the way he knew that about her. It was like he knew something secret and private about her. Which was ridiculous, because anyone who was observant enough to know what color her eyes were would be able to see the difference. That didn't stop him from grinning, which only made her eyes darken even more.

"Too bad, because I'm helping." He pulled the first painting out the rest of the way and propped it against the car then reached for the second. Melanie came around to his side and grabbed the first one, mumbling something under her breath. He didn't catch the words, but he definitely caught the frustration in her tone.

Which only managed to turn his grin into a full smile.

He followed her across the old cobblestone street to the gallery. There was one marble step in front of the door but she didn't bother using it. Instead, she turned to her side, the painting still held in front of her, and used her elbow to push the buzzer placed beside the door. Dale held his breath, ready to drop the painting and catch her if she lost her balance. She righted herself at the last minute and stood with her back to him, her hair blowing around her shoulders in the breeze coming off the water.

He squinted and looked closer, smiling again. "You have paint in your hair."

Her back stiffened but she didn't turn around, didn't even bother acknowledging him. He chuckled and stepped a little closer, leaning down until his mouth was close to her ear. "It's blue, like a cute little Smurf."

She made a low sound in her throat, a high-pitched cross between a groan and a growl, then stomped her foot and turned to face him. "Why do you always do that?"

Dale straightened, raising his brows and grinning. Finally, a reaction! "Do what?"

"That…that…whatever you're doing. Standing too close. Teasing me. It's annoying and I can't think straight when you do it."

He leaned closer, his voice low as held her gaze with his own. "Because I like you."

Her eyes widened and her cheeks turned a cute shade of pink. She opened her mouth but never got a chance to say anything because the door to the gallery opened. Dale stepped back, his eyes immediately going to the woman standing in front of them.

At first glance, she appeared to be in her late forties. Tall, thin, brown hair styled in a fashionable bob. She was simply dressed in a black skirt that hugged her lean body and a billowy blouse that accented her build. Heels that looked dangerously high to walk in completed the ensemble. There was something about her, sleek and professional. Almost regal. Like the gallery was her domain, ruled only by her.

Her eyes raked over him with a feminine appreciation that actually made him take a step back. A bright smile lit her face as she looked away, her gaze now focused on Melanie.

"Melanie, dear. I was beginning to worry you weren't going to show up. Come in, then, let's look." She stepped back to let them in, already studying the painting Melanie held in front of her. "Wonderful. Absolutely stunning. And this one?"

Dale looked over and noticed that she was watching him. No, not him. Her eyes were lowered, trying to see the paining he was carrying. He turned it around, watched as her eyes widened in appreciation when she studied the canvas.

"Melanie, dear, you continuously surprise me. The emotion, the vibrancy, the life. Wonderful, absolutely wonderful."

Dale looked down at the painting, frowning. He had no idea what the hell he was looking at except for a bunch of bright splotches that looked like running streaks of paint. But whatever it was, it was obviously good, if the way the woman was carrying on meant anything.

She closed the door behind them then walked toward the back, her heels clicking against the heavy planks of the wood floor. Melanie looked back at him, frowning, then followed the woman.

Dale hesitated, glancing around. The downstairs had been converted to one large room stretching to the very back of the building. Three walls boasted the original brick, carefully cleaned and restored. Artwork decorated the walls, displayed in clusters with lights accenting each piece. There was a break in the displays near the back of the room, separated by two comfortable seating arrangements. Beyond the seating arrangements was one more display, a pair of paintings fastened to the wall, the lights brighter, drawing his attention. An empty easel sat between the two paintings.

Even from where he was standing, Dale could tell they were Melanie's. He wasn't sure how he knew. There was just something about them. About the color, the strokes, the design. Something.

And then he realized that both women were standing at the back of the room, watching him. Waiting. He hurried across the room, not really paying any attention to them. His eyes were focused on one of the paintings, the larger one hanging to the left. There was just something about it…

Something tugged on the canvas in his hands and he stepped back, startled. Then he realized the woman was trying to take the painting from him, a small smile on her face. She noticed the direction of his gaze and looked behind her, the smile growing wider.

"It's very compelling, isn't it?"

"Hm? Oh. Uh, yeah." Dale shoved his hands into the front pockets of his shorts, somehow embarrassed that he had been caught staring.

"We're calling it
Elemental
. Fitting, don't you think?"

"Sure. I guess." Dale frowned and looked back at the painting, studying it. Bold strokes of vibrant reds and oranges filled the canvas, broken by slashes of sulfur yellow and smoky black, each color fighting for dominance. Dark and light, negative energy fighting with positive. Chaos, confusion, desperation. How could something that was essentially nothing more than paint smeared across a canvas fill him with those emotions?

He cleared his throat and pulled his gaze away from the painting. "It looks more like someone who's been caught in a raging inferno and doesn't know how to escape."

Silence greeted his observation and both women turned to look at him. Melanie tilted her head to the side, a mixture of surprise and horror and even dismay on her face. In fact, she looked like a young child who had just had her favorite toy taken away. Or a teen who just had the deepest secrets hidden in her diary read out loud to the class.

But the other woman smiled, her eyes alight with satisfaction. She studied Dale for an uncomfortable minute then turned to Melanie. "Dear, who is your friend? You never introduced us."

"Oh. Um…" Melanie cleared her throat and looked away, a blush staining her cheeks. "This is Dale. He's my neighbor."

"I see. Your
neighbor
. Hm." The woman smiled again, something new shining in her eyes, something that made Dale even more uncomfortable. The woman extended her hand, taking his in a surprisingly strong handshake. "A pleasure to meet you, Dale. My name is Anna James."

She dropped his hand then turned back to the painting Dale had been studying. Her head tilted from side to side before she turned back once more, smiling at Melanie. "Dear, what would you think about changing the name?"

"Changing it?"

"Yes. We'll call it
Into The Flames
instead. Much more fitting, I think. Don't you?"

Melanie shifted, her hands again fisting in the material of her skirt. She looked at the painting for a long time before her gaze darted to Dale. Why did she look so awkward, so uncomfortable and even frightened? Maybe it was just his imagination because she looked away, a small smile on her face. A forced smile.

"That…that would be okay. I guess. You know I always have such a hard time coming up with names."

"Then it's decided. And how appropriate, that we get its name from the man who inspired it, don't you think?"

Dale blinked, his mind frozen for one scary minute. Inspired? Inspired what? She must mean the name. She couldn't be talking about the painting. Could she? No, impossible.

He looked over at Melanie, saw the fiery heat of a blush stain her face. She wasn't looking at him. She wasn't even looking at Anna. Her gaze was focused on the floor, her hands clasped together in a white-knuckled grip. He wanted her to look at him, wanted to see her eyes, to see what thoughts and feelings would be reflected in their deep blue depths. But she wouldn't look at him, no matter how long he stared at her, silently willing her.

"Will you be joining us tomorrow night. Dale?"

He tore his gaze away from Melanie, the question catching him by surprise. But he never got a chance to answer because Melanie spoke up, her voice too loud and a little shaky.

"No. No, he won't be coming. He's, uh, he's busy. And we need to leave now." She turned so fast that the hem of her skirt flared around her legs. The soles of her sandals smacked against the plank floor as she hurried toward the door, not bothering to wait for him.

Dale said a quick goodbye to Anna, surprised at her laughter. He didn't question it, just hurried after Melanie, wondering why she was suddenly in such a hurry.

To escape him, no doubt. To escape the questions she surely knew he had.

She was already standing by the car, her arms crossed in front of her, a long sweep of hair falling across her cheeks, hiding her face. Her body language was clear, screaming embarrassment and a desire to hide. He hesitated, something softening inside him as he watched her. There was something vulnerable about her, something that made him want to reach out and fold her in his arms and protect her.

To never let her go.

The realization slammed into him, freezing the air in his lungs and causing his heart to pound heavy in his chest. Fuck. When had it happened? When had it changed? He didn't just like her, didn't just want to spend time with her.

No. Impossible. He was simply imagining things. Yes, he enjoyed their time together. Yes, he wanted to spend more time with her, get to know her. She was different and funny and kept him on his toes. She saw things differently, made him see things differently. That didn't mean that he—

No. No way in hell.

Yeah, sure it didn't.