Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) (2 page)

“Oh, yes, I did find something interesting. And some books, too.”

Most women batted eyelashes and swooned at this point. In control, in his element, he created a seduction—a work of art. Truly, he was a maestro. She only had to absorb his charm, and then the pump would be primed.

“Hmm, well. You’ve picked out an interesting topic.” The corner of her pink, moist mouth rose, and those impish brown eyes widened. Her tongue darted out to wet those soft lips.

She most likely imagined his masterful kisses and caresses. Her attraction to him was obvious. He had her. Dante straightened to full impressive stature and stood poised to reel her in.

Until he noticed the book in his hands:
The Woman’s Guide to Successful Breastfeeding
.

Air whooshed out of him like a rapidly deflating balloon.

He would salvage this one. He was Dante. Women never said no to him.

“I, um, like to be well read.”

She quirked one fine eyebrow above her glasses rim and wrinkled her nose.

What? Was she poking fun at him? At
him
? How did his never-fail charm become a train wreck in the space of two breaths? Inconceivable.

“Well, then, any other books I can point out for you? Maybe understanding your body during menopause? Or perhaps getting in touch with your inner Earth goddess?”

When she didn’t quite hide another grin behind her hand, his jaw clenched.

That comment hit below the belt, but it was well played. Beneath that shy exterior, she had spunk.

He studied the shapeless sweater that hung from thin shoulders. He considered her twinkling eyes hidden behind rectangular lenses. Flecks of gold swirled within the irises, and he swore that a glimmer of interest, replaced by fear, crossed her features. Then she bit her lip and glanced away.

He had to know more. There was something oh-so-tempting about her but also something broken. A mystery. As he replaced the book that had cruelly betrayed him back onto the shelf, he powered up his never-fail megawatt smile and extended a hand.

“My name’s Dante.”

“Hi, Dante.”

Her hands remained at her side. He groaned. But all was not lost. Time to go to the next level of seduction. He puffed out his massive pectoral muscles and gave her his best rakish grin. This maneuver always succeeded.

“And your name is?” He leaned forward, undoubtedly impressing her with his overwhelming masculinity.

“Not interested.”

A bucket of cold water couldn’t have shocked him more. Did she truly rebuff his advances? Impossible. Had never happened before. She definitely wore deficient glasses.

She turned away, spine stiff. “I’m sure it’s mutual.”

Off balance, he stammered. “I’m not ... no I just—”

“It’s okay, Dante,” she said. Her pronouncement of his name left him with a taste of whipped cream in his own mouth, her voice was so soft and sweet. “Please let me know if I can help you with anything else. In the bookstore.”

She glanced back and away, but not before he caught the downturn of her mouth. For the space of a split second, he wanted to touch her lips with his, to take away whatever caused that sadness.
Vad i helvete?
Since when did he desire anything besides his base carnal needs?

With a rustle of cloth and a whiff of flowers, she disappeared into the maze of shelves. Fascinating. Unsettling. If this were Jessica, then he understood her fear. If this were Jessica, he’d have to figure out a gentler, subtler approach.

Gentle? Subtle? Those two words had never inhabited his vocabulary, ever.

What if this weren’t Jessica? Who cared? His curiosity was still piqued. This woman still intrigued him. Something about that sweet mouth, the shy glances behind those practical glasses, the flit of her hands to brush back orange-gold hair captured his interest with laser-sharp focus. At minimum, she would provide some welcome diversion while Dante completed his work here in Portland.

Game on.

His jaded heart actually skipped a beat in anticipation of their next encounter. At that next meeting, he would use a different tactic to weave his web of seduction. He wouldn’t fail.

He’d confirm if this was Jessica Miller and deliver his message. And then what? Once he delivered the message, he’d be persona non grata.
Hi, I killed your stepfather, want to hang out?
A hell of a pickup line, even for him.

But if that
oåkting
was the bastard Dante suspected, maybe Jessica’s gratitude would drive her into Dante’s arms. Ah, yes, of course she’d want to repay him for ridding the world of the disgusting Raymond Jackson. And Dante could think of numerous ways for a woman to demonstrate gratitude.

First, though, he really needed to take care of that damned knife lust and go kill a criminal before Dante's mind exploded. The blade pulsed in its hidden sheath on his leg, demanding attention, demanding that he kill again. He hadn’t fed it in a week because he’d been too focused on finding and delivering his message to Jessica. Damn technology. His boss, Jerahmeel, had finally crawled into the cellular age and used text messages to divvy out special assignments these days. For standard kills, all Dante had to do was find a criminal and drive the blade into him, which typically slaked his need.

Speaking of exploding, it had been far too long since he’d had sex. Time to rectify that situation. And finally, if appropriate, he’d try again with his advances on this woman and, of course, succeed. Of course. He was Dante.

Very well. His foreseeable future included espresso, death, sex, and browsing books.
Spektakulår.

In the restroom, Hannah splashed cool water on her heated skin and took a deep breath. Her heart thudded so hard it had to be drilling its way out of her chest. Okay, so the man looked like a windswept, blonde Norse god who moonlighted as a fitness model, and he had attempted some sort of blatant come-on. What was wrong with that?

Everything.

Damn his square jaw and glacier-blue eyes; no man had the right to look that savory. Even his firm lips, meant for sin, which pressed together in frustration when she didn’t give in to his obvious pass—those lips made her wonder what she’d been missing all these years.

She had watched several female customers—and one male—sidle past Dante with a touch on his massive arm, a whisper, or a press of paper into his hand. A wink, accidentally brushing into him, licked lips, tossed hair—he had politely ignored all of the advances.

But then he had looked at her with what appeared to be male interest. In her twenty-four years on this Earth, she’d never encountered someone this handsome and persistent.

Seriously?

She examined her shapeless but neat thrift-store clothing—appropriate for work but no one would accuse her of being a fashionista. Heck, no bumps or curves pushed the fabric in any enticing pattern. Her clothes went straight from her shoulders to the floor.

Guys like Dante did not go for her.

No guys went for her. For the past four years, she’d rejected the few men who had showed even the slightest interest. She refused to allow anyone to come close. Not with her stepfather, Ray, still out there. Not with what he’d done and what she had to hide.

Even now, she jumped at shadows and sounds, paralyzed stupid by fear. But her fear was warranted. One day, if she relaxed her vigilance, Ray would again find her and her brother, Scott. It didn’t matter that she’d changed their names. Jess—no, Hannah, damn it. Flustered as she was by Dante, she had to make a conscious effort to maintain her identity, even in her own mind. In truth, the woman that stared back at her in the mirror was no longer Jessica Miller. Jessica had disappeared four years ago in Philly, never to be seen again.

Didn’t matter that she and Scott had fled from Philly to Portland. Ray was out of jail. And he was pissed.

She reached down to rub the ridge of scar and misshapen bones on her right foot. The sole remained numb, and the top of the foot still ached when the weather changed. Even with surgery, the damage remained. At least bones could be pinned and skin stitched together. Other injuries weren’t as obvious.

Geez. Snap out of the pity party already.

But she couldn’t help herself. She peered into the mirror, trying to imagine what Dante had seen. Brown eyes behind rectangular glasses looked back at her. Freckles splattered across her pale face. Her dull clothing. The weight she’d lost when ... everything happened had never returned to her frame. Four years of fear, of waiting for him to return. She never relaxed her vigilance.

Had it really been four years since she and Scott ran away? How long would it take to have a normal life?

At this rate? Never.

Damn Ray to hell.

Damn her for not being able to move on with her life.

Would she ever have a normal relationship with a man? Logically, she acknowledged that there were good guys out there who could be trusted. Maybe Dante was one of them. Beyond the swagger, she could see ... more. And oddly enough, he didn’t scare her, which was a first. He made her laugh with his attempts at flirting, but for all his massive bulk and impressive height, her reaction to him wasn’t fear. It was interest.

Interest. Now there was a new and terrifying emotion.

What about trusting herself? Problematic. The minefield of her physical wreckage paled in comparison with the emotional damage. Maybe one day she’d get over it, but that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon.

Past traumas aside, how would she explain her fake last name, attempted murder, and larceny? How would she explain withholding her strange power?

She shook her head. She’d never open up that piece of her life to anyone, would never tell what she and Scott had done to get away from Ray. Better to avoid a serious relationship rather than risk rejection or, even worse, discovery.

Oh yeah, I’ll be going steady with Mr. Gold’s Gym Meets an Archangel by week’s end.

Why try to change her life now? Jobs, a few college courses—she and her brother were finally getting back on track, thanks to their hard work and the ability to keep secrets. Slowly and surely, they were clawing their way back toward a normal life. She had no time to spare on a certain tall, handsome man with ice-blue eyes that danced with humor and suggestiveness and made her heart flutter.

Smoothing her hair and running her hands over her cheeks, she nodded, satisfied that the traitorous blush had finally subsided. She blew out another big breath and let the tension in her shoulders relax. This random encounter with Dante was simply an aberration in her otherwise bland life.

She didn’t need any man. All she wanted was for Ray, or the specter of Ray, to leave her alone forever and let her rebuild her new, safe existence here in Portland. At some point, she’d have to learn to trust herself again and even figure out how to open herself up to others. Not now, but maybe one day.

• • •

Hannah limped along the sidewalk to her dumpy rental at nine that evening. What kind of brother would she see tonight? The younger brother who had driven her across the country to get away from Ray, the brother who faked sinus infections and foot sprains at urgent care clinics to get antibiotics and braces for her ankle—he’d been replaced by a different person. He’d become more braggadocio here recently, more into hanging out with the guys, more demands for money, more erratic behavior. She wanted her quiet, supportive Scott back. Not this jerk.

The deafening roar of a bus rolling by made her long to be on board. Her foot ached even more as she stumbled on the sidewalk when her foot dragged. No bus rides for her, though. She had to save every penny for college. Besides, exercise had to be good for her foot, right? She wiggled her toes. Still numb. Damn Ray. God, she hated him. She normally didn’t wish bad things on people, but she made an exception for her nasty stepfather. Even the thought of him made her neck prickle, and she couldn’t help but dart glances over her shoulders, still expecting to see the seething mass of cruelty that was Ray.

Ah yes, the low rent district. While Portland wasn’t known for its slums, she and Scott had gotten close when they used their new, fake Social Security numbers and rented a dilapidated house in this borderline neighborhood. The last block or so to their house always gave her the creeps, and the neighbors looked out for no one.

When she wearily turned off the sidewalk toward the front door of her run-down rental, the squeal of tires and pounding bass stopped her. A tricked-out orange Civic’s back door opened, and Scott jumped out.

Like Hannah, he had their mother’s strawberry blond hair and brown eyes. But unlike Hannah’s petite stature, Scott’s lanky frame made him look gangly, even in his early twenties.

His friends shouted from the car, “Hey, Hannah! Jump in.”

Brandon, the ginger in the front seat with spiked hair and acne, flicked his tongue out in a lewd gesture. “Come on, honey! Just once around the block, huh?”

His soulless stare never failed to creep her out. What Scott found pleasant enough about Brandon to hang out together, she’d never understand.

The other two guys laughed and high-fived each other. Adjusting her glasses, she ducked her head. When these idiots talked to her, she wanted to scrub her skin with bleach. At least with Scott here, she was relatively safe if not disgusted by these guys.

“Back off my sis. Rules, assholes,” Scott said from the sidewalk.

“Catch ya later, my man!” Brandon yelled.

Brandon flicked his wrist for the driver to pull out, which was done with a dramatic spinning of wheels as they peeled off down the street.

At the disapproving glare of an older lady peeking through her windows next door, Hannah ducked her head. “Let’s go inside and have some dinner.”

“I already ate, sis, no worries.”

The aroma of cheap beer hung in a stale cloud around him.

“Come on, Scott, eating out costs too much. Drinking out, too.”

“I need to live a little, sis.” When he smiled endearingly like that, she witnessed a flash of her kid brother from Philly. Then he staggered to one side, and the illusion was gone.