Slow Burn

Copyright © E. B. Walters 2011

Published by Firetrail Publishing at
Smashwords

Firetrail Publishing

Logan, UT

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be
sold, shared or given away as it

is an infringement on the copyright of this
work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names
characters, places, and incidents are products

of the author’s imagination and are not to be
construed as real.

Any resemblance to any actual events or
persons, living or dead,

actual events, locale or organizations is
entirely coincidental.

Firetrail Publishing

P.O. Box 3444

Logan, UT 84324

Slow Burn

Copyright©2011 by E. B. Walters

ISBN: 10: 0983429707

ISBN: 13: 978-0983429708

Edited by Melissa Maytnz

Cover by Keary Johnson Landon

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may
be used or reproduced in any

manner . Whatsoever without permission,
except in the case of brief

quotations embodied in critical articles and
reviews

First Firetrail Publishing electronic
publication: May 2011

www.firetrailpublishing.com

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my mother, Margaret
Jane,

and father, Walter for guiding me and telling
me I can.

May you rest in peace.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my editor, Melissa Maytnz.

Thank you for streamlining

and weeding out the unnecessary words.

I couldn’t have done this without you.

To my critique partners, Dawn Brown, Teresa
Bellow,

Katherine Warwick/Jennifer Laurens.

Thank you for being there when I needed
you

and sticking with it through the changes and
modifications.

To my beta-reader Chicki Brown, thanks

for reading and reading this over and over
again.

You’re amazing. To my husband, Mike, and my
children,

thank you for their continued support.

Love you, guys.

CHAPTER 1

Ashley woke up gasping for breath, acrid air
clogging her lungs. She jerked up as her eyes darted around the
room. There was no smoke and no fire, just the familiar high
ceiling of her loft. The light streaming from the downstairs
windows reflected on the full-length mirror of her dresser, causing
her to squint. She flopped back on the bed and took deep, calming
breaths.

The nightmares were becoming more and more
vivid. She was safe, not trapped in a burning house with her
parents. And the shrill sound was the telephone, not a fire truck.
She leaned sideways and picked up the phone from the cherrywood
nightstand.

“Yes.” Her voice came out muzzy and
faint.

“Ashley Fitzgerald?” an unfamiliar, deep male
voice said.

“This is she.”

“Ronald Douglass. I left a message in your
voicemail last night.”

Ashley frowned at the slight censure in his
tone. “I haven’t gotten around to checking my messages yet. What
can I do for you, Mr. Douglass?”

“May I stop by your studio for a brief
talk?”

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed. It
was seven-thirty—too early for someone who’d gone to bed at two in
the morning. Worse, the male model for her next erotic series was
due in less than an hour. Ashley groaned. She’d need a pot of
coffee to function.

“I’m sorry, that’s not possible,” she said.
“I’m busy this morning.”

“I have a slight problem, Ms. Fitzgerald. I
want to surprise my grandmother with a portrait on her birthday and
I’m told you’re the person to go to if I want a first-rate work. I
promise you, I won’t take much of your time. In fact, I’m only a
few blocks away from your studio.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Douglass. I’m not accepting
any more commissioned works, not for a while. But I can recommend a
very good friend and colleague.”

“I don’t want anyone else, Ms.
Fitzgerald.”

His words were very flattering, but his
timing sucked. With the grand opening of the new children’s museum
next month, the wall murals must be completed before then. Then
there was her erotic series show. She didn’t have time to take
extra work.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you, Mr.
Douglass. I’m really swamped.”

“Listen, I know I’m being particular about
this,” he said after a brief pause. “You see, my grandmother
doesn’t have long to live, but she loves your work and owns several
of your original pieces. Having you do her portrait would mean so
much to her.”

A lump formed in her throat and her insides
softened. She’d lost her grandmother when she was in her teens,
just before her parents died. Like the caller, she’d adored her
grandmother.

Ashley sighed. “Okay, Mr. Douglass. But we
can’t meet now.”

“Later today perhaps?”

If she photographed the model in the morning,
her afternoon would be spent sketching. Her evening was taken, too.
It was the girls’ night-out with her cousins. She dared not cancel
or they’d have her hide. Besides, she preferred to meet potential
clients in their homes.

“I’m completely booked today. Monday evening
would be much better.”

“I’ll be out of town the whole of next week.”
He sounded frustrated. “What about tomorrow?”

No way. Sunday was her day off. “I’m sorry I
can’t. Listen, why don’t you call me when you get back from your
trip and we can pick a more suitable time?”

This time the silence on the line was longer,
uncomfortable.

“Fine. Have a nice day, Ms. Fitzgerald.” The
line went dead.

Not a happy camper, was he? Ashley shrugged,
scooted to the edge of the four poster king size bed and stepped
down. Her feet sunk in the egg shell shaggy rug covering the wooden
floor. Without bothering with slippers, she hustled down the
winding metal staircase to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker,
then headed straight back upstairs to shower.

The hot water didn’t ease the tension
coursing through her, the effect of the nightmare. Would they ever
stop? At this rate, she’d go crazy. She pulled on a floral working
kimono, slipped on loafers and hurried down the stairs. After
pouring herself a cup of coffee and added hazelnut creamer, she
scribbled a few notes on a Post-it and pressed it on the fridge
door.

Sipping the coffee, she walked to the
H-shaped, floor easel and smiled at the piece she’d finished the
night before. What a beautiful kid. So unfair he had died so young,
like her parents.

Here I go again, thinking about Mom and
Dad.
At this rate, she wouldn’t accomplish much today. The
problem was, the nightmares tended to remind her of her loss. She
frowned at the door as though she could make the model appear
through sheer will. Where was he? Dee’s models were usually very
professional and rarely tardy. Maybe she should have asked to see
the portfolio of this new guy, talked to him first. No, that would
have been pointless. Dee had never failed her in the four years
they’d worked together.

A sigh escaped her. She needed to relax
before the man arrived or their session would be a waste of time.
There was only one way to deal with the angry energy twirling
inside her.

Ashley drained her coffee and placed the cup
on top of the chest of drawers that held her paints. Then she
propped the finished oil painting on a shelf to dry, replaced it
with a blank canvas and put a bucket of water on a stool by the
easel. She squirted dime-size globs of paint on a palette, picked
up a brush and started working. No pencil sketches to begin with,
just bold sweeps across the canvas.

Her hand trembled, but she didn’t stop
working. Couldn’t stop was more like it. Time stood still as her
past and present collided, as the demons threatening her very
sanity coalesced on the painting before her. She dropped the brush
and the palette in the bucket of water and shuddered. How many
times had she painted this house? The exercise didn’t stop the
nightmares.

She dragged her gaze away from the painting
to the myriad of cloth-covered canvases on wooden shelves around
along the walls. People commissioned and paid thousands of dollars
for her one-of-a-kind paintings, yet she was locked in a
loop—fifteen years old at night and twenty-five during the day, all
because she couldn’t let go of the past.

There was only one solution. She wanted the
house razed to the ground. Ripped through to its foundation until
not a single block, beam or panel was left standing. Call her
childish or vengeful, but completely obliterating that place from
the surface of the earth would fill her with a great deal of
satisfaction, and give her the closure she sought.

Ashley turned and snatched up the telephone
from the kitchen counter. Her glance touched the surface of the
clock. It was nine o’clock and Toni should be in her office. She
speed-dialed the realtor’s number.

“Morning, Toni. Did you meet with Nina
Noble’s agent yet?”

“Ah, yes. He walked me through the house and
the compound. It’s in great condition and has lots of old trees,
but I think you could do better.”

“No, I want this one.” She leaned against the
counter and glowered at the painting on the easel. “Accept whatever
they’re asking for it and bring me the papers to sign.”

“Are you kidding? That’s not the way to get
the best deal, Ash. I intend to check the market value first, then
offer them ten percent less than—”

“Don’t.” She reached forward, flipped the
painting so it faced the easel. “I’ll pay whatever they want.”

“O-okay. But her agent hinted that it’s
important to Nina who the new owner is and what he or she plans to
do with the house.”

Ashley grimaced. Only Nina, the grandstanding
diva, would add such a stipulation to something she was selling.
But there was no telling how the actress would react if she knew
Ashley wanted to buy her house.

“I don’t think giving them my name is a good
idea. But if her people want to know what I intend to do with it,
tell them I mean to turn it into a commune for artists, a place
where in-house artists can offer dance, voice and art lessons to
kids.” It was the dream her parents had wanted before they died,
and Carlyle House had been their chosen building. Now the dream was
hers to fulfill except hell would freeze over before she used that
house. “Call me when you have everything set, okay? I’ve got to
run. Bye.”

Ashley pressed the off button and placed the
phone back on its cradle. For a beat, she stared at her shaking
hand, her breathing shallow. She fisted her hand and took a deep
breath. She was weary of being haunted by her past, longed to be
free. No, she deserved to be free, to live a life without doubts
and phobias, some of which neither she nor her therapist could
explain. With the house destroyed, she’d begin her healing
process.

Now that’s settled, I need to focus on
something else.
Her glance went to the door, again. Where was
her model? Dee had some explaining to do.

Ashley rinsed her brushes and palette, took
one look at her kimono and groaned. In her haste to exorcise her
demons, she’d forgotten to put on a smock to protect it. She
hurried upstairs to change.

***

“You should have dropped in on her
unannounced. I know I would have.”

“What would that accomplish?” Ron leaned back
against the leather passenger seat and glanced over at his long
time friend Kenny Lambert,
ex-FBI-agent-turned-private-investigator.

“A lot. In my line of business,” Kenny
continued, “being nice gets you zip. You want to get to the bottom
of this, forget your corporate image and your scruples, and start
playing dirty. You’re already on the right path…Ronald Douglass.
For an alias, it has a nice ring to it,” he added with a smirk.

Ron grimaced. It wasn’t much of an alias.
Douglass was his middle name. “I couldn’t tell her my real name,
man. I’ve gotten nothing but ice from my father’s fire buddies.
They don’t mind reminiscing about the past until I mention Carlyle
House. Then they have places to go, things to do. I didn’t want her
shutting me out, too. But you’re right. It’s time to stir things up
a bit.” They entered NoHo Art District in downtown L.A. “Head to
Lauderhill Boulevard. I want you to drop me off outside her
building.”

He exchanged a grin with Kenny, but his
inside wound like a spring. He hated to lie, but finding out what
happened the night of the fire meant a lot more than a few
principles. And the wall of silence from these firefighters only
made him more determined to get to the truth. To top that, guilt
weighed hard and heavy on him. He shouldn’t have allowed his uncle
to dissuade him from investigating the fire when his father died.
Granted he’d been twenty at the time and his mother had needed him,
but he should have gone with his gut instinct and hired an
investigator. He’d given up too fast, ran away from the rumors and
the innuendo that his father started the fire. This time, he
wouldn’t be dissuaded. Someone out there knew what went down that
night. Though their motive for leaving him the clues remained
questionable, he’d not live with himself if he didn’t try and find
out the truth. Maybe he could even clear his father’s name.