Up in Flames (13 page)

Zane sped away, cursing himself for twenty kinds of stupid for leaving Sophie dazed and panting to go to bed with him. He couldn’t think of a more erotic image. Or a more dangerous one.

The scent of her lingered on his hand, and the ache for her pulsed heavily inside his jeans. He could have had her, could probably have spent a long, steamy night reacquainting himself with every part of her body. Not that he’d forgotten one inch of it, but she’d matured in subtle, intriguing ways, adding roundness to her curves while losing the angularity of a tomboy that she’d had at seventeen.

Those curves were going to obsess him now, probably drive him crazy for another ten years. He should have put his hands all over her while he’d had the chance, because he’d never get another one.

But he couldn’t do it. Allowing her into his world was insanity. He should have known Sophie could never leave a perceived injustice alone. The way those commune kids jumped on social issues, like dogs on a bone, you’d think they were raised with some sort of martyr ambition. Or a conscience—he swore over her harsh judgment that he didn’t have one. And a heart. He had both, damn it, but it didn’t do him much good as long as his last name was Thorson. He could protest his innocence all day long, and no one would believe it. And protesting on behalf of others would only mark them as more suspicious. Nothing good ever came of being a Thorson, or associating with one.

There would be no more wavering over the issue of hiring Sophie; he’d rather see Natural Designs go under than see her harmed, which is what would happen if she kept pulling stupid stunts like visiting the Moosehead. Plus, she was so bent on defending him she refused to consider what it would do to her reputation. She’d mentioned using a former teacher and a business in Juniper as professional references, but he doubted they would come through if she were connected to the murdering/raping/woman-beating Thorsons. If he was the kind of man the Chambers family had taught him to be, he couldn’t allow it to happen.

It didn’t mean he cared for her. She irritated the hell out of him. He might have a nearly uncontrollable desire for her body, but lust wasn’t the same as caring. It was best not to get the two mixed up.

But he did have a conscience, damn it, and it wouldn’t let him take Sophie down with him. He just hoped Natural Designs survived. He had a job to complete and, as Sophie had pointed out, no one else was willing to work for him.

He had one day to come up with a solution. He’d told Will and Sophie to take Sunday off, and by Monday neither would be available. Will would be back at his own job, and Sophie would be back to pondering unemployment. As much as it disgusted him, he’d have to call Hooter. Maybe Manny and Cory would come back, too, if he begged.

It was not a pleasant thought for the end of a long day, especially when his encounter with Sophie already had him tied in knots. He was annoyed and emotionally wrung out. The prospect of a quiet half hour on his back porch, followed by a solid eight hours of sleep, was enough to make him groan in anticipation.

His mind was already lulled by the thought of contemplating nothing but the quiet woods behind his house when he turned into his driveway. Pine trees closed around the pickup, then opened onto his small scrap of front yard, lit by the yellow glow of light from his windows.

Zane hit the brakes and threw the truck into park. The house should be dark.

Senses alert and skin prickling, he reviewed his actions of less than two hours ago. He’d been upset when he left, his temper already raging from Manny’s call, but his memory was clear. He’d turned off all the lights, save for the small one above the stove. A conscious decision, since he hadn’t known how long it would take to find Sophie, or how long he’d spend chewing her out. Now lights blazed from the kitchen window, and the living room glowed with the light of table lamps and the TV. Whoever was inside wasn’t shy about having broken in. Or hadn’t expected him to return.

Slipping out of the truck, he closed the door quietly and bypassed his front door. The back door opened onto the deck from a mudroom. It had been locked, the same as the front door, so whoever was inside had somehow broken in.

He stepped quietly onto the wood deck, careful not to let his boots scrape as he made his way to the back door and looked in the window. Light filtered through from the kitchen, shining dully on the washer and dryer, and the scattered shoes and boots near the door. Beyond that he could see the refrigerator, but nothing more as the kitchen ran at a ninety-degree angle from the mudroom. Cautiously, he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and turned.

It opened easily. He took a second to feel along the edge of the door, his fingers finding the small notches where the lock had been pried open. Quick and dirty, not a neat job. Caution set his nerves on edge, made him wonder if he should back out and call the cops. His instincts rebelled—Thorsons weren’t in the habit of turning to the police for help. Besides, logic argued that anyone with truly bad intentions wouldn’t turn on the lights and TV. From the living room he could hear the faint play-by-play of a ball game.

With soft, measured steps, he crept toward the kitchen.

Stepping stealthily around the corner, he scanned the kitchen and small eating area in one easy glance. At the kitchen table, a man sat with his back to him. Zane blinked; the guy was eating a sandwich.

An uneasy feeling grabbed his gut. He didn’t recognize the shaggy, collar-length hair, or the broad shoulders and well-defined biceps. But there was something familiar about the hunched posture as the man leaned on his elbows. Something about the steady, methodical motions—bite, chew, swallow, bite, chew, swallow—as he held the sandwich in front of his mouth, never lowering it. A man intent on what he wanted, and taking it, not even pausing to savor the taste.

Zane stopped, taking in the new tattoos and muscular build. At the same time the man spoke without turning. “About time you got back, Zane. Don’t you have any beer in this joint?”

Zane crossed the room, trying to hold back the irritation he felt toward his younger brother, reminding himself that this was why he’d stayed in B-Pass. To be available if Emmett came back, to help the man no one else would, if he needed it. If he deserved it.

“Ever think of knocking, Emmett?”

“I did. You weren’t home.” Emmett raised a casual gaze as Zane came into view. “Where’s the beer?”

“I don’t have any.”

Zane watched Emmett try to process that incomprehensible fact. His brother’s eyebrows dug worried grooves above his eyes, and his mouth twisted as if tasting something awful. “Shit, I never could figure you,” Emmett said, as if the lack of beer summed up Zane’s whole personality.

Zane studied the changes he could see. A scar creased Emmett’s chin, not a recent addition, but acquired sometime during the past seven years. The same for the red-and-black Harley emblem inked on his left arm. More notably, he’d added breadth to the lean nineteen-year-old body Zane remembered, completing the change from boy to man. The result would have been attractive if he bothered to shower, wash his hair, and find clean clothes. But that would only take care of his outward appearance. Zane didn’t know if the troubled kid he’d known had matured in the past seven years.

He told himself to discount appearances. If not for the Chambers family, this might be him, a young man struggling to survive with no good example to guide him.

Still, the fact that Emmett had broken in didn’t sit well. He could order him to leave, but it wouldn’t stop him from coming back. If his brother was here, he had a reason. “What do you want, Emmett?”

Emmett feigned hurt. “You make me feel unwelcome.”

“Breaking and entering tends to do that to me.”

Emmett kept his eyes on his sandwich, and Zane couldn’t tell if the reprimand had any impact. Bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. “Maybe I need a place to stay.”

“That’s not the best way to ask. I could have called the cops. Speaking of which, aren’t there some outstanding warrants for your arrest?”

“Statute of limitations,” Emmett said around a mouthful, looking smug. “I’ve been gone seven years.”

“Arrest warrants don’t expire unless a judge decides there’s no point in pursuing them. I can’t see that happening in your case.”

He frowned at the unexpected news, then took another bite. The food must have helped, because he looked serene again. “Seems you’ve got your own legal problems these days. The kind with a dead body. Looks like I got back just in time to watch the big event—Zane Thorson arrested for murder.”

The snarky attitude rankled, but Zane suppressed the urge to show him the door. He’d never been able to forget that Emmett had had to endure more of their father’s wrath than he had. Much more. Resentment toward Zane would be normal. “Don’t get your hopes up. I didn’t kill her.”

Emmett ignored him, popping the last bite into his mouth. “Never thought I’d see the day Saint Zane fell off his pedestal. The only good Thorson.” He made tut-tut sounds and shook his head, regarding the smudges of mayo on his fingers with a wise expression. “It’s like they say—it’s always the quiet ones.”

Zane frowned. Emmett was playing him like a fish on a line, being evasive about what he wanted, and there was nothing Zane could do but go along with it. “Sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to the family.”

“Our cross to bear,” Emmett agreed. “You were always a bit different, especially with the fruity stuff, like art. You still do those drawings, Zane?”

“No.” He thought of the sketch pad tucked in beside books on the living room shelf, and wondered how long Emmett had been here and how thoroughly he’d made himself at home. Imagining his brother handling his sketches of Sophie pushed him into the red zone he’d been trying to avoid.

“Gave it up, huh? That’s a step in the right direction.” Emmett licked his fingers one by one, leaned back in his chair, and finally turned. He regarded Zane with interest.
“
’Course, I wouldn’t blame you for doing a picture of Rena, sort of as a memento. I kinda liked her. That chick was hot for a good time.”

He froze. “You knew Rena Torres?”

His brother’s grin showed feral cunning. “You could say that. We met once, in rather intimate circumstances. The chick had a mouth like a vacuum cleaner.” He cocked his head thoughtfully, as if deciding whether or not Zane needed his advice. “That’s the way to do it, you know, if you’re looking for a quickie. Just open your zipper and tell her to get on her knees. Less contact, less chance they can call it rape. ’Course, number one is to avoid leaving a body.” He stood abruptly, shoving the chair aside as he stepped in to examine Zane more closely. “Unless that’s your thing. Is that what gets you off, Zane?” He edged closer still, dropping his voice and staring with frank curiosity. “How kinky do you like it? Is it the fear in their eyes that turns you on, or is it the actual feel of strangling the life out of them? Or do you prefer a knife?”

Zane’s mind reeled and his stomach clenched into a hard rock, sending the sour taste of bile to his mouth. His brother had always been able to push his buttons, but he couldn’t help a flicker of doubt, the one Emmett wanted him to feel. Was he really that deranged? The excitement in Emmett’s eyes looked real, and the hoarse scrape in his voice was too close to real sexual arousal.

Or restrained glee, knowing he’d planted the horrible thought in Zane’s mind. Fresh contempt for Emmett slid through him.

And, Jesus! Emmett and Rena! His mind rebelled at the image his brother had so cheerfully provided. The poor girl had led a wilder life than he’d imagined. For the hundredth time he cursed the moment of insanity when he’d used her to wipe out, for one night, his persistent desire for Sophie. At the same time he thanked God for the package of condoms he’d retrieved from the glove compartment of his truck that night. It looked like Rena had acquainted herself with a lot of men while in B-Pass, and he’d bet most didn’t share Emmett’s preference for oral sex.

But
what
she’d done with Emmett wasn’t as important as
when
. He still didn’t know how long she’d lived after his hasty, mumbled good-bye that next morning. Had Emmett been before him or after? The worst possibility hovered like a buzzard in his mind—had Emmett been the last man she’d seen in this life?

The calculating curiosity in Emmett’s gaze was freaking him out, but he knew enough not to show fear. Not to show any reaction at all. He’d spent as little time as possible in the same house with his father, but it had been enough to know that abusers loved victims. They enjoyed fear, went for it like sharks after blood. He gave Emmett a stony glare, wondering as he did if Emmett was irretrievably lost.

Emmett smirked. “Not sharing, huh? Afraid I’ll turn you in?”

Zane could see the irritation behind his amused mask. His brother really wanted to know which part of killing he liked best. The disgust rose like sickness in his throat. “I told you, I didn’t kill her. Did you?”

“Like I said, I don’t believe in wasting the good ones.”

It was deliberately evasive. Trying a different tack, he asked, “Where’d you meet Rena?”