by Nora Roberts
might be wise, she decided, to tend to some practical matters. “Am I supposed to help?”
“Can you handle toast?”
“Barely.” She set her cup aside and opened the cupboard. They worked in silence for a moment, he beating eggs, she popping bread in the toaster. “I …” She wasn’t sure how to put it, delicately. “I suppose when you were fighting fires, you faced a lot of dangerous situations.”
“Yeah. So?”
“The scars on your shoulder, your back.” She’d discovered them in her explorations in the night, the raised welts and scarred ridges over that taut, really beautiful body. “Line of duty?”
“That’s right.” He glanced up. In truth, he didn’t think about them. But it occurred to him in the harsh light of day that a woman like her might find them offensive. “Do they bother you?”
“No. I just wondered how you got burned.”
He set the bowl aside and placed a pan on the stove to heat. Maybe they bothered her, he thought, maybe they didn’t. But it seemed best to get the matter out of the way.
“Our friend Clarence. While I was pulling him out of the fire he started, the ceiling collapsed.” Ry could remember it still, the rain of flame, the animal roar of it, the staggering nightmare of pain. “It fell down on us like judgment. He was screaming, laughing. I got him outside. I don’t remember much after that, until I woke up in the burn ward.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It could have been a lot worse. My gear went a long way toward protecting me. I got off lucky.” Deliberately focused, he poured the beaten eggs into the pan. “My father went down like that. Fire went into the walls. When they ventilated the ceiling, it went. It all went.”
He cursed under his breath. Where the hell had that come from? he wondered. He hadn’t meant to say it. The death of his father certainly wasn’t typical morning-after conversation.
“You should butter that toast before it gets cold.”
She said nothing, could think of nothing, only went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his back.
“I didn’t know you’d lost your father.” There was so much, she thought, that she didn’t know.
“Twelve years ago. It was in a high school. Some kid who wasn’t happy with his chemistry grade torched the lab. It got away from him. Pop knew the risks,” he muttered, uncomfortable with the sensation her quiet sympathy was stirring. “We all know them.”
She held on. “I didn’t mean to open old wounds, Ry.”
“It’s all right. He was a hell of a smoke eater.”
Natalie stayed where she was another moment, baffled by what she was feeling. This need to comfort, to share, this terrible urge to be part of what he was. Cautious, she stepped back. It wouldn’t do, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t do at all to look for more between them than what there was.
“And this Clarence—how will you find him?”
“I could get lucky and track him down through contacts.” With a quick, competent touch, Ry folded the egg mixture. “Or we’ll pick him up when he scouts out his next target.”
“My plant.”
“Probably.” More relaxed now that there was a little distance between them, he shot her a look over his shoulder. “Cheer up, Natalie. You’ve got the best in the city working to protect your nighties.”
“You know very well it’s not just—” She broke off when her doorbell rang. “Never mind.”
“Hold on. Doesn’t your doorman call up when someone’s coming to see you?”
“Not if it’s a neighbor.”
“Use the judas hole,” he ordered, and reached for plates.
“Yes, Daddy.” Amused by him, Natalie went to the door. One look through the peephole had her stifling a shout and dragging back the locks. “Boyd, for heaven’s sake!” She threw her arms around her brother. “Cilla!”
“The whole crew,” Cilla warned her, laughing as they hugged. “The cop wouldn’t let me call ahead and alert you to the invasion.”
“I’m just so glad to see you.” She bent down to hug her niece and nephews. “But what are you doing here?”
“Checking up on you.” Boyd shifted the bag of takeout he carried to his other hip.
“You know the captain,” Cilla said. “Bryant, touch nothing under penalty of death.” She aimed a cautious look at her oldest son. At eight, he couldn’t be trusted. “The minute Deborah called us about the second fire, he herded us up and moved us out. Allison, this isn’t a basketball court. Why don’t you put that down now?”
Territorial, Allison hugged the basketball to her chest. “I’m not going to throw it or anything.”
“She’s fine,” Natalie assured Cilla, stroking a distracted hand down Allison’s golden hair. “Boyd, I can’t believe you’d drag everyone across the country for something like this.”
“The kids have Monday off at school.” Boyd crouched down to pick up the jacket their youngest had already tossed on the floor. “So we’re taking a quick weekend, that’s all.”
“We’re staying with Deborah and Gage,” Cilla added. “So don’t panic.”
“It’s not that …”
“And we brought supplies.” Boyd held out the bag filled with takeout burgers and fries. “How about lunch?”
“Well, I …” She cleared her throat and looked toward the kitchen. How, she wondered, was she going to explain Ry?
Keenan, with the curiosity of an active five-year-old, had already discovered him. From the kitchen doorway, he grinned up at Ry. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself.” Curious to see just how Natalie handled things, Ry strolled out of the kitchen.
“Want to see what I can do?” Keenan asked him before anyone else could speak.
“Sure.”
Always ready to show off a new skill, Keenan shimmied up Ry’s leg, scooting up and around until he was riding piggy-back.
“Not bad.” Ry gave the boy a little boost to settle him in place.
“That’s Keenan,” Cilla explained, running her tongue over her teeth as she considered. “Our youngest monkey.”
“I’m sorry. Ah …” Natalie dragged a hand through her damp hair. She didn’t have to look at Boyd to know he’d have that speculative big-brother look in his eyes. “Boyd and Cilla Fletcher, Ry Piasecki.” She cleared her throat. “And this is Allison, and Bryant.” Now she sighed. “You’ve already met Keenan.”
“Piasecki,” Boyd repeated. “Arson?” Just the man he wanted to see, Boyd thought. But he hadn’t expected to find him barefoot in his sister’s kitchen.
“That’s right.” Brother and sister shared strong good looks, Ry mused. And, he thought, an innate suspicion of strangers. “You’re the cop from Denver.”
Bryant piped up. “He’s a police captain. He wears a gun to work. Can I have a drink, Aunt Nat?”
“Sure. I—” But Bryant was already darting into the kitchen. “Well, this is …” Awkward, she thought. “Maybe I should get some plates before the food gets cold.”
“Good idea. All she has is eggs.” Ry eyed the bag Boyd still carried, recognizing the package. “Maybe we can work a deal for some of your french fries.”
“You’re the one investigating the fires, right?” Boyd began.
“Slick,” Cilla said, glaring at her husband. “No interrogations on an empty stomach. You can grill him after we eat. We’ve been on a plane for hours,” she explained when Bryant came back in and tried to wrestle the ball away from Allison. “We’re a little edgy.”
“No problem.” An instant before Boyd, Ry snatched the ball that squirted out of flailing hands. “Like to shoot hoop?” he asked Allison.
“Uh-huh.” She gave him a quick, winning smile. “I made the team. Bryant didn’t.”
“Basketball’s stupid.” Sulking, Bryant slouched in a chair. “I’d rather play Nintendo.”
Ry juggled Keenan on his back as he turned the ball in his hands. “It so happens I’ve got a game in a couple of hours. Maybe you’d
like to come.”
“Really?” Allison’s eyes lit as she turned to Cilla. “Mom?”
“It sounds like fun.” Intrigued, Cilla strolled toward the kitchen. “I’ll just give Natalie a hand.”
And, she thought, pump her sister-in-law for details.
Chapter 7
The last place Natalie expected to spend her Saturday afternoon was courtside, watching cops and firefighters play round ball. She sulked through most of the first quarter, her elbow on her knee, her chin on her fist.
After all, Ry hadn’t mentioned the game to her, hadn’t directly invited her. She was there to witness what was obviously an important annual rivalry only because of her niece.
Not that it mattered to her, she assured herself. Ry was certainly under no obligation to include her in his personal entertainment.
The pig.
Beside her, Allison was in basketball heaven, cheering on the red jerseys with a rabid fan’s passionate enthusiasm. Her brandy-colored eyes glinted as she followed the action up and down the court of the old west-side gym.
“It’s not such a bad way to spend the afternoon,” Cilla commented over the shrill sound of the ref’s whistle. “Watching a bunch of half-naked guys sweat.” Her eyes, the same warm shade as her daughter’s, danced. “By the way, your guy’s very cute.”
“I told you, he’s not my guy. We’re just …”
“Yeah, you told me.” Chuckling, Cilla wrapped an arm around Natalie’s shoulders. “Cheer up, Nat. If you’d gone along with Boyd and the boys to unload at Deborah’s, your big bro would be grilling you right now.”
“You’ve got a point.” She let out a sigh. Despite herself, she was following the action. The cops were double-teaming Ry consistently, she noted. Not a bad strategy, as he played like a steamroller, and had already scored seven points in the first quarter.
Not that she was counting.
“He didn’t mention this game to me,” she muttered.
“Oh?” Fighting back a grin, Cilla ran her tongue over her teeth. “He must have had something else on his mind. Hey!” She surged to her feet, along with most of the crowd, as one of the blue jerseys rammed an elbow sharply in Ry’s ribs. “Foul!” Cilla shouted between her cupped hands.
“He can take it,” Natalie mumbled, and tried not to care as Ry approached the foul line. “He’s got an iron stomach.” She struggled between pride and resentment when he sank his shot.
“Ry’s the best.” Allison beamed, well into a deep case of hero worship. “Did you see how he moves up-court? And he’s got a terrific vertical leap. He’s already blocked three shots under the hoop.”
So, maybe he looked good, Natalie conceded. Those long, muscled legs pumping, those broad shoulders slick with sweat, all that wonderful hair flying as he pivoted or leapt. Then there was that look that came into his eyes, wolfish and arrogant.
So, maybe she wanted him to win. That didn’t mean she was going to stand up and cheer.
By the third quarter, she was on her feet, like the rest of the crowd, when Ry sank a three-pointer that put the Smoke Eaters over the Bloodhounds by two.
“Nothing but net,” she shouted, jostling Cilla. “Did you see that?”
“He’s got some great moves,” Cilla agreed. “Fast hands.”
“Yeah.” Natalie felt the foolish grin spread over her face. “Tell me about it.”
Heart thumping, she dropped back on the bench. She was leaning forward now, her gaze glued to the ball. The sound of running feet echoed as the men pounded up-court. The cops took a shot, the Smoke Eaters blocked it. The ensuing scuffle left two men on the ground, others snarling in each other’s faces as the ref blew his whistle.
Now, Natalie thought grimly, they were playing dirty. With a grunt, she dipped her hand into the bag of salted nuts Cilla offered.
Fast break. Flying elbows, a tangle of bodies under the net as the ball shot up, careened, was pursued.
“Going to put out your fire, Piasecki,” one of the cops taunted.
Natalie saw Ry flick the sweaty hair out of his eyes and grin. “Not with that equipment.”
Trash talk. Natalie sneered at the cop as she chomped a peanut. No round ball game was complete without it. She hooted down the referee as he stepped between two overenthusiastic competitors, barely preventing an informal boxing match.
“Boys, boys,” Cilla said with a sigh. “They always take their games so seriously.”
“Games are serious,” Natalie muttered.
It was too close to call. Natalie continued to munch on peanuts as a sensible alternative to her fingernails. When a time-out was called, she glanced at the clock. There was less than six minutes to go, and the Bloodhounds were up, 108 to 105.
On the sidelines, the Smoke Eaters’ coach was surrounded by his team. The lanky, silver-haired man was punching his fist into his palm to accentuate whatever instructions he was giving his men. Most were bent at the waist, hands on knees, as they caught their breath for the final battle. As they headed back onto the court, Ry turned. His gaze shot unerringly to Natalie. And he grinned. Quick, cocky, arrogant.
“Wow,” Cilla murmured. “Now that’s serious. Very powerful stuff.”
“You’re telling me.” Natalie blew out a breath. When that did nothing to level her system, she used the excess energy to cheer on her team.
It was a fight to the finish, the lead tipping back to the Smoke Eaters, then sliding away. As time dripped away, second by second, the crowd stayed on its feet, building a wall of sound.
With seconds to go, the Smoke Eaters a point behind, Natalie was chewing on her knuckles. Then she saw Ry make his move. “Oh, yes …” She whispered it first, almost like a prayer. Then she began to shout it as he burst through the line of defense, controlling the ball as if it were attached to the palm of his hand by an invisible string.
They blocked, he pivoted. He had one chance, and he was surrounded. Natalie’s heart tripped as he feinted, faked, then sprang off the floor with a turnaround jump shot that found the sweet spot.
The crowd went wild. Natalie knew she did, spinning around to hug Allison, then Cilla. What was left of the peanuts flew through the air like rain. The instant the clock ran out, the stands emptied in a surge of bodies onto the court.
She caught a glimpse of Ry a moment before he was swallowed up. She sank back onto the bench with a hand over her heart.
“I’m exhausted.” She laughed and rubbed her damp hands on the knees of her jeans. “I’ve got to sit.”
“What a game!” Allison was bouncing up and down in her sneakers. “Wasn’t he great? Did you see, Mom? He scored thirty-three points! Wasn’t he great?”
“You bet.”
“Can we tell him? Can we go down and tell him?”
Cilla studied the jostling crowd, then looked into her daughter’s, shining eyes. “Sure. Coming, Natalie?”
“I’ll stay here. If you manage to get to him, tell him I’ll hang around and wait.”
“Okay. You’ll bring him to dinner at Deb’s tonight?”
Cautious, Natalie drummed her fingers on her knee. “I’ll run it by him.”
“Bring him,” Cilla ordered, then leaned over and kissed Natalie’s cheek. “See you later.”
* * *
Gradually the gym emptied, the fans swarming out to celebrate, the players heading off to shower. Content, Natalie sat in the quiet. It had been her first full day off in six months, and she’d decided it wasn’t such a bad way to spend it after all.
And since Ry hadn’t actually asked her to come, he was under no real obligation. Neither of them was. Sensibly, neither of them was looking for restrictions, for commitments, for romance. It was simply a primal urge on both parts, fiercely intense now, and very likely to fade.
It was fortunate that they both understood that, right from the beginning. There was some affection between them, naturally. And respect. But this wasn’t a relationship, in the true sense of the word. Neither of them wanted that. It was
simply an affair—enjoyable while it lasted, no harm done when it ended.
Then he walked out on court, his hair dark and damp from his shower. His gaze swept up and locked on hers.
Oh, boy, was all she could think while her heart turned a long, slow somersault. She was in trouble.
“Good game,” she managed, and forced herself to stand and walk down to him.
“It had its moments.” He cocked his head. “You know, it’s the first time I’ve seen you dressed in anything but one of those high-class suits.”
To cover the sudden rash of nerves, Natalie reached down and picked up one of the game balls. “Jeans and sweaters aren’t usually office attire.”
“They look good on you, Legs.”
“Thanks.” She turned the ball in her hand, studying it rather than him. “Allison had the time of her life. It was nice of you to invite her.”
“She’s a cute kid. They all are. She’s got your mouth, you know. And the jawline. She’s going to be a real heartbreaker.”
“Right now she’s more interested in scoring points on court than scoring them with boys.” More relaxed, Natalie looked up again, smiling at him. “You scored a few yourself today, Inspector.”
“Thirty-three,” he said. “But who’s counting?”
“Allison.” And she had been, too. Carrying the ball, she wandered out on the court. “I take it this was your annual battle against the Bloodhounds.”
“Yeah, we take them on once a year. The proceeds go to charity and all that. But mostly we come to beat the hell out of each other.”
Head down, she bounced the ball once, caught it. “You never mentioned it. I mean, not until Allison showed up.”
“No.” He was watching her, intrigued. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a touch of annoyance in her voice. “I guess I didn’t.”
She turned her head. “Why didn’t you?”
Definitely annoyed, he decided, and scratched his cheek. “I didn’t figure it would be your kind of thing.”
Now her chin angled. “Oh, really?”
“Hey, it’s not the opera, or the ballet.” He shrugged and tucked his thumbs in his front pockets. “Or a fancy French restaurant.”
She let out a slow breath, drew another in. “Are you calling me a snob again?”
Careful, Piasecki, he warned himself. There was definitely a trapdoor here somewhere. “Not exactly. Let’s just say I couldn’t see someone like you getting worked up over a basketball game.”
“Someone like me,” she repeated. Stung, she pivoted, planted her feet, and sent the ball sailing toward the hoop. It swished through, bounced on the court. When she looked back at Ry, she had the satisfaction of seeing his mouth hanging open. “Someone like me,” she said again, and went to retrieve the ball. “Just what does that mean, Piasecki?”
He got his hands out of his pockets just in time to catch the ball she heaved at him before it thudded into his chest. He passed it back to her, hard, lifting a brow when she caught it.
“Do that again,” he demanded.
“All right.” Deliberately she stepped behind the three-point line, gauged her shot and let it rip. The whisper of the ball dropping through the hoop made her smile.
“Well, well, well …” This time Ry retrieved the ball himself. He was rapidly reassessing his opponent. “I’m impressed, Legs. Definitely impressed. How about a little one-on-one?”
“Fine.” She crouched, circling him as he dribbled.
“You know, I can’t—”
Quick as a snake, she darted in, snatched the ball. She executed a perfect lay-up, tapping the ball on the backboard and into the hoop. “I believe that’s my
