“I didn’t come here to discuss this.”
She blinked at his brusque voice. “Oh. When you brought her up I just assumed you wanted to explain her position.”
“You assumed wrong.” His voice was uncompromising. “What I want is total honesty from you.”
Was this about his investigation? She couldn’t promise to answer all his questions, just what she remembered. “Of course, but that depends on what you want to know. Some of the things even I can’t explain.”
As if it were possible, his eyes grew colder. “You like to play games, don’t you?”
She cut him a look and made a face. “I hate games. It’s a total waste of time.”
“Then tell me this. How well do you know Vaughn?”
Ashley blinked. “What?”
“You said you don’t play games. Neither do I. How well do you know Vaughn?”
Her brow creased as her thoughts raced. “Vaughn Ricks? The man in the limo?” How did Ron know they’d met?
He smiled coldly at her. “Yeah, the one you met down the road from my mother’s home. Vaughn Doyle, Ryan Doyle’s son. What were you discussing with him?”
Her eyes widened at the revelation. No wonder he’d looked familiar. He looked like his father. Then the implication of Ron’s statement sunk in. “You were spying on me?”
“And it’s a good thing, too, otherwise I wouldn’t have known about your little meeting.”
She shook her head. “You have some nerve implying that I play games, Ron Noble.” This was what happened whenever she let emotions control her actions, people stepped all over her. She’d let this man get to her before with his I-need-a-portrait-of-my-grandmother story. Not again. She rose to her feet and stepped away from the counter. “I want you to leave. Now.”
Ron got up, but instead of heading for the door, he started around the counter. “What are you hiding? What did he offer you?” His gaze ran up and down her body, then his lips curled into a sneer. “Or should I be asking what you offered him to get Carlyle House?”
Her jaw dropped at the implication. Black spots appeared in her vision as anger replaced the shock. Her hand lifted, flew to his face and connected with his cheek. The sound echoed around the loft.
“And to imagine I was willing to help you with your investigation. To put myself out and face my worst….” Ashley pointed at the door. “Get the hell out of my house, Noble.”
CHAPTER 4
Ron tried not to flinch as the sting spread from his cheek down his neck. He had seen the slap coming, but he hadn’t tried to stop it. He deserved it. Truth be known, he had no idea what came over him to accuse her of something so debasing. “Ashley—”
“How dare you.” She was breathing hard, her ample chest heaving. “How dare you imply I would cheapen myself by offering my body to any man in exchange for a favor?” She stomped past him.
He grabbed her arm. “I apologize. What I said was uncalled for and rude. I’m sorry.”
“Quit manhandling me,” she snapped and attempted to wrench her arm free.
He let her go and raised his arms in surrender.
“Now get out.”
Ron released a sharp breath. This wasn’t what he’d planned. He needed her help, and being thrown out wasn’t a way to get it. From her flashing eyes, an apology wouldn’t suffice. He racked his brain for a quick solution. “I can get you Carlyle House, Ashley.”
A scathing laugh escaped her. “I don’t want it anymore.”
His gut tightened. “Why?”
“I changed my mind.”
She must have heard his mother and despite her earlier assertions, had no intention of asking for his help. In fact, her rigid body warned him to back off. He frowned. Or maybe this was an act to manipulate him, to make him feel sorry for her. Growing up around his mother and her actress friends had taught him to question women’s emotions. He knew it was wrong and often fought his response, but now…. Should he trust Ashley?
“We’ve nothing else to discuss,” she said.
And he had nothing to negotiate with. He shouldn’t have mentioned his investigation last week or jumped to conclusions when he saw her with Vaughn. Ron ignored her words and studied her angry expression. He saw through her bravado and anger to the pain he’d caused.
A sudden urge to take Ashley in his arms and offer her comfort came from nowhere. He wasn’t going there. He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans instead. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions and accused you of doing something unethical.”
She stared defiantly at him, her hazel eyes overly bright. He pulled his hands from his pockets and scrubbed his face, then studied her through narrowed eyes. Lord, the woman was maddening. Why couldn’t she accept anything gracefully?
“What did he want?” he asked.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“I know.” The Doyles were ruthless bastards, and he had to know what they were up to. He swallowed his pride and added, “Please. I need to know.”
Ashley sighed, her shoulders sagging. “I was concerned after I heard your mother’s words and realized she was still hurting from what happened ten years ago. I pulled over and was thinking of going back to your place to tell you I’d help with the investigation when Vaughn’s limo stopped. I didn’t know who he was. He told me his name was Vaughn Ricks, not Doyle. He thought I was having car trouble. I had no idea that I was outside the Doyle residence.”
“I didn’t know he purchased a home around there until the security guard told me. My mother was concerned. The Doyles are not the nicest of people.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. Vaughn was kind enough to offer me a hand when he thought I needed it.”
The green monster in him reared its head. “Vaughn Doyle is a ruthless bastard, Ashley. Just like his father.”
She stepped away from him. “Not from where I’m standing. He was a perfect gentleman.”
While he was not, Ron thought with a sigh. She didn’t have to say it. He hated explaining himself, but in this case, he owed her that much. “Okay, my behavior this afternoon has been less than exemplary, I admit. I don’t usually talk or act like this. This investigation is getting to me. And I wasn’t spying on you. The security guard was.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“My mother asked him to keep an eye on the Doyle’s residence. The fact that he happened to see you and Vaughn and reported it to me was merely a coincidence. No one was spying on you.”
She went quiet, her arms across her chest, her eyes shadowed. He didn’t know what else to say to regain her trust. “Please, say you forgive my deplorable behavior.”
She shrugged, appearing to accept his apology. He sighed with relief, then went on to explain. “Ryan Doyle tried to court my mother after my father died. I don’t know what he did or said, but she doesn’t like or trust him. She’s not the forgiving type.”
Ashley nodded. “I realize that. I was fifteen at the time, had no idea what was happening with my parents and acted on pure instinct.” She spoke softly as though talking to herself. Her gaze shifted to the first button on his shirt before she added, “Maybe it was foolish of me to ask him to save my parents, but my entire life was in that inferno.” She searched Ron’s eyes. “I now know what he did was heroic. When I later learned that he’d died, I wrote letters to your mother asking her to forgive me.”
“Ashley—”
“Let me explain. Please. I didn’t get a response from her, but I kept at it for six months. Then she wrote back, twice.” She waved toward the boxes on the floor. “I was searching for the letters she sent me before you arrived. Her forgiveness helped me deal with my grief, Ron.”
Ron didn’t want to disappoint her, but he highly doubted his mother wrote those letters. He’d grown up hearing her blame Ashley for everything that went wrong in his family. Connie Wilkins, her assistant, most likely wrote them. The woman had been with his mother for almost thirty years now.
“Do you…do you blame me, too, Ron?” Ashley interrupted his thoughts.
His mother never let him forget the part Ashley played that night and yes, he had resented her for a while. But as he had matured and been able to see things realistically, he’d let go of the anger. “No, I don’t blame you.”
Regret and distress flitted across her face. “Thank you. I know he’d still be alive—”
“Don’t.” He wanted to step away, but he found himself cupping her face. Tears trembled on her lashes. He could feel her body quiver, and in that moment, a connection he couldn’t explain formed between them.
Her anguish became his, and he was helpless to stop it from searing through him, twisting his gut and reminding him of his loss. He hadn’t really mourned his father, not when his mother had needed him and the accusation and rumors of his father’s treachery had floated around. His father, the one person who’d given him unconditional love, and he had been too angry and ashamed to mourn him, until now. Something closed around his heart and squeezed.
“Ron?”
His gaze shifted to Ashley face. The anger and the pain were gone, and in their place was concern. Resentment came from nowhere, the lingering accusations he’d grown so accustomed to replacing his pain. He didn’t want her pity. All he needed from her was a description of what she saw that night.
He stiffened, stepped away from her and folded his arms across his chest. “My father was a firefighter, Ashley. He knew the risks involved in his profession.” Her eyes searched his, as though she could see through his feigned indifference to the pain and regret within him.
“I’m sorry for putting you in such an awkward position with my questions. You lost someone you loved that night, too, and I had no business bringing it all back.”
“Let it go, Ashley.” Why did women insist on analyzing everything? He was through tiptoeing around. He had to know if he could count on her. “There’s something else we need to discuss, the reason I’m here.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it. A frown settled on her brow. “What is it?”
“I need your input on something.” He pulled a folded, brown manila envelope from his back pocket and offered it to her.
She scowled instead of taking it, mistrust evident in her eyes.
“My mother received them this morning. Someone left the envelope at her gate. I was at a conference in San Diego this week, but she called and asked me to come home because of this. Unfortunately, after going through its contents, she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to discuss anything with you. I want you to look at the pictures and tell me what you think.”
Ashley’s suspicious gaze shifted from the envelope to Ron’s face, then back to the envelope. “What pictures?”
“Just open it, please.”
She took the envelope, opened the flap and pulled out the contents. Her eyes widened and a gasp escaped her lips when she saw the top photograph.
***
“It can’t be,” Ashley whispered. The envelope and the other photographs slipped from her nerveless fingers and flitted to the floor, as she sat on the nearest stool.
“What is it?” Unease filled Ron’s voice. “What’s wrong?”
Everything was wrong. She recognized the photograph she’d taken ten years ago. It was from a film she’d lost the night her parents had died. Obviously, someone had removed it from her camera. But who? Why?
Ron hovered over her. “Talk to me. Knew I shouldn’t have sprung this on you like this,” he berated himself. “I should have warned you.” When her gaze stayed riveted on the photograph, he stepped back, picked up the others and the envelope from the floor and rejoined her at the counter. “I thought seeing their picture wouldn’t matter after all this time, but… Talk to me, please.”
She heard his voice, the concern lacing his words, but emotions had seized her throat, making speech difficult. Her eyes bounced back and forth between her father and her mother’s face. They looked so real, so…so alive. The sparkling eyes, the full smiles and the love shining from their faces were all unforgettable. Her hand trembled, as she gently stroked the cold, glossy paper.
“It’s mine,” she finally whispered, her voice hoarse and foreign to her ears.
“What?”
She cut Ron a look, and saw the same confusion in his voice mirrored in his eyes. Biting hard on her lower lip, she took a deep breath, then another. When she had some modicum of control, she stared straight at him and said, slowly and clearly, “I took this picture. It’s mine. I want to know who sent it, Ron.”
“There’s no return address on the envelope or signature on the letter. What do you mean you took the photograph?” he asked.
She slanted him an impatient glance. “I lifted the camera, pointed and shot it.” Her voice was edgy, harsh. “It was the night of the…,” she swallowed, then her chin went up, “the night of the fire.”
Ron rubbed his nape, a puzzled expression on his face. “How’s that possible? How did someone get a hold of them? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.” Nothing made sense anymore, including why all this was happening to her now. She could accept Ron’s mother’s hatred, work around Ryan Doyle’s bid, but the sudden appearance of a picture from the roll of film she thought was lost threw her off. Could Ron be right? Did someone start the fire?
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Ron was waiting for an explanation. She wasn’t ready to give one. Scenes from the past flashed through her head. Shopping with her mother, watching her get ready for a performance, listening to both her parents rehearse, devising ways to escape the paparazzi, private picnics in the parks... Then there was that night. Acrid smell of black smoke choking her lungs, burning her eyes, scorching hungry flames at the windows, raucous sounds of the fire trucks…
Her eyes snapped opened in surprise, and her gaze zeroed in on Ron’s hand on top of hers. She welcomed its warmth, the comfort his gesture offered. Irrationally, she wished they were anywhere but in her loft discussing the past. She thought she would never have to revisit that night.
Ron tugged at her hand to draw her attention. “I realize this isn’t easy for you,” he said. “If you don’t want to do this, it’s okay with me.”
“No, no. I’m okay.” Her voice sounded husky to her ears. Who could blame her? Ron was gently stroking the back of her hand with his fingertips. Sensation shot up her arm, filling her with the urge to seek the comfort he was offering, distracting her from what was important. She slid her hand from underneath his.
“I wouldn’t put you through this if it weren’t important,” he said gently.
The low timbre of his voice washed over her, soothed and cocooned her raw nerves. Yes, this was important. If it was tied to an arsonist, it was vital. “I know.”
“Good.” He reached under the brown envelope and pulled out the pictures she’d dropped earlier. He passed her one, his eyes watchful.
Ashley pursed her lips at the picture of three of them together. Her mother and father were on either side of her. “Dad…my father had shown me how to set the camera on a timer. See?” She indicated the background. “It’s the same room as in the first photograph.”
Ron gave her the third photograph. She studied the glossy print. “I took this one outside Carlyle House…I mean, the Carlyle Club, as it was called then. It was the first time I saw it. It looked so grand, magnificent, like a castle straight out of a fairy tale.”
“An exclusive club for the A-list stars was more like it,” he corrected wryly. “A cousin of my mother’s ran it at the time. You were probably the only child ever to enter it at night. I’d been inside it numerous times, but always during the day, when families used the pool and the restaurant.”
If only she could remember going inside. It was frustrating, but at the same time, comforting. She knew it was cowardly of her, but fewer memories of that particular night suited her just fine.
There was a brief, tense silence. Fro
m Ron’s expectant expression, she knew he was waiting for her to say something. She’d never wanted to discuss what happened, but something about the man’s calming presence urged her on.
“It was my birthday,” she finally said, deciding to tiptoe rather than dive into the horror.
Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “The day of the fire?”
She gave him a weak smile and nodded. “Makes one wonder what the big guy upstairs was thinking.”
“Damn,” he said under his breath.
Damned was exactly how she felt on her birthdays. Celebrating, and at the same time mourning, was enough to throw a kink in anyone’s psyche. But to a child, it was pure torture. Without her dear, loving Aunt Estelle, she didn’t know if she could have endured it.
A frown creased her brow when she caught Ron’s expression. Was it pity or compassion? Pity was the one emotion she refused to accept from anyone. She clenched her hand.
“I’ve learned to live with it.” Her tone came out defensive. “My aunt made everything okay.”
Ron shook his head. “But you’re reminded of your loss on your birthdays. How can anyone make that okay?”
She shrugged. “By making me have two birthday parties—one in the morning with my cousins and friends, and another in the afternoon at the cemetery. I’d pick flowers from the garden, take pieces of cake and drinks from the party, a cassette player and a recording of a rendition of the happy birthday song my parents did while they were still alive. My aunt and uncle would go with me, wait for me while I talked to my parents.”
Did he think she was loony because she talked to the dead? She shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye, expecting to see shock or derision. Relief and something close to gratitude zipped through her when she saw him nod.
“In the early years, I’d always talk about the same thing—my birthday party and the presents I received that morning. Then I’d play the tape and arrange the cakes and drinks by their graves and leave.”
Slow Burn Page 6
