by Gayle Wilson
“Abby?” he asked.
“It’s downstairs.” Her voice was almost too controlled.
“Can we get to the front door?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “There are flames at the foot of the stairs. I don’t think we can make it through them”
“Back to your room,” he ordered. No hesitation.
“Nick…”
“Move, Abby. Move now.”
“But…” she began.
“Do it now, Sterling. The phone’s up there. Call your friend the local law.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“You better hope you’re wrong about that,” he said, almost under his breath He hadn’t liked the guy’s “Anytime, Abby,” crap. And he liked it even less now that he understood why it had rubbed him the wrong way.
Thankfully, Abby had already begun moving He turned to follow, but stumbled into the newel post, staggering a little and bumping into her.
“You okay?” she asked, her fingers finding his arm.
“I’m okay,” he said, angry with himself. With his blindness. “Come on, Abby. Let’s go”
She started down the hall, and he followed, being too careful now. Slowing them down. And he had no idea of distance. He had lost track of exactly where they were. Inside the bedroom or not?
“Close the door behind us,” he warned.
“Okay,” she said. “Stay here,” she ordered. She moved away from him and then he heard her shut the door. The sound was behind him and to the right. He could hear her moving again. Going to the phone to call the sheriff as he’d told her to do?
“It’s dead,” she said, fear clear in her voice now. Stark.
“The fire’s gotten to the wires,” he offered, but that’s not what he believed. “Window?” he asked.
“Window?” she repeated. “What for?”
“For going out of, Sterling. Now.”
“We’re on the second floor, Nick, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Your window looks out over the veranda, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then we go out it and onto its roof.”
“What good will that do?”
“It’ll give us a little time. A little distance, maybe. Somebody will see the fire. Somebody will call the authorities. The sheriff. The fire department.”
“If there is one.”
“All we have to do is get out and wait until help arrives.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“You Butch, me Sundance,” he said. “Come on, Sterling. Don’t go borrowing trouble.”
He could feel his own anxiety building, and he fought it. He had to get Abby out of this house. Onto the roof and then down onto the ground. Despite what he had told her, he didn’t believe anyone would get out here in time to help them. Not the way the wood in this place would go up.
She touched his arm, and he jumped.
“Sorry, Nick. I should have said something.”
“Window,” he urged again, instead of explaining.
She took his hand, guiding him. This time her fingers were not only cold against the warmth of his, they were shaking. When she released him, he could hear her struggling to get the sash up. Small grunts of effort.
“I think it’s stuck,” she said finally. “Damn humidity.”
“Let me try.” Apparently, she moved aside to do just that. Nick waited, but there was no direction. “A little help from my friends here, Sterling. I can lift the thing, but I damn sure can’t find it by myself.”
“Sorry,” she said again, placing his hand on the window.
“Let’s just take the sorrys for granted,” he suggested.
She made no response, and he supposed he’d ticked her off. At least she wouldn’t be thinking about their situation if she was mad at him.
She was right, however, he discovered. The window wouldn’t budge, not even for him. “Is that it?” he asked.
“The only one,” she agreed.
“Is there a chair in here?” he questioned.
“A small armchair. A lady’s chair.”
“Take me to it,” he ordered, not having any image in his mind that fit those words. When she had obeyed, he found by feel that it was just what she’d said—small. He prayed it would be big enough and he’d be strong enough to break the mullioned window with it.
Which was easier thought up than accomplished. Even he hadn’t realized the problems involved in trying to line up blind on the window. Of making sure that the chair hit the center and hit it hard enough to break the wood and the glass.
“Okay,” Abby said finally, giving him permission to try it.
“Door closed?” he asked.
“It’s closed.”
“Cover your face. The glass should all go outward if it breaks, but better to be safe than sorry.”
“Okay,” she said again.
He swung the chair back as far as he could and connected pretty solidly with the window. He could tell by the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood and the jolt in the muscles of his arms that he’d had some success. It would be up to Abby to determine how much.
“Hit it again,” she directed. “Same place”
Following her guiding hands, he did and the resistance he encountered was less. The chair almost went sailing through.
“Enough?” he asked.
It seemed that the smell of the smoke was suddenly stronger. Maybe it was being pulled out of the hall by the opening he’d just made, but it seemed that they’d been up here an eternity while the fire, crackling and climbing, ate the rich cypress below. Too much time, damn it.
“Enough, Sterling?” he demanded again, his voice harsher than he’d meant for it to be.
“I think so,” she said.
He could tell she was clearing out the opening because of the sounds she was making. Glass falling. She beat at something a moment, probably knocking out the wood. Knocking the remaining mullions out of their way.
“Okay,” she said. “I think that’s enough. Who goes first?”
It was a good question. One he hadn’t decided on yet. “Tell me exactly what’s out there. Type of roof. Its slope. Anything you can tell me.”
“Nick,” she said softly He could hear her fear. Fear for him, he realized, and he hated it. Hated the picture of him this was creating for her. Replacing whatever had been there before. Replacing the memories of what had once been between them.
“Do it, Sterling,” he ordered. “Damn it, don’t you go chicken on me now! Talk to me.”
“Cypress shingles,” she said. Her voice quivered a little, but she kept on, overcoming emotion. “The slope’s steep, but the roof over the veranda levels out. There’s a decorative parapet around the outer edge of that.”
“Good girl,” he said, complimenting her. Sincere.
“I’m not a girl,” she answered
He laughed. “God, Sterling, it’s just a figure of speech.”
“Maybe to you,” she muttered. “I go first. Then once I’m out, I can. .” She hesitated, but he knew what she meant.
“Then you can help me,” he finished. “It’s okay, Sterling. You damn well better help me or we’re both liable to go off.”
Her turn to laugh. Again the sound of it touched him. It was always spontaneous and open. So full of joy. He had loved to hear her laugh. All of a sudden that was something else he was completely sure of. He had loved her laughter.
“What are you waiting for?” he said softly, fighting memory. Then he listened as she climbed through the shattered opening and out onto the sloping roof of the burning house.
Chapter Ten
“Careful,” Abby warned sharply
The incline of the roof was steeper than Nick had expected, and his foot had slipped on one of the shingles as he climbed out of the window. He slid down a couple of feet before he caught himself with the hand that was holding the sill. He dug his toes in against the rough wood.
“I’m ok
ay,” he reassured her, but following her out hadn’t been quite as easy as he’d expected it would be, forcing himself to step into a situation that was unseen, unknown.
“Let go and just slide down,” Abby advised. “You’re only about four or five feet from the roof of the veranda. Its slope isn’t nearly this bad. It’s almost flat.”
“Where are you?” he asked. Her voice was coming from above him, slightly to his right.
“I’m propped against the dormer In the corner it makes with the roof.”
“Then I’m going down. Can you get down there by yourself?”
“I’ll slide,” she said. “Just like you should do.”
Again he fought the fear of the unknown, but he let go of the sill. His feet hit the roof of the veranda, and as soon as they did, he bent his knees, easily retaining his balance.
“Come on, Sterling,” he invited. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I’ll catch you.”
She laughed. “If I hit you, Deandro, we’re both liable to go over.”
He turned to face her, to face the sound of her voice anyway, his back to the edge of the veranda. He put the tips of his fingers against the shingles he’d just slid down, feeling them slope away from him.
“I’m not going to let you fall, Abby, I promise. Trust me. Only…before you let go tell me when and where you’re coming.”
“Move to your left about a foot,” she directed.
Away from the window, he realized. He did what she’d suggested, inching carefully to his left
“You’re not close to the edge, Nick,” she said, reassuring him, he knew, because of the tentative nature of his movements. “There’s plenty of room behind you. We won’t really go off. The worst that can happen will be a few splinters in my backside.”
“You ready?” he asked.
“Are you?” she countered.
“Just aim yourself this way, Sterling I’ll stop you.”
He had braced himself carefully, legs spread wide, preparing to take her weight. It wasn’t necessary Abby slid down the slope, her feet coming to a stop between his legs, firmly planted on the flatter roof. Her hands reached out to grab his arms.
He had leaned forward to stop the movement of her body with his. Suddenly he realized that he could feel the bulge of the baby she carried against his stomach.
Abby was lying back against the slope, his body over hers. All he had to do was bend his elbows, lowering himself, to bring his mouth down to hers And he wanted to. Just as he wanted the taut rise of her pregnancy pressing into his body. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her. Just one more time. To keep her safe.
“Nick,” she said. A little breathless. He could feel the soft warmth of the word against his cheek.
“You okay?” he said.
“I’m fine.”
Still they didn’t move. Not either of them. Despite the fire downstairs. Despite the danger it represented. He didn’t think he was capable of moving away from her. Abby’s body was once again lying under his, and the rush of need and want was too powerful to deny. Just as it always had been.
And it was eerily familiar, despite his inability to really remember what it had been like between them. This was instinctual. Or maybe simply his body’s memory, taking over where his mind had failed him.
“I think maybe we’ve done something like this a couple of times before, Sterling,” he said softly. He lowered his face, pressing his lips into the fragrance of her hair He turned his head slightly, rubbing his chin against her temple. “You want to tell me I’m wrong about that?”
He waited, his body growing harder as the slow seconds ticked by, despite his knowledge that they didn’t have time for this. No time for an excursion into a shared past she apparently didn’t want to revisit.
“No,” she admitted finally.
He nodded, his cheek moving against her hair. He put his weight on his left hand, holding it off her body, although they were touching all along the length of their torsos, her legs lying between his. His right hand moved, big fingers smoothing, naturally somehow, over the protrusion of his child.
That was his right, he had decided. No matter how she felt about him now, about the man he had become, this baby she was carrying was his child, too. Flesh of his flesh.
There was very little between his hand and the baby. Abby’s nightgown had gotten rucked up by her slide, so his palm was against the smoothness of her bare skin, distorted by pregnancy.
Surprisingly, her hand moved to cover his, repositioning it slightly, and then she pressed his more closely against her belly. It took a second for him to realize the reason she had done that And when he did…
The sensation took his breath. A tiny, shifting movement pushing out against the hardness of her stomach. Arm? Foot? Head? Nick didn’t know, but he knew without a doubt what he was feeling.
His baby, moving under his hand. And Abby had allowed him to feel that movement. For some reason she had wanted him to. Something which was much more intimate than anything they had ever shared before.
Again he reacted, his already strong arousal tightening, hardening uncontrollably. Painfully. He closed his eyes, fighting emotions he couldn’t afford to feel. Fighting the sting of tears. Nick Deandro wasn’t a man who ever cried. Not even against the hand fate had dealt him
Suddenly, the memory of Abby’s face was in his mind. Just the briefest flicker of an image. The way she had looked after they made love, still lying beneath him.
Her mouth slightly open, breath gasping, the delicate bow of her lip dewed with perspiration. Her features were relaxed, softened into bonelessness by what had happened between them.
“Did you feel the baby?” she asked, the present reality of her nearness shattering the forbidden glimpse his brain had given him of their past.
He nodded, unable to trust his voice. It would be full of what he’d just remembered And full, too, of the wonder of his child’s movement. Of what it had meant to him Too full Too revealing.
He removed his hand, deliberately putting it back on the roof beside her. Then straightening his elbows, he pushed himself upright. Away from her.
“Come on,” he ordered, his voice harsher than he’d intended.
She didn’t move. He reached out, finding her arm, gripping it hard, just above the elbow. “Come on, Abby. Move, damn it We have to get off this roof.”
“You said someone would come.”
Her voice was suddenly full of fear again, and he didn’t blame her. He couldn’t see the ground, but he knew as well as she did that it would be too far away. Too far away for a blind guy and a pregnant woman. A very pregnant woman.
“I lied,” he admitted grimly. He pulled on her arm, and finally she moved, straightening cautiously away from the sloping roof to stand beside him. “Tell me what’s here,” he demanded again. “Give me some information that will get us down.”
She took a breath. Again audible. Shuddering. “I’ll have to go over to the edge.”
“Okay,” he agreed.
“You stay right here, Nick. Don’t move,” she ordered.
“I’m not going anywhere, Sterling. I’m not a fool.”
He listened again to her movements, trying to follow them in his mind. But he believed he could hear the fire now. Too long, damn it. It had taken them too long to get to this point. And that was all his fault.
“There’s a wooden parapet maybe a foot high all around the edge of the gallery,” Abby said. “There’s about two feet of decorated cornice and then the grillwork columns that support the roof, at the corners and along the front.”
“Are the columns strong enough to hold our weight?”
“I don’t know. I don’t…It doesn’t matter, Nick, because I can’t get down to them. Whatever you’re thinking—”
“I’m thinking we don’t have much choice, Sterling. Climb over that parapet and then down one of those metal columns or jump. Or you can stay up here with the fire,” he reminded. “You just take your pick.”
Silence. He didn’t say anything else because there wasn’t anything else to say. That was the bottom line. A hell of a choice. But he had only told her the truth, a truth she needed to realize. There was literally nothing else they could do.
“Okay,” she said.
Good girl, he thought, but he didn’t make the mistake of saying it. Abby Sterling was as brave as any other cop he’d ever known. As tough, mentally at least. She would never have made it as far as she had in NOPD if she weren’t.
“You’ll go first,” he ordered, his voice tight and hard, keeping a rein on all the emotions he couldn’t allow himself to feel. Not until they got out of this. If they got out of it.
She didn’t argue, and he was grateful for that, for not having to explain his reasoning in wanting her down first—just to get her away from the fire he could hear. Besides, he was doing enough second-guessing about his decisions for both of them. He didn’t want her to start.
He felt her hand on his arm, guiding again, and he moved where she directed him. “We’re at the front corner of the veranda?” he asked. They needed to be as far away from the fire, of course, as the rooftop would allow.
“Yes,” she said.
“Look at it carefully and then tell me exactly what you’ll have to do to get down.”
“Climb over the parapet,” she began. “Then, I guess hold on to that until I can get my toes into the grillwork.”
“Are there fingerholds in the decorations on the cornice?”
“There’s…I don’t know, Nick. It’s carved. There are indentations. I can feel that from up here, but I can’t tell if there’s anything really that I could hold on to. I just don’t know. I can’t tell that from up here,” she said again.
He could feel her confidence unraveling. He was asking a hell of a lot of her, he knew, but there was no other choice. Maybe they should have tried to go down the stairs. Out the front door. Despite the flames she saw, maybe they should have tried. He should have made her be more specific about the fire, about how near to the door it was, how far up the stairs it had reached. He should have—
