“Oh, no.”
A burst of high-pressured water met the flames, but even my untrained eye could see that the fire would be the victor.
The firefighter touched my shoulder. “Ma’am, I have to go now. And so do you.”
I gave him a tight nod and backed away from Cohen’s house as quickly as I dared.
* * *
It only took twenty-eight minutes for the fire to consume the building. I watched them tick away on the clock in Painter’s car.
Painter.
His name filled my heart with agony.
Less than a week ago, I didn’t even know the man existed. Now, I felt like a piece of me had been ripped away and was being carried up with the ashes of the fire. Silent sobs racked my body as I watched the vestiges of smoke and steam trickle away to nothingness.
Even Jayme seemed to sense my pain and he sat silently in the backseat, saying nothing.
When the flames finally tapered off, succumbing to the firemen’s efforts to contain the damage to one property, the house was a crumbling, smoking mess.
I didn’t dare leave the scene for fear of being noticed, so I climbed in the backseat to cuddle up with my son until enough people had lost interest.
For three hours, the emergency crews worked to keep people back and to keep the scene secure. I watched them pick through the rubble, looking for signs of life and coming up empty-handed. The news crew on the radio reported non-stop, discussing the questionable lifestyle of the owners and interviewing neighbours who said they weren’t at all surprised to see it go up in a blaze.
I drifted off, and when I woke up, Jayme was sound asleep and the crowd had dispersed. I unfolded myself from my son and climbed out. Even in the fire-warmed air, I shivered.
With a quick glance back at the car, I jogged up the sidewalk and made my way to the back of the property. I picked along the edge of the yard, careful to keep out of sight by staying in the shade of the ten-foot shrubs.
A startling tap on my shoulder made me yelp and I spun and found myself staring down the same firefighter who’d stopped me the night before.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call the cops over here, right now,” he said.
“Because I’m not doing anything illegal?”
“Ma’am, you’re walking a fine line. And illegal or not, you really shouldn’t be behind the tape,” he stated softly.
“I know. But I just had to see it for myself.”
“You’ve seen it. Now go home and get some rest.”
“Please,” I begged. “Just tell me something. Anything.”
The big man sighed and scratched his chin. “Near as we can tell, there was an explosion in the garage. Plenty of flammables in there, so the fire spread quickly as you’d expect. Wasn’t much we could do.”
“What about the people inside?”
“So far, ma’am, we haven’t found any survivors. I’m sorry.”
I turned back to the house.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m going.”
I moved slowly, though. I wasn’t even sure what I was going to do now that I wasn’t running from Cohen anymore. And I couldn’t quite accept that Painter was gone. I wondered if I was in denial, and if so, how long it would take me to get to the next stage—guilt. Because this was my fault.
I had to anchor myself. I had to get back to Jayme, to remind myself that at least something good could come from our loss.
Another sob rose to the surface. Tears blurred my vision and I stumbled back to the car, barely able to see where I was going. I put my hands out to break my fall, scraping my palms along the ground. As I struggled to come back to my feet, a strong hand closed around my wrist and pulled me up.
“Thank you,” I gasped.
I righted myself and dusted off my hands on my dress.
“Polly.” The voice was raw and rough. And familiar.
My eyes jerked up, and he was there. Really there. He was barefoot, his clothes were torn, and he had a singed black bag over his shoulder. He was covered in soot and abrasions and the stitches on his arm were loose, but he was there.
“Painter.” It was too quiet to even be called a whisper.
Joy, relief and confusion rolled through me. I stood stock-still, worried that if I moved he would disappear.
He coughed. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus. Am I okay?” I replied and threw my arms around him. “I’m not okay. I thought you were dead, you asshole, and you’re alive, so no, no I’m not okay.”
“You’re not?”
“No, Painter. I’m fucking perfect.”
I ran my hands up his torso and decided I didn’t care when he winced. I dug my fingers into his back, relishing in his solidity. I leaned back and stood on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his smoke-fire lips and inhaled his sweet, masculine scent. Then I pulled away and punched him not quite lightly in the stomach.
The dry, cracked corners of his mouth turned up. “Ouch.”
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“I fell through the trapdoor.”
“You did what?”
“Cohen’s safe room, under the garage,” he elaborated. “When the shot he fired hit something and caused the explosion, I fell in. I bumped my head, but the door must’ve closed, because when I came to, I was stuck inside. I tried to get out twice, but both times the inside of the door was just too hot to open.”
“I don’t want you to ever, ever try to sacrifice yourself for me again, okay?” I said firmly.
“No, Polly.”
“Painter, I love you too damned much to think I’m ever going to lose you again.” The words were out before I could stop them, and heat bloomed in my cheeks.
“I still can’t promise that,” Painter growled.
“I don’t know how much more of this my heart can take.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever make you a promise I can’t keep. I’d sacrifice myself an infinite amount of times if it meant you were safe.”
His eyes were intense with longing and my heart thrummed in my chest as hard as it had the first time we met. He leaned down and pressed his forehead into mine.
“Polly, I can’t make you that promise because I love you too damned much to lie to you.”
A car door slammed loudly, just out of view, and the muffled sound of a police radio made Painter jerk away. “We should go.”
“Are we still running?”
He hesitated, then unzipped the black bag he was carrying and showed me its contents. I gasped.
“What is that?”
“Near as I can tell…forty-five pounds of cash. Two-million, ten-thousand dollars. Plus a few bearer bonds and some really personal information about Cohen’s staff.”
“You stole it?”
“Technically, Cohen gave it to me.”
I met his eyes. There was a little sparkle there that let me know he was stretching the truth.
“Is he dead?” I asked with a backward glance at Jayme.
“Without a doubt.”
The sound of the police radio chatter got closer.
“We should go,” I whispered.
He smiled. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”
I swung open the car door and we climbed in. As I turned the key in the ignition, Painter put a hand on my arm.
“Where are we going to go?” he asked.
I shrugged and said the first thing that came to my mind. “Home.”
Painter raised an eyebrow, and for a second, I thought he was going to argue. Then a grin overtook his tired features.
“Nothing has ever sounded more wonderful to me in my whole life.”
I put my foot down on the gas pedal and pulled out onto the street. I didn’t know where home was. Not yet. But I did know that no matter where we ended up, as long as the three of us were together, we’d be fine.
Epilogue
Three Months Later
Jayme eyed his bedroom nervous
ly, not because he was worried she was going to give him heck for eating all the cookies, but because he was worried that she wouldn’t. He’d eaten them as a test, really, to see if she would get mad.
After the fire, she had been weird for a while. He could do what he liked and stay up as late as he wanted and it hadn’t mattered if he talked back or forgot to take off his wet, sandy shoes in the new beach house. And maybe he should’ve liked that, but he didn’t.
In fact, there were a few things he didn’t like ever since they ran from the city. He didn’t like the way his mom and Painter fought about the black bag full of money and papers and computer parts. He didn’t like the way they got quiet when he asked about it.
But a few weeks ago, they had taken a bunch of stuff out of the bag and lit a beach fire and tossed it all in and ever since then things had been good. He’d started school again and got in trouble for forgetting to flush and wasn’t allowed to have cake for breakfast. Things were normal. Except for all the kissing and hand-holding, which was kind of gross.
Still, Jayme worried. So he ate the cookies and waited for the consequences.
“Jayme!”
He jumped, mostly because he’d been expecting his mom to call him, not Painter.
He moved cautiously out of his bedroom and into the living room, where both grown-ups were seated on the wicker-and-fabric couch. Painter pointed at the big, empty chair on the other side of the glass table, and Jayme moved toward it, trying to look like he was hurrying when really he was stalling.
“Have a seat, buddy,” his mom suggested.
“M’kay.”
“Painter has a question for you.”
“M’kay,” Jayme said again and turned his attention to Painter.
Sometimes, Painter looked a bit scary, but Jayme knew how silly he actually was. At that moment, though, his face was a bit red and he was tapping his fingers on his thigh.
Jayme couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly make the big man nervous.
“I’m ready,” Jayme stated.
His mom and Painter both laughed, then Painter took a breath.
“All right,” he said. “Here it goes. You’ve been the only guy in your mom’s life for a long time, and I kind of stepped in without asking your permission. So I’d like to do that now. Jayme, how would you feel if your mom and I got married?”
Jayme opened his mouth, puzzled, then closed it.
His mom frowned. “You don’t like the idea?”
“I just think…shouldn’t he be asking you instead of me?”
Painter’s face spread out into the happy grin that Jayme liked so much. Then he dove down to one knee and turned his face up to Jayme’s mom.
“Polly,” he said, trying to sound serious but not being able to on account of his big smile. “Would you do me the honour of being my wife?”
“Yes, Painter. I will.”
“She said yes!” Painter shouted.
Jayme rolled his eyes at the idea that she might’ve said no and stood up.
“Can I go now?” he asked.
“One more thing,” his mom replied. “Buddy, do you know where all the cookies in the jar went?”
Jayme grinned, secure in the fact that things were going to be normal from now on.
About the Author
Melinda Di Lorenzo is a Canadian author living on the West Coast of British Columbia. She is an avid reader and an avid writer. Her to-be-read and to-be-written lists are of equal, overwhelming length and she plans on living to be 150 years old so she can complete them both. Melinda is happily married to the man of her dreams and is a full-time mom to three beautiful girls. When she is not detangling hair, fighting for her turn on iTunes or catching up on sleep, she can be found at the soccer pitch or on the running trail.
ISBN-13: 9781460344422
Pinups and Possibilities
Copyright © 2014 by Melinda A. Di Lorenzo
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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