Consumed by Fire (The Fire Series)

by Anne Stuart

  Shit, Bishop was going to be furious. He’d told her not to talk to anyone, but this wasn’t her fault. “No, thank you,” she said politely.

  “But why not? If he ain’t your man, he still treats you like shit. Couldn’t hear what you were saying, but I know when a women ain’t happy.”

  I bet you do, she thought. She thought fast. “He’s taking me to see my grandmother. She’s dying. Of lung cancer,” she added for good effect.

  “Damned shame. Where’s she live?”

  Fuck, she wasn’t good at instant lies. “Albuquerque.”

  “Well, hell, honey, why didn’t you say so? I’m my own boss, and this load’s supposed to end up in Albuquerque. I can bypass Vegas for a pretty little lady like you.”

  “No, thanks. He’s my brother, and we never got along.”

  “He doesn’t act like . . .” His words trailed off, and Evangeline knew why. Bishop was back, and he’d be in a very testy mood after seeing the message in the ladies’ room. Especially when he’d told her not to talk to anyone.

  She turned and looked up at him. His face was completely blank, which made him very dangerous indeed. He wouldn’t shoot her, but she couldn’t count on him not shooting the trucker. “Hi,” she said brightly. “This gentleman sat down with me and offered to take me to Albuquerque to see Grandma, but I explained she’s your grandmother too, and even though you and I never got along, I’d still rather go with you. But he was very nice, and you don’t . . .”

  “Get up,” Bishop said in a soft voice, and Evangeline was about to move when she realized he was talking to the trucker, who, idiotically, didn’t look afraid.

  He was a burly man, with big, ham-like fists that he’d probably used on those unhappy women he’d mentioned, and he rose, all belligerence. Bishop was taller, but lacked his bulk, and all the other truckers had stopped eating, stopped talking, as the scene unfolded in front of them.

  “You got a problem with me?” the trucker demanded. “Just passing time with the little lady. Didn’t look like she was too happy with you, and I was offering her an alternative. Out of the goodness of my heart,” he added.

  Bishop didn’t speak, didn’t move. Then he did, and it was so fast Evangeline couldn’t see what he did, but the trucker ended up on the floor of the diner, groaning.

  Bishop turned to look at the men who’d been following this. “Anyone else?” he said in an amiable voice.

  They all looked away, mumbling denials. Bishop scooped up the containers of food and shoved them in a plastic bag he must have gotten from the waitress, and then he grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. At least that was what it felt like—the others would see it as a combination of ownership and solicitude. Fortunately he’d taken her left arm, and it was her left leg that was aching, so she didn’t have to worry about trying to disguise her limp.

  No one said anything as they left the diner. No one said anything when he took her to the passenger side of the truck, opened the door for Merlin to jump out, then shoved her up into the seat, some of his temper coming through. “If you have an ounce of sense left in your overeducated brain, you’ll stay put and keep quiet. I don’t want excuses, I don’t want apologies, and I sure the fuck don’t want any more attitude. I’m going to feed Merlin, give him some exercise and then we’ll be off. Do I need to bind and gag you? Just shake your head—I don’t want to hear you speak right now.”

  She should be afraid, very afraid. She’d never seen him this mad, and she knew just how dangerous he could be. She had to make that try in the bathroom—surely he’d understand that? She wasn’t some helpless female about to go gently into that dark night.

  She did as she was told. Her arm hurt where he’d grabbed her, and she’d probably have bruises, but that was the least of her worries. Her leg was still aching, but she knew better than to complain, and watching Merlin caper about almost made her smile. Almost.

  Several of the truckers left while Bishop was off with Merlin, including her erstwhile suitor, who was being helped by a friend, but they studiously kept their gaze away from her old gray truck. Bishop was lucky the bunch of them didn’t decide to ambush him, she thought, but then remembered the looks on their faces when they saw how swiftly Bishop could take a man down. No, no one was coming near them.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. There was nothing she could do about things—she’d tried her best and been shot down. She was just going to have to take her medicine.

  She jumped when Bishop yanked open the driver’s door. Merlin leapt in and greeted her with the joy of someone returning after a year’s absence, and Bishop slid in beside them, leaning down and fiddling with something under the dashboard, presumably whatever would have stopped her from driving off. She reached in her pocket for her extra key and dropped it in his lap.

  It landed on his crotch, which was unfortunate, but she refused to be sorry. If it were up to her, that was where she’d kick him, good and hard. He scooped it up, shoving it in his pocket without looking at her, and started the truck, pulling out of the parking lot and setting out on the road at his usual insane pace.

  Instead of turning left, getting back on the interstate, he turned right, onto a road that seemed to lead into nowhere. There were no town lights that she could see, nothing but miles and miles of flat prairie. He was going to kill her and bury her in that prairie, she thought, suddenly panicked. Why did she refuse to think he meant her any harm? Simply because he said so? Simply because she’d once loved him?

  It was a long time before she finally got up the nerve to speak. “I’m sorry I wrote on the mirror,” she said meekly. “But I had to try, you know that.”

  To her surprise he didn’t snap at her. “What mirror?” His tone and his face were expressionless.

  Relief and hope swept through her. “Uh . . . nothing. I mean . . .”

  “You mean you’re sorry you wrote a note on the mirror that gave your license plate number and asked for help? Not a problem. It was easy enough to clean off.”

  Her hope deflated like a balloon. “You bastard,” she muttered.

  “Don’t push it.”

  “Push what? Are you going to shoot me and bury me in the desert?” she demanded. “I’m tired of being afraid of you. What are you going to do with me?”

  “You’re afraid of me? You don’t act like it,” he said in a low, affectless voice. He seemed to consider it for a moment, and she wondered if her life hung in the balance. “I’m not going to shoot you, I’m not going to hit you, I’m not going to torture you. If I have to tie you up and gag you I will, but that’s the worst that will happen. Unless I lose my temper, and then I might spank you, but that’s unlikely.”

  She turned to him, outrage wiping out her fear. “Spank me?” she said. “I’d like to see you try, you demeaning sexist bastard.”

  To her amazement there was a slight lift to his mouth, as if he found her funny. “Would you? I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She didn’t know how he did it. There was nothing sensuous in his voice, nothing suggestive in his expression, but all she could think of was sex—dirty, sweaty, nasty, lovely sex—and she could feel her temperature rise, feel her unwilling body react to her arousal in all the familiar ways.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, more to hide her hardened nipples than to assuage them, but the sudden pressure made things worse, and she slid even farther away from him, trying to think of unpleasant things and failing entirely. She leaned her head against the window, with Merlin pressing up against her, offering her comfort.

  What was it Laurel and Hardy used to say? Something like, “That’s another fine kettle of fish you’ve gotten yourself into.” She could relate. She was in a fine kettle of fish, the sharks were circling, the water was coming to a boil, and she was drowning. She closed her eyes.

  It didn’t help that she was so impossibly conflicted. It should have been
so simple—she hated him. He’d lied to her, and cheated and stole. Worst of all, he’d ruined her for any other man, though she’d done her best to test out a replacement that first year, as he seemed to be fully aware. She’d married Pete because he was energetic and undemanding and he could make her come. After Pete she hadn’t even bothered—she could do it faster and better by herself.

  The man who had caused all that grief, the man who had disillusioned and defeated her for the first time in her life had returned to make her life even more miserable. He’d essentially kidnapped her; she’d been stabbed, drugged, and a witness to a brutal execution, and it was only going to get worse. And she was sitting here trying to will her body into behaving.

  What the hell was wrong with her? She’d never been into bad boys, though she’d tried a few to see if that was what was lacking. The only bad boy she’d ever loved was James Bishop, and she’d known he was a bad boy beneath the elegant clothes and lazy charm. You only had to look into his eyes.

  Not that she’d really loved him, she reminded herself firmly. If he’d been who he said he was . . . if he hadn’t been after her jewelry . . . if he’d loved her . . .

  But none of that was true and it didn’t matter. The dismal truth was that her body was remembering the things he’d done to it, the way he’d touched her, and her body wanted him. That was it, she thought. It was her body that was betraying her. Her head and heart weren’t involved.

  Bodies could be kept under control. Physical hungers could be ignored. She moved even closer to the door, remembering how to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, quietly, so he wouldn’t notice.

  “Don’t get all nervous again,” he said as he turned down an even narrower road. “You’re going to like it.”

  She had no idea what he meant by that, and she was damned if she was going to ask. He said he wasn’t going to kill her and she believed him. That was the best she could do, but it was good enough for now. He drove in silence, and she began to close her eyes, ready to sleep again, when something made her glance at him.

  He was fiddling with a machine that looked as if it came from Star Trek, though a lot smaller, some kind of uber-cell phone. “Don’t text while you’re driving,” she said, crankily. “It’s probably against the law.”

  “We’re in Colorado. Everything is legal here, even weed,” he said, still moving his thumb over the keypad. “And not only is there no traffic, there’s nothing on either side of the road to hurt us if I go off the side of the pavement. So chill.”

  Chill, she echoed to herself, almost laughing at the absurdity as they continued down the narrow road at breathtaking speeds. Dolores’s air-conditioning had never been one of her strong points, and it was working overtime. Even night on this flat plain was ridiculously hot, and the engine was probably overheating as well. The vents just seemed to be blowing warm air in on her, and she started to lower the window when he stopped her, simply by overriding the controls on the driver’s side.

  “The AC is dead,” she said in a grumpy voice.

  “I noticed.”

  “I think we’re burning oil,” she added pointedly.

  “We are.”

  Shit. She couldn’t afford to replace Dolores—not with a truck sturdy enough to pull Annabelle. Then again, she might never find Annabelle again. “If you drove a little slower, you might save the engine you seem determined to destroy.”

  “Killing an engine isn’t something that preys on my soul, Angel,” he said. “I just need five more miles out of it and we’ll be good.”

  “Her,” she corrected. “And her name’s Dolores.”

  “Good to know, so she can have a decent burial,” he drawled. “And that helps. Women like to do what I tell them.”

  “They just want you to believe that,” she scoffed.

  This time he did look at her, and the lights from the dashboard danced across the angular lines of his face, reflected in his eyes. If she didn’t know better she’d think it was a smoky, sensuous expression that didn’t quite meet his mouth. “Oh, I don’t know. Once I got you in bed, you were pretty amenable to almost everything I suggested. Though I can still think of one thing we haven’t tried . . .”

  “Shut up!” Damn, she sounded a little hysterical. He would read that as sexual interest, and she wasn’t admitting to it. It would be her little secret and she’d take it to the grave with her. She continued in the calm, flat voice she’d wanted to use. “I’m really tired of your empty sexual innuendos,” she said firmly. “They don’t frighten me. You might kill me, but you’d never rape me.”

  To her surprise and annoyance he laughed at that, really laughed. “Evangeline, my darling one, I don’t think it would be possible for me to rape you. You’d give in far too easily. Fortunately for you, rape is not a game I’m interested in playing.”

  “Rape isn’t a game,” she said fiercely.

  His smile vanished and he looked at her again. “Did I miss something?”

  She’d said too much again. “Miss what? You know everything about me, didn’t you say? Surely the great James Bishop, or whoever you are, couldn’t have missed something.”

  He was watching her far too closely for the speeds he was driving. “Did someone rape you?” His voice was sharp.

  “Watch the road,” she said, taking a deep breath. It was no one’s fault but her own—she’d brought it up. The sooner she got it out in the open, the sooner he’d drop it. “I was underage and the records were sealed.”

  “How young?” His voice was grim.

  “Don’t worry about it. I was sixteen, fully capable of making my own decisions. And no one threw me down in the dirt and had me against my will. It was more a case of . . . inappropriate seduction.” She felt a little shiver under her skin at the memory, and she had to hope he didn’t notice. But he would have—he noticed everything.

  “This happened before we met.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Obviously.”

  “Who was it?”

  “You know, I’d really rather not talk about it. My point was that rape isn’t a joke or a game or . . .”

  “Who was it?” he rapped it out, and she turned stubborn.

  “None of your . . .”

  He interrupted her again. “I can make you tell me. There are dozens of ways to do it, and I’ll use every one of them, no matter how unpleasant, so you may as well give it up.”

  “Ve have vays of making you talk,” she said in a heavy, mock-German accent.

  “I thought this wasn’t a joke.”

  Shit, she didn’t want to think about this or talk about it. She took a deep breath and spoke rapidly. “He was a professor friend of my parents. He always had an eye for the freshman girls—he was notorious for it. So are most of the others, but he decided to branch out and experiment on me, and I . . . I was too in awe of him to do anything but go along with it. I didn’t like it, but he didn’t hurt me, at least not after the first time, didn’t threaten to kill my parents or any of that crap. He was just the kind of man who had that power over people. He had incredible charisma, but he was as insidious as a snake, and of course I did what I was told.”

  “What about your sister?” he said in that cool, emotionless voice he used so much of the time. “Why didn’t he go after her first?”

  “Oh, Leslie was much too pretty. Everyone wanted her, and she thought too much of herself to be easy prey. Not like me.”

  He nodded, not correcting her assertion that Leslie was the pretty one. Of course he wouldn’t—he knew everything about her. But he’d missed the most important, most devastating piece of her past.

  “How old was he?”

  Telling him she didn’t want to talk about it would be a waste of time; he’d already ignored it. “He was sixty-three.”

  “Jesus, how did he even manage?”

  She was alread
y too deep in the mire and he wouldn’t let her climb out. “He had me help,” she said. Would he put two and two together? Of course he would.

  “I see,” he said in a voice that made it clear he saw everything. “You said was.”

  “What?” She was trying to pull herself out of the muck, but it was clinging to her.

  “You said your professor was the kind of man who had power over people. Is he dead?”

  “Yes. Heart attack in his early seventies. He was in bed with a nineteen-year-old.”

  “At least she was the age of consent.” His voice was absolutely bland, and her curiosity got the better of her.

  “Why do you care if he’s alive?”

  “Because otherwise I’d have to kill him.”

  It was lightly said, and it sounded like a joke. It wasn’t, and she knew it.

  “Does he have any children?” he said casually, and her eyes flew open in shock.

  “You’re not touching them. I won’t tell you his name.”

  “Angel, with the little you’ve told me I can find out anything. Apparently it had hardly any lasting effect on your interest in sexual matters.”

  “It was boring. I didn’t care one way or the other.” A small lie, but he couldn’t prove otherwise.

  She’d given something away again, she thought as his jaw tightened. She should just shut up and deal with whatever torment he tried on her. “What’s that?” she said, thankfully distracted. Something large and white had loomed up in front of them, and Bishop slammed on the brakes, yanking the wheel to the left. She could smell the burning rubber, and she put her hand on Dolores’s dashboard, gentling her, a thank you and farewell. She suspected she wasn’t going to see her again.

  Fortunately Bishop was also distracted by the large vehicle, forgetting his questions, and he slammed the truck to a stop, turning it off. “What are you doing?”

  “Saying good-bye to Dolores.”

  If he thought she was crazy, he didn’t bother to say so, and simply nodded. “Your dreams are about to come true.”