Once You're Mine

by Barbara Freethy

  As Tori was attended to, he and Pete headed into the building.

  The fire was intense, getting hotter by the second. He and Pete went room to room, calling out for victims. They'd only had a chance to clear the first floor before Burke ordered them back outside.

  He'd barely made it to the street when the building was rocked by another blast and a raging wave of fire. His lips drew into a tight line as he contemplated the odds of anyone surviving the explosion. If someone was inside, they probably weren't coming out. He hoped that Tori was wrong, that whoever she'd seen in the building had gotten out.

  For the next hour, his crew, along with firefighters from three other stations, attacked the blaze from every angle, eventually able to contain it and put it out.

  When the fire had subsided, he and Pete went back inside to check for bodies. They went through each room, and in the back room on the third floor, they found a man buried beneath the debris from the ceiling and the roof, his body burned beyond recognition.

  His stomach rolled with anger and frustration. Dying from fire was one of the most brutal ways to go. "Damn," he muttered, wishing they'd been able to get him out.

  After reporting the deceased to Burke, they finished checking the rest of the building, but thankfully found no more victims.

  At the bottom of the stairs, near the back door, he found a billfold that was partially burned, but there was an ID inside—maybe it belonged to the man upstairs.

  Once they had determined there was only one victim, they bagged the body and took it outside. He ran a hand through his hair as he watched the ambulance drive away.

  "You did what you could," Burke told him.

  "It wasn't good enough."

  "Unfortunately, some days it's not."

  "Yeah." He glanced down the sidewalk and saw Tori. "I need a minute. That's Scott's sister."

  "What was she doing in that building?" Burke asked.

  "No idea. I'd like to find out."

  "Go ahead. We've got this under control."

  As he walked down the street, he could hardly believe that the woman in the figure-hugging gray skirt, cream-colored top and high heels was Tori. In his head, she was still twelve and annoying as hell as she followed him and Scott around, driving them crazy with her incessant questions. Back then she'd had a silver grill of braces on her teeth, and big black glasses framing her eyes.

  There was no sign of the braces or the glasses now, and she'd filled out her skinny frame with some nice female curves. Her dark hair was long, thick, and flowing around her shoulders, although right now it was tangled and chalky with ash from the fire. Even with cuts on her face, there was no denying her beauty or the irresistible pull of her dark-blue eyes.

  He frowned at the direction of his thoughts. This was Scott's little sister. He needed to remember that.

  "You okay?" he asked her.

  She nodded, but he could see the tension in her gaze.

  "Yes," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "I saw you bring out…a body. That was a body, right?"

  He could hear the tremor in her voice and knew she wasn't as calm as she was pretending to be. "Yes."

  "It was a man—an older man?"

  "I don't know. It was a bad fire."

  She stared back at him in confusion and then his words slowly registered.

  "You mean you couldn't see his face." She shuddered.

  "Sorry."

  "The explosion threw me out the front door and down the steps. I couldn't go back inside and look for him."

  His gaze narrowed at her words. "What were you doing in there? The building is supposed to be abandoned."

  A somewhat guilty gleam flashed through her gaze. "I followed him inside. I didn't realize the building had been condemned until I saw the sign on the interior wall."

  "You followed him? Did you know him?"

  "No, but he was watching me, and there was something about him that made me curious."

  His brows drew together as he tried to make sense of what she was saying. "You followed a random stranger who was watching you? Why the hell would you do that?"

  She frowned at his sharp tone. "I'm a reporter. I was following a hunch, but when I got inside the building, I had a bad feeling, so I turned to leave. Then something blew up."

  "You were lucky you made it outside, Tori."

  "I know," she said, blowing out a breath. "I can't believe he's dead. It happened so fast."

  Her words reminded him of the billfold he'd found. He pulled it out of his pocket. "I did find this by the back stairwell." The address had been burned away, the man's face and name were smudged but somewhat visible. "Neil Hawkins. Is this the man you saw?"

  She stared at the ID, her eyes widening again. She put a hand on his arm, as if she were about to collapse.

  "What's wrong? Do you recognize him?"

  She swallowed hard, still staring at the photo. "It can't be."

  "Can't be who?"

  She lifted her gaze to his, and the pain in her blue eyes made his gut clench.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "My father," she whispered. "That man looks like my father."

  Two

  Tori couldn't believe the face staring back at her, but the longer she looked at the grainy, smudged ID photo, the more her doubts grew. This man did share her father's features, but now that she was getting past the shock, she could see that he was older than the dad she remembered. This man's hair was completely gray and her dad's hair had been a dark-brown. Her dad's eyes had been blue like hers; this man's eyes were brown. This man had a scar over his right brow and a slightly crooked nose. Her dad's nose had been straight, and he hadn't had a blemish on his face. Then there was his name—Neil Hawkins—that wasn't right.

  She blinked her eyes a few times. Her logical brain told her this man was not her father, but she couldn't shake the uneasy and disturbing feeling running through her body.

  "Your dad died a long time ago," Dylan said, giving her a doubtful look, as his words drew her gaze to his.

  She'd seen that skeptical expression on Dylan's face many times in her teenage years. Her brother's friend had always thought she was a little crazy and far too impulsive. Obviously, today's adventure hadn't done anything to change that opinion.

  "Seventeen years," she said, then decided to change the subject. "So how did the fire start?"

  "Fire investigators are just getting inside now."

  "Something blew up. It wasn't a slow-starting fire. The force of the blast literally picked me up and threw me out of the building."

  "You were very lucky."

  "I was. I'd like to know what happened."

  "The investigators will figure it out. I'm sure they'll want to talk to you."

  "I want to talk to them."

  He nodded. "Your brother said you were thinking of moving back here. I didn't realize that had already happened."

  "Three weeks ago."

  "Just in time for Scott's wedding?"

  "It was good timing," she agreed.

  "I'm sure your family is happy to have you home."

  "Yes. I think so."

  "I'm going to need that back," he said, tipping his head toward the ID. "I have to turn it over to the investigator."

  "Sure." She handed him the ID, feeling oddly reluctant to part with it.

  "Do you want me to call someone to come and get you, Tori?"

  She suddenly realized she was still holding onto his arm with her other hand. "Sorry." She immediately let go, feeling a little dizzy when she did so.

  He frowned. "You should go to the hospital. Did you hit your head?"

  "No, I'm fine. The paramedics checked me out."

  "At least let me call Scott."

  "I don't need you to call anyone. I'm okay."

  "You don't look okay."

  "Well, I don't almost get blown up every day." She tucked her hair behind her ear, the gesture knocking a chunk of plaster loose. "Thanks for trying to save him—whoever
he was."

  "That's my job. I'm just sorry we didn't get to him in time."

  His lips drew into a tense, angry line, another familiar Dylan expression. He'd never been a guy comfortable with failure, especially when that failure meant someone else got hurt. He'd always been a natural-born protector. He'd also always been extremely good-looking.

  She didn't know how Dylan could be more attractive now than he had been in high school, but he was. He had a square face, with strong male bones, brown hair and light-blue eyes that seemed able to look into her soul.

  She felt a shiver run down her spine for a very different reason.

  Dylan had always been her brother's friend, the four-year age difference making him way too old for her when they were teenagers, but she'd secretly had a little crush on him way back when. Not that he'd ever seen her as anything but a pest.

  "Dylan," another firefighter called, motioning him forward.

  "I have to go, Tori."

  "Of course."

  "Take care of yourself. Maybe next time think before you follow someone into an abandoned building."

  She didn't particularly care for the scolding reminder, but he was right, and as he left, she drew in a breath, trying to calm her racing heart. It was a difficult task, considering how close she'd come to death, and all because she'd followed a curious impulse.

  She glanced at the building, which was charred and smoking, large open spaces where the walls had once been. The fire was out now. The man she'd followed into the building was dead—a man who kind of looked like her dad. She didn't know what to make of that, but she needed to know what had happened, how the fire had started, who Neil Hawkins was. But she wasn't going to have any answers until the investigators had a chance to do their work. She would have to wait.

  Frowning, she turned and walked away. She'd never been good at waiting…

  * * *

  When Tori entered the newsroom of the Bay Area Examiner twenty minutes later, she was met with a shocked and worried expression from the editor-in-chief, Stacey Kinsley, a tall redhead in her early fifties, who had thirty years of news experience behind her and was rarely rattled by anything.

  With Stacey was the assignment editor, Jeff Crocker, a thirty-nine-year-old blond-haired man with piercing brown eyes and a cynical edge that Stacey said had sharpened since his wife had left him a year earlier.

  "What on earth happened to you?" Stacey asked. "You text me you're in a fire and will be back later? And then you don't answer any texts or your phone? What the hell was that about?"

  "Sorry, I was a little shaken up. I wasn't thinking straight."

  "I thought you were dead," Stacey said.

  "You look like shit, Tori," Jeff said, his gaze narrowing on her face. "Was it the hotel fire about a mile from here?"

  "Yes."

  "What were you doing there?" he asked. "I thought the building was condemned."

  "It was, but…" She licked her lips, not really wanting to tell them about her impulsive actions. "I thought there might be a homeless population inside. You know those old buildings often have squatters." She was happy with her quick thinking, and her statement wasn't completely false.

  "Was anyone hurt?" Stacey asked.

  "Yes. Someone died." She drew in a breath as another wave of shock ran through her. "A man."

  "How did it start?" Jeff asked. "We heard what sounded like an explosion."

  "You heard it from here?"

  Stacey nodded. "We didn't know what it was. We got on the phone right away to the police and they told us it was a fire."

  "I don't know how it started. The fire investigators were on the scene when I left. I tried to get information, but I was told it was too early."

  "Always a reporter," Jeff murmured. "Sticking around to get the story."

  She'd actually stuck around because she'd been too shocked to move, and, of course, she'd wanted to find out if the man she'd been following had gotten out. But she hadn't actually thought about covering the fire for the paper, which she really should have considered.

  "Did you see Katie down there?" Stacey asked. "I sent her to look for you and cover the fire when you didn't text me back."

  "I didn't see her. There were a lot of people around."

  "Well, when she gets back, maybe the two of you can compare notes," Stacey added. "Unless you'd rather go home? You don't look good."

  "I'm going to be fine." She pushed past them to sit down at her desk before she made a lie of her words by passing out. Now that the adrenaline rush was fading, she was feeling lightheaded.

  "You're not fine. You need to go home," Stacey said.

  "I can drive you," Jeff offered. "You usually walk to work, don't you?"

  "Yes, but I just need a minute."

  "You need more than that," Stacey said decisively. "It's almost five anyway. Go home, get some rest."

  "I should talk to Katie about the fire."

  "I'll have her call you if she needs any info. Now get out of here."

  Seeing the steel in Stacey's eyes, she got to her feet. "Okay, thanks." She hated to look weak in front of her new boss and coworkers, but she'd bounce back stronger tomorrow. She just needed to catch her breath.

  Jeff's car was parked in an underground garage and within minutes, he was pulling into traffic. Although she didn't live far away, with the afternoon rush hour in full swing, it was going to take a few minutes to get home.

  "You're one of those, aren’t you?" Jeff asked, breaking the silence between them.

  "What do you mean?" she asked warily. Since she'd started at the paper, Jeff had been the least approachable and welcoming person on the staff, and she didn't know why. She usually got along really well with people. Katie, one of the other reporters, had told her that Jeff had wanted Stacey's job, but she'd been hired from another paper when the position became open. Maybe that's why he had a chip on his shoulder.

  "You're one of those reporters who has to break down doors, climb over barricades, go where no one has dared to go before," he drawled. "Am I right?"

  "That's what reporters do. That's what you do or did," she said, realizing a second too late that she'd probably just antagonized him more.

  "I did do that, until I realized that the reporter can become the story if they're not careful."

  His words hit close to home but she decided to turn the conversation back to him. "What happened to you?"

  "It doesn't matter. But I know what it's like to want to break the big story like Bernstein and Woodward, Calvin Harte, Charles Pennington, and Ben Hayden." He shot her a glance as he ended with her father's name. "Do you think I don't know you're Ben's daughter?"

  "I wasn't trying to hide it, but I don't trade off my dad's reputation." She'd never brought it up at her two previous news jobs, but they had been on the other side of the country, and her father's reputation was certainly bigger in San Francisco, where he had done his most impressive work.

  "Your dad was a legend in this city. He went where no others would go. He used his pen as a sword. He was determined, ambitious, sometimes reckless, but he was one of the greats. I worked with him the year before he died."

  "You did?" she said in surprise.

  "Yes. The Herald was my first newspaper job. I was twenty-two, fresh out of college. Your father was inspiring. He was a hero to all of us."

  "I wish I'd been more aware of his work back then, but I was a kid. Most of what I know about his big stories, I've read about from others."

  "Well, I didn't spend much time with him, but I do know that when he got a lead, he didn't let go of it. I think you're like him. I know you won't follow my advice. But just remember, you can't be great if you're dead."

  "That's good advice. A little depressing, but I get your point." She paused. "When did you get cynical, Jeff?"

  "Me? Oh, hell, who knows? This job shows you the worst of people."

  "I know that, but sometimes it shows you the best."

  "Just don't make the job your wh
ole life."

  She had a feeling now he was talking about his marriage. "That's my street. You can turn right. It's the third building." As he pulled up in front of her four-story apartment building, she said, "We should get a drink sometime. I'd like to get to know you better."

  "I'd like that, too." He paused. "I had a friend in mind for the job you got. Sorry if I haven't been overly friendly."

  "I hadn't noticed," she lied.

  He smiled. "Take care of yourself."

  "I'll see you tomorrow."

  She got out of his car, thinking that taking the ride home had actually helped break the ice between them, and now she understood that his attitude toward her wasn't as personal as she'd made it.

  She checked her mailbox in the lobby, and then went up the stairs to her second-floor apartment. She'd barely gotten inside when her phone rang. Seeing her brother's name on the screen, she had a feeling she was about to get more unwanted advice. What was it with the men today? Everyone seemed to want to tell her what to do. First Dylan, then Jeff, now Scott.

  "I haven't had time to talk to Mom yet," she said, as she answered the call, hoping her brother was following up on the reception seating issue and that he hadn't gotten a call from one hot firefighter. Of course, she was wrong.

  "I'm not calling about that. Dylan said you were in a fire. What the hell happened, Tori? Are you all right? Where are you?"

  "Slow down, Scott. I'm fine. I'm at home now. I wasn't injured, and I can't believe Dylan called you." She set her bag down on the coffee table and flopped onto her couch.

  "He said you were following some random stranger into a deserted building. What were you thinking, Tori?"

  "It wasn't exactly like that, Scott. Look, I appreciate your concern, but you don't have to worry about me."

  "I don't have to worry about you? Dylan said you looked at some guy's ID and thought it was our father."

  "Dylan has a big mouth," she retorted. "The man did have features similar to Dad. And you're one to talk. You've been seeing Dad our whole life."

  "Not actually seeing him, just feeling him around me. There's a difference."

  There was a difference, and the last few hours had been so surreal, she couldn't trust her memory or her impression of the man's photo. She needed to find out more about him. "Do you know the name Neil Hawkins?"