Burning Up

by Anne Marsh

  The hiding place was two hundred yards out and well chosen. Bastard must have brought binoculars with him to enjoy the scene he’d staged, and Jack made a mental note to check the windows in the house. Lily was living in a fishbowl, and he didn’t like it. Hell, half the time out here in the country, nobody pulled down a shade. No neighbors and plenty of privacy. God only knew what the bastard had seen.

  The grass in front of him suddenly exploded into life. A man ran, his features concealed beneath layers of expensive hunting gear. Man was a walking L.L. Bean catalog with camouflage pants and an olive-green T-shirt. The glossy black helmet with the visor jammed down made a shadowed blur of the face hiding behind the protective panel. Medium build, Jack noted. Caucasian, from the coloring of his forearms.

  Ran like a jackrabbit.

  Bastard had a dirt bike waiting for him behind the stand of trees. He didn’t make any attempt to keep it quiet—just punched the electric starter, let the engine rip, and took off. Jack tried to keep up, even though it was pointless. He was on foot; all he could hope for was to see where the bastard headed. And realize that the other man knew his way around the dirt trails through these woods. Real well.

  Lily’s stalker was definitely local.

  Chapter Eleven

  The fire wasn’t a big one. Lily grabbed on to that thought as if it was a lifeline in the sea of chaotic, tumbling images burned into her memory. Jack, beating back flames, putting them out. Treating her small grass fire like it was of national importance, and, damn it, she shouldn’t have found that sweet.

  Ten minutes after she’d made the call, Rio and Evan were charging up the driveway, Rio on his Harley and Evan in a pickup that was—impossibly—even more decrepit than Jack’s truck.

  Whatever they’d been doing, they’d dropped it and hightailed it over here. She curled her fingers over the edge of the truck’s rolled-down window and wondered how to explain the unexpected warmth that filled her. It almost felt like belonging. Rio and Evan exchanged a glance she’d have taken objection to under other circumstances, and then they split up.

  Evan loped toward the remains of the fire, moving fast and with purpose. His big, booted feet finished up the job Jack had started, methodically stamping out the last embers. Orange licked feebly at his feet and his jeans-clad legs. She wanted to whimper, but that wasn’t helping, so she thought about pointing her feet toward the hose. She needed a bucket. Needed to be doing anything but just watching.

  But Jack had been damned clear about where he wanted her. In his truck.

  Rio dropped the bike and headed her way anyhow.

  Reaching in the window, he put a hand on her shoulder, as if he understood that she needed to know she wasn’t alone right now. Needed an anchor. “You okay?” he asked quietly. His eyes watched those leftover little embers, assessing Evan’s progress.

  “I’ve been better,” she said quietly.

  “Right. Stay put,” he warned. “Stay where we can see you.” Reaching into the truck’s bed, he grabbed a pair of shovels and tossed one to Evan.

  “You’ve got to watch the small ones,” Rio said, throwing another shovelful of dirt onto the smoldering embers. “The small fires are the ones that creep up on you, find themselves some fuel, and get damned big real fast. Burn out of control before you know it. So, yes, this fire matters. All fires matter.”

  God. She knew that. The slow tears leaking from her eyes horrified her, but there was no holding them in. How long could she be expected to keep it together?

  When Jack returned from his sudden sprint into the woods, she got out of the truck and attached herself to his side. She wasn’t stupid. He’d chased someone off.

  Jack moved swiftly toward her. “Baby.” His voice was a husky growl as he put a hand on her shoulder. She looked down at those fingers, so sun-browned and strong, warm on her bare skin. Anchoring her. God, he’d run a mile—away from her—if he knew what he was starting to mean to her.

  That hand, impossibly tender, urged her to turn around. “I need to see that you’re okay, baby.” His other hand came up, his thumb stroking a little pattern over the hollow of her shoulder as he carefully pulled her back against him.

  So she just let herself go. Turning around, she buried her face against his chest and let all the tears come out. And Jack’s arms just held on tightly, wrapping her up in his strength as he waited for her to cry it all out. She’d known, when he came home, that they had unfinished business. Her memories of that night were slow and sweet, but the years had changed Jack. He was all man now, and ten years of fighting enemy soldiers and wildland fires had made a hero out of the boy she’d once held. He’d changed, as she had, but some things had stayed the same.

  She still wanted him.

  And he still wanted to keep her safe.

  “You ready to tell me what this is all about?” He didn’t remove his arm, just tucked her more firmly against him and settled down with his back against a convenient tree, pulling her into his lap.

  “All right.” Maybe she should have protested the seating arrangements, but, God, he felt so solid. So real in a world that was slowly turning into a nightmare. She just leaned her head back against his shoulder. It was easier that way.

  Because giving up control, letting him in, was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Harder even than watching him walk away ten years ago, because, this time, she’d handed the control over to him.

  “I’m waiting, baby.” His husky growl in her ear warned her that the years hadn’t taught him patience. Not when it came to answers.

  “I should have told you everything about what happened, back in San Francisco. I thought the bare bones would be enough.” She shrugged. “I figured you didn’t need any more than that.

  “Details always matter.” There was no mistaking the intensity in his voice or the way his arms tightened around her. “So why don’t you tell me now?”

  She swiped at her wet eyelashes. She wasn’t usually a crier. She didn’t come apart when a man asked what the hell was wrong. So why was she doing it now?

  “This isn’t your problem to fix, Jack. You’re a smoke jumper, and this is no wildland fire. We might have seen each other a time or two in high school, but that was years ago. I didn’t need or want you to come riding to the rescue. And I didn’t want you thinking about what happened, every time you looked at me.”

  “I have plenty to think about already when I look at you.” She didn’t miss the sexual tension in his body. “I’ve thought about what we had every single night, Lily. I might not have known what to do about it, but I thought about it. I thought about you. If you’d told me you were in trouble, I would have been here for you. I’d have come home.”

  He hadn’t come home in ten years.

  “You did come home,” she pointed out.

  “Nonna asked.” He shrugged. “So I came.”

  “You weren’t expecting to see me.”

  “No.” Those arms of his shifted, wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer. “But I’m still here, Lily, and that’s going to count for something. This time I’m staying put, and I’m ready to do something about us. First, though, I need to know what your deal is. Tell me why these fires scare the hell out of you—tell me what you haven’t told me yet.”

  She inhaled slowly. “I was living in San Francisco, running marketing for a high-end bath-products line. Dream job, right? I had interesting work, great friends, a little condo out in Ocean Beach where I could run on the sand every morning. Picture perfect.”

  “And then what happened?” His voice was flat, but she didn’t miss the tension in those arms.

  “Little things at first. A trash can fire at the end of the street, not too far from my carport. The kind of fire that happens when you live in a city and someone tosses a cigarette too carelessly. No big deal.”

  “You didn’t move here because some asshole couldn’t be bothered to put out his butt,” he said inexorably.

  “There were more fires.” She wa
s twisting her fingers, she realized, when his large hands covered hers. Not stopping her, just reminding her that he was there. With her. She inhaled slowly. “Some old newspaper in the recycling bin caught fire. A little smoke, and I needed a new bin, but it was out quickly, thanks to a neighbor. I’d just gone out for a run, so I was safe, right? But there were so many of these little fires, Jack. I started thinking they couldn’t all be coincidence.”

  There had been more than a dozen small, easily dismissed fires. Nothing too personal. Nothing too close. She’d been torn between staying in and going out. Wondering if these were just the normal hazards of living in a big city, if she was being paranoid. The nightmares had started soon after, vivid dreams of being trapped inside the town house while it went up in flames. Because, if she was honest, that was what happened when you didn’t or couldn’t put out a fire. It just got bigger, and those flames devoured whatever they could.

  “You reported the fires.”

  “I did, or one of my neighbors did. The police thought maybe we had a local kid or a homeless firebug. But they still thought it was all pretty harmless.”

  “Something scared you, though. You knew those fires weren’t harmless.”

  “Not at first. But, yes, when I really thought about it, I realized the fires didn’t happen to anyone else. And then the things that burned changed.” His hand came up, rubbing away the tension in the back of her neck. The farm’s sign was a white shadow in the growing dusk. “He started burning my things, Jack. Not trash, not whatever he happened to find. I used to love reading. I’d bring home stacks of novels, crawl into the tub, and just read the night away.”

  She felt rather than saw his smile. “Bet that was a great sight.”

  “Then, one day,” she continued, “there was another little fire near my house. He’d burned some of my books, Jack. Somehow he’d gotten into my house and taken a stack of paperbacks from my bathroom. That wasn’t an accident. I’m not stupid. That’s when I knew what was happening was personal. After that, it was all personal. My carport. The books he burned in my kitchen.”

  Too close, too fast. She’d bolted.

  “I woke up, and my house was on fire, Jack. All my favorite books were piled up in the sink and on fire, and the cabinets were catching flame. I tried to open the door, but the knob was too hot. I turned around and ran, and I got out onto the fire escape. I thought: just let me get to the alley, and I’ll be safe. It will all be over.” This was the part she hadn’t wanted to share, the part she’d glossed over every time she’d been forced to relive that night. “There was someone there, Jack. There was a man standing in the alley. He was masturbating while he stared up at my kitchen window. He got off, watching my place burn.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the cops this?” He looked as if she was describing the weather, except there was no mistaking the tension in his jaw. He didn’t like what she had to say. Which was fine with her. She didn’t like having those memories, either.

  “What was I supposed to tell them? They’d already suggested I was either making things up or paranoid or even setting the fires myself.”

  He was silent for a long moment, and then he shook his head. “Did he touch you?”

  When she didn’t answer right away, he asked again. “Goddamn it, Lily. I need to know. Did he touch you?”

  “No,” she said sharply. “The fire escape stopped a good twelve feet above the ground, and I saw him, and I screamed, okay? I just lost it, and I stood there, screaming, until the fire department sent someone around to check out the noise. Afterward, I left,” she continued. “I packed up and I came here and I bought the farm. For a while, I thought I’d left all that behind me.”

  “And then the fires started again.”

  “Yes.” She grimaced. She’d begun to fear weeks ago that he was watching her, choosing what to take away from her this time. He’d get into her house just like before, touching her things. “Just like before. Little things. Coincidences at first. And then he starts adding a personal touch, like it’s a message he wants to send.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “I’m telling you now, because I have no choice. But I don’t need a relationship with you to complicate my life any further. You fight fire, Jack.” She could hear the weary acceptance in her own voice. Knew there was no way he could deny the truth. “Every day, you’re willing to pull hose or jump out of a damn plane and right into the heart of a damned inferno. But me—I don’t want to have anything to do with fire.”

  She’d grown up in Strong and had been happy enough to leave for college and a shot at a career in San Francisco. She hadn’t realized what she was leaving behind until her new life had gone up in flames. Literally. Familiar and safe and as solid as its name, Strong was a place where you came home. A place where you put down roots and built yourself a future, one lavender plug at a time. Strong held more than happy childhood memories—it held her future.

  She was going to be safe—and Jack Donovan was anything but safe.

  She didn’t want complications.

  Jack grimaced. Damned if that didn’t put him in his place. What she wanted, however, didn’t matter when it came to her safety. Someone was after her. Watching her. Deliberately choosing personal items of hers to burn. And the man had to be a local.

  Jack had spent years learning to read burn scenes for their clues. The what and where, the why of whatever blaze had eaten up charred acres. He just needed to find the pattern of the fires set by Lily’s stalker. Too bad Strong wasn’t a big city—there was a singular lack of security cameras in town. He needed to get Rio to run the names of local men. Whoever he was, he’d been in San Francisco at the same time as Lily.

  “I didn’t recognize the arsonist.” He frowned. “But he’d covered his face.”

  “Why do you think you’d recognize him?”

  “Even though the problem began in San Francisco, I’m almost sure your stalker has known you for some time,” he explained, then went on before she could react. “You said there was more than one fire while you were living in San Francisco. Give me a window—a week? Two months? How long did this go on?”

  She looked up. “Six, seven months. It’s all in the police reports, Jack.”

  “Humor me,” he growled. “Six months, maybe seven. Then you came here, bought the farm—and the fires started again.”

  “Not right away.”

  “What if he knew where to find you? What if he’s from Strong—just like you?”

  “And like you. So if I know him, you know him,” she mused aloud. “Everyone knows everyone here. That’s the joy of small-town living for you.”

  “Lots of things to enjoy in a small town,” he drawled. Kissing her simply seemed like the right thing to do. He was desperate to make her feel better, and the dampness of her tears in his T-shirt reminded him he hadn’t found a way yet.

  “Hell, baby, don’t cry anymore,” he ordered gruffly, nudging her chin up with his fingers. Another day, when she had her strength back and she wasn’t confronting the evidence of a very nasty, very personal arson, she’d knock his hand into the middle of next week. Right now, though, she was letting him take care of her. Like he needed to do. The surge of fierce protectiveness was unfamiliar—but it felt right.

  Damned right.

  He looked down at her familiar face, those too-wide eyes of hers, and knew this was right. They were right. He wasn’t ever walking away from her again. Somehow he was going to convince her of that truth. He didn’t know what was going to happen when summer was over. He’d never stuck around to see summer wind down, never been around to see what could happen next.

  “I’m here,” he promised. Later, he’d explain that promise to her. Right now, though, he had his arms full of Lily Cortez.

  “Kiss me, Jack,” she ordered as if it had been her idea.

  And maybe it had been. She twisted him into knots, so that he didn’t know if he was coming or going. All he knew was that the woman he held in his ar
ms was special, and she was hurting.

  That, he knew, wasn’t okay.

  So he’d make it better.

  Kiss her better.

  He had her pressed up against him already. All he’d have to do was pick her up, so that her legs—those long, lovely, too bare legs of hers—were wrapped around his waist as if they were already in her bed and he inside of her. His erection jerked, loving the fantasy. God. He’d thought she was trouble.

  He’d had no idea.

  Sliding his hands into her hair, he held her still, lowering his head to hers.

  No time for subtle, not now. Just the raw, hard kiss he’d been saving for her all these years. Marking her. Branding her as his.

  His lips tasted hers, ate the sweet, hot taste of her as his tongue stroked over her closed lips and pressed on inside. Drinking in her sweet whimper like a cool drink on a summer afternoon. She pressed closer, her softness cradling his hard heat. Urging him in. Warning him not to pull away. His Lily had her mind made up, and that was the sexiest thing a man could ever want.

  So he kissed his way across her lips, nipping the soft curves. Opening her wide so he could taste her all the way. Every hidden place. Like he’d do with the rest of her just as soon as he had her back in the house. He could feel how hot she was where those wicked little denim shorts of hers rubbed against him. Rocking slowly against him in silent demand.

  She was killing him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jack took the stairs two a time, Lily cradled in his arms. When he hit the top, he hesitated but only for a moment. Her room. Not the guest room. He wanted everything she had to offer, and he wasn’t going to let her push him into a convenient little box. He wasn’t a guest. Damned if he knew what he was, but this feeling he had for Lily wasn’t a temporary thing.

  He’d dreamed of this night forever, wondering what he’d missed all those years ago. If he was lucky, he’d find out tonight. He’d been rootless, always roaming, since he’d left Strong. He’d gone from one summer to the next, never settling. So he wasn’t going to hesitate now, when she was lying sweet and relaxed in his arms. Her eyes were watching again, but this time those baby browns were as hungry as his were.