Consumed by Fire (15 page)

He tossed a backpack onto the dinette/bed and paused by her bed, an eyebrow lifted. “Still got an iron bladder?”

“If you don’t cut me free I’m going to pee in the bed and I’ll make you sleep in it.”

“Kinky.” He already had a knife out, one that was far too big for the job, and it was all she could do to keep from flinching as it slid against her skin. She suspected he did it deliberately—the flat blade of the big knife a subtle caress against her, and she wanted to jerk away. If she did she could get hurt, so all she could do was lie perfectly still as he cut the bonds away, finishing up with the tape wrapped around her ankles. He caught her arm in one large, strong hand, pulling her upright to get at her bound wrists, and despite her best efforts to keep still, she cried out in pain.

He frowned, but said nothing as her hands were suddenly free. She wasn’t even aware of the tape ripping away from her skin—the pain in her shoulders was blinding, and she closed her eyes and sucked in her breath, trying to still any more sounds of distress.

She felt his hands on her shoulders, and much as she wanted to jerk away, she couldn’t. He was kneading her flesh, his thumbs pressing into the joints, a slow, sure massage that was working out the knotted muscles that had felt frozen. Feeling rushed back to her arms like an army of fire ants covered her skin, and she let out a little yelp. His hands slid down her bare arms then, rubbing, and the memories of Venetian nights overwhelmed her. She forced her eyes to open.

Big mistake. He was too close, and he was looking at her from those damned sea-blue eyes that were so wrong yet so familiar. Suddenly he stopped, looking at her, so close, too close, and he was going to put that gorgeous mouth on hers, and she had no idea what she’d do if he did. Would she kiss his damned lying mouth back? Or would she sink her teeth into his tongue?

She didn’t find out. He dropped his hold on her and got up from the bed, moving away from her as if she had rabies. “Go ahead and use the facilities,” he said, as if they hadn’t shared a tight, yearning moment.

Maybe they hadn’t. She was nothing to him, nothing but a mark, and he’d been everything to her. She climbed out of the bunk, stiff and sore, and moved carefully, holding on to the bed for support. “If I want to wash can I trust you not to look?”

His derisive laugh made her remember the missing .22 fondly. “Feel free to prance around the camp in your birthday suit, Angel. I’m going to explore the area—take your time. I’ll leave Merlin on point.”

“You’re expecting an enemy attack?” Her voice was derisive.

He ignored her question. “Don’t make the mistake of trying to run. Merlin won’t let you.”

She doubted it, but she wasn’t about to say anything. Merlin had had her back since he showed up on campus, and even if he irrationally adored Bishop, he still knew who his real master was.

She yanked open the drawer beneath her bed, pulled out clean clothes and a towel, and left the trailer before she could be tempted to say anything more.

The clearing was small, the sound of rushing water off to the left, hidden by the woods that surrounded them, and she made a beeline for the thickest growth, relieving herself with a groan of relief. She rose from her uncomfortable position, her legs unsteady, and gathered up her amenities. She had a bottle of Campsuds in the truck, and getting clean would go a long way toward restoring her equilibrium. It was a lot easier to feel hopeless and defeated when you were tired and dirty and sticky. And hungry. She’d been a fool to throw her plate at him last night, she realized. She needed to keep her strength up if she was going to have any chance against him.

The river was little more than an enthusiastic stream, but it was swift moving and the water was cold, even in the little pool it had formed. She glanced around, but there was no sign of Bishop, or Merlin for that matter. If Bishop was watching, then he could go ahead and get an eyeful. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, though her body had changed in the last five years. She was stronger, leaner, tougher. She’d lost any softness in her skin, and in her soul.

She stripped off her filthy clothes and stepped into the waist-deep pool, shivering as goosebumps covered every exposed inch of her flesh. She hadn’t brought a washcloth with her, so she squeezed the biodegradable soap into her hands and began scrubbing her body, washing away his touch, washing away the grime of the last few days. She’d really counted on the campground showers, but this would just have to do.

Even her scalp itched. At the last minute she ducked her head underwater and scrubbed it with the soap. As a shampoo, Campsuds left a lot to be desired, but the unpolluted water would go a ways toward softening her hair. Her shorter hairstyle had its advantages, but she no longer had the option of braiding it into submission.

She waded out of the stream, shivering, and grabbed her towel, rubbing it briskly over her cold body, when something made her pause. Someone was watching her. It was no surprise—she never considered that Bishop would be trustworthy.

But it didn’t feel like Bishop watching her. Bishop wouldn’t lurk in the wood—he’d just walk boldly into the clearing and make comments about her body while she tried to dress.

She was imagining things. They were alone out here in the middle of nowhere—she didn’t have any idea where they were, if they were even still in Montana.

It was only then that she realized Merlin hadn’t reappeared. He was probably patrolling, but the knot in the pit of her stomach grew. She wouldn’t have thought her situation could get any worse, but she suspected it was about to.

“Merlin!” she called, out, whistling for him. “Here, boy!”

There was no answering crash through the underbrush. Merlin had excellent hearing, and if he were anywhere nearby, he’d be pounding his way back to her. All she could hear was the sound of the stream behind her, the soft rustle of the wind through the leaves.

And she was standing there in her birthday suit, instead of getting her goddamned clothes on like someone with a particle of brains. Knotting the towel around her for added security, she reached down for her underwear—suddenly an arm snaked around her waist, trapping her arms against her body.

It wasn’t Bishop’s hard body. This man was almost as tall, but he wasn’t as strong-looking, and he was dirty, smelling of stale sweat and garlic. “I wouldn’t scream if I were you,” a low, vicious voice whispered in her ear, and she realized that there was a knife against her neck, one that would give Bishop’s blade a run for the money.

Evangeline froze. “What did you do to Merlin?” Her voice came out in a choked whisper.

“Fuck your dog. It’s your partner I’m interested in, and I don’t need a big-ass German shepherd getting in my way. You think I don’t recognize a trained attack dog when I see one? You just behave yourself and after I take care of Edmunds you can go on your way.”

It had only taken her a moment for her panic to subside enough to recognize his voice. It was the surly border guard from the day before, the one Bishop had driven like a bat out of hell to escape. Apparently he hadn’t driven fast enough.

“If you’ve hurt Merlin I’ll kill you,” she snarled.

“You and what army? Just be glad I’m not going to kill you.”

That was a lie. He was going to kill Bishop, or Edmunds, or whatever his name was, and then he’d kill her to tie up loose ends. She didn’t want to die, and to her shock she realized she didn’t want Bishop dead either.

Think, Evangeline, think
. The man was too strong—she’d never be able to break free. If she were fully dressed, wearing her boots, then maybe she could have kicked him, but for all intents and purposes she was bare-assed, and for some reason her almost nudity made her feel weak, unable to fight back.

Which was crap. She was just as strong, just as smart with or without her clothes, and if she couldn’t beat him with her body, she could use her brain. “Do you have to hold me so tight?” she complained. “I can barely breathe.”

He didn’t loosen his iron grip. “You’ll survive.”

No, she wouldn’t. She had to get him talking. Was there any chance in the world she could play Mata Hari, seduce him into carelessness? Not hardly likely—even Bishop was no longer interested in her, and for all his lies and treachery, there’d been no doubt that his desire for her had been real.

“What did you do. . . ?” she began, and the sharp, slicing pain in her neck silenced her. She could feel the blood sliding down her chest, dripping into the towel, and she wondered whether he’d cut her throat, whether she was about to bleed out.

“Shut the fuck up,” the man said. “Or I’ll make sure you never say another word.” She could still feel the steel pressed against her, and she let herself feel a moment’s relief. Death might be imminent, but it wasn’t there yet. “Where’s your friend gone off to?”

“Now how can she answer you when you told her you’d cut her throat if she talks?” Bishop’s lazy voice seemed to come from nowhere, and she jerked, trying to see him, but there was no one around.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” the man holding her said in a singsong voice that was chilling. “Unless you want me to cut her throat right in front of you, you’ll come out with your hands in the air.”

“Now why would I do that?” Bishop drawled, his voice coming from another direction. “You’re just going to kill me.”

“Don’t you want to save your lady friend?”

“You’re a sick bastard, Clement, and we both know it. She’d be better off if you cut her throat—a quick, clean death. I wouldn’t want to leave her behind for you to take your time with her.” The voice had moved again, now to their left.

“If you say so, old friend. I can always find someone to play my games if this one has to be sacrificed. You have any last words for her? You want to tell her you love her? Give her the lie so she can die happy?”

“How do you know it’s a lie?” came the voice, and the man Bishop had called Clement turned, pulling her with him, the knife blade still resting against her neck, as he peered between the brush.

“I’ve known you for years, Edmunds. People like us are missing something. We can’t love, we don’t feel guilt, and we do what needs to be done. You need to die, and if she won’t work to draw you out, then she’s of no use to me.”

Evangeline felt the blade bite in deeper, and more warm blood spread down her chest, soaking into the towel. She was going to die, naked, in the middle of nowhere, and they’d probably never find her body. It was a lousy, ignominious fate for a tenured professor, and one more thing she could blame on Bishop.

“Don’t be so quick, Clement. That’s always been your problem—too fast off the mark. You get many complaints about that from your women?” Bishop’s disembodied voice was soft, taunting.

“My women aren’t usually in any shape to complain when I’m done with them. So this one is important to you? I thought she might be, though I admit it surprises me. I’ve never known you to give a shit about anyone.”

“I don’t.” He seemed farther away now, and Evangeline wondered if he was just going to disappear and leave her with this monster. “But have you taken a good look at her? Why waste all that gorgeousness if you don’t need to?”

She felt the man’s head move as he looked down, and then to her horror he pulled the towel away from her, dropping it on the ground. She clenched her jaw. If she didn’t get out of this alive then she was going to haunt James Bishop into madness.

Clement shrugged against her, and it made the knife bite in again, and more warm blood slide down her body. “She’s not my type. Not enough tits and ass. But if she’s yours, then you’d better show yourself or there’s not going to be much left of her. I’ll count to ten . . .”

“Don’t bother, James,” she called out in a caustic voice. “He’s going to kill both of us, so don’t waste any noble gesture on me. It would ring false.”

“I’m incapable of noble gestures, Angel,” Bishop said, suddenly close at hand, and the man holding her was yanked back.

She went flying, landing on the hard ground. She was stark naked, covered with blood, and she lay there, stunned for a moment, until her eyes focused on the men.

Bishop and the erstwhile border guard were rolling in the dust, grappling with each other. Bishop had a knife as well, though his wasn’t as big as the guard’s weapon, and they looked like strangers, people she’d never seen before, as they rolled and grunted and fought. It was far from a clean fight—the guard kept trying to knee Bishop in the crotch, and Bishop was equally vicious, the violence so thick in the air that it made her ill.

The border guard had his lips drawn back from his teeth in a feral grin as he straddled Bishop, but a moment later Bishop tossed him off as he rolled away, and there was a patch of blood beneath Bishop’s arm. He was the one who was truly scary, fighting with such icy calm and determination that she never once considered he might not win.

They broke apart and were both on their feet so quickly, it was almost synchronized. Then they circled each other. Bishop was edging closer, keeping his body between her and Clement, and without looking at her, he growled, “Get the fuck out of here, Angel. This piece of trash won’t take long to deal with, but you don’t need to watch.”

She was still slightly dazed, but she knew a lie when she heard one. For some reason he wasn’t sure he could stop the man, and he wanted her out of the way. She wanted to be out of the way as well, whether he won or lost, and if the two men kept each other busy, she could make her way to the truck; hopefully he’d left the keys in it. Even if he hadn’t, she could manage—she had a spare hidden under the seat. The canopy was out on the trailer, and the road that had brought them to this clearing was little more than a path. The thought of driving out of there wearing nothing at all wasn’t enough to stop her. She and Annabelle would make it.

“I won’t leave without Merlin,” she said, shaking off her stupid wish that she had something, anything, to cover her body.

“What’d you do with the dog, Clement?” Bishop’s voice was silky. “If you hurt him, I’ll make you very sorry.”

Clement snorted. “You think I’m an idiot? Killing dogs causes more trouble than it’s worth. Even Colombian drug lords get sentimental over their dogs, and if I got the reputation that I off animals, I wouldn’t be able to get a job anywhere.”