Into the Fire (15 page)

She put her suitcase and purse down, just staring at it, as Dillon came up behind her. “What happened to the tires?”

“Beats me,” he said, clearly untroubled by this latest development. “You must have run over something when you went off the road.”

“And you didn't notice when you were working on it?”

“They hadn't gone flat when I was working on it.”

She turned to look up at him. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

“I fixed your car.”

“Anything to do with the flat tires. Did you let the air out of them?” It was a stupid thing to ask. Of course he hadn't—he was more than happy to get rid of her at this point.

“Yes.”

“We could…yes?” she echoed in sudden shock, realizing what he'd said.

“Yes. I let the air out of your tires. All four of them, as a matter of fact. Just in case you got it in your mind to run away.”

“I thought you were going to let me go.”

“I should.” He was trying to sound diffident, but
even she could tell he was uncomfortable with the admission.

“But you're not.” It should have been anger, fear flooding her body. Not relief.

“No, I'm not.”

She set down her things on the cement floor, then turned to look at him. He frightened her—there was no question about that. But he was also nothing more than human, a bad boy who'd gotten his way for too long.

“Then convince me to stay,” she said, pushing her hair away from her face and watching him calmly.

 

Her face was pale, and she had circles under her beautiful gray eyes. And she was looking at him as if he were a cross between the devil incarnate and Prince Charming. He could have told her which one he was. He'd tried to convince her what a monster he was. For some reason he didn't want to try anymore.

The garage was warm—heat blasting from the corner fans. He still didn't know why he'd ended up sabotaging her car at the last minute. If she wanted to go he should let her. Let her get on with her life. Let them both get on with life. But in the
end he couldn't do it. Maybe because it wasn't the end.

She was still looking at him, both hopeful and frightened. Those wide gray eyes of hers were absurd—no grown woman should look quite so vulnerable. She was a little too thin, but he could feed her up. She was a little too nervous, and he'd done everything he could to perpetuate that.

And she was a little too irresistible. He should have been doing everything he could to scare her away, push her away, drive her away. Instead he'd done just the opposite.

He walked past her, careful not to touch her, and headed toward the front wall of the garage. He knew exactly what he had in the CD changer, and he punched a couple of buttons. A second later music filled the room, like a blanket of sound that drowned out any possibility of conversation, and he turned back to her.

She'd turned even paler in the harsh light of the garage. It was a cheap shot, and he knew it, and he should have been ashamed of himself. But he wasn't.

U2 filled the room, and suddenly he was back twelve years ago, on a one-way path to disaster, with a trembling virgin in his arms. And that trem
bling virgin was looking at him right now, remembering that song.

He moved slowly, so as not to scare her, but she'd gotten brave in the last few hours. When he reached out for her she didn't flinch away, and when he pulled her into his arms she went without hesitation, putting her arms around his neck, resting her head against his shoulder, as they moved to the music.

He closed his eyes and danced with her, and he could see the old gym at the Marshfield School, tarted up with crepe paper and black lights. He should have taken her to that dance, should have had the balls to ask her. But then she'd been dating some purebred jock, a clone to Paul, and she never would have gone.

But right now she settled her body against his like a lazy kitten, and she let him move her to the music, slowly, rocking, barely dancing in the dimly lit garage.

He wanted her, craved her, more than coffee and cigarettes, more than the last drink he'd had five years ago, more than a free conscience. He needed her, and the more he fought it the stronger that need grew, until it threatened to destroy him.

He could drive her away from him—it would be easy enough. The song was almost over, another
CD would flip onto the changer, and then he'd tell her he loved her, and his life would be over.

He had one chance to save himself. One chance to drive her away before it was too late for him.

He stopped moving and put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her eyes were bright in the darkness, and she had a soft, blissed-out look on her face. And he could come just from looking down at her.

But he had to get her out of there. Last-minute sanity reared its ugly head. So he said the one thing he knew would drive her away.

“Get in the back of the car.”

He waited for her outrage, for her to shove him away and run off. It would take him five minutes to put the air back in her tires, and then he'd take off, so he wouldn't have to see her again, and he'd be safe.

She looked up at him, her face pale, her mouth, her gorgeous mouth, tremulous. She stepped back from him, out of his arms.

“Yes,” she said.

D
illon couldn't believe his ears. But she turned and walked away from him, walked over to the old Cadillac, and she looked like she had when she was sixteen and he'd wanted her badly enough to risk going to jail. Wanted her badly enough to almost kill someone who hurt her. Wanted her badly enough right now that he was putting his entire way of life, peace of mind, in danger.

He was unbuttoning his old flannel shirt by the time he reached the side of the car, but she put her hands on his, stopping him. And then she began to unbutton them herself, head down, concentrating on the task.

She pushed it from his shoulders, her hands skimming his skin as the shirt slid to the floor. And then she leaned forward and put her mouth against his pounding heart, as her hands reached for his belt.

She touched him. Through the thick denim of his jeans, she put her hand over him, her fingers slowly stroking, and he let out a strangled moan.

“If we don't get in the car now we might not make it,” he said in a rough voice.

She looked up at him. Her pale hair had fallen in her face, and her cheeks were flushed.

“We're already here,” she said.

“And I'm ready to drag you down on the cement.”

She looked down at the cement floor beneath them. “Looks uncomfortable,” she said. She'd already unfastened the snap at the top of his jeans, and now she began to undo the zipper, her hands delicate, barely touching him, and the feel of her was more erotic than a practiced caress.

“Get in the goddamned car,” he said in a choked voice.

“In a minute,” she said. She pushed his jeans down his legs, and then sank to her knees in front of him, on the hard cement floor. And she put her mouth on him, just tasting him.

He let out a groan of agonized pleasure, but she pulled away, looking up at him out of wide eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he said. “God no.” And threading his fingers through her hair, he gently brought her head, her mouth, back to him.

It was the most profoundly erotic experience of his life. She had absolutely no idea what she was
doing, she simply experimented, touching, tasting, sucking. He didn't have to guide her, didn't have to say a word. He just leaned back against the old Caddy so his knees didn't buckle and let her bring him to the point of explosion with her sweet, untutored mouth. And he knew she wasn't ready for that. She was making soft whimpering sounds, and he realized that she was almost as turned-on as he was.

He pushed her back, gently, though her hands still clung to his hips. He picked her up, easily, and swung her into the open convertible, into the back seat. She lay back in the corner, breathless, waiting for him, as he kicked off his jeans and climbed into the car with her.

This time her underwear was the plain white cotton he knew she usually favored. And it was even more erotic than the stuff she'd been wearing before.

He slid the panties down her legs, and she leaned back to help him. The back seat of the Cadillac was so huge it was almost a bed, and even though he was tall he knew it could be managed. He started to push her back down, but she shook her head. Instead she simply moved over and straddled him as he leaned back against the old leather seat.

He reached under her damned skirt and touched her, and she was wet. Ready. Trembling.

“Show me how to do this,” she whispered.

The condoms were in his jeans outside the car. And nothing in this world could have made him stop. He took his cock and placed it against her, just touching her, feeling her quiver in reaction. “Just move slowly. You don't want to hurt yourself, you don't want to hurt me. See what feels good—” she was slowly filling herself with him, and he could barely speak ”—and then do it some more.”

She took him at his word. Slowly, slowly she sank down on him, taking him inch by inch. She was so hot and damp there was nothing to stop her, but the agonizing slowness was unexpectedly powerful.

He was only halfway inside her when she let out a sudden cry, and he felt her body contract around him. It shocked her so much that she almost started to pull away, but it was too late for that.

Her dress was stupid, and he ripped it open, so that her breasts were free, and he covered them with his hands, his fingers touching her, caressing her, and he felt a second flutter of an orgasm tighten around his cock.

She whimpered again, but by now he recognized that sound as pure need, and she finally took all of
him inside her, coming to rest on him with her forehead pressed against his shoulder.

She had exquisitely sensitive breasts, reacting to even his lightest touch. Her nipples were as hard as pebbles against his hands, and he wanted to put his mouth on them, needed to, when she moved her head and whispered in his ear.

“I wanted you to come in my mouth.”

He almost came right then. His cock seemed to expand inside her, and she looked at him, her eyes open wide. “But not yet,” she added. And she began to move.

He let her. Let her do what she wanted, no matter how much he wanted to take over, no matter how desperate he was. She was learning what she wanted, and he was willing to let her, even if he thought it might just possibly kill him.

And finally she began to move, faster, and he put his arms around her, pulling her against him, as he thrust up to meet her plunging hips, and she was breathless, sobbing, crying out, and he was gasping, beyond words, until they both reached it at the same time. She let out a soft, keening howl, and her body clamped down around him, and his last bit of control vanished. He filled her with thrust after thrust, and she held on, until they both shattered.

She was crying when she collapsed against him,
a rag doll of a woman, but he didn't make the mistake of thinking she was unhappy. He didn't have much breath left himself, but he put his hand on the back of her neck and turned her face to his and kissed her, a soft, deep, hungry kiss. And he felt one more contraction ripple through her body.

He left their clothes behind, scattered on the garage floor, kicking the door shut behind him. He carried her upstairs, up to his bed, and lay down with her, wrapping his body tight around her. And for the first time in his life, he slept with a woman.

 

When Jamie awoke it was morning and she was alone. She hadn't been alone all night—she knew that. She'd slept with his body wrapped around her, she'd wakened to him inside her. At one point they just lay there and kissed, endlessly. He knew how to kiss. He knew how to do everything.

She was cold, sticky, aching all over. She needed a shower, she needed clean clothes, she needed food. But most of all she needed Dillon.

There was no music pounding up from the garage. It was late morning—she couldn't believe how long she'd slept. But then, she'd had a very busy twenty-four hours. She climbed out of his bed, taking the sheet with her and wrapping it around her body. She had no idea why she was feeling modest,
after last night. Maybe it was because of last night. And earlier this morning.

Damn, she hurt! A hot soak in the claw-footed bathtub would do wonders, though. Since she'd been in Wisconsin she'd taken the fastest possible showers she could, just to make sure she didn't run into Dillon. At this point, if he walked in on her in the tub, it could prove…interesting.

The bathroom was warm, heat pouring from the air duct on the floor. For once there seemed to be enough hot water, and she filled the tub as full as she could before dropping the sheet and slipping into the blissfully hot water. She let out a little moan of pleasure. How could she feel so battered and so good at the same time?

But she did. She rested her head against the cool edge of the cast-iron tub and closed her eyes, and she could feel a smile forming on her face. He'd told her he could make her scream, and he was right. He hadn't told her he could make her smile.

When she was ready to get out, she looked around. There was only one towel in the bathroom, and it was still damp. His. She brought it to her face, and she could smell the soap he used, the shampoo. She breathed it in, like a drug, and for the first time she understood why he'd kept her dress. If he sent her away, if she ran away, she'd
steal this towel and take it with her. And sleep with it, like the lovesick adolescent she'd always been. And still was.

She wrapped the sheet around her again and headed back to her room. He'd brought her suitcase upstairs at some point, and she dressed quickly, in her jeans and an old cotton sweater. She kept listening for him, wondering if he was going to come back upstairs, wondering if she really wanted to get dressed, after all, when she heard a noise overhead. Just a faint creaking noise, like a ghost walking.

She froze, listening intently. And then another sound, like something being dragged across the floor. Dillon must be up there, though she couldn't imagine why.

If she had any brains at all she'd go downstairs and find something to eat and keep her distance from Dillon for as long as she could bear to. Her body needed time to recover, because if he put his hands on her she wouldn't be able to say no. Wouldn't want to.

But right then she didn't seem to have any brains at all. She was going up to the third floor to see what Dillon was doing, and if they ended up doing something else she'd manage to survive. Besides, there were other things she was interested in trying. In having him show her.

The stairs were cloaked in shadows—if there was a light anywhere it had burned out. The top of the stairs was dark, unwelcoming, and if she had an overactive imagination she'd think there were monsters up there, waiting for her. But she was a practical woman. Except where Dillon Gaynor was concerned.

The stairs creaked beneath her feet. But she stepped carefully, not willing to make contact with another mangled rodent. She had the oddest sense that someone, something was watching her. But it was too dark—she could barely see in front of her. Nothing on this earth would be able to see her in this darkness.

The hall at the top of the stairs was identical to the one beneath it. All the doors were tightly shut except one, halfway down on the left side. The place must have been some kind of boarding house, long ago. The room with the open door would have been two rooms down from her own austere cell.

The only light was coming from that room, the stark gray of snowlit daylight.

“Dillon?” she called out. Her voice was swallowed up by the darkness, and there was no answer. Just the sound of something moving in that room.

It wasn't the scrabbling feet of rats. It was something bigger, more forceful. She walked down the
hall, the ancient wood beneath her creaking loudly, announcing her approach. “Dillon?” she called again. Still no answer.

She reached the door, but it was only partway open, just letting out a sliver of light into the hallway. She pushed it the rest of the way, but the room was empty. Not a living soul in sight.

She stood motionless as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The room was a twin to her own, except there was nothing inside—no mattress on the floor, no light. The walls and bare wood floor were covered with dark stains, and the plaster had been crushed in several places, as if someone had smashed something into the wall. The stains were darkest there.

She could feel it, like an icy blanket draping around her. The pain. And the evil. And she knew this was where Nate had died. The stains were the marks of his blood soaking into the walls and the floor of this old building.

The heat didn't reach up to this floor. Or if it did, she was beyond feeling it. Beyond feeling anything but the pain and horror that had filled this room only three months ago. And still lived within the walls like a ghost yearning for revenge.

She could feel him behind her, and a crawling sense of horror began to snake up her spine. There
was no one there—she knew that with every practical bone in her body. She didn't hear anyone, the air wasn't disturbed around her, there was no body heat radiating off another soul. But she wasn't alone any longer, and she didn't dare turn around and look, suddenly terrified at what she might see. She simply froze, staring blindly ahead of her at the room covered in dried blood.

In the end it didn't matter. The push was as insubstantial as a puff of wind, as hard as an angry shove, and she fell forward, into the room. The floor gave way beneath her feet, and she went crashing through the splintering wood that seemed to dissolve beneath her feet.

She must have screamed. She was trapped in the rotting floorboards, up to her knees, and when she twisted around to look the doorway was empty.

The wood had collapsed around her, and every time she tried to pull free it simply crumbled beneath her. She was trapped, almost up to her hips, and she had a suddenly, irrational terror that ghostly hands would reach from underneath and pull her down, down into some inexplicable hell, and she screamed again, this time for Dillon.

She heard the thundering sound of his footsteps, and she closed her eyes in relief. There hadn't been
time for him to have pushed her, disappeared and then come back up. There couldn't have been.

He reached under her arms and hauled her up, the wood splintering as he pulled her through, and she let out a cry of pain. He set her down in the hallway, ungently, and she leaned against the wall, her legs weak beneath her, and watched as he slammed the door, plunging them into darkness. And then locked it, locking away the evil, locking away the truth.