Into the Fire (7 page)

The air was even colder when she stepped outside this time, and the earlier sunshine had vanished, leaving the sky gray and threatening as the snowflakes filtered down. She walked down the alleyway between Dillon's warehouse and the next, but there was no sign of life. No cars except for the abandoned ones, no voices in the muffled silence.

The main road wasn't any better. Now that she could get a good look at her surroundings she was even more depressed. Everything around Dillon's warehouse was deserted. If this had once been part of a thriving city, that city had abandoned this area, spreading out in more congenial directions. Maybe times would change and gentrification would hit Cooperstown, Wisconsin. Someone would snap up the deserted warehouses and turn them into loft apartments, someone would buy the empty storefronts and turn them into pricey boutiques.

There were footprints in the snow. Considering how abandoned that area of the city seemed to be, there were a surprising number of different tracks. The small ones were probably Mouser's. She could see the scratching marks left by the rat's brothers and sisters, and she shivered lightly. And there was another set of footprints, probably male. Narrow
feet, not too big, almost graceful. The tracks couldn't belong to Dillon. He had big feet. When she'd been an impressionable teenager she'd noticed them, and she and her girlfriends had speculated about what else might be oversize about Dillon Gaynor, giggling at the salacious thought.

She wasn't giggling now, and she didn't want to think about it. Those feet were more like Nate's. Narrow, aristocratic feet, while she had always bemoaned her own wide peasant ones.

There was no traffic, no taxi she could hail, even if she had the money to pay for it. No one she could even hitch a ride with. She stood still in the deserted street and closed her eyes for a moment.

And then opened them again. Someone was watching her. She turned, slowly, but there was no one. She looked up at Dillon's ramshackle garage, up to the windows on the second and third floor, and for a moment she thought she saw movement behind the frosted glass. She blinked, but then there was no one, and she shook her head. There was no one in that garage but Dillon and her, more's the pity. Unless the rats had made their home on the third floor and had taken to spying on the human inhabitants of the place.

But she hadn't heard the scrabbling sounds of rodent feet last night. Granted, she'd been ex
hausted, but she'd been edgy enough to be freaked by any unlikely noise. If the building was infested with rats then they all kept regular hours.

She must have imagined the movement at the window. The narrow footprints disappeared into the scuffed snow, and she told herself she was letting her imagination run wild with her. Not enough sleep, not enough food, and the shocking effect of seeing Dillon Gaynor again had managed to make her even more neurotic than usual. She never would have thought seeing him would have such an effect on her. After all, it was ancient history, she'd moved on, and one bad night shouldn't have the ability to color her entire life. It hadn't. Until she looked up into Dillon Gaynor's cool blue eyes, and suddenly she was sixteen again.

But she wasn't. She was twenty-eight, with a master's degree, a good job, a loving mother and a sense of satisfaction in her life. While she wasn't in a relationship at the moment, that didn't mean she couldn't be if she wanted one. She'd had offers. She just wasn't ready. Besides, she was secure enough that she didn't need a man to make her feel complete.

There was no sign of Dillon when she walked back into the warm kitchen. Her borrowed sweater was covered with snow, and she shook it out all
over the cracked linoleum floor before hanging it back up on the peg. It was probably the first water that floor had seen in twenty years, she thought wryly. But surprisingly enough, on a closer look, the floor didn't even need sweeping. Someone must look after Dillon.

For some reason the notion came as a complete shock. It had simply never occurred to her that there'd be a woman in Dillon's life. And how idiotic of her—there'd never
not
been a woman in Dillon's life.

The type of women Dillon had been involved with had never seemed the type to be interested in housework, but twelve years could make a lot of changes. Not that much in a unregenerate bad boy like Dillon, but maybe enough to appreciate someone who'd sleep with him and clean his house at the same time.

No, not Dillon. He'd never be that practical. He'd always chosen girls by the size of their breasts, the bigger the better. It was a good thing that Jamie was still a meager 34B. Not that Dillon was a serious threat to her.

He was trying to intimidate her with his suggestive comments. It would shock the hell out of him if she called his bluff. He had no interest in her, and never really had. That night so long ago had
been a fluke. He'd been drunk, and bored, and mischievous, but the moment he could he'd handed her off to someone else.

She wasn't going to think about that. Ever again. She was going to grab that box of soggy crackers and head back upstairs. She was going to sit in her room and try to figure out what the hell she was going to do. And try not to worry about whether there were rats crawling up the curtains in the room above her. Or ghosts.

She didn't believe in ghosts. If it had been up to her she wouldn't believe in rats, either, and if she'd never had to see Dillon again she probably wouldn't have had to deal with an oversize rodent.

It wasn't fair that she was stuck here, with the last person in the world she'd ever wanted to see again. She'd done it for her mother, thinking she could dash in and out without ever having to look Dillon in the eye. She hadn't counted on her car giving out. Or her purse being stolen.

And she hadn't counted on the fact that when she looked up into Dillon Gaynor's cool blue eyes she'd feel like a vulnerable sixteen-year-old once more. Just as frightened. Just as wary.

And just as fascinated.

T
here was no sign of Jamie when Dillon finally strolled back into the kitchen. It was already dark outside, and he was starving. He opened his refrigerator and stared at it for a long moment, as if looking for the answers that had eluded him all his life. A six-pack of beer that Mouser had brought over with the donuts. Diet Coke and a soggy head of lettuce, a half dozen eggs that were probably ready to hatch, and some moldy cheese.

He shouldn't be surprised—food had never been one of his priorities. If he wanted to eat he went out and found something. Otherwise he didn't bother. Mouser was trying to reform him, but then, Mouser was trying to reform everyone. They were playing poker again tonight—he'd probably show up with another armful of groceries. Dillon could wait that long.

There was no sound from upstairs. Maybe Jamie was asleep again. He liked watching her when she was asleep—it reminded him of when she was six
teen and so innocent it made him ache with the memory of it. Her innocence was long gone, her defenses were in full flower, but when she slept he could stand there and look at her and pretend it was twelve years ago, a lifetime ago, when he still had choices.

He was turning into a sentimental asshole in his old age. Next thing he knew he'd be turning up at reunions of a high school he never bothered to graduate from. He could even drop in on the Duchess and express his sympathy for the loss of her beloved Nate. She'd always had a blind spot where her nephew had been concerned. The Duchess believed in what she wanted, and her priorities had always been clear. Her daughter had been a distant second, no matter how Jamie tried to deny it.

It was no wonder she'd come here, the last place on earth she'd want to be, to see him, the last person on earth she'd want to be with, all because of the Duchess's whim. She should have learned by now it was a waste of time trying to win the old bitch's favor. But Jamie had never been a quitter. Maybe she thought with Nate dead there'd be room for her in the old lady's flintlike heart. She was going to find out the hard way.

It was no business of his. Jamie Kincaid had come back into his life unexpectedly, and she'd be
gone just as fast. As soon as he was ready to let her go, that is. In the meantime he had every intention of enjoying himself.

She'd had a crush on him when she was sixteen. She thought he didn't know, but he had. For some reason it pissed Nate off—he liked Jamie being his own personal fan club—but there was nothing he could do about it. Dillon knew because she blushed when he walked into the house, and looked anywhere but at him. He knew because she always found some reason to come into the room where he and Nate were smoking. He knew because he saw her looking at him one day, with those wide gray eyes that were an affront to his unregenerate nature.

He'd had every intention of leaving her strictly alone. For one thing, Nate was oddly protective. For another, the Duchess scared the shit out of him. And then there was the fact that he liked fast girls, bad girls, not honor students. If it had been up to him he never would have gone near Jamie Kincaid.

But it hadn't been up to him. He'd had no more than a taste, a long time ago. And a taste could build up a powerful appetite.

He sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. What would Nate think if he could see what was going on? He'd be pissed as hell—he'd never wanted Dillon anywhere near Jamie, and he'd made sure that
had never happened. But Nate was dead, and there was no one to stop Dillon from doing exactly what he wanted with his unwilling houseguest. Maybe it was time to find out just how badly she wanted to go home. Nate was no longer here to stop him. No one was.

Except his own tarnished sense of honor. Or even better, maybe it was just self-preservation. For all his gut telling him he could have her, his common sense was screaming no. And maybe, for once in his life, he'd let his brain run his body, instead of his hunger.

 

Jamie woke up with a start, the flash of neon outside the only light in the barren little room. She'd been sleeping too much since she'd been there, which was crazy, when sleep was usually the most elusive thing in her life. Maybe the answer had always been boredom. She had nothing else to do but wait, and she wasn't even sure what she was waiting for. And so she slept.

She sat up and groped for the switch on the dim light. Her book lay discarded on the mattress—it was no wonder she'd fallen asleep. In the best of times Charles Dickens was a tedious bore. In the worst of times he was unbearable. Maybe when she got back to Rhode Island she'd forgo the yearly
ordeal of teaching
David Copperfield
and switch to
A Christmas Carol
instead. For one thing, it was a hell of a lot shorter. For another, it was a better story. And not so many simpering female characters.

She shoved a hand through her hair. She was hungry, of course. She'd come upstairs planning to just sleep the rest of the day away, but luck wasn't with her this time. It was dark, she'd had nothing but three cinnamon buns earlier in the day, and it didn't look as if Dillon had any intention of feeding her. The sound of male voices drifted upward—they must be playing poker again, and if she had any sense she'd resign herself to David Copperfield and ignore them.

And then she smelled the pizza. It was like a siren call, one she didn't even try to resist. It didn't matter that it was late—the other voices assured her she wouldn't be alone with Dillon, and for the sake of food she was willing to risk a lot. She went in search of pizza.

She was right, they were playing poker. The kitchen was filled with cigarette smoke and the yeasty smell of beer, and the pizza boxes lay open on the littered kitchen counter.

“Hi, there, Jamie!” Mouser greeted her cheerfully. “I wondered when you were going to show
up. Killer said you'd gone to bed for the night, but I figured with us down here making all this noise you'd be bound to emerge sooner or later.”

She smiled at him. There was another man there, as well, looking at her in shock, and behind the veil of smoke sat Dillon, a cigarette in his mouth, a glass of dark amber liquid by his side, a pile of poker chips in front of him.

“I was hungry,” she said, drifting toward the pizza.

“Help yourself,” said Mouser. “The one on the left's got pepperoni and mushrooms, the one on the right's got sausage and green peppers.”

As if fate hadn't been cruel enough, she thought. “I don't suppose you have any plain cheese?” she asked, trying not to sound plaintive.

“Picky, aren't you?” Dillon commented, not bothering to look at her.

“I'm a vegetarian.”

That got his full attention. He looked at her, a smile curving his mouth, and for a brief moment she remembered that mouth. “Of course you are,” he said. “I bet you don't smoke or drink or gamble, either.”

“I drink. Occasionally. Responsibly. And I play poker very well,” she said, defiant.

“Get the woman a beer, Henry. And a chair.
Looks like we don't have to make do with the three of us, after all.” He stubbed out his cigarette and rose, moving in her direction.

She scuttled quickly out of his way. The man named Henry dragged another heavy oak kitchen chair up to the round table, opened a bottle of Corona and set it in front of her place. “What are we playing, Killer?” It was the first time she heard him speak, but his slow, deep voice matched his looks.

“Lady's choice,” Dillon said. “Sit down, Jamie.”

“I don't want—”

“Sit down.”

Jamie sat. A moment later a paper plate appeared in front of her, pizza with the sausage removed. She could have protested, but it would have been a waste of time. And, besides, she was too hungry. “I can't gamble with you,” she said. “I have no money.”

“I'll stake you,” Mouser said, shoving a pile of chips in her direction. He was drinking Diet Coke—a strange choice for a night of poker.

“Yeah, who knows, maybe you'll make enough to get your butt out of here,” Dillon said, resuming his and taking a long pull from his tall glass. Whiskey, Jamie thought, the color dark enough to mean
he hadn't diluted it. He was going to be very drunk by the time the night was over, and she would be smart to get the hell out of his way. He'd always been a nasty drunk.

“Maybe I should just take the pizza and go back to bed.”

“Maybe you should shut up and deal.”

“Don't be an asshole, Dillon,” Mouser said. “There's no need to be rude.”

“It's my nature.”

“We all know that. Try to overcome it. Isn't that what we're put on earth to do?”

“Some succeed better than others,” he said in a dulcet voice, looking directly at her from across the table.

“Fuck off,” she said sweetly, and took a long drink of beer. Doing her best to act as if she used that particular phrase in her daily conversation, when to her knowledge she'd never said it to anyone. No matter how tempted.

“Deal,” he growled.

She dealt, picking the wussiest, most complicated game of poker she could think of. It had been a favorite of her college roommates, and its rules were so complex that the game usually came to a screeching halt, but it was her best chance to beat
the three card sharks looking at her, and she needed that money.

Things started well enough, after their initial grumbling, and the pile of chips in front of her began to grow. She ate the pizza, ignoring the fact that the taste of sausage still lingered
and
and tasted wonderful. She finished one beer and started on a second, all the while trying to ignore Dillon, who watched her through the haze of smoke like a python fixated on a mouse.

It put a dent in her poker abilities. You needed to be able to read the subtle body language of an opponent to tell whether they were bluffing or not, but she simply made do with focusing her attention on Mouser and Henry. Dillon was going through the tall glass at a leisurely pace, and at some point he refilled it when she wasn't looking, but he didn't seem to be showing any signs of getting drunk. If anything, he seemed sharper.

Hours passed, and the chips kept mounting up. Sometimes she'd lose a little, but mostly she'd gain, and Mouser kept up a cheerful running commentary on how she was cheating them all. If only she knew how. For once things were going her way, and if she could just manage to hold on to her lead she'd be out of there by the next morning, with enough money to get into a hotel and get her life back.

“Too rich for me,” Mouser said, throwing down his cards. “I'll let you two duke it out. Come on, Henry. It's getting late, and I've got work tomorrow.”

Dillon hadn't moved. “Since when do you work for a living, Mouser?” he drawled.

“Oh, I make an effort every now and then. Henry's going to help me, aren't you, Henry?”

Henry simply nodded, pushing back from the table.

“Aren't you going to cash in your chips?” Jamie asked.

“Tell you what. I wanna see Killer get his comeuppance.” He leaned over and pushed his moderate pile of chips onto hers, then shoved Henry's, as well, without asking him. “Kick his butt, Jamie. I figure any time he gets a beating it's long overdue.”

The door closed behind them, leaving Jamie in the kitchen with the last person she would have chosen to be alone with.

She took a deep breath and a drink of her third beer. It was more than she usually drank, but since there seemed to be no chance in hell that she'd be driving, and Dillon was drinking a hell of a lot more than she was, she figured she could risk it. After all, she was trapped here no matter what—it didn't
make much difference if they were both awake and reasonably alert after midnight.

And she had nothing to worry about. She kept holding on to this absurd belief that some part of him wanted her, when common sense and experience had told her just the opposite. It didn't matter that he made suggestive comments to gauge her reaction—that was just Dillon. He liked to stir up troubled waters, and Jamie's were troubled, indeed.

She looked up at him. “I'm tired,” she said. “Why don't we call it quits? Split the pot and I'll go on up to bed.”

“I don't think so.” He wasn't even slurring after all that whiskey.

“Look, what are we playing for? A dollar a point, right? I have enough to get out of your hair tomorrow—you should be grateful I have the chance to leave you alone.”

“I never do what I should, or feel what I should. The hand is dealt—we'll play it.”

She looked down at her cards. Good enough. They were back to playing five-card stud, and she had a straight, queen high. He'd have a hard time beating that, especially since both Mouser and Henry had had decent-enough cards to ante.

“All right,” she said coolly. “We'll play it.”

“Double or nothing?”

She took another gulp of beer. She wasn't a natural gambler—with so much riding on the outcome she should play it safe.

“Coward,” he said softly. “What are you afraid of, little girl?”