Connelly's Flame

Megalodon Team:

Connelly’s Flame

By

Aliyah Burke

CONNELLY’S FLAME

Aliyah Burke

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Connelly’s Flame

Copyright (c) 2007 by Aliyah Burke

ISBN-Print: 1-934057-75-4

ISBN-Ebook: 1-934057-74-6

Cover art & design (c) 2006 by Jinger Heaston

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the

U.S. Copyright Law.

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3

CONNELLY’S FLAME

Aliyah Burke

So this is what it feels like to be at the end of your life.

The car careened out of control, spilling hot coffee all over the dark-haired man behind the wheel

burning his leg. A burn that soon faded from memory. As the vehicle crashed through the guardrail along the

isolated highway to flip down the snow-covered embankment, the relatively short life of its driver flashed

before steel gray eyes.

Ross Murdock Connelly wished he would just be able to see the love of his life one more time. He

knew he had been driving too fast along the slick roads but the desire to see her overcame his normal sense.

To be able to hold her in his arms one more time. So he had taken this supposed shortcut, an idea that seemed

pointless as he grew dizzy from the revolutions the car made.

As he was tossed from the vehicle he lost consciousnesses. Waking in the snow moments later he felt

rather than saw the incinerating blast that engulfed the totaled vehicle. The swirling winds covered the sound

of the explosion as the metal ripped apart and flew into the night sky.

“Charmane,” his injured voice muttered as his eyes closed again, submitting him to the pain free

world of oblivion where a beautiful face with sparkling doe eyes beckoned to him.

4

CONNELLY’S FLAME

Aliyah Burke

“Where the hell is that smoke coming from?” the scratchy voice asked the interior of her vehicle.

“I’m the only one that lives up this way. For that matter, who the hell is traveling on this road this time of the

year?”

The old Land Rover was moving about five miles an hour. Even at night the smoke was obvious,

billowing across the beams her headlights made as they cut through the snow and wind. As the dented

vehicle passed the broken guardrail, she knew.

“Damn it,” she swore as she stopped as carefully as she could. Setting the brake, she turned the heat

to high and began to shove her body into the thick coat and other winter accessories that had been eagerly

discarded the second her body was warm enough in the car.

Fighting the wind and snow whose chill cut right through the thick layers of clothing she wore,

Dezarae Phoenix Kerry began to yell into the night. “Hello? Hello! Is anyone down here?”

Struggling to slip only a minimal amount, she gazed through slitted eyes as she approached the

wreckage. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Gathering the thick coat tighter against her body, she realized that if

there had been anyone in the car, they were dead now. Still, she looked around.

By some miraculous stroke of luck Dezarae found her eyes drawn to what looked like a human lying

face first in the snow, illuminated by the burning glow of the car. Eyes watering from the stinging force of

snow pellets, she struggled to get to him.

“Are you okay?” she screamed only to have her words whipped away into the night. No response.

Kneeling beside the body, she touched the shoulder and asked again. Nothing.

The person lying there was a man. A large man wearing only a long-sleeved shirt and pants. No

jacket or anything. “How the hell am I going to get you up the hill?” she muttered as she cleared away the

snow from his face so he could breathe. Then she checked for a pulse; he had one.

****

Dezarae noticed his body shivering and, without a second thought, took off her heavy wool coat and put it

over his body.

“Mister. Come on, wake up!” she yelled down by his ear. Even through the layers of clothes she

wore she immediately felt winter’s bite down to her bones. “Can you move?” Dezarae knew the dangers of

moving an accident victim but he would die out here if he didn’t move. Her teeth began to chatter.

“I’m here,” a gravely voice said.

Thank the good Lord.
“Can you move? Do you think you can help me get you up? Or does it feel

like you have a neck injury?”

“I can move,” he rasped.

“Okay, slowly now. I will help you.”

Inch by tortuous inch, the man moved. Dezarae felt her eyes grow wide as she looked at his body.

Dear Lord, he is fine and big.
As he managed to get to his hands and knees, she helped him slip the coat on.

It barely seemed to fit him while it engulfed her.

Dropping into the snow, Dezarae slipped under his shoulder to help support him.
He smells like

leather and spices.
Shaking her head she waited for him to drop more of his weight on her.
Come on man,

I’m freezing here.
“I can help you. Let’s go.”

Almost reluctantly, it seemed, he let her have some more of his weight. As he got unsteadily to his

feet they began the climb up the hill. The farther up they got, the more of his weight she supported.

“Good thing I am not a weakling here, Man,” she mumbled under her breath. “You weigh a lot more

than it looks like you would.” Dezarae had never been so happy to see her car.

Opening the door, she helped him into the back and just kind of pushed him in. He toppled over to

the side and, after making sure his feet were in, she shut the door to move to the other side and drag him

across the seat so he was almost stretched out. Then it was back to the tailgate to grab another blanket to

cover him with.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, she allowed the warmth to seep into her body. Taking a drink of her

now-lukewarm coffee she pulled off her gloves, wiped her eyes, and began to drive home. She glanced back

frequently at the man in her backseat. He had apparently drifted back into unconsciousness.

5

CONNELLY’S FLAME

Aliyah Burke

Pulling into her garage, she turned off her vehicle and got out. “Good work today, Old Man,” she

said as she patted the green door affectionately. Dezarae moved to the back and opened it.

The man lying there had a cut on his head. He had dark hair that was cut short. A face that was

beginning to show the signs of a shadow seemed sad. Thick black lashes rested against his cheeks.

Cocking her head to the side, Dezarae smiled as she looked at him. He was very handsome. And in

danger of getting pneumonia if she didn’t get to work. “I don’t know who you are, Mister, but you have to

wake up again.”

“I’m awake,” that deep voice grated although the eyes never opened.

“Sit up and we will get you inside where it is warm. Come on,” she insisted.

Like before, he moved slowly. But this time there was no wind, snow, or hill to fight. So it didn’t

take long before she was helping him into her bed dressed in only his boxers.
Great, I find a man and he has

a damn rebel flag tat on his chest as a backdrop for an anchor. Damn, he is fine, even with that tat; I hope he

doesn’t get frostbite.

She gazed over his limbs and didn’t see any signs of it, but time would tell. It was important now to

get him warm. Dezarae covered him in her blankets and thick comforter before she left to change into dry

clothes herself and make him something warm to drink.

Finally warm, dry, and comfortable, Dezarae slipped back into her bedroom to check on her ‘guest’.

He had drunk the cup of broth she had made for him but she wanted to wake him up every now and then. His

head injury was cleaned and bandaged and, as she looked at him, she saw he was sleeping comfortably.

Gathering up his wet clothes, she searched for any kind of identification and couldn’t find a single

thing. No wallet, nothing.

“Well,” she whispered as she took his clothes out of the room and put them in the washer. “I sure

hope you aren’t a serial killer.” After the load was set, she returned to her room.

“Wake up,” she said softly. Nothing. Fearing the worst, Dezarae reached down to pat him on the

cheek. “Hey,” she spoke in a normal tone. “Wake up.”

The second her hand landed on his stubbled face, her wrist was caught in an ironclad grasp.