Into the Fire (2 page)

“Easy enough to do,” he said carelessly.

“C'mon, man. We're finished our game, anyway. We can't play two-handed, and I don't think Tomas is going to be in any shape to play cards for a while.” He stepped out into the alleyway, a short, skinny little man, smaller than her own average height. He probably wouldn't weigh more than one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. Less than she did. If there was one thing she didn't possess, it was a scrawny ass.

“I'm Mouser,” he said. “And your name's Janie?”

“Jamie,” Dillon corrected. “Jamie Kincaid. Nate's sister.”

Mouser took an instinctive step back from her, looking rattled. “I didn't know he had any sisters. I thought he hatched from a snake's egg.”

“Cousin,” she said, startled. “We were brought up together.”

“Then you knew what he was like,” Mouser said, nodding. “Just ignore Dillon. He gets like this when someone cheats at cards, especially when they do it badly. It insults his intelligence. That's why we've got Tomas over there in the mud. He's not going to make you stand out here in the alleyway and freeze to death.”

“Who says?” But with that caustic remark Dillon moved back inside. Leaving the door open behind him.

“That's as close to an invitation as you're gonna get,” Mouser said. “Better get moving before he changes his mind and locks us both out in the snow.”

The room beyond the door was hot and smoky, and Mouser closed the door behind her, shutting out the cold. Shutting off escape.

The place was a mess. They'd been playing poker around an old table, and chips and cards lay scattered on the floor. Two chairs were overturned, bottles of beer lay spilled on the floor, and Dillon stood in the corner, smoking a cigarette and looking at her out of hooded eyes.

She stifled a cough. The room was a sty, but what else would she expect of someone like him?

“So you're Nate's sister,” Mouser said, getting a better look at her in the smoky light. “Not much of a resemblance, is there?”

“Cousin,” she corrected him again. “We were just brought up together. And I'm adopted.”

“Lucky you,” Mouser said obscurely. He glanced up at Dillon. “Maybe I'll just leave you two together to relive old times.”

“Not likely,” Dillon said.

“Well, then, to work out your differences. Be nice to her, Killer. It's not every day you have a pretty waif show up on your doorstep. Be a hero for a change,” Mouser said, his voice stern.

“Jamie'll tell you that's not in my nature. Scrape Tomas off the sidewalk on your way, will you? I don't want any more complications tonight. She's enough.”

“Will do. But I'm warning you, I expect to find her safe and happy next time I see her,” Mouser said.

“She'll be safe enough,” he said. “I can't be responsible for ‘happy.'”

“Funny, that's not what your women say,” Mouser murmured.

“In case you hadn't noticed, she's not one of my women,” Dillon snapped.

“Oh, I noticed,” Mouser said in a cheerful voice.

“I notice everything. Don't let him browbeat you, Jamie. He's mostly bark and very little bite.”

That wasn't what she remembered. But the door closed behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the smoky, trashed room.

He moved then, picking up the overturned chairs on his way to the sink. They were in a kitchen of sorts, with a microwave, a hot plate, a tin sink and an old refrigerator. Which would undoubtedly be filled with beer. The old oak table in the center of the room took up most of the space, and he had to come way too close to her to reach the sink. He made no effort to avoid her, and she had to stumble back, out of his way.

He was washing the blood off his knuckles, and she stared at his hands. They were big hands, strong, with a webbing of little nicks and scars. His knuckles were skinned—it hadn't just been his victim's blood. He didn't seem to react to any pain—he just rinsed the blood off and dried the raw knuckles with a paper towel. He tossed it in the overflowing trash can by the sink, but it missed and floated down to the floor in a lazy, graceful swirl.

He turned then, leaning against the sink to look at her, letting his eyes run from the top of her head to her wet, aching feet.

It was very nice of Mouser to call her a pretty
waif. She couldn't disagree with the waif part, but “pretty” was pushing it. Particularly right now, when she hadn't slept for two days, wore no makeup, and her pale brown hair straggled around her face. She'd never been Dillon's type, thank God, even at her best, and at her worst she was definitely safe. If anyone could be safe around Dillon.

“You can spend the night,” he said abruptly. “It's after three, and I'm not in the mood to haul your car out of a ditch. Tomorrow I'll get someone to tow it here, I'll fix it, and you can get the hell out of here.”

“You'll fix it?” she repeated.

“I'm a grease monkey, remember? I can fix any car. I just don't happen to have a tow truck. I count on other people to drag them to me.” He opened the fridge, but to her surprise she couldn't see any beer. They must have drunk it all. “I suppose you came to collect Nate's stuff. Fine with me—it's been just taking up room.”

“Then why wouldn't you send it?”

“Couldn't be bothered.” He took a carton of milk, opened it and drank.

She wondered what he'd do if she fainted. She was tempted—she couldn't remember the last time she ate, and after her long, cold walk she was too
hot, dizzy, ready to collapse, and he hadn't even offered her a chair. She should walk to the nearest one and sit, but for some reason she couldn't move.

She realized he was looking at her again. His eyes were just as cold, just as blue as she remembered. “You look like shit,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He pushed away from the sink. “Come on. I don't feel like carrying you upstairs if you pass out.”

He was more observant than she realized. There were at least three closed doors leading off the small kitchen. He opened one to reveal a dark, narrow flight of stairs.

He took them two at a time. She hauled herself up with the handrail, slowly, knowing he was waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

He didn't move out of her way when she reached the second floor. He moved to take her arm, and she jerked away from him in sudden panic.

She could feel nothing beneath her—she was falling, and she was going to break her neck on these rickety stairs, and then what would her mother do, and what the hell did she care, and…

He caught her arm and yanked her back onto solid ground. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” he snapped.

He was very strong. Stronger than she remembered. She'd have bruises on her arm.

“You can let go of me now,” she said.

“And have you take a header down the stairs? I don't think so.” He moved down the hallway, dragging her after him.

The bare lightbulb overhead did little to illuminate their way. The place smelled of gasoline and cooking and all sorts of other smells she didn't even want to think about. He pushed open a door and pulled the string from overhead. The light didn't come on.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Stay here.”

At least he let go of her. She stood in the hallway, waiting, while he disappeared behind another door. When he came back he was carrying a sleeping bag and a small lamp. He pushed past her into the room, and in a moment the light came on. He'd plugged it in and set it on the floor next to the mattress that lay there, the only thing in the small, bare, dismal room.

He tossed the sleeping bag on the mattress. “You'll have to make do with that. The bathroom's down the hall. You want something to sleep in?”

“I'll keep my clothes on.”

His smile was cool and fleeting. “I'm sure you
will. Go to sleep, Jamie. Tomorrow you'll be safely on your way home.”

And before she could respond he closed the door, shutting her into the tiny, empty room.

 

Someone was there, in the huge old building. He knew it without seeing, without hearing. Knew that someone had finally come, to break him free from the stasis that had held him
.

Was the newcomer afraid of ghosts? He didn't want to scare whoever it was. Not yet, at least. First he had to see if they were of any use
.

And if they'd help him kill Dillon Gaynor. He'd been waiting too long. It was time for Dillon to pay
.

J
amie found the bathroom, a mixed blessing given its condition. She never could figure out why men were such utter pigs—it must have something to do with that extra chromosome. The only towel in sight was a dismal shade of gray, so she simply used her hands to wash her face, then glanced up at her reflection.

Waif, was it? At twenty-eight years old Jamie Kincaid looked much as she'd always looked. Pale skin, gray eyes, hair an indiscriminate shade between brown and blond.

She pushed her hair away from her face, staring at her reflection thoughtfully. Good bones, good skin, even features. Nothing to write home about, but nothing to be ashamed of, either. She was never going to attract the kind of dangerous attention from the wrong kind of man. The only reason Dillon had known of her existence was because of her cousin. If it hadn't been for Nate he never would have no
ticed well-behaved Jamie. They'd hardly run in the same crowd in high school.

If you could even say he'd
been
in high school. There had never been anyone at home to make sure he attended regularly. His mother had left when he was young, and his father had died in a drunken car crash when Dillon was sixteen. He'd dropped out just before graduation, and there'd been some story that had been effectively hushed up. Maybe he'd gotten someone pregnant, though that seemed a relatively mild offense. Beaten someone, been arrested? All she knew was that the school and her family were furious with him, Nate was amused, and Dillon, when she saw him from a distance, defiant.

He was still defiant. Living in this rattrap, living his marginal existence. It was probably the best he could manage with his alcohol and drug problems. The addictions hadn't yet made their mark on his face. He still looked very much like he'd looked twelve years ago, with a few lines added for interest.

As if he needed anything to make him more interesting. Jamie shivered, turning away from the mirror. This was harder than she'd expected, and she'd expected it to be tough. Seeing him again brought all sorts of feelings back, unwelcome mem
ories flooding through her mind, through her rebellious body. He made her feel young and vulnerable again, just by being there. She'd been a fool to come.

She'd leave, first thing tomorrow. As soon as her car was up and running. He wanted her out of there, and she wanted to go. She'd grab Nate's things and take off. Dillon wasn't going to give her the answers she needed. She should have remembered that much about him. He never gave up anything he didn't want to.

No lock on her bedroom door, of course. Not that it would have made any difference—as far as she knew she was alone in this old building with Dillon, and he wouldn't let anything as flimsy as a lock get in the way of what he wanted. And why in hell would he want her?

She shut the door, anyway, then picked up the lamp and held it over the mattress. It was thin, stained, but there was nothing crawling on it, and she was so bone tired she could weep. If she were in the habit of crying. She shook out the sleeping bag, unzipped it and crawled in.

And immediately scrambled back out in a panic, knocking the lamp over. It was an old down sleeping bag, and it smelled like Dillon. Like his skin, an ineffable scent that was unmistakable and dis
turbing. Almost…erotic. She couldn't possibly sleep with that thing around her—it was like being wrapped in his embrace.

She sat on the thin mattress, shivering. There was no way she could attempt the long drive back home, no way she could escape without sleep. And no way she could sleep without some kind of cover.

She stretched back out on the mattress and pulled the sleeping bag over her. It settled against her like a silky cloud.

There was no escaping him, not that night. She'd chosen to walk straight into the lion's den—she might as well accept it.

Tomorrow she'd be gone. Come to her senses. If her mother needed more answers she'd have to hire a private detective.

Nate was dead. Nothing would bring him back, and right now answers, justice, even revenge seemed too dangerous a quest. Maybe when she'd gotten some sleep she'd see things differently, but she didn't think so. One look into Dillon Gaynor's cold blue eyes reminded her of just how dangerous he could be. And she was a woman who valued safety.

She turned off the light, and the room was plunged into a thick, inky darkness, punctuated by a blinking neon sign somewhere beyond her win
dow. He hadn't given her a pillow, and there was no way she was going to go looking for one. She punched her sweater into a ball and put it under her head, pulling the sleeping bag up to her chin.

He was everywhere. Beneath her, above her, surrounding her. There was no fighting it, not now. She closed her eyes and remembered.

Twelve years ago

It was a beautiful late spring night in Rhode Island when Jamie Kincaid grew up. She was sixteen years old, privileged, beloved, living in a dream world with nothing more to worry about than grades and dates. Grades were no problem—as her cousin, Nate, always told her, she was too smart for her own good.

And dates weren't usually an issue, either. She'd had a pleasant, nonthreatening boyfriend who'd done no more than give her a few closedmouthed kisses, and when he dumped her on the eve of the junior prom she was more annoyed than hurt. She had the dress, she'd worked on the committee, she had every intention of going, anyway, and dragooned her cousin Nate to take her.

Nate was more a brother than a cousin. He'd lived with his aunt Isobel and uncle Victor for the
last nine years, since his parents had died in a fire. Jamie was an only child, and she'd always wanted an older brother. And ten-year-old Nate was a dream come true for young Jamie.

She still adored him, though nine years together had worn off some of the novelty. But then, everybody adored Nate—he was incredibly handsome, with a dazzling smile, dark eyes, silky black hair and the kind of rugged body that made him perfect for sports and teenage fantasies. He was beloved by teachers and students alike, his surrogate parents, and most especially by his besotted cousin, Jamie.

“What's up, kitten?”

Jamie looked up from her spot on the floor. The pale pink prom dress billowed out around her, and she wondered if unshed tears made her makeup run. Being dumped wasn't worth crying for. It was just…annoying.

She managed a crooked smile. Her cousin Nate hated emotions. With his easy charm he breezed through life, and he preferred those around him to do the same, and since Jamie adored him she did her best. “I just got dumped. Zack told me he was breaking up with me and taking Sara Jackson to the prom.”

Nate shook his head. “Great timing. I could have
told you Zack was a loser. Want Dillon and me to go beat him up for you?”

Jamie controlled a little shiver. Her cousin was only kidding, but when it came to someone like his friend Dillon Gaynor there was no telling what might happen. “Don't bother. I'll get revenge sooner or later.”

“I suppose you still want to go to the prom? Forget it, precious! I may love you like a brother, but I'm not going to take you to a high school junior prom. I've already suffered through one once.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn't ask you. I'm not going.”

“So what are you going to do? Aunt Isobel and uncle Victor have already gone out, and I've got plans with Killer. Wanna come along?”

Killer was Nate's affectionate name for his lowlife friend Dillon. Unfortunately there were times when Jamie wondered whether or not it was a bit too appropriate. “That's all right. You don't want a sixteen-year-old tagging along after you. I'll be fine. There's a book I want to read….”

“Nope,” Nate said flatly. “You aren't going to miss out on your prom to curl up with a good book. You're coming with us. Time to visit the wild side of life. See how the other half lives. Try a little danger.”

“I'm not big on danger.”

“Your big cousin will be there to protect you,” he said. “And Dillon will make sure nothing happens to you.”

“Like I trust him?” she scoffed.

“Trust who?” Dillon said, lounging in her doorway.

That was only one of the things she didn't like about him. He always walked in, appearing out of the blue. He seemed to know when her parents were gone—Victor and Isobel Kincaid neither liked nor approved of Nate's friend, and he was wise enough to make himself scarce when they were around. But anytime they were gone he'd be lounging in front of the big-screen TV, eating their food, smoking cigarettes, watching her out of his cool, insolent blue eyes. When he bothered to pay any attention to her at all.

“My little cousin thinks you're a dangerous man,” Nate said with a laugh. He was a few inches shorter than Dillon, dark hair to Dillon's bleached-blond shag, sunshine and good nature to Dillon's mocking deference that always bordered on rudeness. It was no wonder her mother disliked him.

“She's right,” Dillon said, looking down at her. “So are you ready?”

“I'm trying to talk Jamie into coming with us.
She just got stood up, and I thought it was time to broaden her horizons.”

She half expected Dillon to object, but he simply looked at her and shrugged. “If you think she's up to it.”

“She's my biggest fan,” Nate said. “She'd never rat us out. Besides, Jamie can be your date since you don't have one.”

“No!” Jamie said, her horror overriding her usual courtesy.

If anything, Dillon seemed more amused than offended. “I don't need a date where we're going. I think you're asking for trouble here, Nate.”

Nate's smile was wide, the kind that won over friend and foe alike, clouded men's minds and women's, too. “But you know I love trouble.” He reached out a hand to Jamie and pulled her to her feet.

“She's not wearing that,” Dillon said.

“Killer, you are no fun at all,” Nate protested. “I think we should show up at Crazy Jack's with my cousin the prom queen.”

“I don't think this is a good idea,” Jamie said nervously.

“Of course it is. Go change into something sexy. Dress like a bad girl for a change. Wouldn't you like to be a bad girl, just once?”

“Not particularly.” She cast a wary glance up at Dillon. He tended to ignore her, and she'd probably exchanged maybe a dozen words with him in her entire life. “What do you think, Dillon? Should I come with you guys?”

She should have known she'd get no answer from him. “Suit yourself. Just hurry up.”

She was crazy to do it. Her parents only tolerated Dillon because of Nate, but there was no way they'd approve of her going out with them. Dillon came from the wrong side of the tracks, and his behavior befitted his upbringing. He'd already spent three months in juvie for stealing cars, and no one had any illusions that he'd changed his ways. He'd just gotten more careful.

Jamie could never understand what Nate saw in him. Maybe it was his to-hell-with-you attitude. Nate charmed everyone he came in contact with, needing their approval; Dillon didn't care one way or another. He just did what he wanted and let the chips fall where they may.

And she was going out with him. Well, not with him, really. She was just tagging along with her cousin and Dillon and as soon as they got to Crazy Jack's, wherever that was, he'd find someone to keep himself busy. Nate would look after her—she trusted him with her life.

The prom dress ripped slightly when she yanked it over her head. She tossed it in the corner, found a pair of jeans and a big white shirt. She buttoned it up high, just so Dillon didn't get any ideas, and headed back out to the sound of their voices before she could change her mind.

They were in the kitchen drinking beer. Her father wouldn't like that one bit—the boys were only nineteen and one of them would be driving. Dillon was to blame, of course. Maybe after tonight Jamie would have some kind of idea of what Nate saw in him. And if she did, maybe she'd help her parents figure out how to get Nate away from such a dangerous influence.

“That's better, precious,” Nate said approvingly. Dillon said nothing, draining his beer.

“We'd better get going. Rachel will be pissed.”

“Who's Rachel?” Jamie asked. Maybe Dillon had a girlfriend, after all. In fact, he was very good-looking. A polar opposite to her cousin, he was tall, blue-eyed, teenage skinny with endless legs. He had the best cheekbones she'd ever seen on a man, she had to admit that much. And the kind of mouth a susceptible girl might find attractive. If she liked danger.

“Never you mind about Rachel,” Nate said fondly. “She's nothing serious. Just for fun.”

“Is she your date or Dillon's?” she asked.

“Carry these.” Dillon shoved a six-pack of beer into her arms. “And you've forgotten. You're my date for the night.”

She looked at him warily, not certain whether he was kidding or not. With Dillon you could never quite tell.

Her only choice was to ignore him. She wrapped her arms around the beer, hoping the white cotton of her shirt would disguise her bundle, and followed them out into the driveway.