Consumed by Fire Read online

  “You bastard,” she said in a low, vicious voice.

  If he was disturbed that she’d taken the gun he didn’t show it. “There you go,” James Bishop said calmly. “I was worried you’d forgotten me.”

  “I did my best. It was your self-satisfied smirk that gave you away. What are you doing here, James? If that’s even your name. And what the fuck did you do with my diamonds?”

  The man she’d known as James Bishop watched her, seemingly unconcerned about the gun she was pointing at him. “You may as well keep using that name. It’s as good as any.”

  Damn, she wanted to pull the trigger. She wanted to blow a hole in him the size of the Grand Canyon; she wanted to shoot him with so much firepower that he was blown through the back of her very solid camper. The pistol was nothing but a .22, and while she could probably do some real damage, her ability to kill him even at close range was iffy.

  She looked back at him, not bothering to disguise the hatred she felt. She thought she’d gotten past it. Damn it, she had moved past it. Only to have it dredged up with his shocking reappearance, with the wrong eyes and the wrong hair and the wrong everything. She really wanted to kill him.

  “Why are you here?” Her voice was icy cold. She would have done anything to convince him that she felt nothing, not even anger, but that ship had sailed. “For that matter, how did you find me?”

  He leaned back, watching her out of those familiar-unfamiliar eyes. “Are you going to shoot me?”

  “Maybe.” She kept a hard grip on the gun. “How did you find me?”

  “I never lost you.”

  She almost pulled the trigger at that. It was a good thing for him that the safety was on. She glared at him. “Is there any chance you’re going to explain yourself any time in the next twenty-four hours?”

  “No.”

  She cocked the gun and pointed it at his head. “Leave,” she said in a cold voice. “I don’t want to get blood and brains all over my camper, but I’ll do it, and I’ll bury your goddamned body where no one will ever find you. Either that, or leave you for the scavengers. Save me a lot of trouble and just get out.”

  He looked at the gun, then to her eyes. “Oh, my angel, how you’ve changed,” he drawled, and she pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  His smiled widened. “Really, Angel? I didn’t think you had it in you. You think I’d let you have a gun with bullets in it? I would have taken it away from you if it was loaded. But I have to say I’m charmed that you had the balls to actually try to blow my brains out.”

  “Sentimental, aren’t you?” she growled. She didn’t give up the gun, though.

  “Always.”

  She wasn’t going to ask him again, only to get another oblique answer. She sat very still, watching him as he drank the beer, not touching her own. She felt as if she were in some kind of swirling, Daliesque nightmare, spinning through her formerly safe world. How could he be there, appearing out of nowhere in her camper? Was he even real?

  On impulse she reached out and pinched him, his warm, smooth flesh, and he didn’t flinch. He cocked his head, amused. “You mean your second line of defense after shooting me is pinching me? I think you need a little training in the art of self-defense.”

  “I wanted to make sure you weren’t a nightmare. Though in fact you are—every nightmare I’ve ever had wrapped up into one smarmy man.”

  “Smarmy?” he echoed. “Now that stings, Angel. My charm is one of my very best weapons.”

  “Weapons? Oh, that’s right, your job is so dangerous. You seduce and abandon idiotic young women and take them for whatever they have. I’m surprised you even remember me.”

  His eyes were half-closed as he considered her. “How can I forget my sweet little wife?”

  She glared at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Tsk-tsk. Such language, and from a professor, no less! Angel, you’ve grown bitter in the last few years.”

  “If you call me Angel one more time I will hit you over the head with this beer bottle,” she said evenly.

  He smiled benevolently. “You can try.”

  Bastard. “We’re not married. You may go through the same ridiculous charade with all your marks, but that marriage was not legal and I knew it all along. It’s not that simple to get married in a foreign country—there are papers and forms and waiting periods.”

  “Looked into it, did you? What you didn’t take into account is that with the right amount of power you can cut through all sorts of red tape. We’re married, in the sight of God, the rites of the Catholic Church, and the laws of Italy.”

  He had to be lying. There was no earthly reason for him to actually marry her, and if he had, she was merely one of many, making the marriage polygamous and illegal. “I don’t believe you,” she snapped. “And if by any chance you’re telling the truth for once in your wretched, miserable life, then I’ll get a divorce immediately.”

  “Italian divorce laws are notoriously tricky. You’ll just have to put up with it a while longer. You’ve survived being married for five years—another few weeks won’t harm you.”

  She focused on his last words and her stomach dropped. “Another few weeks?”

  “You and I are taking a trip, Ang . . . my darling.” He eyed the heavy beer bottle warily. “Think of it as a belated honeymoon.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  He shrugged. “Well, be that as it may, but I need to get to New Orleans by Thursday, and we’re using your camper. A number of very bad people don’t want me to make it down there, so I need to use you to get me there. Ever been to New Orleans? It’s a fascinating city.”

  “Fuck you. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  And just like that the danger returned, and the man opposite her truly was a stranger. He was cold, flinty eyed, and he could snap her neck in an instant if he wanted to.

  He didn’t seem to want to.

  “Tell you what,” he said, suddenly affable. “You’ve had a long day. Why don’t you tell me what the hell you have to eat here and I’ll whip us up some dinner. Believe it or not I’m a decent cook.”

  “I’d rather eat poison.”

  “Who’s to say it’s not?” he said sweetly. “I thought I saw some whole wheat pasta and tomato puree.” He made the very dire mistake of turning his back on her as he reached up to the cabinet over the two-burner stove.

  She didn’t hesitate, and flew out of the seat, aiming the unopened bottle of beer at his head. A moment later she was being shoved against the stove, his body hard against her back, and her wrist numb beneath his iron grip. The bottle dropped from her nerveless fingers and she heard it roll away on the floor. He was all heat and lean muscle against her, covering her, and if her brain refused to think about it, her body remembered, and warmed in a despised, carnal response. She shivered, and he stepped back, not releasing her, and she spun around, glaring up at him.

  She wasn’t sure what she expected. A brutal slap, maybe worse. The deliciously wicked lover from so long ago had disappeared, and the man in front of her wouldn’t hesitate. But he merely looked annoyed. “Now that beer will be undrinkable until tomorrow, and it will never be quite as good. You have excellent taste in beer, Angel, but you need to treat your beer with more respect.” He took her other wrist before she could have the sense to hit him, holding both together in one hand as he started to pull her toward the bed.

  That was enough to jar her from her stupor. She started to fight him then, kicking, struggling, and it was a shock to see how easily, efficiently he subdued her. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he muttered, shoving her down on the mattress. “I’m hungry, not horny.” He held her there, looking down at her in the shadows. He wasn’t even breathing heavily, while she was panting from her exertions. “If you promise to stay still and not
make any more ill-advised attempts to club me over the head, I won’t tie you up.”

  “Take your hands off me.” He was forcing her to lie still, and she hated the feel of his fingers digging into her shoulders, the unexpected strength of him.

  “Then do as I say.” There was no compassion in his face, no emotion whatsoever.

  She didn’t hesitate. He probably would tie her up if she gave him any reason. “Okay,” she said, and the moment the pressure lightened, she squirmed away from him to the far side of the double bed. She thought about it for a moment. Stuck here would give her no options—if she were cooking for him there were knives, heavy cans of black beans and tomatoes, frying pans . . .

  “Would you like me to cook for you?” she said in a defeated voice, keeping her furious eyes shuttered.

  He laughed heartlessly. “And let you get at the hardware? I don’t think so. Just relax on your divan like a princess and I’ll make us something. It’s the least I can do.”

  “The least you can do in return for trespassing, involving me in a felony, manhandling me, threatening me . . .”

  “When I manhandle you, you’ll know it,” he said, turning away from her. She had no weapon, so she stayed still, thinking furiously.

  But she did have a weapon. Merlin would be back from his patrol any time now, and he would rip Bishop’s throat out, or at least take a good chunk of it. She’d seen him flatten a man in five seconds when he thought the man was going to hurt her, and now there was a real threat right in front of her.

  She had no choice but to lie there, watching him as he rummaged through the neat little cabinets full of kitchen supplies. She’d forgotten his body. Too bad he hadn’t developed a paunch; if anything he was leaner, stronger, not the elegant playboy with the well-toned body of a gym rat, but . . . the word “soldier” came to mind again. But there was no way someone like Bishop was a soldier.

  She didn’t want to watch him move—it brought back too many memories—but she couldn’t roll over and turn her back on him. She couldn’t let him know how much she remembered, how much it still bothered her. How much it still . . . hurt. He needed to think she was so over him . . .

  Think? It was the simple truth. All she bore for the man was hatred. But it needed to be icy cold, not the scalding rage that filled her veins. She grabbed for one of her pillows, punched it, and tucked it under her head. All right, she could put up with him for now. Merlin would soon put an end to all this.

  And then a horrified thought hit her. “Do you have a gun?”

  He didn’t bother glancing back at her. He was already busy opening cans, fiddling with things. “You just tried to blow my head off with one,” he said mildly.

  “I mean another one. One with bullets?” Merlin could still take him down, but she wasn’t going to sacrifice her dog for her own safety. If Merlin got shot . . . It didn’t bear thinking of.

  “Somewhere. Not on me.” He shot her a swift glance. “Any more questions?”

  “Are you carrying a knife?”

  He smiled then. “Angel, I don’t need weapons to keep you in line—haven’t I just proved that to you?”

  Okay, that meant Merlin was safe to attack him. She was going to get out of this. Maybe she’d find that loaded gun and do what she’d tried to do earlier.

  The memory made her feel slightly ill. It had been instinctive, pulling the trigger, but what if it had been loaded? What if she’d killed him, or even just wounded him? Not that he didn’t deserve it, but she was another matter. She didn’t want the psychic burden of shooting or killing anyone.

  But she could use the gun to corral him. She could tie him up, then abandon him to the coyotes or the wolves or whatever. Let him get all the way down to New Orleans on his own—he would no longer be her problem.

  “You got water?”

  His voice roused her from her bloody thoughts. “I have a couple of gallons in the truck. I was hoping I could hook the camper up, but clearly this campground has seen better days.” Two hours farther on the road was a good campsite with amenities like showers and electricity and flushing toilets. Thanks to the border agent, this abandoned campsite was all she got, and with her unwanted hitchhiker she would have preferred a crowd.

  He nodded, set down the knife he’d been using to cut up an onion, and motioned to her. “Up and out,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not leaving you alone in here while I go get the water, babycakes. I did a thorough search of this place while you were driving, and by the way, you are one fucking lousy driver. I could barely stand as you tore down these back roads.”

  “You aren’t supposed to ride in the camper. It’s against the law.”

  “I broke the law? Oh, my goodness.” His sarcasm was even less welcome. “Get the fuck out of that bed or I’ll join you in it.”

  That was enough to get her moving. “I thought you said you weren’t interested.” She swung her legs over the side of the bunk, eyeing him warily.

  “I never said that. I just said I wasn’t particularly horny. That was before I felt you up against the stove. Now I’m just as happy to take care of either appetite, but I don’t imagine you’d like it much.”

  As a threat, it was pretty damned effective. She shot to her feet, but in the tiny camper he was closer than she realized, looming over her, and the knot that had lodged in the pit of her stomach tightened some more. She moved, the backs of her knees pressed up against the bunk. “After you,” she said with mock courtesy.

  “I don’t think so, Angel. You’re much too impressively dangerous.” He reached over her head and pushed the door open, and in the distance, in the dusk-shadowed woods she could see Merlin’s camouflaged coat.

  She felt a cold triumph. “Certainly,” she said, climbing down the steel steps onto the ground. She could make a run for it—he said he had no gun or knife on him—but the damned man could probably run faster. No, she was going to rely on Merlin, her savior.

  He stepped down after her and closed the door, glancing around him at the campsite, the breeze rustling the canopy of leaves, drowning out Merlin’s race through the woods.

  Merlin cleared the trees, and James’s eyes widened for a moment. It only took that long—he looked, and then Merlin had launched himself across the clearing with an odd growl in the back of his throat, flattening James.

  She quickly moved out of the way, looking for another weapon to threaten him with once Merlin got the bastard subdued. James was trying to fight him off, pushing at him, and Merlin was making that strange noise, not the killer growl but more of an excited whine. To Evangeline’s astonishment James managed to push Merlin off him, rolling over with him, and there were no snapping jaws. She realized with sudden horror that they weren’t fighting: they were wrestling, tussling. Playing.

  “Good dog,” James said, struggling to sit up. Merlin jumped at him again, rubbing his huge head against James’s shoulder and almost knocking him over, and James rubbed that special spot right beneath his throat that made him practically sing in ecstasy. Merlin tried to crawl into James’s lap but he was shoved off. “That’s enough for now, boy. I have to make dinner.”

  He got to his feet, brushing at his jeans, giving Merlin another absent rub as the dog pushed his head against Bishop’s long legs, and he glanced at Evangeline. “Told you he wouldn’t rip my throat out.”

  “What are you, the fucking Dog Whisperer?” she demanded.

  He just smiled as he headed for the truck, Merlin trotting after him happily. He grabbed the two gallon jugs in one hand and pulled the door open. “You want to eat outside? It’s a nice night.”

  “I want you to go away.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you realized that isn’t going to happen? You know what they say when you’re going to be raped—just lie back and enjoy it.”

  A combination of fury and remembere
d horror suffused her. “You disgusting, sexist asshole. You touch me and I’ll castrate you.”

  “Tell you what—I’ll give you a knife and see if you can go through with it. We can try right now . . .” He reached for the button of his jeans.

  “You’re forgetting that I pulled the trigger,” she said with grim satisfaction.

  “Not forgetting, Angel. You looked like you were going to throw up after you realized what you might have done. It’s never easy to kill someone, particularly someone you’ve fucked.”

  “How do you know?” she shot back.

  The look on his face silenced her. He did know. Her con man, faux husband knew what it was like to kill, and the knot in her stomach grew bigger.

  “Personally I think reacquainting yourself with my mighty wang will render you frozen in awe and lust, leaving my balls intact, but I may be overrating my attraction. I’m willing to risk it if you are.” He undid the button with one hand, still holding the water gallons. Merlin, the traitor, was watching both of them, his head moving back and forth, but he was sitting at James’s feet.

  “Stop it.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really?” He refastened the button with a show of reluctance. “Then come back inside and stop asking stupid questions while I cook.”

  “They’re not stupid questions.”

  “They are because you know I’m not going to answer them. Come along, sweetheart.” He crossed and batted her on the butt with the gallons of water. “And bring your silly dog.”

  Merlin no longer seemed much like her dog, but at that he turned and moved over to her, rubbing against her as well. Rubbing James Bishop’s nasty, conniving, deceitful cooties onto her own jeans. “Traitor,” she said, looking down at him. She squatted down, looking into his wise eyes. “He’s a bad man. You were supposed to rip his throat out.”

  “He needs an attack order if he doesn’t recognize an immediate threat,” Bishop said, waiting at the door. “He’s been professionally trained. Usually ‘attack’ or ‘bite’ does the trick, unless he’s been trained in Europe. Then you’d have to figure out what language he was trained in.”