Consumed by Fire

  The camper jerked and swung hard to the left, and Evangeline let out a grinding moan. At least they were on a paved road now, though it wasn’t in the best shape. Bishop—she couldn’t think of anything else to call him and that asshole got tiresome—was driving like a bat out of hell. She had no idea her elderly truck was capable of such speeds, particularly when pulling her ancient camper.

  It was pitch dark in her bunk. They didn’t pass any streetlights, or other cars for the matter, and the darkness was a cocoon, exacerbated by the bonds. She could hear things crash in the cabin as he went over bumps, took corners too fast, and she closed her eyes, praying the trailer wouldn’t whiplash and come loose, sending her over some cliff.

  She took a deep breath, and then another, trying to center herself. She’d learned proper breathing as well as yoga after she’d left Pete. It had taken her too damned long to figure out that she couldn’t change anyone else, couldn’t change men. She could only change herself and her reaction to things.

  So she lay in her bunk and breathed calm, steady breaths; slowly her body relaxed, sinking into the plush mattress she’d treated herself to when she’d bought Annabelle. She visualized the breath flowing through her body, she visualized every joint, every muscle, every inch of her body relaxed and at peace. She pictured James Bishop tied to a tree so she could have target practice. And then, unbelievably, she slept.

  She woke slowly, her eyes fluttering open. Some time in the night they’d stopped moving, and if she could judge by the light filtering in through the curtain, it was early morning, just a little past dawn. She tried to sit up, forgetting she was trapped in her bunk, and she fell back in frustration. Her entire body hurt, but most of the pain was focused in her shoulders, and she bit back a cry of pain. As she began to see more clearly, she realized Bishop had converted the dinette into a bunk, and was asleep there, with Merlin lying on the mattress beside him.

  That put her over the edge. “Hey, Bishop, or whatever your real name is,” she called out.

  He didn’t move. He would have been exhausted after driving through the night, and she didn’t give a damn. “Bishop!” she said again.

  He remained motionless, though Merlin had lifted his head, alert.

  “I heard you.” His voice came from the bed. He didn’t sound particularly tired, just long-suffering, and she wanted to snarl. If anyone was suffering, it was her. “I was hoping you’d take pity on me and let me sleep.”

  “Pity isn’t in my vocabulary.”

  “And you’re a college professor!” he mocked, turning over.

  She ground her teeth. “What the fuck are you doing with my dog?”

  Merlin jumped down, pacing the small length of the camper to press his cold nose up against her face, whining.

  “He didn’t like the duct tape. Neither did I.”

  “You could have cut me free.” Too late did she realize what she’d said, and she scrambled. “So Merlin could join me, not you.”

  He sat up, his lean body silhouetted in the early-morning light, and she watched as he rose and worked the kinks from his body. The convertible dinette made a cramped bed, and he was a tall man. At least there was some justice in this world.

  He paused by her bed, looking down at her. “Do you have to pee?”

  Jesus, what a question! “No,” she snapped.

  “You always did a have a bladder like a camel’s,” he said affably. “We’re about two hundred miles from Bear’s Claw, and this isn’t a formal campground, which means the wood’s our toilet and the river’s our bathtub. Since you’re in no particular hurry, I’m going to clean up. You got towels?”

  “Not for you.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I have no problem with nudity if you don’t.” He was out the door before she could protest, but Merlin stayed where he was, sitting on his haunches in the guard position she was used to.

  “Great good that is,” she said to him, her voice full of affection. “He’s the one you’re supposed to be protecting me from.”

  Merlin gave her that look. It was one uniquely his, one she’d never seen on another dog, a canine expression that roughly translated to “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I don’t suppose I could talk you into chewing through the duct tape?” she said.

  Merlin’s whine could have been expressing his regret. She sighed. He’d simply met another alpha dog—it wasn’t his fault. “Give me a kiss, baby,” she said, and Merlin licked her nose with his long tongue, snuffling at her with sympathy.

  She needed the sympathy. In her annoyance she hadn’t realized just how much she had to use the facilities, or lack thereof. Bishop would take his own sweet time, and in the meantime all she could do was lie there and try to figure out what the hell was going on.

  She had very little to work with. Her thieving gigolo of a phony husband had popped up out of nowhere, in the middle of the wilderness, with a gun and a ruthlessness that was a far cry from the slow-burning sexuality that had once kept her in such a haze of desire that the rest of her brain had stopped working. He’d given her some cock-and-bull story about keeping her safe and matters of life and death, and she wondered if he was batshit insane. Why the hell had he shown up now? Could she believe a damned thing he said?

  She already knew the answer to that. He was made of lies, and there was no way she could ever trust him. She couldn’t outthink him—he was too flat-out ruthless. She wouldn’t put anything past him, including using that gun on her.

  She flinched at the horrible memory of pulling the trigger. It had been a moment of sheer rage, all the hurt and betrayal and misplaced love exploding in one violent moment. What if the gun had been loaded?

  He’d called it. She’d be cleaning his brains off the dinette. She hadn’t been able to think of any way to threaten him, any leverage. So she’d pulled the trigger—he’d known perfectly well how horrified she’d been at her own action. He knew she wouldn’t carry through with it again, not unless her life was in danger.

  Oddly enough, she didn’t think she was in any danger from Bishop. Sane or not, lying or truthful, he wasn’t going to hurt her. Physically, that was. He’d already hurt her so much in every other way that there was nothing else he could do to her.

  She also wasn’t going to play along with whatever fantasies or lies he was spinning. Since she couldn’t fight him, and she didn’t even consider the option of asking, of begging him to go away and leave her alone, then her only choice was to run. She could make it in the woods on her own for a good long time; she could walk to civilization no matter how long it took her. Anything that awaited her in the woods was less threatening than the return of James Bishop.

  “So what are you going to do, baby?” she said to Merlin. “Are you coming with me, or staying with that slimy bastard? And if you stay, are you going to rat me out?”

  Merlin looked at her out of those wise black eyes, but his answer was anyone’s guess. She suspected he’d come with her—he was still in his protective mode, even though he seemed have a case of love at first sight with Bishop. She couldn’t blame him there—the same disease had hit her long ago in Italy, much to her shame.

  Bishop took too damned long doing whatever he was doing, and she was ready to scream in rage when he finally opened the door and climbed in. She’d been sure he’d be naked, but he was fully dressed in clean clothes, similar to the ones he’d been wearing. His blond hair was wet, but he hadn’t bothered to shave, and his stubble looked good on . . . what the fuck was she thinking?

  He tossed a backpack onto the dinette/bed and paused by her bed, an eyebrow lifted. “Still got an iron bladder?”

  “If you don’t cut me free I’m going to pee in the bed and I’ll make you sleep in it.”

  “Kinky.” He already had a knife out, one that was far too big for the job, and it was all she could do to keep from flinching as it slid against
her skin. She suspected he did it deliberately—the flat blade of the big knife a subtle caress against her, and she wanted to jerk away. If she did she could get hurt, so all she could do was lie perfectly still as he cut the bonds away, finishing up with the tape wrapped around her ankles. He caught her arm in one large, strong hand, pulling her upright to get at her bound wrists, and despite her best efforts to keep still, she cried out in pain.

  He frowned, but said nothing as her hands were suddenly free. She wasn’t even aware of the tape ripping away from her skin—the pain in her shoulders was blinding, and she closed her eyes and sucked in her breath, trying to still any more sounds of distress.

  She felt his hands on her shoulders, and much as she wanted to jerk away, she couldn’t. He was kneading her flesh, his thumbs pressing into the joints, a slow, sure massage that was working out the knotted muscles that had felt frozen. Feeling rushed back to her arms like an army of fire ants covered her skin, and she let out a little yelp. His hands slid down her bare arms then, rubbing, and the memories of Venetian nights overwhelmed her. She forced her eyes to open.

  Big mistake. He was too close, and he was looking at her from those damned sea-blue eyes that were so wrong yet so familiar. Suddenly he stopped, looking at her, so close, too close, and he was going to put that gorgeous mouth on hers, and she had no idea what she’d do if he did. Would she kiss his damned lying mouth back? Or would she sink her teeth into his tongue?

  She didn’t find out. He dropped his hold on her and got up from the bed, moving away from her as if she had rabies. “Go ahead and use the facilities,” he said, as if they hadn’t shared a tight, yearning moment.

  Maybe they hadn’t. She was nothing to him, nothing but a mark, and he’d been everything to her. She climbed out of the bunk, stiff and sore, and moved carefully, holding on to the bed for support. “If I want to wash can I trust you not to look?”

  His derisive laugh made her remember the missing .22 fondly. “Feel free to prance around the camp in your birthday suit, Angel. I’m going to explore the area—take your time. I’ll leave Merlin on point.”

  “You’re expecting an enemy attack?” Her voice was derisive.

  He ignored her question. “Don’t make the mistake of trying to run. Merlin won’t let you.”

  She doubted it, but she wasn’t about to say anything. Merlin had had her back since he showed up on campus, and even if he irrationally adored Bishop, he still knew who his real master was.

  She yanked open the drawer beneath her bed, pulled out clean clothes and a towel, and left the trailer before she could be tempted to say anything more.

  The clearing was small, the sound of rushing water off to the left, hidden by the woods that surrounded them, and she made a beeline for the thickest growth, relieving herself with a groan of relief. She rose from her uncomfortable position, her legs unsteady, and gathered up her amenities. She had a bottle of Campsuds in the truck, and getting clean would go a long way toward restoring her equilibrium. It was a lot easier to feel hopeless and defeated when you were tired and dirty and sticky. And hungry. She’d been a fool to throw her plate at him last night, she realized. She needed to keep her strength up if she was going to have any chance against him.

  The river was little more than an enthusiastic stream, but it was swift moving and the water was cold, even in the little pool it had formed. She glanced around, but there was no sign of Bishop, or Merlin for that matter. If Bishop was watching, then he could go ahead and get an eyeful. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, though her body had changed in the last five years. She was stronger, leaner, tougher. She’d lost any softness in her skin, and in her soul.

  She stripped off her filthy clothes and stepped into the waist-deep pool, shivering as goosebumps covered every exposed inch of her flesh. She hadn’t brought a washcloth with her, so she squeezed the biodegradable soap into her hands and began scrubbing her body, washing away his touch, washing away the grime of the last few days. She’d really counted on the campground showers, but this would just have to do.

  Even her scalp itched. At the last minute she ducked her head underwater and scrubbed it with the soap. As a shampoo, Campsuds left a lot to be desired, but the unpolluted water would go a ways toward softening her hair. Her shorter hairstyle had its advantages, but she no longer had the option of braiding it into submission.

  She waded out of the stream, shivering, and grabbed her towel, rubbing it briskly over her cold body, when something made her pause. Someone was watching her. It was no surprise—she never considered that Bishop would be trustworthy.

  But it didn’t feel like Bishop watching her. Bishop wouldn’t lurk in the wood—he’d just walk boldly into the clearing and make comments about her body while she tried to dress.

  She was imagining things. They were alone out here in the middle of nowhere—she didn’t have any idea where they were, if they were even still in Montana.

  It was only then that she realized Merlin hadn’t reappeared. He was probably patrolling, but the knot in the pit of her stomach grew. She wouldn’t have thought her situation could get any worse, but she suspected it was about to.

  “Merlin!” she called, out, whistling for him. “Here, boy!”

  There was no answering crash through the underbrush. Merlin had excellent hearing, and if he were anywhere nearby, he’d be pounding his way back to her. All she could hear was the sound of the stream behind her, the soft rustle of the wind through the leaves.

  And she was standing there in her birthday suit, instead of getting her goddamned clothes on like someone with a particle of brains. Knotting the towel around her for added security, she reached down for her underwear—suddenly an arm snaked around her waist, trapping her arms against her body.

  It wasn’t Bishop’s hard body. This man was almost as tall, but he wasn’t as strong-looking, and he was dirty, smelling of stale sweat and garlic. “I wouldn’t scream if I were you,” a low, vicious voice whispered in her ear, and she realized that there was a knife against her neck, one that would give Bishop’s blade a run for the money.

  Evangeline froze. “What did you do to Merlin?” Her voice came out in a choked whisper.

  “Fuck your dog. It’s your partner I’m interested in, and I don’t need a big-ass German shepherd getting in my way. You think I don’t recognize a trained attack dog when I see one? You just behave yourself and after I take care of Edmunds you can go on your way.”

  It had only taken her a moment for her panic to subside enough to recognize his voice. It was the surly border guard from the day before, the one Bishop had driven like a bat out of hell to escape. Apparently he hadn’t driven fast enough.

  “If you’ve hurt Merlin I’ll kill you,” she snarled.

  “You and what army? Just be glad I’m not going to kill you.”

  That was a lie. He was going to kill Bishop, or Edmunds, or whatever his name was, and then he’d kill her to tie up loose ends. She didn’t want to die, and to her shock she realized she didn’t want Bishop dead either.

  Think, Evangeline, think. The man was too strong—she’d never be able to break free. If she were fully dressed, wearing her boots, then maybe she could have kicked him, but for all intents and purposes she was bare-assed, and for some reason her almost nudity made her feel weak, unable to fight back.

  Which was crap. She was just as strong, just as smart with or without her clothes, and if she couldn’t beat him with her body, she could use her brain. “Do you have to hold me so tight?” she complained. “I can barely breathe.”

  He didn’t loosen his iron grip. “You’ll survive.”

  No, she wouldn’t. She had to get him talking. Was there any chance in the world she could play Mata Hari, seduce him into carelessness? Not hardly likely—even Bishop was no longer interested in her, and for all his lies and treachery, there’d been no doubt that his desire for her had been rea
l.

  “What did you do. . . ?” she began, and the sharp, slicing pain in her neck silenced her. She could feel the blood sliding down her chest, dripping into the towel, and she wondered whether he’d cut her throat, whether she was about to bleed out.

  “Shut the fuck up,” the man said. “Or I’ll make sure you never say another word.” She could still feel the steel pressed against her, and she let herself feel a moment’s relief. Death might be imminent, but it wasn’t there yet. “Where’s your friend gone off to?”

  “Now how can she answer you when you told her you’d cut her throat if she talks?” Bishop’s lazy voice seemed to come from nowhere, and she jerked, trying to see him, but there was no one around.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” the man holding her said in a singsong voice that was chilling. “Unless you want me to cut her throat right in front of you, you’ll come out with your hands in the air.”

  “Now why would I do that?” Bishop drawled, his voice coming from another direction. “You’re just going to kill me.”

  “Don’t you want to save your lady friend?”

  “You’re a sick bastard, Clement, and we both know it. She’d be better off if you cut her throat—a quick, clean death. I wouldn’t want to leave her behind for you to take your time with her.” The voice had moved again, now to their left.

  “If you say so, old friend. I can always find someone to play my games if this one has to be sacrificed. You have any last words for her? You want to tell her you love her? Give her the lie so she can die happy?”

  “How do you know it’s a lie?” came the voice, and the man Bishop had called Clement turned, pulling her with him, the knife blade still resting against her neck, as he peered between the brush.

  “I’ve known you for years, Edmunds. People like us are missing something. We can’t love, we don’t feel guilt, and we do what needs to be done. You need to die, and if she won’t work to draw you out, then she’s of no use to me.”