Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) (10 page)

"Smurfette. Wake up. We're home." He nudged her again. She shifted, her head turning toward him. Her eyes fluttered open, focused on his face for a split-second, then closed again as a small smile spread across her face.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty. Time to go inside."

She murmured something but still didn't move. Dale sighed then reached in and grabbed her sandals and put them in her lap. He undid the seatbelt then eased one hand under her legs and the other behind her back. Gently, taking care not to jostle her, he lifted her out of the car and straightened, holding her close against him. She murmured something again and wrapped her arms around his neck, her head resting against his shoulder. Trusting.

Dale swallowed, refusing to acknowledge the tenderness that swept through him. He carried her inside and upstairs, readjusting his hold on her as he got her apartment door opened.

Bright light seared his eyes when he hit the switch with his elbow, making him pause. He blinked, then moved down the hallway to the bedroom, pausing for just a second when he entered.

More color, but much softer. Her room was a rainbow of soft pastels, from the hooked rug to the walls, from the thick comforter of the queen-sized poster bed to the sheer panels of its flowing canopy. Completely different from the vibrant explosion of color in the kitchen and living room but still uniquely her.

Dale moved over to the bed and leaned forward, ready to ease her onto the thick mattress. She stirred and tightened her arms around him, her eyes fluttering open.

And staying open.

Her gaze held his, the blue so deep he thought he might drown in them. Then she smiled, a sweet smile that sucker-punched him and left him struggling to catch his breath.

"You're taking care of me."

He didn't know how to react to the words. Was she surprised? Or something else? He couldn't tell, especially not after what she'd said earlier. He grunted then lowered her to the bed. "Did you think I'd just leave you there?"

"No. I knew you wouldn't."

Dale grunted again, probably sounding like the barbarian she thought him to be, then tried to move away. She tightened her arms around him, holding him in place.

"Kiss me."

Dale heard the words, saw her lift her face, felt the heat of her mouth close to his. So close. His heart slammed into his chest as he froze, indecision warring with desire warring with common sense. And then her mouth was on his, her lips warm and soft. She sighed, a tiny little moan deep in her throat. Her tongue darted out, touching the seam of his lips, slow and hesitant.

She sighed again and pressed herself closer, one hand caressing his cheek. Sweet, so sweet. Dale couldn't breathe, was afraid to move.

Such a small kiss, innocent and hesitant and surprisingly decadent. Blood roared through his veins, heated with desire, burning. It took every ounce of control—control he didn't even know he had—to hold himself still. Not to react. Not to take control and stretch out on top of her. Not to shove her skirt to her waist and plunge inside her.

Not to lose himself.

She tried to deepen the kiss, to press herself even closer, making it harder for him to keep hold of his tightly-reined control. He groaned and curled his hands into fists, afraid that if he touched her, he'd forget himself.

Would forgetting himself be so awful? In this case, yes. She had been drinking. What she was doing…it wasn't her. It was the alcohol. He'd be damned, in more ways than one, if he took advantage. He'd be nothing more than the barbarian she had accused him of being.

Smurfette pulled away with a breathy sigh, one mixed with just a hint of frustration. Her eyes fluttered open and she frowned at him, her brows tilted down, a little crease furrowing her brow. Was she actually pouting? Shit, she was. And the expression only made her look cute, which convinced Dale he really must be losing his mind.

"You're supposed to kiss me back."

"Smurfette, if I kiss you back, I'm not going to stop there."

Her eyes widened, the ocean blue becoming darker as her pupils dilated. A small smile teased the corners of her lush mouth. The look tightened something in him, something primitive and basic and too needy.

"That's what I want."

Her words nearly pushed him over the edge, almost made him throw his intentions out the door. His eyes searched hers as tension and anticipation settled around them, heavy. Heady. Primal.

One kiss. Just one kiss. Certainly he could control himself long enough for one kiss. One taste of her delicious mouth.

Dale captured her face in his hands and tilted her head back, his mouth claiming hers. This wasn't a tentative touching of the lips, a shy taste of the forbidden. His tongue swept out, parting her lips and delving into the hot recess of her mouth. Tasting. Learning. Conquering.

But was it conquering when she so sweetly surrendered? When she sighed and twisted her hands into his shirt, leaning into him?

He deepened the kiss, need and passion soaring through him as he lost himself in her taste, in his touch. Her hands uncurled from his shirt as she dragged them down his chest, along his sides.

Down to the front of his jeans, where she cupped the hard length of his throbbing erection. His last shred of decency and control roared to life, unwilling to be swept away in the insanity of the moment. He groaned and pulled away, grabbed her hand and moved it to the mattress. Could she feel the way his fingers trembled? Could she hear the steady pounding of his heart and the harsh rasp of his breathing?

"Melanie, stop."

"But—" He placed a finger over her swollen mouth and shook his head.

"No buts. I'm not going to take advantage of you. When I do finally have you, I'm going to know it's really you and not the wine." He moved his finger and placed a quick kiss against her lips, ignoring the look of shock and disappointment in her eyes. He pushed away from the bed and stood, adjusting himself. Then he pulled back the fluffy comforter and patted the mattress. "Time to sleep. Come on, under the covers."

Smurfette frowned but crawled under them without saying a word. She wiggled on the mattress, getting comfortable, then looked up at him, an odd light in her eyes.

"You called me Melanie."

He couldn't help his brief smile at her look, like she was almost upset that he had used her real name. "Must have been a slip. Now go to sleep. I'll check on you in the morning."

She tilted her head and he wondered what she was going to say now. Then she nodded and flopped onto her back, her eyes closed. A second later, she was softly snoring, her chest rising and falling with the deep steady breaths of sleep. Dale watched her, surprised at the mix of amusement and tenderness flowing through him. He shook his head, calling himself every kind of fool, and pulled the covers over her. Then he walked out of the room, out of her apartment, carefully closing the door behind him before entering his own.

An apartment that suddenly seemed lifeless, colorless, empty.

He shook his head and pushed the thoughts away, adjusting himself once more as he made his way back to his cold lonely bed.

Her head pounded, reminding her of the beat of ancient African warrior drums she had once heard at a demonstration years ago. Only the rhythm was off and the pounding was aching, painful. Decidedly unpleasant, much like the stickiness that coated her mouth and tongue, leaving it dry and icky.

Melanie rolled to her back and carefully opened her eyes. She shouldn't have had so much wine last night. But she had felt so oddly out of place among the laughing noisy crowd. And so oddly out of sorts, knowing she had somehow upset Dale.

And oh sweets! No! Had she really—? Melanie brought her hands to her face and groaned, the harsh sound filled with regret and humiliation as the memory sharpened.

Yes, she had. Melanie had practically thrown herself at him, clinging to him, begging to be kissed. Well of course she had. The thought had been in her mind ever since the day he'd rescued her from the balcony. She had wondered about it, more than curious, and the wine had given her the courage to follow through, to kiss him and touch him.

And he'd turned her down.

How would she ever face him again? Maybe he would pretend it had never happened, pretend she hadn't made a fool of herself. He had been a gentleman about it. Maybe he wouldn't say anything. Except…

She frowned, trying to remember. He had said something, something that had caused excitement to dance along her spine. A promise. Or was it? Why couldn't she remember? She remembered everything else—well, almost; she remembered the embarrassing parts. Why couldn't she remember what he'd said? She thought it might be important, might be something she needed to remember…

The harder she thought, the more her head pounded. Maybe if she stopped trying to remember, it would come back to her. Yes, that's exactly what she would do. Maybe then, her head wouldn't hurt so much.

She rubbed her hands along her face then rolled out of bed with a little groan. Her skirt was twisted around her waist and she impatiently fixed it before stumbling to the bathroom. She refused to look in the mirror, afraid of what she would see.

Tea. Strong green tea with lots of sugar. And maybe some toast, with a little sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on it. She would eat her toast and drink her tea and then get back to work. The angle of the light told her she had slept much later than usual. Thankfully she was ahead of schedule and her most recent painting should be finished today. She could take them to Anna's gallery tomorrow. What would she think of them? Would she like them? Melanie hoped so. They were different than her previous works, different even from the one she was putting on auction. Dark and light and hope and confusion.

Melanie wasn't sure why her style was changing, was almost worried about it. The colors she saw now were so different, almost suffocating her until she got them out and put them on canvas. Like she was trying to tell the world something, trying to tell herself something.

If only she knew what it was.

Thinking about it only made the pounding in her head worse so she pushed everything from her mind and made her way to the kitchen, squinting against the bright light coming through the patio doors.

She was just ready to sit down at her small kitchen table, the tea and toast waiting for her, when she heard the knock at her front door. No, not knock. Pounding. The noise bounced around in her head, echoing the pounding that was already there. Melanie put a hand to her head and moaned, from the pain in her head as well as the realization of who was at the door.

Maybe if she ignored him, he would go away. Maybe he would think she was busy, or that she wasn't home. She didn't want to see him.

No, that was a lie. She did want to see him. She just didn't want to face him.

He banged on the door again, harder. Sweets, could the man do nothing quietly? Did he always have to be so forceful?

The memory of being cradled in his arms as he carried her up the stairs wavered in her mind. Why did she have to remember that, right now? A shiver raced through her, pebbling the skin of her arms, and she hugged herself.

Muttering under her breath, she took a quick sip of the tea, nearly burning her tongue, then shuffled out of the kitchen. She opened the door a cautious few inches, peering up at him through heavy lids. He was dressed in faded jeans and a maroon polo shirt. The sleeves clung to his sculpted biceps and pulled tight across his chest. He looked wide awake and refreshed. And too dangerous for her current state of mind.

His gaze moved from the top of her head to the toes of her feet then back up again, finally resting on her eyes. He blinked and the corners of his mouth twitched. He blinked again, his lips quivering. Melanie narrowed her eyes and frowned.

"What?" Sweets, was that her voice? Quiet and husky, a little scratchy and worn. His lips quivered again, finally stretching into a broad grin that made her swallow back a groan.

"I'd ask how you were feeling but I guess I don't need to."

Her frown deepened and she moved to close the door on him. He was faster than she was because he stepped around her and came inside, heading straight to her kitchen, something in his hands. She glanced at him, looked into the empty hall, then closed the door.

"Well, at least you're eating something, that's good. I would have skipped the cinnamon and sugar, though." He barely looked at her when she moved into the kitchen. He was standing at the counter, mixing something together. She almost asked what he was doing then decided it wasn't worth it. She would just sit down and drink her tea and eat her toast and ignore him, pretend he wasn't there.

It was like ignoring a sleek panther crouched inches away, ready to pounce.

Where had that thought come from? A panther? Melanie took a sip of tea then nibbled her toast, frowning. The man in her kitchen was nothing like a panther. Yes, he was dangerous, in ways she couldn't put into words, only recognized by instinct. Not a panther, though. A panther was sleek and powerful and would move in silently for the attack before you could see it. Her neighbor was…well, definitely powerful. She had noticed that the very first time she had met him, had been aware of it almost instantly on some deeper level where her self-preservation lived. Sleek? No. He was too rugged to be sleek, too roughly hewn and chiseled to be considered sleek.

Silent? No, she was certain anyone would see him ready to attack. The man in her kitchen would want that, would want his prey to know it was being hunted. He'd want to play with it, to make the conquering a challenge.

And goodness, what was she doing? No more cheap wine, and certainly not in excess. It only made her mind meander into meaningless tangents that were completely out of character for her.

"Drink this."

"What?" She looked up, surprised to see him standing next to her, big and strong and capable. He held a glass of some unappetizing concoction in one hand, and two small pills in the other.

"What is it?"

"Just drink it. You'll feel better."

Melanie leaned back in the chair, trying to put distance between them. It didn't work because he merely leaned forward, getting closer. "It's just aspirin and a hangover cure, that's all. Now come on, drink it. You'll feel better."

Melanie scrunched her nose in distaste and shook her head. "I don't want to."

"You don't want to feel better?"

"No, I don't want to drink it."

He chuckled, the sound deep and somehow comforting. He placed the glass in her hand, his hand over hers so she wouldn't drop it. "Same thing. This and the aspirin will make you feel better. Come on, bottoms up."

Melanie glanced at the liquid in the cup then took a hesitant sniff. It didn't smell too bad. Maybe. Kind of like tomatoes and something else, something just a little salty and spicy. She looked up at him, still frowning, then took the pills from his hand and popped them into her mouth. She raised the glass and took a sip, swallowing the aspirin. Another sip, then one more.

The taste finally hit her. Bitter and sour and vile and…she shivered, not wanting to drink anymore. But he was still holding the glass, speaking soft words of encouragement, tilting it against her mouth so she had to either drink it or wear it.

She finished the last of it then sputtered and gagged. A deep breath helped settle her stomach. That, and a long swallow of the tepid tea. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand then glared at him. Her mood wasn't helped when she noticed the small smile on his face and the laughter in his eyes.

"That was…that was vile. Hideous."

"Hair of the dog, Smurfette. Trust me, you'll feel better in no time. Now why don't you go jump in the shower? That'll help, too."

"No. I don't want to." Maybe she sounded like a small child. She didn't care. The only thing she cared about was getting that awful taste out of her mouth.

She drained the tea then pushed away from the table, opening the refrigerator to pull out the pitcher of flavored water. Cucumber and mint. Surely that would help. It would probably even help her head.

She poured a glass and took several long swallows, watching him over the rim. He was leaning against the counter, his arms folded across that broad chest, a crooked grin on his face as he watched her.

"Feel better?"

Melanie placed the empty glass in the sink and shook her head. "No. It was vile. I think you're trying to poison me."

The change in him was instant. Shocking. And frightening. One second he had been standing there, relaxed and comfortable with amusement dancing in his eyes. And then…then he looked like a completely different man. A stranger. He straightened, rising to his full height, his arms by his sides and his hands clenched into fists. His face hardened, his jaw turning rigid and his mouth compressing into a thin pale line. And his eyes…the look in them frightened her. Hard. Cold. Distant and unforgiving. The darkness she had sensed in him from the very beginning exploded around him, drowning out the vibrancy of his other colors until there was nothing left but an empty void of pure blackness.

A different man stood in front of her, one she didn't recognize. One she would cross the street to avoid if she had been out walking. Melanie pressed a hand against her stomach and took a hasty step back, wondering what had happened, wondering at her sanity because she wasn't running from the apartment, screaming for help.

In the time it took her to blink, the darkness receded. Still there, but not as dangerous, not as encompassing. His hands uncurled and the hardness in his face eased. He looked away and shook his head, took a deep breath and looked back at her. For a brief second she thought she saw pain, raw and anguishing, in the depths of his eyes. But only for a second because he blinked, shielding any emotion she might have seen.

He stepped toward her, his eyes holding her prisoner as he came even closer. The heat from his body brushed against hers, filling her mind with images of flames, burning, searing, hotter than any inferno imaginable.

He opened his mouth and she waited, wondering what he would say, wondering at the flash of pain she saw in his eyes. Then he closed his mouth and shook his head and turned and walked out of the kitchen. The sound of the door closing, just a soft click, echoed through her apartment. A second later she heard a louder sound: his own apartment door, slamming shut.

Her body suddenly came to life and she hurried out of the kitchen, her hand on the door knob before she realized what she was doing.

What
was
she doing? Had she really been ready to go after him? But why?

She must truly be insane, to even think about going after him after glimpsing the danger that dwelled within. Insane to think he wasn't a danger to her. Insane to feel certain, deep down inside her, that he would never hurt her.

Not to feel. To know.

Melanie pulled her hand away from the knob, surprised that her fingers were trembling, surprised that her heart was beating so loud, so fast. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, seeing the look of anger and pain and guilt that had flashed in his eyes.

She took another deep breath and gave her head a little shake, then made her way to the bathroom. A shower, maybe a long hot soak. She needed to clear her head, to put the man next door firmly from her mind.

For her own peace of mind.