Slow Burn (8 page)

“I didn’t know he purchased a home around
there until the security guard told me. My mother was concerned.
The Doyles are not the nicest of people.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about
that. Vaughn was kind enough to offer me a hand when he thought I
needed it.”

The green monster in him reared its head.
“Vaughn Doyle is a ruthless bastard, Ashley. Just like his
father.”

She stepped away from him. “Not from where
I’m standing. He was a perfect gentleman.”

While he was not, Ron thought with a sigh.
She didn’t have to say it. He hated explaining himself, but in this
case, he owed her that much. “Okay, my behavior this afternoon has
been less than exemplary, I admit. I don’t usually talk or act like
this. This investigation is getting to me. And I wasn’t spying on
you. The security guard was.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

“My mother asked him to keep an eye on the
Doyle’s residence. The fact that he happened to see you and Vaughn
and reported it to me was merely a coincidence. No one was spying
on you.”

She went quiet, her arms across her chest,
her eyes shadowed. He didn’t know what else to say to regain her
trust. “Please, say you forgive my deplorable behavior.”

She shrugged, appearing to accept his
apology. He sighed with relief, then went on to explain. “Ryan
Doyle tried to court my mother after my father died. I don’t know
what he did or said, but she doesn’t like or trust him. She’s not
the forgiving type.”

Ashley nodded. “I realize that. I was fifteen
at the time, had no idea what was happening with my parents and
acted on pure instinct.” She spoke softly as though talking to
herself. Her gaze shifted to the first button on his shirt before
she added, “Maybe it was foolish of me to ask him to save my
parents, but my entire life was in that inferno.” She searched
Ron’s eyes. “I now know what he did was heroic. When I later
learned that he’d died, I wrote letters to your mother asking her
to forgive me.”

“Ashley—”

“Let me explain. Please. I didn’t get a
response from her, but I kept at it for six months. Then she wrote
back, twice.” She waved toward the boxes on the floor. “I was
searching for the letters she sent me before you arrived. Her
forgiveness helped me deal with my grief, Ron.”

Ron didn’t want to disappoint her, but he
highly doubted his mother wrote those letters. He’d grown up
hearing her blame Ashley for everything that went wrong in his
family. Connie Wilkins, her assistant, most likely wrote them. The
woman had been with his mother for almost thirty years now.

“Do you…do you blame me, too, Ron?” Ashley
interrupted his thoughts.

His mother never let him forget the part
Ashley played that night and yes, he had resented her for a while.
But as he had matured and been able to see things realistically,
he’d let go of the anger. “No, I don’t blame you.”

Regret and distress flitted across her face.
“Thank you. I know he’d still be alive—”

“Don’t.” He wanted to step away, but he found
himself cupping her face. Tears trembled on her lashes. He could
feel her body quiver, and in that moment, a connection he couldn’t
explain formed between them.

Her anguish became his, and he was helpless
to stop it from searing through him, twisting his gut and reminding
him of his loss. He hadn’t really mourned his father, not when his
mother had needed him and the accusation and rumors of his father’s
treachery had floated around. His father, the one person who’d
given him unconditional love, and he had been too angry and ashamed
to mourn him, until now. Something closed around his heart and
squeezed.

“Ron?”

His gaze shifted to Ashley face. The anger
and the pain were gone, and in their place was concern. Resentment
came from nowhere, the lingering accusations he’d grown so
accustomed to replacing his pain. He didn’t want her pity. All he
needed from her was a description of what she saw that night.

He stiffened, stepped away from her and
folded his arms across his chest. “My father was a firefighter,
Ashley. He knew the risks involved in his profession.” Her eyes
searched his, as though she could see through his feigned
indifference to the pain and regret within him.

“I’m sorry for putting you in such an awkward
position with my questions. You lost someone you loved that night,
too, and I had no business bringing it all back.”

“Let it go, Ashley.” Why did women insist on
analyzing everything? He was through tiptoeing around. He had to
know if he could count on her. “There’s something else we need to
discuss, the reason I’m here.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then
closed it. A frown settled on her brow. “What is it?”

“I need your input on something.” He pulled a
folded, brown manila envelope from his back pocket and offered it
to her.

She scowled instead of taking it, mistrust
evident in her eyes.

“My mother received them this morning.
Someone left the envelope at her gate. I was at a conference in San
Diego this week, but she called and asked me to come home because
of this. Unfortunately, after going through its contents, she
wasn’t in the right frame of mind to discuss anything with you. I
want you to look at the pictures and tell me what you think.”

Ashley’s suspicious gaze shifted from the
envelope to Ron’s face, then back to the envelope. “What
pictures?”

“Just open it, please.”

She took the envelope, opened the flap and
pulled out the contents. Her eyes widened and a gasp escaped her
lips when she saw the top photograph.

***

“It can’t be,” Ashley whispered. The envelope
and the other photographs slipped from her nerveless fingers and
flitted to the floor, as she sat on the nearest stool.

“What is it?” Unease filled Ron’s voice.
“What’s wrong?”

Everything was wrong. She recognized the
photograph she’d taken ten years ago. It was from a film she’d lost
the night her parents had died. Obviously, someone had removed it
from her camera. But who? Why?

Ron hovered over her. “Talk to me. Knew I
shouldn’t have sprung this on you like this,” he berated himself.
“I should have warned you.” When her gaze stayed riveted on the
photograph, he stepped back, picked up the others and the envelope
from the floor and rejoined her at the counter. “I thought seeing
their picture wouldn’t matter after all this time, but… Talk to me,
please.”

She heard his voice, the concern lacing his
words, but emotions had seized her throat, making speech difficult.
Her eyes bounced back and forth between her father and her mother’s
face. They looked so real, so…so alive. The sparkling eyes, the
full smiles and the love shining from their faces were all
unforgettable. Her hand trembled, as she gently stroked the cold,
glossy paper.

“It’s mine,” she finally whispered, her voice
hoarse and foreign to her ears.

“What?”

She cut Ron a look, and saw the same
confusion in his voice mirrored in his eyes. Biting hard on her
lower lip, she took a deep breath, then another. When she had some
modicum of control, she stared straight at him and said, slowly and
clearly, “
I
took this picture. It’s mine. I want to know who
sent it, Ron.”

“There’s no return address on the envelope or
signature on the letter. What do you mean you took the photograph?”
he asked.

She slanted him an impatient glance. “I
lifted the camera, pointed and shot it.” Her voice was edgy, harsh.
“It was the night of the…,” she swallowed, then her chin went up,
“the night of the fire.”

Ron rubbed his nape, a puzzled expression on
his face. “How’s that possible? How did someone get a hold of them?
It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know.” Nothing made sense anymore,
including why all this was happening to her now. She could accept
Ron’s mother’s hatred, work around Ryan Doyle’s bid, but the sudden
appearance of a picture from the roll of film she thought was lost
threw her off. Could Ron be right? Did someone start the fire?

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of
her nose. Ron was waiting for an explanation. She wasn’t ready to
give one. Scenes from the past flashed through her head. Shopping
with her mother, watching her get ready for a performance,
listening to both her parents rehearse, devising ways to escape the
paparazzi, private picnics in the parks... Then there was that
night. Acrid smell of black smoke choking her lungs, burning her
eyes, scorching hungry flames at the windows, raucous sounds of the
fire trucks…

Her eyes snapped opened in surprise, and her
gaze zeroed in on Ron’s hand on top of hers. She welcomed its
warmth, the comfort his gesture offered. Irrationally, she wished
they were anywhere but in her loft discussing the past. She thought
she would never have to revisit that night.

Ron tugged at her hand to draw her attention.
“I realize this isn’t easy for you,” he said. “If you don’t want to
do this, it’s okay with me.”

“No, no. I’m okay.” Her voice sounded husky
to her ears. Who could blame her? Ron was gently stroking the back
of her hand with his fingertips. Sensation shot up her arm, filling
her with the urge to seek the comfort he was offering, distracting
her from what was important. She slid her hand from underneath
his.

“I wouldn’t put you through this if it
weren’t important,” he said gently.

The low timbre of his voice washed over her,
soothed and cocooned her raw nerves. Yes, this was important. If it
was tied to an arsonist, it was vital. “I know.”

“Good.” He reached under the brown envelope
and pulled out the pictures she’d dropped earlier. He passed her
one, his eyes watchful.

Ashley pursed her lips at the picture of
three of them together. Her mother and father were on either side
of her. “Dad…my father had shown me how to set the camera on a
timer. See?” She indicated the background. “It’s the same room as
in the first photograph.”

Ron gave her the third photograph. She
studied the glossy print. “I took this one outside Carlyle House…I
mean, the Carlyle Club, as it was called then. It was the first
time I saw it. It looked so grand, magnificent, like a castle
straight out of a fairy tale.”

“An exclusive club for the A-list stars was
more like it,” he corrected wryly. “A cousin of my mother’s ran it
at the time. You were probably the only child ever to enter it at
night. I’d been inside it numerous times, but always during the
day, when families used the pool and the restaurant.”

If only she could remember going inside. It
was frustrating, but at the same time, comforting. She knew it was
cowardly of her, but fewer memories of that particular night suited
her just fine.

There was a brief, tense silence. From Ron’s
expectant expression, she knew he was waiting for her to say
something. She’d never wanted to discuss what happened, but
something about the man’s calming presence urged her on.

“It was my birthday,” she finally said,
deciding to tiptoe rather than dive into the horror.

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “The day of the
fire?”

She gave him a weak smile and nodded. “Makes
one wonder what the big guy upstairs was thinking.”

“Damn,” he said under his breath.

Damned was exactly how she felt on her
birthdays. Celebrating, and at the same time mourning, was enough
to throw a kink in anyone’s psyche. But to a child, it was pure
torture. Without her dear, loving Aunt Estelle, she didn’t know if
she could have endured it.

A frown creased her brow when she caught
Ron’s expression. Was it pity or compassion? Pity was the one
emotion she refused to accept from anyone. She clenched her
hand.

“I’ve learned to live with it.” Her tone came
out defensive. “My aunt made everything okay.”

Ron shook his head. “But you’re reminded of
your loss on your birthdays. How can anyone make that okay?”

She shrugged. “By making me have two birthday
parties—one in the morning with my cousins and friends, and another
in the afternoon at the cemetery. I’d pick flowers from the garden,
take pieces of cake and drinks from the party, a cassette player
and a recording of a rendition of the happy birthday song my
parents did while they were still alive. My aunt and uncle would go
with me, wait for me while I talked to my parents.”

Did he think she was loony because she talked
to the dead? She shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye,
expecting to see shock or derision. Relief and something close to
gratitude zipped through her when she saw him nod.

“In the early years, I’d always talk about
the same thing—my birthday party and the presents I received that
morning. Then I’d play the tape and arrange the cakes and drinks by
their graves and leave.”

“That must have been tough.” His voice was
gentle, encouraging.

“At first, yes. As I grew older, it became
easier. I know it is illogical, but I believed they could hear me.
I still do. I always see things clearly after talking to them.”
When she saw the fascinated expression on Ron’s face, she blushed.
“Silly, huh?”

Ron covered her hand with his, again. “No, it
isn’t. My grandmother used to speak with my grandfather all the
time. She once told me that when you truly love someone, you share
a bond that transcends the physical world. I believe her.”

Hmm, interesting. There was more to this man
than a sexy body, a sensual mouth, mesmerizing pair of electric
blue eyes…she could go on forever. She glanced furtively at their
joined hands. It felt natural, yet his large hand swallowed her
smaller one. He was back to caressing her skin, unleashing a storm
of emotions inside her.

She wrenched her gaze away. This was silly.
To find a man totally fascinating was so unlike her. And what were
they discussing before they switched to ‘talking to the dead’?