Consumed by Fire (Fire 1)

She didn’t want to. For some reason it felt like crossing some border, past the point of no return, and she held back for a moment. It was a waste of time to hesitate—he’d simply overpower her—but something held her back.

“You want me to carry you across the threshold?”

That was enough to move her. She walked carefully to the door, trying to disguise her limp, and reached for the handhold, pulling herself up into the wonders of Annabelle’s cousin.

Chapter Eleven

Inside, the RV wasn’t much bigger than Annabelle had been when you took the front seat into account. The U-shaped dinette was on the right side of the camper, as well as the stove and sink, followed by an angled door that signaled a bathroom at the end. On the left side was a single bed, more kitchen equipment, a chair on the other side of the door, and a bed platform above the front seats. They were fairly standard features, except that everything inside was brand-new, and state of the art, instead of rusty and broken-down as the outside suggested. There was also a built-in flat screen with machines beneath it, and she suspected it wasn’t for watching movies.

He gave her a little shove from behind, and she almost stumbled. Merlin, being much more of a gentleman, waited for her, then paced past her and stood guard behind the driver’s seat. Bishop followed her in and shut the door behind her, closing them into utter darkness.

It happened so fast she couldn’t control it. From out of nowhere panic clamped down over her like a smothering blanket, freezing her in place.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Bishop demanded.

She pushed back against him, suddenly desperate. “I have to get out of here,” she said breathlessly.

“Too fucking bad. This is your home for the next few days and I . . .”

“You don’t understand,” she choked out. “I can’t breathe. I have to . . .”

He opened the door, and she rushed past him, forgetting the pain in her leg. She tripped and landed on her knees on the hard dirt, but it didn’t matter. She could breathe, and she felt the warm night breeze begin to wash the clamminess from her skin.

Merlin was making distressed sounds, but Bishop must have ordered him to stay in the RV. He was looming over her in the darkness, and she knew she should get to her feet, to lessen the height difference and her own horrible sense of powerlessness, but she couldn’t. What the hell was wrong with her? She was strong; she didn’t suddenly fall apart like this.

Bishop was looking down at her, and she could sense his irritation but she didn’t give a damn. “Since when have you been claustrophobic?” he drawled. “I’m not in the mood for games, Angel.”

She was having trouble talking as well as breathing, and it took her a moment to find her voice. “Never,” she gasped. “It just hit me.”

“How convenient.” He reached down and hauled her up, and she managed to get her feet under her. His hands were tight on her arms. “You’re getting in there and you’re going to behave yourself or I’ll tie you up again, and this RV comes equipped with more advanced things than duct tape.”

She’d gotten at least a portion of her self-control back. “I’ll be all right.” At least she hoped so. She had no idea where this sudden panic had come from. Not that she didn’t have a dozen or more reasons, including the man beside her. Apparently the human mind and body could only take so much stress before cracking open.

There was a quarter moon in the clear night sky, giving her enough light to see him, his eyes glittering. He was a total stranger. He was the man she loved. The knowledge hit her like a sledgehammer to the heart.

He said nothing. A moment later he scooped her up, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her back into the darkened camper as if she were a sack of potatoes. He tossed her onto the bed at the back with even less care, but the mattress was thick and cushioned, and Merlin immediately paced over and took his position by her head. “Move again,” Bishop said, “and you’ll regret it.”

He stalked to the front of the camper. She tried to breathe through her tight throat, forcing calm on herself bit by bit as she heard him start the engine. It purred like a Jaguar. Who the hell was he? What kind of person had something like this at his fingertips?

He pulled onto the road and took off at his usual breakneck speed, faster than any Winnebago was supposed to go, and Merlin flopped down on the floor beside her. She knew better than to try to get him up on the bed with her—he’d always refused to. He was standing guard, even if he allowed himself to lie down, but damn, she wanted to comfort herself by burying her face in his fur.

She turned to face the side of the RV. The window just above the bed wasn’t curtained, and air-conditioning was blowing through the unit. At least in this vehicle he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t see her, couldn’t sense her in the darkness as long as he was driving. She turned her face against the wall, dry-eyed and desperate.

If she could cry, it would make things better. This happened occasionally—the tension, the anger, the grief and betrayal would build up until she felt helpless, and the only way to break the emotional roadblock was to put on the saddest movie she could find and weep buckets over some fictional character. Beaches, Steel Magnolias, any Nicholas Sparks movie . . . Any of them could break the dam and she’d be fine.

All she could do now was lie in this bed on top of the thick mattress and shiver, not from the cold, but the blocked, conflicted emotions. Her only respite was common sense.

She shouldn’t have any emotions about her current situation, much less conflicted ones. The magical appearance of the deceptive RV was one more bit of proof that Bishop wasn’t the gigolo and thief she’d presumed him to be. Her diamond earrings were small change when it came to equipment like this.

And a petty thief, or even a grand thief, would hardly be able to dispose of a man as quickly and efficiently as he had with the man who had been sent to kill him. And her.

Who was James Bishop? Who was he working for? The little bits and pieces he’d told her made no sense. Given his ruthlessness when dealing with Clement, why had he bothered coming after her? They weren’t married—she knew that much, no matter what he said. He was just playing mind games with her, and he was very adept.

Who was he? What did he want? For that matter, what had he wanted with her in the first place? She was an adjunct teacher on a bare-bones research trip and she had no delusions about herself. She was no troll, but Bishop, with his almost sublime beauty, was supermodel territory.

She closed her eyes. Merlin whined softly, sensing her distress, but it wa

s quiet enough that Bishop wouldn’t hear. Would he drive all night? Probably—he was more machine than man. She’d just have to survive—she was holding on by her fingernails, and the pit yawning beneath her was terrifying. There wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.