Consumed by Fire (Fire 1)

“You. Me. This was supposed to be a one-night stand.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, it isn’t. Go to sleep, Angel. We’ll figure this out in the morning.”

She pressed against him, feeling like a lazy kitten. “Why do you call me angel?”

It took him so long to answer that she was almost asleep by the time he spoke. “Your name’s Evangeline. You’re not an Eva, a Vangie, or a Lina. Angel seems to fit.”

She felt a stifled burst of laughter. “After what we just did? I think I’m going to burn in hell. I’d better go back to the church and confess my sins.”

Did he stiffen, just a little bit? No, she was imagining it. “No,” he said. “We’ll find a church in Venice.”

That was enough to make her lift her head to turn and look at him. He was looking sleepy, at ease, as if he’d made up his mind about something. She wrinkled her brow. “Why should we find a church in Venice?” she asked.

“To get married, Angel. We’re getting married.”

Chapter Four

Bishop heard Evangeline’s soft laugh before she sank back against him, and a moment later she was asleep. He really wanted to roll her over on her stomach, take her from the back, right then, but she was worn out, and he’d give her that. She clearly didn’t have a lot of sexual experience. That, or she’d had phenomenally lousy lovers. Maybe both. He hadn’t met anyone who was squeamish about going down on him, but he really knew very little about her. Maybe she was a religious fundamentalist. No, scratch that—she’d certainly liked his mouth between her legs. So had he. Keeping her in a kind of thrall would be easy enough. Getting her to marry him would be relatively simple. Love at first sight, he’d tell her, with a rueful expression, and she’d believe him.

It was a drastic solution, but the only one he could think of. There were few hard-and-fast rules within the ultra-secretive Committee, even under Peter Madsen’s more reasonable rule, but one that held firm was that no one could kill a spouse. Only the operative himself. Occasionally there had been instances where people had married an infiltrator, intent on destroying the covert organization from the inside, and it had been up to that operative to take care of things. It had never been a problem.

But otherwise family members were off-limits, and if Claudia broke that rule, the punishment would fit the crime. She’d have no choice but to keep away. Claudia might be enraged, but she’d accept it. She knew the rules, and no one argued with Peter Madsen.

It would take a few phone calls to arrange things in Venice, but with Madsen pulling strings, it would be easy enough to cut through the red tape. He looked down at her, sleeping so peacefully in his arms. Marriage was nothing—it was simply another tool in an operative’s arsenal. He knew of many who’d married half a dozen times, none of them legal. He would marry anyone the Committee told him to. He knew that marriage and family and a normal life were no part of his future, ever. If a legal marriage to Evangeline would keep her alive, it was no skin off his ass. He hated collateral damage, particularly when it involved women or children, and he’d do anything he could to prevent it. If marrying Evangeline was the only solution, then he had no compunctions, though it wouldn’t have been his first choice. He didn’t expect it would make any difference in his actions in the future—he’d never be able to maintain a normal marriage, not with his disaster of a life, so bigamy wasn’t a problem.

It had to be legal, or she’d still be fair game. And they had to stay married, or Claudia could still go after her. He knew Claudia well, and she wouldn’t give up easily—she could hold a grudge for years. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to keep Evangeline with him, tell her who and what he was. No, he was simply going to sweep her off her feet, remove her from this town before she realized anything had happened to her old friend Mr. Corsini, marry her, and jilt her.

It was a pain, but it shouldn’t take more than a couple of days, and it had amazing side benefits. He hadn’t fucked such an innocent in . . . hell, he didn’t know if he ever had. It was going to be . . . enjoyable to teach her.

He pulled her pliant, sleeping body closer, the noisy, weak fan making little progress against the heat. It didn’t matter. His throbbing hard-on didn’t matter. He’d have to get her out of here early, but he could let himself sleep for a few short hours, his body wrapped around hers. He had a plan, and it was almost foolproof—he’d never make the mistake of thinking anything was totally without risk. He’d have a busy couple of days of bureaucracy and sex, and then back to business as usual.

He breathed in the scent of her skin and smiled against her flesh. He’d consider it a vacation, the first he’d had in four years. He let his lips drift against her temple. She was going to be quite a treat.

Three days later Evangeline rolled over in the huge bed in their suite at the Hotel Danieli, stretching luxuriously. She had no idea where the sheets and covers were—they’d kicked them off during the night—and she didn’t care. For the first time in her life she liked her nudity. She felt sleek and catlike, her hair was a cloud, not a rat’s nest, her body well loved and marked by him. It was nothing compared to the bite mark on his shoulder. She’d drawn blood and never realized it, and now it was a dark bruise.

It should have made her sick, but James liked it. He’d wanted her to bite him again if she felt the need to scream, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d smothered her cries against his chest, against the pillow, against the mattress. She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face against the sheet as she remembered. God, where had her brain gone? All she could think about was sex; all she could think about was James.

The last three days had been insane. He’d insisted on leaving Villa Ragarra at the crack of dawn, before anyone but Silvio was up. The clothes they’d left in the bathing room had been washed and dried and were waiting for them, neatly folded, at the front desk. James had tried to pay her bill but she’d emerged from her sex-dazed haze to insist it go on her own pathetic credit card. Then they’d headed off into the sunrise, taking the surprisingly powerful Fiat, and she’d slept beside him, not questioning anything. She’d been fully prepared to argue if he brought up the idea of marriage again, but when he woke her up, they had already parked in the Piazelle Roma, at the very entrance of Venice, and it was time for breakfast. He somehow managed to find something more substantial than the usual pastry and coffee favored by the Venetians, and then she found herself in a small church off the Campo Manin, with a kindly looking priest waiting for them.

She’d been too astonished to protest at first. And then James had kisse

d her, hard, said “Trust me,” and she did. It was a ceremony, an act, but nothing legal or binding. It couldn’t have been. They would have had to jump through hoops to do that, and James had assured her they’d have a real ceremony when they got back to the States. She’d gone along with it, not protesting, blinded by emotions she was hesitant to name.

She couldn’t really imagine it. Couldn’t imagine her stiff parents reacting to her impulsive behavior, her sister taking one look at James and erupting in jealousy. It was a game, a dream, one she was afraid would end sooner or later, but in the meantime she had every intention of living the dream in their luxurious suite at the Hotel Danieli.

She’d told him how ridiculous it was—they had three rooms and they never left the bed, even for room service—but he’d insisted, and her protests had turned to a silly distraction, and they were laughing and making love again, doing things she’d never considered doing.

This was the first time she’d woken in the huge bed and he hadn’t been with her. She yawned, glancing at her wedding ring. At least there he’d been sensible—it was pink glass from Murano, narrow and pretty. He assured her he’d replace it with something more substantial when they got back to the States, but she was never going to let this one go. For one thing, she’d have a hard time doing it—once on, it had stuck. But it symbolized the strange, abrupt, fragile beginning for them, and she would always cherish it.

“James?” she called sleepily. There was no answer, but Evangeline didn’t move. He must be in the bathroom that was larger than many New York City apartments. She had no idea what time it was, she wasn’t even sure what day it was. They had all blended together.

In fact, she was feeling a little achy and sticky. A nice long shower would be lovely, unless James was taking advantage of the marble bath that was big enough to hold four people. They’d used it once already, and she wouldn’t mind trying it again, except that she was hurting. Her body wasn’t used to all this activity.

She climbed out of bed and peered into the bathroom. He wasn’t there, but there was another, equally elegant bathroom on the other side of the living room, and he might have gone there so he wouldn’t disturb her. She walked across the magnificent parquet floor to the other side, unconscious of her nudity, but that bathroom was empty as well. He wasn’t anywhere in the suite.

She ignored the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. He probably knew she needed a break, and he’d gone out so he wouldn’t distract her. Besides, he’d ignored his cell phone, ignored messages that had been slid under the massive double doors to the suite. He must have decided now was a good time to catch up on things while she slept.