Consumed by Fire (Fire 1)

“If you call me Angel one more time I will hit you over the head with this beer bottle,” she said evenly.

He smiled benevolently. “You can try.”

Bastard. “We’re not married. You may go through the same ridiculous charade with all your marks, but that marriage was not legal and I knew it all along. It’s not that simple to get married in a foreign country—there are papers and forms and waiting periods.”

“Looked into it, did you? What you didn’t take into account is that with the right amount of power you can cut through all sorts of red tape. We’re married, in the sight of God, the rites of the Catholic Church, and the laws of Italy.”

He had to be lying. There was no earthly reason for him to actually marry her, and if he had, she was merely one of many, making the marriage polygamous and illegal. “I don’t believe you,” she snapped. “And if by any chance you’re telling the truth for once in your wretched, miserable life, then I’ll get a divorce immediately.”

“Italian divorce laws are notoriously tricky. You’ll just have to put up with it a while longer. You’ve survived being married for five years—another few weeks won’t harm you.”

She focused on his last words and her stomach dropped. “Another few weeks?”

“You and I are taking a trip, Ang . . . my darling.” He eyed the heavy beer bottle warily. “Think of it as a belated honeymoon.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

He shrugged. “Well, be that as it may, but I need to get to New Orleans by Thursday, and we’re using your camper. A number of very bad people don’t want me to make it down there, so I need to use you to get me there. Ever been to New Orleans? It’s a fascinating city.”

“Fuck you. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Yes, you are.”

And just like that the danger returned, and the man opposite her truly was a stranger. He was cold, flinty eyed, and he could snap her neck in an instant if he wanted to.

He didn’t seem to want to.

“Tell you what,” he said, suddenly affable. “You’ve had a long day. Why don’t you tell me what the hell you have to eat here and I’ll whip us up some dinner. Believe it or not I’m a decent cook.”

“I’d rather eat poison.”

“Who’s to say it’s not?” he said sweetly. “I thought I saw some whole wheat pasta and tomato puree.” He made the very dire mistake of turning his back on her as he reached up to the cabinet over the two-burner stove.

She didn’t hesitate, and flew out of the seat, aiming the unopened bottle of beer at his head. A moment later she was being shoved against the stove, his body hard against her back, and her wrist numb beneath his iron grip. The bottle dropped from her nerveless fingers and she heard it roll away on the floor. He was all heat and lean muscle against her, covering her, and if her brain refused to think about it, her body remembered, and warmed in a despised, carnal response. She shivered, and he stepped back, not releasing her, and she spun around, glaring up at him.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. A brutal slap, maybe worse. The deliciously wicked lover from so long ago had disappeared, and the man in front of her wouldn’t hesitate. But he merely looked annoyed. “Now that beer will be undrinkable until tomorrow, and it will never be quite as good. You have excellent taste in beer, Angel, but you need to treat your beer with more respect.” He took her other wrist before she could have the sense to hit him, holding both together in one hand as he started to pull her toward the bed.

That was enough to jar her from her stupor. She started to fight him then, kicking, struggling, and it was a shock to see how easily, efficiently he subdued her. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he muttered, shoving her down on the mattress. “I’m hungry, not horny.” He held her there, looking down at her in the shadows. He wasn’t even breathing heavily, while she was panting from her exertions. “If you promise to stay still and not

make any more ill-advised attempts to club me over the head, I won’t tie you up.”

“Take your hands off me.” He was forcing her to lie still, and she hated the feel of his fingers digging into her shoulders, the unexpected strength of him.

“Then do as I say.” There was no compassion in his face, no emotion whatsoever.

She didn’t hesitate. He probably would tie her up if she gave him any reason. “Okay,” she said, and the moment the pressure lightened, she squirmed away from him to the far side of the double bed. She thought about it for a moment. Stuck here would give her no options—if she were cooking for him there were knives, heavy cans of black beans and tomatoes, frying pans . . .

“Would you like me to cook for you?” she said in a defeated voice, keeping her furious eyes shuttered.

He laughed heartlessly. “And let you get at the hardware? I don’t think so. Just relax on your divan like a princess and I’ll make us something. It’s the least I can do.”

“The least you can do in return for trespassing, involving me in a felony, manhandling me, threatening me . . .”

“When I manhandle you, you’ll know it,” he said, turning away from her. She had no weapon, so she stayed still, thinking furiously.

But she did have a weapon. Merlin would be back from his patrol any time now, and he would rip Bishop’s throat out, or at least take a good chunk of it. She’d seen him flatten a man in five seconds when he thought the man was going to hurt her, and now there was a real threat right in front of her.

She had no choice but to lie there, watching him as he rummaged through the neat little cabinets full of kitchen supplies. She’d forgotten his body. Too bad he hadn’t developed a paunch; if anything he was leaner, stronger, not the elegant playboy with the well-toned body of a gym rat, but . . . the word “soldier” came to mind again. But there was no way someone like Bishop was a soldier.