Consumed by Fire (Fire 1)

He’d seen photos of her, surveillance video. There’d never been a time when he hadn’t known exactly where she was and who she was with. The only time he’d seen her from a distance was at her wedding to that asshole. He could have told her the guy was a fuckhead, but of course he didn’t go anywhere near her. If Madsen even knew Bishop had been there he would have blown a gasket. But Bishop couldn’t let Evangeline get married without getting a good look at the man.

Part of him had really hoped he’d be a decent human being, an all-American good guy who’d love her and treat her the way she deserved to be treated, who’d give her a safe life full of love and babies.

His delight in knowing Pete Williamson was a sneaking, lying asshat told him he wasn’t even close to getting over her, and he’d kept his distance for the next three years, doing his best to avoid the photos that were passed on. Knowing she was safe was good enough for him.

But she wasn’t safe anymore. He wasn’t about to tell her that—he wasn’t about to tell her anything more than he absolutely had to. The less she knew the better—this time when he disappeared she wouldn’t be in any danger. He was going to make sure of it, no matter what the price.

She was practically vibrating with rage as she lay tied up on the bed, and damned if he wasn’t even more turned on. He’d never seen her furious, but for some reason he found it encouraging. It was a sign she could take care of herself. When she had pulled the trigger to shoot him in the face, he could have kissed her.

She’d be all right, once he took care of things. Until then, she was going to have to put up with him, and learn that resistance was futile. He laughed to himself. Even after all these years, the life he lived, he was still a Trekkie.

He took his empty plate to the tiny sink, then grabbed her plate from the floor and added it in. He glanced over at her. “You got a dishwasher?”

It was supposed to annoy her, and it did. “That would be you,” she said.

He cleaned up efficiently enough, heating water on the stove and methodically washing everything he’d used. He dried it all and put it away, then turned to his little problem.

Shit. He would have given ten years off his life to climb into that bunk with her. Unfortunately, kinky bastard that he was, he even liked the Mickey Mouse bondage. Touching her like that was probably the last thing he should do, for his sake and hers. Just that moment of shoving her up against the stove had left him with a hard-on that hadn’t subsided completely.

God, he needed a shower. He’d been in the woods for weeks, hiding out until Corsini’s men had given him up for dead. It took a lot more than that to kill him, which they’d find out soon enough. Unfortunately somewhere along the way they’d discovered Evangeline’s connection to him, which doubled her risk, and he knew they’d been looking for her as well. Otherwise he would have left Canada through Washington and returned to his current persona, Charles Edmunds.

He wasn’t going to get pissy about it—life had a habit of throwing curves, like the time she’d walked into the church where he’d just assisted in an execution. It would have been so much simpler if she’d never been there, never seen what she’d seen. He still hadn’t decided if he would have preferred that simpler version of life.

Fortunately it wasn’t up to him to decide. He leaned against the sink and looked at her. Her hair was in her face—he’d always loved her soft, flyaway hair, and he wanted to push it out of her eyes. He didn’t.

“Well, don’t you make a lovely little housewife?” Her voice was caustic.

He grinned at her. No matter what happened, she wasn’t going to give up easily. “I was a Boy Scout.”

“I don’t believe you. Boy Scouts don’t seduce and rob helpless women, they don’t kidnap them . . .”

“You’re hardly a helpless woman. If it had been your choice, you would have still been scrubbing my brains off the dinette.”

She shuddered, trying not to show it. He was okay with her reaction—violence was difficult to process, especially if you weren’t used to it. He still knew she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger again if she felt threatened.

He pushed away from the stove and leaned over the bed platform, resting his arm against the overhead framing, staring down at her. Deliberately intimidating. “I’ve got one question.”

“Why should I answer yours? You don’t answer mine.”

“You get one, I get one. Go ahead.” He was being stupid. His question was so reasonable and so important he shouldn’t waste time with her. But he couldn’t resist.

“Okay.” She glared up at him, not hesitating. “Exactly who are you? Because even though you bear a resemblance to the man I met in Italy, you aren’t the same man.”

“That one’s too easy, Angel.” He loved watching her stiffen every time he called her his pet name for her, the name he’d only spoken on rumpled sheets smelling of sex. “My real name is James Bishop, and I’m your husband.”

“Liar.”

“It’s not my problem if you don’t believe me,” he pointed out. “Now for my question, and it’s important. Did you tell anyone at the border crossing where you were headed?”

She looked up at him, her delectable mouth stubborn, and for a moment he was distracted, remembering the feel of her mouth on his skin. Ignoring it, he leaned over her, all menace. “I’m going to need an answer, and I don’t mind what I have to do to get it. The truth would be a good idea as well, considering your life is at stake as well as mine.”

She looked startled. She still hadn’t figured out what kind of world she’d suddenly stepped into, just as she hadn’t known in Italy. He couldn’t protect her completely this time, though, and trying to might mean the difference between life and death. She had to know he wasn’t playing games.

“Yes. I told the asshole who was giving me such a hard time. I bet he was one of your friends, holding me up so you could sneak into the camper.”

He pulled back. “Shit,” he said in a low voice. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

“Not a friend, then?” she said. “So unfasten me and we can go.”