Consumed by Fire (Fire 1)

He glanced back at her again. Her hair had come loose, that familiar cloud of coppery brown, and he wanted to bury his face in it. She smelled so damned good, so familiar. She smelled like coming home.

He needed to remember he had no home, and never would. It had been his choice, a logical one. Most of his family were long dead, he had no siblings, and because his father had been in the military, they’d moved so much that there was no place on earth he had any ties to. He was the perfect Committee operative—a lone wolf with no connections, nothing to hold him back or make him think twice. He was a weapon, albeit a very advanced, skilled weapon, and setting up the New Orleans office would be a piece of cake. Just as long as he got Evangeline safely

stowed and out of his life forever. That was all he asked of a fate that had never treated him too kindly. He needed her gone.

He kept driving down the flat, endless roads, and it was almost a relief when he started having to deal with traffic. It meant he was nearing the Dallas-Fort Worth area, and the abandoned farmhouse that the Committee had used a few years ago. No one knew about it except the few operatives under Peter Madsen, and most of them would have forgotten it. It would be a place to unwind, to hide out, and there were half a dozen bedrooms in the place, which meant he could keep his distance from Evangeline.

All he had to do was piss her off enough that she wouldn’t let him anywhere near him; then he could spend the night doing what he had to do—checking in with Ryder and Madsen, making sure his journey to the old house in the Garden District was still an option. He could hardly do that if he was rolling in the sheets with . . .

Shit. He had to stop thinking like that. She hadn’t slept long, and during the last few hours he’d been intensely aware of her every move, the sound of her footsteps, followed by the soft click of Merlin’s paws. She needed to make sure his nails were cut—short enough not to make noise, long enough to give him some purchase. With an attack dog it was a fine line, though he wasn’t sure if Merlin could be called an attack dog any longer. She’d turned a canine weapon into a lapdog, and if he didn’t have faith that Merlin would defend her with his life, he’d be annoyed.

Hell, he was annoyed. He’d put a lot of time and effort into training Merlin, and now that was shot to hell. But then, he’d trained the dog for her, and it only made sense that Merlin would adapt. They’d been comrades together, he and Merlin, but now Merlin wasn’t a soldier; he was a civilian with a highly honed sense of protection.

And he was going to have to let go of him.

Evangeline was up and about, rustling through the cabinets, looking for something to eat. “You don’t have to worry about dinner,” he said, probably the first time he’d spoken since their desultory and entirely phony lunchtime conversation. “There’ll be food waiting for us when we stop.”

He felt her come closer, close enough that he could feel her, close enough that he could reach behind him and grab her, pull her down. He kept his hands on the wheel.

“Just where are we stopping? And when?”

Questions. Why the hell had he ever offered to answer her questions—he’d told her more than he wanted. “We’ll stop within the hour, and as for where, it’s an abandoned farmhouse off in the countryside with an impossible road leading in to it.”

“If it’s impossible how are we going to get there?” Her voice was skeptical. Of course.

“Nothing’s impossible for me,” he said in a calm voice. Except letting go of you.

“Good to know,” she said wryly, slipping into the passenger seat. “I may as well see where we’re going.”

“It won’t do you any good. We’re already off the main road, and there are so many twists and turns to get to this place you’d never find your way out, if you were fool enough to make a run for it.”

There was a long silence. “Make a run for it?” she said finally. “That sounds rather ominous. What would I be running from? Besides your obnoxious company?”

He grinned. “That’s it, babe. I even promise to keep my hands to myself. I gather there are maybe half a dozen useable bedrooms in the place—it’s huge, and like this rust bucket, it’s a lot nicer inside than out. You’ll have a safe, solitary night’s sleep.”

He gave her a slanted side glance. Her expression was stony, showing nothing. What had he been hoping for? A look of disappointment? Or even better, relief?

It was a relief to him. He’d told her he wouldn’t touch her, and he wasn’t a man who broke his word when he gave it. There were few things sacred to him, but his word was one of them. She would sleep in celibate splendor, like a nun, while he stayed awake thinking about her.

He let out his breath in exasperation. What did it matter what her reaction was? What did anything matter? Let go, you stupid bastard, he told himself grimly. Let her go before you get both of you killed.

As they drove in silence over the increasingly narrow, rutted roads, it grew into a strangely comfortable silence. He stole a glance at her. She’d lost that stony expression, and she looked relatively peaceful. Merlin had pushed his way between their seats, leaning against her legs, and she was rubbing his head absently while he drove. Jesus, they were like an old retired couple on the road in their big ugly RV, exploring the country. The thought made him incomprehensibly sad.

That was patently ridiculous. For one thing, he wasn’t going to make old bones, as his grandmother would have said. If he made it to forty he’d be lucky, given his profession. Evangeline wouldn’t be anywhere near him. No aimless journeys into the great unknown, safe in their tin box of a vehicle, camping in the woods, grilling freshly caught trout. He hadn’t been fishing in more than ten years, and he probably wouldn’t go for another ten. He’d been damned good at fly fishing when he was younger.

“You like trout?” he asked suddenly, out of the blue. “Or are you one of those people who can’t stand seafood?”

He expected her to ignore him, but instead she laughed. “So you don’t remember everything from five years ago. I love seafood. I even ate the disgusting Venetian concoction called squassetto, which had to have every kind of seafood as well as God knows what else in it. And technically trout’s a freshwater fish, so you can’t call it seafood.”

“Spoken like an academic,” he said easily.

She didn’t bristle. The sun was moving toward the trees, and things were oddly peaceful. “When I was camping in Saskatchewan there was a couple nearby who were into fly fishing, which I gather is a very tricky thing. They gave me one of the trout they caught, and I cooked it over the open fire. It was the best thing I ever ate. Including those amazing meals in Venice.”

He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “It probably was. Did they clean it for you?”

“What kind of wimp do you think I am?” she said in lazy, mock outrage, her fingers threading through Merlin’s short, rough fur. “I cleaned it myself. I happen to be very handy with a filleting knife.”

He didn’t know what that ache in his chest was—probably indigestion. “That might come in handy,” he muttered, thinking of what lay ahead.