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Entranced by the expression on Patrick’s face, Amber stretched out a hand, her fingertips brushing the hair on his chin. The slight contact rushed heat up her arm, and she retracted her fingers. What was that?
His eyes were thoughtful, deep.
Apprehensive, she blurted the first thing that came in her head. “You should grow it. It would look good on you.”
Stupid. Why had she said that?
Yet his reply was calm, simple. Like he was. “Anything for you.”
She stared at him, transfixed. Anything for you. No man had ever offered to do anything for her.
He caught hold of her hand and raised it to his lips. His mouth was warm and firm, his grip comforting. “I want to kiss you,” he said.
His breath blew pleasant on her face. “But I don’t want it to be like all the others.”
The others. The takers. The men who thought only of themselves.
Her mouth tingled at the thought of his kiss. He wouldn’t be like that ... ever. He couldn’t be. He was a better man.
“It won’t be,” she replied. He should know that.
His emotion formed in his eyes, and she trembled in the force of it.
“I want you to know how I feel,” he said. He raised his free hand to her cheek and moved his thumb across her lips. Then lifting her chin, he lowered his mouth to hers.
Her breath escaped to be replaced by the soft texture of his skin, the saltiness of his lips, and caress of his tongue. She curved to him, longing for the luxury of it to continue.
He pulled away, his hand sliding behind her head, and she sought for words that wouldn’t come. What could she possibly say after something that beautiful? Somehow, anything at all would change it, make it adulterated somehow.
“Pat, I ...” she began.
He smiled softly.
“Thank you.” It was the first thought in her mind.
His expression changed. He opened his mouth and closed it again.
“No man has ever ... given to me like that.”
That was the difference between him and the others. Patrick’s kiss had been for her benefit more than his. Even in something he must have wanted to do, his heart was more concerned with how she would receive it.
“You are worth so much more,” he said. “I ... would like to offer you more.”
She soaked in his words, then stepped back. His hands fell to his side.
He didn’t know what he was asking. Such a sweet, gentle man that didn’t deserve to get involved with her. Because her life came with strings attached, things someone so good didn’t deserve to have.
“I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” she began. “And now, that exceeded anything. But, Pat, I need time ... to think.”
He nodded and returned to the hall. “Of course.”
His disappointment cloaked her as he walked away, and she stood there, tracing his figure until he’d moved out of view. Re-entering the door, she settled on the bed, pressing one hand to her lips.
She had much to think about now. Patrick’s deep affection merited her giving the right response. She didn’t want to hurt him.
The truth stared her in the face. Or herself. Somehow it would take a very long time to remove the memory of his kiss from her thoughts, if she even tried to remove it at all.
Clouds scudded across what little light the moon offered, and the darkness grew yet blacker. Joe crouched in the bushes along the walkway and stared at the front door, hunger rolling in his gut. Thought of having Amber had replaced everything else. Just knowing she was here, in town, and so close—
He licked his lips.
But breaking into a house full of people was risky. A thousand things could go wrong. Yet what choice did he have? She wasn’t going to come out alone, and they weren’t going to let him in.
“Once, just one,” he muttered beneath his breath.
He simply needed one night’s relief, and no other female would do. An ache in his calves sent him scurrying forward. He couldn’t wait any longer. It’d been hours now, and by all accounts everyone was asleep.
He ran through the brief glimpse he’d gotten of the foyer in his head, and crept onto the porch. Curling his fingers around the knob, he took his time in turning it and muzzled a triumphant shout when the door opened.
Careless to leave it unlocked. Anyone could get in.
He’d planned in case it wasn’t. Most likely a window somewhere would be loose. The house was old and in somewhat disrepair. But now, O’Fallen had saved him the trouble.
A paltry light spread around the foyer and up the stairs. Walking lightly, he tested each rung, squeezing his eyes tight at every crack and creak. But no one appeared to be awake. At the top of the landing, he halted and dragged his gaze down the line of doors. Now, to find her.
The first room was obviously a nursery. He peeked in, glancing briefly at the baby, then moved on. Naturally, the second would be O’Fallen. He didn’t hesitate to pass it. He glanced in the next room to see a girl curled on the bed. Young, a teen. Not his taste.
Outside the fourth room, he inhaled. Amber’s fragrance rose in his nostrils, and a twitch came in his hands. He knew her anywhere, that heady, come-at-me scent that had driven him into her bed night after night.
She’d said she was through. But she couldn’t be through. She’d simply forgotten how much fun he was and only needed a reminder, and well, he’d come to do that. He’d prove to her she was every bit the same luscious piece of flesh she’d always been.
His desperation seized him and he tapped the door open. She’d left a bedside lamp lit, and it flickered a shadowy pattern onto the ceiling. Closing the door behind him, he walked over to the bed. Her hair spilled on the pillow and over her shoulders along her neck. He knelt at her side, his face at eye level.
Her eyes twitched, and her hands curled over the bed sheet. She mumbled in her sleep. Tugging at the cover, she appeared to reach out for something. Her fingers brushed his shirt, and she closed them around the edge.
He chuckled. “I think they’ve kept you locked up too long.”
Her eyes whisked open, and blinking, she appeared to focus on him. “Pat?” she mumbled, half-awake.
His gave a grunt. “Yeah, I’m Pat. Didn’t think I could find you, did you?”
And panic lit on her face. Shooting up in bed, she reversed herself, the sheet wrapped around her throat.
Joe. Amber tugged the cover higher. Inside the house. Inside her room. “Wh-what are you doing here?” She spoke shrill at the end, fear spiking higher.
Joe threw himself on the bed, placing one hand over her mouth. “Uh, uh, uh. Wouldn’t want to wake anyone up. Think of the fun we’ll have together tonight. Like old times.” He straddled her legs and snatched at the hem of her nightdress with his free hand. “I know you miss me.”
His fingers snaked up her calves, over her knees, and along her thighs.
She twisted beneath him, blood pulsing loudly in her ears, and pushed at his weight. He couldn’t do this. She wouldn’t let him. He’d find out about the baby. He’d—
He yanked the fabric and it rent up the seam. “Here we go, exactly what I’ve ...” His eyes spun wide. “You’re ... you’re ...” He released his hold and lurched backward. “It’s his,” he hissed.
The lessening of his weight gave her a foothold. She shoved at him and scrambled from the bed. “Joe ... you gotta go. This ain’t right.” Escape. She had to get away. She dashed toward the door, but he came after her, cutting the distance between them with only two steps.
She opened her mouth to scream, but once again, Joe’s hand again covered her mouth.
“No, you don’t,” he breathed, keeping his voice low. “I didn’t come this far to be caught. I’ll have me what I want.” He tugged her back toward the bed, his arm hooked around her neck. “Even like you are, it’ll be better than anyone else.”
Air constricted in her lungs, and she stumbled. She clawed at his hands. “Joe,” she rasped. “Don’t ... do this ...”
He wrenched her sideways, but her weight threw him off-balance and she broke free.
His gaze sharpened, his pupils shrinking to tiny black dots. “What did you do? Huh? Run from him? You’ll never get away. He’ll come find you, claim what’s rightfully his.”
He dashed toward her, and she reversed, backing against the wall.
“H-he won’t,” she said. “I’m free of that.”
Joe’s lip curled. “You forget I know him, so I don’t believe you.” Hands clenched, he grabbed hold of the remains of her nightdress and forced her back against the wall.
The lust in his eyes washed over her. He wouldn’t stop now. He’d risked this much to break in and find her, and somehow not been caught. Now, he knew everything and if she didn’t let him take what he wanted, it’d all come out.
She wavered. What was one more time? Shut her eyes and block it out, pretend he was any other man in her bed. But the very thought was revolting.
She couldn’t do that. Her life had changed. She had changed. This baby would have a mother free of such disgrace. Plus, now, Pat—
She pictured his face. Pat was reason enough. If she could only get away, make some kind of noise, someone would hear.
Strengthening her arms, Amber heaved her body against his with all she was worth, and Joe slipped, falling left. He caught his hand on the bedside table, and it tottered, the lamp flame flashing higher, oil sloshing in the bowl.
Everything around slowed to a crawl. Tipping over, the lamp’s contents pour in the floor, and the flame, finding freedom, spread across the expanding lake of oil. Greedy, it licked at the house’s aged wood, fueling itself on the timeworn surface until the entire room was filled with it.
Amber coughed and gasped in the rising heat, great breaths of smoky air clogging her throat, and moved toward the door. But as she turned, she caught hold of Joe’s gaze. Paralyzed, she started to shake.
For his eyes shown with malevolence and hate.
A loud crash snatched Patrick from sleep and alarmed, he sat up. What was that? The sound died down, but another replaced it—snapping and popping. Crawling from his bed, he donned a robe and stepped onto the landing.
A figure sprinted from Amber’s room. An intruder? Here?
“Who goes there?” he called. At his yell, the figure paused and Patrick’s insides convulsed. Giarello. “Joe?” What was he doing here?
Joe darted toward the stairs, and Patrick raced after him. He had to explain why he was inside, why he’d come from Amber’s room.
“Stop!” Patrick called. His bare feet pounding across the landing, he caught hold of Joe’s shirt and swung him around.
But Joe hooked his fingers in the soft flesh of Patrick’s throat. “Let me go, Preacher.”
Patrick’s eyes bulged with the pressure, and he writhed, his vision blackening. A gurgling noise came from his throat. The house blurred, and the walls shaded orange and red.
It was so hot inside.
Joe buried his fingers deeper, and Patrick’s knees buckled. Crumpling beneath Joe’s weight, he slammed into the railing, and the rounded wood gave a tremendous groan.
“Giarello!” Michael’s yell loosened Joe’s hold.
Twisting his head around, Joe swung a fist out toward Michael’s face. But Michael countered, knuckles crunching on Joe’s cheek, sending Joe hard against the railing. The wood splintered, and Giarello screamed.
“Mike, don’t let me die,” Giarello pleaded. His fingers clutching the landing, he kicked and flailed his legs. “Please, Mike, w-we’re friends.”
Patrick gazed at him, his vision clouded, and rubbed at his throat.
Michael grasped hold of Joe’s wrists. “What were you doing here, Joe?” he said.
Joe’s grip slipped. “I had to have her, Mike. She’s the best. You have to understand.”
Understand? Patrick stared at him. No, he didn’t understand.
Michael’s face reddened with the strain, veins in his neck distending, and he grunted beneath Joe’s weight. “Pat, please, help me. He’s so heavy, I’m not sure I can ...”
Patrick gazed into Joe’s eyes. Help him? How could he help him? He was the lowest sort. Any man who’d take a woman like that didn’t deserve help.
“Pat, please.”
But it was too late. Michael’s hands fell free and a ragged shout split the air followed by a thud.
Stunned, Patrick gazed to the foyer below at the distorted body contorted oddly on the tile. Then the heat returned and the smoke. He turned his head. Flames licked at the walls, consuming everything in front of them.
The house? On fire? “Grace,” he croaked. Who would help Grace? His knees wobbling, he clung to the shattered rail.
Michael hefted him the remaining distance from the floor and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Amber’s got Grace, Pat. We’ve got to get downstairs.”
They limped downward, sucking in the poisonous fumes, and Patrick’s reeled, tripping on the bottom step and ramming into the wall. He looked upward where charcoal smoke breathed out in angry shades of tangerine, ochre, and vermillion. An esurient monster come alive by the decline of the house.
Michael tugged at his arm, his voice a croak. “Go,” he coughed. “Get out.”
But Joe moaned, and Patrick shifted his gaze. “Michael,” Pat coughed again. “Joe.”
Michael followed his gaze. “You get one side. I’ll get the other.” His voice strangled on the last word.
Patrick knelt at Joe’s head, his lungs closing against the rapidly billowing smoke and waited while Michael took his feet. Then suspending Joe’s broken body between them, they moved him toward door.
Joe screamed. “My legs. Can’t feel my legs.”
Working their way down the steps, they crossed the lawn toward the street, and settled him in the grass. Patrick sank down at Joe’s side, drawing in great lungfuls of air.
He glanced back at the house. Smoke billowed from bursting windows and out the open door towards the sky. The house was gone, but everyone had escaped. They had their lives, at least.
He looked down at Joe.
Then Anne snatched at his sleeve. “Patrick? Where’s Michael?”
“Michael? He was right here. He’s ... Oh God.” Patrick’s stomach knotted. “He’s gone back inside for the manuscript.”
Foolish. The manuscript wasn’t worth the cost of his life.
“I’ll get him,” he said. He ran back toward the house, ducking beneath shards of wood dripping flames onto the first floor. He pushed toward the office through the smothering smoke and crawled down the hall. At the office door, he gripped the knob, but it scalded his hand. He kicked at it. However, something wedged it shut.
“Michael?” he called. The words took his breath. Bending over at the waist, he coughed. There wasn’t much time. If he stayed much longer, he’d be trapped here too.
But he couldn’t go without his friend. He thrust himself again against the door and bounced back in the hallway.
What held it on the other side? The answer stared back at him. Michael. No, he couldn’t die. Lord, help me. That paper’s not worth his death, he prayed.
Determination settled in his gut. It wouldn’t end this way. He wouldn’t let it. Gritting his teeth, he braced his feet on the opposite wall and pushed with all his might, and in that moment, the door shifted inward.
Patrick shot to his feet and squeezed into the room. It rippled with smoke. Slipping through cracks in the ceiling, it billowed outward in a viscous cloud. Patrick waved his hands through the gray mass, air squeezed from his lungs, then threw himself in the floor at Michael’s side. His skin was pasty white, and his breathing shallow.
He had to get him out ... now.
Tugging the manuscript from beneath Michael’s arm, he tossed it across the floor and grasped hold of Michael’s hands. Nothing was worth a life. Nothing. Grunting with his efforts, step by step he dragged him down the hall.
At the door, fresh hands plucked Michael from Patrick’s grip and toted him away from the house. Patrick collapsed on the lawn. His eyes dry, face blackened, and stared upward into the fire. It lit the night and the faces of the townspeople gathering around. Mothers and fathers, children, grandparents, young and old, all clustered together to watch the demon snarl in rage.
His eyes filled with sorrow, and he wallowed in his loss. The manuscript was gone. He’d never know what his father said. Plus, Giarello was either severely injured or dead. He gulped. And maybe Michael too.
In an instant, in one fleeting second of time, everything had changed. He and his friends were homeless. He gazed around at the people. Fear was written on every face, fear it would spread and consume the town. With a fire of this magnitude no man could stop it.
Lord, please. Not the town.
A slash of lightning and peal of thunder came from the sky. Patrick threw his head back in disbelief and mouth agape gawked at the rain sprinkling around him. It grew in fervor, becoming a torrent which drenched his clothing and formed puddles in the street.
Laughter bubbled in his throat. He flung his hands wide and grasped at it. God had made a way. God, often last minute, but never late.
Rising to his feet, he stepped across the lawn, water dribbling from his chin, into the rivulets in the street. Grace’s sobs turned his head. He followed her cries to the base of a young oak tree. Here, he slid to a halt.
His eyes widened, and his heart pushed into his throat.
How could it be? How had he not noticed? He stepped to Amber’s side. She was with child. The thin fabric of her linen nightdress clung to every rounded curve.
Rain beading on her skin, she stared back at him, her hair plastered to her cheek. He lifted a hand and brushed it away. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but that he loved her.
“Amber,” he shouted over the sound of the rain.
She smiled tentatively, and he tipped her chin upward. “Marry me.”