Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [26]
Jamie had dropped something on the cement floor—he could see it glistening in the dim light. He picked it up, turning it in his hand. An earring, and it could have belonged to no one else. For the simple fact that despite what he’d told her, no woman ever had the nerve to come into his garage uninvited, and he’d never invited them.
Trust Jamie to ignore the hidden warnings. She always did have a habit of storming into a situation without thinking first. That was one of the things that got her into trouble that night twelve years ago.
He looked down at the piece of gold in his hand. Of course it was gold—only the best for the Kincaids. It was a unicorn—that was typical of Jamie, as well. She’d be the kind to have an affinity for mystical beasts who only came to virgins. But Jamie wasn’t a virgin—he knew that for a fact. And while she might want to live in a fantasyland, in her safe girls’ school, by coming here she’d walked into the dragon’s den. Into the fire. And she was likely to get burned to a cinder.
He crossed the room to the workbench, reaching underneath and unlocking the small combination safe he kept there. He set the gold earring on top of her purse. And then locked the door again.
Jamie’s hands were shaking. Why was she surprised? She’d been trapped in Dillon’s garage for less than twenty-four hours and already she was remembering, reliving things she hadn’t wanted to ever think about again. There was no escaping it, and she was someone who’d take any escape she could find. If every time she turned around she was going to find herself remembering, then her only defense was to face it, squarely, instead of trying to hide from it.
Except that right now she didn’t feel like facing anything. She glanced out the grimy window at the bleak street beyond. The snow should have blanketed things with a romantic shroud, but instead it only seemed to make things look more depressing. The snow was still falling lightly, but the fresh layer on the ground was already dusted with grit. She could see rusting cars parked haphazardly along the side of the building—clearly junkers unworthy of Dillon’s magic touch. There were no people around. This was the back end of beyond, though how that could be the case in a city was beyond Jamie’s comprehension. If she could just find decent boots and a couple of layers of sweaters she could take off and look for help. Someone around here would be of more assistance than Dillon Gaynor. Anyone would.
Mouser was her best bet. He wasn’t moved by Dillon’s bad temper, and he wouldn’t be too intimidated to help her. At least she could ask.
The only problem was finding him. She was pretty sure he’d walked to wherever he was going—there was no sign of fresh tire tracks in the gritty snow, and he’d been dusted with snow when he’d appeared in the kitchen like an angel bearing coffee. Or maybe he just walked from the coffee shop. It didn’t matter—she couldn’t just sit around in Dillon’s abandoned kitchen and fight off all the memories that kept hammering at her. She needed to get home, away from Dillon and the past and old memories. Away from that damned yellow Cadillac.
If she knew where the hell her car was she could find the raincoat she had tucked in the back, but nothing on this earth could get her to go back into the warehouse to ask Dillon. She was wearing jeans and a light sweater, but she’d already discovered that was little defense against the biting Wisconsin wind. And there was nothing else in her pitiful suitcase.
There was, however, a row of hooks by the back door where Dillon had flung the dead rodent. The heavy sweater seemed the most innocuous of her choices, and she pulled it over her head. It smelled like engine grease and gasoline, and it came down to her knees, but it was warm and bulky. And better, it smelled more of old cars than of Dillon.
Except that she’d always associated the scent of engine grease and motor oil with Dillon. Mixed with the taste of cigarettes.