Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [86]
Of course, he wasn’t going to be appreciating that body anytime in the near future. And if he had to be honest, he didn’t really want anyone else doing so, either. Hell, maybe she should keep to the baggy clothes.
That wasn’t his business, either. Still, it grieved him to let go of the racy underwear. Hell, if miracles happened and he ever got near her again he could always buy her some new stuff. Though he liked her best in nothing at all.
He didn’t believe in miracles any more than he believed in ghosts. Jamie was gone, out of his life for good. Now he just had to wait for Nate to make his move. The word scrawled on the garage floor was only a first step. He just had to wait for the other shoe to drop.
Nate Kincaid had never been the forgiving sort, and he would have known that Dillon had given him up to the enforcer who’d come looking for him. The game of cat and mouse was just hint of things to come—he was circling around, making his way closer and closer toward his object.
Dillon had no fear that Nate would stab him in the back, cut his throat while he slept. Nate would want him to know what was happening, would revel in it. No, Dillon would get plenty of warning. All he had to do was wait.
It was late afternoon, and he had his head under the hood of the ’63 Mustang, when he heard the banging at his front door. The doorbell had stopped working years before, and half the time Dillon played the stereo so loud he couldn’t even hear when someone showed up.
But for some reason he didn’t want music. Not Nirvana blasting away—he’d never hear Kurt Cobain without picturing Jamie lying unconscious on the floor of the garage.
U2 was even worse—too fucking mournful when he was already missing Jamie. He’d get over it, he always did, all he needed was time. At least in time he’d have a sense of closure.
He laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of that thought. For a man who didn’t believe in ghosts or miracles he seemed damned eager to believe in fairy tales. There wouldn’t be closure with Jamie until they were both dead. And maybe not even then.
The pounding was continuing unabated. “Hang on, I’m coming!” he called, grabbing a rag for his filthy hands. “The door’s unlocked—come on in.”
By the time he reached the kitchen he realized that might have been a tactical mistake. Most people around here knew he seldom bothered to lock his door, and most people were too smart to mess with him. Which meant it was either a stranger or the police, and he wasn’t in the mood for either.
It was the police, in the personage of Lieutenant MacPherson, one of the few cops with a brain that Dillon had ever met. This unbelievably shitty day had somehow managed to get worse.
“Had a big party, Gaynor, or is this your idea of housekeeping?” MacPherson closed the door behind him. He was alone, which was a good sign. If he’d come to arrest him he would have brought backup.
Dillon glanced at the trashed kitchen. “I got pissed off,” he said, leaning against the door to the garage.
“At anyone in particular? Should I be looking for a body?”
Dillon didn’t even blink. “She took my ’56 Cadillac and left. Untouched.”
“Untouched?”
“Well, unhurt,” Dillon amended. “What’s it to you?”
“I heard you had someone staying here. I thought you might have decided to settle down, get married, raise a family.” MacPherson reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. He didn’t bother to ask—he already knew Dillon’s kitchen was a smoker’s haven from his previous visits. The scent of fresh cigarette smoke hit Dillon with a longing almost as powerful as his longing for Jamie.
“I’m not the marrying kind, Lieutenant. You should know that.”
“I’m not sure what I know. Had a couple of questions for you, though.” He blew the smoke out, and Dillon was half tempted to move closer, just to get a taste of secondhand smoke. He thought of Mouser and stayed put.
“Ask away. Do I need to call