Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Read online

  “Watanabe wasn’t able to provide a motive. Apparently, Mahoney wasn’t making much sense.”

  She tilted her head and frowned. “I don’t understand. If Jimmy set the fire, what was Victor Watanabe doing at Strathmoor this afternoon?”

  “He said he was trying to stop Mahoney. Watanabe claimed he was burned trying to put out the fire.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “The police are still investigating, but my gut says he was telling the truth.”

  “Poor Marian. She’s going to be so upset when she finds out.” Zoë shook her head. “That Jimmy Mahoney is the ex-husband from hell, a nightmare that won’t stop.” She dropped her hands from her arms. “You don’t think he’s still somewhere on the estate do you?”

  He moved toward her, placed big, warm hands on her shoulders, and met her gaze with determined assurance. “Don’t worry. We searched every inch and found no sign of him. You can sleep easy. Mahoney’s gone. At least for now.”

  The taut muscles in her shoulders eased slightly, but an internal tension still thrummed through her body. “I doubt I’ll sleep again tonight. You should try to get some rest, though.” She touched the side of his face. His formerly white bandage was now gray and streaked with soot, and his eyelids drooped with fatigue. “You’re starting to look a little too much like an extra from The Walking Dead.”

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders then scrubbed a hand across his jaw and grimaced. “I need a shower first. I can’t smell myself anymore, but I’m sure I reek.”

  She smiled. “You do have a certain eau-de-Smokey-the-Bear aroma.” Suddenly, she remembered what the fire meant to him. “I almost forgot! The apartment. Your clothes. The fire destroyed everything!”

  He shrugged. “I’ll swing by my apartment to pick up what I need in the morning. For now, I just want to wash off the grime and lie down for an hour or two.”

  “You can use the bathroom up here. There’s soap and shampoo in the shower, and I’ll get you a couple of clean towels. You can use my razor, too, if you’re desperate.”

  His dark eyes sparked, and the dimple in his cheek reappeared. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with the bristles tonight. I try to limit myself to one facial laceration per week.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded sagely. “Good policy.”

  When Zoë shoved back the covers, cold penetrated her thin top, setting her nipples on instant alert. Nick’s gaze bounced down to her chest and back up almost before she had time to register it. Almost. She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “The plumbing up here is ancient. Behave yourself, or I’ll flush the toilet while you’re in the shower.”

  He snorted and got out of her way while she retrieved her ratty blue robe and shoved her feet into the red ballet flats sitting on the floor in front of the dresser, and then he followed her into the tiny bathroom.

  As she handed him a pair of clean towels from the cabinet, she glanced from the top of his head to the ceiling. It would be close. The bathroom had been built a century earlier, probably with petite parlor maids in mind—not hulking, hockey-playing, pseudo-chauffeurs. “Watch your head. I don’t have a needle and thread to stitch you up if you have a close encounter with the shower head.”

  “I promise.” He surprised her with a quick kiss then took the towels in one hand, guided her out with the other, and shut the door.

  Zoë waited until the water had run for several minutes before she pushed the door open a crack and peeked through with one eye. The coast was clear. He had folded his dirty clothes in a neat pile on the floor and set his pistol in its holster on top. She tiptoed in, gathered the pile in her arms, and snuck back out, closing the door with a soft click. She gently set the Ruger on the dresser in her bedroom then grabbed her own smoky clothes from the back of the chair and headed downstairs.

  She had a dresser full of clean laundry, but Nick had nothing. Since she was wide awake and likely to stay that way, the least she could do was give his clothes a quick wash. He had to be exhausted, so it shouldn’t be hard to persuade him to take a nap in her bed while she found some way to occupy herself. At least when he woke, his clothes wouldn’t remind him of the fire with every breath. He’d been such a rock through the whole ordeal; it was the least she could do.

  In deference to the hour, she tried to be quiet on the stairs, although a tap dancing dinosaur probably wouldn’t wake Lyman and Marian tonight. The stress and shock of the fire had hit them hard, reminding them how vulnerable they still were.

  Despite Zoë’s efforts to tread lightly, each step resounded through the dark emptiness of the expansive foyer, prompting her to whisper an apology to the oversized portrait of Frankie “No Nose” hanging above the stairs.

  The laundry room off the kitchen had been converted from a service porch sometime in the forties or fifties, but at least the machines were newer. Determined to eradicate every last hint of smoke, she tossed everything in together with a splash of detergent and set the water temperature to hot. As soon as the water started, a loud thunk sounded below the floor. Adrenaline flooded her veins with a jolt.

  She gripped the front of the washer, dropped her head, and drew a deep breath before releasing it slowly. There’s no bogeyman. It’s just an old house with old pipes. She waited for the wash cycle to begin then made her way to the relative comfort of the living room. She picked up one of Marian’s favorite celebrity gossip magazines, but the photos of beautiful movie stars taking their adorable children to the beach did nothing to banish her edginess.

  As soon as she heard the faint ding from the washer, she returned and moved the clothes to the dryer. It would be another thirty minutes before the laundry would be dry, but she didn’t want to spend the time waiting alone downstairs. The house was too big, too dark, and too silent. She decided to go back to her room and check on Nick.

  When she reached the third floor hall, no comforting light greeted her. The bathroom door stood open, but the room was dark and empty. Where was he? He couldn’t have gone far wrapped in nothing but a towel, and the beds in the other two rooms sported only bare mattresses—not particularly welcoming on a chilly November night. That left her room.

  She squinted as she stepped into the darkened room. A white rectangle draped over the back of the chair glowed softly in the faint moonlight coming through the small window. His towel. Her eyes skittered to the bed, where she could just make out the contours of a human form under her covers.

  “You took my clothes.” His voice leapt from the shadows.

  Although she knew he was there, her pulse jumped at the sudden sound. “They were filthy. I’m washing them.”

  “I guessed that, but you left me no option except the shelter of your bed.”

  Was he teasing her…or something more? Since his voice was barely above a whisper, it was hard to tell. She wished she could see his face. “Actually, I stayed downstairs hoping you would sleep. I was wide awake, and I was sure you’d be exhausted.”

  “I am, but I can’t seem to relax. Maybe I’m too cold.” His outstretched hand and bare arm, pale in the moonlight, reached toward her from the gloom. “Come here. You can warm me up.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “It sounds like genius to me.”

  His deep voice flowed over her like melted caramel. Her pulse beat strong in her throat, and a sudden heat rushed upward from her core, suffusing her chest, neck, and face. She longed to say yes. She craved the comfort he offered. In the aftermath of fear, she didn’t want to be alone. But she also didn’t want to be left with a pile of regrets in the morning. “We both know what will happen if I do.”

  “Um, hm.”

  “What about your vow to avoid relationships with work colleagues?”

  “You’re more than a work colleague. I let you meet my mom. That’s serious stuff.”

  The voice of caution in the back of her head refused to give up. “What about Maureen? She was much more, too. You planned to marry
her.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Maureen. She has nothing to do with us.” His voice had a rough, almost raw, edge.

  “But you said—”

  “Zoë, come here.” Then his insistent tone softened. “Please. We need each other tonight.”

  The plea in his voice nearly pushed her over the edge. “I want to—I do—but…”

  The covers rustled, and he stood before her. With the only source of light coming from behind him, she couldn’t see his face clearly—only the silhouette of his head. Faint, silvery moonlight defined and softened the muscular contours of his shoulders as he drew her into his arms. She went willingly and rested her face against the hard comfort of his chest. Without conscious direction, her arms slid around to caress the smooth, warm skin of his back.

  He tightened his grasp and pressed a kiss against her hair.

  “I don’t want to be sorry,” she murmured against his skin. “And I don’t want you to be sorry.”

  “Life doesn’t come with guarantees.” He eased her back and tilted his head. “Sometimes you have to take a chance. There are worse things than being sorry. Only you can decide if what we might have together is worth the risk.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve already decided.”

  Then he crushed her to him and kissed her with a hopeful desperation that made her decision easy. They came together as if they had known each other a lifetime, rather than mere weeks. Their bodies joined easily and joyfully, without a glimpse of fear. Zoë’s last conscious thought was that she’d never felt so cherished.

  She had no idea what time it was when she stirred in Nick’s arms, but the sliver of indigo sky showing through the small window above the bed told her dawn was still hours away. She should go downstairs and retrieve their clothes from the dryer, but there was plenty of time. The Prescotts wouldn’t be awake for hours. When Nick mumbled something unintelligible and tightened his grip, she sighed and nestled back against his chest, comforted by the heat radiating from his body and the weight of his arm across her back. Even in sleep, his strength protected her. Her lips curved in a smile of wonder.

  Because of the emotional shield she’d raised to protect herself, she hadn’t had many relationships, but she’d thought she was going into this one with her eyes wide open. She’d thought she understood the risks and accepted the possibility of regrets. She’d thought she knew what she was doing. Instead, he’d shown her how little she really knew.

  Dominic Rosetti was unlike any man she’d ever known. Making love with him had lifted her to a place she’d never been—a place of soaring triumph and aching vulnerability—and she had no idea what to expect next. What would he say to her? What did he want? She had no idea.

  Those thoughts bubbled in her mind until fatigue won out, and she dozed for a while. When she woke again, pale light washed the room in watery shades of gray. Taking care not to disturb Nick, she slipped from the bed, pulled on her robe, and tiptoed down to the laundry room. When she returned with an armful of folded clothes, he lay propped against the headboard with one arm behind his head. His rumpled hair and heavy, dark stubble—not to mention the stitches in his forehead—gave him a piratical air. He was the most delicious thing Zoë had ever seen.

  Heat flared in his eyes, and his dimple appeared. “Good morning.”

  “Hi.” Warmth rose to her cheeks, and she quickly turned to set the folded stack on the dresser.

  “Thanks for washing my clothes.”

  She turned back and met his gaze. “I threw mine in, too. I figured we didn’t need a reminder of…yesterday.”

  “Come here.” He stretched out a hand.

  Butterflies danced in her stomach as she complied. He took her hand and drew her closer until she stood beside him. Keeping his gaze locked on hers, he untied her robe and smoothed it down her shoulders. His face was inches from her breasts.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  The butterflies launched into a Macarena, and she gave a jittery laugh. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

  “Stop it.” His expression was deadly serious. “This is not the time for false modesty.”

  She met his gaze. “Sorry. My mother always warned me about my smart mouth, and when I’m nervous, I make jokes.”

  “Do I make you nervous?”

  “I’d be lying if I said no.”

  “Let’s see what we can do about that.” He tugged her toward him and lifted the covers then proceeded to work his magic on every nerve in her body.

  The room was much brighter the next time Zoë surfaced. When she rolled toward Nick, she found him staring at her, as if he’d been waiting for her to wake.

  The expression on his handsome face could only be described as self-satisfied when he leaned down and kissed her. “Feeling better?”

  She scooted backward toward the wall until several inches separated them and shivered when the cold, unoccupied sheets touched her sleep-warmed skin. “Why did we do that?”

  He stilled, and worry with a touch of panic entered his eyes. “I admit I’m not the best at reading women’s signals, but you seemed willing. Did I misunderstand? Tell me the truth.”

  She stroked his battered brow and down the side of his face. “No, you didn’t misunderstand. I was more than willing. If I’d wanted you to stop, I would have made sure you stopped.”

  “Then what?”

  “I want to know why we made love, when the day before yesterday you told me you would never get involved with me as long as this case lasted. Why now? What made you change your mind? I need to know. I deserve to know.” She poked him in the chest with her forefinger to make her point. “And don’t try to tell me you don’t know or you don’t want to talk about it. Those typical male excuses aren’t going to cut it.”

  The tension left his shoulders, and he smiled. “You’re one tough cookie.”

  She refused to be mollified. “I know. So…?”

  “The answer is easy. I almost lost you last night.”

  She gazed into his eyes, trying to read the truth in the early morning light.

  He rested a hand on her shoulder but didn’t try to pull her close. “Do you have any idea how I felt when I saw flames marching up the steps toward you? Saw them devouring the door? Saw smoke pouring out from under the roof? My heart almost stopped.”

  Zoë closed her eyes as the terrifying scene played back in her head, but this time from her vantage point inside the building. “It wasn’t much fun for me, either.” She rolled into his arms and nuzzled her face against his warm chest.

  Nick gathered her to him and kissed her hair. “I felt so helpless. Until the firefighters arrived with their equipment, there was nothing I could do.” He tipped his head back until he could see her face. “I realized I wasn’t ready to lose you. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

  It wasn’t a declaration of love, but she didn’t need one. She wasn’t ready to hear those words yet. What they had was still too new to categorize or define. “I feel the same way.” And for now, it was enough.

  “Good.” The single word reverberated with all the passion and relief he poured into the kiss that followed.

  “The case isn’t over,” she reminded him when they finally fell back against the pillows, breathless. “Jimmy Mahoney is still loose and has proved he’s as foolhardy as he is unpredictable.”

  Nick shifted to his back, tucked one arm behind his head, and held her close with the other. “I’ve been lying here, thinking about it while you slept. This place is built like a fortress and shouldn’t be hard to defend if we stay vigilant. No one goes anywhere alone. We’ll each do our job—I’ll watch out for Lyman, and you take care of Marian. Mahoney shouldn’t be able to take anyone by surprise again.”

  “Until he’s found, I don’t know what else we can do.” She pushed up and leaned across his chest to snag her phone from the nightstand and check the time. “Uh, oh. It’s already after eight-thirty.” She thre
w off the covers and clambered over him, ignoring the slap of cold air against her bed-warmed skin. “Lyman and Marian are probably already up. I’ve got to get downstairs.”

  Nick caught her hand. “Relax. Everyone knows you’re not really here to cook. It won’t kill them to make their own toast one morning.”

  She jerked her hand from his grasp. “Yes, everyone knows I’m not here to cook, but they also know why I am here—to provide bodyguard services—which I’m not doing at the moment.” She grabbed clean underwear, jeans, and a sweatshirt from the dresser. “It’s all well and good for us to lie around talking about our strategy to protect the Prescotts, but they’re downstairs alone, up to who knows what. You know Lyman—he could easily be out nosing around the smoking ruins of the garage, looking for anything he can salvage, with the door unlocked and the alarm off.”

  “You’re right.” Nick jumped up and reached for the plaid flannel shirt she’d laundered the night before.

  She spared a quick second to admire his body as she pulled on her socks. Earlier, she’d had neither the time nor sufficient light to indulge her curiosity. He wasn’t fat by any means, but the thick muscles of his legs, chest, and arms suggested weight and strength. Nick Rosetti was no narcissistic gym rat or waxed pretty boy, but she’d known that. He was a man in every sense of the word. He reminded her of a gladiator whose body told his story through its battle scars.

  They took turns in the bathroom, and by the time she’d had a quick wash-up and run a brush through her hair, he was fully dressed and had dragged the covers back up over the bed. In the brighter light, the black thread of his stitches stood out in sharp contrast to the skin of his forehead.

  Zoë reached a hand behind his head and tipped it down so she could examine his injury. “You really should cover those. The cut has barely started to heal, and they make you look a bit like Frankenstein’s monster. I’ll ask Marian if she has any gauze and tape.”

  He dipped his head for a quick kiss. “Whatever you say. Come on. Let’s go.”