Flames
Flames
A round-robin novel by the authors of the Mansion, in honor of the heroes of September 11th, 2001.
Chapter Six
Marisol sneezed as she stood with the other onlookers who were watching
the remains of the tent-fire being laid to rest. The crisp air brought a
shiver, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Clenching her jaw to still
the chattering of her teeth, she hoped she wouldn't come down with a cold.
That was all she needed, she thought, as she sneezed again.
"Here," a deep voice said.
Spinning around as a fleece-lined black denim jacket was draped around
her shoulders, Marisol found herself staring at a wide chest. She looked up
and blinked, the breath catching in her throat.
He was, by far, the handsomest man she had every seen. Thick, dark hair
gleamed in the wash of the emergency-generator light surrounding the crowd.
Stygian eyes gazed down at her from beneath sinfully long eyelashes. The high
arch of his cheekbones vied with the deep indentions of twin dimples in his
cheeks for the most heart-stopping feature of his face. His bold nose and
determined chin were running a close third and fourth.
"Better?" he asked.
"Uh-huh," Marisol managed to agree, bobbing her head like a fool, knowing
she was doing so but seemingly unable to stop herself.
"Was this your barracks?" he asked, his voice husky.
"Barracks," she repeated, catching a glint of gold in his eyes and
deciding they weren't black, but a deep, rich brown.
"You weren't hurt, were you?" he queried, running his gaze over her.
A shudder of pure physical need twisted through Marisol's lower belly as
the stranger's attention wandered from her head to her feet and up again, his
bold eyes locking with hers. She could hear her own breath, shallow and far
too fast. "Hurt?" She shook her head. "No, not hurt."
"That's good," he said in a sultry whisper. A smile tugged at the right
side of his full mouth. "It would be a shame for someone so lovely to be hurt
in any way."
Marisol swallowed, feeling ridiculous as heat climbed in her cheeks; she
forced herself to look away from the mesmerizing hunk standing far too close
to her. "Are you a fireman, too?" she asked, searching for Jack among those
who were helping to put out the flames.
"State trooper," the stranger replied, and held out his hand. "Wyndon
McGregor, at your service, senorita. My friends call me Wyn."
"Marisol Benitez," she introduced herself. "I'm with the Philly P.D." She
took his hand, and the electric surge that leapt from his flesh to hers made
her knees weak. The warmth of his hand, the strength in the long, tapered
fingers that curled around her own sent a ripple of longing straight up her
arm and down into her womb. When he brought her soot-covered fingers to his
lips and placed a gentle, seductive kiss on the underside of her wrist, it
was all she could do not to moan like a love-struck teenager.
"Soap and water work better for cleaning than spit."
Marisol flinched as she heard Jack's snide comment and jerked her hand
from McGregor's grasp. Guiltily, she turned to face the firefighter, and was
stunned to see fury lashing his handsome features.
"Bennett," Wyn said curtly.
"McGregor," Jack snapped in return, a muscle working in his cheek.
The state trooper thrust his hands into the pockets of his black jeans.
"You men have everything under control?"
"We got it covered," Jack growled.
Marisol swung her scrutiny from one male face to the other. Jack was
seething, if the look he was giving the state trooper was any indication.
Wyn, on the other hand, appeared stoic, almost bored, and was staring back at
his rival with a steady gaze.
"That's good to know," Wyn remarked. He turned to look at the remains of
the tent. "No one hurt, I take it."
"Not as far as we know," Jack ground out.
Wyn arched a thick, dark brow. "As far as you know?"
"One of the women, an EMT named Dinah Louis, is missing. We can't account
for her whereabouts," Jack replied in a grudging voice.
"She wasn't in the tent when the rest of us got out," Marisol put in.
"When did you see her last?" the state trooper asked, his voice
professional.
"She went out for a last smoke before bed," Marisol explained. "I told
her not to smoke in the tent."
"Filthy habit," Wyn stated, "but lucky for her, I suppose."
"Maybe," Jack said.
Marisol and Wyn both looked at Jack; Marisol's brows were elevated. "You
think she had something to do with the fire?" she asked.
"If she did, Lover Boy here will find out," Jack muttered. "Won't you,
hotshot?"
Wyn's smile was slow and nasty. "That's what I'm trained for, Smokey," he
quipped.
Sensing the men's hostility, Marisol moved between them. "We don't need a
confrontation here, guys," she warned, as she took note of the keen interest
of those gathered around them. "I suggest you air your differences privately."
"There wouldn't be a confrontation if McGregor would learn to keep his
hands off other men's women," Jack hissed -- and wished he hadn't, as Marisol
turned to glare at him.
"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"He has a way of poaching what doesn't belong to him, don't you, Toe
Jam?" Jack vented.
The state trooper's hands balled into fists, and he took a step closer to
Jack. "I told you before, Bennett: I didn't go looking for Jan; she came
looking for me."
"And you took advantage of the situation, didn't you?" Jack sneered.
"She'd had one too many drinks that night, and you jumped on her like white
on rice."
A deep chuckle rumbled from Wyn's broad chest. "I wasn't the one who did
the jumping, as I recall."
"You should have left her alone," Jack said accusingly. "You knew she was
vulnerable. That we'd just broken up."
Wyn shrugged. "I opened the door, and there she was. She needed something
you either couldn't or wouldn't give her. Can I help it if you can't keep a
woman satisfied, Smokey?"
A gasp ran through the crowd as Jack lashed out, his fist connecting with
McGregor's jaw. The state trooper stumbled back, but managed to stay on his
feet as he pulled his hands from his jean pockets. Before anyone could react,
the two men clashed, their strong bodies connecting with a solid thud as they
met, arms wrapped around each other, legs jockeying for superiority.
"Stop it!" Marisol shouted. "Stop it right now!" She shrugged off Wyn's
jacket and made a grab for Jack, but he pushed her away. Losing her balance,
she careened backwards and was saved from a graceless plummet to the dirt by
one of the onlookers.
Jack managed to hook his leg behind Wyn's, and the two men crashed heavily to
the ground, rolling over and over on the ember-strewn debris, both throwing
wild punches that did little damage until Wyn landed on top and unleashed a
right cross that brought a grunt from his opponent.
"Get Captain Brell!" someone yelled over the shouts and whistles of the
crowd. Marisol heard bets being given and taken as she started toward Jack
again.
"I think you'd better keep your ass out of it," Nick Spanelli said,
coming out of nowhere to grab her, refusing to let her to intervene. He took
her upper arms in his strong grip and pulled her against him with her back to
his chest. His fingers were digging into her flesh, bruising her. She could
smell his cologne even over the acrid stench of the recent fire. The odor
nauseated her, and she twisted out of his hold, whirling to give him a
hateful glower.
"Don't you ever put your hands on me again, Spanelli," she spat. "You got
that?"
"You're a real ball-buster aren't you, Mary Soiled?" Nick threw at her.
The crowd had another reason to gasp as Marisol's hand connected loudly
with Spanelli's cheek. The force of her slap was such that the cop was
knocked flat on his ass.
"Ten dollars on the broad!" she heard someone shout.
"Make it twenty and you're on!"
"And I thought this was going to be a boring trip!" a woman firefighter
guffawed.
Nick, lying on his back with his legs splayed, grabbed his cheek and
glared up at Marisol. If looks could have killed, the daggers shooting from
his gray eyes would have pinned her to her coffin. "I'm gonna make you regret
that, Benitez," he vowed.
Marisol's eyes narrowed for a moment before she turned away, her
attention returning to the two men who were being pulled apart by uniformed
cops. Biting her lip, she watched as Jack was hauled up from the ground and
held by two angry-looking state troopers. She marveled at his furious attempt
to break free, to get at the other man.
"Knock it off!" one of the troopers ordered.
A bear of a guy in a deputy sheriff's uniform was struggling to keep
McGregor from throwing himself on Jack. He was joined in his effort by a
third state trooper, and between them, they managed to subdue him.
"What the hell's going on here?" Captain Rylan Brell demanded as he
pushed his way through the crowd. The burly state marshal far outweighed
either of the two combatants and was marginally larger even than the deputy
sheriff confining McGregor.
Marisol wiped her arm beneath her nose and stood there panting, her heart
racing as members of the brass made their appearance. She looked worriedly at
Jack, taking in his torn shirt and bloody nose. She glanced at Wyn and
realized he hadn't fared much better; his right eye was nearly swollen shut.
The front of his shirt gaped open to reveal a thick pelt of dark hair.
"Lord, that man is one helluva looker," a woman behind Marisol commented
as she held out Wyn's jacket to her. "I adore wild Irishmen. You're a lucky
duck, girlfriend. Every woman here has got the hots for Wyn McGregor."
"He's not " Marisol began, then shook her head. "We're not " She gave
up and took the jacket, mumbling her thanks.
"Any woman would give her left tit to have two hunks like them fighting
over her," the woman said enviously. "I know I would." She looked down at her
chest. "Not that anyone would notice if I lost one of these pimples."
Sighing heavily, Marisol clutched Wyn's jacket tight to her. As she did,
she realized that Jack was glaring at her, his teeth clenched, eyes squinted.
Being lectured by Captain Brell, who had a pointed finger jabbing toward his
face, didn't seem to be fazing the fireman. His attention was glued on
Marisol.
When the top brass had finished reprimanding the two men "Isn't the
cause we're here for big enough to make us forget private arguments? If not,
I swear, I don't know what is!" -- the crowd was ordered to disperse. The
officers holding Jack and Wyn reluctantly released their captives but
remained close by in case either took it into his head to resume the fight.
The onlookers drifted away, throwing curious glances back at Marisol as
they went. Spanelli was last seen dusting off his designer pants, his mouth a
gash of brutal fury.
Marisol walked slowly toward Jack, an apologetic smile on her lips.
"Jack," she began, only to have him hold up his hand.
"You want that cocksure Irish son-of-a-bitch, then you can have him," he
barked. "I don't want anything he's ever put his poaching hands on!"
Eyes flaring wide with shock, she could only gape at him. She felt as
though Jack had slapped her as she had Spanelli. Her cheeks stung with
embarrassment. Then her temper surged.
"How dare you talk to me like that, Bennett?" she snapped.
"You women are all alike," Jack said bitterly. "All it takes is chiseled
pecs and a hard body and you lose sight of what's important."
"And what exactly is that?" she demanded.
"If you don't know already, I can't help you, babe," he shot back. He
turned on his heel and strode off, his shoulders hunched, shrugging off the
friendly overtures of Marcus and his fellow firemen.
"He doesn't have a clue," Wyn said in disdain as he joined Marisol. "That
man gets something, then throws it away when it doesn't fit his notion of
what he thinks he wants."
A lump had formed in Marisol's throat, and she blinked away the tears
that stung her eyes. She looked up at the state trooper. "Who is Jan?" she
asked.
Wyn reached up to flex his jaw, working it from side to side. "His
fiance," he answered.
The lump turned into a stabbing pain. "Fiance?" she whispered.
"Jan told me they're getting married next summer," Wyn replied. "Been
going together two, three years now; I don't remember."
"Yet I take it you went to bed with her," Marisol said, trying to keep
the disappointment out of her voice.
"Hey, like I said -- she came after me," Wyn said in self-defense. "As
far as I knew, it was over between them." He shrugged. "It wasn't, and she
went back to him a week later." He took a handkerchief from his back pocket
and wiped his lip, where a cut was oozing. "Not that I was all that upset
about it."
"Because?" Marisol prompted.
"I don't usually discuss my dalliances, Dark Eyes, but the woman's a
whore and a drunk," Wyn answered. "Half the single men and a good portion of
the married ones in Somerset County have made it with her. She's a party
girl. Bennett would be better off without her."
Digging her nails into her palms, Marisol lifted her chin. "Does he play
around on her?"
Wyn looked at her with his one good eye. "I don't know. Why? You thinking
of giving her a run for her money?"
Her hurt, the slight crack already forming in her heart, and the stubborn
streak that had often gotten her in trouble brought a hitch to Marisol's
shapely shoulders. "I'm looking for a man I can trust," she said. "One I
don't have to worry about slipping over the line." She looked toward Jack's
barracks. "I guess that leaves out Mr. Smokey the Bear."
Wyn chuckled, then groaned as he grabbed his ribs. "Sucker throws a mean
punch, though," he complimented gruffly.
Marisol held his jacket out to him. "Thank you for the use of your cape,
Sir Galahad."
Wyn took the denim jacket, then swung it back around her shoulders. "You
need this more than I do."
"No, really, I -- " she began, only to begin a yawn she couldn't stifle.
"I guess we'd better go find you a place to bunk down," he suggested.
"Unless "
"Unless what?" she echoed, staring up into his golden-flecked eyes.
He grinned and wagged his thick brows. "Unless you'd care to share a cot
with me."
Despite the fresh pain in her heart and the ache in her soul, Marisol
shook her head. "I think I'll pass, but thanks for the invite."
"Anytime, anywhere," he said softly, and draped his arm over her
shoulder. "Let's get you to bed, Dark Eyes."
Once more, despite the disappointment building within her, Marisol felt a
twist of desire ripple through her lower belly. She glanced up at Wyn
McGregor's strong profile and mentally sighed. The man was gorgeous, his
features movie star-perfect. And his deep, husky voice sent shivers through
her. The weight of his muscled arm along her back as he pulled her close to
him while they walked gave her a warm feeling of security. Instinctively, she
knew she could trust the state trooper. He was the kind of man who took
charge.
She was right. Ten minutes later, he had found her a place to spend the
night and had walked her to the flap of the tent.
"How 'bout I come by and take you to breakfast in the morning?" he asked
as she removed his jacket once more and handed it over.
"I think I'd like that," she answered.
"I know you will," he whispered, as he reached out to cup her cheek. He
lowered his head, claiming her lips in a gentle goodnight kiss. Marisol
stared into his eyes as he straightened and ran the tip of his thumb over her
bottom lip. "You are," he said huskily, "an extraordinarily beautiful woman,
Dark Eyes. The man who claims you for his own will know sheer heaven."
She drew in her breath, not knowing how to respond to such a statement.
But he never gave her a chance. "Sweet dreams," he whispered, then turned to
go. She watched him walk away, his lean flanks seemingly poured into the
dusty black jeans. As she brought her fingertips up to her mouth, she could
still feel the tingle of his lips against her.
But it wasn't the earth-shattering thrill Jack's kisses had instilled in
her.
Sighing deeply, her emotions engaged in an all-out war, she entered the
tent -- and was surprised to see Dinah Louis glaring at her from atop a cot.
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