Playing With Fire (4 page)

Nope. Ms. Erin, spelled E.r.i.n., was not the All-American
girl next door living out her lifelong dream to be a big bad fireman. The
prickles on his neck told him that much. But who was she? And what kind of
trouble was she in?

Nate was a master interrogator. He’d gotten answers from the
baddest of the bad. He snorted, thinking back on Erin’s non-answers to his
family’s innocent questions, on the way her eyes darted from side to side,
grasping for another acceptable lie. Hell, the only time she told the truth was
when she said her parents were dead. Well, and when she called him out as the
immature asshole that he was. He chuckled, then sobered. Yeah, he’d get
answers. Real answers. But first, he needed data.

He whistled to himself as he eased his long legs into the
expensive leather seat in his Z, and fiddled with the high tech gizmos
decorating the dashboard. Good thing he was a whiz at ferreting out
information, no matter how deep it was buried. There wasn’t a site he couldn’t
hack, a program he couldn’t break into. It was against departmental rules, of
course. Illegal as shit. But then, he’d never been much for rules.

She loved the feel of the pavement hard against her feet,
the smell of the trees, the sun on her back. She especially liked watching the
mile markers speed by, knowing that she’d soon be at the place where her
endorphins would kick in. Little by little she’d go deeper, escape to that
meditative state where her mind shut down. Or at least quieted. Somewhat.
Running had always been her drug of choice. Even when she lived with Dylan.
After a particularly bad beating, when she couldn’t run, she’d think about
alternatives. Alcohol, drugs, suicide were among them. Fortunately her body was
young and healed quickly… and soon she was able to run again.

Running was where she did her best thinking. Where she became
a strategic mastermind. It was during her fifteen mile runs up the coast of
California where she conceived her escape plan. Even now she marveled at its
daring. Granted it took her four years to marshall the courage to implement it.
For several years Dylan was content with hitting her, bruising her, threatening
her with lit cigarettes. When he dislocated her shoulder for the second time
and broke her wrist dragging her up the stairs, she knew he might start on her
legs next.

She took it as an omen when the emergency room doctor — a
friend of Dylan’s — documented the breaks as a “running accident.” It too
easily could be, the next time Dylan was looking for a bone to break. It was
time to go. The brilliance of her plan was that she took nothing. Nothing he
could claim she had stolen, nothing he could use to trace her. Not so much as a
change of clothes. She’d been poor when he found her in the strip joint at age
17, and she didn’t mind being poor again. The big house, the multiple cars, the
clothes, and especially the $10,000 wedding ring all seemed superfluous now.
Not worth every bone in your body being broken.

The challenge was how to escape him, not let him find her.
That was where Simon came in. One of her friends had referred him when Erin
said she needed a PI. Laurie gave her Simon’s name, assuming of course that
Erin wanted to get evidence of Dylan’s philandering. Early in their marriage,
after the first time Dylan beat her, Erin started saving money for her escape.
She accumulated nearly $15,000 in a private account. Simon agreed to help her —
as long as she paid him $1,500 the first of every month. If she missed a month,
the deal was off. For the last three years, she’d wound her way across the
country, going farther east, then south, then finally north. For $1,500 a
month, Simon let her know how close on her trail Dylan was. A year ago, he’d
told her it looked like her bastard husband had found the new love of his life,
and no longer cared if he caught Erin. For her peace of mind, she continued to
pay Simon his $1,500 a month. Which was about how much she could bring in
waitressing.

It was at that point that she took herself in hand. She
needed a job, a real job where she would be safe. Trying to think of all the
places she could hide, she had an inspiration. Huddled in the back of a bar in
a small Midwestern town, she began watching a 9/11 anniversary tribute. Most of
the patrons in the bar were firefighters. The most impressive thing about the
crowd was its hushed silence throughout the documentary. Erin sobbed quietly
watching the extraordinary heroism of the firefighters play across the screen
in the muted bar. Walking back to her tiny studio apartment, she knew what she
would do. It was crystal clear. She wasn’t aiming to be a hero. But, she knew
her chances were good that she would die young. Her track record to date was
not promising. If she did, she wanted to know that she had done at least one
honorable thing, one thing worthy of note.

And, never in a million years, would Dylan think that scared
little Sarah Marie who had lived in a mansion and drove a Ferrari would become
a firefighter. She cleaned out the rest of her savings and for $5,000, Simon
got rid of Sarah Marie Masterson and all her other aliases, and Erin McFadden
was born. She had a social security number, a job history and a decent resume.
All she needed was a location. She was beginning to feel safe in the Midwest.
The people were nice, didn’t ask too many questions. She did her research,
found the Firefighter Academies that supported women and choose her town. Her
interview with Chief Halloran went well, and her stint at the Academy even
better.

Six months ago she started her first legitimate job as a
rookie firefighter. Spending what little cash she had left after paying Simon
for her new identity, she bought a beaten up car that ran great. She found a
furnished house in a crappy neighborhood that didn’t require first and last
month’s rent. The landlord lived out of state and she paid her rent to a post
office box. Most of the furniture was junk but at least she had a bed, some
chairs, a couch, and even some end tables. It would do for her year as a
rookie, after which she could move to a better place and start buying decent
things. She even treated herself to $200 of clothes (most of them running
gear). She congratulated herself. She’d turned a corner, closed the proverbial
door, and began to believe that someday her life might be normal. She wasn’t
sure exactly what that was… but she looked forward to it all the same.

Six weeks ago that fragile normality came to a crashing
halt. It started with her car. For a week she’d had trouble with it. It was
harder and harder to start. Finally one morning it wouldn’t start at all.

Wiping his grease stained hands on his pants, Sonny Peters
shook his head when he told her the bad news.

“Sorry, Erin. Hate to tell you this, but the engine is
shot.”

Erin listened in disbelief as Sonny explained there was
nothing she could do but junk her 1992 Nissan Sentra — her only means of
transportation.

A troubled frown notched Sonny’s bushy eyebrows together.

“I don’t like this one bit, Erin. If I didn’t know better,
I’d say that someone put sugar in your gas tank. That’s the only thing I know
of that will caramelize like this and kill the gas lines. I know you live over
in Charlotte Prairie. Much as I hate to point fingers, the kind of kids who
roam those streets wouldn’t be above doing something shitty like this.
Especially to a woman firefighter. Be sure you tell Connor — and I recommend
you report it to the cops.”

But she didn’t. And she didn’t call them three weeks later
when her house was vandalized. She’d stood in the doorway looking at the
slashed furniture, the broken tables, and the pile of ripped and torn clothes.
All of her dishes were smashed, the few paintings and posters she’d accumulated
were torn into shreds. Nearly frozen with fear, she rented a dumpster. In the
middle of the night she filled it, piece by piece, with every material thing
she owned and the remains of the rental furniture. An encroaching dread
threatened to incapacitate her. Only the distraction of her long distance runs
and 12-hour days at the station allowed her to believe that perhaps, just
perhaps it was bad kids out to terrorize the new woman on the block. She didn’t
tell anyone including Mrs. Johnson, her next door neighbor. Mrs. Johnson —
Ettie Mae, as she insisted Erin call her — had taken her under her wing. When
Ettie Mae saw the dumpster, Erin lied. She told Ettie Mae she was tired of her
old junk, and little by little was going to replace it with good quality items.
That was laughable. The fifteen hundred dollars she still paid to Simon, the
thousand-plus she paid in rent and utilities, left her perilously close to
empty by the end of the month. She’d used up her savings and could only do one
thing. Start over. At least she still had her job.

As she ran by the reservoir, Erin allowed herself to think
about Nate. He’d ordered her into his car on this very corner. She shivered at
the memory of his stern voice, rock hard jaw and the surprising crease on his
cheek when he smiled. She’d done her best not to think about him, but from the
night of the fire he’d been on her mind. Not hard to understand why. He might
just be the sexiest man she’d seen in a long time. It was ironic. For nearly
five years, men, all men, had meant danger, something to be avoided at all
costs. But for the last week she hadn’t been able to get Nate Stryker out of
her mind. Ironic indeed. No doubt Nate was the most dangerous man she’d met since
fleeing Dylan. Add to that that he was an arrogant, obnoxious sexist. Warning
sirens should have been blasting her foolish hormones to smithereens. She
admonished herself. And there was another reason she should avoid Nate Stryker
as though her life depended on it: because in a weird way she knew it did. Nate
was a cop. She learned a long time ago, you don’t trust cops. She’d known that
from the time she was a kid, a young girl in a bad neighborhood. Cops were
always around to tell you what not to do but if something bad happened, like
when one of their buddies felt you up in the back of a squad car, they seemed
to disappear. Or when your husband is a golf partner of the Chief of Police,
you learned not to report domestic abuse. Even when it meant more broken bones,
and more cigarette burns.

She shivered. What if she had gone to the police, like Sonny
advised her to when her car was trashed? Or after the break in? But she never
would have. Until she knew who was harassing her, she didn’t dare tell anyone, not
even Connor. As kind as he was, Erin knew he’d tell the Chief — and they’d
insist on following up. Damn, Connor would probably have brought his big bad
cousin into it and then where would she be? Under the scrutiny of a man who
already knew too much. She’d seen it in the way Nate looked at her. Of course
he was interested in getting in her pants. They all were. Even most of the
married ones. She’d known that about men from the time she was thirteen. If
only that was all it was. But it was more. She’d caught Nate looking at her
yesterday. Frowning that all-too-aware look you got from cops — the good ones.
It made her wonder where he grew up. Remembering what he’d said about how his
mother died, it sure wasn’t in the warm embrace of the Lang family. Uh uh. You
got that look, that innate suspicion about other people when you grew up the
way she did. That look came from the streets. It was a look you learned young,
or you didn’t make it out alive.

Erin shuddered, remembering Nate leaning against his car in
the pouring rain, staring at her house. She could feel his eyes on her as if he
could see through the walls. Yes, he was a dangerous man. The kind of man who
would track you down. Until he found out everything he wanted to know about
you. The kind of man she could not allow herself to know. No matter how tall he
was, or how built, or how sexy his smile was. Especially when he had a wicked
gleam in his eyes that let you know he had a damn good idea what you looked
like without your clothes. And that if the spirit moved him, he’d just as
likely as not, try to find out.

Caught up in the image of Nate covering her with his leather
jacket, she turned a blind corner and ran head-on into another runner. She hit
him with such force that it knocked her down.

A startled voice called out.

“Good God, I’m sorry. Damn, Miss. I’m sorry. I thought you
saw me. I called to you. I guess you didn’t hear me. Are you alright?”

Erin looked up at the man hovering over her. He looked
shocked. His green eyes were dark with concern.

“Here. Let me help you up. God, Miss. I’m sorry. I….”

Erin managed to get her breath. She was more embarrassed
than hurt. Good grief, now she was so caught up in her imagination that she was
running into people?

“No… no don’t apologize. I’m sorry. I… I wasn’t paying
attention. I—”

“No, Miss. Please, come sit down. We bumped into each other
pretty hard. I want to be sure that you’re okay.”

Erin wanted to refuse, to leave, but the earnest man was
obviously concerned. The least she could do since she’d run into him was to
make sure they were both all right.

She allowed him lead her over to the park bench. He knelt
down in front of her and carefully began rotating her ankles, one by one.

“I want to be sure you didn’t sprain an ankle. Do your knees
feel okay?”

Erin smiled.

“Honestly, I’m fine. It knocked the wind out of me. I hit
you before I hit the ground. You actually broke my fall.”

He laughed.

“That’s a relief. All I could think of is that I finally run
into a beautiful woman, and I knock her down in the process.”

Erin blushed and allowed herself to look at him. He was only
a few inches taller than she was and had the lean build of a runner. His neatly
trimmed dark brown hair and smiling green eyes made her feel at ease. He wasn’t
a street person or a mugger, thank God. If anything glancing at the running
shoes he was wearing, he sure wasn’t after her nonexistent money.