Hidden Fire Read online

  The name slammed into him, a double shot to the head and gut. His gaze swung toward the man’s good-looking face. Fifteen years older, but the same face that haunted his night-mares, his every waking moment. One he’d never thought to see again in this lifetime, or the next.

  He couldn’t breathe. Was being held underwater. Vision graying at the edges.

  Drowning.

  “Julian? Are you all right?”

  He blinked at Grace, fighting to breathe, the fog clearing some. He’d never fainted and he wasn’t about to now, in front of her.

  In front of the man who’d nearly destroyed him.

  This must be cosmic punishment for his most terrible mistake and the promiscuous life he’d led since. Hadn’t he suffered enough, simply struggling each day to rise above the past?

  “Julian?” She turned to Vines. “Get one of the others—”

  “No!” He gave her what he prayed was a reassuring smile, when what he needed to do was find a restroom and be sick. “No, I’m fine. It’s just . . . all of this clothing and gear is hotter than hell. Vines, nice to meet you,” he said.

  Because that’s how a normal person greeted another. A normal guy would shake the man’s hand, too, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not even under torture.

  Before Vines could open his mouth, Julian took Grace’s arm. “I need to speak with you in private.”

  Vines wore a puzzled frown, not a spark of recognition in his eyes. Thank God. Julian steered Grace toward the back of the ambulance, aware of the captain’s disapproving scowl and the other guys’ curious stares. He ignored them all, getting right to the point.

  “What the fuck are you doing with a slimeball like Derek Vines?”

  Score. That damned irritating, chilly sophistication slipped several notches, and she gaped at him, bristling. “Derek Vines is my client, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Really? You called him Derek, not Mr. Vines,” he pointed out, struggling to remain calm. And losing.

  “Derek is a family acquaintance, which is also none of your business. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Cut that asshole loose. Trust me on this.”

  “Let go of my arm,” she hissed, jerking the limb in question.

  Blinking, he uncurled his fingers from her sleeve. He hadn’t realized he’d grabbed her. “I’m sorry. But please listen,” he entreated, injecting his voice with all the sincerity he possessed. Where Vines was concerned, it wasn’t difficult. “Vines is extremely dangerous, Grace. You have no idea.”

  She obviously wanted to leave, but hesitated, anger tempered by curiosity. “How would you know this?”

  Oh, God. “Just . . . trust me.”

  “Not good enough. I don’t know you.”

  “Yeah? Well, you don’t know Vines, either, or you’d never have accepted him as a client. You only defend the innocent?” He gave a bitter laugh and wiped a hand down his grimy face. “Jesus Christ, Grace. Even you can’t be right in every case, about every person, and you’re not right about him.”

  “How so? Throw me a bone, Salvatore, or I walk.”

  Salvatore. The pervert is “Derek” and I’m “Salvatore.” Great.

  What could he tell her when he was shaking apart inside, trying to keep from hitting his knees?

  “I grew up in San Antonio, Texas, same as Derek. Suffice it to say he’s trouble for everyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. Do some research.”

  “All right,” she said, nodding slightly. “I can do that much.”

  “Then drop the bastard like yesterday’s bad news, because that’s what he is.”

  Anger animated her face again, and he knew he’d never seen a more gorgeous woman. Sucked to have her fury directed at him, but better for her to be aware of the viper in her midst.

  “Thank you for the information, however vague, but I’ll be the one to decide which clients to take on.” A strange expression clouded the anger for a second as she held his gaze; then it vanished. “Good-bye, Julian.”

  Good-bye. At least she’d used his first name again. Wasn’t that a positive sign?

  And she’d never actually turned him down, had she?

  “Why haven’t you just said no?” he blurted, inwardly cursing himself for an idiot.

  Grace paused, looking over her shoulder, violet eyes cool as ever. The irritation was gone, a ghost of a smile hovering on those plump lips. “Perhaps I just haven’t said yes.”

  Jaw clenched, he watched her walk away, small round butt swinging in her tight skirt. Damn her for stringing him along.

  A hand clamped hard on his shoulder. “Oh, boy. Our Latin lover’s got it bad.” Six-Pack stepped in front of him, shaking his head. “I’ve tried to tell you: Forget about her. Grace is as elusive as the wind.”

  “You’re just afraid I’ll break your precious sister-in-law’s heart.”

  The lieutenant’s expression sobered. “Not anymore, my friend. I’m afraid she’ll break yours.”

  Six-Pack strode away and Julian watched, relieved, as Grace and Derek Vines left in separate cars. Even if she wasn’t his business, he cared for her safety. She was representing a monster, and he couldn’t make her truly understand.

  Not unless he told her everything.

  And that was never going to happen.

  Just like Grace accepting his dinner invite.

  He had to let go of this fixation on her. It boiled down to lust. Infatuation. Nothing more.

  There were plenty of women who wanted him, even if Grace didn’t.

  Problem was, giving up and moving on had never hurt so much.

  2

  Julian wound his way through the press of undulating bodies, the beat of heavy bass hammering his brain cells. Or maybe that was the fourth shot of Patrón.

  Thanks to the beauty clinging to his hand, that particular throbbing couldn’t compete with the one below his belt. Cindy trailed in his wake, gyrating her voluptuous body to the naughty, hard-driving Nickelback song “Animals.”

  How appropriate was that?

  Yeah, he was planning to get into some major trouble tonight. He loved redheads. Or brunettes. Blondes. Hell, he worshipped them all. Especially tipsy ones in tight, fire-engine red dresses with plunging necklines.

  He had the exit dead in his sights when his date tugged on his arm, bringing him up short.

  “Jules, I want another drink!”

  He shot Miss Babe-a-licious his best killer grin and raised his voice to be heard above the din. “Honey, I’ve got everything you need to quench your thirst. Let’s go back to my place and you can take your pick.”

  Unfortunately, she missed the cue.

  She gave him a pretty pout, plumping lips that would be put to better use if she were on her knees. “But I see some people I wanna talk to before we go!” Spinning toward the bar, she waved an arm enthusiastically. “Oh, look, there’s Laurie and Will!”

  Cindy danced toward her friends, leaving him standing in the middle of the crowd with a raging erection, frustration souring the anticipation of moments ago. The noise of the Friday night crowd, the sweating masses, pressed in on him like a vise, making him feel slightly claustrophobic. A little sick. Why tonight?

  Because Derek Vines is somewhere nearby. He’s here in Tennessee, your darkest secret, your nightmare in the flesh. Poised to ruin the life you worked so hard to build.

  Case in point, this trendy Nashville bar on Second Avenue. It was his bachelor hunting ground, his port in the storm on his nights off from the fire station. Normally he thrived on strobe lights and hard rock, the sultry undercurrents in the room, rife with the promise of sex and other dark pleasures even he didn’t dare partake of. An adult play-ground filled with strangers holding out colorful candy.

  Yet his edge had deserted him. Left him adrift and disoriented in a sea of writhing, venomous snakes. A shiver crawled down his spine, as though Derek might emerge from the shadows at any moment. He had to get the fuck out of here, soon.


  Shoving his way to the bar, he came to stand behind Cindy, who sat on a barstool chatting with her friends and sipping her third or fourth cosmopolitan. His date turned and blew him a sloppy kiss while her companions shot him a smile, then dismissed him altogether as they continued their own party.

  Gritting his teeth, Julian pushed between Cindy and some overweight guy next to her with a mumbled apology and leaned against the bar, assuming a casual pose. The unwanted fifth wheel in a room full of people. Again.

  God, he hated this shit. Hated hovering like a fool, holding his dick. He’d give her ten minutes and he was out of here, with or without her. They’d arrived separately, so he wasn’t responsible for seeing her home, for which he was now thanking Jesus and the Fabulous Twelve.

  He had a feeling that was about all he had going his way tonight.

  Squelching the urge to order another shot of Patrón, he filched a cherry out of the cocktail garnish tray, popped it into his mouth, and plucked it from the stem. He chewed the sweet fruit, trying to force himself to relax, and stared across the bar at the patrons lined up on the other side like cattle at a feeding trough—just like his side of the fence.

  That’s how we look. A slick bunch of losers, people on the make, some cheating, some lying.

  Some unbearably lonely.

  Not himself, though. No way. Being alone and lonely were two different things. He wasn’t sitting around pining over Grace’s umpteenth rejection. “Never fix what isn’t broken” was a motto that had always served him well.

  No, lonely was the blond kid sitting directly across from him. Eyes downcast, he picked at the napkin under his beer and laughed halfheartedly at something his older, dark-haired companion said. The kid looked rather unhappy, strained, in fact. Julian wondered whether it was because he was underage and worried about getting caught. If he was one frickin’ day over nineteen, Jules was Enrique Iglesias.

  “Cody, amigo,” Julian called as the bartender started to rush past.

  Cody halted and braced his hands on the bar, giving him a mischievous grin. “Am I setting you up again already? Man, if you’re still here drinking, you obviously need to come up with a better pickup line than the one about big fire hoses.”

  “Hey, don’t disparage a tried-and-true method. Almost every woman with a pulse, even my eighty-year-old abuela, would go home with a firefighter.” He arched a brow. “The rest will settle for the bartender, if they must.”

  Cody barked a short laugh and shook his head. “You want another Patrón, or are you going to just stand there and be an asshole, as usual?”

  “Neither. I’m thinking the blond kid behind you should be home watching the Teletubbies.”

  To his credit, the bartender didn’t turn around. He nodded, expression sobering. “Had the same thought, myself. His ID checked out.”

  “Must’ve been a damned good fake.”

  “I’m not a cop, man. You know my take on those nimrods.”

  “Never one around when you need them.” Given his past experience, he’d be the last to argue.

  “Right on. Besides, his friend isn’t drinking, said he was the designated driver, so I’m not worried. Anything else?”

  “Nope. Think I’m going to cruise.”

  “You need a cab?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  Cody slapped a hand on the bar. “Take care, man.”

  As Cody hurried off to attend to his customers, Julian’s attention strayed back to the blond kid and his buddy. The dark-haired man leaned against the bar facing the young guy, his face in profile, features wreathed in shadows. He leaned close, said something in his friend’s ear. Laid a hand on the sleeve of the young man’s arm in a sensual manner that sent up rainbow flags all around their space.

  As he watched their intense body language, that hand lingering on the kid’s arm, a chill broke out on Julian’s skin. Homosexuality didn’t bother him. It was the kid’s lost, confused expression.

  Exactly as though he didn’t really want to leave with the “friend” who wasn’t drinking. In a fucking bar, on a Friday night.

  His imagination? Probably. Then the man said something else and they rose to leave. As they did, Julian noted the tremble of the kid’s hand as he raised the bottle to his lips for one more draw of his beer, the tremor so bad he nearly fumbled it when he set it down on the bar. He stumbled, and his companion caught his arm, steadying him.

  God Almighty, he’s scared shitless. And drunk?

  Or worse—drugged. With that thought Julian was out of his seat, bolting through the crowd after them. Cindy’s shout floated behind him, but he pushed on, driven by frantic impulse. He wished he could’ve gotten a good look at the older man. Maybe he’d catch them outside . . . and then what? Stick his nose where it didn’t belong just to appease his own demons? Embarrass them all for no good reason?

  He burst outside, scanning up and down the sidewalk. Downtown Nashville on weekend kickoff night was festive at one in the morning. Groups of twenty-somethings hung out, laughing and cutting up, enjoying the spring evening. Some were walking, barhopping their way to oblivion.

  Where—? There. Across the street, the pair he sought was climbing into a dark four-door sedan, the older man driving. Damn, he couldn’t get a description of the guy. Squinting, he focused on the car instead and made out the metallic glint of the unmistakable Mercedes symbol on the trunk. The license plate, he couldn’t see well. X . . . E . . . and was that a P or a B?

  The Mercedes backed out and the opportunity was lost. Hell, he couldn’t go running after the car like a lunatic. He already felt stupid enough.

  “Dios, Salvatore, what’s wrong with you?” he muttered.

  The sedan began to pull away—just as the driver turned his head and looked in Julian’s direction.

  Other than short, dark hair and broad features, he still couldn’t make out the man’s face very clearly. He had the fleeting thought that the driver could be staring at any one of the revelers on the sidewalk near Julian. But the man’s gaze hit him in the chest like twin laser points.

  Julian staggered backward a step, heart tripping, as the Mercedes pulled away, taillights receding into the darkness. It wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t.

  “Hey, why’d you run off?”

  Someone grabbed his arm. He spun to find Cindy next to him, a bemused expression on her face. The same face he’d thought gorgeous four shots ago, and now struck him as garish. A bit harsh, even. His cock, he realized with some surprise, had surrendered hope, and was no longer by any means tempted to come out and play.

  Not with Cindy.

  “I thought I saw someone I knew,” he said, reaching into his pants pocket for his car keys. “I was wrong.”

  “Oh. So, are we leaving?” Gluing herself to his side like a strip of Velcro, she ran a manicured nail down his chest through the part in his buttoned shirt.

  “I’m leaving. Alone.” Gently, he set her away from him, marveling that he’d almost made the mistake of taking this woman to bed. Giving one of her hands a squeeze, he leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. “I had a good time.”

  “But we were supposed to go to your place!”

  “Plans change, honey. That ship has sailed, I’m afraid.”

  The astonishment on her face was priceless. “You—you’re blowing me off?”

  “I prefer to call it reconsidering my options.” Wisely, he refrained from pointing out she’d blown him off first. He and his brother hadn’t grown up in a houseful of women only to learn squat. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Outraged, she slapped his hand away. “Don’t bother, prick.”

  Spinning around, she stalked off, high heels clicking on the pavement in a rapid staccato. He watched her go, the clingy dress painted on her tight, edible body, and sighed.

  Yeah, he’d lost his mind.

  No doubt, she would’ve been hotter than a firecracker in July. So why did the idea of a few hours of recreation between consenting adults
leave him cold when it never had in the past? Cindy was attractive, willing, and . . . that’s all.

  She was a virtual stranger. Someone he’d met when Station Five worked a traffic accident last week. She’d slipped him her phone number, and he’d called to arrange a date. Which they’d had. Period.

  Julian stood in the middle of the sidewalk, among the milling crowd, and right there had a startling revelation. These clubbers were, by and large, in their early to mid-twenties. On the heels of his thirty-first birthday, those few years of age difference suddenly yawned between them, a chasm as wide and deep as the Royal Gorge. He felt . . . old.

  What the fuck am I doing here?

  He didn’t want some stranger.

  An image of a certain defense lawyer blindsided him as it had at the restaurant fire, flattening him. The ethereal blond beauty who’d set his body afire and left him to burn.

  “Grace,” he whispered.

  Just like that, the damnable loneliness seeped through his walls of iron. Strangled his breath. Yeah, you liar—lonely. He couldn’t stand the thought of going home to his empty condo. Slipping between cold sheets, shivering as the horror chased away his sleep.

  Only a woman’s warm, soft body would ease him tonight. And not just anyone, but one who at least cared for him.

  With shaking hands, he took out his cell phone. Speed-dialed the first number on his list. His best—and only—friend’s voice answered with a sleepy greeting.

  “Hello?”

  “Carmelita.” He closed his eyes, weary with relief. “Dulce, I’m coming over.”

  The Collector guided the Mercedes away from downtown and glanced at his young passenger. “Did you know that man?” he asked sharply.

  The kid, slumped in the leather seat like a limp noodle, rolled his head toward him, the movement loose. His blue eyes were glazed. “Who?”

  Good. The GHB was doing its job. Soon, he’d do his.