Radclyffe - Firestorm

“Jac, no,” Mallory said.

“I’m sorry.” Jac took a step away. She didn’t think she could leave if Mallory was touching her. “Please understand. I need to do this.”

The shock and pain in Mallory’s eyes almost dropped Jac to her knees. She had to get away, and fast. She slipped around Fleming and vaulted onto the ladder, half falling to the concrete floor. She made her legs work. Hurried out.

She couldn’t think about Mallory or she’d break. She had to get home. She needed to convince her father she wouldn’t endanger his public image. She needed to play his game, at least while he held the winning cards. Then maybe Mallory would be safe.

*

Mallory watched Jac disappear from sight, unable to believe she was going. How could she just walk away? From the job, from her. How could she let her father do this?

“She would have left sooner or later, you know,” Fleming said conversationally. “I’ve known her a long time. She’s not the type to settle down.”

“Get out.”

“I can track down the source of that photograph, if you like,” Fletcher said, picking up her briefcase.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Although with Jac gone, whoever took it will likely lose interest soon enough. Nevertheless, the offer stands.”

“How can you treat her like she’s nothing but a chess piece in her father’s game?”

Fleming regarded her with an expression of respect. “I like to win. Someone has to lose.” She shrugged. “Besides, I’m not the one sleeping with trash and ending up in the tabloids.”

“Neither is Jac.”

“Maybe not this time.” Fleming smiled. “This time she’s outdone herself. I’ll see myself out. Thanks.”

Fleming somehow managed to climb over the edge of the loft in a skirt without showing more than a flash of thigh. A few seconds later the staccato rap of her heels ricocheted across the hangar deck.

Mallory sank onto the edge of the cot. The rumble of a powerful engine filled the hangar and quickly faded away. Jac was gone. She had disappeared as quickly as an ember floated into the night sky and flickered out. Mallory felt the darkness close around her. She was numb. Somewhere, deep inside, she knew she was angry. Angry and hurt. And scared. Jac couldn’t keep denying herself and survive. Mallory dropped her head into her hands.

Think. She had to think.

She just needed a few minutes to make sense of everything. Then she’d probably see this was for the best. She’d never wanted a relationship. Especially not with a woman whose absence made her feel as if a part of her had died. She focused on the sleeping bag tangled around her legs. She thought of lying in the soft, warm flannel with Jac wrapped around her. She thought of Jac’s fingers stroking her as she drifted into sleep, filling her as they made love, igniting her body and soul.

She hadn’t asked for that. She hadn’t asked for any of that. She hadn’t known she needed it. Now she had to decide if she could live without it.

Chapter Thirty

The hangar was tomb-like. Even the ever-present drip of oil from machine parts and the whine of wind sluicing over the metal roof were absent. The silence Mallory ordinarily found peaceful only made the ache inside harder to bear. She was off call, with a sunny day for the first time in a week ahead of her, and everything was wrong. Jac should be here and she wasn’t. They should still be wrapped up in each other, wakening to the sound of each other’s breathing, touching and making love. Jac should not have left her. Jac should not have broken her heart. She’d let Jac touch her—let her into her body and her damn heart. Didn’t Jac know she didn’t need to fight alone, that Mallory would have stood by her? Mallory wanted to kick the joined sleeping bags over the edge of the loft into the mocking emptiness below. Real mature. What did you expect? You slept together one night. Hardly grounds for an engagement.

When Mallory hurt, she worked. She straightened up the loft, squared the cots, placed a rolled sleeping bag at the end of each one. Then she headed to the standby shack to sort and clean the gear she and Jac had used on the SAR. The quiet in the cavernous hangar followed her out into the yard, beating at her like so many silent wings, making the air heavy and hard to pull into her lungs. Her limbs were sluggish, her mind vaguely empty. And the ache deep in her core throbbed with every step. The harsh lights in the locker room made her eyes water. She swiped at the moisture on her face and tried not to see Jac leaning against the wall of lockers, naked, water glistening on her smooth, tanned skin. She tried not to feel the heat of Jac’s flesh beneath her fingers. Tried not to see the wounded desolation in Jac’s eyes when Fleming had handed her that photograph.

Mallory stiffened. The photograph. A tiny click in the back of her brain cleared some of the fog. The click got louder, steadier, and disparate pieces of a fragmented picture started to fit together. How convenient that Fleming had a copy of the photograph—just in time for Franklin Russo’s candidacy announcement. Just the kind of ammunition Jac couldn’t fight. And then using it to threaten Mallory’s job? Maybe the whole station? Fleming knew Jac’s history. She had to know what Jac would do—Jac was programmed to put herself in the path of destruction for the sake of those she loved. Mallory paced around the bench between the lockers. Maybe Jac didn’t believe she wasn’t alone anymore, but that was no reason to let her go on believing it. Mallory considered her options. She might not be able to take on a powerful presidential candidate who chose to use his family as props and sent his rabid watchdog to make threats, but she wasn’t helpless, and she wasn’t giving up on Jac. The photograph was a place to start.

Energized, she spun around, checked her jacket pockets for the keys to the rented Jeep, and sprinted out to the yard. She tore out onto the highway and headed south. An hour later she drove through a still-sleeping Bear Creek and pulled up in front of Emily’s house. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was going to say or do, but she knew she had to start here. She checked her watch. Eight a.m. Emily might still be asleep. Maybe she should drive around town until she found an open coffee shop. She ought to at least bring pastries as a peace offering. As she reached to key the ignition, the front door of Emily’s small wood-framed house opened, and Emily stepped out onto the porch in a pale blue robe cinched at the waist. Looking perplexed, Emily waved and motioned for Mallory to come in. Mallory pocketed her keys, got out, and strode up the sidewalk. Emily stepped back inside and Mallory followed.

“Hi.” Emily stood on tiptoe and kissed Mallory lightly on the lips. “What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s early. My clock is all turned around.”

“You’ve been out on a call?”

“Yes. And then some things—came up.”

Emily linked her arm through Mallory’s. “Come back to the kitchen. I was just about to make coffee. Are you hungry?”

“No,” Mallory said, although her stomach rumbled in contradiction.

“We’ll see about that. Take off your coat and tell me what’s going on.”

Mallory hesitated in the doorway to the cheery kitchen. Emily looked beautiful in the bright morning sun, her hair glowing, her skin fresh, her expression vibrant. She looked happy, and Mallory suddenly felt out of place and guilty for bringing discord into the tranquility.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” Emily said.

“I don’t know how to say this,” Mallory said abruptly.

Emily finished filling the coffeemaker with water, set the kettle down, and turned to study Mallory. “Come to tell me things have changed?”