Read Online Into the Fire by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online

sure they can make do without you for a few days. In the meantime you should concentrate on what happened to Nate. Why he was even there, what he did during his last days. Anything.”
    That tone of desperation had slid into Isobel’s voice, the one that always destroyed Jamie’s defenses. “All right, Mother,” she said wearily. “I’ll give it a few days.”
    â€œThank you, Jamie. I knew I could count on you. After all, we both loved him so much.”
    â€œYes, we did,” Jamie said. “Let me give you…”
    â€œGoodbye, darling.”
    â€œâ€¦the telephone number here.” But Isobel had already hung up. Jamie stared at the phone in frustration. She could always try calling her back, but knowing Isobel’s gift for getting what she wanted, she probably wouldn’t answer the phone. Either that or she’d refuse to accept the collect charges.
    She was trapped. She resisted temptation, putting the telephone back into its cradle very carefully. Her mother was right—a couple of days wouldn’t kill her. And surely she could do something herself about getting her license and credit cards back. If only Dillon had a goddamned private telephone line.
    She headed back toward the kitchen, then paused, looking at the cavernous garage.
    It must have been some kind of warehouse or factory in the distant past. The place was huge, with a line of cars along both ends, half of them covered with tarps. She recognized an old Thunderbird, a Mustang Cobra and a stately ’49 Oldsmobile. Forsome reason she had always been good at recognizing cars, and the ones she could see in Dillon’s garage were beautiful and rare.
    There were two more in various stages of disarray. The one missing an engine was a Ford from 1954 or 1955. The other was nothing less than a Duesenberg.
    She took a step, irresistibly drawn to it. It had taken the years with surprising dignity, and even in its current state it had a certain grace and elegance that filled her with a rare covetousness. She’d never been particularly materialistic—her needs had always been more emotional and elemental. But looking at the old Duesenberg, she wanted it.
    She turned her back on it, resolutely, and stalked to the kitchen. There was no sign of Dillon, thank God, and she was hungry. It was no wonder the man was still skinny—there wasn’t even enough food in his cupboards to feed the dead rat. She half expected to find pellets all over the place, but whatever rodents had taken possession of the kitchen had left no sign behind.
    She gave up looking, starting to eat stale Wheaties from the box, when the door opened and a very small guardian angel stepped in. Or more specifically, Mouser, with a boxful of groceries.
    â€œHi, there, sugar,” he greeted her. “I broughtyou some food. Dillon never has a damned thing in the house, and I figured you’d be starving about now. Don’t eat those Wheaties—I think the guy on the box was in the 1936 Olympics.”
    She set the box down hurriedly, swallowing her last dry mouthful. The little man was unpacking milk, orange juice and a bakery box that smelled like divine intervention.
    â€œCinnamon buns, no nuts, right?” he said.
    She’d already opened the box, but she jerked her head up at his words. “How did you know that’s what I like?” she demanded sharply.
    Mouser shrugged. “Nate musta said something. I got a good memory for things like that.”
    â€œBut Nate didn’t. I don’t think he had any idea whether I liked nuts or not.”
    â€œWell, hell, I musta got you mixed up with someone else. I’ll get them with nuts tomorrow,” he said, unabashed.
    â€œNo, this is perfect,” she said hurriedly, realizing she must have sounded rude. Isobel had drummed good manners into her, good manners above all things. Besides, what did it matter if someone knew she didn’t like nuts