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Scorched. Rachel Butler

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Scorched Rachel Butler ebook pdf
Publisher:
Language: English
Page: 336
ISBN: 0440243378, 9780440336686

About the Author

Rachel Butler lives in Oklahoma with her husband and son, where she is at work on her next novel of romantic suspense starring Selena McCaffrey.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1


"—six, seven, eight . . ."
"—actually suggested we have another baby . . ."
"—she's really hot, but she wants to get married . . ."
Snatches of conversation drifted past Selena, as comforting as the shawl wrapped around her shoulders to protect against the cool October air. She was sitting in a chaise longue on the Ceola patio, with half the family scattered around in an impromptu get-together.

It didn't take much to stir up one of those with the Ceolas. That evening it had been nothing more than Tony and his brother coming over to mow their parents' yard one last time for the season. Selena, along with J.J.'s wife and kids, had come with them, Tony's sister and her family had stopped by, and before long younger brothers Dom and Matt had also appeared at the house. Anna had been happy to switch gears from dinner for two to fifteen, pulling pans of lasagna and garlic bread from the freezer, tossing salads, and whipping up zabaglione for dessert. A spur-of-the-moment party, and everyone was enjoying it, Selena most of all.

Anna sat down in the chair next to Selena's with a grunt, then smiled. "I sound like Nonna Ceola, making that old-lady noise when I sit down or stand up."

"You've done a lot of work this evening. You're entitled."

"Nonna used to say, 'When it's family, it's not work.' " Anna was silent a moment, then she shook her head. "Nonna was full of crap."

Selena smiled. She'd heard tales of Joe Ceola's mother, from the Italian Alps in the north, who'd viewed Anna's southern Italian blood with disdain. Nonna Ceola had forgiven her grandchildren their southern heritage, but not her daughter-in-law.

Now Anna was Nonna, grandmother to a handful of rambunctious kids belonging to her three older children. She was hopeful that the younger four would add to the brood, including Tony. The more Selena thought about the idea, the more she liked it.

After sipping rich espresso from the tiny cup she held, Anna asked, "How is your painting?"

"Fine. I just shipped three canvases to the gallery in Key West." Selena hid a smile. Like her mother, daughter, and daughters-in-law, Anna had always been a stay-at-home mother. Painting was something the kids did with finger paints. Standing at an easel for hours at a time seemed to her an odd way to earn a living, but for Tony's sake, she always showed interest.

Tony's five-year-old twin nieces ran past, giggling and shrieking as Joe lumbered after them, arms outstretched, doing a good imitation of a cartoon monster. He was grinning, having as much fun as the girls, his pleasure lighting eyes that were too often dull.

"How is Joe?" Selena asked quietly.

Anna's smile faded. "He has his good days. With the new medication the doctor's got him on, they're outnumbering the bad. He knew who you were this evening, didn't he?"

Selena nodded. The Alzheimer's that was slowly destroying Joe often left him in a cloud of confusion. Sometimes he remembered that Tony was his son and she was his girlfriend, though just as often he thought they were neighbors from long ago. But this evening he had remembered, had greeted them both by name and asked when they were finally going to get married.

Soon, Dad, Tony had said. The promise had sent a tingle of warmth through Selena that remained three hours later. Sure, they'd talked about getting married, but he hadn't actually asked and they hadn't discussed a date. Selena wasn't in a rush—she knew Tony loved her—but it was a wonderful thought for the future.

"This isn't what I wanted for my old age," Anna said softly. "But I wouldn't have missed a moment of the last forty-some years. Not even the bad ones. I'll make the best of his good days, and I'll love him through the bad ones." She reached over to squeeze Selena's hand. "That's all any of us can do, isn't it?"

With another of those old-lady grunts, she pushed to her feet, making it only a few yards before one of the grandkids attached himself to her. She swung the little boy onto her hip and continued across the patio. Selena watched her ruffle the boy's hair, nuzzle his neck, then say something to make him laugh, and she wondered . . .

"You look way too comfortable there." Tony slid into the chair Anna had vacated, then claimed Selena's hand, twining his fingers with hers. "What are you smiling about?"

"Am I smiling?" She was, of course. She'd been imagining another little boy in Anna's arms, one with the brown Ceola eyes and her own café-au-lait skin. Anna hadn't been thrilled the first time they'd met—Selena wasn't Catholic or Italian and was half black—but she'd gotten past it, and she would love any children Selena and Tony had every bit as much as her other grandkids.

"Are you ready to go home, babe?"

She could sit there all night, enjoying the evening and the family. But dinner was long over, the cleanup was already done, and a few quiet hours alone with Tony were a marvelous way to finish a good day. She nodded and let him pull her to her feet. Hand in hand, they circled the patio, saying their good-byes, before strolling around the house and out to the Corvette parked on the street.

The top was down, the heater on to take the edge off the chill. They didn't talk much on the way home, but the silence was comfortable. Tony broke it after turning onto Princeton Court. They were passing Selena's house and approaching his at the end of the cul-de-sac when he gestured. "There's a package at your door."

She glanced at the box. She wasn't expecting anything, but that didn't mean Asha, who was running the gallery for her, hadn't sent something.

Tony parked next to the white Impala assigned to him by the Tulsa Police Department. "Why don't you go on in? I'll get the package."

"Okay. Just set it inside the door, will you?" Whatever it was, it could wait until tomorrow.

She brushed against him when they passed at the rear of the car. In the fenced backyard, Mutt was barking excitedly, but everything else was quiet. There were only four houses on Princeton Court—hers, Tony's, and those of two neighbors, neither of whom was home this evening.

She unlocked the door, then opened it carefully. The cats Tony had taken in along with the dog were in their usual places—the calico disappearing up the stairs and the fat black cat waiting just inside the door. She scooped him, purring, into her arms before he could escape, typed in the code for the alarm, then went back to the driveway to watch Tony.

He climbed the steps to her small stoop and unlocked the door before bending to pick up the package. "No return address," he called. "Aren't you curious?"

"Not in the—" As he opened the door, the cat leaped from her arms, streaking toward the house. "Kitty!" she called, but he'd already passed Tony and dashed into the house.

The explosion shattered the evening, the ground shuddering, the very air vibrating with the blast. The concussion pushed against Selena, throwing her to the ground, her eyes closed, her head down against the cloud of debris following in its wake.

The tremors were dying away when she struggled to her feet, coughing, eyes watering. Most of the front central part of her house had been blown away, from the stoop all the way to the roof peak, and glass, bricks, and chunks of wood littered her driveway and yard. Lying unmoving in the midst of it was Tony.

"Tony . . . Tony!" The first came out a stunned whisper, the second a terrified scream. She raced across the yard, dropping to her knees beside him. "Dear God, please . . ."

He shifted beneath her trembling hand, then slowly lifted his head. Dust coated his hair and face and turned his shirt grimy. "Holy shit," he muttered. "That damn cat almost got me killed."

For a moment she stared at him, then she sank down, cupped his face in her palms, and kissed him hard. "That damn cat saved your life." She turned to look at the house. Flames were licking through the entry, dancing along the banister to the second floor and down the hall to the kitchen, sending wisps of smoke into the still-thick air. Upstairs her bedroom was tilted crazily, with much of the floor support blasted away.

Tony sat up, brushing away dust and a fine sprinkling of glass shards. He pulled his cell phone from his belt and called for both police and fire department assistance, while one thought kept repeating in Selena's head.

Not again.

God, she'd thought it was over. William Davis—the man who'd saved her from life on the streets in Jamaica, whom she'd loved almost as much as she hated—was still incapacitated, in what his doctors called a persistent vegetative state. Damon Long, William's right-hand man, was on the run from the law. He hadn't been seen since the night two months ago when he'd escaped FBI custody. The other enemies Selena had made along the way, courtesy of William, were dead, locked up, or had bigger problems on their hands than her—or so she'd thought.

Tony stood, dusted himself off, then helped her up. His fingers tight around hers, he drew her to the farthest corner of his yard, away from the heat and the worst of the smoke, where he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

She needed that more than she'd realized.

The fire engines arrived first. Seconds behind them came the first patrol car, followed over the next few minutes by another officer, a crew from one of the local television stations, and, last to arrive, Frank Simmons, one of Tony's fellow detectives and friends.

Simmons ran a hand through his reddish blond hair before shifting his gaze from the house to Tony. "Christ, Che...

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