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“You might as well give in,” Katie said from beside her. “When Frank makes a decision, there’s no talking him out of it.”

  “Fine. I’ll get my stuff, but I’m not letting him take me home.”

  The pair shared a smile, then waved as they headed across the street. Sydney whirled and stalked into the pavilion to get her travel bags before the staff inside locked the building down.

  The gruff lawman might think everyone would jump when he told them what to do, but she wasn’t about to give in. She’d act like she was getting in his car, but she’d grab her camera bag instead then call for a cab anyways. She didn’t need his halfhearted offer of help. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. Despite what he believed, she’d traveled all over the world. Compared to some of the places she’d been, standing on a dark street in Columbus wasn’t nearly as dangerous.

  Five minutes later, she returned to see a black SUV parked by the curb, and Castello leaning against the passenger door, hands in his front pockets, his bow-tie unfastened. Dark, sexy, all man. Once again, her stomach did a little turn, and her heart hit an extra beat. He might be infuriating, but she couldn’t deny the pull of attraction he caused.

  She stopped a foot from the car as he opened the door for her. Looking inside, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Where’s my camera bag?”

  “In the trunk.”

  She pressed her lips in a tight line and gave him her most you’re-pissing-me-off look. He arched a brow that said, you’re-not-winning-this-battle.

  “Humph.” She shrugged and stomped to the car, dragging her bags with her. “I’m only doing this because you’re holding my personal property hostage.”

  “Bags.”

  He held out his hand. With another narrow-eyed look, she dropped her travel bag onto it, and released her hold on the rolling suitcase. She shoved her purse onto her shoulder then climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Where to?” Marshal Castello asked, as he slid in behind the steering wheel a few minutes later. He’d deposited her other bags in the trunk with her cameras.

  “The Italian village,” she said, then focused her attention out the window at the darkening summer sky.

  He pulled out and headed east up Long Street. The area she lived in was just east of the restored Short North area, which lay just north of downtown Columbus. It was one of several neighborhoods that had gone under recent renovations and many young urbanites were moving into the area.

  “Where did you come from?” he asked, after they’d traveled a few miles and stopped at a red light.

  Well, there was this egg and sperm… Yeah, she doubted he’d appreciate that sarcastic comment.

  “I’m sorry?” she said just as vaguely as his question.

  “When you got out of the taxi earlier, you said you’d just come from the airport. Where did you fly in from?”

  Sydney bit the side of her mouth to keep from smiling. She’d forced the man to speak two complete, multi-word sentences in a row. “I was on a photo shoot for a new designer.”

  “Really?” Doubt rang in his voice.

  She turned to see him looking at her with that raised eyebrow again. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

  “You were wearing hiking boots.”

  The man not only remembered what she’d said, but what kind of shoes, er…boots, she’d had on? Normally, she’d be flattered that she’d gotten that much of a man’s attention, but she suspected it wasn’t an unusual occurrence for him. In his line of work, even the smallest detail could mean life or death.

  The light changed to green and he pulled out.

  “Not that I have to prove to you that I was telling the truth, but we were doing an outdoor shoot in the mountains of Vermont for the past five days.”

  “What kind of fashion shoot happens out in the woods?”

  “The kind where the newbie designer decides she wants the models dressed in silks and fine linen juxtaposed against the harshness of nature,” she said with as little snark as she could manage.

  “Your description or hers?” he asked, but she heard a hint of humor in the question this time.

  “Oh, definitely hers. I haven’t used the word juxtaposed since my last art class in college.”

  “You had to take art for a degree in photography?”

  “Photography is a form of art. My degree is in art and photography with a minor in business. And before you ask, yes, business. I knew I was going to be my own boss and run my own business when I chose to be an independent, so I figured I’d better learn how to keep my records, market my craft and keep from being dirt-poor the rest of my life.”

  “Smart woman.”

  The compliment was nice, but she couldn’t take all the credit.

  “I owe some of the credit for adding the business classes to my stepfather,” she said. “He ran a fortune five-hundred investment group for years, and sat me down for a serious heart-to-heart when I started college. I simply listened to what he said and signed up for some classes.”

  “Like I said. A smart woman.” He turned north onto Fourth Street. “What’s your street?”

  “Hamlett, just south of First.”

  “Those new townhouses built to blend in with the early nineteenth-century homes nearby?”

  She shifted her gaze to him, unable to hide both her pride and surprise. “You know the area?”

  “I’ve been interested in the different restoration projects going on around town. The Italian Village caught my attention. I almost invested in some property here.”

  “Investing in property? Like in a home?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She couldn’t hide a smile.

  “What?” he asked, glancing her way before focusing on the road once more.

  “I don’t see you as the landlord type.”

  “You’re right.”

  Now he had her curiosity. “If you’re weren’t planning to buy a home and weren’t planning to rent the property out, why would you want to buy in my area? It’s all residential.”

  “Safe houses.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “To house witnesses before high-profile trials.”

  “Oh, safe houses.” Heat flushed her face, and she was thankful the darkness hid her embarrassment. Of course, he’d need places for the witnesses. “Why do you invest in the safe houses? Doesn’t your agency and the government pay for them?”

  He slowed for the light and made a left turn onto First Avenue. “Ever since Katie’s identity was blown, I’ve held a few safe houses off the books around the district. Places only I know about where I can hide my witnesses. Which way on Hamlett?”

  “South.” She wiggled in her seat to face him more. “You don’t trust your own people?”

  “I trust them, but even the most seasoned veteran can give up information if they’re tortured.”

  “Was that how Katie’s new identity was blown? Someone was tortured for it?”

  A slight twitch in his jaw and throat was the only indication of his reaction to her question. “My late partner, Pete Halloran. He died trying to protect her.” His hand tightened, then relaxed, on the steering wheel. “In the end, he couldn’t hold out.”

  She wanted to ask him more, but as they drove onto her street, they found their way blocked by fire engines and police cars.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, leaning over to try and see around the crowds milling about the area. Everything in front of them was lit up with the flickering of flames against the night sky. The acrid smell of burning wood seeped into the car.

  “From the number of fire trucks, I’d say a house fire.” He turned to her, his face tense and his eyes full of concern. “What’s your house number?”

  Something in the way he was looking at her sent fear slithering down her spine.

  Ian.

  The darkroom. Chemicals.

  Oh, God!

  Without answering Frank’s question, she bolted out of the car. Pushing past the gawker
s, she rushed down the sidewalk.

  “Sydney!”

  She heard her name called from behind, but she couldn’t stop. She had to find out. She had to see if Ian was there.

  Rounding the big firetruck, she slid to a stop.

  It was her house. Engulfed in flames.

  Firemen everywhere. Hoses laced the street and pointed to the rear of the house, dousing it with high-pressure water. Others were spraying the homes on either side of hers. More sirens sounded in the distance.

  “Step back, ma’am.” A fireman in his bright-yellow coat and hat stepped in front of her.

  “You don’t understand, I have to get him out.” She tried to run past him.

  Strong arms grabbed her from behind. “Sydney, you can’t go in there.”

  Tears rolling down her cheeks from the smoke as much as the fear, she focused on Castello—the one thing that made sense in this nightmare. “Ian,” was all she could manage past the huge lump in her throat.

  “Who’s Ian?” he asked, slowly pulling her back to the sidewalk.

  “Are you saying there’s someone inside the building?” the fireman asked.

  “I don’t know. Ian. My brother,” she stopped to cough past the tears and smoke. “He was staying here while I was out of town.”

  “Maybe he’s not there,” Castello said. “Why don’t you try calling him?”

  “I didn’t even think…” She pulled her phone from her bag that she’d still had slung on her arm when she’d climbed into Frank’s car.

  “Please do, ma’am. I need to know if our men need to try to breech the house for a possible rescue. Their initial sweep didn’t show anyone inside.” The fireman paused, and stared straight into her eyes. This man wasn’t going to pull his punches. “Most of the back of your home was in flames when we got here.”

  Her fingers shaking, it took her a minute to pull up Ian’s number and hit dial.

  Please, please answer. Please God, let him answer.

  “This is Ian. You know what to do. Name and number, I’ll call back…maybe.”

  Her legs wobbled and she would’ve sunk to her knees on the brick sidewalk if Castello hadn’t gripped her elbows and pulled her up against his body. “It went straight to voice mail.”

  The look of resignation crossed the fireman’s face as he hit the button on the radio attached to his shoulder. “Captain. This is Wilson. We may have a victim inside.”

  Crackling sounded, then a voice came across. “Any idea where?”

  The fireman looked at Sydney expectantly.

  She shook her head. “He could be anywhere. What if he’s unconscious?”

  Then something he’d said earlier hit her. She grabbed the man’s arm. “Did you say the fire was in the back of the house? You have to tell your men my darkroom’s back there. There’s chemicals.”

  “Did you get that, Captain?” Fireman Wilson asked into his radio.

  “Got it. Everyone be sure you’re using your SCBAs. No excuses. Wilson, get those people back.”

  “SCBAs?” Sydney asked, as the fireman moved to help the police push back more of the crowd, trying to film the fire with their cameras.

  “Self-Contained Breathing Apparatuses,” Castello said, still holding her close. “It’s what protects them from breathing in toxic fumes.”

  Suddenly, a loud BOOM shook the area, nearly knocking them to the ground. Debris flew in all directions like shrapnel.

  What was left of her home shot up in flames.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “What the hell?” Castello said, pulling the trembling Sydney farther away from the flying debris.

  The firemen nearest the blast were being hauled back by their team members, as another large engine arrived with more firemen jumping off and immediately starting to work. Frank counted a total of three crews on the scene. Now their focus shifted, as they worked on preventing the flames from spreading to the neighboring homes, as well as trying to contain and stop the fire in the burning rubble that was once the little photographer’s home.

  “Oh, my God. Ian. What have you done?”

  The words came out of Sydney in a sound of shock and despair, barely above a whisper. If he hadn’t been holding her tight, Frank doubted he would’ve heard them over the first responders and bystanders shouting around them. Something in the way she said them set off the danger warning alarms in his body—the ones reserved for at-risk witnesses.

  What did she mean what have you done? Did she think her brother was responsible for the fire and resulting explosion? Why would she think that? Who was her brother?

  Before he could get any answers from her, Frank needed to get her away from this mess, at least until he knew what was going on.

  Bending, he scooped her up into his arms and headed back to his SUV. The fact that she didn’t protest his efforts, was in fact clutching his shirt with her head buried against his chest, told him she was probably in shock.

  At his vehicle, he put her on her feet long enough to open the door, took off his tux jacket, helped her into it and then scooted her into the passenger side. Once she was buckled in, he stopped to look at her.

  Her face had gone quite pale and her eyes rounded as large as the children’s eyes he’d seen once in the Our Children painting by Margaret Keane at the United Nations. He cupped her face in his hands. It was like holding a block of ice.

  Shit.

  He closed the door, sprinted around to the driver’s side, and got the engine running. Getting her warm and somewhere safe was the priority. Turning on the heat, he adjusted the vents to point directly at her.

  “Hold on, Sydney.” He put the SUV in gear, and reversed back up the street through the milling crowd until he could make a U-turn.

  Protocol said he should be taking her to either a police station for questioning or the hospital for a checkup.

  Screw protocol.

  His gut told him the best thing was to get her out of the limelight, at least for now. If she didn’t snap out of the shock once he got her to his house—and that was the closest of his places at the moment—then he’d have Sami come see her. As an ER nurse, Sami Edgars Carlisle would know what he needed to do next.

  He glanced over at Sydney. Still as a statue, she stared out the windshield, her hands clutching his coat closed, her lower lip trembling and tears slowly rolling down her cheeks.

  Fuck waiting.

  He hit the phone button on his steering wheel. “Call Jake.”

  “What’s up, Frank?” Jake’s voice came through the Bluetooth feature of his vehicle.

  “Can Sami meet us at my house?” he said, trying to keep his voice as calm and neutral as he could. Adding to Sydney’s fright didn’t sound like a good idea at this moment.

  “Us?” Jake sounded just as neutral.

  “Me and Sydney Peele.” He turned left onto High Street, and then a quick jog over to reconnect with First Avenue, and another right.

  “Tonight?” And there was that one word question that spoke volumes. Jake knew something was wrong and he needed Sami as soon as possible.

  “We’ll be at the Neil Avenue house in about ten minutes, depending on traffic.” Given it was a Saturday night, it could be crowded.

  “We’ll be there in about twenty.”

  “Come in the rear. It will be unlocked.” He hit the disconnect button as they headed west past Dennison. Four more streets and he’d be on Neil, more than halfway there.

  Another glance at his passenger. She hardly blinked. Her breathing so shallow he wanted to put his hand on her chest to feel if it rose and fell.

  He should say something.

  But he’d always sucked at comforting platitudes. In his line of work it didn’t do the person any good to promise things were going to be okay when you had no idea who the bad guys were or how bad the problem was. Blunt honesty worked better. So, how did he comfort a woman who just had her whole world completely blown apart? What if her brother was inside? How did he comfort her while she dealt with al
l this loss?

  Better to keep his mouth shut than offer false hope.

  How the hell had he gotten in this situation anyway?

  She inhaled deeply, giving a hiccup of a gasp as she let the air out, then smaller little gasps as she tried to breathe in.

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it where it clutched the tux jacket, willing some of his own warmth into her frozen fingers. Driving one handed, he kept her fingers tight in his other as he maneuvered through the streets to his home. He pulled around back and parked near the rear door. Hitting the electronic door opener attached to his key as he climbed out, he unlocked the security system to the house.

  “Okay, Syd, we’re here.” He said, as he scooped her out of the car and into his arms once more, kicking the door closed behind him.

  “Not…my…name,” she muttered between her chattering teeth.

  Great, she finally responds, and it’s to complain about the shortening of her name.

  “Sure it is. Sydney sounds like a delicate southern flower. Syd sounds like one tough cookie.”

  Hitting the light switch as he carried her through the kitchen, he headed straight into the living room and slowly lowered them both onto the leather couch. He held her tight to his body, slipped the Glock out of the shoulder holster he’d worn beneath his tux and set it on the end table within easy reach. Some habits were hard to break.

  The afghan Mary Edgars knitted him last Christmas lay neatly folded on the back of the sofa. He grabbed it and wrapped it around them both like a giant cocoon. Sydney trembled so hard her teeth rattled. It felt as if she were having a seizure. Eyeing the bottle of bourbon on the counter in the kitchen, he wished he could pour her some to sip on. Warming her from the inside, as well as the outside, would hurry the process up, but he didn’t risk letting go of her.

  Rubbing his hands over her back to create some slow friction, he found himself humming an old Frank Sinatratune. Beneath his hands her back muscles started to relax. Oddly, he felt his own heart rate slowing to a normal one.

  Sounds came from the kitchen door. He lifted the gun from the table.

  Steadily, he watched the back door as Jake and Sami Carlisle came inside.

  “Frank?” Sami called.