Free Demon Rumm by Sandra Brown Page B

“Perfect.”
    She stepped back quickly. “Don’t!”
    Just as quickly, he reached for her again, because a split second before she stumbled away from him, he had felt her body’s response to his touch. That shrinking, that tightening of flesh was her undeniable giveaway. He spanned her waist with his hands and drew her against him. “Don’t what, Kirsten?”
    “Don’t touch me like that.”
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t like it. I didn’t like it last night and I don’t like it today.”
    His eyes bore down into hers. His were predatory, hers wary. “You’re a liar. You like it a lot. That’s what’s bugging you.”
    “That’s not true!”
    She strained to get away from him, but his hold was unrelenting. “What aren’t you telling in your book?”
    “Nothing important.”
    “Uh-huh. How Rumm felt about you, how you felt about him, is vastly important.”
    With a sudden burst of strength, she shoved him away from her. “Leave me alone. For the last time, I will
not
discuss my private life with you or anybody. If you continue to pester me and subject me to your mauling, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
    As he watched her making fleet and surefooted progress up the steep steps, he expansively cursed his impatience and the erection that had precipitated it.
    The road was endless. It was hot and dusty. In the
rearview mirror of her car, she could see the cloud of dust
she was leaving in her wake. It obscured everything behind her.
    Her eyes scanned the horizon. She had to keep going
forward. She had to get there before . . .
    Before what?
    She wasn’t sure. But she had a terrifying compulsion to
press on the accelerator and drive very fast toward—
    Oh, God! That was it! She had to get to the column of
smoke. She could see it now, as black and oily as a water
snake rising up out of the desert. It was so far away. She’d
never make it in time.
    “Charlie, Charlie!”
    She opened her mouth and tried to call his name, tried
to tell him that she was coming, but the clouds of dust behind her were catching up. They filled her throat and
mouth with heat and grit. She couldn’t utter a sound beyond the grunting whimpers of a frightened animal who
smells death. The swirling dust hampered her vision. She
was able to see the black plume of smoke only occasionally
now through the ocher cloud that was engulfing her.
    Her sweating hands couldn’t hold onto the steering
wheel. It kept slipping from her grasp. Sweat trickled down
between her breasts, too, and made her thighs slippery as
they moved against each other in an effort to work the
accelerator and brake, both of which were spongy and seemed
to be sinking into the floorboard of the car. She could barely
reach them with the tips of her toes.
    But she mustn’t stop. She must keep driving. She had to
get to the black smoke, which was like a foreboding inkblot
against the painfully blue sky.
    She finally reached the source of the smoke, a silver aircraft, as sleek as a bullet. Fire and smoke were belching
from it at regular intervals.
    She got out of the car. Charlie, no, no!
    But wait! Thank God! He was sitting in the cockpit.
Weak with relief, she laughed. It was all part of the stunt.
The smoke. The fire. Was it all part of the crowd-pleasing
performance? Yes, of course it was. Charlie always believed in giving the people their money’s worth.
    He looked at her and smiled. He winked and said
something, but she couldn’t hear him over the explosions
that kept erupting from the burning aircraft. He should get
out now. He might yet get hurt. She ran forward, but instead of getting closer, a deep chasm yawned between her
and the burning stunt plane.
    Charlie, still smiling, raised his hand to wave to her.
No, no! One of his fingers burst into flame. Then another.
Another. Until he wore a glove of flames. And . . .
    She screamed in sheer terror.
    HIS FACE WAS MELTING BENEATH HIS
HELMET.
    She watched the handsome features melt and run
together until she