Free Make You Mine by Macy Beckett Page B

it. He loved making Allie shudder in ecstasy; his only wish was to take her higher.
    He had to join himself with her completely, to bury his throbbing erection where she was blazing hot and wet enough to take all of him in one hard thrust. Allie must have sensed his need, because even in her weakened state she reached for his belt buckle.
    Oh, hell yes.
    He helped her with the belt, then jerked free the button at his waist, his gut clenching in anticipation of finding his own release.
    The pounding on her door grew louder, but Marc let the thumps and distant shouts fly to his mind’s periphery. All he could think about was freeing himself from the confines of these damned pants . . . until the smoke detector split the air in a series of shrieks.
    Only then did Marc lift his head and focus long enough to hear someone from the hall shout, “Fire!”

Chapter 6
    “It’s a miracle nobody was hurt.”
    Allie frowned at the snowy layer of fire extinguisher foam coating the surface of Regale’s double bed. Thank God the flames hadn’t spread beyond this room, or the
Belle
’s wooden decks could have caught like a tinderbox. Amazingly, the damage was contained to one ruined comforter and a few smudges of smoke staining the ceiling.
    They were lucky.
    Too bad no one else saw it that way.
    “What rotten luck,” Nick said from the hallway, still clenching the handle of the cherry red fire extinguisher.
    Marc ran a shaky hand through his hair and studied Regale, who leaned against the wall by the open window, both arms folded over his barrel chest. Allie noticed from her position near the bathroom door that the hair on Chef’s forearms was singed off, his only injury—remarkable, considering he’d awoken in a burning bed. The man could have been flambéed like the Steak Diane that had made him famous.
    Talk about tragic irony.
    “You sure you weren’t smoking?” Marc demanded. “Because your story doesn’t make a lick of sense.”
    Allie tensed, bracing herself for an angry tirade about “the captain’s squeeze,” and how Marc should have been doing his job instead of
her
, but it never came. Regale didn’t mention Allie’s bathrobe, nor did he criticize Marc’s loose waves, tangled from her fingers, or the hastily buttoned jacket he’d used to conceal the enormous bulge in his trousers.
    In fact, Chef didn’t say anything at all.
    He flicked nervous glances in Allie’s direction but couldn’t hold her gaze. Gone were the disdainful stares and the intimidating set of his shoulders. He lowered his forehead like a dog who’d been kicked by its master, afraid of another blow.
    That could only mean one thing.
    Chef thought she’d done this to him—burned him in his bed. How could he consider her capable of such cruelty? It was even more insulting than his belief that she’d earned this job on her back.
    Allie could almost hear her sister’s voice gloating,
I’ll bet he won’t mess with you now
, but this wasn’t the kind of respect she’d wanted from Regale, the kind born of fear.
    Chef glowered at the carpeted floor when he finally said, “I don’t smoke.”
    “Well, beds don’t light themselves on fire,” Marc argued.
    “I’m tellin’ you,” Regale ground out, regaining a hint of his former sauce, “I took a break to lie down and check e-mail on my cell phone. I dozed off. When I woke up, the goddamned bed was on fire.”
    “But that doesn’t add up,” Marc said.
    “Doesn’t it?” Regale scoffed and threw a glance at Allie. “The math seems simple enough to me.”
    Marc chewed his bottom lip and stared at the bed, no doubt mentally calculating
the math.
One voodoo priestess + one vengeful hex = Roasted Filet of Chef.
    Allie hoped he wouldn’t buy into Regale’s paranoia, but her sinking heart told her that’s exactly what he was doing. He couldn’t help it. His family had ingrained superstition into him as permanently as burning a brand on his soul.
    Darn it, she and Marc should be