All Fired Up (Stardust) Read online

  Well, that would imply Foxy Roxy didn’t really want to be left alone.

  -------

  All Roxanne had wanted was to sleep in the bathtub, to spend the night surrounded by nice, cool, uninflammable water. But the house had only one tub, and it had been commandeered for historical research.

  Kneeling by the tub with their sleeves rolled up, supposedly, and armed with an impressive array of bath toys (including a rubber ducky that went “squawk” when you squeezed it), Admiral Nelson and Admiral Byrd were studiously trying to recreate the sinking of the Spanish Armada. However, since neither gentleman had actually participated in that famous event, there was a good deal of bickering going on over the details. Aunt Lydia had taken a chair into the bathroom to watch them and referee the debate.

  It had to be Aunt Lydia, of course, because Lydia was the only one who could see and hear Admirals Nelson and Byrd in the first place. They were two of her ever-expanding entourage of invisible visitors.

  Dainty and agelessly lovely, Lydia Jones was an adorable woman, but certifiably crazy. Everyone knew this, but no one cared because she was always so sweet and cheerful, always the life of the party – as opposed to her guests, who were usually dead or those who’d never lived at all. In her younger years, Lydia had been a popular novelist and a devoted mother – raising seven children while writing dozens of romances – all of which may have helped push her over the edge. Now she lived in a fantasy world peopled by characters from the pages of history and classic literature. She was quite wacky, but also quite harmless.

  Which is more than anyone can say about me, Roxanne thought morbidly. The night’s naval battle had left her with no options save the downstairs’ shower stall, the kitchen sink, or the garden hose. And the latter allowed the most freedom of movement.

  Granted, the yard was a bit public, but at this late hour she figured it would be safe enough from prying eyes. There was rarely any traffic on the street after midnight; all the neighbors went to bed long before then. Mrs. Dixon definitely did, and since her grandson had been raised in Star, he was probably on the same schedule. A person’s internal biorhythm clock wouldn’t change just because they’d moved to the city, would it? It was like that old adage Faye Goodman had quoted the other day: “You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.”

  Not that there seemed to be anything “country” about Slo Larkin. Come to think of it, there wasn’t anything boyish about him either. Which was why Roxanne was standing in the yard, hosing herself down – because he was a dangerously attractive Man, and she couldn’t stop thinking about him. He aroused needs she had repressed for years. Normal needs for a normal woman – romance, love, someone to build a life with – but she wasn’t normal and couldn’t have a romantic relationship with anyone. Least of all him. She wanted a quiet life in a quiet town, and Slo didn’t. He was bad news any way you sliced him.

  She glanced at the small gray house next door. All quiet. All dark. If he wasn’t asleep, at least the uncanny connection between them had finally fizzled out. Short-circuited from overload? A fire that hot couldn’t burn forever.

  She hoped.

  Never before in her life had she sensed another’s mind so strongly. The lava flow of images had stopped with Slo’s flight from the shop, but started again as soon as Roxanne was home. All through dinner his thoughts had poured out of the house next door, like plumes of smoke, almost choking her. She’d guzzled ice water to keep cool – but still turned a platter of Swedish pancakes into flaming Crêpes Suzette.

  Aunt Lydia had been delighted. “How festive! Thank you, dear.” She’d applauded. “My niece is pyrokinetic,” she had proudly informed their dinner guests (Genghis Khan, Mary Queen of Scots, and Sherlock Holmes). “She inherits it from her great-grandmother, I suspect. I can remember that my mother’s mother was always a big hit at cookouts. We never had any trouble getting a good fire going if Grandmama was nearby.” Which had led into a lengthy and supposedly fascinating discussion about psychic abilities.

  But Roxanne hadn’t been able to follow it because she couldn’t see or hear most of the participants. She wouldn’t have been able to follow it regardless. She had been too deep in Slo’s mind by then, which was about all the fascination she could stand. How could she survive anymore?

  Why wouldn’t Sam just let her leave town for a while? Technically, she didn’t need Sam’s permission. Roxanne was past twenty-one and, for the first time, legally in control of her own life. But since the ranch was out of the question, she needed Sam’s money for a motel room elsewhere. And he wouldn’t give her any. Damn it.

  “You’re not going to be safe anywhere until you learn how to deal with this,” he had told her, sympathetic but firm. “What if the same problem crops up when you’re away and all by yourself? You’re better off coming to terms with it here and now where you have family and friends close by who can help.”

  Yeah, but family and friends could only help to a point. The bulk of the responsibility rested on her, and Roxanne had never tried to shoulder so much before – never had the opportunity, she realized. By denying the situation and keeping her cloistered, her father had denied her any chance to “come to terms,” to “learn how.”

  So maybe Sam was right. Maybe she could conquer the power if she actively faced it. But, good God, did her first experience facing it have to be with a walking case of explosives like Slo Larkin? That’s what she called a real Baptism-by-Fire.

  -------

  Why didn’t she look up and turn around, Slo wondered. She must hear him. He was stomping loud enough for an infantry parade. Any more noise and he’d wake his grandmother, who’d probably think it was burglars and grab Betsy. As if Star had a crime problem. It was the only place Slo knew where people never locked their doors. A Neighborhood Watch in this community meant exactly that – neighbors watching neighbors. Gossip was the town’s main sport. Which gave him a good opening line for this spontaneous bit of moonlight madness.

  Assuming Roxanne knew he was here, and was playing unaware as a deliberate tease, he could suggest they move somewhere more private, because in Star you never knew who might be peeping out a window. He didn’t have to mention that at this time of night probably the only Peeping Tom was him. With each step he grew more certain she knew it anyway, and wasn’t the least offended. Each step was becoming stiffer – ow – because certainty wasn’t the only thing growing. His jeans were getting tighter by the second.

  For added aggravation, the rumble of a pickup sounded from several blocks away. As it drew nearer, he heard the blare of its radio. An oldies station. The Doors, wouldn’t you know, doing their hot hit “Light My Fire.”

  “She already has,” Slo muttered, and speeded his pace. There was an unmistakable wheeze in that engine’s rumble. He knew who the truck belonged to. And the “who” usually meant trouble. If they were headed for this block, Roxanne was in for more fire than any sane female wanted.

  Damn, why didn’t she duck for cover? Was she deaf? Or—

  A sudden sick thought pulled him up short. Had this been her intent all along? It seemed a definite possibility since she had been in town a month, must know them, and had only just met him. But it was a bitter pill to swallow all the same – a noxious mix of disappointment, disbelief, and disgust.

  Shit.

  He did an about-face, heading back to his grandmother’s house.

  Brakes squealed.

  -------

  Roxanne’s head jerked up with a start.

  She’d never heard the truck’s approach – couldn’t hear much of anything. Couldn’t see much either. Without warning she was blinded by headlights. Doors flew open, like the shadowy spreading of batwings, and two figures half climbed, half fell out of the cab, bringing a reek of liquor and stale sweat with them.

  Roxanne barely saw their faces through the glare, but she didn’t have to. Her nose told her who they were. Randy and Andy Bullfinch, drunk as skunks and sme
lling worse. They weren’t really a bad sort, unless they had been drinking. But they were always drinking.

  Dropping the hose, she turned to flee. Too late. Calloused hands grabbed her from behind and dragged her backward to be groped and pawed and sandwiched between the brothers. Sharp fear knifed through her – panic – hot rage. A deadly burn began to build…

  “Dang! Poor little sugar’s all wet. She’s gonna catch cold like this.”

  “We better get them wet clothes off her fast.”

  “Don’t you worry none, sugar.”

  “Yeah, don’t you worry ’bout nothin’. We’ll warm you up good.”

  The words were just a dim buzzing in Roxanne’s ears. She scarcely heard her own scream. But she heard a sudden roar, feral and ferocious, heard it in her mind—

  Slo?

  He went for Randy first, yanking him back by his shirt collar, spinning him around, and knocking him flat with a sledgehammer fist to the face. Randy hit the ground, hard, blood trickling over his lips and chin from a broken nose. His brother made a dash for the truck, but didn’t make it far. Slo landed on him heels down, sending Andy sprawling with a flying kick to the kidneys, then giving him a heavy boot in the butt for good measure.

  Then he turned to her, his nostrils flared, his eyes black murder.

  “Roxy, what the hell’s going on? Are you nuts? Just what did you think you were doing?” She stood shivering and staring at him, like a frightened doe facing an angry wolf. Slo stalked forward and gripped her upper arms, resisting a powerful urge to shake her. “Answer me, damn it! What—”

  A narrow stretch of yellowed weeds alongside the curb abruptly burst into flames.

  Son of a bitch…

  With a strangled gasp, Roxanne twisted out of his grasp, snatched up the hose, and doused the blaze before it spread. Then she crumpled to her knees, looking like someone trying desperately not to be sick.

  Slo hovered over her, feeling suddenly queasy himself – feeling very weirded out. Grunting and groaning, the Bullfinch brothers climbed to their feet, stumbled into their pickup, and stripped their gears in a wheezing, careening getaway down the street. Lights began to flicker on in nearby homes. Great. The vultures were about to land.

  Grumbling numerous naughty words, Slo lifted Roxanne into his arms and carried her to the Jones’s large white house. Lydia met him at the side door, as gracious and unflappable as ever, all satin and lace and lilac perfume.

  “My, my, first the Spanish Armada, and now this,” she burbled. “It’s been unending drama tonight.”

  A real fruitcake, Slo thought, following her into the family room. Lydia was nutty and sweet in the same bite.

  She fluttered her hand at an old plaid davenport. “Just put her down there, dear. I’ll go get her hearing aid.”

  “Hearing aid?” Slo repeated the words as if they were some obscure foreign dialect. He was wondering if he needed a hearing aid himself.

  “Yes. She gave it to me before she went outside, so it wouldn’t get wet. She’s a very careful girl.” Lydia patted Roxanne’s damp head, patted Slo’s shoulder, flashed them both a radiant fairy queen smile, and billowed out of the room in a fragrant swirl of pink ruffles.

  Slo stared after her a long gut-wrenching moment, not knowing what to say or do – realizing there was nothing he could say then anyway, because there was no one to hear it except him. He hardly noticed how his arms were tightening around Roxanne, gathering her closer…tenderly, protectively…

  She squirmed and squawked as though scorched.

  “Put me down! I’m not a cripple, just a little deaf.”

  A little? Brows arched in question, Slo let her slip to her feet. She sank back against the wall by the door, sucking in a deep breath, like a drowning victim breaking through to air.

  “Okay, a lot deaf,” she amended, as if she had read his mind.

  But she couldn’t have, of course. More likely she’d read his expression. It still gave him goose bumps. Slo sank back against the wall, too – his knees felt a bit weak.

  Roxanne scooted away from him. “But it’s correctible with a hearing aid,” she added. “I wasn’t born this way. It happened when I was twelve. About the same time something else started. But they haven’t created an aid for that yet.”

  Meaning?

  “None of your business,” she said.

  God, she was doing it again. Now he had goose bumps on his goose bumps. Roxanne drew another deep breath. Slo got the distinct impression he was making her uncomfortable, and frankly the feeling was mutual.

  “Then why don’t you leave?” she mumbled.

  So he did.

  Forcing his legs into action, Slo removed himself from the Jones’s house and returned to his grandmother’s, a bothered and bewildered man. He’d played Sir Lancelot tonight, rescuing the distressed damsel from a couple of odiferous dragons, but his chivalry had just run out. He had no choice but to run after it.

  Chapter 4

  Eight o’clock, the church chimes announced, but most of the town was already up and moving. The breakfast crowd at the Star Café had rarely been happier, rarely had such juicy gossip to dine on. Chuckles and grins seasoned the conversation as they chewed over the previous night’s excitement.

  “Oil leak. That’s what did it.”

  “Yep, that truck of theirs leaks like a faucet. Must’ve spilled into the weeds, and one of them boys tossed a lit butt out the window. That’s how the fire started.”

  “Sure were some butts tossed last night. But Slo’s the one who did the tossin’.”

  “No foolin’. Y’all seen Randy? He looks like he got kicked in the face by a mule, and Andy don’t look much better.”

  “They’re not really gonna press charges, are they?”

  “Already have,” Deputy Martinez answered, slipping his cell phone back into its holder. “That was the sheriff. Mike and I got orders to arrest Slo right now.”

  First, however, Deputies Mike Thompson and Juan Martinez had to get past Ina Lorene Dixon and Betsy.

  * * * *

  “C’mon, Miz Dixon, put that rifle down,” Mike pleaded. “You’re gonna get yourself in all kinds of trouble.”

  “And you’re gonna get yourself a new bellybutton hole if you don’t get outta my yard!”

  Mike and Juan exchanged glances. She was obstructing justice, threatening officers of the law. They really should do something. But this was a small, tight-knit community. Neither of them had the stomach to rush a tiny old lady they had known all their lives. Besides, she could drop them both in their tracks before they’d gone two steps.

  Awakened by the sound of their voices, Slo considered his options. He was safe enough in bed for the moment. There was no chance Mike or Juan would make it past his grandmother. Plus, he’d had a really rotten night – not much sleep, and all of it plagued by disturbing dreams. If he were smart, he’d roll over and try for a few nicer ones. Later on he could drive to the sheriff’s and straighten out this mess. Better yet, he could drive to the Bullfinches’ and straighten out Randy and Andy.

  “Y’all oughta be ashamed of yourselves!” his grandmother ranted. She sounded angrier than Slo had heard her in years. He might have to get up just to protect Mike and Juan’s egos – not to mention their rear ends.

  “Ain’t y’all got nothin’ better to do?” she spouted. “Ain’t y’all got no—”

  “Mornin’, Ina Lorene. Mornin’, boys. Anything I can help with here?”

  The familiar gravely tones of Earl Goodman.

  Slo relaxed. Earl had been the county sheriff when Slo and Mike and Juan were kids. The man now sold insurance but still carried a good bit of clout with the Sheriff’s department. If he asked the deputies to cool their jets for a while, they’d probably be happy to oblige. They both must be embarrassed as hell out there.

  “We got orders to arrest Slo,” Mike mumbled apologetically.

  “The Bullfinch brothers are charging him with assault and battery,” Juan explained
.

  “You don’t say.” There was the pling of tobacco juice hitting metal. Earl knew better than to spit in Ina Lorene’s yard. He always brought a tin can along when he came visiting. “Them boys must be in worse trouble than I thought. I know the insurance on their pickup is about to be cancelled for nonpayment.”

  “They owe a bundle at my daddy’s gas-and-grocery, too,” Mike added.

  “And they still haven’t paid those speeding tickets,” Juan said. “Dios, they’re going to need at least three hundred dollars by the first to stay out of jail themselves.”

  Earl chuckled. “Well, then we know what this is all about, don’t we?”

  Yeah, blackmail, Slo thought. Every barrel had one or two dubious apples, and the Bullfinch brothers were Star’s. They knew his income was almost six figures a year. Nothing extravagant in today’s world – but Star wasn’t really in today’s world. By local standards, he was a friggin’ billionaire. All Randy and Andy wanted was a little piece of it. They were going to offer to drop charges if he’d shell out a few C-notes to them. The poor fools were always shooting themselves in the foot. He’d have given them the money if they’d simply come to him yesterday afternoon and asked. Now all Slo wanted to give them was another boot in the backside. The memory of them groping Roxanne made him see hot red. And the connected memory of how she had felt in his arms was spreading the heat southward…

  With a low groan, Slo hauled to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Who was he kidding? He’d been planning on groping the girl himself before the drunk squad showed up. Shit. Someone should kick his ass harder than he’d kicked Andy’s.

  “Ina Lorene, I take it Slo’s still in the house?” Earl asked.

  “Out like a light, and wastin’ half the day, as usual,” she grumbled. “You know that boy wouldn’t get up before ten if you lit a fire under him.”

  Wrong. The church chimes were striking the half-hour; it was only eight-thirty. But someone had lit a fire, and he was up all right. Grunting with the effort, Slo painfully pulled on his jeans.