Dangerous Temptation Page 30

  No one knew he was here.

  The thought came out of nowhere, and the bottle fell from his nerveless fingers as he acknowledged something that until then had been little more than a niggling awareness in his mind. No one knew he had been staying with his father. As far as the people of Prescott were concerned, his father hadn't had any visitors. And when they found his body—and Jake's, too—they'd probably blame his brother for what had happened.

  He frowned. It might not be that easy to arrange, he realised grimly. If they found the bodies right away, they'd probably be able to tell who had died first. Jake could hardly be accused of killing his father if he'd been already dead, could he? Nathan needed a way to complicate the evidence. To ensure no one knew exactly how they'd died.

  It was almost light. If he wanted to get away from here without anybody knowing, he didn't have much time left. He had to think of some way to delay their examination. Then the sale of this old woodpile would be his inheritance.

  Not that it was worth much, he conceded bitterly. If the old man had sold out years ago, he'd have been worth a hell of a lot more. The insurance was probably worth more than the sawmill. His eyes glittered. It would serve him right if the whole place went up in smoke…

  25

  It was the smell that brought Jake to his senses.

  The acrid aroma of smoke and kerosene was all too reminiscent of the plane crash, and for a moment he felt as paralysed as he had been then. He had a vivid image of himself, lying on the edge of the runway, incapable of doing anything to help himself or anybody else. He could hear the crackling of the flames; he could feel the heat. But this time his memory was clear.

  And he could move. His head hurt—pretty abominably, actually—but he didn't think he was seriously injured. The bullet must have grazed his temple, he decided, tentatively exploring the area where it hurt. And, as with all head wounds, it had bled profusely. He wondered if he'd lost a lot of blood.

  But that didn't explain the fire, he realised dizzily. Although his head swam when he moved, and his limbs felt like jelly, he levered himself slowly to his knees.

  For a moment, nausea assailed him. Despite the urgency he felt to get to his feet, he had to wait for the sickness to pass. That was when he saw his father's body. The old man was lying half over the hearth, and he looked ominously still.

  All around him now he could see billows of smoke swirling. The old house was as dry as tinder, and it was a mercy this room hadn't yet been engulfed by the flames. He realised the noise he could hear was coining from the staircase, and it was only a matter of time before the fire leapt along the hall.

  Panic gripped his stomach. The realisation that he was in a house that was rapidly being consumed by fire was terrifying. How the fire had started—why the fire had started— were questions that barely licked along the edges of his consciousness. His first task was to get himself and his father out of the building. If he could, he acknowledged unsteadily. Somehow he had to find the strength.

  If only he didn't feel so helpless. The bullet, which he thought must have ploughed a shallow furrow along his hairline, had combined with the lingering effects of the accident to sap his will. Confronting Nathan earlier had robbed him of most of his resistance, and now the amount of blood he'd lost was adding to his fatigue.

  The smoke was getting thicker, and pulling off his jacket, he used it to shield his nose and mouth. Then, ignoring his own pain, he crawled across the floor towards his father. There might be some way he could protect the old man.

  There was a pool of blood beneath Jacob's head that was rapidly staining the stonework of the hearth. Jake uttered a groan as he leant over him, but he sensed before he touched his cold cheek that his father was dead. He didn't know how long he'd been lying there. Although his skin felt cold, that was no guarantee. This was a cold room; it had been a cold house; and he was no expert. And the old man's blood must have been thin for a long time.

  A feeling of helplessness was his first reaction, followed swiftly by an almost numbing sense of disbelief. He hadn't realised Jacob's death would mean that much to him. But it did. The man had been his father, and neither time, nor distance, nor their years of estrangement could alter that.

  With trembling hands, he turned him over, catching his breath at the ugly wound that split his temple. Blood had congealed around the wound, and the old man's face was deathly white. Dear God, he thought sickly, had Nathan done this? Was that why he could smell the kerosene?

  A splintering sound came from above his head, and looking up, he saw an ominous crack appear in the ceiling. Evidently, the intense heat was buckling the floorboards. The wood was baking and tearing the beams apart.

  He staggered, but he managed to get to his feet. For all he would have liked to spend more time mourning his father's passing, he knew he couldn't indulge in maudlin sentiment now. If he didn't get out of here soon, the whole building would collapse around him, and he'd never find out if Nathan was to blame.

  But he couldn't leave the old man behind. For all he was sure Jacob was dead, there was always a chance he might be wrong. Just because he couldn't find a pulse didn't mean there wasn't one. He'd seen men in Vietnam who'd looked as bad and made a full recovery.

  But they'd been young men, with youthful constitutions. His father had been old and far from well. Looking at him now, he felt a pang for his frailty. He wouldn't have had much resistance to the blow.

  All the same, it took every ounce of strength he had to move the body. With an immense effort, he managed to lever his father's shoulders off the hearth and haul him unceremoniously across the floor. It was an undignified exit, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances. The old man would remember nothing about it, and it was better than leaving him behind.

  He'd reached the doorway when he heard the sound of hurried footsteps. He'd expected Nathan to be long gone by now, and the realisation that he might have misjudged his brother caused him a moment's grief. What if Nathan hadn't started the fire? What if he'd just panicked when Jake was shot and run away? Could the old man have thought Jake was dead and lit the fire himself?

  The smoke in the hall was so thick Jake couldn't immediately be sure it was Nathan, As he'd suspected, the stairs were burning, and sparks from the flames would soon have the hall alight. Already the worn ribbon of carpet was smouldering, and as he watched, the curtain at the foot of the stairs was swiftly consumed.

  And, in that brief flare of illumination, he recognised his brother. The sudden conflagration had startled Nathan, so that when Jake reached out and touched his sleeve, he had no chance of hiding his reaction. "Christ," he gasped, staring at his brother's smoke-blackened face with undisguised horror. He took a shuddering breath. "I thought you were dead."

  Caitlin was the first to see the pall of smoke that hung over the sawmill.

  Although they'd flown over from England the previous day, Marshall had suggested it would be more appropriate to arrive at Jacob Wolfe's house in the morning. There was nothing spoiling, he said. Nothing that couldn't wait until the following day at any rate. And they couldn't be absolutely sure Jake had gone to see his father. Better to arrive at a respectable hour than late at night.

  Reluctantly, Caitlin had agreed to wait until the next day. Marshall usually spoke good sense, she'd discovered, and she had no wish to antagonise him now. She was grateful he'd agreed to come with her. She wasn't sure she could have handled this on her own.

  They'd spent the night at a hotel in Prescott. It wasn't a particularly salubrious establishment, and the receptionist had looked downright suspicious when they'd asked for two single rooms. Caitlin could only assume the couples she was used to dealing with shared a double. Or perhaps she resented having to make up two rooms for only one night.

  Caitlin hadn't slept well. She'd been too aware of what might happen the next day, and the prospect of seeing Jake again made her feel weak. What if he had only been playing a game? What if he didn't care about her? Or, most dist
urbing of all, what if he'd only pretended to be attracted to her because he thought she was his wife?

  She'd been up before it was light, showering in the tiny bathroom, disturbing Marshall deliberately in the room next door by banging cupboards and drawers. By the time she'd put a call through to his room, he was dressed and ready, and because he knew how apprehensive she was feeling, he'd agreed to drive her out to the sawmill before they had breakfast.

  It was supposed to be a reconnoitring expedition. A chance for Marshall to see where they were going, that's all. Or, at least, that was the excuse she had given him. She'd known from his expression that he hadn't been deceived.

  The sight of the smoke drove all thought of delaying their arrival out of Caitlin's head. "Can you see that?" she exclaimed as they negotiated a crossroads, and the smell of burning timber came to their nostrils. "Oh, God! What's going on? Do you think Jake's all right?"

  Marshall shrugged, but she could see he was concerned. "Who knows?" he said. "I wonder if anyone has called the fire service. If there's still timber lying about, that place must be the biggest fire risk in town."

  "But how could it happen?" cried Caitlin, unable to sit still in her agitation. "No, turn here," she directed impatiently. "Can't we go any faster than this?"

  "I wonder where there's a phone," murmured Marshall, still concerned about the repercussions, and Caitlin cast him a frustrated look.

  "There'll be a phone at the house," she exclaimed, and then realised how insane that sounded. "I mean—let's just get there, shall we? They might need some help."

  "That's what I'm afraid of," said Marshall, but he obediently pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator. "How much farther is it? Do you know?"

  "Not much farther," Caitlin assured him, praying she had remembered the way correctly. It was one thing to see a pall of smoke—quite another to actually reach it. She felt like a rat in one of those mazes, with the reward it was seeking always out of reach. "There it is," she said at last, as they turned a corner and saw the derelict trading estate ahead of them.

  The sawmill was the last lot on the block. They could see the flames now, leaping greedily above the roof line of the house, and Caitlin realised it wasn't the sawmill itself that was on fire as she'd thought.

  Her stomach plummeted. Panic was setting in now, and even though Marshall was tearing along the pitted track at more than seventy miles an hour, she felt as if she could have run faster than the speeding car. She was gripped by an awful feeling of apprehension. Jake was in that house. She knew it. She could feel it in her bones.

  "Oh, God, I don't believe it!"

  Marshall's groan of dismay brought her head round to look at him. "What? What?" she asked impatiently, and he cast a speaking look towards the rear view mirror. Caitlin swung round, unable to comprehend his trepidation, and saw the black-and-white police car racing up behind.

  She supposed it must have been flashing its lights and using its siren for some time, but she had been so intent on them reaching their destination, she had neither seen nor heard it. But the signals it was giving off seemed to be all against them, and she put her hands over her head in a gesture of defeat.

  "I've got to stop," said Marshall, slowing as the police car swept past them, but although he applied the brakes, the police car didn't. It zoomed on towards the burning building, and he realised, with some irritation, that he'd made a stupid mistake.

  His foot found the accelerator again, and Caitlin, who had closed her eyes when she'd thought they were about to be reprimanded, opened them again in disbelief.

  "The fire," said Marshall impatiently. "They're going to the fire. We're so involved with our own problems, we haven't considered that other people can see the blaze."

  They reached the timber yard just as the two policemen were getting out of their car. The heat was oppressive here, and one of the men gestured to Marshall to park some way back.

  "Keep out of the way," he yelled. "Leave it to people who know what they're doing. I know you think you can help, but believe me, you're only in the way."

  Caitlin wasn't listening to him. Now that they were here, she had no intention of being driven away. She climbed out of the car, and wrapping her arms about herself, stared up at the burning building. Her instincts were screaming at her that Jake was in there, but what could she do to help him?

  "Get back!"

  Sparks from the main building were arcing now, spiralling into the yard next door and turning windswept piles of sawdust into smouldering heaps. One of the policemen attempted to take her arm and propel her back to the car, but she pulled away from him. Dear God, she thought, how could anybody still be alive in that inferno? The flames were already licking along the roof.

  "The fire department's on its way," said the other policeman, moving closer and surveying the upper floor of the building. "Shit—sorry, miss—but I wonder if the old man was in bed when the fire started. These old guys, they get careless. The cigarette slips from their fingers, and—"

  "He didn't—he doesn't smoke," said Caitlin quickly as Marshall came to join them. "When I first got to know Nathan, he once joked that it wasn't wise to smoke in a sawmill, and I know for a fact that Mr Wolfe didn't even like tobacco."

  The first policeman gave her a startled look. "You know the old guy?"

  "He's her father-in-law," said Marshall, also scanning the upper floor of the building. "And you don't know that he's dead. He might not even be at home."

  "Hey, that's a point," said the second man, nodding his approval of this suggestion. "There might be nobody in there, as you say. Sure, the place is dropping to bits, isn't it? It could just be faulty wiring that's caused the fire."

  "Yeah, that's right," said his colleague, evidently finding that hypothesis more to his liking. "If there was anyone in there, surely they'd have been trying to get out."

  "Unless they were overcome by smoke," said Caitlin tersely, not convinced by that argument, but before she could say anything more, Marshall uttered a startled cry.

  "There's someone in there," he exclaimed, pointing towards a room on the ground floor. "I'm sure I saw a movement." He glanced at the two policemen. "There must be something we can do."

  "Not until the fire truck gets here," said the first policeman. "Aitken, try and raise them on the radio, will you? They should have been here by now." Then, "Hey—come back!" This, as Caitlin darted towards the entrance to the building. "You can't go in there, miss. It's too dangerous!"

  But Caitlin wasn't listening to him. She, too, had seen a movement within the shadowy pall of smoke that filled the ground-floor rooms. She couldn't be sure it was Jake, but whoever it was, she had to try and help them. Why didn't they get out? If they could move around, it wasn't because they couldn't walk.

  Marshall overtook her before she reached the smoke-blackened doorway. It was only then that she realised that the door was open. The smoke had been billowing about so much, it hadn't been immediately apparent that they could get inside. But now it added to her fears as to why the occupant— occupants?—of the house hadn't escaped.

  "Stay back," Marshall yelled, pushing her towards the policeman who had followed him. "Keep hold of her," he advised the man as he pulled out his handkerchief to protect his nose and mouth. Then, without another word, he plunged through the doorway, ignoring the heat and the sparks that were flying about.

  "Is your old man crazy?" demanded the policeman as his partner came running to join them. "Shit—hold her, Aitken, I'm gonna have to go in."

  "He's not my old man," said Caitlin, fighting furiously to free herself. "Let me go. I've got to help him, can't you see that?"

  "Ain't nothin' you can do, little lady," said Aitken, taking over the job of restraining her from his colleague just as the shed nearest to the main building caught fire. "See, it's dangerous," he added, pulling her back. "You watch what you're doing, O'Hara. There's no sense in getting yourself killed and that's a fact."

  The wail of a siren caused b
oth men to turn their heads instinctively. "Thank God," muttered the one called O'Hara, clearly relieved that he wouldn't have to prove himself by going in. "Now, if we let you go, will you leave this to those who know what they're doing? I know you're worried, but they'll have your father-in-law out before you know it."

  Caitlin made no promises, but when they let her go, she didn't immediately rush towards the door. She knew that when the fire-fighters arrived, any interference could only be a nuisance. But her hands balled into fists as the huge scarlet truck thundered up the road.

  Then, before anybody had time to do anything, she saw three figures emerging through the smoke. One of them was Marshall; she could see that from the handkerchief he was still clutching to his face. But the others were too blackened by smoke to identify immediately.

  As they stumbled through the doorway, she realised that Marshall was trying to restrain one of the men from going back into the house. He was struggling against the hold Marshall had on his collar, but for all he was taller than Marshall, he didn't seem to have the strength to fight back.

  The other man took off as soon as he emerged into the daylight, stumbling towards the shed that was already beginning to burn. But like the other man and Marshall, he was hampered by lungs already choked with smoke, and after running a few yards, he crumpled to the ground and lay still.

  Caitlin started forward, but before she could move more than a few feet, several of the fire-fighters rushed past her carrying hoses. A couple of them peeled off in search of the hydrant, but some veered towards the man who had collapsed. The others surrounded the two men on the path, and she heard them asking if there was anyone else in the house.

  "Yes," choked the man Marshall was restraining. His face was streaked with blood, and he seemed to have some difficulty articulating at all. "But I think he's dead," he added, at last succeeding in pushing Marshall away from him. "He's through the back. Do you think you can get him out?"