Night Smoke by Nora Roberts Page B

were all but smothered. He nearly had it. From the terror in her eyes, he could see that she didn’t realize the beast was nearly beaten. “Use it,” he ordered, and in one stride he had reached the flaming curtains and torn them down. There would be pain later—he knew that, as well. But now he fought the fire hand to hand.
    Once the smoldering, smoke-stained lace was nothing more than harmless rags, he snatched theextinguisher out of her numbed hands and killed what was left.
    “It didn’t have much of a start.” But his jacket was still smoking. He yanked it off, tossed it aside. “Wouldn’t have gotten this far this fast, if there weren’t so many flammables in here.” He set the nearly empty extinguisher aside. “It’s out.”
    Still he checked the room, kicking through the ruined drapes, searching for any cagey spark that waited to burn clean again.
    “It’s out,” he repeated, and shoved her toward the door. “Get downstairs.”
    She stumbled, almost falling to her knees. A violent fit of coughing nearly paralyzed her. Her stomach heaved, her head spun. Near fainting, she braced a hand against the wall and fought to breathe.
    “Damn it, Natalie.” In one sweep, he had her up in his arms. He carried her through the blinding smoke, down the elegant staircase. “I told you to get out. Don’t you ever listen?”
    She tried to speak, and only coughed weakly. It felt as though she were floating. Even when he laid her against the cool cushions of the love seat, her head continued to reel.
    He was cursing her. But his voice seemed far away, and harmless. If she could just get one breath, she thought, one full breath to soothe her burning throat.
    He watched her eyes roll back. Jerking her ruthlessly, he pushed her head between her knees.
    “Don’t you faint on me.” His voice was curt, his hand on the back of her head firm. “Stay here, breathe slow. You hear me?”
    She nodded weakly. He left her, and when cold, fresh air slapped her cheeks, she shivered. After propping the outside door open, Ry came back, rubbing his hands up and down her spine.
    She’d scared him, badly. So he did what came naturally to combat the fear—he yelled at her.
    “That was stupid and thoughtless! You’re lucky to get out of there with a sick stomach and some smoke inhalation. I
told
you to get out.”
    “You went in.” She winced as the words tormented her abused throat. “You went right in.”
    “I’m trained. You’re not.” He hauled her back into a sitting position to check her over.
    Her face was dead white under sooty smears, but her eyes were clear again. “Nausea?” he asked in clipped tones.
    “No.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her stinging eyes. “Not now.”
    “Dizzy?”
    “No.”
    Her voice was hoarse, strained. He imagined her throat felt as though it had been scored with a hot poker. “Is there any water around here? I’ll get you some.”
    “I’m all right.” She dropped her hands, let her head fall back against the cushion. Now that the sickness was passing, fear was creeping in. “It seemed so fast, so horribly fast. Are you sure it’s out?”
    “It’s my job to be sure.” Frowning, he caught her chin, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
    “I don’t need a damn hospital.” In a bad-tempered movement, she shoved at him. Then gasped when she saw his hands. “Ry, your hands!” She grabbed his wrists. “You’re burned!”
    He glanced down. There were a few welts, some reddening. “Nothing major.”
    Reaction set in with shudders. “You were on fire, I saw your jacket catch fire.”
    “It was an old jacket. Stop,” he ordered when tears swam in her eyes, overflowed. “Don’t.” If he hated one thing more than fire, it was a woman’s tears. He swore and crushed his mouth to hers, hoping that would stop the flood.
    Her arms came hard around him, surprising him with their strength and urgency. But her mouth trembled