Judgement By Fire Read online

  Who are you trying to kid? Sneered the little voice and Lauren couldn’t help the warm glow which started low down and spread slowly through her body.

  Briefly, she allowed herself a moment’s fantasy of being in Jon Rush’s arms, of seeing passion and desire flare in his eyes. Then she rapidly pushed those thoughts aside, alarmed and intrigued by the force of the growing desire which snaked through her like flames on a dry forest floor.

  She busied herself with an attempt at freshening herself up, although it would have to be what her mother used to call ‘a lick and a promise’ because she had nothing to replace her somewhat crumpled clothing. She washed her face anyway, and used the lipstick, compressed powder and mascara from her purse to try to cover up the pale face and dark circles around the wide eyes which stared back at her in the mirror. She hung her blazer in the bathroom where steam from the shower she had promised herself for later would hopefully cause some of the creases to drop, then hurried downstairs to join Jon in his study.

  As she crossed the hall, she heard his deep voice as he spoke on the telephone, and she entered the room just as he replaced the handset. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes dark in the glow of the log fire. The glowing embers, along with a small table lamp, provided the only light in the room. Jon stepped out from behind the antique desk and for a brief moment Lauren thought---hoped—he was going to embrace her.

  The moment passed and instead he and motioned her towards two chintz-covered wing-backed chairs before the fireplace. Between the two chairs was a small, oval mahogany table bearing a tray, teapot, china cups and saucers, and a selection of small sandwiches.

  “It’s tea, not coffee, I’m afraid. I know how addicted you are,” Jon broke the silence, a smile in his voice as he poured her a cup of the hot brown brew. “However, Mary is of the old school who believes that coffee drunk late at night will make you all hyperactive and unable to sleep.”

  Lauren, who wasn’t all sure she’d be able to sleep anyway, knowing this man was just a few feet away from her bed, smiled and assured him that tea would certainly fit the bill right now. She found she was surprisingly hungry as well, having missed dinner, and tucked into the sandwiches happily.

  “Mary is a lovely person. You’re lucky to have her,” Lauren commented, attempting to fill the electric silence between them with mundane chatter. “I wouldn’t know, but my more affluent friends tell me it’s almost impossible to get someone efficient to take care of the housekeeping.”

  Jon grinned. “For me it’s one of life’s necessities. If I had to take care of myself, nothing would ever get done, and Mary keeps me on the straight and narrow. She’s known me since I was a teenager—almost a mother figure, really. She used to work for my father.

  “Then when I came out of the army and bought this place after his death, she agreed to come here. I think the other alternative was a retirement village, and that’s not her style at all. So even though she let me know she was really only doing this as a favor because I couldn’t be trusted to look after myself, I think she was actually pleased.”

  Lauren laughed. “I suspect you’re nowhere near as helpless as you make out,” she told him, pleased to see him smile in reply. “What was a handsome debonair company executive, son of the Big Cheese, doing in the army?” she went on to ask.

  Jon’s face clouded, and Lauren regretted her presumption at asking something so personal. She thought he wouldn’t answer, but he poured them both more tea and leaned back in his chair, slowly stirring sugar into his own cup.

  “I guess I was the typical rich, spoiled teenager—at least that’s probably how it would look on the outside. My father…he was a wonderful man, and I loved him dearly, but he’d no time for frivolity. He’d worked hard for every dime he had, and his entire world was Rush Co.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t neglected or anything like that. He was one of the kindest men you could wish to meet, with a strong sense of family pride. When my uncle, my father’s brother, died, Dad immediately took in his nephew, Stephen, and raised us like we were brothers.

  “My Mom is an artist, and she used to get impatient with his all work and no play attitudes. She wanted to travel, to enjoy the wealth Rush Co. brought in, wanted to have parties and a wild time with her artistic friends. Dad thought that was a load of nonsense, couldn’t be bothered with what he called the ‘artsy-fartsy crowd’. Said most of them had no real talent and called them hangers-on.”

  Lauren felt irritation rise in her chest, defensive about her own position as an artist—a talented artist—and wondered if his father’s view would color Jon’s attitudes to her world.

  “Finally, they had a major row when I was about fourteen and Mom left. God, but I missed her so. She’s one of those vivacious people, so full of life, so ready for adventure, eager to laugh. They were opposites, really, Dad and her. He insisted work be done before play; she felt play was at least as important as work.”

  Jon stared into the fire, his eyes sad, his expression closed, and Lauren felt her heart squeeze for the boy he’d been. Fourteen was a nasty age for a boy to have his mother go away, she thought.

  “So things between Dad and I got worse. I think he missed her, too, but couldn’t climb down from his ethical perch long enough to say so. I think he was probably a bit relieved when, at sixteen, I packed a rucksack and announced I was going to live with Mom for a while. That came as something of a shock to me, though—in the time since she’d left, Mom had developed her own life apart from her family, had friends that Dad would never have tolerated. She was doing some interesting work and getting shows and the occasional sale, but she was also living the artist’s life—drink, drugs, men, parties to all hours.”

  Lauren uncomfortably remembered Jon’s comments about Lucy’s collapse ‘…or was she on something stronger…isn’t that how artists are supposed to get their kicks?’ Now, instead of anger, she felt that strange sadness for the child he had once been.

  “I did my best to fit in—tried my hand at sculpting, but wasn’t very good. I was a bit better on the drinking scene, dabbled briefly in the hallucinogenic drugs, then I got into a bit of trouble—a couple of us stole a car and did some joy riding. Mom promptly sloughed me off back to Dad, who gave me the ‘you need some discipline’ lecture. What he really meant was he wanted me to get through college and start showing up every day at Rush Co. to learn the ropes while picking up some work ethic.

  But I was still in rebellion and I did the one thing that I knew would drive him mad—I enlisted in the U.S. Army. I’ll never forget his face when I told him I’d signed my life away for five years. It took him over a year before he would speak to me again. Finally, my platoon was sent to Iraq. The night before I left, Dad and I had a few drinks and talked all night. The next morning, we shook hands, friends who finally understood each other—and by the time I came home after the hell of Desert Storm, he was dead.”

  There wasn’t really anything Lauren could say; no words of condolence that she could think of seemed anywhere near adequate for the sorrow in Jon’s eyes. Silently, she stood and crossed the tiny gap between their chairs, leaning down to put her arms around him comfortingly.

  After a moment, he reached up for her, pulling her down onto his lap, and gently kissed the top of her head.

  They sat for a time in the soporific heat of the fire and each other’s nearness, and then Jon stirred. “Much as I hate to leave you, I have to go out for a while.”

  Lauren glanced at the brass mantle clock, where the hands were climbing towards midnight. “At this time and in this weather?” she asked anxiously.

  “I have to meet with someone, just briefly. Why don’t you go on up to bed, try to get some rest? We’ll talk again in the morning.”

  Impulsively, before she left the comforting haven of his lap, Lauren bent her head towards his, her hand against the back of his neck to pull his mouth down on hers. The kiss was electric, just as she knew it would be, yet sleepy, too, and trusting. Th
en he deepened the contact, his lips hard and yearning against hers, and Lauren moaned softly as she strained towards the sweet taste of his mouth. Fire arched through her veins as Jon’s tongue sought, and was granted, entrance to the warm shelter of her mouth, and Lauren was drowning in a tide of feelings so profound she never wanted to surface. Until Jon tore his mouth away, his breathing a little ragged as he groaned and ran a hand through the thick mane of blond hair.

  “I really do have to go, although I’d like nothing better at this moment than to go on sitting here with you, holding you…” His eyes were dark with a depth of feelings that took Lauren’s breath away and she knew from his look that her own eyes mirrored similar emotions.

  Leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on his cheek, Lauren stood and looked down at him.

  “You’re an interesting man, Jon Rush,” was all she said as she walked from the room

  * * *

  Warren was waiting in the all-night coffee shop when Jon arrived, a large white mug of coffee and a half-eaten jam donut on the table before him, the latest edition of the Toronto Star clasped in his big hands. He put the paper down immediately as Jon sat down, clutching his own mug of coffee.

  “How are things at your end?” he asked easily.

  “Well, I think Lauren feels safe enough at the house. She seems to believe that all this is nothing to do with us, but I’m worried. Whatever bastard did this to her studio, I’d say there was a lot of anger there.”

  “Yep, I’d say that it was probably a good thing that Lauren wasn’t there when our friend came to call. Did you see the upstairs? The bed was ripped to ribbons. There was a real…feeling behind it all. A real bad feeling,” Warren looked at Jon, knowing his friend trusted his intuitions and would understand what the security chief was trying to say.

  Jon nodded. “But did you get any ideas as to why—or who?”

  “No. My first reaction was this was someone with a lot of anger to work out, that it was a spontaneous attack, maybe he thought she should be there, she wasn’t, and he lost it…”

  “He? Are we sure about that?” Jon interjected.

  Warren rubbed his chin thoughtfully, fingers rasping in the day-old growth of stubble. “Judging by the sheer amount of damage, and the way some of it was done, it would have required a lot of strength, a lot of stamina. Sure, a woman could have done this, but I really doubt it.”

  “You said your first reaction was that it was a sort of spontaneous combustion. Did something change your mind?”

  “Actually, it was old Chief Ohmer who put me on to it. He’s a wily old wolf, let me tell you,” Warren said, and Jon smiled. It wasn’t too often he heard his security chief express admiration for another’s skill, and particularly for an older cop out in ‘Hicksville’. “Remember the day of the protest meeting?”

  “Ouch, as if I could forget,” Jon said ruefully, his fingers sliding delicately over the stitches which still ruffled the smooth skin of his forehead.

  Warren grinned. “Yeah, well. And how did Lauren take your comments and the photos that appeared in the paper?”

  “Don’t remind me. Damned well marched into a meeting at the company offices, thought she was going to drag me out by force if necessary, and inflict worse damage.”

  “It’s the red hair. My granny always warned me about them red-haired girls,” Warren chuckled. “Anyhow, Ohmer invited me to join him for a beer, and I did. Two or three, actually, it’s on my expense acount.” Warren grinned as Jon rolled his eyes.

  “So the old guy told me the life history and crime history of every living soul in the area—much abridged and quite hilarious. It sounds as though the place was a cross between the Klondike and Tombstone, once upon a time.

  “Anyway, worst thing about Lauren is she has, or had, a nasty piece of work for a husband. Quite a scandal—he turned up one day while she was having dinner with friends down in West River, and it sounds as though he’d had too much to drink. He caused an awful scene in the bar, so bad that the manager called in the police. But Lauren told them this jerk was just leaving, wouldn’t cause any more trouble. Ohmer decided to let the evening end peaceably.

  “However, he got another call later, from a friend and neighbor of Lauren’s. Seems this creep had followed them back to Lauren’s studio and was hurling rocks and abuse through the windows. Ohmer arrested him, after something of a fight in which the creep fared badly.” Warren grinned again. “But the next morning Lauren came down to the police station, told the chief she didn’t want to press charges, told the creep she never wanted to see him again, and the whole thing was over.”

  Anger surged through Jon’s chest at the fear and humiliation Lauren must have experienced as she was harassed by her drunken husband, ex-husband, whatever. He could picture her, pale but dignified, telling Ohmer she wanted the chapter closed, telling him to send the foolish bastard on his way.

  And he must have been a fool to let Lauren go, Jon thought suddenly, and then turned back to the matters at hand.

  “Do you think this ex-husband is to blame for what happened at the studio?” Jon asked Warren. The other man shook his head.

  “This all happened several years ago. Lauren’s friends say she hasn’t heard anything since. That’s the weird part—if it was him, I could maybe understand the ferocity of the attack. In addition, Mike Ohmer pointed out that there is something, well, something deliberate about the destruction. It’s as though whoever did this was thorough and methodical and frighteningly deliberate in trashing everything of beauty within that cottage.”

  The two men sat grimly silent over their cooling coffee. A shiver ran along Jon’s spine at the thought that someone would turn such calculating violence and cruelty on Lauren.

  “One thing I did pick up, and you might ask her about it. Lauren’s answering machine contains an unusual number of hang-ups. Someone has been calling and calling, but slamming the receiver down when the answering machine picked up. No messages left, and it suggests to me that someone was getting frustrated with trying to contact Lauren and maybe she was even leaving the machine on to avoid contact with them.”

  “Also, you could ask her who Steve W. is—it was a name scribbled on the pad that was by the phone—or would have been by the phone if the phone hadn’t been yanked out of the wall and thrown across the room.

  “So I guess the only good news, if you could call it that, is that there is nothing to connect this with Rush Co. or the West River Project. Unless maybe someone objects to Lauren’s taking a political stance, but it does seem as though whoever did this was aiming right at Lauren, not at us,” Warren concluded, stretching his muscular arms and shoulders as he stifled a yawn. “Anyways, it’s been a very long day, and I need to see someone in the office tomorrow, even if it is a Saturday. Just wait until you see the overtime bill on this one, Boss!”

  With a grin and a wave of the hand, Warren was gone. A few minutes later Jon, too, left the steamy, coffee-scented warmth of the all night café, his head buzzing with possibilities and things that must be done.

  * * *

  He’d known she wouldn’t stay at the studio, and he couldn’t phone her there. He’d tried calling a couple of those artist people, but no one seemed to know where she was. Now a dark, deep thought was curling around in his mind. He’d heard about the debacle at the meeting when she’d embarrassed Jon Rush in front of all the important people at the company—here the man’s lips curled in a bitter smile. He also knew that Jon Rush had headed out towards West River late that afternoon.

  What if - and this was what was nagging at his mind like porcupine spines in a dog’s snout - what if she’d gone back to the big white farmhouse with Jon Rush? Could she really be that stupid? Finally, even though it was very late, or very early in the morning, he gave in and called the number he knew so well.

  The phone rang and rang, but not in an empty house. At least the housekeeper should be there. When the phone was finally picked up and a sleepy voice answered, the man’s
stomach clenched as though in the throes of poisoning.

  Lauren Stephens had just answered the telephone in the middle of the night in Jon Rush’s house.

  Visions of the two of them locked together in the act of passion, their bodies writhing in Rush’s massive sleigh bed, caused sour vomit to rise in the man’s throat as he slammed the telephone down.

  This must stop—he must end it now!

  Chapter Eight

  Lauren hadn’t intended to fall asleep; she’d just sat down on the soft, firm bed for a moment while she finished her tea, intending to go right in to take a shower. But the next thing she knew she was being dragged from a deep sleep by the harsh buzzing call of the bedside telephone. Without stopping to think about her visitor status in the house, Lauren reached out and answered the phone, and the silence which greeted her brought her wide awake. How many times in the past weeks had she listened to the same overflowing silence on her own answering machine? The silence filled with someone’s angry presence.

  Again, no words were spoken and the telephone receiver at the other end was slammed down. This time however before the line was closed, Lauren thought she heard a ragged, angrily indrawn breath. Then a sharp click, silence and the dial tone buzzed again. Could this possibly be the same caller who’d haunted her days and nights, who’d woken her from sleep sometimes several times a night, and left only silence as his message? Lauren shivered, her heart thumping in her ears as she struggled for breath past the lump of fear in her throat. Who could possibly have this number, and know she was here? Paul Howard, Chief Mike Ohmer, Jon Rush.

  And if Jon was the one making the mischief calls, why would he bother calling her here, when she was already under his roof, a trusting lamb to the slaughter? Okay, enough already with the gruesome metaphors, protested the voice in her head, and even Lauren managed a tense smile at the melodrama inherent in such phrasing. And, she reminded herself, she had not even met Jon Rush when the calls first started, immediately after she returned from the Ontario Wildlife Exhibition grand opening.