Sizzle and Burn

oncoming train.
    “A cop?” she asked, hoping against hope that coincidences did, in fact, happen occasionally.
    There was a low murmur of masculine voices. Burton came back on the line.
    “Says he’s a private investigator.”
    That gave her pause. Maybe the name really was a coincidence. Maybe one of the families of the Bonfire Killer’s victims had hired a PI named Jones to look into a daughter’s disappearance and somehow Mr. Jones had heard about the day’s events and managed to track her down tonight.
    And maybe she could hop on a broomstick and fly.
    Adrenaline splintered through her. The primitive fight-or-flight rush left her edgy and profoundly wary. Briefly she considered asking Burton to tell the mysterious Mr. Jones to leave. But she had dealt with reality often enough to know that it was a remarkably stubborn force. It didn’t go away just because one wished it away.
    A thought chilled her to the bone. What if the Mr. Jones downstairs in the lobby was the same Mr. Jones who had frightened her and Aunt Vella so badly that night all those years ago? If so, he was in for a surprise. She was no longer a six-year-old kid scared out of her wits.
    There was no help for it. She would have to find out why Mr. Jones had tracked her down here in Shelbyville.
    “Send him up, please, Burton,” she said.
    She tossed the phone into the cradle, put the cup down on the tray and rose from the sofa. It dawned on her that she was wearing only her trouser socks. Quickly she sat down again and tugged on her boots. The added couple of inches of height fortified her confidence.
    She went to stand at the window, stomach clenched, all her senses revved to the max, and listened for footsteps in the hall. It was full dark now. In spite of her determination to show no fear, she felt like a gazelle at the waterhole. The realization made her mad, which proved to be a good thing. Anger gave her strength.
    She heard the footsteps only faintly and only just before the crisp, authoritative knock on her door. Mr. Jones did not make a lot of noise when he walked.
    She took a deep breath, steeled herself and crossed the room to open the door.
    She had no preconceived notions of what Mr. Jones would look like. Her memories of the Night of Fire and Tears were not clear on that point. The events had taken place against a backdrop of shadows, shouts and chaos. She had hidden her face against Vella’s shoulder, afraid to look at the very dangerous Mr. Jones. Even at the age of six, long before the psychic side of her nature had developed, she had sensed the power in the man who stormed into her father’s lab that night.
    One glance told her that this Mr. Jones was not the same one who had frightened her and Vella all those years ago. The first Mr. Jones would be in his sixties by now. This man was only a couple years older than she was. She could not take any comfort from that fact, however, because the aura of power that surrounded him was as strong or stronger than the one that had emanated from the other Jones.
    The Mr. Jones standing in front of her was tall. Even with her boots on she was a couple of inches shorter than him. He was lean and virile, a man who was centered and comfortable in his body and his masculinity, a man in full control of himself. His hair was short and dark and his eyes were a shade of blue that made her think of glaciers and gun-metal. He wore a black leather jacket, black crewneck pullover, dark pants and low boots.
    She knew immediately that this Jones was every bit as dangerous as the one who terrified her on that long-ago night but for some crazy reason, she wasn’t frightened. The invisible energy he generated stirred the hair on the nape of her neck but she wasn’t scared, she was curiously excited. A heightened sense of awareness fluttered through her. Mentally she groped for a one-word description of the unfamiliar feeling that was sweeping through her. Her brain supplied it immediately. She was thrilled .
    “Raine Tallentyre.”
    He said her name as a statement of fact, not a question, as if he somehow recognized her, which was impossible because she was very, very certain they had never met. She would have remembered, she thought. There was simply no way she could have forgotten him or that low, controlled, compelling voice. It was a voice that could coax a woman into bed or challenge a man to a duel at dawn. It sent another shiver of raw sensation through her. She took a step back trying to