“I should have never trusted another company to deliver,” he grumbled to himself, his hands in the pockets of his pants, shaking his head irritably as he trekked along the deserted Amesport boardwalk. He might not want to call his brothers, but he’d had no problem waking up his assistant to verify that everything had been confirmed. Of course . . . it had. His assistant knew if he failed at one single task, his job would be history. It had been the transport company’s error. Evan would deal with them first thing in the morning, and he’d destroy the bastards who had left him out here walking in the fucking rain. If the CEO of the company couldn’t get a simple delivery to the place it needed to be on time, his company didn’t deserve to be in business anymore. It had been a very expensive botched job, and Evan Sinclair could make or break a company easily. When a company couldn’t perform, he had no problem doing the latter.
Evan was just about to leave the boardwalk and turn onto the street leading to the Amesport Peninsula when he saw a burst of fire explode from one of the homes at the end of Main Street.
Was it a business or a home?
Evan had only been to Amesport a couple of times, but as far as he could remember—and he recalled nearly everything in detail—Main Street was all businesses.
Jogging across the street, he stopped in front of the old home, which had obviously been converted into a shop. He looked at the window and then looked up at the flames that seemed to be consuming the roof of the building.
Dolls and Things?
It was definitely a store, and it was highly unlikely that anyone was inside at this hour of the night. Digging into the pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled out his phone to report the fire just as he heard the wail of fire engines.
“It’s already been reported then,” he muttered to himself, ready to turn and get on his way to the Peninsula. There was nothing more he could do. The fire department was obviously alerted and on their way.
It wasn’t until he turned that he heard a scream, a terrified wail of terror that sent chills down his spine. Turning back, realizing there actually was someone inside the building, he pushed his considerable bulk against the door.
Mara flung the burning blanket from her with a loud shriek of horror.
I’m alive, but the comforter is on fire. Everything is on fire. I need to get out.
Brushing frantic hands over her clothing from her position on the hardwood floor outside her bedroom, she quickly verified that none of the items on her body—her pajamas and underwear—were in flames. Stumbling to her feet, she tried to get her bearings in the thick, blinding, gray smoke. Coughing harshly, she felt for the bannister of the staircase just as she discovered she couldn’t put weight on her right leg. Mara crumpled to the floor again, whimpering at the pain in her ankle as she scooted toward her right and down the hallway, her hand out, searching frantically for the stairs.
The steps should be . . . right . . . here!
Her fingers connected and felt the edge of the first step just before she was bodily lifted into the arms of a very tall, very strong, and very male figure she couldn’t recognize through the darkened haze of fog caused by the fire.
“Generally when one’s house is on fire, one feels compelled to leave it,” a low, arrogant voice commented, as though he were addressing a person of questionable intelligence.
Mara trembled with shock as she let herself be carried down the steep flight of stairs to the main floor. The mystery man wasted no time getting her outside and didn’t lower her to the ground until he reached the tiny patch of grass in front of Shamrock’s Pub across the street.
“I was trying to get out,” she finally responded, her voice raspy from inhaling the smoke. She breathed rapidly, sucking the clean air in and out of her lungs frantically. Looking up at her rescuer from her position on her ass, she still didn’t recognize him. It was dark, and all she could make out was black hair and mammoth proportions. Squinting through her dirty glasses as she panted for breath, she could see he was actually wearing . . . a suit and tie. What the hell?
He knelt next to her and took her by the shoulders. “Obviously you weren’t trying very quickly or successfully,” he commented nonchalantly. “A fire usually requires a little faster response.”
Mara gaped as he came down beside her. She could see him now; the dim glow from the fire and the lights left on inside of Shamrock’s at night illuminated his face as he positioned himself beside her. His raven-dark hair was damp and slicked back from his face, and his startling blue eyes were roving meticulously over her body clinically, as though he was trying to assess whether or not she was injured.
“W-who are you?” She’d never seen him before, and if she had, she would have definitely remembered him.
“Evan Sinclair,” he snapped. “Are you hurt?”
“Evan? Jared’s brother?” As he scowled at her and shook her lightly, she answered his question. “My ankle. I couldn’t walk. I was trying to find the stairs so I could crawl down.”
She flinched as her home starting crackling, and a deafening crash sounded as the roof fell completely into the first story of the house. Fire trucks pulled up just as the upper level fell, and firemen, police officers, and an ambulance screeched up to the house, swarming the residence immediately.
Evan’s sharp eyes glanced at her feet, and he moved to palpate her ankles. “The right one is swollen. I’ll let the medics check you out. I’m not particularly versed in emergency medicine,” he said, as though it annoyed him that there was anything he didn’t know.
“Mara!” an agonized male voice rang out from the front of her house.