Page 33 of The Playboy Meets His Match
When she realized he expected someone to shoot at them, her fright changed to an icy chill. Beyond the door was the dark night while behind them, she could hear the roar and crackle of flames and smell the acrid smoke. “Let me go first. You come right behind me,” he said.
With the gun leveled, he ran through the doorway, and she followed.
The night was transformed. Men ran from the bunkhouse, dogs barked, and lights went on all over the grounds.
Jason sprinted ahead, and she followed him while he shouted directions to the first man to reach him. She glanced over her shoulder to see flames roaring and a huge column of black smoke billowing and mushrooming over the house.
At the sight of the conflagration, she felt weak and sick inside.
“Merry!” Jason snapped, catching her wrist and pulling her with him to run to his pickup. He opened the door and shoved her inside. “Stay in here and stay down so you’re not a target.”
“A target?” Startled, she looked at the men passing them on their way to the fire. How could she be a target now with so many people all around her? “There are men who work for you everywhere.”
“A sniper could still get you.”
Her shocked mind began to function. She realized then the possibility that the explosion had not been an accident and someone had been trying to kill her. Shivering, she looked at the brilliant flames. Anguish was stronger than fear as she remembered Jason’s family heirlooms and antiques.
“Jason, your house!”
“It’s just things, Merry,” he said roughly. “We’re alive. That’s what’s important, and let’s keep it that way. Stay out of sight unless you want the press all over you.”
“Jason, I thought it was a gas line.”
“It was a bomb,” he said bluntly.
“A bomb? Why?” The moment the words were out of her mouth she thought of Dorian, of breaking into his computer. Was this because of last night?
She looked at the men who worked for Jason who were already fighting the fire. The first shocks receded further when she thought about the danger she might still be in, the police who would want statements and the press who were sure to arrive.
Jason was society and old money. The fire could be seen for miles and when word got out that it was from a bomb, the news would be nationwide. Her mother would want every tidbit and she would be livid to know that Merry hadn’t called her the first moment.
Jason slammed the truck door, and Merry saw that he had pushed the lock.
She tried to stay low in the pickup so she would not be a target, yet she sat up enough to watch what was happening. All of the east wing and the center of the house were gone. If someone had been trying to kill her, he had bombed the wrong end of the house. If the bomb had gone off about three hours earlier, neither she nor Jason would have survived.
In spite of the stuffiness of the interior of the pickup and the balmy May night, she shivered. She heard the wail of sirens and she rolled down the window to get fresh air. The smell of smoke took her breath, and, with the window lowered, the roar of the fire was louder. Sparks shot high as wood crackled and popped.
“He’s lost almost everything,” she said softly. If it had been a bomb, it had been intended for her. She was the one to blame for Jason losing his family belongings and his house. She had stirred up Dorian who was a dangerous man, pushed him to this destruction and now Jason had lost so terribly much that could never be replaced.
She shook and wrapped her arms around her middle, unaware of tears streaming down her cheeks. Vehicles with flashing lights poured into the yard and men were everywhere. A news helicopter circled overhead while the media trucks rolled in.
Pumper trucks sent streams of water pouring onto the house. When pickups appeared and men jumped out, she realized Jason’s friends and neighbors had come to help.
She could see Jason with the firefighters now. She wanted to go help, but she wasn’t dressed for it and she wouldn’t be that much more help now because there appeared to be at least fifty men fighting the blaze.
Firefighters, reporters, cameramen, lawmen, friends, neighbors and employees filled Jason’s yard. The bright lights of the media lit up a place that now looked like a war zone.
Time was suspended. One moment she thought she had been watching for hours, the next, it seemed only minutes from the explosion until the flames had disappeared.
To her relief the fire was finally doused and the conflagration never reached the west wing of the house. Men still poured water over the smoldering ruins, but some of the volunteers began to get back into their pickups and go. When the television vans departed, she opened the door and swung her legs outside to get some air. She couldn’t imagine being in danger now.
It seemed an eternity before she saw Jason’s dark silhouette come striding toward her.
“You’re making yourself a target.”
“I’m safe,” she replied. “What exploded?” she said, knowing his answer, yet praying his first assumptions were wrong, and it was a malfunctioning gas line.
“I told you earlier—and the fire chief agrees with me although they’ll make an official investigation—someone detonated a bomb.”
