Page 16 of Fear of Flames
Fletch’s lips quirked. “Secret Service agents exist. They’re real people with real names and identifications who work to protect entitled people.”
Entitled.
Interesting.
“Okay, then what? A spy?”
He looked up through his exceptionally long eyelashes. “You’ve forgotten witness protection.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, that would make sense.” She scrunched her nose. “Except why would anyone in witness protection risk their life and new identity to save me? I’m nobody.”
After a spoonful of his soup, Fletch laid down the utensil and shook his head. “You’re not nobody.”
“I am. I’ve written a few books. If I would have died last night, no one would go without reading. There’s always someone else, someone newer, someone better. I don’t have siblings or even parents.” That reality threatened her façade. “No one would care if Sheriff Perkins ended me too.”
The legs of his chair screeched across the flooring as Fletch stood. “You, Shelly Holdcraft, are not nobody. Your father died last night but never think it happened without him caring about you. You were all he ever spoke about. And maybe there are other people who can write a book, but it’s not your book—not D. Valentine’s addicting novels.” He shook his head. “The Wishing Well had me confused until the very end. That takes talent.”
Michelle couldn’t believe he’d read her work or knew so much about her father. “You read The Wishing Well?” She shook her head. “And you’re saying you and Dad were friends?”
“I’ve read it, but the answer to your second question is no.”
“You spoke with him…about me?” Something occurred to her. “How do you know that I’m D. Valentine? That isn’t public knowledge.” After what happened with her mother, Michelle chose to keep the two parts of her life separate. That was why she had a pseudonym—a pen name.
Fletch exhaled and walked toward her chair.
With each of his steps, she took in his predatory movement. His actions were fluid. Each step calculated. She sucked in a breath. There was something dangerous and enticing about Fletch that Michelle couldn’t pinpoint. It was as if he were another flame capable of destruction, yet she was unable to look away—she was drawn in by his heat.
“Shelly, in a different world and a different time, I’d tell you everything you want to know. Maybe that day will come. Maybe it won’t.” He offered his hand.
Michelle looked at the size of his palm as she laid her hand in its center and stood.
“I can’t tell you why,” Fletch said, “but I’ve been watching you and Denny for years. As for Tracy, what I know is from stories.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Have you ever wanted someone?” he asked.
Had she?
This exact moment would be a prime example.
“Wanted them, knowing you’d never have them?” he questioned.
Michelle looked down and back to his gaze. “I’m not exactly a waif of a model. I think almost anyone I want I won’t have.”
Fletch reached for her hair, tugging the ponytail holder from her messy bun. Long auburn locks cascaded over her shoulders. After teasing rogue strands away from her face, his hands came to her waist, and he pulled her closer. “You’re beautiful.”
She felt the warmth as pink infiltrated her cheeks.
Fletch lifted her chin. “And in the fishing hut when you started talking about Thomas Becon, I realized that all I had imagined about you was real. You can’t concoct what it’s like to watch someone, watch over them, and never talk to them.” He tilted his forehead to hers. “To never touch them. To not physically know they’re real.”
“I’m real, but you said you’re not.”
“I want to be…for you.”
A lump formed in her throat as she nodded, ready to feel the burn of his fire.
Chapter
