Page 32 of Spitfire

Fucking hell! Something is wrong. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. How do I know she hasn't had another episode like the one she had earlier, and maybe this time hurt herself? That was some scary shit, watching her disappear into herself and become zombie-like. When she pulled her gun from her holster and pointed it at me, I thought my heart was going to jump out of my damn chest. It was worse when I called her name, and she showed no signs of recognition or alertness. I've never seen her or anyone else like that.

Fuck it, I can't sit here and play what-if games all night, when she could be inside, injured. I slam my car door and make my way around her house to the back door, watching for any movement in the windows. I search around the back door, under plants and rocks, to see if she left an extra key somewhere, but I should have already known there's no chance of that. Scarlett Lyssa is the most untrusting person I have ever met. There's no way she would have made herself vulnerable to someone surprising her in her home.

I grab a palm-sized rock from the ground and pray that she doesn't shoot me, thinking I'm an intruder. "Fuck it, here goes nothing." I throw the rock through the glass window next to the door, and reach around to unlock the door. "SCARLETT! DON'T FUCKING SHOOT, IT'S JASPER!"

I receive no response to my shouting, and push my way inside the darkened house, pulling out my gun just in case someone other than Scarlett may be inside. The crunch of glass is loud below my boots, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up as I navigate her darkened space. I reach her kitchen area and hit the switch, flooding the place with light. Not a single sound other than my heavy breathing, and the sound of my blood rushing in my ears, greets me. I move quickly through the rest of the rooms, taking in her bedroom and the dampness in her bathroom. Wherever she is, she hasn't been gone long. Fuck.

My gaze roams around her neat and tidy space, every corner well organized as I would expect, given her abhorrence for mess. The lack of any personal photos or tchotchkes does surprise me a little. I thought all women liked that shit. I should have known, though, that Scarlett is not like any other woman I've ever encountered. "Fuck, where are you, little vixen?"

I know I shouldn't, but I can't seem to help myself. I pull the clothes she was wearing earlier out of her hamper and bring them to my nose, breathing in her scent. Her panties catch my eye, and I lift them to my nose, before groaning loudly as I fist them in my hand. Fuck, if she were to walk in here right now, I would be in a shit ton of trouble. I wouldn't even know how to explain this. What the fuck am I saying? I already broke in, so either way, she's going to hand me my ass. I slip the panties into my back pocket, place the rest of the clothes back in the hamper, and force myself from her room, before I go pilfering like a psycho for more of her underwear.

I pull out my phone, knowing full well what I'm about to do qualifies as abuse of power, but shit, it's Scarlett, and where she's concerned, I seem to have lost my moral fucking compass. "Douglas, I need you to locate Agent Lyssa's phone asap." I drag my fingers through my hair, pulling on the thick strands as I take in the rest of her home, and the large arrangement of white flowers on her kitchen counter. "No, I don't give a shit what you're doing. This takes priority. Get me a fucking location now!"

I end the call and plop myself on her pale beige sofa, watching as the shadows in the room make the space feel sparse and cold. The place doesn't really scream ‘home’, it's more like a functional place to rest, almost like a hotel room. She said she was raised in the foster care system, so is that why she doesn't form attachments? Is it perhaps a result of her youth, where she was shuffled around? She's so close-lipped about everything. Never divulging anything that can be used against her. Not that I blame her. The FBI promotes competitiveness, and anything can be used by your colleagues against you.

What secrets are you hiding, little vixen?

Everything about Scarlett Lyssa intrigues me. She's a puzzle I haven't figured out because I haven't even had a chance to see all the pieces, and if she has it her way, I never will. There's no way I can go back to the way things were before our moment in the car, and I won't allow her to pretend it didn't happen, or that it was a mistake. It wasn't.

My phone buzzes in my lap. "Whatcha got for me, Douglas? She's where?" I don't even bother to say goodbye, instantly on my feet and marching out the back door to my car. What the fuck are you doing at one of the most expensive restaurants in the city tonight, Scarlett? Better question: who the fuck are you with? I can feel my blood pressure rising with my body temperature, and know full well I have no right to be reacting this way. She has a right to go out to dinner with whoever she wants, except that she's fucking mine!

Whoever she's with had better quickly understand that I'm going to find every piece of dirt on them, and destroy their fucking lives one piece at a time, if they think they can have what's mine. I might even plant fucking evidence and have them arrested. I'm leaving nothing off the table.

Oh, little vixen, when I get my hands on you, I'm going to spank that perky ass of yours red.

"What the fuck do you mean she's not here?" I question the maitre d' that I want to strangle, as he continues to look down his large, hooked nose at me and my attire, even though I'm shoving my FBI badge in his face.

"I'm sorry, Sir. The madam was here earlier with her dinner companion. They had their meal, and she left with him. Unfortunately, she left her purse under the table, I'm sure by accident. We've kept it here all night, in hopes that she would realize her mistake and return, but instead you have come."

He hands me a small black purse and quickly dismisses me, as if I were offending his snobby sensibilities. I move aside in annoyance, and he seats the next patrons who are waiting. I open Scarlett's purse to find her phone, wallet, house keys, and a red lipstick inside. How could she have forgotten her purse? That doesn't seem like something Scarlett would do. She wasn't herself earlier. Maybe she's not well? Then why the fuck would she go out tonight? None of this is making any fucking sense.

The tracker on each of our phones should have led me straight to her, and in a way it did, but I can't help the sense of disappointment that's swamping me at not finding her, and also realizing she left with a man. I grab snobby Frenchie by the arm as he walks past me again. "The man she was with, did he have a reservation?"

His bushy eyebrows rise to his badly combed-over hairline, and his face goes ruddy as he stares me down with defiance. "I could charge you with obstructing the law. This is a law enforcement matter," I grumble with irritation.

He pulls away from me, straightening his suit jacket, and once again looking down his nose at me. "I am sure finding the madam and her date is of the utmost importance to your... investigation, Sir." A flush of heat rises up my neck with embarrassment at being called out so politely on my bullshit, but I refuse to back down and instead offer him a death stare. He's got less than sixty seconds before I shove his face into the next wall, and put his ass in handcuffs. Let's see how elegant this place will be then.

"Let me check." He moves away from me and reviews his tablet, before giving me a droll look filled with disdain. "Monsieur Poine made the reservation for himself and the lady. If that is all, I have paying patrons to take care of."

Monsieur Poine? Naw, fuck that, she wouldn't! I stare back at her purse and a flare of anger races through me. Xavier fucking Poine, that slimy reporter who had the audacity to call us out earlier. She was having dinner and left with him? I'm going to break that pretty boy's nose. What the fuck are you doing, little vixen? You just signed his death wish.

"Douglas, I need you to get me the home address of Xavier Poine, the reporter for the Metropolitan, and Douglas, hurry the fuck up."

TWENTY-FIVE

SCARLETT

Iurge my exhausted eyes to open as I stretch, and feel various pains radiating through my body. Every part of me either hurts or, in the case of my lower regions, is on fire. Xavier Poine is a sadistic asshole, and I can't wait to tell him so. I just need five more minutes of sleep, a gallon of coffee, and an ice bath first.

"Wake up, Scarlett, it's time for you to fucking leave." The covers get instantly ripped away from me, and I screech in surprise as the cool air hits my overstimulated skin. A pile of fabric lands on my chest unceremoniously, and I force myself to sit up, clutching it to my naked flesh. Xavier stands at the end of the bed wearing all black, his light hair slicked back away from his features. His haunting blue-gray eyes pierce into me, but in their depths I no longer see any of the carnality or intimacy we shared last night, or the charm he displayed at the restaurant. No, there's nothing but anger and darkness now, and that has me scrambling from the bed and putting distance between us.

"What the hell is going on?" I question, as I fumble with my bra and he watches me, but not with lust, the way someone unhinged watches a butterfly before they rip off its wings.

"The night is over, and you've overstayed your welcome, so it's time you go, Agent Lyssa." He turns his back on me as I shove my panties back on, grimacing at their dampness, throw my dress over my head, and race after him, my bare feet slapping against his hardwood floor.

"Wait just a goddamn minute, you said you had information for me. This whole fucking night was your idea, a trade, remember? One night in your bed and you would tell me what you know about Ashmaker, and how he's picking his victims." My voice begins to rise in panic as he stops at his kitchen island, his back to me. "You gave me your word, Xavier."

"Did he now? He would too, the prick." He? Who the fuck is he referring to? Is he speaking of himself in the third person like some psycho? My head begins to swim as the reality of the morning after hits me. Xavier's playing mind games with me. He used me, took his pleasure from my body all night, and probably either didn't ever have any intentions of telling me shit, or didn't know anything past what was disclosed as bait at the restaurant. Humiliation hits me hard as I watch him study my reactions.