While the Fire Rages Read online

  WHILE THE FIRE RAGES

  Amii Lorin

  About the Author

  Publishing Information

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Brett Renninger stood at the wide window staring at the wind-tossed, grayish-green sea. The Atlantic flung its waves with uncaring force against the shoreline bordering Ocean City, New Jersey. The wide window covered most of the wall in what was now an office but had been the living room of Brett’s brother Wolf’s apartment. The personal quarters he kept in one of many Renninger hotels.

  Wolf.

  Brett sighed, deeply, soundlessly. It was over three weeks now, three long, tension-filled weeks. He had been the logical choice to take over, but even had he not been, he’d have volunteered. Of course, he had not had to volunteer—he’d been summarily drafted.

  Had anyone asked him if he could metaphorically fill Wolf’s shoes one week, one day, ten minutes before the call came, Brett would have answered promptly, emphatically: No way!

  That phone call. Brett’s lips twisted. The memory of it was vividly clear and fresh. Perhaps it always would be.

  * * * *

  As his hands had been employed with a bottle and a corkscrew when the phone rang in his Atlanta apartment, he had nodded his assent when the lovely young woman sitting close to him on the long, leather couch asked sweetly, “Would you like me to answer that, Brett, honey?”

  Brett could even remember the assessing glance he’d swept over the curvaceous blonde as she rose languidly, experience again the curl of desire he’d felt watching her glide across the plush carpeting to where the phone rested on his desk. He’d returned his attention to the business in hand as the blonde murmured a husky hello, only to slice a frowning glance at the slim gold watch on his wrist when she said softly, “Brett, honey, it’s a Mrs. Renninger. Your mother?”

  He had returned to Atlanta late that afternoon, after a three-week-long trip to New Mexico to iron out the final details concerning the company’s plans for the erection of a tri-complex condominium unit. In the seconds required to set aside the bottle and walk to his desk, he’d chided himself for ever entertaining the belief that his mother would wait until he was in his office the following morning for her regulation briefing on his trip. Not on the outcome, of course, for that was—at least in his mother’s mind—a foregone conclusion. Thus he’d deliberately laced his tone with rueful amusement and dispensed with the usual greeting.

  “Yes, sir?” he’d drawled insolently, fully expecting to hear his mother’s appreciative chuckle ripple along the line from Miami. The tightly controlled tone of his mother’s voice washed the amusement from his face.

  “Wolf has been injured in an accident, Brett. He’s in a hospital in Boston.”

  Brett could still feel the shock of his mother’s opening statement, could hear the echo of his own exclaimed, “What?”

  “Micki called me less than ten minutes ago,” she’d supplied tersely. “I have no details, as she was practically incoherent but”—the choking pause that followed instilled cold fear in Brett—“I—she—Brett, she said the doctors aren’t sure if they can save him.”

  Standing at the window, staring sightlessly at the roiling sea, Brett shivered with the memory of the never-before-heard stark terror in his mother’s voice. In truth, the emotion that had momentarily gripped him had come damned close to something like terror.

  His big brother, Wolf?

  Thankfully, the need for action had sent the destructive emotion into retreat almost immediately.

  “I’ll leave at once, Mother,” he’d begun with forced calm.

  “I’m going with you, I’ve called Eric,” she said, referring to her third son. “He’s having the Lear readied. We’ll be in Atlanta within two hours.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Never would he forget that early-morning flight north: his mother’s colorless face—for the very first time revealing every one of its sixty-five years; Eric’s handsomeness, strangely enhanced by his rigidly controlled expression; his own thoughts of Wolf. Wolf—the hero of his boyhood, the—

  * * * *

  The rustle of papers from behind him scattered the memory. Turning slowly, Brett ran a contemplative gaze over the gleaming dark head bent over Wolf’s large, rectangular desk.

  The super-efficient assistant. Brett’s assessment was not complimentary. Lids narrowing over eyes chilled to a steely gray by his thoughts, he inventoried the woman’s exterior.

  Even seated, her height was obvious. Somewhere between five feet nine and ten, he estimated—correctly. Slender—almost too slender, her fine bone structure lending an appearance of fragility.

  Brett had to suppress a snort of disdain. A confection spun of pure steel, he condemned scathingly, his glance raking her delicate facial features, the pink-tinged ivory skin that covered them, the beautifully sculpted lips that hid perfect white teeth.

  Thick, long hair in a rich, dark brown adorned her classically shaped head. Brett knew that when, eventually, she raised her eyes from her work, she would gaze at him from gold-flecked hazel eyes surrounded by lashes as dark and full as her hair, and so long as to appear artificial.

  Brett had committed the vitals to memory: JoAnne Lawrence; age twenty-eight; unmarried; degree in business management, a certificate in hotel management. She had gone to work for the Renninger Corporation on completion of training, first as an assistant manager, then manager of a Renninger hotel in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. Three years earlier she had been hired as the assistant to the assistant to the East Coast manager of Renninger Corporation—Madam President’s firstborn, Wolfgang. She had secured the coveted position of first assistant fifteen months before when Wolf’s right-hand man, wanting a change, asked for and was granted a transfer to the newly open Hawaii region.

  His face free of expression, Brett stared at the shining crown of her head. Oh, yes, he knew quite a bit about Ms. JoAnne Lawrence—usually referred to as Jo. He had made it his business to know. Neither idle curiosity nor personal interest had motivated his research. His interest in her had been aroused in a hotel lounge in Boston late one night nearly three weeks ago by the stricken face and anguished voice of his sister-in-law, Wolf’s wife, Micki.

  * * * *

  “He was with a woman, Brett,” Micki had blurted suddenly. “Probably his assistant, Jo.”

  At first, Brett had given little credence to her outburst.

  The waiting, nerve-shattering days following Wolf’s accident had left them all on edge. Micki was distraught and very close to exhaustion. Hurting for her, feeling protective, he had tried to soothe what he thought were her irrational fears.

  “Honey, if this Jo whoever is his assistant, his being with her would be the normal order of business.”

  “Not if he was trying to conceal it, and from all indications, he was.”

  “What indications?” Brett had deliberately injected a chiding note into his tone.

  “I know how you feel about Wolf, Brett, but please, don’t patronize me.” Micki had blinked furiously against the tears shimmering in her eyes.

  Brett was very fond of Micki. In fact, he rather envied Wolf. His brothers, at least, had been extremely lucky in their chosen life mates. Seeing Micki so near the breaking point alarmed him.

  “I’m sorry.” Reaching across the dimly lighted table, he’d clasped her hand with his. “Okay. Tell me what these indications are.”

  “I had a commiserating call from a friend at home today,” she’d begun haltingly. “She’d read of Wolf’s accident in the paper. I was thanking her for her concern when she interrupted with ‘and to think I saw you only hours before it happened. I called to you but you were already in the car. But, of course, Wolf told you he sa
w me’—I was stunned.”

  “And that’s it?” he’d asked incredulously.

  “No.” Micki shook her head impatiently. “I was confused. I told my friend Wolf hadn’t mentioned seeing her. Then I asked her where she’d seen him. She said right in front of the hotel, this hotel. She added that Wolf seemed distracted and in a hurry, and that he hadn’t even acknowledged her greeting.”

  “But, honey, I fail to see any indication of a clandestine meeting in that!” Brett, fully aware of Micki’s utter weariness, had tried to reason with her. “It sounds to me like the work of a malicious woman whose nose had been put out of joint because a man, an important man, did not give her the recognition she probably thinks she deserves.”

  Micki had been shaking her head in denial before he’d finished his rationalization. “No, Brett, not this woman. She is one of our best friends. In fact, I’m sure you know her. Cindy Grant? She and her husband, Benny, are the cub’s godparents.”

  Now, as he had three weeks ago, Brett smiled gently at the reference to Wolf’s son, dubbed “the cub.” Now the smile was as fleeting as it had been that night.

  “Okay, there was no malicious intent on Cindy’s part.” He’d sighed. “But I still cannot believe you think this sketchy information enough evidence to bear out a conviction. If the woman in the car was his assistant, she had every right to be there.”

  “Oh, it was her.” Micki’s bitter tone had been a shock simply because Brett had never heard the like of it from her before. “I checked. She was registered.” Her lips twisted. “Her room was on the floor above his.”

  Considering what she’d been through the preceding days, Brett had stifled his growing impatience. “Honey, she’s his assistant. There’s nothing at all unusual ab—”

  “No. Not as a rule,” she’d interrupted harshly. “She travels with him quite often. And, like a fool, I’d believed quite innocently.”

  Brett had felt heartsick at the pain in her voice, the anguish in her usually so-bright blue eyes. He knew only too well what she was going through. Perhaps that was why she’d confided in him and not Eric. She’d sought a fellow sufferer. Still, unconvinced, he’d objected.

  “Micki, there is no proof.”

  “Wolf told me, before he left, that she would not be going with him.” Micki’s response had had the measured sound of a death knell. “He offered the information. I had not asked. I think I have a very good case, Brett,” she’d gone on in a whisper, her voice reedy with weariness. “By the way, her name is Jo Lawrence. She’s beautiful.”

  * * * *

  Beautiful?

  Hardly.

  At that moment it seemed the vibrations from Brett’s intense stare penetrated the concentration Jo Lawrence was applying to her work. Lifting her head, she met his stare with thought-clouded hazel eyes, one perfectly shaped, dark brow arching questioningly.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Renninger?”

  Everything’s wrong, Ms. Lawrence, he didn’t voice his thought.

  “No.” The tiny frown that briefly marred her smooth brow told him his attempted smile had been cynical. “I was just thinking.”

  “I see.”

  Her eyes drifted to the window to gaze out at the wind-ruffled, white-capped waves. Sitting up straight, she raised a slim hand to massage the back of her neck.

  Beautiful?

  In sudden decision, Brett strode to the door, taking his jacket from the back of a chair as he passed it.

  “I’m going to run out to the house,” he said, referring to the home Wolf and Micki owned a short distance away. He tossed the toneless statement over his shoulder without looking at her again. “If you need me for anything, call me—or put it on hold till I get back.” He was very careful not to slam the door behind him.

  The silver Porsche gleamed dully in the watery, late-afternoon sunlight. As Brett pushed through the wide, double-glass entrance doors, his eyes caressed the sleek lines of the powerful machine, parked in the no-parking section in the motel forecourt. He’d made sure the car was driven up from Atlanta for him as soon as possible and was happy now that it was at his disposal. It didn’t really matter where he parked the car since, as the motel was closed for the season, the large lot was empty.

  Standing beside the car, the wind sweeping back his gold-streaked, ash-blond hair, Brett breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the crisp, sea-scented air. A raucous, mournful cry drew his attention, and, tilting his head back, he followed the gliding flight pattern of a lone sea gull. The bird’s solitary passage struck a responsive chord in him.

  For what seemed a very long time now, he’d known a like, if earth bound, solitude. Even when in the company of others—others, in his case, being female—his soul had emitted a silent, lonely cry.

  “Damn all women.”

  Even as he muttered the oath Brett knew he didn’t mean it. There were women and then there were women. Most assuredly he would never damn Micki or his brother Eric’s lovely wife. But there were others, like his former playmate—in no way had she ever been a real wife to him—and the woman whose presence he’d escaped moments ago.

  What in blazing hell were you thinking?

  The admonition was not self-directed. In his mind he flung the question at possibly the one and only man he’d hesitate in verbalizing it to: his brother, the formidable Wolfgang.

  Damn you, Wolf, you had it all! Brett, folding his long length behind the wheel, mentally chastised the idol who had suddenly developed feet of clay. You had Micki, and two beautiful children, and the good life, and you risked it all—and for what?

  Brett shook his head in wonder as he inserted the key into the ignition. With his inner eye he envisioned in depth the object of his censure, that slashing grin softening the chiseled planes of his face, his eyes glittering silver, the formally formidable lone Wolf.

  Do you love her, big brother? Or were you merely playing king stud?

  Twisting the key with unnecessary force, Brett growled, “Get it in gear!” He was not referring to the car, which had quickly purred to life without a complaint.

  Driving along the nearly deserted streets instilled in Brett a vaguely eerie sensation. It was as if the warning had gone out to evacuate and everybody had heard it but him.

  Brett smiled at the whimsical thought. Actually, he rather liked the desolate look of the summer resort town in mid-November. He did not like the oddly abandoned look of his brother’s large white-brick ranch house.

  Separating the proper key from the others on his gold ring, Brett loped along the flagstone walk to the wide door. Before he had a chance to put the key to use the door was opened by Wolf’s housekeeper

  “Well, hello, Mrs. Jorgeson.” Brett’s smile was easy; he liked this woman. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Renninger.” Gertrude Jorgeson’s return smile revealed a mutual regard. “I’m putting up the last of the tomatoes.”

  “In what way?” Brett’s frown conveyed his ignorance of the hows and whys of putting up anything.

  “Into sauce and stewed tomatoes.” Gertrude smiled through eyes grown wise from sixty-one years of observing life. “Your brother and your sister-in-law love stewed tomatoes.”

  “I see.” Brett’s tone was noncommittal. He personally hated stewed tomatoes. “Well, I won’t get in your way. I’ll be in Wolf’s study.”

  “All right.” Gertrude smiled again. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No. Thank you.”Brett grinned. “I think I’ll help myself to the Scotch.”

  “As you like.” The small, well-rounded woman turned back toward the kitchen. “Call me if there is anything I can help you with.”

  In the study, Brett went directly to the liquor cabinet set into one wall between well-stocked bookshelves. After measuring a good two inches of the expensive whisky into a short, squat glass, he splashed in a token amount of seltzer water, then, sipping at the liquid appreciatively, he glanced around the comfortable
room.

  The earth-tone colors, the functional yet luxurious furnishings, the oversized desk, stamped the room as Wolf’s domain. However, there were small signs indicating the domain had been invaded.

  A smile softened Brett’s finely molded lips as his eyes paused on a large, brazenly red fire engine parked neatly in one corner. He had witnessed his nephew tearing through the house on the riding toy with the same panache Wolf displayed behind the wheel of his equally brazen red Ferrari.

  His thought banished the soft smile. The Ferrari was gone, totally demolished in the accident. It was several seconds before a twinge of pain in his jaw brought Brett out of his reverie to the realization of his tightly clenched teeth.

  Damn, it was only a car! A car can be replaced. He would gladly write out his own personal check for a half dozen Ferraris if only Wolf...

  Literally shaking himself out of his introspection, Brett moved purposefully to the desk. It had grown completely dark beyond the window behind him before he pushed the padded leather covered chair back and stood up.

  The plot sickens.

  Raking long, bony fingers through thick strands of slightly wavy hair, he grimaced sourly at the innocent-looking envelope on the desktop. The tightness in his stomach bore out his appraisal of the play unfolding in his mind.

  Raising eyes gone steely gray with anger, Brett ran his gaze slowly around the room, seeing everything, seeing nothing, the document neatly folded inside the long, buff-colored envelope imprinted on his inner vision.

  Does she love him?

  Damn it! Whether or not Jo Lawrence was in love with Wolf should not be his uppermost consideration! Micki was the one who would suffer from this. If she found out.

  Lids narrowing over eyes now icy with calculation, he sliced his gaze back to the desk. He had discovered the damned thing inside the locked top drawer of the desk, which, as he was in possession of Wolf’s keyring, he’d opened without the slightest compunction.

  As expected, he’d found everything pertaining to the company in perfect order. It was that one long envelope that had shaken him.

  It was his job to make sure Micki did not find out.