Up in Flames

He heated up the pizza, grabbed a beer from the fridge, then took them outside on the patio to eat. The earthy smell of grass, ocean and sea oats helped to cleanse his lungs of the smoke, but the images in his mind refused to disappear.

The blazing building. The dead man on the floor with his jugular sliced. The pale face of Natalie Gorman in death. The redhead Rosanna beating the flames off of her, yet worried about her friend.

And his partner, seriously injured.

Parker…he would survive, the doctor had said. But would he ever recover? Would he walk again? Be able to go back on the street?

He closed his eyes, wondering how he would feel if he had been in Parker’s place. He lived and breathed his job. He’d be lost without it.

Yet lately he’d been filled with restless energy. With the need for something more.

Hell, he just missed having a family. A father who was alive. A mother who spoke to him. A brother who didn’t hate him.

A woman who…wanted him. At least for a night.

Rosanna’s face materialized in his mind, and his body hardened. She had felt so light and fragile in his arms, her voice raspy, but as whispery soft as an angel’s. And those eyes, they had mesmerized him and turned him inside out. When she’d touched his hand to comfort him about Parker, a hot feeling had splintered through him.

Hunger.

Even with her face and hands stained with soot, and her red hair tangled and smoky, he had thought naughty things.

Like how the soft silkiness of her hair would feel against his belly. The way her delicate hand had felt pressed against his chest, holding on to him. Clutching him. Needing him. How it would feel if she’d moved it lower.

He hadn’t wanted to leave her, not with the way she’d cried in his arms when he’d had to reveal the awful truth that her friend hadn’t survived.

He’d seen guilt in her eyes, too.

Guilt he understood. Guilt he related to. Guilt forced him to get up in the morning and keep fighting criminals.

A life that had robbed him of morality, female companionship and a future that evolved around nothing but dealing with other bastards.

Still, like the bastard he was, when he closed his eyes again and inhaled the salty air, he saw Rosanna reaching for him, stripping naked and climbing into his bed.

Begging him to take her.

But she had nearly died tonight. Was a material witness in a possible arson case. A case he had to crack.

He could not get involved with her. Not even for a quick, one-night interlude. Not even if visions of her naked taunted him for the rest of his life.

He gripped the edge of the chair as a disturbing thought struck him. Rosanna Redhill had been present at both fires tonight.

So had her friend Natalie.

He needed to question her again. One motive for arson was revenge. If she wasn’t involved in the arson, she or her friend might be connected to the man who’d started it. And she definitely might have seen the man who’d set the fires…

GHOSTS ROSE from the grave stalking toward Rosanna, their hollowed, brittle bones rattling in the wind, their bulging eyes staring at her with accusations, their screams of terror echoing through the rows of tombstones.

Natalie was there. Shocked and searching, wondering what had happened, still not ready to accept that her young life had ended so unexpectedly.

Her voice whispered for help, pleading with Rosanna to save her, to bring her back to life.

To find her killer.

Rosanna jerked awake, perspiration soaking the hospital nightgown, her breath rushing from her chest in erratic puffs. She blinked against the darkness, and a tingle of alarm rippled through her. She felt someone’s presence in the room, felt an undercurrent of a spirit’s energy charging the air. Smelled the lingering fragrance of Natalie’s jasmine perfume.

Crazy. She might have thought she’d made that firepoker move years ago, but she hadn’t. And she certainly had never communed with the dead or had visits from ghosts. She’d never even felt a spirit’s presence before.

Well, except for Granny Redhill…

Inhaling to calm herself, she detected another odor. Masculine. Sweat. Smoke.

Danger.

She jerked her head around, certain she’d find a man lurking in the room, but only shadows hovered in the corner.

The door stood slightly ajar though.

It had been closed when she’d finally succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep.

Perhaps the nurse had come in to check on her. Or could someone else have been in her room?

Ridiculous. She did not have a stalker, ghost or otherwise. It was just her overactive imagination.

The room smelled like smoke because she hadn’t showered since being pulled from the blaze. The masculine scent probably lingered from Detective Walsh’s visit.

Shivering in spite of the heat, she rolled to her side facing the door, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. She didn’t want to have another nightmare, to see ghosts or Natalie’s tormented expression, or hear her voice begging for help.

She wanted to turn the clock back and talk Natalie out of going to the Pink Martini.

And she wanted to see Detective Walsh again.

God, she was crazy.

But she would see him again, she thought with another frisson of panic. He’d ask questions. Want to know what she’d been doing at the club. Where she worked.

What if he looked into her past? What if he discovered the truth?

Her hands shook as she clutched the sheet to her chin. She’d have to be prepared. Answer curtly. Keep it to the point, focus on Natalie and what she’d seen at the bar.

Which had been nothing.

She’d tell him that, then he would leave and she would never have to see him again.

Then she would be safe.

And alone again just as she had always been.

Then she could explore this gift, if she really possessed one, and learn how to control it so she would never hurt anyone else again.

Determination gave her courage, and she finally relented to the fatigue draining her and fell asleep.

But when she awakened hours later, she was dreaming about the detective who had saved her from the burning building. This time he was making love to her, and she moaned in pleasure as he caressed her body with his hands, with his hungry kisses, and drove her into oblivion with the sweet lapping of his tongue across her nipples and inner thighs.

When she stirred awake, she saw him sitting in the chair beside her bed, quietly watching her. She could still feel the intense pounding of his body inside hers, the feel of his lips on her skin, the tremors of her orgasm from her dream. His eyes darkened as if he’d read her thoughts, knew the nature of her dreams.

The realization sent a flush to her face. In the next second, that flare of coldness settled back into his eyes, and she had the sudden urge to run from his scrutiny.

If he made her feel so rattled in her sleep, how would she react if he ever really touched her? And if he could turn cold in seconds flat, what would happen if he knew the truth about her?

BRADFORD STARED into Rosanna’s sleepy gaze, his body hard from watching her sleep and hearing those tiny moans she’d elicited. When she’d first begun to sigh and claw at the covers, he’d thought she was having a nightmare about the fire. Reasonably so and expected.

Then that glass of water had tipped over, and spilled and he’d wondered what the hell had happened. She hadn’t touched it and neither had he.

She must have bumped the table when she was twisting in the bed.

When he’d looked back at her, a slow smile had curved that delicate, pouty mouth, and she’d run her hands over her breasts and thighs. He’d realized then that her dreams were more gratuitous. Sexual maybe.

And those moans…they whispered of pleasure. Satisfaction. Arousal.

Which had excited the hell out of him.

Irritated at his body’s traitorous response, he stifled a growl, shifting to hide the painful erection pressing against the fly of his jeans. Dammit. He was here to interrogate her, not drool over her body.

A very voluptuous, sexy body, he noted, thanks to that damn hospital gown coming untied and riding down her shoulder to reveal the delicious curve of one breast.

She cleared her throat, looking shaken. “Detective, how long have you been there?”

Long enough to know she was having sexy dreams. Who had been her lover?

Mentally shaking himself for wondering, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from asking. He’d had no rest the night before. And seeing her, realizing how attracted to her he was, wasn’t helping his mood.

He had no time for his libido. Not now.

Not with her.

“A few minutes,” he said quietly, a little too gruffly for comfort. Then unable to help himself, he asked, “Were you having a nightmare?”

She jerked her gaze from his, but guilt and some other emotion he couldn’t define colored her face. Had he not been so affected by her, he would have laughed.

He knew better than to play this game.

She seemed to notice that her gown had slipped then, and retied it, then yanked the sheet up to her chin. “I did earlier,” she admitted in a somber voice.

The pain in her eyes sucker-punched him.

“I dreamed Natalie was calling me for help, but I was too late.”

He clasped his hands together to keep from reaching for her. “There was nothing you could do.”

Her soft sigh tore at him.

“If I’d only convinced her not to go to the club, she would be alive.”

“So it was her idea to go?”

She nodded. “I’m not really into the club scene, but she begged me to accompany her. I thought she’d be safer if she didn’t go alone. Has her family been notified?”

He nodded. “They’re on their way. Can you talk about what happened?”

She swallowed as if gathering courage. “We both went in, ordered drinks. Natalie met a guy and they went to dance.” She hesitated. “I watched from a corner table.”

“Anybody with you?”

She shook her head. “I turned down a couple of drunk guys then went to the bathroom. Like I told you before, the fire started while I was inside the ladies’ room.”

He twisted his mouth in thought. “Did you know the guys who asked you to dance?”

She shrugged. “No. And they certainly weren’t upset enough to get violent. I assume they moved onto the next girl.”

Something in her tone sounded self-deprecating, but he decided not to explore it. “What about Natalie? Did she have a boyfriend who might have seen her with this other man and gotten jealous?”

She shook her head again. “No boyfriend. She just moved back here a few weeks ago.”

“Where did she work?”

“She was interning at a design studio and taking classes at the Savannah College of Art & Design.”

“What about you?”

She clamped her teeth over her lower lip for a minute. “I own a shop called Mystique. We sell specialty gifts, New Age books, stories of local folklore and ghost legends, candles, voodoo kits and dolls.”

He frowned, still mesmerized by her eyes but disturbed by her answer. So she was into that New Age crap. Probably believed in the supernatural and local ghost legends.

“How did you and Natalie meet?”

She hesitated again, this time looked away as if she didn’t want to answer.

“She visited the store,” she finally said quietly.

He waited, wondering, testing to see if she’d fill the silence and volunteer more information. Instead tension vibrated between them. She didn’t fit the profile of an arsonist, and didn’t seem like the vindictive type to set a fire to hurt anyone. But it still struck him as odd that she’d been present at both scenes.

Although she’d given him no reason to think she or Natalie had been targets or that she knew the arsonist, he definitely wanted to find out more about Rosanna Redhill. What made her tick, what made her so intriguing, what made him want to hold her when they had nothing in common.

Why he wanted to ask if she had a boyfriend or any lovers when it probably had nothing to do with the case.

Why he sensed she was hiding secrets, that she wasn’t at all the innocent angel she appeared to be.

Chapter Five

Rosanna hated to lie to the detective about how she’d met Natalie, but she’d detected disapproval when she’d mentioned her store.

She’d met the same instantaneous dislike before. People were either open to paranormal and supernatural phenomenon or they weren’t. Because of his job, Detective Walsh analyzed facts and evidence, although she’d bet he used his gut instincts more often than he realized.

Still, she’d also agreed not to discuss the CIRP experiment outside the clinic. Besides, the project and the circumstances surrounding her friendship with Natalie had nothing to do with her friend’s death.

He was watching her as if he expected her to say more when the doctor strode in.

The detective moved to the window while the doctor checked her vitals. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“All right,” Rosanna said, although her ankle still felt stiff and achy. “I’m ready to go home.”

He nodded. “I’ll get the discharge paperwork ready.”

Remembering that her dress had been ruined and that they’d cut it off of her when she arrived, she clung to the bedsheet. “Doctor, do you think one of the nurses might find me a robe or something to wear home?”

He gave a quick nod, and whisked out the door.

The detective turned back to face her. “I’ll give you a lift home.”

She knotted her hands by her side. “That’s not necessary.”

“Why? Do you already have a ride?”

She hesitated, considering another lie but sensed he would be able to read her. “No, but I can call a taxi.”

“I said I’d drop you off,” he said in a clipped tone.

She wanted to refuse, but didn’t want to draw suspicion. Not that he had any reason to suspect her of anything.

No one knew about her past. It had been buried with her grandmother and would stay buried.

The doctor appeared with discharge papers in order. A nurse rushed in with a smile, and dropped a cotton robe on the foot of the bed. “An extra,” she said. “One of the discount stores in town donates them.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” She quickly slid her arms in the robe and belted it tight. Grateful the paramedics had found her purse, she grabbed it. The nurse gestured for her to take the wheelchair.

“I can walk,” Rosanna argued.

“Hospital policy,” the nurse said cheerfully.

Rosanna reluctantly relented, feeling vulnerable as the woman wheeled her to the elevator. The detective walked silently beside her, a force of such power that her insides fluttered with nerves.

The short ride to her apartment felt strained. Detective Walsh was so big and masculine that his body filled the small confined space. And his masculine scent made her stomach tighten, made her more aware of how naked she was below the robe and gown.

He parked in her driveway, then rushed around to help her out. She hated to accept his outstretched hand, but the moment she put weight on her foot, pain shot through her ankle and up her leg.

“You’re hurt?” he asked in a dark voice.

“It’s just a light sprain,” she said, shrugging off his concern. “I’ll be fine.”

“Do you have any family or friends to stay with?” he asked as he assisted her onto the stoop.

She dug her keys from the bag and unlocked the door, smiling as her black cat, Shadow, darted up to welcome her. She leaned over and petted his back, then straightened to dismiss the detective. “No, but I’ll be fine. Thanks for dropping me off.”

He nodded and handed her a business card. “If you think of anything else, remember anyone who looked suspicious, please give me a call.”

“I will.” She leaned against the doorjamb. “Do you really think someone set that fire on purpose?”

His expression hardened. “We’re investigating the possibility.”

“But why would someone try to burn down the bar, especially when it was filled to capacity?”

“Motives for arson vary. Insurance. Revenge. To cover another crime.” His gruff voice grew lower. “Excitement is a possibility, too. Some arsonists feed on the energy of the fire.”

She frowned, thinking about his statement, about some of the participants in the research study. One of the doctors had discussed energy, specifically psychic energy, mind over matter…

“We’re still questioning everyone at the bar, and later today, we meet with the crime scene investigators.” He twisted sideways for a minute, scanned the sidewalk as if checking to make sure the area was secure. “We’ll talk to her family, but if you learn anything else about your friend from them, maybe the name of an old boyfriend or lover, let me know.”

“I’ll ask them.” Her throat felt thick with grief as she remembered Natalie. Her family would be flying in, making funeral arrangements….

He lifted his hand as if he might touch her, then his gaze penetrated her, caressing her body all over as if his fingers had actually brushed her skin.

Her breath caught, and she started to lean toward him, but he dropped his hand back to his side, and jerked his eyes away as if he felt the pull of attraction between them and didn’t like it, either. “Like I said, call me if you think of anything.”

She nodded, then watched him walk back to his car. She had no idea why her body was reacting so strongly to him, why her nipples had stiffened as he looked at her and heat had pooled between her thighs, making her ache like she’d never ached before.

Why the thought of him leaving sent a frisson of fear and sadness through her.

She didn’t need a relationship, or a complication in her life right now.

Especially a sexy one who made her want things she could never have. One who came with a badge and questions that she didn’t want to answer.

BRADFORD SPENT the next three hours running background searches on the bar owner and the attendants, then questioned each of them in person, coordinating efforts with two other officers assigned to the case.

Later that afternoon, he grabbed a cup of coffee and met the captain, several other officers and the arson and crime scene investigators in one of the conference rooms.

Captain Black took the lead by relaying the latest news on Parker. “He’s still in critical condition, but they’ve removed the ventilator and he’s breathing on his own, so that’s the good news.” Black hesitated, a somber expression on his face. “The bad news is that he’s not out of the woods yet so everyone send up prayers. Now, let’s have a recap on what we have so far.” He turned to Bradford, gesturing for him to speak.

Bradford took a sip of coffee to wash down the guilt over his partner’s injuries. “The owner of the bar appears to be clean. No financial problems, heavy debts, prior problems with the law or gambling issues. Only possible flag is a divorce, but his wife isn’t pinching him. I can’t see him burning down his bar to collect insurance, not and risk lives and homicide charges.”

“Anyone suspicious on your list?” Black asked.

“Struck out so far.”

His coworkers offered similar reports.

“So no one saw anyone set the fire,” Black said. “Then how did it get started?”

“The bar has a smoking section,” a young rookie speculated.

“So you think someone dropped a cigarette and the place went up in flames?” Black asked.

One of the crime scene investigators, a female named Marcy Lucerne, spoke up. “The fire seemed to have spread too rapidly for that. There were also indicators of more than one point of origin, that the fire started in at least three different locations within the bar.”

“So, our unknown subject, UNSUB, walked around the room dropping cigarettes or lit matches?” Bradford asked, not quite picturing that scenario.

Lucerne shrugged. “I’m just telling you what the evidence shows. Problem is, trace found no signs of an accelerant.”

“The alcohol in the bar was the perfect accelerant,” Bradford muttered.

A debate between the officers over theories broke out, but Black silenced them. “All right, all right. This is not helping. We need more facts, some concrete evidence. Two people were killed in that fire and one of our own seriously injured.” He paused. “Anything new on the other three fires?”

A negative response rippled through the room.

“Detective Walsh, it’s my understanding that you’ve researched arsonists. Can you give us a preliminary profile of our suspect?”

Bradford winced internally, wondering how many of his fellow officers here knew his history. Black did, and had accepted him without question. But some of the others might not be so amenable.

“Certainly.” He stood, faced the group, trying to recall the details he’d learned as his brother’s criminal activities had become evident.

“Arson is the nation’s fastest growing crime. Around fifty percent of arsonists are under eighteen years of age. If adults, most are in their twenties, never over thirty-five. Ninety percent are males, seventy-five percent white.” He paused, trying to focus on the present, on helping Parker. Not on picturing Johnny’s face in his mind.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.