Hot Attraction

But was she fooling herself that the story was all she wanted?

* * *

DAWSON HAD SPENT the afternoon hoping for a fire call—nothing catastrophic, just a small campfire, a car fire, a big bonfire...

Anything that would have given him an excuse to put off his new assignment. But no call had come in to the Northern Lakes fire station. And there was nothing big enough happening anywhere else in the country that required the Huron Hotshots. Other crews were on the fires out West. Maybe the Hurons would eventually be needed to relieve teams that had been on the job too long.

But tonight he had no excuse.

So he crossed Rick and Kim Pritchard’s porch to the front door. It stood open, allowing the evening breeze to blow through the screen door. Voices drifted outside through the mesh.

She was here.

Since he usually avoided the news, he hadn’t heard her voice that much until the afternoon at the Filling Station. But it was clear and full and grabbed one’s attention, making him want to listen to her, want to believe her. But Dawson knew better than to trust a reporter. She wasn’t really interested in him—in doing a special feature about him or kissing him. All she wanted was information about the fire.

And he wanted to know why...

Had the arsonist contacted her?

“I met Dawson today,” she said.

At the sound of his name on her lips—the luscious lips he’d so enjoyed kissing—his body tensed.

“Dawson?” a young voice repeated. “The Hotshot who saved us? He’s not busy fighting another fire?”

“He wasn’t today,” she replied.

“Maybe he’ll come by and see us,” the young voice said. “He said he would when he wasn’t busy.”

Guilt flashed through Dawson. He’d made that promise to them, just as he’d promised they would survive the fire. At least he’d kept the most important of his promises...

He had been busy, though—with the fires out West and with trying to determine who’d set the one in Northern Lakes. All of the Huron Hotshots had been on edge, waiting for the arsonist to strike again. They needed to stop him before that happened—before lives were lost.

He lifted his hand and knocked on the frame of the screen door. It rattled in the jamb.

“Someone’s here,” one of the twins said.

“Were you expecting anyone?” Avery asked, and her voice grew louder as she walked across the foyer to the door.

He’d thought she was hot before—in that blue dress. But in shorts and a tank top, the woman was nearly lethal. Her legs were even longer than he’d thought, her breasts even fuller. What would she look like in nothing at all?

His body hardened at the thought of finding out, and he barely managed to suppress a groan. Hotshots were on the front line of the fire, facing it head-on, so he was used to putting himself in danger. But he suspected he’d never been in as much danger as he was now—with Avery Kincaid.

Through the mesh her gaze met his, and her eyes widened in surprise.

“You weren’t expecting me,” he surmised.

She pushed open the screen door and uttered a small sigh—almost as if she were disappointed.

Hadn’t she been as into that kiss as he’d been? Or had those little moans just been an act, a way to seduce him into an interview? Even though he’d suspected as much, she wasn’t the only one who was disappointed now.

“I should have been expecting you,” she said. “Men usually don’t turn down—”

“Your kisses?” he interrupted. “So you were lying about getting turned down already today?”

“No,” she said. “But I wasn’t talking about my kisses—”

“Yuck,” one of the boys said as he joined his aunt at the front door. “Hey, Dawson!”

“Dawson!” the other boy exclaimed as he rushed out from whatever room was off the foyer—probably a living room.

Dawson released the breath he’d been holding over visiting them. He hadn’t known how they’d react—if seeing him again would bring the nightmare back for them. But they seemed genuinely happy to see him.

“Is she trying to kiss you, too?” the first boy asked.

A grin tugged at the corners of Dawson’s mouth. Now he knew who’d rejected her kisses earlier. Of course it hadn’t been a man. No red-blooded adult male would have been able to turn her down; he hadn’t been able to and he usually had enough self-control to resist temptation. He couldn’t believe he was actually attracted to a reporter. But after that kiss, he couldn’t deny the attraction was there—burning hot—making him want to kiss her again.

“Tell your mother Mr. Hess is here,” Avery told the boys.

One of them ran off to do her bidding while the other lingered.

“You, too,” she said.

“It doesn’t take both of us to tell her,” he argued petulantly.

Dawson chuckled and wriggled his eyebrows at the boy. “I think your aunt wants to be alone with me,” he said.

“Ewww,” the kid said. “Don’t let her kiss you!” As he turned to run away, Avery swatted his backside.

Dawson waited until the kid disappeared down the hall before asking, “Should I tell him his warning came too late?”

She glared at him. “You kissed me.”

Yes, he had. And he wanted to kiss her again. Unlike last time, he resisted the temptation. He had to keep a clear head around her, had to focus on finding out what she knew without giving away anything he knew.

“It was your idea,” he reminded her.

“Of a thank-you,” she said. “You must have decided to take me up on my other offer.”

“Offer?” Had she offered more than a kiss? Maybe that was what her moans had implied. That might be more temptation than he could resist.

“Of the special feature,” she clarified. “That’s why you’re here, right. You decided you wanted your fifteen minutes of fame.”

Was that why she had seemed disappointed?

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he said. “To do a story about me.” He had no intention of letting her do one, but he was curious why she seemed to have changed her mind.

She drew in a quick breath and nodded. “Of course. That’s what I want—to tell the real story of the fire.”

Real story? As usual, Superintendent Zimmer had been right. She definitely knew more than they’d released to the media. How?

Dawson would have to find out—without giving anything away himself. It was a hell of a fine line to walk, but working a fire was like that, getting close enough to set up a break but not so close that the fire consumed you. Maybe that was the key to handling Avery Kincaid. He had to treat her like a fire. Try to contain her without being consumed by whatever was happening between them.

“Wyatt Andrews risked his life to save those campers,” he said. “That’s the real story.”

“So you’re not here because you changed your mind about the special feature?” she asked.

He shook his head.

Her beautiful eyes narrowed. “Then why are you here?”

Remembering what he’d heard through the screen door, he replied, “To see your nephews. I promised I’d come by when I wasn’t busy.”

Her eyes narrowed even more, and she opened her mouth. But she didn’t get a chance to speak before the boys were back with their mother close behind. He should have come by sooner to visit the twins. It was good to see them like this—happy and carefree. Not as they’d been that day when he’d zipped them into the shelter with him. Then they’d been shaking uncontrollably, overwhelmed with fear.

“Mr. Hess,” Kim Pritchard said. “Have you eaten? I’m just putting dinner away but I’d be happy to fix you a plate. There are plenty of leftovers.”

“I ate at the firehouse,” he said. “But thank you.”

“There’s dessert,” one of the boys said. “Peach pie.”

“Peach pie,” Dawson repeated with longing. “My favorite.”

Their mother smiled. “I’ll get you a piece,” she offered.

But he shook his head. “I’d love to, but we try to watch what we eat during the fire season. We have to stay in shape.” Their lives depended on it.

Her face flushed. “Then I should probably stop bringing brownies by the fire station.”

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Your brownies are very much appreciated.” Some of the young guys could and did eat anything. Cody, for one, would kill him if he shut off their baked-goods supply.

Her face flushed a brighter red. “It’s the least I can do to thank you,” she said. “For saving them...” She wrapped an arm around each of her sons, squeezing them tight.

No matter how many weeks had passed, she apparently hadn’t recovered yet from the nightmare of nearly losing her children. Her pain strengthened Dawson’s resolve to find the arsonist—to see him punished for the damage he’d done and to stop him before he caused any more damage.

“Mom,” one of the twins protested as he wriggled away from her. The other one leaned into her, though. He hadn’t necessarily recovered, either.

“Dawson, do you want to see the Boy Scout badge we got for surviving the fire?” Kade asked.

At least he assumed it was Kade. During the fire Kade had tried the hardest to fight his tears. He’d succumbed, but it had bothered him more to not appear tough, as he’d thought he needed to be for his brother. Ian was younger than Kade was—by a mere five minutes.

Before Dawson could reply, hands wrapped tightly around his and he was tugged down a hallway by not just Kade, but Ian, too. They showed him every badge they’d earned in Boy Scouts along with every other memento of their young lives. And they did seem very young—younger than he’d been at twelve. He felt as if they’d brought him to show-and-tell; they showed him everything in their shared bedroom. Apparently their father traveled a lot and brought them back something from every city he visited.

He’d visited a lot of cities.

Dawson had expected Avery to follow them. But when he glanced at the doorway, only their mother stood there. Finally he managed to escape, after promising to take them camping later that week. When he walked back down the hall to the foyer, he discovered Avery was gone.

Kim followed him—probably to show him out. When she caught him looking around the living room, she uttered an almost pitying sigh as she told him, “Avery left.”

“I see that.”

Why? If she really wanted that special feature...

Kim seemed puzzled, as well. She glanced at the front door as if she expected her sister to step back through it.

Why had Avery left so abruptly? She’d said she wanted the real story of the fire. Dawson suspected that was actually why she wanted to interview him. But maybe she had another source. And what better source than the arsonist himself? Braden Zimmer could be right. Again. The man had excellent instincts when it came to his job; too bad he hadn’t had them when it came to his personal life.

Dawson wouldn’t make the mistake his boss had. He wasn’t going to risk his heart on any relationship—especially one with a reporter.

Reporters rarely revealed their sources, but if the sisters were close, Avery might have confided in her. Maybe Kim knew whether or not the arsonist had contacted her.

“Did she have to rush off to meet someone?” he asked.

Kim’s brow furrowed and she asked him, “Who would she be meeting here in Northern Lakes?”

“A man?” Arsonists were usually male.

Kim laughed. “You’re the only man I thought she was interested in meeting.”

“For a story,” he said.

But Kim’s eyes—so much like her sister’s—narrowed speculatively. “I’m not so sure that’s the only reason she’s interested in you...” Then her face flushed a bright red as she realized what she’d revealed.

Dawson laughed. Avery wasn’t really interested in him, only what information she could get from him.

But if she was attracted to him, Dawson wasn’t certain he’d be able to resist her. Because he was so damn attracted to her, too.

5

AVERY WAS USED to people watching her. That was, after all, what a reporter wanted—to be watched. To get the most airtime. To get the best ratings...

But she wasn’t on the air now. She wasn’t even out in public. She was walking the road between her sister’s house and hers, which was rural with just a few houses on her sister’s side. The houses on the other side sat far back—on the beach of one of Northern Lakes’s biggest lakes. Hers was just around the curve in the road, at the end of a long driveway.

Even though the sun set later now that summer had finally arrived, the tall trees blocked its light—making the day seem darker and later than it was. And colder. She shivered. She should have remembered how it got colder at night in Northern Lakes and dressed accordingly—the way Dawson Hess had been dressed. In jeans and a long sleeved black T-shirt. It wasn’t his Hotshot uniform, but he’d still been sexy as hell.

Remembering how he’d looked, how his light amber gaze had traveled the length of her body when she walked to the door, heat flushed her body. She didn’t need warmer clothes, after all—she just needed to think of him.

There was something about him...

Maybe she found him so attractive because he wasn’t trying to get her attention, the way men usually did. If she were to believe him, he hadn’t even stopped by her sister’s house to see her. He’d come over to see the twins.

Was he telling the truth?

Did he have no interest in his fifteen minutes of fame? No interest in her?

She shivered again, but it was because of that eerie feeling she’d had since she’d left her sister’s—the feeling that someone was watching her.

But who?

Nobody else was out walking. And the houses were set so far back from the road no one could have been watching her from their window. Were her instincts failing her? Or maybe she was just paranoid.

The trees thinned as she drew closer to her cottage. She’d painted the vertical wood siding a pale turquoise with white shutters and trim. As usual, she smiled when she saw what she’d had done to the place—how cute she’d made it. She didn’t live in Northern Lakes anymore, but she’d bought the cottage as an investment a few years ago. Most of the time she rented it out to vacationers. But occasionally she used it herself.

She should have stayed at her sister’s a little longer, or at least said goodbye rather than ducking out while Dawson was busy with the twins. But they’d been so excited to see him that she hadn’t wanted to interrupt their time together. And maybe her pride had been stung a little that he hadn’t come to see her. She wasn’t used to men refusing her requests or her kisses.

Of course, he had kissed her...

Maybe that was why she’d left—because she’d wanted him to kiss her again. And she couldn’t afford to be distracted right now. She needed to break a big story, so she wasn’t reduced to covering fluff pieces. She wanted to be a serious reporter, not eye candy for the network. Was the fire a serious story? Was there more to it than had been released to the media?

She needed to find out—which was probably why she should have stayed. She should have interrogated Dawson Hess.

Her hand trembled a little as she reached for her door. The knob turned easily. It wasn’t locked. She hadn’t bothered. After all, this was Northern Lakes; nothing bad ever happened in Northern Lakes.

But the fire...

And that would have been a whole lot worse if not for the Hotshots. If not for Dawson.

Like Wyatt, he deserved to be acknowledged for his heroism. He deserved the special feature she wanted to do. But when she’d thought that was why he tracked her down, she’d been disappointed. She didn’t want him to be like most of the men she’d known. She didn’t want him to be arrogant and self-involved. She wanted him to be the true and modest hero he seemed to be. Hell, she just wanted him...

He obviously didn’t feel the same attraction she felt, though. Was that just because she was a reporter? She knew the press got a bad rap for being nosy and relentless. But Dawson’s aversion seemed more personal than that.

She pushed open her front door and a breeze caught her off guard. She must have left the sliders open to the back deck. The breeze off the lake pushed the curtains into the open area. The living, dining and kitchen areas were all one big room—all painted a paler shade of blue than the outside. The kitchen cabinets had been made out of wainscoting and painted a soft white. The furniture was all slipcovered in white linen—like the window coverings. And in that breeze, the long white curtains billowed like dancing ghosts.

She shivered at the breeze and at the faint scent she caught on it. Smoke.

Had someone been smoking inside her cottage?

Had someone been inside while she was gone?

And, if so, had they left or were they still here? Her heart beat hard and fast as fear rushed through her. If she’d been in Chicago, she would have had her Mace with her. But she’d left her purse, with the Mace inside, in the bedroom. Nobody ever stole anything in Northern Lakes. So she’d thought her purse—and she—would be safe. But now she gazed around, looking for a weapon.

There were no trees on the beach side, so the cottage was lighter than the driveway had been. But the curtains filtered that light, casting shadows around the open room. Doorways led off it to a bedroom and bath on each end. Someone could be in any of those rooms—waiting for her.

But why?

This was Northern Lakes. But she hadn’t lived here in a long time. Maybe things had changed. Maybe bad things did happen in Northern Lakes...

* * *

AVERY HAD WALKED home alone. Her sister had said it as if it was no big deal—as if there was no risk for a woman to be out alone at dusk.

“It’s not like she’s in Chicago now,” Kim had remarked when she’d noticed his wary reaction.

True. But that didn’t mean she was safe in Northern Lakes, either. If the arsonist was in contact with her, it might mean she was in even more danger than if she’d been alone in a big city.

Northern Lakes was busy during tourist season. But this area wasn’t within the village. It was rural. And it was getting dark. He hastened his step along the road she must have taken—the direction in which Kim had pointed him.

“Be careful,” she’d murmured as he’d rushed off after Avery. He wasn’t sure if she was worried that he might stumble in the dark or get hit by a car. Or was she warning him about her sister?

Avery was the one who needed the warning—to go no place alone. To be cautious and vigilant.

But if he warned her, she would know for certain that something else was going on in Northern Lakes. And she already suspected...

Hell, maybe she already knew for a fact—if she’d been in contact with the arsonist.

Had she really just been going home to the little cottage her sister said she’d bought a few years ago? He’d thought a woman as ambitious as Avery wouldn’t have cared about ties to the small town in which she’d grown up. But according to Kim, Avery came home often—especially since the fire.

That was probably only because she was investigating it, though. It should have been old news by now. It was for every other reporter. Why not her?

He slowed his step as he neared a driveway. Was this the one? From the road he couldn’t see the cottage her sister had described to him. He could only see a clearing going through the trees that was wide enough for a car. But the mailbox next to the driveway was a bright turquoise—like the house was supposed to be. Like her eyes were...

This had to be her place. If he’d been driving, he might have missed it, so it was good he’d left the Forest Service truck back at her sister’s house. As an assistant superintendent for the Hotshots, he got a company vehicle. The super-heavy-duty four-wheel drive pickup might not have even fit down the narrow lane. Trees lined both sides and hung like a canopy over top of it. He felt as if he was walking through a tunnel.

And as short hairs rose on the nape of his neck, he also felt as if he was being watched. But if he couldn’t see the house from the road, she wouldn’t be able to see him from the house. So Avery wasn’t watching him.

Who was?

And why?

Had the boys followed him from their home to see if their aunt might try to kiss him? Their mother had told them to get ready for bed, but that didn’t mean they’d obeyed her. He hadn’t listened to his mother, either, or he never would have become a Hotshot.

A crack rent the air—so loud that it sent birds flying from the trees. It hadn’t been a gunshot. This wasn’t hunting season, and this was, after all, Northern Lakes. It had only been the sound of a twig or branch snapping. But for it to have been that loud, the weight snapping that branch had to have been substantial. More than a twelve-year-old boy.

No, the twins hadn’t followed him. But someone had. And they were watching him. He thought about calling out, asking who was there. But maybe it was better if the person didn’t realize Dawson was aware of his presence—especially if that person was the arsonist.

While he tensed, he didn’t whip his head around. He didn’t scan the trees for a glimpse of whoever had made that sound. Instead he continued down the driveway toward the house—toward Avery. He had to make certain she was safe.

Within seconds the turquoise cottage appeared like a beacon at the end of the drive. The trees cleared and the last glow of sunlight shone through the windows of the house—penetrating it from the west side, which was on the lake, through to the east side. He stood at the front door, atop a thick, fiber-like mat emblazoned with bright yellow letters that spelled out Welcome.

He lifted his hand to knock. As soon as his knuckles struck the wood, he heard a soft, startled-sounding cry emanate from inside the cottage. His body tensing with alarm, he pushed open the door with his shoulder and burst into the house.

Something hard struck his head and shoulder. He flinched but ducked as it whapped at him again. Then he reached out and grabbed it. Wrapping his fingers around a long wooden pole, he jerked it from the hand of the person swinging it.

Avery cried out again, but this time it sounded like frustration rather than fear. “What the hell are you doing breaking into my house?”

He stared down at the oar in his hand—the one she’d struck him with. The wood was so weathered and bleached that he could have snapped it in two. He doubted it had recently paddled a boat. Then he noticed its twin hanging on the living room wall. She must have pulled it down from there.

“I knocked,” he said. Or he’d been about to... “I only came in when I heard you cry out.”

“I’m not crying,” she protested as she proudly lifted her chin.

“Sure sounded like a cry.”

“You startled me,” she said, her tone accusatory.

“By knocking?”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

He held up the oar. “So this is how you greet unexpected guests? Maybe you should change that Welcome mat to say Approach at Your Own Risk.”

She reached for the oar, closing her fingers around it. “I’ll take that back.”

“So you can hit me with it again?”

She tugged on it. “I didn’t hurt you.”

“I’m seeing stars,” he said.

She leaned forward and stared up into his eyes. And he was definitely seeing stars. Well, one at least. She was beautiful, and while she was young, she was already quite successful, if not quite a star yet.

“Did I really hurt you?” she asked, her voice lowering with concern. She dropped her hands from the oar and lifted them to his head. Her fingers skimmed through his hair and down the nape of his neck.

His skin tingled where she’d touched him. And his pulse quickened. Hers was beating fast, too. He could see it moving in her throat.

“Why did you hit me with the oar?” he asked. “Who’d you think was coming through that door?” Had she lived in so many big cities that she was jumpy and paranoid?

“I had no idea,” she said, and her distinctive voice cracked slightly with fear.