Hot Pursuit

“And, what? You’ve never disobeyed one of his direct orders before?” she asked. She’d read the report on the first fire. She knew Wyatt Andrews had refused Braden’s command to return to base. He’d refused to leave the fire until he’d located the missing campers. Her gaze swung toward Dawson Hess and Cody Mallehan. Against Braden’s orders, they had returned to the fire to help Wyatt.

“You’re definitely Mack’s daughter,” Cody remarked.

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that a compliment?” She wasn’t certain. Mack wasn’t always the easiest person—especially with her.

He grinned. “Definitely a compliment.”

“Careful,” Wyatt warned him. “You’re nearly engaged. You can’t be complimenting other women anymore.”

“I just meant she knows her stuff,” Cody said. Then he turned back toward her. “You’re thorough.”

“That’s how I close cases,” she said. “I know how to do my job.” Had they come over here to question her abilities? She was used to being underestimated—especially by alpha males like them. But she suspected they had another motive, particularly when she noticed Dawson Hess studying her face.

When he realized she’d caught him staring, he pointed toward her cheek. “You should have used the ice pack Braden sent over,” he advised. “It would have stopped the swelling and minimized the bruising.”

Makeup would minimize the bruising, too. She shrugged off his concern. “It’s fine.”

“You know Braden feels horrible about that,” Cody said. “He would never hurt a woman.”

“I know,” she said. “I didn’t press charges—no matter how much Gingrich tried to convince me otherwise.” Calling him to protect Braden was a mistake she wouldn’t repeat. But could his team be trusted to protect him?

Only Wyatt, Cody and Dawson, who’d been together when the fires had started. If that was true, none of them could be the arsonist. But what about the sixteen other members of the team?

Did they have alibis? Because the fires only happened when the Hotshots were in town, it was entirely possible the arsonist was one of them—which put Braden in more danger. He was unlikely to suspect one of his own.

She needed to talk to him—needed to make him aware of the threat. He wouldn’t want to hear it, of course, any more than her dad would want to hear that one of his team members couldn’t be trusted. Plus, it was late—felt even later since she’d traveled all day. She had yet to check into her hotel. And apparently she’d have to get up early to crash the Hotshot meeting Braden had called.

But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she’d made certain he was safe. “Where does Braden live?” she asked.

“Are you going to protect him?” Cody asked.

She could. She had a gun, and she knew how to use it. But knowledge might keep him safer than her weapon. Still, he wouldn’t be cautious if he couldn’t accept that the arsonist might be someone close to him.

“I need to talk to him,” she said.

One of Cody’s blond brows arched, as if he wondered if there was more to her wanting to see Braden. Sure, she was attracted to him. He was a good-looking man. But she had no intention of acting on that attraction.

All she wanted was to do her job—to catch the arsonist. But how many arsonists would she need to catch before her father started bragging about her and not just her brothers?

“I need to talk to him about the meeting,” she said. And how she wanted to interrogate every member of his team after it...

Cody nodded, but there was skepticism and something else in his eyes—as if he didn’t entirely believe her. Or hoped she had another reason for wanting to go to Braden’s house this late at night.

Truly, she just wanted to make sure he was safe. But as she followed his men’s directions down the dark street toward his house, she wondered who would make sure she was safe. Because she didn’t feel safe at all. And it had nothing to do with the arsonist and everything to do with seeing Braden Zimmer again.

* * *

BRADEN’S GUTS TIGHTENED into a knot of dread. Who the hell should he call to report the arsonist being inside his house? The state police? Gingrich would probably think the gas-soaked hay bale proved Braden’s guilt. And Sam...

He wasn’t sure what the hell Sam would think. Had Gingrich raised her suspicions? Did she have doubts about him now? Of course the arsonist was unlikely to burn down his own damn house. Not that it had been burned down.

There was only the one small hay bale sitting inside his living room. But it had been soaked in gasoline. The odor hung heavily in the air. He’d opened the windows, and the curtains billowed in the chilly evening breeze.

Just as he’d suspected, the arsonist hadn’t been waiting inside for him. He just left this message, which was even more blatant than the note. Gasoline-soaked hay bales were both his igniter and accelerator. Had he intended to start a fire in Braden’s house and had been interrupted? Or was he just taunting him that he could have?

Braden suspected the latter. He needed to call Sam—once he found his phone. He must have dropped it in the living room when he tripped over the bale. After getting gasoline on his pants and all over his skin, he’d wanted to clean up before calling anyone. Even after a shower, he could still smell the gasoline on his body. He thought about stepping back under the spray, but a noise on the porch drew his attention.

He stepped out of the bathroom just as a shadow passed the front windows. He sucked in a breath. Had the son of a bitch come back with a match?

Did he intend to start the blaze now—with Braden inside? But then knuckles bumped against the wooden door. He doubted the arsonist would knock.

The breath he’d sucked in slipped out in a ragged sigh. He shouldn’t have been surprised that at least one of the guys, if not all of them, would come by to check on him. Of course they would ignore his order to leave him alone. They could definitely be selective about which of his commands they followed sometimes. He’d have to bring that up at the morning meeting. But when he opened the door, he was shocked into silence because he hadn’t expected her.

How had she even known where he lived? Sam McRooney stood on his front porch, her face washed in the golden glow from the kerosene lanterns he’d converted to porch lights. Her cheek had swollen some more and was beginning to shift from red to purple.

Guilt made him feel even queasier than the smell of gasoline had. Hitting her had been an accident, but it was an accident he could’ve prevented had he kept his temper in check.

He knew better than to let jerks like Marty get to him. But then he’d been on edge—not just from the arsonist but from her. Or maybe it was like the guys had told him: he needed to get laid. Hell, Cody had left a box of condoms on his desk a couple of weeks ago.

He’d forgotten all about those until now—until he’d met Sam. Now not just guilt churned his stomach. Desire did, too. Even with the bruise, she was so damn beautiful.

Her mouth gaped as she stared at him. “Do you have something against wearing clothes?”

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