by Norah Wilson
~*~
Suzannah sat quietly on the ride home, nurturing—despite her better judgment—a small flame of desire.
She should crush it. She knew that. But it was so sweet, and it had been so long since she’d felt anything remotely like this. She glanced at John, who kept his eyes on the road, his face unreadable in profile.
It wasn’t real, of course, this feeling he stirred in her. How could it be? She just wasn’t the passionate type. Or if there was any passion in her, it was too deeply buried, too thoroughly inhibited to show itself. Except when she looked at him, when she felt that energy that fairly crackled around him, she could almost believe that he might be able to call those buried passions to the surface.
John signaled and pulled over to the curb, the sudden maneuver dragging Suzannah out of her reverie. Before she could ask what was going on, why he’d pulled over on the thoroughfare, she heard the wail of an approaching siren. Twisting in her seat, she saw a fire truck bearing down on them. When it had passed, John signaled and moved back into the roadway.
She settled back in her seat, adjusting her belt. “So, does that make the adrenaline kick up when you hear those sirens?”
He shot her a grin. “Damn straight.”
There it was, that jump of the pulse again, just because he’d smiled at her. Would he kiss her again when he dropped her off? Probably not. No audience to impress. Usually, he followed her in for a suitable interval, long enough for anyone watching the house to form their own conclusions, after which he’d leave, whistling and walking with a spring in his step that suggested they’d been doing more than catching up on current events in front of CNN. But maybe tonight –
John swore.
“What is it?”
“That fire truck we saw? I think it was going to your place.”
Suzannah grasped the door handle as he cornered hard onto her street. Omigod, the pumper was at her house. And a second fire truck and a police car. John pulled up behind the police cruiser. Suzannah released her seatbelt and leapt from the car almost before it came to a stop.
“Oh, my Lord, my car.”
John rounded the Ford to join her on the sidewalk. Her BMW was no longer burning, but the acrid smell of smoke still hung in the air and the car was little more than a blackened husk. Water streamed down her driveway into the gutter.
“My car,” she said again.
“Stay here,” John ordered. “I’ll find out what happened.”
She grabbed his arm. “No, I’m not going to wait here. It’s my car and –”
She was interrupted by a uniformed officer, who approached them with his arm outstretched. “Folks, I’m going to have to ask you to back off.”
“Hey, Jules, it’s me,” John called. “John Quigley, Detective Bureau.”
“Quigg?” The officer drew closer. “How’d you get here so fast? They just got the fire out.”
“I was with Ms. Phelps. She’s the property owner,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “And that’s her Beemer smoking in the driveway.”
The constable’s eyes widened. “You’re with her?”
“Yep.”
Suzannah stepped forward, tired of being discussed as though she weren’t present, and extended her hand. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Constable Julian Lambert.”
The young constable shook her hand. She thought he might have blushed, but it was impossible to tell with the blue and reds strobing in the deepening dusk.
“Can you tell me what happened here?”
“Well, ma’am, your car was pretty much engulfed when we got here. I understand one of your neighbors tried to put it out with a fire extinguisher, but backed off when he became concerned the gas tank might blow. Funny, they always worry about the gas tank, but nine times out of ten, the real danger comes from the hydraulic stuff blasting off. That’s why the firefighters position themselves ahead or behind the vehicle, never beside –”
“Right,” said Quigg, cutting off the explanation. “So he backed off and called it in?”
“Got his wife to make the call.”
“How’d it get started?” she asked.
“Can’t say yet, ma’am.” The radio on his belt crackled, and he paused to turn the volume down a notch. “A lot of the car fires we see are electrical, but they tend to be old beaters, not late model BMWs. I don’t suppose you have any reason to suspect someone might want to lash out at you?”
John stepped closer. She felt his tension through the layers of air separating them. Lifting her gaze, she met his. Tell him, his eyes said.
“You’re right,” she said, as though he’d spoken the words aloud. “It’s time.”
“Ma’am?”
She turned back to the constable. “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I think somebody might have done this deliberately.”
