by Julie Miller
She wondered how Mark Taylor could make his deep, steady voice sound so comforting, even with the teasing and probing questions.
Amy shook her head, fighting the urge to smile. “It would hardly be a fair fight. He’s closer to eighty than he is seventy. And you’re what...? Thirty?”
“Twenty-eight,” he answered. “I bet I could still take him.”
A small laugh bubbled up, catching on the grief and anger constricting her throat and coming out in an embarrassing hiccup. “I bet you could.” She pulled off the insulated gloves she wore and tossed them onto the workbench before pushing a stray tendril of her own hair off her face. “I’d say come in, but since you’re already here, I’ll just offer you a seat.” She pointed to the stool at her drafting table and the denim couch decorated with colorful pillows along the wall opposite the workbench. “Your choices are limited, but comfortable.”
He studied her face, no doubt taking in her red-rimmed eyes and the tear tracks crystallizing on her cheeks. “Old Man Sanders made you cry?”
Amy quickly ducked her face away from his curious gaze and busied herself unzipping the faded and stained blue coveralls her grandfather had once worn. She stripped down to the shorts and tank top she wore underneath before putting away her torch, mask and gloves, ensuring the gas canister was shut down correctly and her gear was neatly stowed. “Gerald Sanders is our tenant. He lives in the white house down by the lake. He chose tonight to complain about the plumbing. I couldn’t deal with him right now, so I came here to work.”
“Someone actually lives in one of those places?”
She splashed some cool water from the slop sink on her face before realizing she hadn’t set a clean towel out. Instead of digging through the refinished dresser that sat in the corner, she grabbed the blouse she’d worn earlier to dab her skin dry. “We used to have three more tenants until the foreman’s house burned down. A single man who worked on a neighboring farm and two other guys who work on a highway construction crew. We’re cheaper than a hotel for a long-term stay.” She pulled the damp blouse on over her tank top and turned to face him. “They’re nicer on the inside than they are the outside. And being so close to the lake has always been a draw.”
“It is a pretty lake. The fishing any good there?”
“It’s mostly crappie. Better for fun than eating. Grandpa tried to get catfish going in the lake, but no one’s caught one that I know of. Of course, with the water levels down, nobody’s fished there at all this summer.”
He moved to her workbench, inspecting her tools and the cubbies and crates where she stored a variety of scrap metals and found objects. “Do you fish?”
“I used to when Grandpa was alive. I loved going out on the water with him.” She tied the tails of the blouse around her waist and picked up the bottle of water she’d taken from the kitchen to down the last of it. She hadn’t known how ugly the world could be when Grandpa Leland was still alive. Now he was gone, and her life had changed drastically from the dreamy-eyed tomboy’s he’d raised. “Those were simpler times. Are you a fisherman?”
She looked up in time to see a shadow pass across his face. Before she could act on the curious compassion that squeezed her raw heart, Mark straightened to his full height and reached into his back pocket.
“Sorry if I hit a nerve. Mark—?”
“Here.” He pushed a black bandanna into her hand. He pointed to his own cheek, indicating the droplets of water or tears that glistened on her face. “My grandmother said I should always carry a handkerchief in case somebody needed to wipe their eyes or blow their nose or, you know, apply a tourniquet. Frankly, I use a tissue for all that. Not the tourniquet, of course. Never holds.” Amy almost smiled at the silly remark, even though she understood the diversion for what it was—an attempt to deflect her concern. “I’m glad I have one with me today.”
“You’re trying to rescue me again.” She dabbed the soft cotton against her feverish eyes and nose, relishing its soothing comfort. “I swear I haven’t cried this much since Grandpa died. I’m used to being stronger than this. But thanks.”
“What made the foreman’s house burn? Faulty wiring? Someone falling asleep with a cigarette?”
The flare of sympathy she’d felt died with the reminder that opening her heart to someone only set her up to be hurt or taken advantage of again. Why would he ask that? Was he really here to check on her welfare? Or was this part of the KCFD investigation?
Did he really want to mention the word arson? The source of that fire had been confirmed, though who had set the blaze was yet to be determined.
Amy tilted her face to study him. Same KCFD T-shirt. Same broad shoulders. Same short crop of spiky brown hair. This time she noticed the interesting bump on the bridge of his nose that indicated a fight or accident in years past. And the stubble of a five o’clock beard shadowed his jaw, making the crooked grin that softened his firm mouth stand out against his taut skin. Damn her traitorous hormones for being attracted to Mark Taylor. If this man was using subterfuge to get some answers, he was awfully good at hiding it. And what secret had he shuttered away when they’d been talking about something as inane as fishing? “What are you really doing here, Fire Man? Is this part of my interview? If so, I don’t know anything about the fire at the old foreman’s house. Only that the two highway workers renting the place were gone that weekend, so no one was hurt.”
“I’m just checking on you, if that’s okay,” he answered, instead of pushing for details she couldn’t give and suspicions she wouldn’t share. “I grew up in a family of cops and firefighters. I know days like this can be pretty intense.” He looked around, taking in the rest of her supplies. He studied the works in progress, the hodgepodge of furniture, and the chains and pulley system suspended from the ceiling left over from when this workshop had been Grandpa Leland’s. “What is this place? A machine shop? One of those she-sheds?”
“It used to be the garage where my grandfather worked on his tractor and other small equipment. Now it’s my art studio. It has good light when I open the windows and garage entrance, doors I can lock.” Which, apparently, she should have done if she’d really wanted to be alone.
“That explains the new roof and why this place has been better taken care of than the other outbuildings.”
Steeling herself against the probing questions he sneaked into their casual conversation, Amy downed a sip of water and sat on one end of the couch. “Why is KCFD still here? The wildfire is out, isn’t it?”
He folded his long, sturdy body down on the cushion beside her. “This isn’t about wildfires and drought conditions anymore.”
No. It was about murder and arson. “Tell me about it. The cops are asking lots of questions, going through everything in Jocelyn’s room. I don’t know what they think they’ll find. She kept scientific journals, not a diary.”
“Did she have a boyfriend? Maybe they’re looking for a connection there?”
“So, this is an interview.”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“Does that all-American good-guy charm work for you with other women? Get them to drop their guard so they’ll answer all your questions?”
He gave her an exaggerated wink. “You think I’m charming?”
It was such a nerdy maneuver that Amy laughed before she could stop herself. He surprised her by touching the tip of his finger to the point of her chin and mirroring her smile. “That’s better.”
For several endless moments, Amy stared into gray-blue eyes and wondered at the sudden infusion of heat that seemed to be drawn through her blood to the simple press of a gentle, calloused finger against her skin. But then she blinked, and her thoughts suddenly filled with images of the last man she’d foolishly found so captivating.
Amy pushed to her feet, carried her empty water bottle over to the bin beside the trash and crushed it in her hands before tossin
g it inside. Mark Taylor and Preston Worth weren’t anything alike. Not in age. Not in looks. Certainly not in personality.
Preston’s prematurely gray hair and striking features matched his vast knowledge of art and his travels around the world. He was sophisticated and charismatic. He’d taken Amy under his wing, encouraging both her talent and her eagerness to learn. He’d flattered her pale skin and Rubenesque figure, demanding she sit for him while he painted her. She’d felt beautiful in the studio and in the bedroom under his tutelage. She’d blossomed in his bright, colorful world.
And then one day she woke up.
Amy flashed back to her last scary encounter with the professor she’d fallen in love with. She’d never expected Preston to get violent when she broke off the affair after discovering she wasn’t the only muse he’d taken to bed. She might still be in grad school, working on her PhD, if Professor Worth hadn’t threatened to fail her on her art thesis and studio show. Hell, she might still be painting on a canvas instead of on her grandmother’s house. Fortunately, she’d found a new medium she loved with her welded sculptures and jewelry making. There was strength in fire and metal, a strength she’d needed to get through the hell of taking down a powerful man and seeing her lifelong dreams go up in flames.
Because Preston Worth had taken far more from her than her doctorate and her watercolors. He’d taken her hopeful innocence about the world. He’d stolen her ability to trust and her willingness to give her heart to another man. She’d burned the remnants of that life down to the ground, but she couldn’t purge the feelings of self-doubt and mistrust that lingered in the aftermath.
She’d reported the assault and subsequent threats meant to keep her quiet about it. She’d gotten him fired from Williams University, in fact. Amy had even gone through the preliminary stages of his criminal trial. But then Grandpa had passed, and Gran needed her, and... Preston Worth scared her in a way that most men did not. Although the charges against him had been negotiated down to lesser charges—a year in prison and probation—and he’d gone through a mandated anger management class, with Preston’s temper, she could see him committing a crime of passion like she’d seen today. But Jocelyn didn’t have anyone like that in her life. At least no one Amy was aware of...unless Derek Roland’s personality had changed 180 degrees.
“Amy?” She startled at the brush of Mark’s fingers on her shoulders. He held his hands up in apology when she spun around. “Sorry. Where’d you go?”
She wasn’t about to share her trip down nightmare lane with a man she’d only known for a day, a man who was weaving a spell of attraction and security around her she couldn’t afford to get too comfortable with. “I was thinking about who’d want to hurt Jocelyn and was coming up with zilch.”
It wasn’t too far from the truth. Mark Taylor didn’t need to know that few people would have been surprised if she’d turned up as the victim today.
His gray-blue eyes narrowed as if he knew she wasn’t telling the complete truth. “Are you sure you’re all right? Your skin’s a little pale. No aftereffects from today? I’ve got paramedic training. I can get my kit.”
“No. I don’t need first aid.” Amy waved her hands, urging him out of her personal space and dismissing his concern. She folded the black bandanna into a neat square, then unfolded it again and tied it around her wrist when he refused her offer to return it. “Why are you here, Fire Man? Babysitting me? Making sure I don’t run off before the chief interviews me?” If he was staying put, then she would move away. She made a show of fluffing the decorative pillows on the sofa. “Are you an arson investigator, too?”
He shook his head. “I was the first firefighter on the scene at the shed. They needed my report. I told them what we moved to get to the body, and so on. Besides, I rode up here with my brother and he’s still inside, keeping an eye on Mom.”
“Your mom and dad and brother are firefighters, too?”
“Yeah.” He crossed to inspect the valves on the oxyacetylene and Argon-CO2 canisters she used for different welding jobs. She knew she’d stored all her equipment according to regulation, but still, it made her feel a little less like she was under official scrutiny when he nodded and moved on to study her sketches on the drafting table. “My dad’s the chief arson investigator. You spoke to him in the kitchen.”
Amy hugged a turquoise batik pillow to her chest. “That sexy guy with the silver sideburns is your dad?”
“Um, I don’t really think of him in those terms. But man of few words? Large and in charge?” She nodded at the apt description. “Yep. Gideon Taylor is my dad.”
“You don’t look like him.” Except for the sexy part. She should be more worried about how her brain kept focusing on liking this guy instead of maintaining her defenses. Sure, Mark Taylor gave her interesting ideas for a piece she wanted to sculpt. His face reflected the cool tones of the overhead light and created mysterious shadows in the hollows beneath his cheekbones and jaw. Maybe she’d take up painting again, to see if she could capture the beautiful stormy-sky color of his eyes. Suddenly aware of just how thoroughly she was studying him, she set the pillow down. “And the blonde who was bossing all the firefighters around earlier is your mom?”
“I look even less like her.” He reappeared beside her, holding a pencil sketch from her drafting table. “This is like the pendant you wear around your neck. Your friend had one, too. You made them?”
Amy nodded, her fingers automatically going to the matching knot of steel resting against her cleavage. “I work mostly in metals now. Everything from big sculptures to intricate jewelry.”
“You know the crime lab will still have to do an autopsy on the remains. Identifying her by the necklace alone won’t hold up in court. But it does give the ME a lead on whose dental records to pull.”
She felt light-headed at the thought of the medical examiner doing further damage to the body she’d found. “I suspected as much. But it’s her. I know it is.”
“Your drawings are good,” Mark pointed out after several moments of silence, no doubt wanting to divert her thoughts from the images an autopsy conjured. “So, art is what you do for a living?”
“I make decent money at it. Not enough to pay for all the home repairs I’ve taken on. But I could live on it if I had to.” She didn’t want to talk about herself anymore. She didn’t want to talk about his father’s investigation, either. She carried the drawing back to the table. “Who’s the guy who looked like he had to duck and turn sideways to get through the door?”
“My brother Matt.” He saw her frowning at the idea of him and Matt coming from the petite blonde. “We’re adopted. Matt and I are blood brothers, too. Our parents died in a fire when we were little. I barely remember them. Alex and Pike are part of the Taylor tribe, too. They’re cops with KCPD. All four of us were adopted from the same foster home where Mom grew up.”
Adopted? Foster care? Amy slowly revised her all-American-hero impression of Mark Taylor. Not only was his face incredibly interesting, but there seemed to be some interesting dimensions to his history and personality, as well. A fascinating subject with complex layers beneath his good-guy facade—and those impressive arms and shoulders? She wondered if he was hairy-chested, waxed clean or something in between. Any way she imagined it, he really would make an attractive model to pose for her art.
“Would you like to take a shower?” Mark asked.
Amy gasped at the unexpected question. She smoothed her hair behind her ears and shook her tangled ponytail loose behind her back, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. She’d just been thinking about how physical he was and how she’d like to strip him down to sketch and sculpt him.
But then she felt the sticky grit of soot and dusty earth clinging to her hair and realized she was a mess. “Why?” She tugged the collar of her soiled blouse up to her nose. “Do I smell?”
He laughed. “Only like anybody else who’s be
en dealing with a fire. Seriously, you’re lucky you’re not downwind of me.” He held his hands up in mock surrender, taking any sting from his words. “Back in the kitchen, I could tell you needed a few minutes away from all the drama. Just now you said you needed some time alone. I can clear the house if you want me to.”
She arched a doubting eyebrow. “You’re not the man in charge.”
“No, but I’m in pretty good with the guy who is. I’d ask everyone to give you some space and stand watch outside your bathroom door. Promise I wouldn’t peek.” His rugged cheeks softened with the barest hint of pink. A man who blushed? Could Captain Good Guy here speak any more clearly to her artistic impulses?
“You are determined to save me, aren’t you?”
“My mom does that. Bubble baths are her thing. Growing up, none of us even dared knock on the door when she was in her sanctuary. And believe me, as much as she loves us, she needed a break from the four of us boys and Dad every now and then.”
Amy’s meager defenses against this man were crumbling. “You’re giving away state secrets, Fire Man. I know all about your family now.”
He perched on the edge of the sofa, inviting her to sit beside him again. “Then tell me something about you besides working with power tools and making art. I’m the baby. Of my generation, at any rate.” Oh, there was nothing babyish about him. “You got any siblings to pick on you?”
Why was this man so easy to talk to? If the police or arson investigator wanted answers from her, they’d be smart to send in Mark. Even though every survival instinct inside her warned her not to give in to his goofy charm and apparent kindness, she shook her head. “Only child. My parents died when I was little, too. A car accident. Gran and Grandpa raised me. Grandpa passed away two years ago.”
That shadow of pain shuddered across his face again before his crooked mouth widened with a grin that couldn’t quite erase the pain she’d glimpsed. “Family is everything, isn’t it? Me? I’ve got uncles and aunts and siblings coming out my ears. But I wouldn’t trade the madness of a Sunday family dinner or Labor Day reunion for the world.” He shrugged. “Of course, I’m not sure exactly how that’s going to play out now that my grandma is moving to a new home. It won’t be the same.”
