Burning Love

by Debra Cowan

  * * *

  Burning Love

  Debra Cowan

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  Published by Silhouette Books

  America's Publisher of Contemporary Romance

  "Burning Love was a fabulous read from start to finish. From the serial arsonist turned killer to the growing attraction between the hero and heroine, it was hot, hot, hot! I loved it."

  —New York Times bestselling author Sharon Sala

  "I've been working on three cases very similar to this. I think this is his fourth fire."

  Jack's spine stiffened. "You're saying we have a serial arsonist?"

  "I think so," Terra said, exhaling audibly.

  "There haven't been any other fire deaths," he said bluntly. "I would've heard about that."

  "If this is the same guy, last night was the first time he's killed."

  "Why now? And why Harris Vaughn?"

  "I have no idea." Her voice was even, but the glimmer of brightness in her eyes reminded him that the arsonist's first victim had also been her friend.

  Dear Reader,

  The days are hot and the reading is hotter here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. Linda Turner is back with the next of THOSE MARRYING MCBRIDES! in Always a McBride. Taylor Bishop has only just found out about his familial connection—and he has no idea it's going to lead him straight to love.

  In Shooting Starr, Kathleen Creighton ratchets up both the suspense and the romance in a story of torn loyalties you'll long remember. Carla Cassidy returns to CHEROKEE CORNERS in Last Seen…, a novel about two people whose circumstances ought to prevent them from falling in love but don't. On Dean's Watch is the latest from reader favorite Linda Winstead Jones, and it will keep you turning the pages as her federal marshal hero falls hard for the woman he's supposed to be keeping an undercover watch over. Roses After Midnight, by Linda Randall Wisdom, is a suspenseful look at the hunt for a serial rapist—and the blossoming of an unexpected romance. Finally, take a look at Debra Cowan's Burning Love and watch passion flare to life between a female arson investigator and the handsome cop who may be her prime suspect.

  Enjoy them all—and come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around.

  Yours,

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Executive Editor

  Books by Debra Cowan

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Dare To Remember #774

  The Rescue of Jenna West #858

  One Silent Night #899

  Special Report #1045

  "Cover Me!"

  Still the One #1127

  Burning Love #1236

  DEBRA COWAN

  Like many writers, Debra made up stories in her head as a child. Her B.A. in English was obtained with the intention of following family tradition and becoming a schoolteacher, but after she wrote her first novel, there was no looking back. After years of working another job in addition to writing, she now devotes herself full-time to penning both historical and contemporary romances. An avid history buff, Debra enjoys traveling. She has visited places as diverse as Europe and Honduras, where she and her husband served as part of a medical mission team. Born in the foothills of the Kiamichi Mountains, Debra still lives in her native Oklahoma with her husband and their two beagles, Maggie and Domino. Debra invites her readers to contact her at P.O. Box 30123, Coffee Creek Station, Edmond, OK 73003-0003 or via e-mail at her Web site at http://www.oklahoma.net/~debcowan.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to acknowledge and thank Jack Goldhorn, Public Information Officer, Norfolk Fire Rescue, Norfolk, VA, and David Wiist, Chief of Fire Prevention, Edmond, OK, for their invaluable and generous assistance. You have my word that my small arson knowledge will be used only between the covers of a book. All liberties taken in the name of fiction are my own.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  "Body found in blaze at one-sixteen Sorrel Lane."

  The dispatcher's voice crackled across Terra August's car radio. As the sole fire investigator for Presley, Oklahoma, she was already on her way to the two-alarm fire in the established Hunter's Ridge subdivision, jarred out of a deep sleep minutes ago by her pager.

  In the past ten years, the Oklahoma City suburb's population had grown to nearly fifty thousand. The police department had hired enough officers before the growth spurt, but not the fire department. These last few weeks had doubled Terra's wish for another investigator in her office, but until next year's budget was approved, she was it.

  Her mentor lived on Sorrel Lane, but she didn't know the house number. Their frequent meetings had never taken place at his home or hers, and usually involved a meal somewhere. Please, don't let it be Harris's house.

  After flashing her badge for the uniformed officer stationed at the neighborhood's entrance, she maneuvered her Explorer down a neatly kept residential street. The older brick homes were bathed in a mix of moonlight and shadow. Red and blue lights strobed from a police cruiser at either end of the block. Fire trucks, engines, police cars and two vans bearing the names and logos of the nearby Oklahoma City television stations crowded both sides of the street. The frantic swirl of lights spiked her blood pressure. Less than five hours ago, she and Harris Vaughn had enjoyed a Sunday night dinner and put their heads together about a case that had her stumped.

  Fighting to calm a sudden flicker of panic, Terra eased her SUV past three police cruisers, around Station One's rescue truck and squeezed to the curb just behind an ambulance. The paramedic raised a hand in greeting and shut the door. Terra glimpsed the empty gurney inside. No survivors.

  Her heartbeat stuttered, but she uncurled her death grip from the steering wheel and stepped out. The blaze was out, but gray smoke streaked across the midnight-black sky. Water from the firefighters' hoses ran down the streets, gurgled into grates and glistened on trees, yards, nearby cars. Smoke still hung heavy in the air. Police and fire radios crackled into the night. Yellow crime scene tape squared off the house and yard. Officers stood guard at each of the four corners and probably in the back yard where Terra couldn't see.

  At one time, the single story, traditional redbrick home had been inviting. Now it looked cold and bleak. Dead. Still mostly intact, the brick was streaked with soot, burned black on the west side of the house. The one front window on the west side was blown out; the trio of windows on the east side looked untouched except for the dripping ash and water as the firefighters from Stations One and Four, her old station house, stood amidst snaking hoses and a now soggy lawn. In a neighbor's yard, a firefighter stood videotaping the scene. Terra would get the tape from him later.

  The blaze appeared to have burned only one area of the home before firefighters managed to douse it.

  Urgency had her slamming her door and looking around for the police officer who held the log book to check people in and out of the scene.

  The familiar sharp odor of burning wood and engine fumes wrapped around her like the wet midnight. This fire was different. It had taken more than a home, more than memories. It had taken a life. And she had to know whose.

  Ash swirled through the air, clung to her cheeks. The Oklahoma County Medical Examiner's wagon eased past her and found a spot farther up the crowded street.

  She opened the back door of her Explorer and grabbed her boots. Stumbling out of a dead sleep when her pager buzzed, she had automatically pulled on jeans and a
heavy flannel shirt with sleeves she could roll up. She'd sleeked her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. Hoping like crazy that the victim's identity would be someone other than the mentor whose company she'd enjoyed earlier in the evening, Terra toed off her tennis shoes and tugged on her rubber, steel-soled boots.

  The ambulance pulled out and ambled down the block. Trying to steady her racing pulse, she grabbed her hard hat and slid it on.

  Her thick, well-worn gloves were in her pockets. She slung her camera around her neck, picked up her shovel and a tackle box containing her hand tools. Stepping around the back of her truck, she racked her brain for any memory of Harris's house number. She came up empty, which only sharpened the dread pricking at her.

  Her gaze swept the knots of people moving around the scene. Several uniformed officers wound through the crowd of reporters, cameramen and neighbors. At the sidewalk which led to the front door, Terra spotted a cop holding a clipboard. She started toward him, dodging the hood of a police car, stepping over a hydrant hose.

  This neighborhood had probably never seen anything more traumatic than a bicycle wreck. Farther up the street, uniformed officers were directing passersby to keep moving and news vans to park at the end of the block.

  As they'd finished dinner, Harris had mentioned taking in a movie after running some errands. Terra had grabbed a swim at her gym before heading home to turn in early. She hadn't been asleep two hours before her pager went off.

  Four years as a fire investigator and nine years on the job had taught her to level out her emotions so she could objectively do her job, but tonight she failed. Tonight she was terrified of whose body the firefighters had found.

  Her nerves snapped tight as she continued to walk toward the slightly built policeman with the clipboard, standing at the curb in front of the victim's mailbox. Water dripped from the mature maple trees in the front yard, their yellow and red leaves glimmering red and blue in the flashing lights from one of the police cruisers. Firefighters walked past dragging hoses back to their engines. Perhaps the officer in her sights would know the victim's identity.

  "Hello, Luscious."

  Ugh. Terra knew the smooth, practiced voice, but kept walking. Dane Reynolds was an investigative reporter for one of Oklahoma City's television stations and seemed to always beat her to the scene. "No time, Reynolds."

  "Just one minute, Angel Face." The local newsman with spray-stiff hair hurried toward her. "Just one?"

  Terra kept moving, drawing up sharply when the reporter suddenly appeared. Flashing too-perfect teeth, Dane Reynolds planted his impressively trim self in front of her. He probably spent hours at the gym, and more time on his hair than she did on hers.

  She stepped around him. She wasn't about to let Reynolds see the cold sweat that clung to her nape. Or get a glimpse of nerves that were raw with uncertainty. Dane Reynolds would jump on that like a rat on a Cheetoh. "I'm working here, Dane."

  "I know." He fell into easy step beside her as if he'd been invited. "Just wanted to ask if you'd talk to me about this case when you're finished here?"

  "Station Four caught this one. Captain Maguire is around somewhere."

  "But I want to talk to you." He lightly skimmed his fingers over her shoulder as if brushing away something. "You know you want to."

  What she wanted was to pop him with her shovel. "I already told you—"

  "And what about that interview we talked about? Surely you've changed your mind by now. The guy's set three fires and you're no closer to—"

  "How's that camera working out, Investigator?" A pleasant male voice interrupted firmly.

  "It's great, T.J." Terra smiled over at T. J. Coontz, Dane's cameraman, who had played the buffer before. A few months ago, she'd asked the cameraman to recommend a place to buy a good used camera for the advanced photography class she'd enrolled in this semester. The city's current budget didn't support further education so Terra had signed up on her own time and money. She would have borrowed a camera from Harris, but she needed to learn how to use a newer model. T.J. had generously offered one of his cameras in order to save Terra some expense. "Thanks for loaning it to me. I'll get it back to you as soon as the class ends."

  "Keep it as long as you want."

  She eyed his dark suit and tie. "You look nice."

  "I was at my cousin's wedding when I got the page for the fire."

  Dane shot T.J. a withering look before saying to Terra, "Come on, Luscious. What about that interview?"

  "Dane, you're not helping your case," T.J. said.

  "Good point." Terra stepped past the men. "Please excuse me."

  She had to make sure it wasn't Harris inside that torched house.

  "How about a drink tomorrow night?"

  "Sorry," she called to Reynolds over her shoulder as she moved up to the cop. The guy couldn't take a hint. She'd refused every time he'd asked her out in the past two months. Just as she'd refused his requests for an interview.

  "What about Thursday?"

  Ignoring him, she flashed her badge at the thirty-something officer who stood eye-to-eye with her five-foot-nine frame. "Terra August, Fire Investigator."

  He nodded and held the log out for her to sign her name and record the time.

  Her gaze going to the brass nametag he wore, she swallowed around the painful knot in her throat. "Officer Lowe, do we know the victim's name?"

  "Yes, ma'am." He skimmed a finger up to the top of the page. "Officer Farrell spoke to a neighbor who said a man named Harris Vaughn lived here and the neighbor saw him come home around nine-thirty."

  No! A sharp pain pierced her chest and Terra struggled to absorb the shock, tried to keep her wits about her.

  "Hey, you okay?" Lowe peered at her.

  "Do they know for sure that it's him?"

  "No, ma'am. Just that this is his residence."

  She shook her head, urgency and dread fusing inside her. What had happened? Electrical fire? Arson? She could already rule out cigarettes. Harris didn't smoke, never had.

  "Ma'am?" The policeman had lifted the tape and now waited expectantly.

  Her knees wobbled, but she moved forward, partly out of reflex, partly out of denial. No, it wasn't Harris. It couldn't be.

  Wait for facts. Harris's ingrained instruction played through her mind and she hung on to it with single-minded focus as she sidestepped the labyrinth of hoses on the sidewalk. Sooty water splashed over the toes of her thick rubber boots. The cops knew only that this was Harris's house. No one had identified him, only a male victim.

  Out of habit, she reached for the camera around her neck, but rather than stop for her first set of pictures, she moved inside.

  The smell of wet ash settled over her like a cloud of fog. Gripping her tackle box, she nodded to the firefighters coming toward her. The somber, whipped look on their faces sharpened the knot in her throat. They'd contained the fire, but lost someone. She knew from her nine years fighting fires that no one would sleep tonight.

  In the living room to her right, Terra spotted Don LeBass and Rusty Ferguson from her old station house. Rusty's eyes were red rimmed and Terra knew it wasn't strictly due to the blaze he'd battled. The two men were deep in conversation with Captain Maguire.

  She absently registered moving across slick tile then soggy carpet past a couple of firefighters, down a long hallway to her left. The wall's creamy paint was hidden beneath streaks of soot and ash. Wood and glass littered the floor. A clump of men and women stood in the doorway at the end of a hall and Terra knew the body was there. The bedroom door had been blown out from its hinges. Was this room the point-of-origin?

  She'd need to check every room for that, ask if anyone had discovered any sign of forced entry, anything that might indicate arson, but all she cared about right now was seeing the body and making sure it wasn't Harris.

  Three firemen stood against the wall just outside the door, nodding soberly as she reached them. She recognized the oldest of them, Jerry French, a twenty-year vet
eran from Station Four. She stepped into the room, leaning her shovel against the nearest wall.

  The bedroom was now a skeleton of burned rafters and support beams, studs peering out from gouged and blackened Sheetrock. She automatically noted those details as her gaze went immediately to the body lying on the bed.

  She drew in a deep breath and moved closer so she could see the body. The face was too severely heat-bloated to be recognizable, but her gaze snagged on the victim's cowboy boots. Water-gray, Australian sharkskin.

  No! Her vision grayed. Dizzy and nauseous, she turned and stumbled blindly toward the door. Harris. Harris. Harris.

  Her heart clenched painfully. Those boots had cost a pretty penny. Terra and the other Presley firefighters had pooled their money to buy Harris the pair for his retirement, along with an Alaskan fishing trip. The M.E. would have to use dental records for a positive identification of the body, but for Terra the boots were a macabre dog tag.

  Trying to breathe without keeling over, she reached for the nearest wall, grabbed only air and pitched forward.

  An arm, solid and thick, caught her at the waist. "Easy there."

  The deep masculine voice commanded rather than soothed. Reflexively she clutched at the arm bracing her waist, her stomach rolling. For an instant, she let herself lean into the steel-hard strength, tried to absorb the pain slashing through her. Her entire body throbbed with it. In another few seconds, her vision cleared and she registered dark brown hair, hard blue eyes and a mouth that meant all business.

  Cop. She saw the gold badge clipped to the waistband of his faded jeans at the same time she realized he still held her. She felt steadier and managed a thank-you.

  He frowned, his lips flattening. "This your first body at a fire scene? Something like this isn't for a rookie."

  Irritation flickered through the smothering pain. She mumbled thanks only out of politeness and pushed her way out into the hall.