by Misty Evans
“On the TV show,” Mitch said, snagging a carrot from the cutting board, “did Goodsman have a trainer? One of the articles I read said he did some of his own stunts.”
Emma didn’t miss a beat, sipping at her wine as dinner cooked and the washing machine churned in the corner of the mudroom. “It’s rumored he did some of his own stunts until he was injured in Season Six. The producers deemed him too important to the show to allow him to take any further risks, but his fans loved it. I think it made him feel more like a man when he could say he did his own stunts.”
“If he had the proper equipment, do you think he’d hide out in the forest?”
She thought about it as she rinsed the cutting board in the sink. “The show often went on location to film, so he’s no stranger to woods or the desert, although he hardly had to rough it. Stars like that have a trailer with full amenities, even when on location. I believe they used horses, ATVs, and motorcycles in several episodes throughout the different seasons. My guess is, he knows how to ride them all.”
Mitch leaned against the counter and smiled.
“What?” Emma asked, turning off the boiling potatoes and dumping the water. A stick of butter went into the hot pan, followed by milk. “You have an evil look on your face.”
Evil. Yeah, he’d learned how to trick the enemy in more than one way during his time in the service. “Just working on an idea on how to capture this weasel.”
She handed him the potato masher. “I’m all ears.”
The boiled potatoes turned to mush under his ministrations. “Let me stew on it a bit.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Possibly, for you.”
Emma raised her wine glass to him. “Well then, I would love that.”
Chapter Nine
“Tell me why you hate the holidays,” Emma said around a bite of mashed potatoes. They were extra creamy tonight, thanks to Mitch and his muscles. She could never get them that creamy unless she pulled out her blender.
He finished a mouthful and pointed his fork at her. “You first.”
They ate by candlelight; Mitch deciding they didn’t need to make themselves anymore visible than necessary to whoever might be watching the house. Lights were out and the candle flickered, throwing shadows on the wall.
She liked it. It softened Mitch’s hard angles, made it easier to talk about sensitive subjects.
He looked good in the flannel shirt she’d laid out for him. The lapis blues of the fabric made his gray eyes the color of the night sky and, in the candlelight, they looked almost black. He’d probably not like that Victor Dupé had once worn that shirt, but she wasn’t sure if he’d be jealous or simply weirded out.
“I already told you,” she said.
“No, you didn’t. You said you lost everything and everyone you cared about. I assume someone you loved died close to Christmas?”
Her heart pinched and the food on her plate no longer seemed all that appetizing. If he’d researched Chris Goodsman, surely he’d come across the media reports about the break-in that cost her so dearly.
Emma had declared their dinner a Chris-free zone. If she started talking about him and his fans, she wouldn’t be able to eat.
Now it looked like she might not stomach her food anyway.
Mitch seemed to understand her silence. “Hey, it’s okay. I don’t like to talk about my past shit either. New subject?”
She moved some veggies around with her fork, her brain searching for a safer subject. “Where did you learn about horses?”
He mimicked her earlier statement. “I already told you.”
Two could play that game. “When I asked if you grew up on a ranch, you said, sort of. That’s not an answer.”
“I spent summers working at a livery. My brother and I both did. The owner was…a friend of my mother’s.”
Her internal therapist radar pinged at the way he hesitated before using the word friend. “But you claim you don’t like horses. I imagine that was a sucky job for you.”
He wiped his mouth on a napkin, sat back, and tossed the napkin next to his plate. “I lied. I like horses just fine. It was the situation—the people—that I didn’t much care for.”
It was obvious he liked animals of all kinds. “People often are the cause of situations we don’t care for.” She took another bite of potatoes. “Did the owners treat you poorly? Or your brother?”
By the look on his face, it might have been both. “It wasn’t about us.”
Ahh. “Your mother, then?”
His gaze, previously glued to the center of the table, came up to hers. She could see him wrestling with how much to tell her. “The owners were rich. Big shots. Mom worked as a hostess for them in her off hours when they threw parties. That’s how she got Mac and I our summer job in the stables.”
Nothing too telling in that statement, except the fact he didn’t like that his mother had catered to the “rich” people, working as a hostess. The hostess job didn’t jive with her and the owner being friends.
So something had happened between his mother and the owner during that time which now he negatively associated with horses and probably all rich people. “You’re close to your mother?”
A derisive snort. “That was Mac’s job.”
A job? Was—past tense. “Mac is your mother’s favorite, I take it?”
She’d meant it to sound lighthearted. A bit of teasing. Mitch picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of meat. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Older or younger? Do you have any other siblings?”
“Older. No other siblings.”
Prickly, but using present tense for the brother again. “If I’m clear on all of this, your job, your dislike of the holidays, your mother, and your brother are all off limits for us to discuss.” She waved her fork in the air. “How about this weather? There’s a safe topic. Crazy for December, isn’t it?”
For a moment, he didn’t react. Then he laughed softly under his breath. “I’m sort of a mess, Dr. Collins, if you haven’t already figured that out.”
Back to Dr. Collins. The candlelight played across his cheekbones and cast circles under his eyes, now downcast to his plate.
“We make a good couple, then,” she said off-handedly, finding herself hungry again. “I wouldn’t want it to get out since it could ruin my career, but I’m a bit of a mess myself. You already know that, however.”
Another chuckle. His eyes locked on hers over the glass beer bottle as he tipped it to his lips, then he set the bottle down softly. “Psychologists aren’t allowed to have issues?”
“No.” She smiled sweetly, the smile she had perfected over the years to keep probing minds at bay. “If we can’t handle our own issues, how can we possibly help others with theirs?”
Light flickered in the depths of his eyes. He toyed with his beer, turning the bottle in circles on the table. “Don’t you go to each other for psychoanalyzing?”
“I haven’t found the right colleague yet for that.”
“I’d assume with your contacts, you’d have access to more than one who would qualify.”
“I have colleagues who are friends, but you can’t go to a friend and expect them to treat you.”
He looked thoughtful. “That’s a pickle, isn’t it?”
She shrugged and chewed a bite of beef tip. “I’ll handle it on my own. I always do.”
Whoops. She’d said too much. Behind his eyes, she saw the wheels turning. Analyzing. Another sip of beer. “You shouldn’t bear your grief alone. It will eat you up. Take it from me, I know.”
“Have you sought therapy for your issues?”
“Hell, no.” The face he made was laughable as he slapped the bottle down on the table. As if she’d suggested he try waterboarding for fun. “But you aren’t me. Therapy could help you, I bet. Me? I’m a lost cause.”
She’d once been teased about all the people, pets, and ideas she constantly tried to rescue. Emma Collins, the patron psychologist of los
t causes. “It’s a myth that everyone can benefit from therapy, you know. Only those who want to engage in therapy will actually find it helpful.”
“Ah, there’s the rub.” He grinned, leaning forward and pointing an accusatory finger at her. “You don’t want to talk about what happened with anyone, not even a fellow, trained professional.”
“Exactly.”
He sat back, looking pleased with himself, and tore into a bun. “I get it.”
She felt a bit pleased as well. Damaged people usually understood each other. “I thought you might.”
“It would be like me going to one of my coworkers and talking about a failed mission.”
“Not just any failed mission. One that cost someone close to you their life.”
His fingers stilled, a piece of bun in each hand. “Yeah. Like I said, Doc, I get it.”
So he’d lost someone close to him and blamed himself. “If you decide you’d like to talk about it, I’ll be happy to listen. As a friend, of course.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Not gonna happen, but thanks. I appreciate the offer.” And then, “Why as a friend? You don’t take adult clients anymore?”
Honesty warred with politeness. What did she have to lose by telling him the truth? He would be gone from her life in a matter of days. “I’m afraid I’m too…attached to you to be a proper therapist at this point.”
“Attached?”
“You’re not a stranger anymore, remember?”
The grin. The flippancy in her tone. It should have made him grin back.
He didn’t.
He stared. He smoldered.
Damn. She made work of grabbing her napkin from her lap and wiping off her mouth, her fingers. Stay professional. “The current situation has caused us to…” She groped for a neutral term, couldn’t find one that conveyed her meaning without it coming out wrong.
“You’ve grown on me,” she blurted.
His smile was slow, lazy. “You like me.”
“I find you quite annoying and contemptuous, but underneath your irascible attitude…yes, I like you. I think we could be friends, and if I’m your analyst, I can’t be your friend.”
The smile froze. He jabbed at his food. “I don’t need a therapist, so it’s cool.”
They ate for a few minutes in silence, and Emma let go a mental sigh. He was irritated at her again, but she had to be honest with herself, his irritation was easier to deal with than his sexy, probing gaze.
She’d learned long ago that the feeling of safety was a condition of the mind, not the body. Her mind was telling her she was safe. Physically, at least.
Emotionally…that was another story.
The damaged, vulnerable man across from her was working his way past her carefully constructed walls. Sure, she felt sympathy toward him, but this was more. This was…
Sex, her mind volunteered. Lust.
Ah, yes. Two wonderful human traits.
His physical attractiveness, his standoffishness, his skill with everything from a gun to a horse, was downright sexy as hell.
Her toes tingled, her cheeks felt warm. She stared at her plate, forking food into her mouth. She didn’t taste it. All she could think about was the light in his eyes, the teasing note in his voice. His very nearness at the small table filled the air with his personal, very potent brand of electricity. It stole around her in the dim shadows and tickled her skin. Desire sizzled and wove around her spine, rising up her back, brushing her neck.
The scrape of chair legs on the floor startled her.
“Good dinner,” Mitch said, crossing to the stove where he helped himself to seconds. “Want some more?”
He held up the slotted spoon over the skillet, looking back at her.
She’d imagined spending these nights leading up to Christmas alone. Eating alone, sleeping alone, grieving alone. Now here she was with a near stranger in her house, making himself at home, sitting at her table, saving her horse.
Protecting her.
She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been. It was a gift, this simple act of sharing a meal with a man who understood her neuroses and who didn’t think less of her for admitting her failures.
It just so happened that this gift was smoking hot.
Surprisingly, she’d eaten all of her mashed potatoes. She nodded her head and smiled. Not the practiced smile—she couldn’t work that one up. “I’d love some more of your potatoes.”
The spoon lowered; his gaze on her sharpened. “There’s my girl.”
It was said softly, so softly she almost didn’t hear it. “Excuse me?”
He looked away and grabbed the bowl with the potatoes in it, bringing them to the table. “You’re a good cook, Emma.”
First name, again. He flip-flopped back and forth; perhaps the intimacy of the meal and candlelight had relaxed his boundaries.
Fiddling with her napkin, she focused on the mound of potatoes he plopped on her plate. “I like to cook, but I can’t take credit for these. You’re as handy in the kitchen as you are in the stable.”
He chuckled, returning to the stove and refilling his plate.
She hadn’t had a man wait on her in a long time. The kitchen, even in the shadowy light, seemed lighter, cheerful almost, regardless of the lack of light. Her heart pinched at the thought he wouldn’t be here much longer.
Mitch returned to the table, dug in. Emma picked up her fork and toyed with the potatoes. There’s my girl, he’d said. What did that mean?
She was hardly a girl, and the statement seemed quite out of context. She couldn’t help stealing a glance at his face and wondering: what made this man tick?
As if he felt her stare, he glanced up.
Caught. “You are quite the renaissance man, cooking, saving animals, protecting the womenfolk,” she said, once more trying for humor. “Keep this up, and I’ll have to hire you.”
A smile. One that made her pulse hop. “You don’t want to do that.”
She was pretty sure she did. “The case you’re working on now—I heard you say something about the wildfires and a pyromaniac. You think the fires were intentionally started?”
He moved food around on his plate. “I can’t really talk about it.”
“That’s why you were curious about that trail into the backside of the park, isn’t it?”
“Could be.”
“I don’t need to know the details, but I have worked with multiple, criminal fire setters. I could share some insight into the workings of their minds, if you think that would help you with your case, Agent Holden.”
His eyes caught hers over the candlelight. While his gaze was serious, penetrating, his voice held a note of teasing. “Mitch. I’m not a stranger anymore, remember?”
“Mitch.” She forced herself to hold that piercing, perceptive gaze of his. Focus on the work. “Fire setters often get started as juveniles. Their minds are quite fascinating.”
“The suspect is part of a homegrown terrorist group who has a perpetual beef with the government. His mindset isn’t that difficult to figure out.”
“Perhaps not in relation to why he started the fires, but a little insight into his psyche might determine if he is a pathological fire setter or simply following the command of someone he believes has authority over him. It could assist you in capturing him.”
The corner of one eye narrowed slightly as he studied her. She had the feeling he was about to shoot her down again when he bobbed his chin and went back to his food. “Sure. Why not? Can’t hurt.”
Progress. He was letting her in, even if it was in relation to a case. “Then we best finish up here. We have a lot of analyzing to do after dinner.”
Raising his beer bottle, he held it out in toast. “To taking down the bad guys.”
Like the previous night’s toast, clinking her glass against his made Emma happy.
Silly, really. He was with her another day or two at most. She’d never see him again after that. No sense in getting attached.
> But loneliness sucked, and for now, he was here, and his hostility and antagonism had dwindled to almost nothing. Was it wrong to wish for more than a friendly exchange over dinner? “To taking down the bad guys,” she echoed.
The sexual tension between them had been palpable all day. Mitch got a hard-on every time he thought of that smile she’d given him. The one at dinner. The real Emma Collins—not the head shrink, not the horse whisperer. The woman behind all the masks.
Tucked away in her upstairs study, the clock counted down the hour to midnight while Emma read by candlelight. She sat at her desk, her reading glasses perched on her nose and her hair in a messy bun, schooling him on the inner workings of a pathological fire starter.
The sexy librarian of his fantasies before him, Mitch found it difficult to concentrate on what she was saying.
“As with certain other behaviors, pyromania is an impulse control disorder,” she explained. “Pathological fire starters start fires to relieve tension or for gratification. It’s emotional for them. They get a kind of euphoria from fire and it can reduce the buildup of stress in their system. In your case, your suspect may not be a pyromaniac. He may simply be a criminal arsonist, setting the fire inside the national park as a means to an end for someone other than himself. The leader of his group, in other words.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Emma lowered the glasses to the end of her nose and shot a look over at him where he sat on the couch. “Are you tired, Mitch? Should we call it a night and pick up here tomorrow?”
He wanted to call it a night, all right. He wanted to pull the clip from her hair and lay her out on her desk. Unbutton that soft flannel shirt and see what hid underneath. “I’m good. Just thinking.”
Not about what she was saying, but it wasn’t a total lie.
She waited, as if expecting him to go on. When he didn’t, she sat back in her chair. “Is it still your feeling he’s a criminal arsonist?”
Yepper, but he wanted to keep her talking. “He has three priors, all for setting fires.”
