The policeman glanced at Sam, who still stood tense and rigid beside Brett. "We have to ask these questions as a matter of routine, ma'am, to eliminate the obvious."
"I understand. As I said, feel free to check whatever is necessary. I have nothing to hide."
The policeman turned to Sam, looking as though he would rather eat live bait than interrogate the unsmiling director. He bravely carried out his duty, and after noting Sam's answers, however curt, he moved on to talk to some of the men who had been on the scene from the time the first alarm had gone out about the fire.
Finally, the fire trucks departed, followed shortly by the police car. The crew members returned to their trailers, the reenactors to their tents. Sam took Brett's hand in a firm grip and walked back to the house. Instead of going into the dining room, where Mrs. Arthur had set up a coffee urn, he drew her along with him toward the stairs. Brett had to practically run to keep up with him as he took the steps two at a time.
He didn't speak at all as they walked down the hall to her room. He pushed the door open, then with a hand at the small of her back, ushered her into the room. Once inside, he kicked the door closed and pulled her into his arms.
Leaning back against the door, he buried his face in the curve of her neck. He inhaled her fragrance, the spicy floral perfume she wore and the unmistakable scent of smoke and her skin. He was as fragrant as the fires of hell, but she smelled like heaven.
"Don't ever do that to me again," he said.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, startled by the intensity of his voice. "Do what?"
"Don't ever scare me like that again."
"Sam, I wasn't in any more danger than you were. You had everything under control by the time I got to the barn."
"You're wrong. I didn't have myself under control when I looked up and saw you in that loft. I had just gotten my balance after stepping on a weak part of the floor. If Hank hadn't grabbed my arm, I would have gone right through and crashed to the ground. I felt sick to my stomach when I thought of that happening to you."
"It didn't." She loosened her arms from around his neck and stroked her fingers over his chest in a soothing motion. "I'm fine, and so are you. The only thing damaged is a few feet of boards, which won't be that difficult to repair."
Sam refused to be placated by her tender touch and soft words. The fear of something horrible happening to Brett was still clinging to his thoughts like a bad dream, and he couldn't dislodge it. His hands began to move over her as though he needed physical proof that she was all right.
He relished the feel of her curved thighs, sloping hips, and proud breasts. When she gasped at his caresses, he absorbed the sound along with the delicious feel of her firm body under his hands. No one had ever brought him to the brink of desire as fast as she did. Nothing had ever felt as good as she did against him, under him, around him.
The need to claim her, to possess her, was raging through him, making his hands shake as he started tugging at her clothing. He unzipped and unsnapped her jeans, then dragged them and her silk panties down her incredible legs.
She stepped out of them and drew her hands down his chest to the waistband of his pants. She locked her gaze with his as she lowered the zipper and slid her hand inside his jeans.
Sam groaned when he felt her warm fingers curl around him. "Brett," he said roughly, "you make me burn so hot. I feel like I'll explode."
The role of aggressor was unfamiliar to Brett, yet she loved knowing she could make him respond so passionately to her touch. She loved the feel of him.
She loved him.
Her body trembled in response to her silent admission, and she leaned against Sam, needing to be closer to his warmth. While she still could. The thought of him leaving for good fed her desperate need to meld with him as intimately and as long as possible.
Sam felt her desire in her touch, in the way she stroked her hands over him. Placing his own hands under her thighs, he lifted her, then brought her down on him, joining them. For a few moments he simply savored her heat consuming him. Then Brett pressed her thighs into his hips and rose and fell on him until he felt his consciousness dim. He groaned her name as he moved against her, again and again. Her name escaped his lips when she responded with an exquisite, erotic grace that hurled him into a whirlpool of white heat.
His hands tightened on her hips as tremors of satisfaction and a pleasure so extreme, he thought he would surely die from it, rippled through him to his very soul.
Brett cried out as the coiled tension deep inside her snapped, and she toppled into a shimmering darkness. Her eyes closed, her arms holding Sam in a fierce hold, she let the passion claim her.
Sam leaned heavily against the door, feeling incredibly weak, yet strong and invincible. He nearly groaned aloud when he felt the sweet spasms within Brett caress him.
The only sounds in the room were the faint ticking of the bedside clock and their raspy gulps of air, gradually slowing to a more normal pace.
Unable to bear the thought of parting from her, Sam held Brett tightly locked to him as he walked over to her bed. The movement of her body on his as he covered the short distance had him fully aroused again by the time he reached the bed.
He laid her on her back and followed her down, his mouth covering hers. Since he no longer had to support her weight, he was able to stroke her satiny skin with luxurious freedom.
The delicious sequence started all over again, even more fulfilling and tumultuous than before.
Brett was wakened a couple of hours after falling asleep by Sam grunting, then cursing under his breath.
"What's wrong?" she asked groggily.
"Damned if I know." He reached for the bedside light. "What in hell is that?"
She had to squint against the light, but she managed to see the object that had disturbed Sam.
"It's only Ashley."
Sam glared at the bassett hound. "This is carrying things too far. I refuse to share you with Ashley Wilkes."
Hiding a grin, Brett slipped out of bed, shivering at the cool night air. She lifted Ashley off the bed, set him on the floor, and walked to the door.
"Come on, Ashley. You never were respected for your delicate sensibilities."
Ashley finally made it out of the bedroom. Brett shut the door after him and, rubbing her arms, hurried back to the warm bed.
Sam had rolled on to his side and was leaning on his elbow, watching every move she made. "You are a beautiful woman, Red."
She blinked, surprised by the serious tone of his voice. "I'm glad you think so."
He grasped one of her hands and tugged her down to lie beside him. "Ashley can creep back into your bed when I'm gone. Until then," he murmured as he pushed her onto her back, "I don't plan on sharing you with him or anyone else."
He kissed her with a possessive hunger, and Brett lost the chance to ask him how much time they had left. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave herself over to the need to be as close to him as possible.
Some time later Brett opened her eyes and stared into the darkness of her bedroom. She had no idea what had wakened her this time from the dreamless sleep of exhaustion, or what time it was other than the sun hadn't come up yet. One of Sam's arms was under her, the other over her, with his long length pressed against her back, his head sharing her pillow. Even asleep, his strength, physical and emotional, made her feel secure and safe.
So why was she suddenly edgy, as though she were being threatened by some nebulous thing she couldn't name or recognize?
Awake himself, Sam felt the change in her breathing. "Can't sleep, Red?"
"I feel as though I've forgotten something vitally important, and I can't think of what it could be."
"It's understandable if you're a little keyed up. It isn't every day you have a fire in your barn."
She sighed. "That somebody started intentionally."
Sam turned her to face him as easily as if he were rearranging thistledown. Blinking several times,
Brett propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. "There are definite disadvantages in being smaller than you."
"I wouldn't call them disadvantages," he murmured with amusement. "I doubt if we could have managed that episode against the bedroom door earlier if you were as big as I am."
"You just flipped me over like I was a stuffed teddy bear."
He chuckled. "The last thing you remind me of is a teddy bear. I simply like talking to your front better than I like talking to your back." When he saw her expression change, he asked, "What's wrong?"
"I just remembered what's been bothering me."
She flung back the covers and bounced over to the edge of the bed. The night had grown even colder, and she grabbed his shirt after turning on the bedside light.
"Modesty at this stage of our relationship?" he asked.
"Hypothermia," she replied. "It's cold in here."
After slipping on his shirt, she walked over to the door, where her jeans still lay on the floor.
"You don't plan on getting dressed right now, do you?" Sam asked as she picked the jeans up. "It's still the middle of the night."
She shook her head. "I put something in my pocket that I found in the barn. What with the questions from the police and the other stuff, I forgot all about it."
"Other stuff?" A corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Couldn't you come up with a better description than that for our lovemaking?"
"I'll work on it." She shoved her hand into the front pocket of the jeans. "Aha!" Her fingers closed around a scrap of fabric. Withdrawing it from the pocket, she held it out to Sam. "Look at this!"
She had Sam's attention for a couple of reasons. One, she hadn't bothered to button his shirt when she'd put it on, and he kept catching tantalizing glimpses of her white breasts and dusky nipples. And two, his damn curiosity made it impossible for him to ignore what she was so excited about.
She sat on the edge of the bed near his hip and held out the scrap of material so he could see it.
"This was caught on a nail on the ladder to the loft. Unless I'm mistaken, it's from a man's suit. Since you and Hank and just about everyone else, except for the reenactors, were wearing casual clothes, my guess is this belongs to a well-dressed arsonist."
NINE
Early in the morning after the fire, Sam stood by the kitchen sink waiting for the electric coffeepot to finish perking. Even though he hadn't had much sleep, his mind had refused to shut down after Brett had showed him what she had found on the ladder. The torn material wasn't much of a clue, but other than the traces of kerosene found on some of the straw that hadn't burned, it was the only one they had. He'd finally given up on sleep and had come downstairs to think about everything that had happened during the night. Brett was awake, too, and would join him after she took a shower. Until then, he had the kitchen to himself. It would be another hour before Mrs. Arthur would be slamming pots and pans around.
He took the piece of gray material out of his pocket and examined it again. The scrap was about an inch by an inch and a half with charcoal threads running through several shades of gray. Sam stroked the fabric between his finger and thumb. He couldn't recall the name of the type of material, but he knew quality fabric when he felt it. The clean condition of the scrap also told him it hadn't been stuck on the ladder long. He couldn't see any hint of dust or discoloration that would indicate its owner had climbed the ladder some time ago.
When he'd first glimpsed the gray fabric, he had immediately thought of the Confederate uniforms the reenactors wore. On closer examination, he'd realized the material wasn't wool but a blend of wool and silk often found in expensive suits.
That deduction eliminated the reenactors. Even if he could have come up with a motive, he knew that none of the men and women affiliated with the regiments wore clothing made of that type of modern material.
His crew generally wore casual, serviceable clothing on location, except for the actors when they were in costume. He would check with wardrobe, but he was positive none of the costumes were made from fabric like this one.
Approaching the problem from a different slant, Sam considered motive alone. He couldn't think of a single reason why anyone would want to ruin the equipment stored in the barn or the building itself. Like Brett, his company was financially secure. Moreover, although Darren had arranged for more than adequate insurance to cover any eventuality, delaying production would hinder completion of the film, which in the long run would cost them more money. They had no valid reason to want production halted or even delayed by setting a fire in the barn.
The only reason for the fire that he could come up with was that someone wanted to discourage them from making the film. Since no one had been in the barn except the arsonist, a personal vendetta had to be ruled out. Unless someone wanted to harm something that belonged to Brett. But that didn't make any sense, since she hadn't done anything that would tick somebody off. She hadn't left Judson Quill's office on good terms, but Sam had trouble picturing the attorney lugging bales of straw and a can of kerosene up to the loft.
But the day Sam had met Quill, the pompous lawyer had been wearing a suit made of fabric similar to the scrap of material Brett had found.
Brett's search for her mother's journal, which could possibly name someone who might have been responsible for Melanie Southern's death, could worry that person. But no one except him knew what she was looking for in the house.
Sam poured himself some coffee and had lifted the mug to his mouth when Darren spoke behind him. "Would you pour me a cup too?"
Sam took down another thick mug out of the cupboard and poured coffee into it. Turning around, he handed it to Darren.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked.
Darren took the mug and walked over to the table, sitting down heavily on one of the chairs. "There's nothing like a three-alarm fire to chase away any hope of getting to sleep." After taking a sip of the scalding coffee, Darren leaned back on two legs of the chair and looked at Sam. "Any ideas about what's going on?"
"A couple, but nothing definite."
"Anything you wish to share?"
Sam shook his head slowly. He didn't like keeping things from his partner, but the situation involving Brett's mother wasn't his to tell. Brett hadn't said not to say anything to Darren or anyone else, but she hadn't told him to spread it around either.
For his part, Darren hadn't said anything to Sam about his involvement with Brett. It had always been Sam's policy not to become involved with any of his actresses or female crew members. In fact, he didn't get involved with women at all during filming so he could concentrate fully on the job at hand. Until he met Brett, he hadn't had any difficulties keeping that self-imposed rule.
But he had met her, and he was sleeping with her. Maybe he wasn't being smart or practical, but he was being honest with himself. And he hoped, with Brett. He couldn't stay away from her.
Darren cleared his throat, the sound jarring Sam out of his reverie. "What's going on, Sam?"
Sam's mouth twisted into a mocking smile. "About a hundred different things. When I get them sorted out, I'll be in a better position to explain them to you."
"This one's different from the others, isn't she?"
"Brett?"
"No, idiot. The housekeeper. Of course I mean Brett."
The kitchen door was pushed open, and Brett entered. "Did I hear my name just now?"
"Yes, you did," Darren said, grinning at her as she rubbed her eyes. "We were talking about you behind your back. Now we can talk in front of you."
She waved one hand. "Go ahead. Don't mind me. I'll be the one seated at the end of the table drinking coffee."
Sam smiled at Darren. "Brett and I understand each other, Darren. There isn't anything we can do about the rumors floating around, but we're trying to be halfway discreet."
Darren nodded. "I agreed not to mention Brett's family in the publicity, and I haven't, even though she would make great copy."
Bre
tt frowned at him. "Great copy?"
"Oh yeah," Darren said. "Beautiful southern woman living on a plantation that's been in the family since it was built. Mother died mysteriously. Father is off excavating Mayan ruins. Woman gave up career in the Big Apple to sweeten up a small town."
"Brett has to live here long after the documentary is finished," Sam said. "I promised we'd respect her privacy."
"I said she'd make great copy. I didn't say I was going to use it."
"Good. Let's drop the subject."
"That's fine with me," Darren said as he looked warily from Sam to Brett. "I don't enjoy having Chief Thunderhorn glowering at me from one side and Miss Southern Peach shooting daggers at me from the other."
Sam smiled. "I bet I can guess what you do enjoy."
"No contest. I enjoy making money. Which reminds me, if you're still interested in that book about the eighteenth-century glassblower, I need to pick up the option. Since we're on schedule and will be through here in a week, I want to get research cracking on the background. I'm going to send Elaine and Vernon to Boston on Monday or Tuesday and we'll follow as soon as we're done here."
Brett carefully set her mug down. Next week, she repeated silently. Sam would be gone next week.
Sam refilled her mug and Darren's, then his own. "Let's drop the subject for now. Do you have a copy of today's shooting schedule on you? I'm thinking of changing the sequence of scenes prior to the Union charge on the stone wall."
Brett's chest felt tight and painful until she realized she had been holding her breath ever since Darren had said they would be leaving next week. Forcing herself to breathe, she pushed back her chair and excused herself. "I'll leave you two to discuss business and take off to tend to mine."
Sam looked up from the papers Darren had given him. Brett tilted her chin back and faced him. For a few moments they stared into each other's eyes, then Darren cleared his throat.
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