And thought to herself, I have a feeling that’s the least of my problems.
THE HELL I’VE GOT a problem with my social skills. Gabe pulled onto the highway, hit the siren and sped east away from town. He might not be the life of the party or some big world-renowned rock star, but he got by just fine. And he sure as hell wasn’t some middle schooler who had to have a girlfriend’s undivided attention.
But first Savage had made Grace blush like a schoolgirl saying God knows what to her, or, to be fair, merely paying attention to her, and now Macy was going to take her out for a girls’ night? The first was understandable: it wasn’t exactly every day your average citizen was introduced to a celebrity. But the Macy thing—that was just plain wrong. Grace was wonderfully calm and easy on the blood pressure. What if Macy went and turned her into someone more like herself?
But as he tried to imagine Grace all tarted up, strutting her stuff at the local honky-tonk and setting men on fire, it wouldn’t gel. Grace was her own woman, not one filled with flashy, edgy, in-your-face sexuality like Macy. Guys tended to respect her precisely because she wasn’t the kind of woman to flash cleavage. Although that probably didn’t mean she wouldn’t like to have a little fun. And he had to admit The Flirt could probably provide that in spades.
Still, he was tense over the strange-ass evening this had turned into, and wrestling a fire into submission sounded like just the antidote.
But not one he’d find tonight, he saw moments after turning off Highway 2. There was a spot ahead lit up like high noon with the truck’s halogen work lights, and when he pulled over to the side of the farm road running through Art Bailey’s spread he saw that Johnson and Solberg had the flames under control. They must have caught the small storage barn before the building was fully engaged. It had sustained some damage and still smoldered, but he had no need of the turnout gear he kept in the back of his ride. Solberg was inside with the hose taking care of the last of it. Climbing from the SUV, he cast a curious glance at the old pickup truck full of split wood he’d parked behind even as he assured himself that the fire being out was a good thing.
And, hell, it was; his men had done their job. Too bad it didn’t stop him from feeling a little let down. For as he’d already noted, the evening had left him feeling strangely tense, and he would’ve welcomed the chance to blow off some steam. God knew his opportunities in that direction were limited these days.
He’d given up his old standbys—enonstop, in discriminate fighting and fucking—eat seventeen. That’s when a caseworker had helped him see past his rage long enough to realize he was headed down a one-way track to early death or incarceration if he didn’t get his shit together. So he’d climbed aboard the Straight and Narrow Express, set a course for himself and, except for a few backslides early on, had pretty much stuck to it from that point on. He thought before he spoke now. He never used his fists. He even expressed most of his obscenities internally.
Okay, he hadn’t given up sex—even if it felt that way sometimes. He was, however, a whole lot more selective than he’d ever been at seventeen. But, hell, what grown man wasn’t?
Still, fighting fires was one of the few outlets he had when things got tense, and the only one that was guaranteed to relieve whatever ailed him. Yet the chances to pit himself against an inferno, to feel the muscular pulse of the fire hose in his hands, the spike of adrenaline rushing through his veins—not to mention outwitting that brutal bitch in full conflagration—were fewer and farther between since he’d traded in his job in Detroit for this county fire-chief gig. Being chief instead of crew meant more supervising and less getting to throw himself in the thick of things.
But he had a job to do here and no time to dwell on matters he’d already decided on. Going up to Johnson, who was guzzling a liter bottle of water, he said, “What’ve we got here?”
The blond volunteer capped his bottle and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good Samaritan driving by—” he nodded toward a middle-aged man standing a short distance away talking to the farmer who owned the property “—saw smoke rolling out of the shed and called 911. He found the water hookup and hose and did what he could until Solberg, who was nearest the station, got here with the truck. I showed up maybe two minutes later.”
Gabe was suspicious by nature, and his years on the Detroit arson squad predisposed him to look twice at the Good Samaritan. He didn’t have any real reason to believe it was arson, but given the recent garbage-can fires he couldn’t rule it out. And if it was, it would leave him with three options. Either the garbage-can arsonist was escalating, Bailey was in financial trouble, or he was dealing with a vanity firebug. He’d seen his share of the latter in his career: arsonists who liked to set fires, then be a hero by “catching” them before they got out of control.
“First impressions?”
“Of the man—seems solid. The fire…? At this point there’s no obvious indication of arson,” Johnson said, and Solberg, who arrived stripping off his turnout coat, nodded his agreement. “None of the doors or windows appear to have been opened for more oxygen and there’s only a single point of origin that I’ve been able to establish so far.”
“Take a look and see if you can determine how it started. I’ll be over to give you a hand in a minute.” He walked over to the farmer and the Samaritan.
“Hey, Mr. Bailey,” he said, shaking the farmer’s hand. “I’m sorry about your barn.” He turned to the other man. “Good thing you were here to stop it before it was fully engaged.” He extended a hand to him, as well. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Fire Chief Donovan.”
“Dick Ames.” He shook with a firm, work-roughened grip and Gabe took a cautious step back from the vanity arsonist theory as he studied him.
The man had a fit, farmer’s body and made level eye contact. Most vanity firebugs had grandiosity issues—security guards who’d failed the police-academy entrance exams, soldier wannabes without the actual discipline for the military life. This man didn’t appear to fit the mold.
All the same…
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“I was on my way home from my son’s orchard near Peshastin. He’d cleared a section to put in Honey-crisps and we cut up the Red Delicious trees he’d thinned for firewood.” He gave his head an impatient shake. “But that’s not what you’re asking. I was heading back to my spread down Two a piece past this cutoff when I saw a column of smoke rising from over this way. Twilight was just turning to full dark, so I wasn’t sure at first it was even what I thought it was. But this isn’t the time of year you wanna chance fire. Well—” he shrugged “—I don’t need to tell you things are getting dry, and the last thing we need is a runaway brush fire.”
Gabe questioned him about the color of the smoke and the flames when he’d arrived on the scene. He asked whether he’d smelled anything unusual and if any of the doors or windows had been open or looked as if they’d been forced. Ames gave thoughtful responses and Gabe decided he probably was exactly what he appeared to be: a neighbor helping a neighbor. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t make a few discreet inquiries to check the farmer’s story, but for now he turned to Bailey to ask about the contents of the building. Then, noting the nearly full moon had risen, he sent both farmers off to catch up on what they could of the chores that had been shuttled aside in order to deal with this.
After seeing them off, he wrote up his notes, then went over to give his men a hand sifting through the burned section of the small barn.
“Coulda been one of Bailey’s hands smoking in here and not disposing of his butt properly,” Johnson said. “They all know better, but it still happens more often than it oughtta.” His jaw hardened. “My men can whore, fight and kick up a fuss and I don’t give a good goddamn. But they know if I catch them smoking in a nondesignated area their asses will get the boot so fast they’ll be lucky to touch down before they hit the county line.” He went back to sifting through the debris at his feet.
“
The material in here appears properly stored.” Gabe worked his way away from the fire’s source. “And Bailey doesn’t have any small kids who might have snuck in to play with a book of matches. Solberg, check the wiring—make sure nothing obvious is wrong with it.”
“Got it, boss.”
He had no idea what time it was when he next rose to his feet, but the moon had shifted quite a way toward the west. Slapping his hands to the small of his back, he arched to stretch out his muscles. “Doesn’t look to be arson.” He shook his head. “So much for my gut, ’cause I had an itch that said it was. Nothing here indicates it started spontaneously, but I sure as hell haven’t found an obvious accelerant or ignition device, either.”
“I think I may have, chief,” Johnson said, looking over his shoulder. “You might want to come over here and take a look at this.”
Gabe went over and squatted down. He looked at the patch of ground Johnson had carefully cleared of debris. In the light that his volunteer moved closer, he saw a faint, tubular shiny spot on the scorched barn board floor, and Gabe scratched up a thin strip of wax with his fingernail. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “The gut doesn’t lie.”
He gave his men a nod. “Someone used a candle as a timing device. Guess we’ve got us another arson, after all.”
CHAPTER NINE
MACY COULDN’T SLEEP. The room was stuffy, but it wasn’t that; Bud and Lenore had installed central air-conditioning a few years ago, and although they didn’t set it to hotel standards of coolness the house was worlds more comfortable than it had been in her teenage years. No, it was the way her mind kept spinning as it busily sorted and replayed the events of the day in an endless, restless loop that was the problem. And rather than flop from side to side until she woke up Janna, she might as well get up.
Tossing back the sheet, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wondering what time it was. O’dark thirty, certainly; beyond that she didn’t have a clue.
Grabbing her watch from the nightstand, she carried it over to the window and saw by the light of the moon that it was twelve forty-eight. It felt as though she’d slept much longer than an hour, but it must have been one of those deep, suck-you-to-the-bottom-of-the-sea slumbers, because now she was wide-awake.
Gathering up her iPod, which Jack had loaded with the music from his upcoming album, she headed for the door. She’d listen to a song or two while she raided the kitchen and see if any concepts popped to mind for corresponding videos. If something really good occurred to her she could always go see if Jack was still up. Or not, she thought, looking down at the hip-hugger boy shorts and skimpy tank top she slept in. She wasn’t exactly dressed for visiting.
Inserting the earbuds as she made her way down the darkened hallway, she thumbed on the music, humming appreciatively as the first song purled through the wires. By the time she entered the kitchen her hips were already moving to the beat. She made a beeline for the industrial-size refrigerator.
Its interior light nearly blinded her in the dim room. Blinking, she bent to look inside, moving items out of her way as she searched for the blackberry pie Auntie Lenore had served tonight.
Swallowing her disappointment when she came up empty, even though deep down she’d known the odds were against any being left, she studied her other options.
“Sweet view,” a deep voice said from behind her.
Emitting a squeaky screech, she whirled, yanking the earbuds from her ears.
Gabriel sat at the worktable in the moon-dappled dark, a fork in his fist, the pie dish and a tall glass of milk in front of him.
Music whispered out of her iPod and she switched it off. “You bastard! Not only did you scare five years off my life, you’re eating my pie!”
“Yeah?” He made a production of enjoying the bite in his mouth, then swallowed. “I didn’t see your name on it.”
She grabbed a fork out of the drawer and stalked over to the table, rounding it to flop down in the chair next to his. “Gimme a bite.”
“Forget it.” He wrapped a blocking arm around the pie pan. “There’s plenty of other stuff in the fridge. This is mine. Go find something else.”
“C’mon! Just a bite.” She reached over with her fork, but he hunched his shoulder and her forearm skidded across his, skin to skin.
His inner arm felt like hot sanded silk over marble. Her heartbeat kicked up its pace, and all thoughts of food vanished. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to scoot closer and trace the velvety veins that snaked down his inner forearm with her fingertips—then maybe her tongue.
She jerked her arm back. What the hell was that all about? She wasn’t a particularly sexual woman—or at least she hadn’t been before clapping eyes on this guy. But looking at him, all solid shoulders in that thin old-fashioned tank-style undershirt, she had a crazy urge to touch him again—this time on purpose. To rub herself all over him.
Appalled at her wayward thoughts, she muttered, “Fine, be that way. I’ll find something better.”
But he was already pushing the plate toward her. “Have a damn bite if it means so much.”
Her throat felt dry as ashes, rendering her ability to swallow uncertain, yet she could hardly say she no longer wanted the pie after making a fuss about him sharing it. So, cautiously, she extended her fork and broke off a bite, making sure that no skin made contact this time. But she was hotly aware of his hard physique, sullen lower lip and uncharacteristically rumpled hair. Conscious of the male scent of him, even though it was nearly buried in an acrid smoke overtone.
Huge and shadowy, with that scent and aura of heat, with the pale gleam of gray irises through dark lashes, he was Lucifer after the Fall, beautiful and primal.
Or—hello!—a fireman after the fire he’s been called out on. She shoved back her chair. How idiotic could she get? “Keep the pie,” she said lightly. “I’m going to see if there’s any ice cream.”
She found a hand-packed tub of vanilla in the freezer and scooped some into a cone from the box above the freezer. For about two seconds, she considered taking the coward’s way out and trotting her treat back to her room. By the time she’d rinsed off the scoop and returned it to its drawer, however, she’d buried the urge. She had spent her entire senior year in a town whose populace thought the worst of her and had never hesitated to let her know it—and she hadn’t run away. She sure as hell wasn’t running from Donovan just because he made her feel inexplicable yearnings.
Defiantly, she came back to the table and, folding one leg beneath her on the seat, sat down. She did, however, choose a chair across the table from Gabriel so there would be no more inadvertent brushing of arms.
She could be pigheaded, yes. But she wasn’t stupid.
Gabe leaned back in his chair, watching Macy. He’d been moodily eyeing her long legs and round butt as she’d scooped ice cream atop her cone.
Especially that butt—he was an ass man from way back, and he should have known hers would lead to trouble the minute she’d strolled in wearing that skimpy tank and next-best-thing-to-spray-paint shorts. All he’d had to do was keep his mouth shut and she might have grabbed something from the fridge and left without even noticing he was there. Had he chosen the smart route, however? Hell, no. He’d watched her bend to peruse the contents of the refrigerator, and the sight of that round, subtly gyrating booty had evaporated every scrap of good sense he possessed. It was one fine view, and instead of keeping his mouth shut, he’d had to go and say so.
It was now safely out of sight, so his rebellious body ought to be settling down. Yet covertly eyeing her as he ate his pie, he had to admit that, aesthetically speaking, the chick had no bad side. God knew the head-on scenery wasn’t shabby. Macy was far from stacked, but she had a perky, eye-catching rack all the same, and he could see the faint, shadowy outline of her nipples behind the thin stretch cotton of her tank top. Even as he watched, they hardened, peaking the material in a way that was impossible to ignore even in the dim room. His dick stirring to att
ention, he forgot covert and stared, riveted.
She shivered. “I didn’t think it was possible on such a warm night, but this ice cream is giving me the shivers.” Swirling her tongue along its side, she gathered in a lick. “It sure tastes good, though. I love ice cream.” She took another lick, looking at him across the table. “So, that fire you went to tonight. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. There was some property damage to a shed, but a passerby called it in before it got out of control.” He looked at her bed-mussed hair and heavy-lidded eyes. “You go over to Savage’s trailer in that getup?”
“What?” She froze with her tongue flattened against the ice cream to stare at him. Reeling in the confection she’d been in the midst of lapping, she lowered the cone and swallowed.
And her eyes blazed across the table as she shoved to her feet. “What the hell business is that of yours? Who are you, the sex police?”
Good question. Why was it any skin off his dick what she did with the Irishman?
Yet he was seriously bugged by the thought.
Macy knew she should let it go and walk out the door. Yes, she would remain steamed and probably not get a wink of sleep. It was still the smart thing to do.
So, sue her. She wasn’t going to be smart.
Her heart pounded with what she’d tried to tell herself was rage. But she wasn’t one for self-delusion, and inhaling through her nose, she acknowledged the feeling for what it was: excitement. Because she’d caught him eyeing her boobs—and liked it to the extent that her nipples had come to attention. She looked at his mouth and big hands…and liked those, too.
But he didn’t get to treat her as if she breathed, therefore she put out. She did not, she never had, and the time was long gone when people could say whatever the hell they wanted about her. Just as she’d refused to take her ice cream and retreat to her room, she wasn’t about to let this go unchallenged.
Burning Up Page 9
