Hot Mail

by Maynard, Janice

  It was sometime after midnight when the smoke alarm woke her up. Not the one upstairs. The shrill beep was farther away . . . downstairs . . . in the shop.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs as she dragged on her robe and slippers and stumbled to the door at the top of the stairs. It was cool to the touch, so she opened it a crack. Immediately, noxious black smoke curled into her apartment. She didn’t spot any flames, but she slammed the door and reached for the phone to call 911.

  This time Ethan heard the news on the police scanner at his home. For long seconds, he was in shock. Not again. No way. But the location was unmistakable. Jane was in danger for the second time in barely a week.

  Thank God he was still mostly dressed. He snatched up his badge, slid his feet into his shoes, and picked up his service revolver and shoulder holster. He had a bad feeling about this.

  He was fast, but the fire department was faster. By the time he took the corner on two wheels and jerked his car to a stop, half a dozen men in heavy yellow-and-silver fire gear were already entering the building.

  Ethan knew the fire chief on sight. They had been a year apart in school. Ethan grabbed the man’s arm. “A woman lives upstairs.” The chief’s eyes widened, perhaps shocked by Ethan’s panic.

  Ethan tried to pull it together. He’d be no help to Jane if he lost his cool. It was some small comfort that he saw no flames, despite the heavy smell of smoke in the air. The crew must have contained the blaze rapidly.

  It was like taking a brick to the chest when he saw Jane come around the corner of the building, supported by a tall, grime-covered fireman. Jane’s face was etched in pain, and she was leaning heavily on her escort.

  Afterward, Ethan never remembered crossing the street and going to her. He clutched her close, his pulse racing like a freight train. “You’re hurt. Where?” The words were like sharp gravel in his throat.

  She leaned into him, and he tightened his grip, feeling gut-wrenching emotions he’d have to sort out later. The fireman spoke up. “We found her at the foot of the fire escape. She made it out of the building, but when she jumped down from the end of the ladder, she hit a patch of gravel and fell pretty hard.”

  Ethan urged her toward the ambulance that had just arrived on the scene. “Over here, Jane.” She allowed him to support her as they limped along, and her weary compliance made him want to curse. Who in the hell would want to hurt such a strong but gentle woman? The knot in his gut eased a fraction when the paramedics checked her out and pronounced her ankle sprained, not broken.

  He could hardly bear to leave her, even for a second, but he wanted to consult with his men on duty. The information was shocking and disturbing. The exact same window had been broken out a second time. The fire appeared to have been malicious in nature rather than outright destructive. Three aluminum mop buckets, each containing more than two dozen smoke bombs, had been lighted simultaneously.

  The dense smoke was sufficient to set off all the sprinklers in Jane’s shop. With an inventory that was upward of eighty percent paper products, the damage was extensive and would take time to replace. The loss of business in the interim would be inescapable. As bizarre as it seemed, someone was out to get Jane.

  He strode back to the ambulance. The paramedics had finished taping Jane’s ankle and were now cleaning some of the worst of the cuts and scrapes she had sustained when she fell. Her thin cotton pajama pants were ruined. Large rips at both knees revealed flesh that was scraped raw.

  He winced in sympathy when the EMT rubbed antibiotic ointment on Jane’s abraded skin. And in a dark, caveman corner of his brain, he managed to be pissed that another man was stroking Jane’s leg.

  He choked back his inappropriate urge to shove the guy aside and, instead, crouched by Jane and took her hand. Her pretty blue robe was probably a loss, in addition to her pants. It had been torn as well, and the hem was damp where she had walked through puddles on the street. The thin T-shirt beneath the robe clung to her braless curves, making him want to snatch the lapels together.

  “Jane? How are you doing, honey?”

  She lifted dazed eyes to his. “I’ve been better.” Her eyes were dark with grief and confusion. “Who would want to do this to me?”

  He measured his words. “I was hoping you could help us out with that. Last week seemed like random mischief. In light of tonight, obviously not. Can you think of anyone who has a beef with you?”

  Even as he asked the question, he knew it was ludicrous. Jane was the poster child for nice women everywhere. As he recalled, she had been known to use live traps for the mice that inhabited her old building. Once they were corralled, she took them out to the country to release them. It was hard to imagine anyone who might want to get back at her for some perceived slight or offense.

  But now was not the time to grill her. She was pale, and even though she was calm, he knew full well that the aftermath of adrenaline left a person shaky.

  He exchanged glances with the paramedic. “She checks out okay?”

  The man nodded. “Her BP’s up a little, but that’s to be expected. And the cuts are superficial for the most part. She might want to call her doctor for some pain meds if she has a hard time sleeping for a few days.”

  Jane shook her head vehemently. “I’m fine. May I go now?”

  Ethan saw her face change the moment she heard her own words . . . witnessed her quiet misery as she realized she had nowhere to go. Before Ethan could stop her, she had risen to her feet and was hobbling over to where the fire chief stood, talking into his radio.

  She faced him resolutely. “When may I go back in?”

  The man glanced back at Ethan. “Um, well . . .”

  She went toe-to-toe with him. And since the guy was fairly short, Jane looked the poor man straight in the eyes. “It wasn’t really a fire, right?” She’d apparently picked up the gist of the conversation around her.

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  “Then there’s no reason I can’t go back up to my apartment.”

  Her fierce scowl might have amused Ethan in less volatile circumstances. And he actually felt a measure of pity for his comrade on the front lines.

  The fire chief winced and hung his head. “Sorry, miss. The smoke damage will have affected the upstairs as well. And until we finish our investigation, you won’t be allowed to go back inside.”

  Jane stared at him in silence. “Well, that’s just bloody lovely.” And then she burst into tears.

  Ethan urged her away, steering her toward his car. “Take it easy, honey. You can crash at my place tonight or for what’s left of it. I’ve got a spare room, and I’m sure I can round up a toothbrush somewhere.”

  She dashed at the tears on her cheeks with an angry hand. “I don’t need you to take care of me, and I’m not falling apart. I’m just upset.”

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. “Of course you’re upset. You deserve to be. But even Lois Lane let Superman help her out occasionally.”

  As he had hoped, that comment drew a small grin. The tension in her frame relaxed visibly, and she sighed. “Since when did you become a superhero?” She allowed him to help her into the car, and then he ran around to the driver’s side and hopped in.

  He checked his rearview mirror and pulled out. “I know you don’t need my help, Jane. I know you’re able to take care of yourself. But humor me. All of us police types get off on rescuing people. You should know that by now. It’s in our DNA.”

  She leaned back in the seat, her long, slender neck seeming barely able to hold up her head. And then she surprised the hell out of him. In the dark intimacy of the car, with the heater running full-blast and a country song playing softly on the radio in the background, she laid a hand on his thigh. “Thank you, Ethan. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. When you showed up tonight, I was so glad to see you.”

  He swallowed hard, gripping the steering wheel. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly.

  She stroked his thigh, and as muc
h as he wanted to believe she was flirting, he realized that she was probably doing it without thinking. She’d been awakened out of a deep sleep, and forced to evacuate her home, and then she had taken a hard fall. It was a wonder she was coping as well as she was. And maybe it was one of those situations where she craved human contact.

  Any man would do.

  That thought didn’t sit well. Hell, no. He had been Jane’s good friend at one time—probably her best friend. And that gave him certain privileges. Such as being the hero when life threw her curve balls. If he played his cards right, perhaps he’d be able to reclaim the relationship he’d torpedoed through his sheer stupidity.

  For a long time, he’d simply refused to think about his short-lived and quickly aborted engagement. It was too damn embarrassing. Looking back, he was appalled at how easily the woman had manipulated him with sweet words and lots of sex. At the time, he’d had some stupid notion that being married would give him a leg up in getting the promotion to chief of police.

  Despite the fact that back then his slacker boss still had a few years to go before retiring, Ethan had decided that tying the knot made sense. And the bonus of getting laid every night with a woman who was spontaneous and wild and crazy was icing on the cake.

  But once he had the engagement ring on her finger, he quickly found out that “wild and crazy” was synonymous with “girl most likely to max out your credit cards and move all your ready cash to a Swiss bank account.” In retrospect, he suspected that the woman had some serious narcissism and abandonment issues. And that made it even worse. He was a trained professional, for God’s sake. He should have spotted the signs.

  His brief traipse down memory lane ended suddenly as he focused on the quiet woman beside him. He couldn’t help but notice her long, long legs. And after that, it was only a half step to imagining those same slender, shapely limbs wrapped around his waist.

  He actually blinked his eyes to clear his vision. What kind of pervert fantasized about his best friend when she had recently undergone a traumatic experience? Something must be seriously wrong with his moral compass. He owed Jane his utmost respect and consideration. Not his horny, base attentions.

  But when he helped her from the car, her lanky frame leaning trustingly against him, it took all he had to slam the lid on a rush of arousal so potent it stunned him. The feel of her slender body shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip with his was heady stuff. He had to force his hands to stay out of trouble.

  Once they made it inside, she was practically swaying on her feet, her cheeks totally devoid of color. He steered her to the bathroom. “Get in the shower, and I’ll grab something of mine for you to wear. There should be a toothbrush in the drawer beside the sink.” He was trying his utmost to respect her privacy, but he was not at all sure she was in any shape to be standing on her own.

  He left her long enough to round up a pair of elastic-waist sweatpants, a soft cotton shirt, and some thick wool socks. When he opened the bathroom door a crack to lay the clothes on the counter, steam wafted out, carrying the scent of his soap.

  Imagining Jane’s nude body glistening wet, covered in clingy suds, made something inside his brain short-circuit. He leaned against the wall in the hall, his heart lodged in his throat. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. He was seriously attracted to Jane.

  Lord knew why he hadn’t seen it before now. Looking back, he must have been a fool to think that the significant amount of time he had spent in her company was motivated by nothing more than platonic friendship.

  Somewhere beneath the surface, his libido had clearly recognized what his not so bright brain had refused to accept. Jane was the kind of woman a man took to his bed and his heart. She was a keeper.

  By the time he heard the water shut off, he had managed to get rid of his boner. Thinking about Jane in danger did the trick. Knowing she had been vulnerable to some psycho . . . twice . . . made his stomach turn. Even though the events of tonight were not life-threatening, anything could have gone wrong. What if Jane had hurt herself seriously when she fell from the fire escape?

  He would have felt directly responsible.

  The break-in last weekend should have been a tip-off. He and his detectives should have tried harder to find any shred of evidence. They had all assumed it was a simple burglary attempt, a punk looking for ready cash.

  But tonight’s chain of events made it clear that money wasn’t the motive. Whoever lit fire to those buckets of smoke bombs wanted to cause Jane heartache and financial difficulty. And Ethan was not going to rest until he’d nailed the bastard’s ass to the wall.

  She found him in the kitchen. The clothes didn’t come close to fitting her. He outweighed her by at least forty pounds. But she had made do.

  He motioned toward the stove. “I warmed some milk. Do you want anything to eat before you go back to bed?” It was almost three a.m., and she looked dead on her feet.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m allergic to milk.”

  He swallowed hard. “Of course you are. I should have remembered.” It embarrassed him that he hadn’t. Just once he would like to impress her. But at this rate, it wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon.

  He opened the fridge. “How about a caffeine-free Coke? Or some orange juice?”

  She yawned suddenly, her eyelids drooping. “I think I’ll sleep just fine. But you stay up and eat a snack if you want to. I can stretch out on the sofa.”

  “Nonsense.” He took her arm and steered her down the hall. “Sit on my bed for a minute and give me a chance to make sure the sheets are clean in the guest room.”

  He was back in no time, but Jane had already fallen asleep. She lay in an awkward position, one arm curled around his pillow. Her damp hair clung to her cheek, and his too-big sweatpants had slid down her hip on one side.

  She wasn’t wearing any panties.

  It shouldn’t have shocked him. If she’d had underwear on earlier (and perhaps she hadn’t), she surely wouldn’t have wanted to put it back on after her shower. All of her clothes smelled like smoke.

  He eased the pants to a safer latitude, and stood irresolute. Carrying her to the guest room might sound tender, but it hadn’t gone so well the last time he tried such a maneuver.

  He tugged the covers back and eased her between them. She never even blinked. By the even tenor of her breathing, he suspected that she was deeply asleep, unlikely to be aware of anything until morning.

  He could go to the sofa. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. But the living room was the coldest room in the house, and what he really wanted to do was sleep with Jane. He would stay on top of the covers, he told himself, eager to rationalize his behavior. With a couple of blankets to keep him warm, he’d be fine. And besides, last weekend she had asked him to keep her company.

  He carried out his preparations, which included a quick shower of his own, and then climbed onto the end of the king-size mattress opposite his houseguest. Fatigue rolled over him the minute his head hit the pillow, and he barely had the energy to turn out the light.

  It was sometime before dawn when a noise wakened him. The distress in the quiet whimpers sent his heart racing until he realized Jane was having a nightmare.

  He scooted closer, frustrated by the bedding that kept him from pulling her into his arms. He touched her cheek. “Wake up, honey. Jane . . . you’re dreaming.” He stroked her hair, trying to bring her to consciousness without further trauma.

  She opened her eyes with a choked gasp, her chest heaving with the tenor of her rapid breathing.

  He cupped her face with his hand. “It’s okay, Jane. No one is going to hurt you.”

  He kept his voice low and soothing, not quite convinced she was fully awake. The room was dark, but he was loath to turn on a light. It was probably better for her to slip back into sleep naturally.

  He felt her shiver, and he tucked the comforter more securely around her shoulders. That action had the added benefit of keeping his hands away from dangerous territory. It
startled him when she spoke.

  Her words were almost inaudible. “There were flames everywhere. I couldn’t find the door.”

  He continued playing with her silky hair, keeping his touch light. “It was a nightmare. You’re safe here with me. Go back to sleep.”

  For long, silent seconds he thought she had done just that. Her breathing was regular again, and the tension in her body relaxed.

  But then she stirred restlessly, shoving back the covers and turning on her side. His hand fell away from her hair, and he wondered if that had been her intent. He couldn’t make out her features in the darkness, but he could detect her feminine scent. Even with his soap, she smelled like Jane. He wanted to bury his face in the curve of her neck and inhale her warm, soft skin.

  Instead, he eased back to give her room. “Is there anything I can do for you? Are you thirsty? Cold?”

  She must have suddenly realized that she wasn’t in the guest room. Her voice held a note of humor. “I see that I conked out on you in your bed. My apologies.”

  He yawned. “Not to worry. This mattress could sleep an army.”

  “What time is it?”

  He glanced at the digital clock on his side of the bed. “Almost five.”

  He heard her exhale in a long sigh, but she didn’t say anything.

  He reached out to touch her arm and made contact with a soft breast. Shit. His reflexes were lightning-fast. He jerked back his hand like he’d been burned. He swallowed hard. “I’m serious, Jane. It’s way too early for either of us to get up on a Sunday morning. What do you need to make you go back to sleep?”

  He could barely hear her breathe.

  Then she found his ear in the darkness and traced it with a fingertip. “You could make love to me.”

  Seven

  The silence in Ethan’s bedroom was deafening. And it lasted for about a millennium. Jane couldn’t decide if it was good or bad that she couldn’t see his face. Abject horror . . . or uncomfortable embarrassment. Either reaction would be unacceptable.