Bring On the Heat

by Eden Bradley

  If it was there, he might not go in.

  Punching in the code to open the back door, he stepped into the mudroom off the kitchen. The only light he could see was the one over the sink. Erik left that one lit all the time. He didn’t like coming into a dark house.

  Keegan paused, listening. Heard nothing.

  He considered calling out but didn’t want to bother him—them—if they were…busy.

  Walking to the front of the house, he didn’t see anyone.

  But there, in the front window, he saw Jules’ car.

  He sucked in a breath then forced himself to release it slowly.

  If they weren’t down here then he knew where they were.

  His body still felt the effects of the alcohol but his head had cleared.

  Now what?

  He had to know. Had to see with his own eyes.

  He turned to the stairs to the second floor.

  ~ * ~

  Jules didn’t know what prompted her to look at the open door.

  Maybe she’d heard some small sound. More likely it was just a coincidence that her gaze happened to go there.

  Erik had released her from the restraints but they hadn’t moved from the bed. He’d curled against her back, tucked her into his body and wrapped his arms around her.

  Neither of them had caught their breath yet and she needed a shower.

  She wanted to drift off to sleep and give her brain a rest but it just kept working. Thinking.

  And then there was Keegan.

  Standing in the shadows of the hall outside the bedroom room.

  Staring at her.

  She saw Keegan’s face perfectly in the glow from the hall light. And his expression made her breath catch in her throat.

  Behind her, she felt Erik freeze and knew he saw Keegan, as well.

  Their gazes met and held.

  Just before Keegan turned and walked away.

  ~ * ~

  BURNED: DRAGOS BOOK #1

  by Amber Kallyn

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  ~ * ~

  ONE

  The Other was here.

  Lowering the truck window, Calla Dragos sniffed the chilly afternoon. Pine trees, asphalt. All overshadowed by the distinct stench of sulfur. Her stomach lurched, vileness rising to choke her. As she drove into the blink of a town, the nausea grew stronger, overpowering all other senses.

  Drawing closer to the Jasper Fire Department, she focused on keeping her clammy hands on the wheel, her concentration on the light traffic. Keeping her foot on the gas pedal, rather than slamming the brakes and fleeing.

  How could he be here?

  It was bad enough her job as an arson investigator brought her to this small, mountaintop town of Jasper, Arizona. Bad enough she’d left her family behind in the midst of yet another argument about her independence. The possibility of facing Eric brought tremors to her body.

  Parking her cherry red pickup in front of the station, Calla shaded her eyes from the late afternoon sun and searched the colorful wood-front buildings. The stench faded.

  Eric marked her, then fled. Like a coward. And he was a coward. She needed to remember that fact. Otherwise, the fear coiling in her heart would drive her batty.

  After a couple deep breaths, she calmed the nausea a little. She could do this. She would do this. And if that bastard decided to show up, she’d face him with all her strength.

  Calla stepped from the truck on shaky legs, smoothed her navy skirt and slipped on the matching jacket. Reaching across the seat, she grabbed her oversized black bag, which held a notebook, pens and her kit. After another soothing breath, filling her lungs with the crisp mountain air, she headed around the corner to the firemen’s entrance.

  Giggles drew her attention to a group of barely-eighteen girls, scantily dressed. And the man they huddled near.

  In nothing but low-slung jeans, the top button carelessly undone, the man gave off the rugged air of a male underwear model with a sexy, take me to your bedroom now look. His blond hair, slightly too long for a clean-cut look, dripped water, from a recent shower maybe. Or a drenching with the hose. The scruff on his chin, a shade darker than his hair, enhanced the bad boy aura.

  Gods, he was just like Petey. Playboy and chick magnet, an older version of her youngest brother.

  “So can we have your autograph? Please?” one of the girls begged, her voice high. The other girls giggled some more.

  “Certainly, ladies.” The man’s voice was as smoky and smooth as his gray eyes.

  His gaze flicked to Calla. The intensity shooting from his eyes made her tense, caught like a rabbit in the headlights. His lips twitched. A flush spread up her cheeks. Calla stared at her feet, hurrying along the flower-bordered sidewalk. Before she reached the door, the teen girls filed past, happily waving calendars with mostly naked men.

  Figured. A playboy, just like Petey. Which month was he?

  Bare feet filled her view. She took in the long, jean-clad legs, the scruff of hair above the gaping waistband. A blond trail led up a golden, ripped abdomen and chest, to dark eyes. This close, flecks of green and blue mixing with the gray were visible.

  His scent, suntan lotion and hay, punched into her, dissipating the last remains of the sulfur.

  Her libido woke and started clamoring. She gritted her teeth. Not why she was here. And besides, she had no business being attracted to this man. This human.

  “Howdy, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat, a lusty smile twitching at his lips.

  “Excuse me,” she replied, her voice steady and cool, the payoff from years of practice working around other untouchable hunks. “I need to see the fire chief.”

  Something unreadable flashed in his gaze, and the smirk disappeared. “What would a beautiful woman like you want with him?”

  “Frankly, it’s none of your business.” Knowing the best way to turn him off, she put a hand to her hip, jutted her chin and raked her gaze over his long, lean form. Unfortunately, her normal barriers weren’t working. The only thing she wanted to do was reach out and touch his glistening tanned skin. Instead, she added in a sharp tone, “Let me guess. Mr. October.”

  His face hardened, all amusement fleeing. The playboy took a step back as if she’d actually offended him. Then, his grin came back, along with a devil-may-care shrug. “Actually,” he drawled, “I’m December. I wanted a Santa hat on my lap, not a pumpkin.” Leaning closer, his minty breath a whisper on her cheek, he added, “Why? You need a calendar?”

  A shiver worked its way down the back of her neck. With a dry mouth and fluttering stomach, Calla strode past him and pushed into the icy air of the building. His stare burned into her back. She welcomed the cool relief when the door snicked closed. Without pausing to lean against the wall for support, Calla straightened and forced her feet to move.

  A typical fire station layout confronted her. She headed down a short hall with two doors, one most likely to the truck bay. The tan walls led into a kitchen/living room combo. Crossing around beat up furniture that should have been relegated to the dump many years ago, she entered the hallway on the far side of the room.

  With her luck, she’d end up running into one of the bedrooms and another half-naked hunk before finding the chief’s office.

  An older man stepped out of the first door, blocking her way. Faded brown eyes widened when he spied her. “I’m sorry, miss. You can’t be in here.”

  Calla slipped her ID from her jacket pocket. “Calla Dragos. Arson investigator. Your department called me.”

  Smiling broadly, face wrinkling, the old man nodded. “Good, good. I didn’t know such purty young things were in the business nowadays.”

  “Um. Thanks.” She nibbled
her lip. Did all the men in this town flirt so shamelessly?

  “Well,” he said, taking her hand in his bear-like grip. “Come along. Chief’s office is just down here.”

  “You’re not the chief?”

  He slapped his leg, chuckling. “Ah, no, miss. I’m surely not. I’m Fred. Call me the mascot, though I don’t have no spots or tail.”

  She followed him to the last door on the left and entered behind Fred, into an empty, disorganized office. Paperwork spread haphazardly across the desk. Books lay piled on the windowsill. At least the place seemed clean, just scattered.

  “Guess the chief’s outside. I’ll go get him for you.” Fred hurried out.

  Stepping lightly, she pushed a chair from the desk and sat down, hands itching to straighten some of the piles.

  The door creaked open as Fred peeked back in. “Sorry. You want anything to drink?”

  Calla smiled at the man’s simple spirit. “No, thank you. Just the chief.”

  Fred nodded as he disappeared once more.

  She wrote a heading on the page with the date and time, then glanced around the office, impatient to get started. With Eric in town, she needed the details of the four fires. Gods, she hoped she was wrong and it wasn’t him. But she had to find out for sure, before something happened beyond buildings destroyed. For her, the past was all too clear on everything that could be taken away, things unable to be rebuilt.

  He hadn’t bothered her family recently. Well, as far as she knew. Being one of the few women in a houseful of overprotective males, she rarely heard anything directly. No matter how much she grumbled and complained.

  But why come to this small town and stir up trouble? He couldn’t have been sure she’d be sent.

  Nerves stretched taut, Calla set her notepad precariously on the desk, then strode to the window, needing the calming heat of the sunlight to soothe her. Weak rays fell over her face and arms, warm enough to push the ball of ice from her chest.

  A minute later, a creak came from the hall. Calla hurried back to her chair. Her hip bumped the desk, and a picture frame teetered. She grabbed it before it crashed to the floor. As she reached to put it back, the picture caught her attention.

  She groaned silently as the smiling face of the playboy stared at her, young blonde girls plastered to either side of him.

  ~ * ~

  Scott O’Neil grabbed a shirt from his room, then met Fred back in the hall. “Say again?”

  “She’s the purtiest thing I’ve seen in a long time. And she’d only be an investigator if she had brains. It’s the whole package. You won’t meet another filly like her in this tiny town.”

  Slipping the shirt over his head, Scott snorted at the old man’s hopeful tone. He didn’t mention he’d already met Fred’s filly. Or that one of her cold glances could turn a man’s lust to icy shards. He hurried down the hall, looking forward to her reaction when she found out he was the one she’d come to see.

  Scott pushed open his office door and strode inside, his gaze landing on her slim body. Her hair fell partway down her back, soft waves beckoning for a man’s touch. Sparkling womanly-clippy-things held the sides from her pale face. He’d never seen such red hair on a woman before. It made his palms itch to find out if she was natural or not.

  Instead, he wiped the grin from his face and cleared his throat.

  The woman turned, holding the picture of Scott and his two little sisters in a white-knuckled grip. He crooked a brow, meeting her stunning blue gaze.

  She looked from him, back to the picture, then set it on the desk. “Sorry. I just…” She faced him, hands clasped in front of her.

  “Can I help you?” Scott asked, not bothering to try putting her at ease as he’d normally have done. With a woman like her, it wouldn’t do any damn good. Besides, if she really was an investigator like she’d told Fred, he didn’t see the point.

  She tugged a leather ID from the front pocket of her navy jacket and held it out. “Calla Dragos. The Phoenix Arson office sent me to look into your fires.”

  Scott glanced at her as he headed to his desk. The irresistible quip tingled on his tongue. “Mister December, at your service.”

  He didn’t feel like explaining the picture of him in the charity calendar. She probably wouldn’t care he’d only been talked into posing for the damn shoot to raise money for the Jasper Orphanage. The place was falling down around the nuns’ ears, and the free labor of the fire department only got them so far.

  She shifted on her feet, sighing. “Look. I’m sorry about that. But can we get down to business now?”

  Long black lashes framed those baby-blues. Her pert nose contrasted with a stubborn chin. Figured. Looking closer, he realized the creamy complexion belonged only to her. She wasn’t wearing a drop of makeup. Interesting.

  Most women with looks like hers seemed to take great pleasure in covering it with layers of colored plaster.

  He took his seat, wishing his jeans weren’t so tight. “What do you want to know first?”

  She smoothed her hands down her hips and perched on the edge of her seat. His cock twinged at the glimpse of pale thigh peeking beneath the skirt as it rose. Picking up a long yellow notepad, she tapped a pen against her lush lower lip. Scott couldn’t tear his gaze from the strawberry mouth. Hell, he didn’t want to.

  “Your real name, for starters,” she said.

  The words coming from that kissable mouth swirled in his brain, making little sense. “Huh?”

  Her pen stopped moving. “Look. If you’re just going to give me the runaround, you can figure this out yourself. I’ve already apologized.”

  “Oh.” He was acting like a randy idiot. “Scott O’Neil.”

  She leaned over the pad and began writing, giving a great view of the swell of her breasts. A hint of white lace peeked out from beneath a light blue shirt. A small freckle dotted her left breast where it curved into cleavage. His cock stretched to full attention, pressing tightly into his jeans. Before he gave in to temptation and jumped over the desk, he clenched his fists and hid them from view.

  “When was the first fire?” she asked, then jerked upright.

  With great force of will, Scott forced his gaze up to meet her eyes. Heat rushed to his ears, more to his throbbing cock. How juvenile to get caught ogling. “Um. Two weeks ago. The Riley farm.”

  “What burned?” she asked with a glare.

  “Their feed barn,” he said, trying to get his mind off her body and onto the town’s pressing concern—which wasn’t his straining dick. “Being spring, it was almost empty, but it’s still gonna take a chunk out of their pockets to replace everything.”

  Calla wrote some more, her back ramrod straight. “Do you have a map I can plot the fires on?”

  Scott gladly used her question as an excuse to swivel his chair and rifle through the filing cabinets against the back wall, even though there was a perfectly good map with the fires already outlined in his desk drawer. But he needed to look at something that wasn’t the sexy woman sitting on the other side of his desk.

  His lust completely unabated, Scott gave up and turned back. Surprisingly, her gaze, softer, darker, followed his every move. Maybe she wasn’t so stiff after all. Interesting.

  He pulled out the map and laid it between them on the stack of scattered papers. One of these days, he really was going to get them all filed. Calla scooted her chair closer, staring at the red circles.

  “Which one is the Riley farm?” she asked, her voice coldly professional. But he was beginning to suspect that beneath her cold exterior, she might have a little heat inside.

  Scott pointed to the circle on the far left, watching her long fingers grip the pen as she scribbled more notes. She asked about the rest, nibbling the tip of the pen between questions. His cock ached as he pictured those pink lips nibbling him.

  After going through the dates and buildings burned, she traced the circles, then looked up, wide-eyed. “Am I seeing this right?” she asked.

  H
e nodded, a breath of relief escaping his tight chest. So she’d caught it too. They were the beginnings of a spiral. And if the arsonist continued, the spiral would end in the center of town, which happened to be exactly where the firehouse sat.

  “Did anyone figure out if an accelerant was used?”

  Her tone scratched him wrong. Trying not to grind his teeth, he snapped, “We may be in the backcountry, ma’am, but we’re not hicks.”

  She glanced up from her notes, eyes wide, mouth forming a pretty O. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. Look. These are standard questions. I ask the same things of everyone.”

  Slightly mollified, Scott tempered his voice. “We don’t know. None of the buildings were used to store any flammable materials. There was no odor of gas, or alcohol, nothing we’d expect to find with the way the fires spread. Damn quick, hard to put out. The only thing a few of us smelled—at every site—was matches. You know, the tangy, bitter smell you get when you put a match out?”

  “Sulfur,” she whispered. Her hand twitched, the pen slipping from her fingers. Calla caught it before it hit the floor.

  He’d hit a nerve. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head, staring at the notepad. “How’d you put them out?”

  He let it pass. For now. “Most places around here have at least one well. Our trucks are equipped with foam tanks, but also hoses to draw on the wells if needed. Cost of living in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by forest. We have to get the fires out quick, otherwise they spread.”

  “Did the foam work?” she asked, still avoiding his gaze.

  She definitely knew something. “Not very well. In fact, the first blaze almost reached the trees before we realized it. Funny thing though.” He watched for her reaction. “As soon as we started using water, it went out easily. The last few, we went straight to the wells.”

  “You said some of you smelled the sulfur. How many?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”