She glanced down. Her T-shirt was where it should be, her pajama bottoms likewise, and then she cleared her throat. Her face burned with heat. How could she look at him again? How could she even talk to him about the fire . . . the passion was gone as effectively as a cold shower. It all came crashing back. Her house had caught on fire. Someone was dead in her basement. And she stood in the charred, soot-smeared, acrid-smelling kitchen making out with the arson investigator. What the hell had she done?
“I need to go upstairs, get some things.” She expected him to nod in agreement, maybe to even escort her upstairs. She was surprised, and not pleasantly, when he abruptly shook his head.
“No can do, Meg.”
What? “But I need clothes . . . I have to go back to the GBI to take a polygraph! I need to see the extent of the fire damage up there. I need to call the insurance company, and my contractor. Who else? The building department.” She was rambling and she knew it, grasping at straws, trying to find something solid to hang on to, to give her purpose to get through the next trying days.
“I can’t let you just run around the house.”
“You’re in here, checking the place out,” she broke in. “If you thought the place was going to collapse around you, you wouldn’t be.”
“It’s not just a matter of safety.” He shifted from one foot to the other and reached for the clipboard on the counter, not meeting her eye. “You’ll be relieved to know the fire damage wasn’t quite as extensive as it looked originally. The foundation and the supports are sound. But—”
“Then I need to go upstairs, get some clothes at least. I need to get out of these clothes . . . I can’t go anywhere like this,” she said, gesturing toward her soot-smudged pajamas. The pajamas that probably showed every curve of her breasts, the outline of her nipples, the Flower-Power pajama bottoms accentuating the apex of her legs, where his fingers had been only moments ago, pleasuring—again she forced her herself to think of something else, to avoid the wayward thoughts that had her blood thrumming through her veins again.
“I can’t go around like this all day, Liam . . . Mr. Cohen.” Oh, God, how lame did she sound? It was too late for regrets. She should own what she had done. Not wallow in self-pity and embarrassment. She tried, without much success. She forced herself to look at him. Told herself not to be ashamed, that he had seemed to enjoy the interlude as much as she had.
“You might compromise evidence.”
“So it was arson.” He looked down at her, his eyes filled with, what? Pity? His own embarrassment? No, she didn’t see any of that. She didn’t see any indication of regret from his expression. What she did see was a professional arson investigator. All business now. They may have crossed a line several moments ago. Despite her scolding herself not to, she glanced down at his crotch. He was still hard. They had shared a brief moment of sexual chemistry, but she had no idea what to do about it. Her eyes lingered until he shifted his body with a muttered curse. If he wasn’t going to say anything about it, she was.
“So about what just happened,” she said, looking him straight in the eye.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” he broke in.
“What do we do about that?” His response was about what she expected.
“Absolutely nothing, Meg. I crossed a line. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
Well. She wasn’t sure if his words made her feel better or worse. An appropriate response, a proper one, no doubt about that, but hadn’t he felt what she had when they touched each other? Had he not felt the pull toward her that she felt toward him? His arousal proved his desire. But was that desire for her or just sex? Sexual chemistry. Wasn’t that what they called it? Kismet or fate? Serendipity? Sluttiness? She couldn’t help the surge of disappointment that swept through her, nor a growing annoyance, not just at herself, but toward him. Why had she allowed him to do what he did? And why hadn’t he stopped her? Why had she literally thrown herself at him, like it was something she did every day? It wasn’t. She didn’t.
“What do you need?”
What did she need? Her first instinct was a misinterpretation. What did she need? She needed to be comforted. She needed some support, some cooperation here. She needed answers! But she knew what he was asking.
“For starters, some clothes.” She scowled. “I have to go back at the GBI to take the stupid lie detector test.”
He shrugged. “It’s normal procedure,” he said. “It’s your house. They’re suspicious. Their first inclination is to think that you set the fire yourself for insurance gains.”
“But I didn’t!” she argued. “Why would anybody think I would do such a thing? I’ve worked myself down to the bone to get this place the way I want it, to open my business, to make a difference—”
“You’d be surprised what people do,” he said quietly.
She could imagine that he’d seen the worst of people. She understood that, but she also felt insulted that anyone would even think that she could do something like that. “The way they were talking to me, the way that Detective Hodges was all over me, didn’t give me the impression that he was trying to rule me out of anything. In fact, I got the distinct impression that he was sure that I’m guilty!”
“I’ve worked with him on several occasions,” Liam said. He glanced around the kitchen, anywhere but at her. He wanted to leave. Another surge of disappointment. “He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s fair.”
“Oh, no, he’s not,” she disagreed. Gone was any lingering sexual pleasure. Why was he defending the crude, obnoxious detective? “Do you know what he said about my residents? That they’re all bums, looking for a handout!”
Liam said nothing though one of his eyebrows rose perceptibly. She groaned. “All right, I know that some of them can be, at other shelters, but not here! I carefully screen all my people. Believe me, I’m trying to help them get back on their feet. None of the people staying here are permanent, nor do they expect to be. What I provide is . . . well, it’s more like a transition. Take Monica Chambers, for example.”
“Which one is she?”
“She’s my bookkeeper, at least on the business side. Anyway, Monica is a fifty-five-year-old woman who recently divorced. Way back when, before she got married, she used to be a bookkeeper. She was good at it, too. Worked for some big insurance company. But her husband didn’t want her working, felt that he was more than capable of taking care of her, which he was, as a stockbroker. So, she hasn’t worked in like three decades. After the divorce she thought she’d go back to work but nobody wanted to hire her.”
“Age discrimination?”
“Of course!” Meg exclaimed. “She’s certainly qualified. But according to Monica, more than one potential employer who asked her to come in for an interview abruptly changed their mind when she walked in and they noted her age.” She paused. “Anyway, she needs a recent reference for future work. She’s taking night classes to catch up on skills and to get certified in bookkeeping and accounting. To catch up. I pay her—on the record—to do the bookkeeping for the business, for Promise House. It will look good on her resume. Everyone pulls their own weight around here, at least to the best of their capabilities. To help them get self-sufficient again, to regain their confidence, to get them ready to re-enter society after they’ve been knocked down.”
He said nothing. “And then there’s Amy. Barely out of her teens, kidnapped from Arizona by that creep Sakkas, you know, that antiquities dealer who was in the news a few months ago? He kept a bunch of girls in a shipping container, to be sold as sex slaves to God knows where. She has no home to go back to. Her parents don’t want her home, she’s traumatized, trying to learn to trust again, to make herself venture into the world. Can you imagine? I’m giving her a safe place to stay while she makes some decisions.” She shook her head. “And Hodges says they’re all bums?”
He didn’t say a word, just allowed her to vent.
“And then there’s Aliyah. She and her Iraqi fam
ily immigrated here right after 9/11. You can imagine the hardships and prejudice they’ve experienced. They wanted nothing to do with what was going on in their country. And yet, because Aliyah had become too Americanized, she had to run away from her family or risk them sending her back to Iraq to be married to some sixty-five-year-old man who already has three wives.” She glared at him for several moments. “What am I supposed to do? Turn my back on these people? On Tanisha, my cook? I pay her a small wage to cook for my residents as well as organizing supplies for the food bank next door. We try to provide a least one hot meal a day for transients, for those down on their luck, for those who just can’t make ends meet with their meager paychecks. She’s a former prostitute, but she’s trying to make a better life for herself. Am I supposed to just ignore their needs?”
She shifted her position, staring at the appliances. “I’m not a bleeding-heart liberal,” she muttered. “Even though that’s what Hodges thinks. I’m just trying to help people.” She gestured around the kitchen. “And now this! My house set on fire by a possible arsonist. A dead body down in my basement.” She fought her rising emotion and blinked back warm tears that threatened. “And now I can’t even go upstairs, to my own room, to get some clothes so I can go down to the police department and take a fucking lie detector test!”
“Meg, it’ll be okay.”
She turned away from him, unable to deal with his gaze. One side of the kitchen looked untouched; sink, cabinets, coffee maker, all healthy and well. Toward the appliances, not so much. The stove and the wall behind it were charred, a dark black smear of damage that rose from the floor up to the ceiling. Thank God the stove worked on electricity and not gas. She gestured. “Did a wire fray?”
He sighed and shook his head. “I can’t discuss the details of my investigation. Not until I’ve come to a conclusion.”
She grunted in frustration. “Well, can you tell me where the fire started? Was it here in the kitchen?” That didn’t make sense. She had seen flames up on the third floor. If the fire had started in the kitchen, chances were she would see more damage down here. Her eyes widened. “Was there more than one point of ignition?”
He gave her a double take. Surprised that she had asked that question? She shrugged. “I watch TV. I’ve seen plenty of crime shows.” She watched the corner of his lip twitch. Would it hurt so bad if he actually smiled?
“I can get you a change of clothes. Just tell me what you need.”
“No way. You’re not rummaging around in my underwear,” she grumbled.
“So I won’t get you any.” He did grin that time.
She felt the heat of another flush warm her cheeks. Oh God. She covered the surge of sexual desire with a frown. “A pair of jeans, a T-shirt, maybe a flannel shirt. The jeans and the flannel shirts are hanging in the open closet. You can find a T-shirt in the second dresser drawer.” She thought. “Maybe a clean pair of socks. Top drawer, but no rummaging through my underwear!”
He nodded, and then, still holding his clipboard, brushed past her. As he left the kitchen, she thought she heard a sound rumbling deep in his chest. Was he chuckling? So he did have a sense of humor. Good for him. She was just about out of humor.
As soon as he walked down the hall and she heard him heading upstairs, she left the kitchen and hurried through the downstairs rooms. Checking the dining room, the cupboards under the stairway, the living room. Some signs of charring and some water damage. Damn it. Everything stank of smoke. How much would this cost to get cleaned and repaired? She couldn’t remember her deductible on her homeowner’s insurance. How long would it take to process her claim? She returned to the kitchen and stared at the closed door that led downstairs to the basement. To the laundry, to the two locked bedroom doors, and then the last door. Tim’s room.
Not caring what Liam Cohen had to say about it, she quickly opened the door to the basement and headed downstairs. Dim glimmers of light shone through the small windows over the laundry area. She quickly made her way to Tim’s room but paused in the doorway as she peered inside. Shook her head in dismay. Black plastic bags lay everywhere, obviously pulled out of the closet to get to that body. Hesitantly, she stepped into the room. She fought the fresh wave of nausea and fear that nearly overpowered her at the memory of the body lying in the closet. A sight that was etched into her brain forever.
Hopefully the body wasn’t Tim. But even if it wasn’t, she would have to send her homeless veteran on his way. He’d broken the rules. Smoking and drinking down here. Why was she so trusting? Why did she always feel that people told her the truth? During her initial interview with the man, Tim had told her that he used to smoke, but a scare ten years ago had prompted him to quit. She had believed him.
She should be a lot more suspicious, a lot more cynical. But no, she always wanted to believe the best in everyone. She had done the same with her ex. Oh, he was a good liar, no doubt about that. He’d managed to fool her for years. She didn’t like thinking about Ray. It made her feel disappointed, not just in him, but in herself. She had spent seven years with the man, had fallen head over heels for him when they met at Ohio State University during their junior year of college. They had met at a bar one evening during finals week. That should have been an adequate warning for her not to get seriously involved. Don’t marry a guy that you met at a bar.
Well, she had been young, foolish, and as the saying goes, looking for love in all the wrong places. But Ray was polite, funny, and handsome. For twenty-three year old Meg, that had been enough. At first. They’d had a relatively fast courtship. Within a year, they had both graduated from college, him with a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and her with a degree in journalism. Within a month they’d moved in together, and within a month after that they had gotten married. One day, a few months after their wedding, he had told her he decided to go to law school, then take the bar. She had put her own career goals on hold and worked two jobs to help pay for schooling. No school loans for them, no sirree.
He’d also worked part-time as he went to school. It ended up taking him a year longer than it should have to finish his courses because he just didn’t apply the dedication and the time he should have. It was then that the first cracks in their marriage had begun to appear. She had come home on more than one occasion to find him sitting on the couch, watching sports on the TV, the coffee table cluttered with empty beer cans. He displayed mood swings. He laughed less often, complained more.
And then he failed the bar. She tried to encourage him. Lots of people didn’t pass the bar on their first try. Ray had sunk into a depression and began to drink more. Harder stuff. More often than not when she came home from her second job, a graveyard shift in an industrial cleaning service, she would find him sprawled on the couch in a drunken stupor.
After seven years of marriage, enough was enough. She had told him she wanted a divorce. He hadn’t been happy, no, not at all. But she had filed and she was awarded a divorce without much ado because he didn’t bother to show up for court. Non-contested. You don’t show up, you lose. She had packed up her meager belongings and moved. She to Georgia, he to California. She hadn’t heard from him since. That had been two years ago. She had plans now. Goals. Never again would she let any man hold her back from doing what she wanted to do.
Pushing thoughts of Ray from her mind, along with the feelings that Liam had evoked in her, Meg stepped further into the room and then hesitantly glanced toward the closet. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but she was relieved to find nobody in there. No bloodstains, no blood splatter anywhere, just an empty space. It was likely that the police had taken several of the large plastic bags as evidence, or at least the ones that had touched the body in the closet. She glanced at several of the other large plastic bags still cluttering the room and stepped toward one. They were gathered at the top with twist ties. She untwisted one, not sure what she would find.
She peeled back the black plastic and peered inside. Looked like clothes. She dumped the ba
g upside down. Yes, clothes, a jumble of threadbare and hole-ridden jeans, stained T-shirts, a couple of dirty socks. Eww. Did Tim actually think he could sell this junk or did they belong to him? She checked another bag. That one was filled with broken toys. And then the third, filled with magazines and newspapers, the majority of them soiled and outdated.
“What are you doing down here?”
Meg bit back a startled cry as she straightened, glanced over her shoulder, and saw Liam standing in the doorway, frowning with displeasure. A pair of stonewashed jeans, a blue and gray checked flannel shirt, and a dark blue T-shirt, topped with a white pair of crew-length socks was draped over the arm that held the clipboard. His other hand was braced on the doorway.
“I’m just looking.”
“I told you that you can’t just wander around,” he said, voice heavy with disapproval.
She shook her head. “There’s no crime scene tape down here. It’s obvious that the police have taken what they needed. I wouldn’t have stepped into the room if the tape was there.” Her attempt at defending herself, and her annoyance of having to do so in her own home, left her feeling uncertain. She wanted to forget what happened up in the kitchen. Desperately. Liam seemed to have forgotten about it completely. Not that one instance of grab and grope defined a relationship, or even the intention of one, but he could be a little more polite, couldn’t he? After all . . .
“You crossed the crime scene tape to get into the house,” he pointed out.
She heaved a sigh, her emotions roiling. “What do you expect me to do?” she softly demanded, her voice trembling. He said nothing. “What am I supposed to do?”
Fighting the Flames (Southern Heat Book 2) Page 6
