She spoke softly but he heard the firm tone of her voice. He decided to take a chance. “You want me to stay here with you?” He saw her hesitate. “Not what you think . . . unless you want it to be.”
She smiled up at him. “I’m tempted, believe me,” she said, shaking her head at the same time. “But I think, for my own sake and my own presence of mind that I stay here, alone. I mean, if I get to the point where I’m afraid to stay at my own house . . .”
“I understand, but I want you to be safe.” Liam wasn’t happy with everything that had happened in such a short period of time. But he couldn’t force her, or she’d just push him further away. Besides, he had no say in the end. He wasn’t her boyfriend, wasn’t her husband, wasn’t . . . anything to her. Was he?
“I’ll be downstairs on the couch, right in front of the living room window. I’ll be able to hear anybody who comes even close to the house.” She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket. “See? I’ll have my phone with me. I’ll make sure it’s fully charged before I go to sleep. I can even put 911 on the speed dial if it would make you more comfortable.”
“Make me comfortable?” A dark flush rose in her cheeks and he grinned. “I know what would be comfortable, and probably for you as well.” He paused. “I’m just concerned for your safety, Meg.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Still, I have to do this. Tonight. If I don’t . . .” she shook her head, unconsciously picking at a nonexistent hangnail while she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She was a bundle of nerves, but who wouldn’t be? To some degree, he understood what she was talking about. She was trying very hard not to let fear overtake her life. This was her home. Still . . .
“Give me your phone.”
She processed that and then placed her cell phone in his open palm. He pulled up the contacts and tapped in his cell phone number, saved, and then handed the phone back to her. “You call me if you need anything. Anything, even if you just want to talk.”
She nodded and then offered what he could only construe as a brave smile. “It’s been a long day.” She almost laughed. “Has it only been a day? I need some sleep. I’m starting to feel punchy. You must be tired, too. You don’t need to be babysitting me all night.” She sighed. “While I would . . . while I would enjoy your company, Liam, this time it’ll be me taking the rain check. Okay?”
He wanted to reach for her. To pull her into his arms. He wanted to kiss her, to stroke his fingers along her skin, but he didn’t think that she would welcome yet more advances on his part. His attraction to her was more than just sex, more than just basic instinct. He wanted more. A lot more. But it was her turn to initiate.
They returned to the kitchen. The leftover food was away and the counters wiped down. “Everything is taken care of in here. You need any help getting anything down into the living room?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ll just go up to my room to get my bedding, something to sleep in, and my phone charger.”
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“I’ll go up with you, make sure everything’s secure up there.” It wasn’t a question, and thankfully she didn’t argue. Nodding, she walked out of the kitchen and toward the front room. At the base of the stairs she looked over her shoulder at him.
“Liam, I think I should tell you . . . I’m not sure . . .” she took a deep breath. “I’m not sure what it is that, well, it’s kind of hard to explain,” she stammered.
So she did feel it, too—the undeniable attraction. It was serious for him already, but he had no intention of pressuring her. “I think I know what you’re trying to say, Meg. I have the same feelings. I mean, I don’t want you to think that this is typical behavior for me. I’ve never been involved with an investigation victim before.” He paused, not sure exactly what to say to explain himself. He had to get this right. “Yes, I met you because of my job, but so do lots of people. This isn’t just a job to me. I want to be here with you because I want to, nothing to do with the investigation. I’m damn attracted to you. Obviously,” he smiled. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that after this mess is over, I’d like to see more of you.”
Her eyebrow lifted.
He realized what he’d just said and chuckled. “Wow—well, I’d like to see more of you, too.” He placed a hand on the banister. “What I mean to say is that I’m not only after sex. I’m not into one-night stands. I don’t want to pressure or rush you into anything—”
“I feel the same way, Liam,” she interrupted. “But I’m just not sure if my feelings are what I think they are. I mean, everything has happened so fast. I’ve been hit with a lot of rather unpleasant surprises.” Her eyes widened. “Not you! You’re the first sane thing that’s happened to me since I woke up last night, smelling fire.”
“We’ll take it one step at a time, all right?” He was relieved when she nodded and smiled up at him. He had never been so tongue-tied. God, it was like he was back in high school, asking her to the prom. Still, there was something about Meg, something so fresh and tender that he didn’t want to damage it by giving her the impression that he was only after one thing. Whether she was ready now, later, or even wanted a relationship was something he didn’t know. He just wanted to throw it out there. See if it stuck.
“That sounds like a good plan,” she said.
With that, she headed upstairs. He followed, carefully eyeing every shadow, every corner of the risers and baseboards as he went. It was too dark now to examine everything carefully. If he thought for a moment there were any live devices in the house, he wouldn’t let her stay. But first thing in the morning, in full daylight, he would get down on his hands and knees and examine every inch of the place. There had to be remnants of an ignition device somewhere. Maybe down in the basement? In the kitchen behind the stove? Up in the attic?
Liam always prided himself on doing a good job, but he had obviously missed something. He didn’t like that. Not one bit. The arsonist—whether it was that Mustafa guy or someone else—had to be a pro. They’d set off a triggered or timer device that had been designed to self-destruct. He doubted he would find anything, but he still had to try.
He followed Meg up into her room, leaning in the doorway and watching as she gathered some clothes and pulled the comforter from the floor where it still lay puddled in a heap. She turned to him, arms loaded, and then gestured toward a small shelving unit by the door with her chin.
“Would you mind grabbing my phone charger?”
He did and then followed her downstairs and into the living room, where she tossed everything onto the old-fashioned, flowered sofa. He frowned as he looked at it. “Is that dry?”
She looked at the sofa and then stepped toward it. She placed her hand on the middle cushion and pressed down. “Seems to be, thankfully. I didn’t even think of that.” She stood and glanced around the room. “Actually, I’m a bit surprised that this room didn’t see any damage, or at least none caused by fire.”
Meg reached for a table lamp but found that it didn’t work. She shrugged and quickly made up a bed on the sofa.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay? I will if you want me to. And I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself.”
She laughed softly. “I’m sure, Liam. I think a good night’s rest will help settle my mind. I have to admit that yes, I am a bit hesitant to stay alone, but I have to, you know?”
“I do,” he said, stepping to the front door. “Make sure this door and the back door are locked.”
She nodded. He opened the door, looked at her for several moments, then nodded. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will. And Liam . . . thank you for everything.” She stood with her hands clasped in front of her. “And I mean everything.”
He smiled, stepped outside, and closed the door softly behind him. If he thought she’d let him get away with sitting out front in his car, he’d have done it. As it was, he’d be back when the sun rose the next morning.
19
Meg
Meg lay on the couch in the living room staring up at the ceiling. The room was dark, the curtains drawn halfway across the living room window, blocking the light from a nearby streetlamp. She lay with elbows tucked into her sides, fists under her chin. Anxious. Most of the room was shadowed in darkness, and every little noise in the night had her senses on hyper alert.
Her mind raced. Had one of her residents brought all this trouble down on Promise House or could the blame be laid solely at her feet? Had she done something in her past, some interaction, to cause someone to hate her that much? She didn’t think so. On the other hand, maybe someone was trying to destroy Promise House and everyone inside it was collateral damage. A neighbor? No. They’d all been supportive after she’d met with them. That left her with one option. Someone was after one or more people directly linked to her or Promise House.
She still didn’t know why Tim Jefferson had been killed. Maybe Liam was right. Had he seen something he wasn’t supposed to see? She startled as somewhere upstairs the house made a dull popping sound. Settling. Perhaps the cooler temperatures outside condensing wood molecules . . . sure, anything to keep her mind distracted from the fact that someone was trying to kill her. But who? The thought stunned her. Who could hate her enough to kill her?
Sleep eluded her. For the umpteenth time, she reached for her smart phone on the coffee table, tapped the screen and looked at the time. It was still early—ten fifteen. Despite her exhaustion, mentally and physically, she couldn’t sleep. She turned over, thumping her pillow. Would she be better off upstairs in an actual bed? No. It wasn’t that. The couch was plenty comfortable. It wasn’t even the fear. No. If Meg was honest with herself, she couldn’t sleep because her mind kept drifting back to thoughts of Liam.
Of his hands on her skin, his mouth on her pussy. Just the thought had her aching with desire and her core throbbing. Groaning, she shifted her position on the sofa cushions and rearranged the blanket around her. One of her hands had cupped a breast, her thumb circling her nipple like Liam had done.
She inhaled slowly, then exhaled. Her other hand inched its way under the blanket, down past her pajama bottoms and underneath the elastic band of her underwear. Cupped her mound. Imagining that it was Liam’s hand down there, not hers. Exploring. Circling her clit, sliding her finger in between her lower lips and eliciting a surge of wet heat.
She envisioned his naked chest, his small, taught nipples, his broad shoulders and those rippling muscles delineating every muscle in his abdomen. The sensation of his hard cock, trapped within his jeans as he’d lowered his lips to the warm center of her heat. She plucked at a nipple, imagining Liam’s fingers there again. Heat rushed through her.
Her breathing quickened. She imagined his kisses, the sensation of his lips and his tongue swirling over her skin. She imagined Liam’s mouth suckling at her. Her hips began to rock, slowly at first. The warmth deep in her belly grew. The mental image of him grew stronger; the way his body moved, the rippling of muscles, the strength in his hands.
A surge of warmth flooded her body. Meg threw her head back as she came, the orgasm surging through her. She lay there, limp, tension drained. Her body relaxed, her eyes closed now, her thoughts stayed on Liam, on what he was doing right then. Was it possible he could be dreaming of her, too? The fire ignited again as she pictured him hard and ready, his hand wrapped around his long cock, before he—
The ring of her phone shocked Meg out of her daydream. She bit back a startled cry and sat upright, jerking her hand from beneath her pajamas. The phone screen bathed the room in a soft blue glow. She didn’t recognize the number, but it was a local area code. Heart pounding, she quickly wiped her fingers and reached for the phone, tapping the accept button.
“Hello?” she croaked, breathless with her orgasm and surprise. She placed a hand at the base of her throat and tried again. “Hello?”
“Miss Devers?”
She recognized the male voice. “Detective Hodges?”
“Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”
She felt the warm flush of embarrassment surge into her cheeks. “Yes, I’m all right. I just hurried downstairs to answer the phone.” She had no idea whether he believed her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She had bigger things to worry about. “What’s the matter?”
“Are you alone?”
Why was he asking her that? “Yes, why?”
“Are you at your house . . . Promise House?”
She frowned at the wary tone and swung her legs over the side of the couch, her delicious lethargy gone now, leaving her feeling cold and cautious. “Yes, why? What’s wrong?”
“I have some news.”
She said nothing but waited for him to continue. He was hesitating. Why?
“It’s not good news,” he said.
She shook her head and made a face. “This entire day has been full of nothing but bad news. What else is new?” He said nothing. “Detective Hodges? What is it?”
“Miss Devers . . .” he paused before continuing. “Meg, I regret to inform you that Shelby Coultrie has been in an accident.”
“An accident? What kind of an accident?”
“A car accident.”
Meg’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. “Is he all right?”
“No,” Hodges said. “He’s dead.”
Meg froze. She heard the words but they didn’t compute. Dead? Shelby Coultrie dead? How could he be dead?
“Meg?”
“I’m . . . I’m here,” she stammered. “What happened?”
“Still under investigation. What we do know is that his car went off the road and he hit a tree—”
“Where?” she interrupted. What the hell? Had she really done something to bring tragedy down on everyone involved with Promise House? “Isn’t he still in Florida?”
“Yes, he was. I’m sorry to give you such bad news, but I wanted you to know before it hit the news.”
Her mind wandered. Why would the news of a car accident in Florida be broadcast up here in Georgia? She put the dots together. “Do you think someone . . . is it really an accident?”
“It’s looking like it, but considering what’s been going on with you the past couple of days, we’re looking into it. The Florida State Patrol thinks he might have been drinking. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
“That’s not possible,” she said, shaking her head. “Shelby doesn’t drink. At least he hasn’t had a drop in the past few years that I’ve known him.”
“Did he in the past?”
“Years ago. He still goes to AA meetings but he’s been sober for over the last three years or so.”
“Would you happen to know where he went to his meetings in Monroe?”
“Not really,” she replied. Her tenuous grasp on relaxation had completely evaporated. Her mouth was dry. Shelby was dead? “They . . . they often changed locations for their meetings. I think I remember him telling me that once. But you might be able to get more information from his sponsor. I think . . . I think his name is Ralph. Ralph Crenshaw.” She paused and inhaled deeply. “And Shelby was also a sponsor to someone, a young woman named Melanie. I don’t know her last name.”
“We’ll look into it. I want to assure you that as of right now, we’re not considering this a suspicious death. I’m waiting for more information from the state patrol down there. They told me he might have swerved to avoid an animal, fallen asleep, it’s difficult to tell.”
“Do you know . . . did they tell you . . . did he suffer?”
“No, ma’am, he didn’t suffer. From what I’ve learned, he died on impact. So, no. He didn’t suffer.”
She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. Tears filled her eyes. While Shelby had often been nothing more than a pain in the ass, the thought that someone else had died, someone close to her, left her feeling sick to her stomach.
“You want me to call someone?”
The question startled her. Who? Who
was he going to call? She didn’t know if Shelby had any local relatives. “No. Thank you for calling, Detective.”
She disconnected the call and leaned back into the couch cushions, stunned, still clutching the cell phone. The screen went dark, the only light in the room now the glow from the street lamp outside at the curb.
Shelby. Dead.
She couldn’t wrap her brain around it. Her imagination ran wild. Her memories traced back to all the crime shows she had seen on television. The so-called accidents that turned out to be quite a bit more. Sabotaged brake lines. Deflated tires. She remembered one story where a man actually killed his wife by disengaging the air bag on her side of the car and then rammed it into a retaining wall. On accident of course. It was just bad luck, he claimed, that his wife had taken off her seatbelt because it wrinkled her silk blouse.
Yeah, sure. She sat on the couch, her feet on the coffee table, the blanket pulled up to her chest. A cool draft of the night air filtered through the window Meg and glanced outside. The yard was dark and still. Empty. Exactly the way she felt inside.
First Tim Jefferson, then her house, then someone shooting at her down by the river, and now Shelby Coultrie was dead. Someone had deliberately killed Tim. Someone had deliberately set the house on fire. The incident down by the river? It was possible that it could have been a hunter unaware of her presence. But Shelby’s death? It was possible that it could be an unfortunate and tragic accident, too. Maybe he had been drinking. Maybe he had fallen asleep. Maybe he had tried to avoid a deer darting across the road.
Maybe he had been murdered.
Meg sat in the dark, staring at nothing. Unable to turn her mind off, it whirled until her anxiety pushed her thoughts to manic nonsense. Her pulse accelerated. She told herself to calm down. Not to jump to conclusions. Still, it was the middle of the night and with darkness surrounding her, the house empty, she couldn’t help but feel frightened.
She huffed in disgust. Meg Devers afraid of the dark? Never! She was sensible, made rational, educated decisions. She wasn’t impulsive.
Fighting the Flames (Southern Heat Book 2) Page 15
