Playing with Fire

by Debra Dixon

  “You okay?”

  Maggie didn’t actually jump off the bed, but she came close before her common sense canceled her instincts. Settling down, she asked, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Assistant Chief Grayson, arson investigation.” His voice was harder now, more official. The compassion was gone. “If you’re Maggie St. John, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  She got off the bed. Sitting on it put her at a disadvantage somehow, and Maggie couldn’t shake the feeling that Grayson liked it that way. The jeans and the rumpled shirt couldn’t camouflage the man’s hard edge or the constant assessment in his eyes. Judge and jury.

  Maggie wanted to cringe when she realized exactly how much he must have seen. Instead she flicked a glance over his long frame. “Right,” she said. “You’re just here to interrogate me. That’s reassuring. For a minute there I thought you were here to scare me.”

  “Something did that before I ever got the chance. Care to tell me about it?”

  Suddenly Maggie didn’t want to tell him anything. Not when he looked at her like that. As if he already knew her secrets and wanted a confession anyway. “No. I wouldn’t care to tell you.”

  “Have nightmares often?”

  “I wasn’t sleeping.”

  “Have panic attacks often?”

  She bristled. “Only when strange men sneak up on me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was strange.”

  Beau saw a grudging smile catch the corners of her mouth. He hadn’t meant to make the joke, but old habits kicked in. The lady was strung tight, and he was an expert at pulling the release trigger. Growing up he’d lost count of the times he’d seen his mother huddled into a ball trying to shut out the world.

  But seeing this woman scrunched up hadn’t been the real kick in the gut. Her eyes had. He’d never seen anyone except his mother look so alone and frightened. For a second he’d seen real terror in Maggie St. John’s eyes, and then she put up the mask.

  What are you hiding, lady? One way or another he’d find out.

  He relaxed his expression, returning her uncertain smile. “Seems like we got off to a bad start, Ms. St. John.”

  “Never apologize. I don’t, and call me Maggie. It’s a perfect day for bad starts. Trust me on this one.”

  “I’m not the trusting type.”

  “It figures.” She leaned against the bed and shoved a hand through hair that looked as if it’d been cut with a Weedwacker.

  Parted mostly in the center, it fell in every direction imaginable. Coupled with a generous mouth, the mussed hair gave the impression she’d just been kissed hard—and needed to be kissed again. Her plump bottom lip and the vulnerability in her eyes were a dangerous combination.

  He wanted to taste the first and made it a habit to avoid the second. Fortunately, getting to know her better wasn’t a decision he’d have to make. Her involvement in this case placed her squarely in the look-but-don’t-touch category. The unisex scrubs helped too.

  Fishing a small notebook out of his back pocket, he said, “This’ll only take a few minutes. It’s pretty basic.”

  “Look, I don’t know anything about the fire. I opened the door. There it was. I didn’t see anybody. I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t do anything.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “No one’s accused you of anything.”

  The word yet hovered unspoken in the air, a sword over Maggie’s head. Just get through the questions, she told herself as the room began to make her feel claustrophobic. Just answer the man, and get him out of here.

  He seemed to take up so much space, so much of the air she needed to breathe. She was used to doctors patronizing her, accustomed to interns leering at her, and was an old hand at fending off party drunks. With them she felt she could hold her own. Maggie had no such illusions about Grayson. There would be no question of winning. With him it was a question of surviving.

  Intensity came off him in waves. No missteps allowed. He was the real deal. The absolute last thing she needed today.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  “Full name for starters.”

  Maggie hesitated. She always did. “Mary Magdalene St. John.”

  He looked up from his pad, but didn’t comment. That was a first. Her name ordinarily earned her at least one wisecrack. In quick succession he got her address, telephone, her floor assignment, and how long she’d worked at Cloister.

  “Now, you said you didn’t see anyone, but you didn’t mention how you happened to be in the hallway.”

  “I had to straighten out a chart mix-up. The emergency department sent a D.O.A. chart up to the floor with a live patient and sent the live patient’s chart to the morgue. I was on my way to switch them when I smelled the smoke.”

  “Is the door kept locked?”

  “Never.”

  “Who else has access to that hallway?”

  Maggie laughed and wrapped her arms around her midriff. “The city of Baton Rouge. There are a million ways to get in and out of this hospital. Though most people just want out.”

  “Do you?”

  The question was so unexpected, she answered truthfully. “Yeah. Sometimes. But I wouldn’t see the kind of patients we see in Cloister’s ER. I didn’t get into nursing to hand out aspirin.”

  Grayson paused, contemplating his pad and then raised his gaze to hers. “You don’t work in ER. Why do you care what patients go through there?”

  Maggie realized her mistake. If she didn’t tell him, someone else would. “I worked in ER until last week. I … transferred.”

  “Transferred?”

  She saw the noose looming before her and had no choice but to put her neck in it. He was fishing for a motive, and she had a dandy one for him. She was about to paint herself as the disgruntled employee trying to get back at the big, bad employer.

  “I was reassigned actually.”

  “Reassigned?”

  “Yeah. I took exception to where Dr. Thibodeaux put his hands. Unfortunately, I had a scalpel in my hand at the time.”

  TWO

  Beau straightened, suddenly wary. He shifted his attention from her long enough to check the room for sharp objects. He was safe. At least physically. The risk associated with Maggie St. John would be allowing her vulnerability to cloud his thinking or excuse her behavior.

  Not that she looked vulnerable or in need of excuses at the moment.

  Beau tried to reconcile the frightened woman he’d seen curled into a ball with the tough blonde in front of him. Neither of them were what he expected. One settled disputes with a scalpel, and the other looked petrified of her own shadow.

  Not that his expectations were important to the case. Based on her proximity to the fire, she was his prime suspect. His job wasn’t to understand her; it was to arrest her or clear her. Simple. Except that he doubted anything about Maggie St. John was simple. His reaction to her wasn’t.

  Running his gaze over her once more, he looked for signs that she regretted the incident with Thibodeaux. Instead of her eyes dropping, her chin came up, and she met his scrutiny with a challenging glare of her own. Beau was left with the certainty that the lecherous Dr. Thibodeaux wasn’t very bright. He’d certainly picked the wrong lady to mess with.

  Playing the amused “good cop” as he took a step closer, he asked, “So how is the good doctor?” in the same conversational tone he used to comment on the weather.

  Her chin came down a fraction, and she seemed to deflate, as if relieved she didn’t have another lecture to endure, another battle to fight, another defense in a long line of defenses. Beau wondered if Maggie fought from habit, and how many fights she’d won over the years. Probably more than she lost, he decided.

  “Thibodeaux isn’t sliced up, if that’s what you’re trying to find out. I never intended to hurt him.” Regret finally seeped into the words, and her guard inched down again. “I didn’t even realize I had anything in my hand until he started backing up. At first I tho
ught my genuine outrage had finally made an impression on his thick skull. Then I saw I was making each of my points with the scalpel.”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Maybe I should have tried it sooner. I had the man’s complete attention.”

  “Lady, you would have had mine.” With or without the scalpel.

  Maggie shot him a quick look, wondering if he knew how little she wanted his attention. Right now she wanted him to close his notebook, to stop looking at her as if he could see through her, and to go away. The more questions he asked, the worse her headache was going to get. Already the top of her head was about to explode.

  Rubbing her eyes for a second, Maggie insisted, “I just wanted him to comprehend, once and for all, that he had to leave the nurses alone. I didn’t intend to assault him with a deadly weapon.”

  “I’m sure that made a difference with the hospital review board.”

  “Not particularly.” She laughed. “But since this wasn’t the first time a nurse complained about Thibodeaux’s touchy-feely style, they weren’t in any position to play hardball. They promised not to fire me if I didn’t sue them.”

  “Seems like a classic win-win situation for everyone.”

  She threaded both hands through her hair and rubbed the back of her neck. “As long as I was willing to tuck my tail between my legs and slink off into the bayou.”

  “You think accepting the reassignment was slinking off?”

  “Not hardly. First, they suspended me for a week, and then they reassigned me. I was supposed to use my time off to reflect on the error of my ways.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course.” Sarcasm dripped from every word as she dropped her hands to her hips. “Next time I’ll put the scalpel down first.”

  “You still seem hostile toward the hospital.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” she asked sharply.

  “I don’t know. The question is, ‘Are you?’ ”

  Of course she was angry, but admitting it would put her name at the top of a very short list of suspects. If she wasn’t already there. Maggie closed her left eye against the sharp jab of pain that struck without warning. Thinking clearly had become a problem. Grayson was pushing hot buttons and putting her on the defensive. But then that wasn’t very hard to do lately.

  Her whole life had been a game of hurry up and wait, full of promises that her turn was next or that things would get better. Well, that turn had never come. Things never got better. So she’d made her own opportunities. It wasn’t a crime to have a temper. It wasn’t a crime to feel injustice. Even though Grayson seemed to think so. God, he looked so irritatingly confident. The man stumbled over a motive and figured he had the case solved.

  When the throb subsided she told him, “No matter what you think, I wasn’t angry enough to set the whole hospital on fire.”

  He let the silence surround them, press them together. Then he softly suggested, “Maybe you were angry enough to set just a little piece of it on fire?”

  Maggie sucked in a sharp breath and then had to admit the man was good at his job. His voice was deep and low, compelling and understanding. There was even a hint of approval. His was the kind of voice that could make a woman confess to anything.

  He’d maneuvered until those big, broad shoulders of his were close enough to do some good—if she’d been looking for comfort or to unburden herself of guilt. She could see that his collar button was loose and that a tiny nick had been left behind by his careless razor—and was unexpectedly swamped by her awareness of the man.

  He hadn’t written anything in that book for a while. All of his attention was focused on her. Maggie had the odd sensation that Grayson had the power to narrow the world down to the barest essentials. There were no consequences beyond this room. In a matter of seconds he’d managed to invade her space and create the illusion of safety. No one had ever made her feel safe.

  How had he done that?

  How could he make people believe in him so easily, believe in his protection? That was an incredibly seductive quality. Maggie imagined people told him terrifying secrets. But it was a talent totally wasted on her. He couldn’t protect her from what she feared, and she wasn’t guilty of what he suspected.

  Maggie decided to push a few of Grayson’s buttons. He deserved it for playing so cavalierly with her emotions. Maggie cast her eyes down as if overcome by guilt and leaned, her breasts almost touching his chest.

  At the last possible moment before collision, she swept her gaze up to his and whispered, “Good try. But I’m not confessing.”

  Beau decided that Maggie could drive a man crazy with very little effort. His brain stopped functioning on logic and processed only the input from his senses. She generated a remarkable amount of heat, imprinting the feel of her body without his having held her in his arms. Muscles tightened in his belly at the sensuality staring at him from twilight-blue eyes. A man could lose himself for days in those eyes. Mascara smudges at the corners only made them look bigger. Luminescent skin, big blue eyes, pale blond hair. This was “Daddy’s little angel” all grown up into the fallen angel any man would want. He sure did.

  But he didn’t need this right now. Not with her. Not with the woman he’d seen balancing precariously on the edge of control less than fifteen minutes ago. He didn’t care to travel that road. For once in his life, his days and nights were just the way he liked them. Simple, calm, and routine.

  He usually won more than he lost at the department’s monthly poker game. His coveted courtside seats for Louisiana State University basketball ensured that his phone rang regularly as each of his firehouse pals tried to wheedle their way into that second seat. There was even an occasional relationship with a carefully chosen lady, who knew the ground rules for a no-strings-but-an-extra-toothbrush-in-the-bathroom affair. He liked passion in a woman. Intelligence? Absolutely. But not trouble.

  Nope, he didn’t need chemistry right now.

  He couldn’t even be sure if the invitation he saw in her eyes was genuine or just a dog and pony show for the investigator. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman made a pass at him in hopes of obscuring the facts. Beau looked down, at the point their bodies almost touched, and then back at Maggie. “I don’t think you want to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make me angry.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” The exaggerated innocence in her tone tipped him off a second before anger replaced seduction in her eyes. “Who do you think you are, Grayson? Manipulating the situation! Toying with people’s emotions and lives when you don’t have a shred of evidence!”

  “Trust me.” Beau backed away, giving her space. “I haven’t begun to toy with you.”

  “Right.” She held out her arms and crossed them at the wrists. “You’re probably waiting until you drag me downtown where you have all your interrogation tools. So, why don’t you break out the cuffs, and let’s get this over with. You obviously think I set the fire.”

  He ignored her. “Do you smoke, Ms. St. John?”

  Slowly she dropped her arms, obviously puzzled. “Not anymore. I quit. Several years ago.”

  “Cold turkey?”

  “No, I used the patch.”

  “Relapses?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? People under stress tend to backslide.”

  “Who said I was under stress?”

  “You attacked someone with a scalpel.”

  Maggie threw up her hands and rolled her eyes. “I explained that! It was a mistake!”

  “Was the panic attack I saw a mistake? You haven’t explained that.”

  “It wasn’t a panic attack.”

  “What brand did you smoke?”

  Beau watched the flicker of uncertainty cross her face at his abrupt change of subject. Most witnesses would have answered the question from reflex. Not Maggie; she was careful.

  He could predict her internal dilemma so easily. It’d take her about half a second to figure out t
hat he’d found something in the utility room. Then she’d try to remember if anyone else in ER or the clinic or the morgue smoked her brand. When she couldn’t remember, she’d wonder if she should lie.

  A ghost of a smile played at the corners of her mouth when she said, “I smoked whatever brand happened to be on special. I’m thrifty.”

  “You had no regular brand?”

  “You say that like you think I’m lying.”

  “Are you?”

  “Want me to take a lie detector test?”

  “Not yet.” He made a few more notes in his book and handed it to her. “What I’d like you to do is look this over. It’s an informal statement. I want you to sign it. Just in case you get hit by a truck before you can come downtown to give us your formal statement.”

  Hesitantly, Maggie reached for the pad. “You really do think I did it, don’t you?”

  “It’s just routine. Especially in hospital fires.” He handed her the pen. “Before you sign I’d like you to add the time you left the floor for the morgue, and an estimate of how long it took you to reach the site of the fire.”

  She scribbled the information down. “Routine, hell.” After glancing over the notes, she signed with a flourish and sailed the pen and pad over to the gurney beside him.

  “There. All signed. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  “When could you—?”

  “Monday morning. Bright and early. I’ll give you your official statement, and then you can compare the two to your heart’s content.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be just fine.”

  “Of course they will. The story won’t change, because it’s the truth. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s bad enough you think I caused that fire, but you think I’m stupid enough to hang around and discover it!”

  “Happens all the time. People love to be heroes.”

  “Not me.” She brushed past him and pulled open the door. “Shall I bring the rack on Monday or do you have your own?”