Playing with Fire

by Debra Dixon

  Then the scent of wood smoke reached her nostrils.

  Maggie froze. No. Not again. Not tonight. Even as she tried to deny what her heart knew, she scanned the surrounding area. When she saw the smoke rising above the magnolias, Maggie felt the blood drain from her face.

  A feeling of powerlessness swept over her, throwing her backward in time to the aftermath of another fire, to another time she felt helpless. She saw Mrs. Alastair, Sarah’s mom, coming out of the house. Two firemen were supporting her, almost dragging her away as if she didn’t belong there. She was crying and carrying that glass bowl as if it were the Holy Grail. As if it were the only thing left untouched in a blackened world.

  Every hair on the back of Maggie’s neck stood up. Her gut lurched. Sarah had said she broke that bowl. But why would Sarah lie? Why?

  She staggered back inside, away from the smell of smoke carried on the night air. Foolishly she closed the doors and locked them behind her as if that would protect her or make the fire go away. Strangely there were no thoughts of the past, only of the present and the future. Of how this would look. Of who she’d have to call.

  The first call was easy. She dialed emergency dispatch, who would in turn rouse the cavalry—the volunteer fire department covering the area. The second call was harder. If she’d had any other choice she wouldn’t have made it. But she didn’t have another choice. Beau would find out. And when he did, she’d looked guilty as sin.

  So she went downstairs, checked the business card pinned to the cork board beside the phone, and dialed.

  “What?” Beau’s voice was rough with sleep, not quite clear—as if the receiver was tucked under his chin. “This better be good.”

  Swallowing her pride, Maggie said, “I need your help.”

  SIX

  Beau cut his lights and coasted to a stop at the edge of the road. The field beside Maggie’s house looked like a scene from a fugitive movie. A floodlight and headlights were trained on the burned-out skeleton of the barn. A number of firefighters milled around, too pumped on adrenaline to go home yet—even though the fire was dampened down.

  Judging from the silhouettes, a couple of them were still wearing their hats backward. Beau frowned. The longer back rim did a better job of shielding the face from the heat and sparks of an intense fire. The old creosote barn timbers must have generated more heat than expected.

  He got out and popped the truck lid, fishing out his boots, bunker coat, flashlight, and a shovel. He’d come back and get plaster if he found a worthwhile shoe print, but it was doubtful. Anything inside the barn was liable to be filled with water and unusable. Any outside prints were likely corrupted by the firefighters, whose first priority was to contain the blaze.

  Beau shook his head. He lost more evidence that way. Not that he blamed them. Even with the brief rain yesterday, the surrounding parishes were dry. In a hot July, all it would take for a small fire to break out in wooded acreage would be a few sparks and a little wind. Some of the oak trees in Louisiana were actually older than the state. He wouldn’t be pleased to see any of them lost to flames.

  As he approached the engine, which had been driven through an old gate in the fencing, he noted the fire had been confined to the ramshackle barn and the grass immediately around it. The scorched ring of ground indicated the fire crept outward from the barn, not toward the barn from the street.

  Okay, he decided, no lit cigarette caused this one either. At least not one tossed from a car. He identified himself and spoke briefly to the ranking official, who was surprised to find a Baton Rouge investigator interested in a simple fire like this. The lieutenant pointed out the Good Samaritan tipster without realizing Beau knew her all too well. Beau thanked him and turned his attention to Maggie.

  She stood at the edge of the magnolias, carefully distanced from the fire truck and the activity. All he could see was her body profile. Her arms were folded over her midriff, cinching an oversized T-shirt beneath her breasts. What looked like jogging pants disappeared into black rubber calf-waders. Her complete attention was focused on the still-smoking shell of the barn and the men who tromped through the field. Gwen sat patiently at Maggie’s side, but the wolfhound’s head swung around when she heard his approach. The growl was disconcertingly automatic.

  Well-trained and familiar with the size of Gwen’s teeth, Beau stopped instantly. “Call off your dog.”

  Startled, Maggie tightened her grip on the leash and whirled toward him. Hindered by moonlight and shadow, Beau couldn’t tell if she was glad to see him or not. Instinct told him she was. The whole phone conversation earlier hadn’t taken more than a few seconds, but her voice had been filled with undisguised relief when he agreed to make the scene.

  Now that he’d arrived, he suspected her relief was tempered by the awkwardness between them. Maggie cleared her throat and patted Gwen reassuringly. “Easy, girl. Unfortunately, we know this one. Remember?”

  When she fussed too long over the dog, keeping her attention aimed at the ground, Beau knew he was right. She hadn’t done any better job than he had at dissecting and putting last night’s kiss in perspective. It yawned like a treacherous crevasse between them. Ignored but not forgotten.

  Neither were Beau’s suspicions forgotten. Urgent phone calls in the night were usually nothing more than twisted manipulation and alibi attempts. It was his job to sort fact from fantasy. When Gwen relaxed, he took a few more steps.

  “You throw one hell of a party, Maggie.”

  “I didn’t throw it,” she said, straightening slowly and meeting his gaze finally.

  “If you didn’t arrange this little celebration, why were you the one in charge of sending out the invitations?”

  “It’s not my fault. And I didn’t have to call you.”

  “So why did you?”

  “To save time, of course,” she said with false sweetness, slapping the end of the leash against her leg. “With you here I can get all the unpleasantness out of the way at one time. I can just close my eyes and swallow it like a bitter pill.”

  “How efficient,” he agreed. “You get the investigation over with quickly and move on to the next fire that needs your attention.”

  “I’d have to be a pretty stupid arsonist to set the barn next to my house on fire, now wouldn’t I?”

  “Or arrogant,” he suggested softly.

  Instead of the rapid retort he expected, Maggie struggled with a response. “Or maybe … just maybe … you’ve mistaken fear for arrogance because that’s what you want to believe.”

  The truth of her statement slammed into him. He had an investment in Maggie’s guilt. As long as she was guilty, she was off-limits. He didn’t have to worry about getting in too deep. He didn’t have to care too much about that image of her alone and curled into a ball that first day. Only, she wasn’t going to let him paint her guilty and walk away.

  And neither was his conscience.

  Maggie might not deserve the benefit of the doubt, but she deserved objectivity at the very least. Until he could prove guilt, he had to keep digging. Because if Maggie wasn’t setting these fires, then he had an arsonist on the loose. That was an alternative he hadn’t begun to deal with.

  “If you didn’t burn that barn, Maggie, then who did? Because I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “What a coincidence—neither do I.” Her voice rose in anger for the first time. “That’s why I called you! So are you going to do your job, or are you going to handcuff me and haul me off because I’m convenient?”

  A pregnant silence swelled between them. Beau let the flashlight slip through his hand until only the end of it was cupped in his palm. Finally he flicked on the light and softly said, “Maggie, you are the least convenient woman I know. So far it hasn’t made a bit of difference in how I feel about you.”

  Maggie felt the words slide into her like a heat-guided missile. Beau had that power—the power to create intimacy and to turn a simple question into something complex and sensual. Right now
she didn’t need ambiguity. She needed a straightforward answer and a clear head.

  “Does that mean you believe me?”

  The field grass rustled as he turned away from her. “It means, I’m going to go do my job. That’s all I can promise.”

  She watched him go, uncertain if she’d won the battle or lost the war. She wondered if people ever really knew where they stood with Beau.

  “Come on, girl.” Maggie tugged the leash. “We’d better make some strong coffee. I have a feeling he’s going to be back with questions, and we’d better be ready.”

  Inside the house, Maggie pulled off her boots beside the kitchen door, brewed some almond-mocha-ground-roasted-only-for-company coffee, and retrieved the emergency package of Oreo cookies from its hiding place behind the vegetable oil. She added a few almost-stale pecan sandies to the ceramic watermelon plate filled with Oreos and sat down at the table in the large L-shaped kitchen to wait.

  The side door was open; he should be able to see the light as he approached the house. And she could see him. That part was critical. She had decided her response to Beau was a simple chain reaction. Maybe if she got a head start on dealing with his physical impact, she could slow the process. Or at least manage it sensibly. It all started with an insistent pulse that kindled a dangerous awareness every time she saw him.

  The man was undeniably sexy even in the dead of night, rumpled, and his hair half combed. That was enough to create a little hitch in anyone’s pulse. But his height and build conformed to some unwritten specification of nature that made her feel incredibly feminine by contrast. When a woman felt feminine, hormones perked up like a just-watered garden and rational thought evaporated. That’s when the dangerous awareness surfaced.

  Beau’s voice kept the chain reaction rippling along as smoothly as a row of toppled dominoes. It wasn’t what he said, but how he said it. Unconscious or not, his voice suggested a combination of raw silk and untamed power that rocked her sensual equilibrium.

  But tonight he wasn’t going to rattle her. Tonight she’d be ready. Maggie grabbed a cookie and waited, staring out the door. Trying not to think about Beau. Or the fire. Or chain reactions. And failing miserably.

  She saw the faint flicker of his flashlight first, as it swept the line of trees. Then the beam stilled, its glow fragmented by the filter of magnolia leaves. He’d found Gwen’s path and the downed fence rail. Great. She hadn’t considered how that would look to a man pondering questions of motive and opportunity. The worn path wasn’t conclusive of anything, but it confirmed that she had easy access to the barn.

  Another strike against her.

  The flashlight was on the move again, coming toward the house. When the light reached the edge of the mowed property, it flicked off. Maggie swallowed. For some reason Beau’s action made her think of a predator stalking its prey.

  The reflector strips on his yellow coat caught the porch light as he came toward the house. “Maggie? Tell that dog I’m coming in!”

  Maggie looked down at Gwen, who’d raised her head at the noise. “Dog, kill.”

  Scrambling to her feet, Gwen gave an excited woof of welcome. “Kill” was a game the wolfhound played all the time. She cocked her head in surprise when Beau appeared at the screen door instead of Carolyn. Maggie reached out and slung a reassuring arm over the wolfhound’s back.

  “Tough break, girl. He probably doesn’t have any treats, but be sweet to him anyway. Come on in, Beau, you’re safe now.”

  “Safe is a relative term.” He pulled back the screen door and thumped the shovel against his boots in an attempt to dislodge the sooty mud. It was a lost cause, so he leaned the shovel against the outside wall and pulled the boots off. “I won’t be truly safe from Gwen until you stop tensing up every time you see me. She takes her cues from you.”

  “So stop making me tense.”

  Beau paused a half beat as he stepped over the threshold, and Maggie knew she’d said the wrong thing to the wrong man. His features hardened, his eyes turned as dark as wet river stones. The screen door flapped closed behind him as he approached the table and set the flashlight on it. His gaze traveled over her, stopping briefly at her bare feet before returning to her face. Maggie fought the urge to tuck her feet beneath the chair and sit up straight. She remained where she was, with her arm over Gwen and her heart in her throat.

  “Tense,” he mused, and shrugged out of the heavy turnout coat. Maggie’s mouth went dry at the washboard ripples revealed by a T-shirt that clung to his frame. “Is that the politically correct term for this? You’re tense? That seems a fairly innocuous word, doesn’t it? Tense.”

  The word rolled off his tongue experimentally as he slung the coat over the back of a chair and leaned toward her. The good-natured philosopher vanished, replaced by a man who dealt in hard realities. “I make a lot of people tense, Maggie. Funny thing is … I’ve never once considered taking any of them to bed as a way to relieve the tension.”

  Beau gripped the chair back with his hands and waited for Maggie’s reaction. He’d been blunt. Maybe too blunt, but he didn’t intend to spend another conversation tiptoeing around the obvious. He wanted her. That wasn’t exactly a secret after last night, and he’d be damned if he let her pretend she hadn’t given as good as she got in that kiss.

  When a flush stole up Maggie’s neck, Beau realized that he’d caught her off guard. For once, Maggie was speechless. Pink tinged her cheeks. Her eyes seemed suddenly too large for her face. Her expression was all worry and heat. An impossible combination that tugged at him on several levels.

  When she finally answered, her voice came out rusty, like the first few strokes of an unprimed pump. “You came out—You came out here because you wanted to—”

  “No!” He cut her off, but they’d gone beyond pleasantries. So he gave her an honest answer. “Taking you to bed wouldn’t even scratch the surface of what’s going on between us, Maggie May. But to answer your question, I came out here because when a woman calls you at one in the morning, you get your butt out of bed and try to help. Even—” He bit the comment off but it was too late.

  “Even if you think she’s an arsonist,” she finished for him. Abruptly she let go of Gwen, and stood up. The old Maggie was in control again. “Well, at least we’re back in familiar territory. And don’t … don’t call me Maggie May. You want some coffee?”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow and went to get the coffee. “Beau, you are the most troublesome man I know. So far it hasn’t made a damn bit of difference in whether or not I let you in my house.” She brought the coffee back and handed him a stoneware mug whose sides were dribbled with colorful glazes like melted crayon pieces.

  “Touché,” he allowed as he pulled out a chair to sit down. “Expecting an army?”

  Maggie froze, staring at the heaping plate of cookies, neatly folded napkins, spoons, sugar bowl, and creamer as if they had magically appeared without her knowledge. Oh, God. She had catered her interrogation. With a sigh she joined him at the table.

  “Feed a fight and starve a fever,” she said, toying with the edge of her cup. “That’s an example of my mother’s bad advice. I was a teenager before I realized she had corrupted the expression ‘Feed a cold and starve a fever.’ ”

  “Maybe she’s the one who had it right.”

  An unladylike huff escaped Maggie. “That’d be the first thing she got right. She wasn’t exactly a candidate for mom of the year. The state took me away from her when I was eight. I never saw her again.”

  “I’m sorry.” He stirred sugar and cream into his coffee, apparently unconcerned that he’d just broken stereotype.

  Maggie shrugged and took another sip of coffee. “Don’t be. It wasn’t a tragedy. What bothers me is that I can’t remember more than a couple of the foster and group homes they stuck me in, but I still wash my clothes in the same detergent Mama used. I buy the same brand of margarine and paper towels. I can still close
my eyes and smell gardenias.”

  Slowly Maggie closed her eyes, letting the scent come back. “I thought perfume made her glamorous. I’d sneak into her room and dab some on, so I’d be pretty too.” She opened her eyes, focusing on the past and not the room in front of her. She worried her lip for a second before continuing. “You couldn’t smell like gardenias and not be pretty, you know? Mama didn’t need perfume, though. Not her. She was the kind of woman who stuck in your mind.”

  Maggie broke off self-consciously, and picked up a spoon to stir her coffee again. She didn’t usually talk about her mother. She didn’t usually do a lot of things she found herself doing around Beau. At the moment she wasn’t certain if talking about her mother was a strategy to postpone his questions or prolong his visit. Maggie was afraid it was to prolong his visit. When she looked up, he was watching her with that compassionate expression he had. The one she wished was real instead of an investigator’s trick of the trade.

  “Foster homes?” he asked. “Group homes?”

  “Oh, yeah. I was in lots of those. Originally it was supposed to be for a few months, Until my mother got her act together. I don’t guess she ever did. Months turned into years. Nowadays they call it ‘adrift in foster care.’ If I’d known they were going to take me away from her, I probably would have lied when my second grade teacher started asking questions.”

  Beau remembered those questions all too well. Only he had lied when they asked him if he’d eaten breakfast or if his mom washed his clothes. He made up stories of family emergencies and excuses for why he never asked friends to his house. He avoided the kids whose moms picked them up in shiny new station wagons because they’d feel sorry for him. He’d even signed all his own report cards from junior high.

  That was a bad three years.

  Abruptly Beau felt the need to change the subject. He didn’t want to take a trip down memory lane, and he definitely didn’t want any more reason to empathize with Maggie. “Look. It’s late. Let’s just get this over with.”