However, it hadn’t been the company that had Connor’s stomach turning even before he’d taken a mouthful of breakfast. No, it had been what he’d heard about Scarlett. He was surprised as hell when Mason brought her up, wondering at first if he hadn’t managed to be as discrete as he’d thought. But then Mason had shocked him further by telling the guys that Scarlett would be around the firehouse for the next while. Apparently, her captain and Chief Stone had gotten it into their heads that the two fires they’d been called out to were—perhaps—not as isolated as they’d first thought.
After Connor had radioed Scarlett’s find of the tanks out to Alex, he’d turned back to find her. Scarlett hadn’t been standing in the room any longer. In fact, she hadn’t been in the house at all. He’d tracked through, checking every room just in case, before finally exiting back through what was left of the front door. He’d finally been able to take a deep breath again when he spotted her across the lawn. She was standing in front of her captain’s squad car. They’d been too far away for him to hear anything, but if her flying arms and the captain’s stoic face were anything to go by, he’d done something that had royally pissed her off. He’d smiled. At that point, Connor didn’t think he’d care if he’d been on the receiving end of what looked like a fiery temper. It would be better than the cold indifference he’d gotten from her that morning, or completely shutting him down when he’d tried to raise any possibility of seeing her again.
He turned back to his breakfast, his stomach souring all over again as he remembered what had started his little trip down memory lane. As Scarlett looked to be joining the house as an honorary member, Mason had revealed the real reason he’d suggested they all grab a beer the night before a shift. They’d all heard the rumors; it was impossible to avoid them, particularly when it had first happened. Out of respect for Scarlett, no one had ever spoken much about it out loud. It had seemed easier for her—or maybe for them—to simply not bring up the whole fucked-up mess around her.
Derek Christensen had been on loan to the ATF, working undercover with a suspected local terrorist group. No one had been sure if they were a group of disenfranchised young guys looking to be a pain in the government’s side, or something else. It turned out they were more—a lot more. Derek’s head had been found first, left in a garbage can two blocks from where his mutilated body was eventually discovered. The assholes had killed him and then left his dismembered corpse to rot in an alley behind the two-car garage of their modern townhouse right in the middle of town. God, what would Scarlett have gone through to identify her husband? Connor had no idea how she was continuing to show up for work every day. To lose someone she loved so tragically—he wasn’t sure that he’d ever be able to do the job again.
He thought back to the times he’d seen Scarlett since . . . inter-departmental events, sports games, even when they all grabbed a drink together after a case they’d all attended. Come to think of it, no one even mentioned Derek’s name. It was as if he didn’t exist anymore. Was that easier for Scarlett, or did not being able to talk about him make everything that much harder? Surely she’d never forget him. Connor wouldn’t expect her to. Not having anyone she could talk to seemed like it made a situation he could barely understand almost unbearable.
He closed his eyes, taking a long sip of his coffee. That much he would have to stomach, getting roughly zero hours sleep the night before, images of the most spectacular sex he’d ever had tumbling with murder and dismembered corpses in his dreams. After Mason’s chat, he felt as guilty as hell for being attracted to Scarlett. It wasn’t something he could control, but he could damn well control what he did about it.
He’d let her take the lead, no more pushing. If she wanted whatever was going on between them to go anywhere, then he’d wait for her to make the first move. Until then, he’d be her friend. If that’s all she ever needed or wanted from him, he’d deal. If he made her life a little easier, he’d be happy with that. As long as he could still see her smile, it would be worth it.
7
Scarlett
Scarlett flipped open the next folder, spreading the paper out across the table. She’d been at it for hours, and getting nowhere fast. After deliberately making herself scarce at the usual scenes after the last shift, she’d spent the day at the station, hiding away in a conference room in the hopes her captain wouldn’t notice she was still there. Today was supposed to be her first day at the firehouse, but it was also the day Connor and his crew were back on duty. Scarlett was putting off actually being in the same building as Connor for as long as possible. She tried to ignore the skitter under her skin from just thinking about it. Part pleasure, part nerves, and everything in between, it made her jumpy, something a cop couldn’t afford to be. Sitting across the table from him at the firehouse would set her foot tapping and her nerves jangling. She huffed and rubbed at her gritty eyes. Hell, who was she kidding? Just being in the same town as Connor McClellan was enough to do that.
She forced her eyes back to the piles of paperwork she still had to go through. A stack of photos lay on top, the official record of what had been left of the building after the last fire.
It had been a small miracle that neither of the houses on either side had been caught in the flames. One spark is all it would have taken. She shivered at the thought. They were still trying to figure out if anyone had truly lived in the house that had been destroyed that night. She knew for sure, though, that the houses on either side sheltered young families. She’d interviewed them herself. Scarlett’s stomach roiled. How did people wake up every day, eat breakfast, go to work, and carry on as if everything in the world was okay? How did they live their lives without being constantly terrified of what was just around the corner? You were never truly safe. She’d learned that lesson brutally that cold morning, and it was one that she’d never forget. There was no long, happy life together, no retirement at the end of a successful career. No one could guarantee that.
She thumbed through the images, trying not to see them but at the same time unable to tear her eyes away. One spark. Just one, and those people’s lives would have changed in an instant.
Scarlett threw the photos back on the desk, closing her eyes in disgust at herself. It was time to stop sniveling. She hadn’t been able to save her husband’s life—hadn’t even known the big bad was out there hunting him. No amount of sitting there feeling sorry for herself was going to change her life. Did the men who had killed her husband know that they’d been killing her at the same time? They might as well have been. Even lying naked and sated with a gorgeous man like Connor McClellan hadn’t been able to bring her back to life. He’d taken the edge off—and God, it had been a hell of a ride—but shame had washed over her the moment he’d left. What the hell had she been thinking? She still saw Derek’s partner at work every day. The man still looked haunted every time he looked at her. She knew why. He still felt it, too. The crushing guilt that Derek was gone and they were still alive.
Connor had been a tasty distraction, but she couldn’t let herself go there. She still wasn’t sure if she’d survived what happened to Derek some days. If she started a relationship with another first responder, another person who placed themselves in the line of fire every day . . . no. Scarlett shook her head, forcing her attention back on the papers. This, she could do something about. She didn’t know who had destroyed her life, but this time evil had shown their hand. The clue was in there somewhere. All she had to do was find it, and perhaps she could stop anyone else from joining her in hell.
Someone cleared their throat, and she looked up. The desk sergeant looked at her with a half-smile, holding out a folder. Scarlett forced what felt like an almost permanent scowl off her face and tried to smile back. It felt foreign, but at least she wasn’t glaring at the poor guy.
She sighed, opening the folder. Maybe after this case was done, after she’d caught the bastard terrorizing Monroe, she’d finally take some of the time off her captain had been practically beggin
g her to take. She could leave town for a while, clear her head of everything—and everyone—keeping her awake at night. Maybe after that, she’d finally be able to move on with her life, whatever was left of it. But first, she had to figure out what the hell was going on.
She read the report, findings from swabs around the hottest part of the fire, as well as in the room where she and Connor had found the surprise. Even if they were some fancy type of scuba gear, what were piles of it doing in a suburban house in Monroe? Tybee Island was over four hours away. The nearest place to dive was nearly two hours in the other direction in Atlanta, and a quick internet search had revealed that they supplied all the equipment. Whatever that stuff was for, she’d bet money that it wasn’t for going for a swim.
Her eyes skated over the findings, her brow furrowing. Nothing. Nothing she could use, anyway. The lab rats had found the usual; residue from melted furnishings, along with the chemicals used to put out the damn thing. She flipped the page, her frown deepening. No, there was nothing there to indicate someone was cooking meth, or doing anything that was the stuff of law-enforcement nightmares in recent times, like dirty bombs or chemical warfare. But there was something—she couldn’t put her finger on it, exactly, but her gut knew it. After the last few years, Scarlett would never ignore her gut again.
There was no nitrogen found—the key component to any homemade fertilizer bomb everyone knew about. She rolled her eyes. No one was that dumb. They’d gotten extremely good at detecting it, and anyone who wasn’t a complete rookie would have gone with something smarter, something more sophisticated—or maybe something more simple. No, what was scaring her more every second was the traces of acetone, hair bleach, and battery acid—everything needed to create a compound that was incredibly hard to detect, and even more unstable. Used in terrorist attacks as far away as London and as fucking close as Oklahoma, the stuff could be made from products bought at the local hardware store, and created something containing only hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon—only some of the three most common elements on earth. Detecting it was still experimental, and more high-tech than anyone local had access to, possibly even the Feds in Atlanta.
She sat back in her chair. The stuff was as unstable as it was powerful, and could easily account for the damage done to the house last night in only small quantities. God, she hoped she was wrong. Either that, or she hoped that whoever had been experimenting had died in the blast. If someone was still out there in Monroe who knew how to cook TATP, they were all fucked.
Scarlett slammed the file shut. Even if it was the deadly concoction that even terrorists had nicknamed “The Mother of Satan,” she didn’t have the first clue what to do next. Ban everyone from purchasing cleaning products? Blow their entire yearly budget on getting one of the alphabet-soup agencies down there with a detector on a whim? Her captain would have her head for bringing the Feds in unwarranted as much as for the expense. It was one thing they could still agree on. She had to find something more than just suspicions, or they’d lose control of the investigation entirely. So what . . .
Her cell rang in her pocket, interrupting her train of thought. She cringed at the name on screen—Connor—but answered it. At least this way, she had a hang-up button. If she didn’t answer, he’d probably show up at the station within ten minutes. Scarlett mentally rolled her eyes at the small smile that slid across her lips at the thought. It had only been minutes since she’d told herself it wasn’t going to happen—for what felt like the billionth time that day, but her body didn’t care. Her entire body tingled, lit up with imagined sensation, every time she pictured his face in her mind, lying over her, moving deep inside her . . .
“Scarlett? You there?”
Her face burned when she realized she’d answered the phone and then disappeared into her own thoughts, leaving Connor hanging on the other end of the line. If he hadn’t already figured out she was a complete idiot, then that ought to do it. She swallowed, then finally found her voice. “Yup. What’s up?” Damn it, she sounded way too perky.
Connor didn’t seem to notice, his voice low as it came through the phone. “We’ve got another fire.”
8
Connor
Connor walked out of yet another ruined Monroe house—his third in just two shifts. This one hadn’t been in the middle of family suburbia, thank God. Instead, it was placed near a local business park, in an area where most of the houses were used for small business rather than residences. He swiped a hand over his face, clearing off the soot, as he walked back to the truck. He’d take any small mercy they got right now.
He looked back at the structure, small plumes of smoke rising in the occasional spot as the salvage and fire extension check did their job. The last thing any of them wanted was for the building to catch alight again after they’d left, particularly since it looked like there’d be civilians walking around this one for a while to come yet.
He stowed his tools in the engine and then turned around, one civilian immediately catching his eyes. Though if she caught him even thinking of her using that term, he’d be lucky if she ever let him talk to her again, let alone allow him a repeat of earlier that week. Scarlett Christensen was burned into every cell in his body. It didn’t matter that she’d given him the cold brush-off. He wanted more, more of whatever he could get.
He was ashamed to admit to himself that even what had happened to her husband wasn’t enough for his libido to leave her the hell alone. He’d vowed to himself that he’d be a friend if that was all she wanted, but his cock hadn’t gotten the message. Even watching her in those sturdy boots and extremely unsexy protective overalls, the sight of her picking through what was left of the building, had him half hard. He turned, shutting the storage compartment loudly enough for it to bang, and then immediately cringed. If no one had noticed the mood a certain visitor had put him in before, they sure as hell had now. Thank God turnout gear was baggy.
He watched her squat down in the middle of what used to be the porch, the roof covering long gone. She poked through the debris with what looked like the end of a ballpoint pen, before giving up a few seconds later and diving in with her hands. Connor frowned. He reached into the truck and grabbed a spare pair of gloves. They’d be comically large on her hands, but better than her getting a cut or God knows what on her bare skin. He was still convinced there had to be more going on than just simple house fires, and an unusual accelerant was top of his list. Liam and his team would be backed up catching up on the last two suspicious fires, and meanwhile, there was no way he was going to let Scarlett be exposed to something harmful at this one. Grasping the gloves in one hand, he stepped toward her and then stopped a few feet away as she suddenly stood, squinting at a piece of dirty metal she’d scooped up from the ashes. She didn’t turn toward him and so he spoke. The last thing he wanted to do was sneak up on her and scare her. His nerves were strung tight after the last several days of bullshit, and Connor didn’t imagine she’d be faring much better. At least his job there was done—the fire was out. Now Scarlett had the much more complicated job of figuring out what the hell was happening.
He knew she’d been assigned to work with them on the case after Mason’s get-together the previous night, but he hadn’t seen even a glimpse of her at the house that morning. Would she really avoid the entire station just so she didn’t have to see him? He grinned. Yep, she totally would. If there was one thing he’d learned in the last few days, it was that Scarlett Christensen was the most stubborn person he’d ever met.
He looked over at her, feeling his face echo her expression as she frowned at the piece of metal in her hands. She brought it closer to her face, peering at it, turning it around in her fingers. She still hadn’t turned around, and Connor realized he’d been standing there looking like an idiot for at least a full minute. He jerked around, but thankfully the rest of the guys on the truck seemed to be too occupied to notice him making a fool of himself, yet again. Oh, it wasn’t anything to do with Scarlett—every guy in th
e squad would respect the hell out of her. That didn’t stop them teasing the crap out of him at every opportunity. He was one of two single guys still left, and the others would take far too much enjoyment out of watching him stumble over his own feet because of a woman.
His scuffling must have finally made enough noise, as she turned, the frown on her face lessening for just a second when she caught sight of him. It was fleeting, before her bland professional expression was back in place, but Connor still saw it. His heart beat a little pitter-patter in his chest at the sight.
Geez, no wonder the guys were gearing up to give him hell. Memories of making love with her, or kissing her until she moaned and went soft under him were one thing, but now he was losing control over a smile? Yep, the squad would have a field day with that, and Connor realized he didn’t care. As long as they held off enough around Scarlett so not to make her uncomfortable, he’d take whatever they threw at him. A chance with her was worth it. He felt a lazy smile spread over his face. He wanted Scarlett, even if all he ever got to do was hold her close while she napped in his arms, and he didn’t care who knew about it.
“Will you stop grinning like a fool and find me something to wash this off with?” Her sharp question snapped Connor’s attention back to the present but didn’t get rid of his grin. It was freeing, in a way, to know what he wanted. Now he just had to work his ass off to get it. Another thing he’d learned the last few days was that Scarlett was going to make him work his ass off for every little morsel she deigned to throw his way. He chuckled under his breath. Bring it on.
He held the gloves out. “Brought you these.”
Scarlett nodded. “Thanks,” she said, tucking them into her pocket. “Got a flashlight, too?”
Under Fire (Southern Heat Book 7) Page 5
