The chair (or the lack of it)…
There was something…
For it to be nothing but ash now…
A faint crunch—the sound of a booted sole on charred floorboards—shattered the silence of the scene and he drew another breath, yanked from the moment by the one person he didn’t want to be near.
Damn it, she’s too much of a distraction.
Trying to maintain his focus on the corner, he narrowed his eyes. What had the insurance report said about the chair? What kind of wood was it carved from again? Teak? Mahogany? Both burned differently. Neither left ash like—
A whiff of something distinctly feminine tickled his senses. Nothing overt or cloying, just a hint of jasmine. Her shampoo? Her soap?
The chair. Focus on the—
“Far be it from me to question your technique, Des,” Jess said, the prickly distaste still in her voice. “But you haven’t moved from this spot for close to an hour now.”
“Fifty-three minutes,” he said without checking his watch. “And as yet, there is no need for me to do so.”
Another crunch of boot on burnt destruction, this one softer. More…contemplative. Considered.
A small smile tugged at the corners of Desmond’s lips before he could stop it. The captain of the Wallaby Ridge Rural Fire Brigade may be the feistiest woman he’d ever met, but she also knew how to move around a delicate fire scene without disturbing it, and that impressed him. Not many people did, even among seasoned firefighters.
An image of her petite frame navigating the chaos and desolation around them filled his mind, replacing the story the still-smoldering remains were trying to hide from him.
The snug, faded Levi’s and pristine white T-shirt, along with the swanlike column of her neck, high cheekbones and challenging eyes, sent a hot surge of base interest into the very pit of his existence. As did another hint of the subtle jasmine.
Damn it. This wasn’t what he’d planned. Not just because she made him think of all the heartache his alcoholic father had left in his incompetent wake, but because every molecule in his body wanted nothing more than to strip her naked and lose himself in the sweet sexual submission of her—
“The fire was completely out when you and Alexander arrived?” he asked without turning, knowing she was now standing right beside him. “Smothered by the storm?”
“That’s correct.”
“No extinguishing took place?”
“Not from the chopper. By the time we made it here, the Deputy PM’s resident staff was all accounted for and the homestead was a drenched mess. The storm had passed by and all that was left was free-floating smoke settled on the sodden remains, grey in colour and void of energy.”
Once again, Desmond found himself impressed by Jess. She knew the pertinent information to divulge and left out the dramatics a lot of other captains felt the need to bombard him with.
“I didn’t get to see the colour of the flames of the driven smoke, nor the smoke’s density or velocity, so unfortunately I can’t report on either. The head caretaker of Broken Downs told me smoke ranged in colour from white to brown to black. Typical smoke for a typical house fire. The seat of the fire appears to be the kitchen, where, it would seem, someone emptied an ashtray into the garbage bin under the sink.”
Desmond cocked an eyebrow. “Appears? Seem?”
Her lips compressed. Her jaw bunched. God, what would that tiny knot of charged tension feel like against his lips?
“Can I assume,” he asked, all too aware his cock was beginning to become uncomfortably constrained in his boxers, “that you don’t agree?”
It was a loaded question, designed to bring his focus back on the investigation. He’d read her report on the flight to the homestead and knew damn well she didn’t agree with what the surface evidence presented. But he had to do something to smother the disarming notion his mind and body were suggesting.
She snorted, the sound brusque and angry. “You can. And I don’t.”
“Because?”
“Aren’t you here to decide the cause of the fire, Des?”
He allowed himself a slow smile. Did he dare tell her just how turned on he was by not only her perception and obvious skill at her job, but her prickly attitude toward him? “I am.”
Just that two-word answer. He returned his attention to the remains of the antique chair positioned near the smoke-blackened, charred stone fireplace. His gut told him the kitchen had little to do with the seat of the fire.
But the chair…
“Care to share your thoughts on the scene?” she asked, the question more like a challenge.
He flicked her a quick look, noting she’d crossed her arms beneath her breasts. He really wished she hadn’t. It drew his attention to how round and perfect they were.
“Given how thoroughly you’ve investigated it in the hour you’ve stood on this one spot,” she finished.
Yep, definitely a challenge in those eyes of hers. In the short time she’d known him, she’d painted him with the same brush as his father—and that brush was completely dipped in condescending-arsehole-who-thought-he-was-better-than-he-was red.
“Sixty-nine minutes,” he corrected, knowing it was going to piss her off. He wasn’t doing himself any favours with her, but she was bringing out a side of him he never released anywhere but in the privacy of his bedroom.
“I fucking knew you were a fucking prick.” Closing her eyes tight, she shook her head and let out a ragged breath.
He waited for her to regain her composure. Given how often her jaw clenched and her chest heaved, he suspected it was a fierce struggle.
“If you look at the burn damage on the concrete next to the fireplace,” she went on, a tenuous calm in her voice, and all hint of profanity gone, “you’ll notice a dark residue not found anywhere else.”
He followed the line her finger made as it pointed to the remains of the antique armchair his instincts kept whispering to him about.
The chair…
Yes, she was good at her job. Observant and attentive to little details. His gut stirred with professional interest and admiration. His groin tightened with something far more elemental, base and physical.
“And the main caretaker swears there is no smoking allowed in the homestead.” The declaration was uttered with that direct challenge again. “So there would be no reason for a cigarette—lit or not—to be deposited in an ashtray inside.”
She shifted her weight on her feet a little, the faint sound of crunching debris under her boots making him want to look at what angle her hips were now. Making him want to see how little he’d need to shift his own position to bring their thighs into contact with each other.
What would that feel like? Her thigh moving against his?
Before he could stop himself, he turned his gaze to her.
And found her studying him, the challenge gone from her eyes, replaced with something he hadn’t been prepared for.
Something as elemental and base and physical as the tension in his—
From his pants hip pocket, the sound of The Doors singing “Light My Fire” shattered the silence.
Desmond let out a muttered curse.
Jess let out a laugh of sheer delight. “Oh my fucking god, is that really your mobile phone ringtone?”
Digging in his pocket for his damn mobile, Desmond scowled. Christ, he knew he shouldn’t have let his sister borrow his phone in the Sydney airport.
Jess jerked her stare away from Desmond just as he yanked his mobile free of his pocket.
“Russell,” she heard him say.
Scrunching her eyes tightly closed, she let out a slow, shaky breath. Fuck, that was close. The bastard had busted her gawking at him with—she feared—open lust on her face. Thank God for whomever it was on the other end of the connection or who the hell knew what may have happened next.
With the way her body was carrying on, she may very well have stripped naked right there on the spot and begged him to have his
wicked way with her.
Huh. Wicked? Something about the smooth, poised way he controlled himself suggested wicked was the wrong word.
Supremely confident way with her?
Arrogantly dominating way with her?
Her pussy contracted on that option. Her nipples pinched tightly.
Dropping her focus to her feet, she made her way out of what was left of the living room, making certain to disturb as little as possible as she left the remains of the house. She’d been over the scene with a fine-tooth comb for evidence of arson and had already drawn her conclusions—and written her report, which Desmond Russell had allegedly read. She knew there was nothing outside of the destroyed living room pertinent to the investigation. She didn’t, however, want Desmond to believe her incompetent.
And you care?
The thought made her grind her teeth. And quicken her steps.
She’d been prepared from the second she’d received the call from him, a mere two hours after the Deputy Prime Minister’s homestead burnt down, to despise him. She’d met her fair share of big-city wankers, his father being the worst of them, and all of them deserved to be despised.
She’d also met her fair share of men who thought a woman had no place in the fire brigade, let alone as captain. Those men—usually from the city—tried to either humiliate her or feel her up her during interregional fire brigade meetings. Those men soon discovered just because she was five foot three didn’t mean she didn’t know her way round a fire scene…or her way round a bunch of testosterone-fuelled males. Growing up with an older brother in an Outback town where there was a male to female ratio of 11:5 meant she neither humiliated easily nor let anyone get handsy.
That hadn’t changed since Kenny’s death six and a half months ago. In fact, thanks to Desmond Russell’s father, she’d probably grown more…feisty.
That feistiness had taken hold of her the moment she was told the PM and the Deputy PM were bringing in “help” in the investigation of the Broken Downs fire. It hadn’t dissipated when she’d laid eyes on the guy, even if he was sex in a suit. It sure as shit hadn’t faded when he’d revealed Darius Russell was his father.
No siree.
So why was she hurrying away now as if she were tiptoeing across eggshells?
Because despite the fact he’s the son of the big-city wanker whose incompetence let Kenny’s murder go unreported, despite the fact he’s here on your turf, looking into your fire scene, you can’t help but accept he’s nothing like his father. You can’t help but recognize the skill in his investigation, the studied consideration. The calm contemplation. And you like it.
She let out a wobbly sigh, unable to stop herself from shooting a quick glance over her shoulder at the irritation in a suit.
He still stood motionless, mobile phone pressed to his ear, his concentration fixed on the burnt remains of what was once an antique chair.
Her pussy contracted again, a reflexive tightening of muscles linked directly to her libido.
Like it? Or like him?
“Absolutely, Prime Minister.”
Jess stiffened as a soft breeze blew Desmond’s words across to her. She pricked up her ears, an itching pressure creeping over her scalp.
Prime Minister. Of course, he was talking to the Prime Minister. About her investigation?
“…only just arrived but already I have a…”
The breeze shifted, taking his words with it.
That didn’t stop her recognizing the smugness to his stance.
Look at him, standing like he fucking owns the place, like he knows all the answers. And what kind of arson investigator wears a suit to the scene of a fire? A suit and a white shirt, no less?
Any arson investigator worth his salt wore overalls and a hard hat on the job. Not a fucking suit that made him look as if he’d just stepped out of a Hugo Boss poster, or fresh from some luxury city office where there wasn’t a hint of charcoal or charred debris to be—
“…she doesn’t, Prime Minister. No.”
The breeze blew his telephone conversation with the leader of the country back to her.
She?
She doesn’t what?
Were they talking about her now?
Jess drove her nails—blunt from too many years of biting them—into her palms. God, and to think only a second ago she’d actually pondered the possibility of him being likeable? Was she letting her pussy run her brain now?
Stopping at the edge where the burnt-out rumble became blackened ground, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at his back.
The wind, in a playful mood, ruffled the hair at the back of her nape, blowing whatever words Desmond was uttering away from her.
She saw him straighten a little. Saw his shoulders square a little more than they already were. Noticed his head dip in the most miniscule nod. And then he lowered the phone from his ear and slid it into his hip pocket, the action pulling the fine material of his suit pants tighter to the impressively sculpted right cheek of his backside.
Her traitorous pussy constricted at the sight. The pit of her belly joined in the response, as did her nipples and her pulse this time.
Jess bit back a growl of disgust.
Fuck, at this rate, she’d have a fucking orgasm watching the guy even as she imagined telling him to climb back into the plane that brought him here and sod off.
Great. Fucking great.
“That’s the third time I’ve caught you staring at my arse, Captain Montgomery.”
She jerked her stare up to Desmond’s face, her cheeks flooding with warmth.
The corner of his mouth twitched as his hidden gaze met hers. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Her breath caught in her throat and she lowered her gaze, a thoroughly confusing wave of tight need and desire rushing through her.
Damn it, why the fuck was she getting so turned on by getting busted? That made no sense. Anyone would think she wanted to be seduced by him. Him in his suit and arrogant, dominating—
“Captain?”
When she looked up, he was standing before her. Right before her. So close she could see the tiny bristles darkening his exquisite jaw.
Her breath caught again, her stare locking on the dark lenses of his sunglasses. She saw herself reflected in their spotless surface. Saw her lips part. Saw something in her face she’d never seen before—vulnerability.
Desmond’s nostrils flared, setting off another liquid charge of need within her. Another potent bolt of desire to submit to his strength and force and control. She ducked her head, unable to comprehend both the turmoil going on inside her and the electricity singeing the air between them.
“Jessica?” His smooth voice flayed her confused arousal. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
Fresh heat speared into her very core, followed by shame and exasperated anger. “Yeah,” she snapped, spinning on her heel to storm away. “I am.”
Oh smooth. Real smooth.
Ignoring the mental jibe at her childish behavior, and the knotted tummy at her confusing sexual response to him, she stomped her way around to the other side of the homestead. This far away from the seat of the fire, half a brick wall remained standing, although it was seared to a black charcoal and surrounded by charred wood, broken glass and fire-and smoke-damaged furniture.
The blueprint plans of the Broken Downs homestead told Jess this side of the house was the bedroom wing. Five bedrooms in all, mostly all destroyed or damaged by the fire.
By the Deputy PM’s own orders, all staff resided in the outer cottages, only entering the house to keep it clean and ready for his arrival whenever he chose to visit, usually—Jess had found—during election years, when he was trying to remind the people of the Outback he was one of theirs. The resident staff had informed her no one from the Deputy’s family was in attendance, nor should there have been anyone inside the homestead at all the previous evening. Which didn’t explain the supposed ignition of the cigarette in the gar
bage bin under the sink. Nor the wax residue on the floor in the living room.
Ignoring the fact a cigarette couldn’t make its own way to a garbage bin, the wax residue set off all sorts of alarm bells in Jess’s mind. When it came to wax residue, Jess had become the most suspicious person on the planet. It still tore at her heart to think of the residue found in her brother’s home from the fire that killed him. Wax residue Desmond’s father fucking refused to acknowledge or question.
Not now, woman. Don’t think of that now. Not with his son right here.
Stopping at what was left of the wall, she forced herself to scan the debris and destruction, her mind registering it, even as it doggedly played with the conundrum of Desmond Russell.
The bastard really had got under her skin. She, who never let anyone get to her. Jessica Montgomery, famous in Wallaby Ridge for being a tough nut to crack, was letting a big-city tosser make her feel like a vulnerable teenage virgin. Huh.
“Tell me, Captain—”
A squeal ripped from Jess before she could stop it.
“Fuck!” She spun around, her heart smashing a violet path into her throat as she fixed her glare on the man towering over her. “Jesus fuck, did you fucking mean to scare the shit out of me, you dick?”
Desmond had the audacity to step closer to her. So close she could feel the heat from his body kissing her thighs, her belly, her breasts. “We have a situation to deal with, Captain Montgomery,” he said, as if she hadn’t just spewed forth a tirade of indignant profanity at him with the speed of a machine gun. His Ray Ban-covered gaze roamed her face. She could feel it as well as she could feel the heat from his body caressing hers.
Her pulse quickened. Her nipples chose that moment to bead into painful tips of urgent hunger. Her sex squeezed a cock that wasn’t there with equal greed. She stared up at him. Too aware of his concentrated maleness. Of the arrogant force of his presence.
Oh god, woman. Control yourself.
“Of course we have a situation,” she snapped. Or rather, croaked. Damn it, she needed to get a grip on herself. “There’s evidence of this fire being deliberately lit, and what are you doing? You’re fucking standing in one spot in a fucking suit doing diddly fucking squat.”
The Bad Boy In Cuffs Page 10
