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Sparking His Interest
Wendy Etherington
It's not police lieutenant Wes Kimball's imagination. Cara Hughes, the big-city arson investigator from Atlanta, is hot, hot, hot. She's slender, curvy–and rumored to sleep with a six-inch switchblade under her pillow–and Wes is forced to fight his four-alarm desire from the first moment they meet. Cara seems just as intrigued…. But business is business, and she'll lose control with Wes in bed before she'll give ground in their investigation.Equally passionate about their work, Wes and Cara know their white-hot affair must fizzle eventually. Still, a temporary fling has its merits. And where's the harm when it means both of them get exactly what they want–or do they?



Wes wanted more
He crushed Cara’s body against his, the sensation both relief and torture.
She tore her mouth from his. “We have to stop. I don’t do this with colleagues.”
“Okay,” he said, letting go of her and stepping back. Blood still roared in his head, but he forced his desire to chill.
Cara stared at him with a shocked, wide-eyed expression that reflected his own feelings. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Can we just forget it ever happened?” she continued. “We have to work together, and I need to concentrate on the case. Besides, I’m sure you have plenty of women lining up to…”
Wes leaned one shoulder against her front door. He smiled and brushed a strand of hair off her face. “But I was just about to let you cut to the front of the line.”
“The front of the line? Aren’t I lucky?”
His grin only widened. “Let me inside, and we could both get lucky.”
Dear Reader,
Over the past few years I’ve developed a weakness for the Kimball family. They’re a close, boisterous bunch, who support and challenge each other through all the bumps and heights in their lives. As I dived into Wes’s life, I wondered how they would all react to a new kind of test—not just a romantic tangle, but a danger to the very life of their town.
An arsonist is loose in Baxter, and Wes, who longs for acceptance but still walks his own path, is called on to solve the mystery.
I enjoyed exploring Wes’s strengths and vulnerabilities and watching him be awed, frustrated and, finally, embraced by love. By the time I finished the book, he and Cara felt like old friends. I hope they do the same for you.
Visit my Web site at www.wendyetherington.com and tell me what you think. Or you can still reach me via regular mail at P. O. Box 3016, Irmo, SC 29063.
Happy reading!
Wendy Etherington

Books by Wendy Etherington
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
944—PRIVATE LIES
958—ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT?
HARLEQUIN DUETS
76—MY PLACE OR YOURS?
93—CAN’T HELP FALLING IN LOVE
HUNKA HUNKA BURNIN’ LOVE
Sparking His Interest
Wendy Etherington


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Kelly Moses, who embraced me in my new home and who has great strength and a well of courage.
Thanks to firefighter/paramedic Russ Adams for all his assistance with plot details and insight.

Contents
Chapter 1 (#u67d3fb29-9a7e-5c0a-89ac-f5367aa2d4ec)
Chapter 2 (#u7f928ae0-5933-5257-b81b-6a031bc1e46c)
Chapter 3 (#ua94bf58d-1fa8-5b55-8a8a-99e178ef073a)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

1
POLICE LIEUTENANT Wes Kimball slid his truck to a stop behind two patrol cars—the entire force in Baxter, Georgia. The fire department’s ladder truck, pump truck and an ambulance completed the collection of city vehicles.
Less than a hundred yards away the warehouse still billowed smoke. By the light of the three-quarter moon, he could see emergency crews lined along the sidewalk—shadows in the night, fighting a battle the heat and flames had already claimed. Still, two teams of firefighters held hoses of streaming water, aiming the quenching drink toward the building’s crumbling shell.
Wishing he had a hot cup of coffee, Wes climbed from the truck, then strode purposefully toward the scene. The distinctive smell of gasoline washed over him.
He paused, inhaling deep. Great.
The second fire in as many weeks involving gasoline and a building owned by a prominent Baxter businessman. The second time he’d been called out in the middle of the night to investigate. Last time it was a real estate management office; this time an office supply warehouse. Since he was the only cop in town who worked the arson cases with the fire department, and he’d been dealing with the first fire for the past several days, Wes figured he’d hear from the mayor by dawn. That gave him only three hours to come up with a lead. On four hours sleep.
He hunched his shoulders against the brisk October wind and approached the semicircle of cops standing to the side of the ladder truck. Great beginning for a Tuesday.
“Early enough for you?” Eric Norcutt, a high school buddy and fellow cop, asked.
“Too damn,” Wes returned.
Two other members of the Baxter PD snapped to attention.
Wes nodded. “Mornin’.”
They returned his nod, saying nothing. Since he was known almost as widely for his formidable temper as his high rate of solved cases, he could hardly object. One of those things he vowed to work on—usually after he’d had a run-in with his boss or his older brother, who was the fire chief.
“What’s the word on the warehouse?” Wes asked.
“Dead loss,” Norcutt said. “Just like the other place.”
A shout rose in the air, then a loud crash. A large beam fell from an upper floor and crumbled to the ground. Still, the firefighters stood their ground, aiming water toward the smoldering building, the picture of proud dedication. No doubt disciples of his brother Ben, who was the spitting image of their heroic father, both of whom Wes had long since ceased trying to live up to. He’d always felt like something of an outsider in his family, probably always would.
Scanning the area again, he stiffened, recognizing two figures standing off to the side. The mayor—whose portly figure was unmistakable—and Robert Addison, the owner of the building, looked to be in deep and intense conversation.
“BFD got here forty minutes ago,” Norcutt continued. “They found the warehouse already fully engulfed in flames. Thanks to the drought we had all summer, they’re concerned about sparks spreading across the field. They’ve soaked everything pretty good, but it only takes one.”
“And their suspicions?” Wes didn’t have to say more than that. Every citizen—law enforcement, fire department or not—knew the first fire had just been declared an arson by the county fire marshal. With the last crime in Baxter involving a farmer’s cow being tormented by firecrackers and a couple of intoxicated, idiotic teens, the fire had been the talk of the town.
“She’s here.” Norcutt nodded toward the warehouse. “What’s that tell you?”
Wes rolled his shoulders against a twinge of resentment. Well, it seemed his involvement in this case was coming to an end this morning. Didn’t matter. He had other cases to deal with. That cow thing for one.
She was Fire Captain Cara Hughes. Presumably, the state’s top arson investigator, though he’d personally never worked with her. Ben had consulted her by phone after the last fire and had obviously called her to officially lead the investigation. Wes knew little about her. She was tough—there was even a wild rumor she slept with a six-inch switchblade beneath her pillow—serious and by-the-book.
And she had a rough road ahead. The all-male fire and police force in Baxter would no doubt come up with a few asinine, I-have-two-X-chromosomes-hear-me-roar comments about Hughes’s consultation. Personally, Wes didn’t care if the arson investigator was an alien with green antennae on his/her/its head.
“Ben called her,” Wes said simply.
Norcutt crossed his arms over his beefy chest. “We can handle this.”
Technically, an arson case fell under the fire department’s jurisdiction. “Probably.”
“Ah, hell, Wes, we don’t need some woman handling our cases.”
“We don’t likely have a choice.” He cast his gaze toward his friend. “I hear she’s really good.”
Norcutt rolled his eyes as if saying, how could a woman be good at investigating?
“Chill out, Norcutt. I doubt she’ll force you to carry her purse.”
Norcutt’s face turned red. The other guys chuckled.
Deciding he’d had enough male bonding, Wes wandered closer to the warehouse, taking care to stay clear of the firefighters. The smell of smoke, charred wood and gasoline permeated the air. Gas had been the accelerant used in the other fire, though the authorities hadn’t suspected arson immediately. People did amazingly stupid things with flammable liquids—storing them next to heaters, by computers, or other types of spark-inducing equipment.
But the first fire had turned out to be no careless accident, and this one smelled like arson, as well.
He’d just rounded the back corner of the ware-house, intent on checking out the receiving docks, when he saw her.
Wearing worn blue jeans, black boots and a black leather jacket, she knelt on the ground in a circular pool of floodlight, which must have been sustained by an alternate power source, since electricity to the building had been long since cut. She had straight, shoulder-length, dark hair, a trim figure and a surprisingly delicate jawline.
She extended her hand, scraping her fingers across the ash-strewn ground, and he noticed a shoulder holster strapped along her left side. Curious. He didn’t know any fire people who actually carried a firearm. And no sissy revolver for the lady investigator. From the blue steel butt of the gun, it appeared to be a semiauto pistol.
She glanced up suddenly, her steady gaze locking with his. She was attractive, but not beautiful, yet he found himself unable to look away, as if she held him spellbound with her striking blue-green eyes.
Like the Caribbean sea, he found himself thinking romantically, ridiculously.
“You must be Wes,” she said in a husky, sensual voice every bit as gut-clenching as those eyes.
“Yes.” He finally found enough of himself to extend his hand. “Wes Kimball.”
She rose, shaking his hand briefly. Her skin was smooth and warm, and he was almost disappointed when she dropped her hand by her side. “Cara Hughes. Your brother asked me to take over this case.”
Wes slid his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I figured as much when I heard you were here.”
Her gaze slid to a point over his shoulder, then back to his face. “You’ve got some kind of welcoming committee.”
“This was our case before you got here.”
A hint of resentment flashed through those amazing eyes. “This was and still is the fire department’s case.”
Tough, serious and by-the-book. It was always a shock when the town gossips were actually correct. And, surprisingly, they’d left out all the good stuff—intelligent, obviously dedicated to her job, sensual, slender but curvy. He inclined his head in agreement. “We’re just used to handling things ourselves.”
“And you don’t need some hotshot from Atlanta meddling in your domain?”
He smiled. “I can handle my domain just fine, thank you. You can’t tell me you’re not used to some resistance.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Most people stay out of my way actually.”
“I guess so, packin’ heat at a fire scene.”
Her hand slid to her weapon with a casualness that spoke of frequency. Her face flushed. “I forgot it was there. Habit, I guess, going out late at night.”
“Important in Atlanta, I’m sure. It sticks out a bit in Baxter.” And it turned him on, as if that wasn’t weird. He was a cop, could shoot when necessary, but he wasn’t any kind of gun buff. He didn’t have a collection; he wasn’t into hunting. So why did the idea of a woman who treated a pistol with the same familiarity as most women would a watch have desire punch its way into his stomach?
Back to the case, man. You’ve got no time or call for romance now.
“I guess I don’t have to tell you that you’re not going to have an easy time of it. This was our case.”
She sighed. “This is my case now. And it was and continues to be a fire department case. The police have no—”
“When I said our, I meant this town. We’ve handled arson cases before.” Though none with this significance or magnitude.
“You personally?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t like giving away your power to an outsider?” She paused. “A woman?”
“I’ve worked with women before.”
She smirked. “When absolutely forced to.”
Of course, she assumed the worst about him. And why not? Everybody else did.
He’d admit that at times the strength of his convictions had forced him to rash action or harsh opinions, but he wished he could tap into the part of himself that always made him feel as if he was standing on the other side of the fence from everyone else—especially from his family. He supposed his sometimes defensive position stemmed from losing his father so young in life, from always wanting to live up to his ideal and somehow never seeming to measure up. “Look, I—”
How did he explain solving cases was the only thing that made him feel significant anymore? How to explain what it was like to live in his overachieving family? A brother who was the revered fire chief, a brother-in-law who commanded respect without saying a word, a sister who was a successful businesswoman, another brother who was a firefighter and…well, who commanded respect from every female in town.
Simple. He didn’t.
She saved him from a graceless reply. “Ben has the right to bring in outside experts if he chooses.”
“And you get one more notch on your belt loop?”
If he expected her to flush over his crude analogy, he was dead wrong.
She smiled wide. “You bet your ass.”
He found himself returning her smile. And found himself captivated by the humor in her eyes, the curve of her hips, accentuated by her snug jeans. She was really quite…something.
He stepped closer, his heart rate quickening. Her lips parted as she stared up at him, a puff of cloudy-from-the-cold air escaping her mouth. As the scent of gardenias washed over him—an oddly ultrafemi-nine fragrance coming from such a kick-ass kind of woman—he flexed his fingers, his hands wanting to touch her more than his brain knew was wise. He and Cara seemed suspended like that for several seconds, surrounded by darkness, standing in a puddle of light, smelling the gas and smoke.
It was the smell of petrol that finally brought him to his senses. He stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “So, another arson?”
She blinked, then cleared her throat, as if she’d been caught in the same odd spell as he. “There’s enough gasoline to open an Exxon, so it would seem so. I won’t know anything for sure until I’m able to get inside the building.”
“The sprinkler system was dismantled in the previous fire. The water control valve turned off.”
“But not the phone lines to the security system. So when the smoke detectors went off, the system summoned the fire department. Kinda inefficient for an arsonist.”
“I guess he didn’t realize he had to cut the phone lines, too.”
“He knew to cut the chain attached to the water control valve but not the phone or the smoke detectors?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
That point had bothered him after the last fire, as well. “The building’s out here in the woods. If the flames burned out of control, it might set off a forest fire.”
“So we have an environmentally conscious arsonist?”
“Or someone whose grudge is simply with the owner.”
“Robert Addison. What’s he like?”
He’d just seen the man practically cheek-to-cheek with the mayor. Hadn’t she? “You haven’t met him?”
“No.”
You haven’t missed much. He’s a phony jerk, Wes thought, though he controlled the impulse to say so.
“You’re obviously not a fan of his.”
Surprised, he glanced at her.
“For a cop, your eyes are easy to read.”
He was staring into the expressive eyes in this pairing. “And I always thought poker was my game.”
She continued to stare at him. Something like interest, raw and sexual, passed through her eyes. “Maybe I’m just more observant than most.”
As desire clenched his stomach, his sense of duty to his job and his own needs warred. Though he broke rules more often than he played by them, he wouldn’t give in to this attraction. Cara Hughes didn’t seem the type to fall for compliments and a nice dinner out. She seemed standoffish and alone. Serious and easy to anger.
Like him.
He was dangerously fascinated by her. This woman with a sharp wit, who carried a pistol and investigated the grim crime of arson.
And did she really feel a connection with him, or was he just impressing his own desires onto her? He was probably making an idiot out of himself, smiling at her, staring at her, his hands itching with the need to touch her. It also occurred to him that he was sharing his theories with someone who could form her own ideas and probably didn’t need his two cents.
“Well, I’ll let you get to work. I guess I can go back to bed.” Wes turned away, an odd sense of loss churning in his belly. He liked her, he realized, and wouldn’t have minded working with her. Provided he could set aside the urge to jump her body, of course.
“I could use your help, actually.” She said the words quietly, after he’d already walked away a few steps. When he turned back, she continued, “Ben said he’d like for me to have a liaison with the local police.”
“Oh, he’ll be thrilled you’ve chosen me.”
She angled her head. “He suggested you.”
Ben? he wanted to repeat incredulously. For total opposites he supposed they got along okay. They’d even come through a weird instance last spring when Ben had married a woman Wes had dated briefly. Unfortunately, they continued to butt heads over everything else. Some part of him recognized they were just different people. They had different outlooks and temperaments. Ben valued conservatism and professionalism, and Wes tended to be more progressive and less likely to follow the rules. He really wanted just to sit down over a cold Budweiser and tell his brother all the insecurities and live-up-to-the-Kimball-heroism anxieties he had, but he hadn’t.
Probably because the conflict had run for many years, back to when Ben had been forced to take over as the leader of their family, when their father had died fighting a fire and their mother had fallen apart and retreated emotionally from all of them.
Wes’s resentment over being bossed by his brother no doubt stemmed from their differing personalities as well as the closeness in their ages. Their younger brother, Steve, who was also a firefighter, never seemed to have conflicts with anyone. Everybody loved him. Everybody wanted to be around him. Why couldn’t he follow Steve’s example?
Cara stepped toward him, reminding him he had other issues on his plate. “Robert Addison.”
Wes bobbed his head back. “He’s standing over there. Ask him yourself.”
Her gaze shifted. “He’s here?”
“Talking to the mayor. It’s Addison’s building. Somebody called him, I guess.”
“I guess,” she said, then shook her head. “I’ll get to him. Right now, I want to know what you think.”
Figuring he would regret his honesty, he plunged forward anyway. “He wears expensive clothes, drives a flashy car, owns a huge plantation house on a big hill. I’ll bet his underwear has designer logos on them. He’s sophisticated and smooth.” He paused, his gaze shifting to her face. “The ladies seem to like him.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yippee. Just how wealthy are we talking about here?”
Addison wouldn’t be the first to target his own property for gain, he supposed. “Several million.”
“Business stable?”
“He’s well diversified.”
“Bad habits?”
He really liked her suspicious nature. “Not that I know of.”
“Nothing you can prove, you mean.”
Nothing he could even substantiate. Other than one personal experience, it was just a feeling. A gut reaction that said slime whenever Addison was around. Expensive slime, but still messy. Wes just plain didn’t like the guy as a person, as a man, so that opinion clouded any judgment of him the cop could form.
She paced next to him, her boots crunching against the gravel mixed with grass. “What about enemies?”
“Those he’s got plenty of.”
She stopped. Her eyes gleamed—like a hunter’s. “Yeah?”
“He’s rich, so some people automatically resent that. He’s fired people over the years. More resentment. He treats people as if they’re beneath him. And I—” He stopped. That was private. And old news.
“What? Why do I get the feeling there’s something personal here?”
He should have known she wouldn’t let that slide. “I just don’t like him.”
“He doesn’t sound like a likeable guy.”
You let your feelings get messed up with your professional judgment. The sheriff, his brother, even the mayor had said those words so often to him, he’d lost count. Did people really do that—separate the personal from the professional? Did other cops really look at rapists and think, He’s broken the law, violated a woman’s body, her personal safety and not think, He’s a scumbag who ought to be locked up for life?
I don’t think so.
To hell with it. “He’s not a likeable guy,” Wes said, meeting her gaze.
“And there are plenty of other people who feel that way.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Hmm.” She smiled suddenly, and he found the expression all the more welcoming considering their surroundings. All the more alluring because of the sober expression he’d first encountered. “At least we won’t have a lack of suspects.”
He returned her smile. “Probably not.”
She drew a breath, and again her eyes reflected more than just an interest in the case. He hadn’t imagined the glimpse of desire this time. The big question was: what were they going to do about it?
“It’s going to be interesting working with you, Lieutenant.”
He took a step closer to her. “You, too.”
His heart thudded as his gaze roved her face. He was crazy, feeling like this. So quickly. So intensely. He’d never worked with anyone he was attracted to. Could he ignore the sparks of attraction? Be professional? Reserved? He very nearly winced.
He’d have to. This case was the most intriguing to come along in a long time. And if he managed to slide in a dig or two, a moment of trouble for Robert Addison…all the better.
Her gaze slid to a point over his shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. She laid her hands on her hips and squinted. “Is there a reason Elvis would have an interest in this fire?”
Wes didn’t bother to turn around. Yep, life was about to get really interesting. “Oh, yeah. He’s the mayor.”
“WES, I’M SURE you’ll be fully prepared to explain this latest assault on our formerly secure community by 9:00 a.m. in my office,” the man, presumably the mayor, announced as he swaggered toward them. “Mr. Addison is very disturbed by this latest attack.”
Cara stared at him. She’d seen a lot of wild—and gruesome—things in her career, but a portly mayor in a white polyester beaded jumpsuit, slick, black-dyed hair, with long sideburns and big gold sunglasses at an arson scene at two-thirty in the morning was a new one.
“Of course, Mayor Collins.” Wes gestured to her. “Have you met Cara Hughes? She’s the state’s foremost arson investigator. She’ll be taking over the case.”
Cara shot Wes a look of retribution. Turn me over to the nutty mayor, will you? I’ll remember that.
The mayor settled his hands on his hips, which pushed back the white cape attached to the jumpsuit, and highlighted the large, rhinestone-studded belt buckle imprinted with the letters TCB, which stood for Taking Care of Business, if her Elvis lore was on track. Even through the sunglasses, Cara could sense his measuring gaze. She waited in silence imagining what he was thinking while he looked his fill. Who are you? What would drive a woman to do this? Why aren’t you home raising babies or teaching school like a decent, small-town Southern woman? Many a foster parent and supervisor had questioned her idiosyncrasies over the years. She was long immune, and it was always interesting to see where each person categorized her.
Elvis the Mayor chose to ignore her.
“Baxter is a safe town,” he said to Wes. “I don’t need this in the papers in the morning.”
“It’s still safe,” Wes said, his deep blue eyes full of a violent restraint that was no doubt lost on the mayor.
Cara, however, found his emotional state fascinating.
She could all but reach out and touch the suppressed need for respect, success and, ultimately, acceptance on his face. Since she understood those emotions probably better than anyone, they were easy to spot in other people. Wes wouldn’t likely be thrilled that she suspected his secret, but then she never intended to get close enough to tell him. And maybe she’d just read too much into the moment.
“I see we’ve all met,” Ben said as he approached them in a full turn-out of fireproof coat, pants, hat and gloves. He barely glanced at his brother, though he’d bragged earlier about what an excellent liaison he’d make for her. Then again, he didn’t pay much attention to the mayor. Of course, that could be because he couldn’t keep a straight face and talk to the mayor at the same time.
“Yes, sir,” she said, “but I’m anxious to get inside the building.”
“Go ahead. Start on the right side of the building, the entrance to the office. It’s untouched over there. I’ve still got men checking the building’s stability in the warehouse section. They’ll give you clearance when they can.”
Cara nodded, pulling the architectural drawings of the building from inside her jacket pocket.
“What are your first impressions?” Ben asked.
“No mistaking the gas. Like last time, I expect.” She glanced briefly at the mayor. She didn’t make snap judgments about fire scenes or—usually—people, but she wasn’t sure how in the loop Elvis was. “I’ll know more in a day or so.”
Ben nodded and smiled slightly, his teeth glowing white behind his soot-stained face. “Fine.” He paused, turning to Elvis. “Mayor Collins, I know you’re anxious to let these two get to work.”
He nodded at Cara and Wes. “Of course. Mr. Addison and I both expect solid leads right away.”
“I understand Mr. Addison is here at the scene?” Cara asked.
“He was, but he left. He’s a busy man, you know.”
What pressing business he could possibly have at this hour of the morning, Cara couldn’t imagine. He had to have realized the investigators would want to talk to him, leaving her to wonder why he’d avoided them.
The mayor turned away with Ben, muttering about the wisdom of outsiders and rebels in the middle of the most important investigation of the year.
“You must be the outsider,” Wes said.
“Ah, then you’re the rebel,” Cara returned in mock surprise. “I’d wondered.”
Wes extended his hand toward the building. “Shall we?”
She regarded him closely, the loose gray sweatshirt and jean jacket covering his chest, the worn jeans caressing his legs, the wildness in his eyes, the dark shadow of a closely cropped goatee surrounding his sensual mouth, the windblown hair. He added up to trouble with a capital T. She rarely noticed the men she worked with. Why him? Why now?
She shook aside the desire fluttering in her belly. Her single-minded focus on her job would obviously serve her well during this investigation. “Lead on.”
They walked maybe fifty feet to the still-smoldering building, Cara consulting her diagram along the way.
“The manager’s office is through here,” she said as they approached the door, which was fully intact and propped open by a rock. “Not much of an office. The building’s mostly warehouse space.”
Wes held open the door. “After you, Captain.”
Over her shoulder, Cara glanced at him, noticing the amused but exasperated look on his face. “Damn titles,” she muttered. “Makes me feel like saluting.”
He smiled widely, and she felt a sudden kinship with him, as if he, too, thought all the posturing of most people in public service was ridiculous. “Hmm. Ms. Hughes, then?” He paused. “Or maybe…Cara.”
Hearing her name fall so easily and seductively from his lips gave her a jolt she hadn’t expected. Her name had never sounded exotic. Intimate. Warmth spread through her body before she could stop it.
Still, she narrowed her eyes as she said, “Too bad we have to stick with the titles to maintain professional integrity.” She returned her attention to the diagram, determined not to let him know he’d rattled her.
“And the saluting?”
She glanced back up. He was still smiling—just barely, but seductively, invitingly.
She couldn’t imagine Wes Kimball saluting for anyone, so the question seemed irrelevant. And just why was the lieutenant flirting with her?
Usually she expended little effort holding people at a distance. Yet somehow, he’d managed to step into her personal space with a couple of words and without moving physically closer.
“No sal—” She stopped as she crossed the office’s threshold. Water squished through the carpet beneath her boots. Small puddles covered the beige steel desk sitting just inside the door. The ink on the desk calendar had smeared to nearly unrecognizable scrawls. Water still dripped from the sprinkler heads mounted to the ceiling.
“He’s not a very thorough arsonist, is he?” Wes said dryly from behind her.
Picturing the damage to the outside of the building, the half-dozen firefighters still battling the aftereffects of the blaze, the stress and suspicion that was likely to overwhelm the mayor, the town and the investigators, Cara sighed. “Looks like he’s two for two to me.”

2
CARA’S GAZE slid around the room, taking in the water damage and the complete absence of smoke and fire damage. Her mind clicked through the possibilities of a destroyed warehouse, but an intact emergency alert system and working sprinklers—at least in this part of the building.
“There’s more than one control valve,” she said slowly, glancing down at the architectural plans in her hands for confirmation.
Wes wandered around the soaked room, shaking his head. “So he dismantled the sprinklers in the warehouse, turning off the water valve in there, but left the phone lines intact and this valve on?”
“Makes sense to me. Maybe he didn’t know about this one.”
“Maybe,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
Maybe was fine with Cara for now. Questions without answers were fine. She’d interpret once she had more facts.
“Check to see if the door leading to the warehouse is locked,” she said as she headed toward the supply closet door near the back left corner of the room. “Be careful not to smudge any prints,” she added, tossing him a pair of surgical gloves from her jacket pocket.
“I have done this before,” he said, sounding annoyed.
“Doesn’t mean you’ve done it right.”
“Oh, I can do it right.”
She paused in the process of slipping on her own pair of gloves. The man had totally messed with her mind, since his innocent words had sparked a carnal angle. She had to get him back into his spot as professional assistant—fast. “Just check the locks, Lieutenant.”
She flung open the closet door, noting the supply closet was big—about twelve by twelve—nearly the same size as the office. It was full of file cabinets mostly. But against one wall sat a bright, orange-red, floor-to-ceiling pipe that was connected to the wall via a few small pipes.
Heart pounding, she strode towards the pipe, her gaze zeroing in on the pressure gauge window, then to the chain fastened to the water control valve knob, which was about the size of a car steering wheel. The chain held the knob in place, so the water pressure couldn’t be turned off accidentally. Cutting it, unfortunately, was easy—a pair of wire clippers would do. Newer systems had an antitamper device so that if the chain was cut an alarm went off. Until she examined the main security panel she wouldn’t know if that was the case here.
“Found it, huh?” Wes said from behind her. “Works, I guess.”
“There’s plenty of water pressure. The chain’s intact. What about the door?”
“Unlocked, but shut. Why?”
Still studying the pipe system for anything unusual, she replied, “I’m not worried about why yet. I’m still absorbing.”
“Absorbing?”
She drew in a quick breath, and her thought process shut down. She hadn’t realized he was so close. She even thought she could feel his breath against the back of her neck. Impossible. Her hair and the collar of her jacket kept any skin from exposure. She was imagining things. Dreaming.
“Not that I’m an expert or anything—my last fire investigation involved some dingbat woman who set fire to her house to get the insurance money….”
At his tone, Cara turned her head to look at him. Big mistake. He rolled his pretty blue eyes—a description he would no doubt hate—and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, drawing her gaze to the breadth of his shoulders, which tapered to a lean waist—
She forced her gaze immediately back to his face. She wasn’t some chick on the make, drawn to the moodiness and danger that rolled off Wes Kimball in waves. The aura of confidence and vulnerability—
She stopped her thoughts again. What the hell was wrong with her?
“…caught on to her scheme after about two and a half minutes,” Wes continued, seeming not to notice her straying concentration. “But doesn’t all this seem like overkill?” He frowned. “Or just confusing? If I’m setting a fire in a warehouse, I toss out the gasoline, cut the chain, turn off the water. No water, no sprinklers. The fire will spread rapidly. Then I go to the system panel, bust it open, pull out every wire I can get my hands on and hightail it out of there. Fire rages. Property’s a dead loss. No fire department to get in the way.”
Cara had several problems with that theory, but she jumped on to the most obvious one first. She really liked running through the possible scenarios with him. Usually, she had to play devil’s advocate with herself. “And how would you know to cut the chain to the water valve?”
“The Internet. There’s probably a damn Web site—www dot set-a-fire dot com.”
“And that step-by-step instruction would leave out the smoke detector, the fire department alert system—which is useless without telephone wires—and the possibility of a second control valve? And then, of course, we have the motive to consider. Was the fire department’s arrival a mistake? Twice? Why this warehouse, why the office last week—”
Wes raised his hand to stop her questions, then rubbed his temples. “There are dozens of angles, aren’t there?”
“Even angles that don’t involve Addison’s guilt?”
He said nothing for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t see any.”
She was dying to ask him what had made him so biased against Addison, what past they had forged, but, following her own advice, she kept her suspicions at bay. They were gathering evidence. Interpretation came later.
“So what do we know?” she asked. “For instance, the day-to-day operations.”
“It’s an office supply warehouse. Lots of crates and boxes moving around. Trucks arriving to deliver inventory ordered from manufacturers. Trucks arriving to pick up and distribute supplies to various businesses in town and out.”
“Exactly.” She paced along the far wall, more in an attempt to escape the enticing scent of his cologne, or soap, or something than the need to move. “Kind of a humdrum existence. Items come in, items move out. Then inventory a few times a year. So who are the people who do all this moving about?”
“Some warehouse people, a manager…”
Cara tucked her map away and pulled her PDA from her jacket pocket, handing it to Wes, knowing the info regarding this particular property of Robert Addison’s was displayed on the screen.
Wes stared at the screen. “This is the background check I ran after the first fire.”
“Ben e-mailed it to me.” She continued pacing. “So, employees consist of the manager, his assistant and five warehouse personnel. All work a day shift. After five o’clock, the property is deserted. The only other people with access to the building are the cleaning service, which comes once a week. The property is protected by a decent security system, which is connected to the fire alert system.”
“Captain Hughes?” someone called from the other room.
Cara strode from the closet and saw a firefighter, who was unmistakably a Kimball, peeking around the door between the office and the warehouse. “Yes?”
The man nodded. “It’s safe for you to come out here now, though I wouldn’t delay too long. The steel reinforcements are holding things up for the moment. They seem solid, but with the heat of the fire…” He shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Thanks. I’ll hurry,” she said.
“We’ll be around a while still. Holler if you need us.” Then he grinned, his Kimball blue eyes twinkling. “And Wes says he gets all the lousy assignments.”
He strode off, and Cara turned, nearly bumping into Wes. The man was forever sneaking up on her. She extended her hands to keep her balance, encountered Wes’s chest, then pulled back just as quickly and swayed on her feet.
He grabbed her shoulders. “That’s my younger brother, Steve.”
Still a little dizzy by the idea of nearly being held in his arms, Cara simply nodded. “I figured. Monica said there were three of you.”
His hands, still resting on her shoulders, tensed. “I didn’t realize you knew my sister-in-law.”
“We met a few months ago when she redecorated several firehouses in Atlanta.” She stared up at him. She knew Monica had briefly dated Wes, though everyone seemed to agree the match had been a mistake. “Problem?”
“No. I just can’t picture the two of you as friends.”
“We’re certainly different.” But outrageous Monica made her smile, and her new friend was always talking about shoes or wallpaper—a nice change from gasoline and matches. She wondered, however, if the tension she’d sensed between Wes and Ben had something to do with Monica. “I understand she and Ben eloped in Vegas.”
“They were all googly-eyed about it. Weird.”
Okay. Strike one with that theory. Wes obviously wasn’t pining after his sister-in-law. The brothers probably just had a personality conflict. Wes seemed to share little with Mr. Professionally Reserved Fire Chief Ben.
When she turned, Wes had to drop his hold on her. She didn’t like being that close to him, touching him. She had a job to do, which didn’t involve examining the personal lives of her colleagues. She’d taken several steps toward the door to the warehouse when he asked, “How, exactly, does a sprinkler system work?”
She glanced back, noting he stood by a large, black file cabinet on the other side of the manager’s desk. “When it detects fire, it shoots water everywhere.”
“Not exactly. It detects heat. And it’s the water flow that actually triggers the alarm.” Confidence suffused his face as he met her gaze. “Right?”
“Right.”
“And here we have water flow, so the fire department came, just like the first fire.”
“Right again.” She paused. “He obviously didn’t know about the possibility of a second water valve.”
“I don’t think so.” He pointed at the ground, and she walked around the edge of the desk to see what was so interesting.
A metal trash can was filled with ashes and sitting on the floor beside the file cabinet. “What the hell…”
“Look up.”
She tipped back her head, focusing on the sprinkler head just above them. “He set the sprinklers off on purpose.” Her gaze met his. “He wanted the fire department to come.”
“Interesting, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yeah.” She paused, trying to minimize the sweet thrill of discovery coursing through her veins. They still had a lot of investigating to do, but she definitely had a feel for this arsonist. What he wanted, what turned him on. It was this part of the job that she liked, the part that made her so successful. She headed toward the door leading to the warehouse. “Let’s see what else we find.”
She snagged two hard hats from a rack on the wall, handing one to Wes. “You know the drill, I’m sure. Safety first. Keep your eyes and ears open for any shifting debris.”
A half smile hovered on the lieutenant’s lips. “It’s not so bad working with you, actually.”
“So glad you think so. I’ll be sure to pass that along to my CO.”
“Who is your CO?” he asked as she gingerly turned the doorknob.
“Technically, the state fire marshal, but the governor’s put me in charge of several task forces lately.”
“The governor? Of the state?”
She laid one hand on her hip. “He likes working with me.”
His gaze raked her figure, somehow communicating admiration without insolence. “I imagine he does.”
Her face heated. She was blushing? Oh, man, that was too much. “Come on, hotshot, let’s find the security panel.”
Thankfully, he fell into step beside her and didn’t comment on the personal turn the conversation had taken. “Any idea where to look?”
Cara glanced at the ruined space surrounding her, then consulted her map again. “Looks like we have a sprinkler room toward the back, closer to the left side.”
They headed in that direction, picking their way around the boxes reduced to near ashes. With smoke still lingering in the air, water dripping off most everything, the ceiling partially collapsed in some places, they had a hard time figuring out what was what.
After several minutes of winding through collapsed and melting rows of giant metal storage shelves without any luck, Wes said, “I’ll find Steve. Maybe he knows where the room is.”
“Good idea. I’ll keep looking.”
She headed off again, stepping over boxes and piles of still-smoldering paper, wondering just how many tons of supplies had fallen from upper floors and how much had actually been down here to start with. It was all a blackened, ashy, damp mess.
But just as she was about to turn a corner partially blocked by a fallen beam, she saw a glint of gold. A doorknob maybe?
She squinted, picking up a crumpled box and moving it aside. The outline of a door was definitely visible just behind a group of boxes. Moving them aside one by one, she finally made a small path for her to squeeze through.
Sweat rolled down her face as she struggled toward her goal. She bent over a bit, dusting the soot from her jeans. As she straightened, she saw the body.
The slumped, badly burned figure against the wall. It was a man. It used to be a man.
She turned her head, swallowing the urge to gag. She’d seen it before, would no doubt see it again. The man wasn’t there anymore. Just his body, the flesh that used to contain him. Still, she had to draw a few deep breaths through her mouth before she knew she could look back.
Her gaze slid back to his face, charred and ruined.
Was this how the investigator had felt when he’d found her parents? Revolted, yet full of pity, praying they hadn’t suffered?
“Lieutenant!” she called, then let her head fall back as she stared at the blackened ceiling, trying to calm her breathing.
“Not far behind you,” he called. “You’re nearly on top of the security system room.”
She knew the moment he’d made it past the boxes. He sucked a breath; the air stilled.
“This thing just got a whole lot more serious,” he said.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “It certainly did.”
WES STARED OUT his truck’s windshield as he drove himself and Cara through the predawn light.
They’d said very little to each other in the past three hours. Words were certainly beyond him, though he did wonder how often she found something as horrible as what they’d just witnessed. His thoughts went to his father, of course, tragically killed in a fire when Wes was just a teenager. He thanked God he’d never seen him like that.
As he turned off the deserted highway and headed into town, he also realized he could be thankful he hadn’t disgraced himself or embarrassed Cara. Seeing the shock and horror on her face, he’d swallowed hard. He’d let the part of him that had always been a cop take over. He hadn’t drawn her into his arms the way he’d wanted. He’d relied on stark professionalism as they examined the body for evidence and identification and waited for the coroner and ambulance.
Unable to find ID, Cara had ordered the victim be sent directly to the hospital morgue for autopsy. Poor old Doc Moses, who served as the town’s coroner, had never seen anything like this horribly disfigured body. He’d mumbled and stumbled, and Cara had pulled him aside while the paramedics bagged the body for transport.
Then, patting Doc’s hand, she’d told him to go on home. She’d call one of the state’s forensic experts to do the autopsy and have him rush to Baxter immediately.
She’d been brave and lovely, and Wes found himself falling even more thoroughly under her spell.
“After you drop me off at the hospital, go home and get some rest,” she said quietly. “I’ll call you when I have news.”
“I’m going to the firehouse.” At least they’d have food and company. “Why don’t you come with me? You can shower, get some coffee…”
But she was already shaking her head. “I told the pathologist I’d meet him at the hospital. Hopefully, he’ll have preliminary results sometime tomorrow.”
He simply nodded.
“You mind if I roll down the window a bit?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Go ahead.” With the scent of smoke still permeating his clothes, some fresh air would no doubt do them both good. The crisp air hit him, shocking his thoughts and senses into clarity. Her hair billowed away from her face, highlighting her pale skin and watery eyes. Again, the need to touch her washed over him.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. She was a colleague, not a date. “You want some company at the hospital?”
“No, thanks. I need to be alone. I need to think.”
Wes didn’t argue, though he wanted to leave her about as much as he wanted to find another body in the warehouse rubble.
So it must have been self-preservation that made him press harder on the gas.
HOURS LATER, Wes found himself staring out another window. This time it was Ben’s office window at the firehouse. The sky blazed a brilliant October blue. Not a cloud floated on the horizon. The sun was bright, almost stark white, so powerful he had to squint to look at it.
If he stared intensely enough would he forget the sight of the body? He hoped so, since every time he closed his eyes that’s all he saw.
As a result, he’d never gone back to sleep. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and he still had no desire to lie down, even though Ben had tried to push him to get some rest. The only concession he’d made was to shower and borrow some clean clothes.
Cara had just called Ben from the hospital. She had some preliminary results, and she was on her way to see them.
In the hours they’d been apart, Wes had managed to rebottle his emotions. They’d been through a charged and shocking situation together; it was only natural he’d felt a certain kinship with her. Their thought processes and dispositions were similar so, of course, he’d been drawn to her. They were virtually in the same business so, of course, they understood each other. But in a normal situation, if he’d spotted her at the grocery store or in a bar, he wouldn’t have done more than smile politely. This clawing, aching need to see her again, to finally, fully touch her skin was nothing more than a human reaction to a stressful situation.
He’d had more bad endings to relationships in the past year than he’d had in his whole life. Some bad and embarrassing endings. Monica came to mind. It was enough to put a man off women. Well, almost.
And he remembered Cara knew her. Monica and Cara. He found that combination hard to mesh. On the other hand, outrageous Monica had married conservative Ben, and they were happy, so what did he know about the subtleties of the heart? He was better off alone. Always had been. Probably always would be.
The office door swung open. Steve stuck his head inside. “Wanna get a beer later?”
“Yeah. Maybe. If I’m awake later.”
“You can tell me all about the sexy Captain Hughes.”
“She’s here to work, not date the locals.” Oh, Mr. Righteous, are we? You, however, can come on to her all you like. He refused to acknowledge his conscience trying to tell him that he just didn’t need Steve’s competition. Women fell at the guy’s feet on a daily basis. “Watch yourself, baby brother, she’s armed.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
Whatever additional warning Wes would have liked to issue was interrupted by the mayor and Ben brushing by Steve as they entered the office.
“Ben,” the mayor said as he waddled across the room, “I just don’t see how this woman, this outsider can do a better job than your folks here.”
Steve grinned, then retreated quickly, closing the door.
The mayor went on, “She sent Doc Moses into a near faint with that body business.”
Before Wes could defend Cara or explain the situation the mayor had—as usual—gotten wrong, Ben spoke up. “Doc’s the coroner. By law we have to call him to the scene. Captain Hughes has graciously offered to assist in the investigation by bringing in one of her colleagues for the autopsy.”
“Oh, hello, Wes,” the mayor said absently, plopping into a chair in front of Ben’s desk. “Glad you’re here. I’m sure you’ll be on my side in this.”
Wes met Ben’s gaze over the mayor’s head. His brother shook his head.
Striving to take his brother’s silent advice, Wes didn’t comment, though where the mayor got that Wes of all people would be on his side, he hadn’t a clue. At least the mayor’s presence had driven all self-pitying, morose thoughts from his mind. No one could keep from smiling in the presence of a man in a lime-green polyester jumpsuit with bright orange rhinestones, turquoise braided trim and pink sunglasses.
“We have a murder to investigate,” Wes began. “We’re all on the same side.”
The mayor sighed into his jowls. “Yes, yes, of course. Any idea who he was?”
“There was no ID on the body,” Ben said. “Captain Hughes told me only that he was male, Caucasian, probably between forty-five and fifty. Mr. Addison has been contacted, and he’s spoken with his managers. None of the employees are unaccounted for, so we’re going to put the dental records into a national database.”
The mayor winced. “Dental records. I can’t believe this is happening in Baxter.”
Ben sank into the chair behind his desk. He, too, hadn’t slept. “I know. It’s been a rough night for everyone.”
“Mr. Addison will demand quick answers,” the mayor added.
Wes, who still hadn’t moved from his position in front of the window, couldn’t resist this time. “He’ll have to wait in line.”
The mayor glanced up at him, surprise evident in his eyes. “Wes, you know as well as I do how important Mr. Addison is to this community. It’s thanks to his civic generosity that we have a new communications system in the police station.”
Wes ground his teeth. “I’m well aware of his contribution.”
“Tax dollars are simply not enough,” the mayor continued, obviously not aware of Wes’s gathering temper. “Without cooperation from the business community we can’t move our town forward.”
Wes was all for moving forward, and he couldn’t deny the equipment was cutting-edge, but in his experience, ultragenerous gifts of thousands of dollars never arrived without a cost. Especially from a blow-hard like Addison. Wes had been waiting nearly four months to find out just when Addison would ask for his favor. The passing of time had only made him more itchy, wondering just how much the businessman expected in return from the Baxter Police Department.
“Personally,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the window, “I think it will be interesting to see just how anxious Addison is to get this case solved.”
The mayor sat erect, even as Ben sighed. “What do you mean by that? The last thing I need is my peace officers making attacks against our citizens. We must all put up a brave front in this time of crisis.”
Ben held up his hand. “Mayor, let’s please not jump to conclusions about anyone or anything.” He directed his gaze to Wes, giving him no doubt that he was included in this warning. “We don’t need the newspaper to get wind of any more problems. I understand from a friend at the paper that the Atlanta media have been calling them all afternoon for updates. Their cameras are imminent. We all need to be professional and resolute in this.”
Wes had been pushed beyond his already shaky patience. He wanted to scream, to explode. He stalked across the room. “You be professional. I’ll be pissed. A man has lost his life. There’s an arsonist running loose in our town.” He yanked open the door. “We have to—”
He ground to a halt, encountering Cara on the other side of the door. Her hand was raised to knock.
“Oh, hi,” she said. Her eyes were droopy and bloodshot, her skin pale.
“You—” He stopped. Her exhaustion was none of his business. She was a trained expert. She didn’t need him babying her. “Come on in.”
Ben and the mayor both stood up as she walked into the room, with Ben offering her the chair next to the mayor. “Coffee?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve had too much already.”
“What do you know about the victim?” Ben asked.
Wes returned to his place by the window, all thoughts of storming out gone. Ridiculous, this need to be near her. But there it was. Undeniable.
“Not too much,” Cara said. “He definitely died of smoke inhalation. He probably never even woke up. He had holes in the bottoms of his shoes and several of his teeth were rotten. I think he was a homeless person or drifter, who wandered in looking for a warm place to sleep. The lock on the back door had been jimmied, so he probably sneaked in that way. The warehouse manager confirmed having to run out a man who fits his general description a couple of weeks ago.”
“Any chance he’s the arsonist?” the mayor asked, wringing his chubby hands.
“It’s possible, I guess, though no traces of gasoline were found on his hands or clothes.”
“You don’t think he’s responsible?” Ben asked.
“No, I don’t.”
Wes kept silent. He’d have the opportunity to argue his point about Addison being the prime suspect, but he had no intention of doing so in front of the mayor. They’d already had an argument about this after the first fire. Wes had made the mistake of pointing out that Addison had had the property up for sale a few months before and hadn’t been successful in dumping it, and wasn’t it convenient that the property was now a complete loss?
The resulting diatribe, complete with horror at the quick, wrongful judgment of a generous (aka rich) law-abiding citizen, still rang in his ears.
The mayor bit his lip, then glanced at his watch. “Good grief, I’m going to be late to the garden club luncheon.” He shook his head. “And I must say, it’s a measure of how upset we all are that no one commented on my garden motif suit.” He waddled out.
For the first time since their horrible discovery in the warehouse, Wes met Cara’s gaze, and they shared a smile.
“Don’t start with me—either one of you,” Ben said, obviously noting their amusement. “You haven’t had to listen to him moan about the upcoming elections, about how he’s dedicated his whole life to this town and how that ‘young, whippersnapper lawyer’ running against him will use these fires to prove he can’t maintain order and safety.”
“I’ve been at the morgue, you know,” Cara pointed out.
“And I’ve been…” Wes began. Actually, he’d been brooding. “I got chewed out after the last fire.”
Ben went on as if he hadn’t heard them. “And the whole time he’s rambling I’m thinking, Where exactly does he get those suits? I mean does he have them made? I can’t imagine a store carrying them in inventory.”
Wes crossed the room, sitting on the edge of Ben’s desk. He hadn’t seen his brother this messed up since the day he’d asked for advice about dating Monica. “Cheer up, Chief. It could be worse.”
“I don’t see how.”
Wes fought back laughter. “The whippersnapper lawyer could be a big Kiss fan.”
Ben groaned, then narrowed his eyes at Cara. “You look terrible.”
She blinked, then glared back. “Gee, thanks.”
Ben’s face flushed. “Sorry. You just—” He stopped, looking to Wes for support.
Wes simply shook his head.
“You need some rest,” Ben said, gazing unflinchingly at Cara.
Brave guy, Wes thought. That pistol is within easy reach.
Ben began writing on a slip of paper. “These are directions to my house. I want you to go back to the apartment you’re renting, sleep for at least four hours, then come to my house for dinner at seven.” He extended the paper, which Cara took. “That’s an order.”
Cara clamped her jaw tight, but managed to ask, “Is there a room I could use here? I’d rather be close if a lead develops. And I’m fine with ordering pizza and meeting in your office.”
“I’m fine with pizza, too, but my wife has other ideas, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Cara nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“Wes, can you come to dinner, too? We’ll have some privacy to discuss the case at length.”
Wes noticed his brother asked him rather than demanded, even though the jurisdiction of the case allowed him to command the police however he saw fit. It was this unfailingly polite, restrained tone that set Wes’s teeth on edge. Their teasing over the mayor seemed forgotten, replaced by the usual tension.
He shoved aside the trouble. “I’ll find you a room,” he said to Cara.
She rose. “Chief” was all she said to Ben in parting. She didn’t speak to Wes either until he stopped outside a private room decorated in blue and gray and resembling a small hotel suite, including a computer and entertainment center and a bathroom off to the right. “Nice room. Does everybody else’s look like this?” she asked suspiciously, as if wary of special treatment.
“No, the guys sleep in a one-room bunk hall. This would be for our female firefighters—if we had any.”
She raised her eyebrows.
Her silence unnerved him. No one could ever accuse him of being the most talkative person in a crowd, so carrying the conversation didn’t set well with him.
“They keep bringing the local school kids through here on field trips, thinking someday surely one of the girls will see the job’s appeal.”
“Hmm,” she said as she wandered into the room.
Wes stayed in the doorway. All these weird, gut-clenching feelings kept slamming into him when he looked at her. The lust he understood, could even embrace, if it wasn’t for this case they were working together. But he wanted to sit her down and get her life story. He wanted to know what had driven her to become an arson investigator. He wanted to know her favorite foods, movies and books. He wanted to tuck her into bed and watch those shrewd, expressive eyes close in sleep.
Obviously through exploring the room, she faced him. “You’ve been with me more than Ben. Do I look exhausted?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me to lie down?”
“It would piss me off, so I knew it would piss you off. I’ll see you at dinner.” He backed out, closing the door as he went, wondering how he could possibly already have such a strong sense of her.
And wondering why he was walking away instead of running.

3
CARA RAISED her hand to ring the doorbell at Ben and Monica’s house. Then, just as quickly, dropped her hand by her side.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.
She was actually nervous about this meeting. He was coming. That annoyingly sexy and intriguing Wes Kimball. When she looked at him every professional thought in her head ran like crazy for higher ground.
She did not get in a lather about men. The few relationships she’d experienced had been brief, all ending when the man in question couldn’t seem to grasp the concept that her career was the highest priority in her life. And she hadn’t met one yet to cause her to reconsider the idea.
“You’re being an idiot, Cara.”
With her index finger, she punched the doorbell a little harder than necessary and wondered if the rosy lipstick she’d added after a quick shower at her apartment was already smudged as usual.
Monica opened the door—thank God. “Cara!” She grabbed her into a quick hug. “Don’t you look great. That lipstick is just the perfect shade.”
Oh, goody, that mystery was solved. Now she could sleep nights.
But while she rolled her eyes regarding her own spurt of vanity, she reveled in Monica’s. Her friend wore a clingy white sweater, a purple leather miniskirt and matching purple stilettos. Her long red hair was curled and sensuously framed her striking face, highlighting her bright green eyes.
How she was going to discuss a fatal arson case with two men in this woman’s presence, though, Cara had no idea.
In the foyer, she slid out of her jacket, then handed her friend the bottle of champagne she’d picked up at the liquor store.
If possible, Monica brightened even more. “Oooh! I haven’t had champagne in ages. You’ll share with me, won’t you?”
Cara glanced around the lovely, two-story foyer, her gaze jumping from detail to detail. Lots of wood and windows, great rich colors of dark green, claret and gold. Monica’s impeccable taste as a decorator was obvious. “One glass. I’ve got case files to go through.”
Monica stuck out her tongue. “You can’t work all night.”
“And I’ve got to drive home.”
“Home? To Atlanta? You can’t—”
Cara held up her hand. “I rented an apartment in town.”
“Oh, good. It’ll be nice having you so close.”
Her friend’s enthusiasm helped Cara to finally set aside the stomach-rolling memories of last night. “So, what’s for dinner?”
“Ben and Wes are outside on the deck, grilling something. I’m not really sure what. I tried to tell them that for dinner parties these days people order in, then fix everything on silver platters to make it look like you’d slaved in the kitchen all day. But they pointed out the limited selection of ‘ordering in’ places in Baxter. I mean this town sells live bait in vending machines. Where are we going to order a respectable dinner?”
“Live bait?”
“Yep. Ben assured me that all real men knew how to grill, so I poured a glass of wine and left them to it.”
“Excellent idea,” Cara said as they walked into the kitchen.
The room stole her breath. Dark oak cabinets and floors, stone countertops, stainless steel appliances, more warm touches of red and gold, artistic bowls and accessories, and to one side an octagon-shaped cupola with a glass ceiling and glass walls. It looked like one of those kitchens on the Home and Garden channel.
She walked into the cupola, absorbing the clear, twinkling view of the lake on the other side of the windows. She felt as if she were suspended over the lake, nothing but water beneath her and sky above.
“What do you think?” Monica asked from behind her.
Cara spun to face her. “Wow.”
Her friend beamed.
The back door swung open, and Ben’s voice floated into the room “…a pretty good game, but—” Ben himself appeared, holding a bottle of beer in one hand and a platter of steaks in the other. He smiled at Cara. “Good. You’re here. And looking rested.”
“Thanks.” Though she’d been aggravated as hell that he’d ordered her to take a break, she had to admit he’d been right. The moment she’d woken from her nap, her theory about the case had begun to solidify. She was anxious to share her idea.
Wes entered the room just behind Ben. “Hey,” he said briefly to her, then crossed to the recycling bin to toss out his beer bottle. “Want another one?” he asked his brother.
Now how in the world could he act so nonchalant around her when she got a head rush and butterflies colliding in her stomach when she so much as glanced his way?
“Yeah,” Ben said as he set the platter of steaks on the counter.
Monica handed her a glass of champagne, and Cara resisted the urge to slug down half the contents. Why did the guy make her feel so unsettled? It was damn annoying.
Sipping her drink, she watched him wander over to the cupola and stare out the window. Even in a crowd he seemed to be alone. She knew the feeling well and wondered if he just wasn’t a people person, or if he, like her, pushed people away for deeper reasons. After so many years in foster homes, she tended to keep people at a distance out of a lack of trust and an awkwardness about sharing her feelings. Did he feel the same?
Monica had once shared with her the circumstances of Ben and Wes’s father’s death. She’d also said that their mother had fallen apart after he’d passed away and now lived in Florida. Apparently their mom rarely saw or spoke to her children. Maybe Wes felt abandoned. Cara sensed a kindred spirit, and that seemed like a really bad thing in the middle of a major case.
Looking away from him, she leaned against the center island. “Do we have to make small talk first, or can we get right to the case?”
Ben’s gaze went directly to Monica.
She heaved a sigh. “Can we at least wait until after dinner for the gruesome details?”
Cara figured she was being rude, but with Wes around she felt especially awkward. She kept having flashbacks to her first double date, which had been forced upon her by one of her foster sisters. Everyone had laughed and talked as they ate pizza, while she’d been so frozen into silence the guys had thought she didn’t speak English. Not exactly her finest moment.
To talk you had to share pieces of yourself, reveal feelings and ambitions. Too personal. Too close. People she got close to always left her—one way or another.
As the group took their places at the table, she shook off the loneliness. Those days were gone. She made her own decisions, spent time with the people she wanted to.
And she admitted—if only to herself—Wes Kimball was one of those people.
Dammit.
DURING DINNER, Cara put her theory on hold, mentioned the house, and Monica pretty much took care of the conversation. But she couldn’t avoid the stoic Lieutenant Kimball. Probably because he sat right next to her.
His thigh nearly touched hers.
Their hands even brushed once.
He barely spoke. He grunted. And ate. Occasionally he sipped beer.
She’d never been so intensely aware of a man before. (Though she could have done without the grunting.) She smelled his cologne over the steak. She found herself staring at his hand as he brought his fork to his mouth. Even listening to Monica describe paint colors and installing tile, Cara knew the moment he moved his hand.
As they dug into dessert—a multilayered chocolate brownie that Cara nearly had an orgasm over—all thoughts of work flew the coop. She was wondering if Monica had actually produced this incredible culinary creation with her own hands when Ben said, “Wes, you mentioned at the station that Addison wasn’t anxious to solve the case. What did you mean by that?”
Still in the throes of chocolate ecstasy, it took Cara a few moments to realize Ben was speaking of their earlier conversation with the mayor.
Wes set down his fork.
Cara marveled at the willpower of this man.
Wes’s gaze flicked to his brother, then he glanced at Cara—the first time all night, by her estimation. He leaned back. “I think Addison is responsible for these fires. He’s hired someone to set them to collect the insurance money.”
Cara said nothing. She’d known from the moment they’d discussed Addison how Wes had felt about him. And since his theory didn’t completely contradict hers, she felt comfortable waiting for her own moment.
Ben rubbed his chin. “That’s a quick judgment. And it has a big problem—Addison’s loaded.”
“He appears loaded. But I’ve heard people talking about him doing a lot of gambling, taking lots of trips to Vegas. God knows he throws his money around town like crazy.” He leaned forward, his blue eyes blazing as he tapped the table with his finger. “Who knows what we’ll find if we dig deep enough?”
Silence followed this accusation. Cara had investigated enough cases to realize Robert Addison was an untouchable. One of the beautiful, wealthy people who didn’t have to explain their actions or take responsibility for their mistakes. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t go after him if the evidence dictated, but it certainly made things sticky. And she didn’t have to live in this town afterward.
Monica rose. “I’ll start cleaning up and let you—”
Standing, Ben wrapped his hand around her wrist. “It’ll keep. I want to hear your opinion.” He kissed her palm, then pulled her back down into her chair.
Though her mind had managed to move from chocolate to arson, Cara couldn’t help but smile inwardly at their display of affection. She’d heard a lot about Ben from her friend and sensed the love they had for one another, but seeing the reality made even her cynical heart sigh.
Monica ran her finger around the rim of her champagne glass. “Addison is charming enough.”
“But…” Cara added for her.
“I don’t like him,” Monica said flatly, flipping her long hair over her shoulder.
Ben tossed his napkin onto his plate. “There’s a lot of that going around.”
“Sorry, honey.” Monica laid her hand over her husband’s. “Most women adore him, of course. He’s loaded, good-looking, generous. But he’s too cocky. Like everybody should worship at his feet. Always has to be the center of attention. Now I like being the center of attention as much as anybody…”
“But, darling, you don’t have to try,” Ben said, gripping her hand and pulling her closer to him.
“Do you guys need some time alone?” Wes asked dryly. “’Cause Cara and I can go.”
“Sorry.” With obvious effort, Ben let go of his wife. “I guess I’m going to have to take this character assassination of Addison seriously—much as it’s going to cause me grief. I don’t ever remember you and Wes agreeing about anything.
“But,” he continued, “it would certainly make my life easier if Addison was innocent. Cara, I half hope you fall head over heels for the man.”
Cara raised her eyebrows. “Don’t count on it.”
Monica laughed and rose from the table, carrying her plate toward the sink. “Go right on wishing, Chief, honey. Cara isn’t easily moved—especially by men.”
Ben got up from the table, as well. “She’s here to help me with a case, darling, I doubt she wants comments made about her personal life.”
Cara stood to help clear the table. Wes rose, too, and to Cara’s surprise eased Monica out of the way, rolled up his sleeves, then proceeded to rinse the dishes.
Just a few feet from Wes’s broad back, Cara leaned against the island. “Oh, she’s not talking about anything personal.”
Monica smiled at her. “Actually, I was talking about this guy Cara and the police arrested about a month ago. He tried to escape as she was putting him in handcuffs.”

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