Up in Flames Page 10

  Rosanna was sitting on the stretcher with an oxygen mask, but the minute she saw him she dropped it and held out her arms. Tears streamed down her face as he placed the animal in her lap. She buried her head against the cat’s fur, stroking him and crying.

  Neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk to watch, some still in their pajamas. The fireman retrieved a blanket from their emergency supply, shoved it toward Bradford,

  “Are you hurt, miss?” he asked.

  She shook her head, and he nodded, then rushed away to help contain the blaze.

  Bradford settled the blanket around Rosanna’s shoulders “Are you really all right, Rosanna? Do you need a doctor?”

  “I’m okay,” she whispered. But her face looked ashen as she angled her head and watched the blaze destroying her home. He couldn’t shake the emotions tightening his chest—this fire had nearly taken her life, just as the other one had killed her friend Natalie.

  Unable to help himself, he hugged her tighter.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She burrowed into his arms, and he kissed her hair, grateful she’d survived.

  “Someone was in my house earlier,” she whispered in a haunted voice.

  “What?” He pulled back, searched her face, saw the conviction in her eyes. “Did you see an intruder?”

  “No, but I smelled cigarette smoke and sweat—” Her voice broke. “Then the fire broke out.”

  He grimaced. If she was right, and someone had intentionally set the fire, they’d obviously meant to kill her.

  And if he and the rescue workers had been five minutes later, the man would have succeeded.

  ROSANNA CLUTCHED her cat, and hovered in the detective’s strong arms, unable to tear herself away from his embrace. She felt safe as long as he was holding her, yet she couldn’t banish the images of the fire hissing at her feet ready to eat her alive. And the realization that a stranger had been inside her house.

  A stranger who’d tried to burn her apartment down and kill her.

  But why would someone want her dead?

  She didn’t have any enemies. Not that she knew of anyway.

  What if the detective had been right, and this maniac arsonist was targeting women he thought practiced witchcraft? If he was the same man who’d been outside her shop and made those candles burst into flames, then he knew about her business. And he obviously knew where she lived.

  Maybe he even knew about the research experiment.

  Could he possibly be part of it?

  Embarrassed at her emotional outburst, and the way she was clinging to him, she wiped away her tears and pieced her composure back together. She’d always stood alone, and she always would.

  But as she pulled back, she suddenly felt bereft, empty inside, as if she’d lost something precious that she’d almost had within her grasp.

  Ridiculous. How could she miss something she’d never had?

  He cleared his throat. “Rosanna, are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  “Yes.” She gripped his arm, alarming Shadow whose ears perked up as he prepared to protect her. “The last place I want to go is to the hospital.”

  The detective’s dark gaze latched with hers, and he nodded. Around them the firefighters continued to bark orders and worked to extinguish the blaze.

  “Tell me what happened?” he asked gently.

  She closed her eyes, weighed how much to tell him. Braced herself for his reaction as she tried to calm the cat. “I was in my apartment, and went to bed. I’d brought these candles home from the store.”

  “And you lit them?”

  She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. Smelled the lingering smoke and cringed. “No.”

  “So how did the fire get started?”

  “It did start with the candles.” She glanced up at him warily, saw the skepticism in his eyes and her stomach clenched. “You aren’t going to believe me. I mean it’s hard for me to believe it myself.”

  An impatient look tightened his face. “Try me.”

  She stewed over her reply, but in the end, she had to be honest. “Whoever broke in set the candles on fire.”

  “You saw him do this?”

  “No, but they just burst into flames around my bed just like the fire at Natalie’s grave.”

  A long sigh filled with disdain rolled from his lips. “Rosanna…”

  “I know you think I’m crazy or that I’m trying to get attention, but I’m not. It’s difficult for me to tell you this because I know how narrow minded you are—”

  “I am not narrow-minded,” he snapped.

  “You aren’t open to the possibility of paranormal phenomenon?”

  “I believe in concrete things I can see and prove,” he argued. “That’s how cops think. We have to have physical evidence to show to a judge, not talk of hocus-pocus.”

  “I understand, but I know what I saw,” she said, pleading with him to believe her.

  “So you expect me to tell the other officers and the fire chief what? That someone is setting fires with his mind?” He paced away from her, the air fraught with tension. “Dammit, Rosanna, if I did that, they’d put me in a straitjacket and cart me off to the funny farm.”

  She turned away, considered bolting. If he wouldn’t believe her, she had no place to go.

  She’d have to solve the mystery behind this firestarter, and find out why he wanted to kill her by herself.

  BRADFORD STRUGGLED to hold on to his temper. Concern for Rosanna threatened to rob his logic. The thought of her dying in that fire resurrected every protective instinct he’d ever possessed.

  But thankfully, his police training had kicked in when he’d heard her bizarre explanation.

  Yet even as he did, the urge to pull her back into his arms and feel her breath against his neck, to assure himself that she was alive, tormented him. “Listen, Rosanna,” he said in a low voice. “I will find out who tried to burn down your apartment tonight, But I’ll do it with solid evidence.”

  She seemed to withdraw into her silence, but fear radiated through every breath she exhaled. Around them, the firefighters raced, the smoke billowed toward the sky, and the muffled spectators’ curious questions mimicked his own.

  Bradford moved through the crowd, asking if anyone had seen someone lurking around.

  “No, no one,” a gray-haired woman said, fanning her face. “Who do you think did this?”

  “You think someone set the fire intentionally?” a young man asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Bradford said. “That’s what I’m trying to determine.”

  A teenager with a nose ring piped up. “That’s the spooky girl from Mystique. Maybe she was casting some spells.”

  Rosanna blanched.

  Their suspicious, condemning looks raised his defenses, although he didn’t understand the reason. Hadn’t he contemplated the same possibility?

  The head firefighter approached them, lifting his mask. “Ma’am, we have the blaze contained and the fire is dying out. We managed to save most of the downstairs, but I’m afraid smoke and water damage ruined your clothing and upstairs furniture.”

  He expected her to wilt beneath the announcement, but she jutted up her chin and nodded. “Thank you for saving what you could.”

  He nodded and pulled Bradford aside to discuss the cause of the fire.

  Bradford explained Rosanna’s assertion that an intruder had been inside, and the firefighter nodded. “Then we’ll definitely treat this as arson.”

  A CSI team arrived, and Bradford told them to search for trace evidence of an accelerant, and to confiscate the candles Rosanna had mentioned, if anything remained of them, so they could analyze them in detail.

  He hated to leave Rosanna alone for a second. Exhaustion lined her face, and a sadness darkened her eyes, one that tore at his gut.

  In just two days she had lost a friend, most of her belongings and nearly died.

  Twice.

  Admiration for her mingled wit
h sympathy. She was still fighting, pasting on a brave face, proving she had guts and stamina.

  He filled the CSI team in on her story, suggested that because of Rosanna this fire might be related to the one at the Pink Martini where two deaths had occurred, emphasizing the importance of finding evidence of the perpetrator, then hurried back to Rosanna.

  She was so quiet, so curled within herself that he feared she was going into shock.

  He gently touched her arm. “Rosanna, we can go now. I’m going to take you to a hotel for the night.”

  Her gaze swung to his, startled. Uncertain. Afraid. But she allowed him to guide her to his car without a word.

  Silently he warred with that decision as she cradled the cat in her lap and fastened the seat belt. A hotel would be the wise choice. Leave her alone so he could save his own sanity.

  But her fragile state warned him that she needed to be watched. Didn’t need to be alone. Hell, if she wasn’t stable…

  No, he couldn’t desert her tonight. No one deserved that fate after her frightening ordeal.

  His captain’s words echoed in his head. He wanted Bradford to find out what was going on at CIRP. If the research project was related to the fire.

  He needed to know why she’d lied to him about her first meeting with Natalie. Besides, it was his job to protect the citizens so watching her was strictly business.

  But as she leaned against the passenger side of the vehicle and hugged the cat, he knew he was lying to himself. In spite of the case and her interest in the paranormal, he was starting to care for her. He even stopped at the store to buy her damn cat some food before he took her home with him for the night.

  DAMN BRADFORD WALSH. He’d saved the woman…

  He was always around, like a hawk that followed him everywhere he went.

  And what was with Rosanna Redhill anyway? Was she some kind of cat with nine lives? She should have died in that fire. Should be lying amidst the blaze with the heat melting her features. With that red hair of hers crinkling as the flames turned the strands to a smoldering brown ash.

  Where were they going now?

  He’d have to follow and find out.

  No, that might be too risky.

  After all, he knew where she worked. Knew she’d be at CIRP for the research project.

  Breathing in the scent of charred wood, smoke and ash, he reined in his disappointment. Brad boy still had no idea what he was dealing with.

  Meaning he had time to play some more.

  Renewed heat spiraled through him, and he felt its power surging through his fingers. Laughing as the firefighters finished rolling up the firehose, and the crime scene unit began to search for evidence, trace materials they wouldn’t find, he mentally began to plan his next glorious moment.

  The people who’d been drawn from their homes to watch his latest handiwork, their faces etched in terror, slowly dispersed, heading back into their homes where they would wonder tonight if they were safe.

  His breath quickened. No one in Savannah was safe. The thermometers were soaring. Record high temperatures would be recorded. Heat led to fire, which led to destruction.

  His body stirred with arousal at the mere thought, his internal temperature rising.

  He pictured all that heat smoldering, growing hotter, more intense. So intense the sparks started flying.

  Yes. Tomorrow was a new day, and he couldn’t wait for it.

  Chapter Twelve

  ROSANNA FELT NUMB as the detective drove away from her house. She hated to leave her belongings, but it was too dangerous for her to go back inside tonight to try to retrieve anything. Tomorrow she could return and scrounge through the rooms to see if anything was salvageable. She’d need to file insurance forms, buy new clothes and toiletries and talk to the owner about renovations…

  The tasks overwhelmed her.

  At least you’re alive, she reminded herself. Not like Natalie who hadn’t had a chance to rebuild, to go on with her life.

  But what kind of life was she going to have if someone kept trying to kill her?

  The sights of Savannah passed in a blur, and she vaguely realized they’d crossed the bridge and were headed toward Tybee Island. Marshland, small cottages, the scent of the ocean…everything whirred around her as if she were on the periphery, at a distance.

  Five minutes later, the detective pulled into a clam-shelled driveway and parked in front of one of the small colonial style cottages. Marigolds splashed color along the front walkway while tall live oaks spun silvery Spanish moss around the edges of the property as if providing a secret hideaway.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “My place.”

  She gripped the door handle with one hand while stroking Shadow with the other. “I thought you were taking me to a hotel.”

  He turned to her, his husky presence filling the confines of the car. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight, Rosanna.”

  She swallowed hard against the tears threatening to surface. “But I’m surprised you brought me here.”

  His eyes darkened. “You’ll be safe with me tonight, and the arsonist won’t know where you are. That’s all that matters.”

  Safe? She shivered, not knowing if she’d ever feel safe again.

  And who would keep her safe from falling for him?

  A self-deprecating half smile flitted onto his face. “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll behave myself.”

  Meaning no more erotic kisses. “What if I don’t want you to?” she asked softly.

  His gaze met hers, and that strong, sexual draw pulled her toward him, a palpable force that grew stronger each second.

  “You’re vulnerable right now,” he said in a husky voice. “It’s natural to need comfort.”

  “Maybe,” she conceded. “But what if it’s more than that?”

  “Rosanna—” His voice broke. “You’re in danger, and I’m going to protect you. That’s all this is. That’s all it can be between us.”

  He was right. But for some reason, she wanted more. And she sensed that he wanted it, too.

  But as he climbed out, she tried to squash any illusions. Bradford Walsh was an officer of the law. He was doing his job. Letting her spend the night was nothing personal.

  Although that kiss taunted her, along with the memory of his arms around her. Need drove her mad as he guided her inside, showed her to the guest room and handed her towels and one of his shirts to sleep in. And tenderness swelled inside her as he opened a can of cat food and offered it to Shadow. Even her cat, who usually didn’t take to strangers, had warmed up to the man. He should; Bradford had put himself in danger to rescue him.

  Determined to erase the memory of her earlier ordeal, she showered and washed the smoke from her skin, but the entire time she bathed she imagined the detective’s big, strong hands skating over her body, touching her sensitive places, erasing the pain of the past few days and replacing it with exquisite pleasure.

  BRADFORD OPENED the patio door and inhaled the marshy scent and the salty sea air, keeping his libido in check, but images of Rosanna naked and wet, slippery with soap, steam floating around her voluptuous body, tormented him.

  He’d never felt this incessant need for a woman before. And he had no illusions that his lust was anything but male hunger. No altruistic thoughts here, just the physical need for release, simple lust for a hot night between the sheets, with bodies grinding together, lips and tongues teasing and tasting and Rosanna moaning beneath him as he filled her.

  His sex hardened and throbbed with the need for release, and he paced into the kitchen, grabbed a beer and walked outside to clear his head. Rosanna seemed uncomfortable when she’d first entered his cottage, but her cat had made himself at home, lapping up his food; he now lay curled in Bradford’s recliner as if he owned the place.

  Footsteps padding softly on the carpet alerted him to the fact that Rosanna had finished showering and was approaching. The whisper of sweet smelling shampoo and her body heat wafted toward
him, and he closed his eyes, savoring her fragrance for a moment before he had to face her, and put on his detached mask.

  He couldn’t allow this relationship with Rosanna to get any more personal. Not and do his job.

  She might have been through hell tonight, but she’d still lied to him, and he had to find out the reason.

  “Detective?”

  Dammit. Her voice was as soft as satin.

  “You might as well call me Bradford.” Wrapping his iron-clad control around him like a sheath, he turned to face her. A sliver of moonlight had broken through the dark, heavy clouds, and streaked her face, illuminating her wide, green eyes and accentuating her fragile state.

  “Bradford?”

  “Yes.” He forced a deep breath, because the sight of her wearing nothing but his T-shirt with her hair damp and her skin glistening from the shower was almost more than he could bear. “Can I get you something to drink? Water. A beer? Glass of wine? A soda? Hot tea?”

  A small smile played on her delicate lips. “You have hot tea?”

  He chuckled. “Actually no. But I could go to the store.”

  “No, thanks. I’m hot enough already.”

  God. So was he.

  A blush stained her pale cheeks as if she realized the underlying meaning. But the sultry look that followed shattered his restraint.

  Tension rippled between them, and he forgot all reason. He closed the distance between them, and pulled her into his arms. With a sigh, he threaded his fingers into her long tresses and drove his mouth down on hers. The kiss was stormy, filled with want, desire, passion.

  She arched her body, pressed her breasts into him and clutched his arms as if she might fall if he released her.

  He was falling…falling for her quiet sweetness and vulnerability. For her heady taste and mesmerizing eyes and soul-stirring angelic voice.

  He deepened the kiss, trailed his fingers along her shoulders, down her back, over her arms, pulling her closer against him, so close her nipples budded and teased him through the shirt, so close he dipped his head and tasted the slender column of her neck. His lips and hands moved of their own accord, gently stroking her, easing up the shirt, feathering over the satiny swell of her breasts. She made a small, throaty sound of need, and he lowered his mouth and kissed her neck, lapping her skin until his lips closed over one turgid nipple.