Up in Flames Page 11

  She scraped her hands down his arms and whispered, “Please don’t stop.”

  His sex throbbed, so relentlessly he ground his hips against her wanting relief. Aching for more, he suckled her other breast, until he knew he had to have her.

  Thunder rumbled, cracking the sky with its announcement of impending rain, and he suddenly realized what he was doing.

  God help him he didn’t want to stop.

  But lightning tore through the sky, reminding him of the fire earlier, and the questions left unanswered.

  He jerked himself away, hurriedly straightened the shirt. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said in a shaky voice. “We both wanted it.”

  Hurt and anger laced her voice, but the thready strains of unspent passion quivered there, too.

  Only that want would have to go unsatisfied.

  The wind picked up, hurling leaves and shells across the patio. Reminding himself that she had to explain the reason she’d lied to him, and find out more about the CIRP experiment, he ushered her inside.

  When he faced her, he’d tacked his control back into place. Too bad his body hadn’t caught up with his mind. Like a traitor, it still throbbed and ached, begging him to take her to bed.

  ROSANNA WATCHED Bradford throw up walls again. Pull away.

  Shaking from the intensity of her hunger, she crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down them. “Bradford…”

  He held up a warning hand. “We have to talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk about what happened,” she said. “I just want you to hold me again, to kiss me and make me forget about the fire tonight.”

  “Rosanna, stop it. I’m trying to be professional.” His voice dropped a decibel, hardened. Then he paced to the opposite side of the room in front of the small fireplace.

  “I’ll take that drink now,” she said, needing something to calm her nerves. She’d never been bold enough to tell a man what she wanted before, and his rejection stung more than he could know.

  He gave her a clipped nod, walked to the adjoining kitchen, uncorked a bottle of merlot, poured her a glass and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” She stared into the blood-red wine for a minute, humiliation streaking through her.

  She wouldn’t beg again. Or touch him.

  Because touching him made her crazy.

  She pivoted away from him, feeling lost and lonely as she stared out at the raindrops that began to pelt the patio and yard.

  “It’s peaceful here,” she said softly.

  “I thought it would be,” he admitted. “But I haven’t had time to take advantage of the beach the way I thought I would when I moved in.”

  “Maybe I should consider looking for a new place to live.” She took another sip of the wine. “Depending on how much damage the fire did to my apartment, I may be displaced for a while…”

  “You said someone was in your apartment. Can you remember seeing anything else? The intruder’s face or eyes? How tall he was? Maybe a distinctive odor?”

  She tilted her head sideways in thought. “No. I…it was more like I sensed him there. And I did smell smoke, from a cigarette.” A shudder visibly shook her body, as she relived the memory of the blaze.

  “Are you sure you haven’t crossed somebody, Rosanna? An old boyfriend or lover who might want revenge?”

  “No. I…I haven’t really dated anyone lately.” In fact, she hadn’t opened herself up to any man before.

  So why did she want to open herself up to Bradford Walsh?

  “Why did you lie to me about the way you met Natalie?”

  She jerked her gaze to his, rattled by the question. “What makes you think I lied?”

  His mouth thinned into a frown. “Because we found Natalie’s journal at her apartment. In it, she said she met you at CIRP during a research project.”

  She inhaled sharply, questions tumbling through her mind. Just how much did he know?

  “Tell me the truth,” he said in a cold voice. “Why did you lie?”

  She bit down on her lip, considered telling him everything. Maybe unloading the burden she’d carried all these years would finally free her and bring her peace.

  But he’d rejected her earlier, had implied that she was crazy. If he knew the truth, he’d look at her with contempt.

  Still, she had to tell him something. After all, he might already know the nature of the experiment.

  “Rosanna, I can’t keep you safe if you don’t trust me.”

  She sighed. “I lied because you made it clear how you felt about paranormal activities. I saw the disapproval in your eyes when you visited my shop.” Anger from her past resurfaced to tighten her voice. “I was ridiculed enough growing up to last me a lifetime.”

  “Because of your grandmother?”

  “Yes.”

  “That must have made you angry.”

  Panic bloomed in her chest. “I learned to control my anger.” Because she was afraid of it. Afraid that her anger made her evil, gave her the strength to do awful things.

  She twisted her hands together. “What difference does it make how Natalie and I met?”

  His dark eyes searched hers, as if daring her to lie again. “Because you and Natalie were both involved in that deadly fire, and you’re both involved in the research project at CIRP.”

  She swallowed hard. “Terrance Shaver was a part of it, too,” she admitted. “He claimed he could read minds.”

  His jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I tried to tell you about the experiment at your office,” she said bitterly. “But you told me I was crazy, then suggested I needed to see a psychiatrist.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Finally he spoke, his voice so calm that it was alarming. “So, Natalie, you and Terrance were all involved in the experiment. And you’ve all been targeted by this arsonist. Maybe this guy thinks you can recognize him.”

  She shivered and finished the wine, his declaration driving home the questions she’d asked herself earlier.

  And the fear that she knew the firestarter personally.

  “Rosanna, I’m going to need a list of all the people involved in the study.”

  “I don’t know everyone’s names,” she said. “The scientists divided us into small groups. We only use first names, and everyone had to sign a confidentiality agreement to protect the identities of the participants.”

  He gave a clipped nod as if he wasn’t surprised. Then he reached for the phone. “I’m going to request a search warrant to force them to give me the list.”

  She bit down on her lip, and studied the raindrops, fat ones now that plopped onto the brittle grass like teardrops. Her own silent tears fell, tears for all she’d lost, for the fear that kept her prisoner. For the relationships she could never have because of this cursed ability.

  If he got the list, he’d probably learn why each of them had joined the study.

  And if he dug deep enough, he might discover the rest of her secret. As a cop, he’d have to arrest her for murder and take her to jail.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bradford studied Rosanna closely, anxiety riddling him as he placed the call. Captain Black assured him he’d work on the warrant overnight.

  He hung up, and studied Rosanna again, noting the lines of tension tightening her mouth. She was holding back. He didn’t know why, but instincts told him there was more to her story than she had admitted.

  Her words echoed in his head—I was ridiculed enough growing up to last me a lifetime.

  He tried to imagine what her life had been like. Witnessing her father’s death at four years old. Growing up knowing that her mother had abandoned her.

  Then being shipped to Savannah to live with an elderly grandmother who practiced witchcraft. A grandmother who most likely communed with other believers in the supernatural and paranormal.

  She’d been ridiculed—by whom? Neighbors? Other kids at school?
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  How about the parents of those kids? Had they excluded her from birthday parties, and kept their children away from her because they feared her grandmother?

  He pictured her as a reclusive kid, shy, a target for bullies, and his stomach churned.

  But compassion for her had no place in the investigation. It would only blur lines that he had already tripped over when he’d kissed her. Lines that even now he was considering crossing again…

  “Tell me about the research project,” he said in an effort to steer things back on track.

  She frowned. “You mean, you don’t know what it’s about?”

  He shrugged. “I want to hear your version.”

  Releasing a shaky sigh, she walked over to the hearth and sat down on the edge. In spite of the wind whistling outside and the rain splattering against the roof, the room felt hot, the air cloying.

  The scent of her filled his lungs. Intoxicating and painful because he couldn’t act upon his craving.

  “The project has been designed to study people who have some kind of paranormal ability. The basis is controlling mind over matter.” She paused, and he waited, refusing to fill the silence, hoping she’d open up to him. The fact that he still wanted her, and that she didn’t trust him bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

  Finally his tactic worked.

  “There are several small groups being studied,” she continued, “along with another group that’s being administered a drug the doctors think might stimulate mental energy and help in converting it to physical energy within the body.”

  He battled his skepticism over the possibility that such abilities existed, knowing that if he voiced that attitude now, she would clam up.

  “You’ve met with the group?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about the participants.”

  Her sigh whispered out, riddled with anxiety. “We’re in the early phases of meeting, but I don’t think anyone in my group is the person you’re looking for.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But someone may have accessed the list. Or perhaps one of the subjects in another group saw you at the club and thinks you can identify him.”

  He had to dig deeper. “What kinds of abilities do the subjects claim to possess?”

  “I really don’t feel comfortable sharing this,” she said softly.

  “Why? Don’t you trust me, Rosanna?”

  “I told you we signed a confidentiality agreement.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  She glanced into his eyes, and he saw pain, evidence of abuse perhaps. The ridicule she’d mentioned earlier.

  God help him, he wanted to soothe her and erase her fears.

  But he was not the man for that job. She needed, deserved, someone who had more to offer than a night of hot sex.

  Someone who’d stick around and share her beliefs in this paranormal hogwash. Which he could never do.

  “Rosanna?”

  “One woman claims she dreams things before they happen. Another lady communes with the dead. Terrance Shaver insisted that he was a mind reader.”

  Nothing he hadn’t seen on TV.

  He inched closer to her, struggled not to inhale her enticing scent. To remember that he was a detective trained in interrogation skills. “No firestarters in the group?”

  She shook her head, then wet her lips with her tongue and looked up at him. Wariness and something else…desire…haunted her eyes. “No, but one man said he can freeze things with his hands.”

  Bradford clenched his hands by his sides, masking a reaction. Use her, his captain had said. Find out more about CIRP.

  He reached out and feathered a strand of hair behind her ear. So delicate. So soft.

  “What about you, Rosanna?” he asked in a low voice. “What kind of ability do you have?”

  She wanted to trust him, he saw it in her eyes. She needed someone to believe her because she’d been shunned all her life.

  He swallowed back bile, leaned close to her, so close his breath whispered in her ear. She shuddered against him, closed her eyes.

  He forced his voice to a seductive pitch to keep her reeled on the line. “I know you’re scared, Rosanna,” he said softly. “But tell me, what ability do you have?”

  BRADFORD’S seductive voice momentarily lulled Rosanna into wanting to share her deep-seated fear and secrets, that when she got angry she could move things with her mind. That she’d repressed her emotions all her life, terrified that she might hurt someone again if she lost her temper.

  His breath brushed against her throat, and she inhaled the scent of rain and Bradford’s masculine odor. He exuded raw power, strength, safety.

  Yet he also threatened that safety by taunting her to lean on him. To trust him.

  She’d never trusted anyone before. Trust led to hurt and hurt led to pain.

  “What extraordinary ability do you have?” Bradford asked again.

  She opened her eyes, remembered the torment from her childhood, the disapproval in his expression when she’d first mentioned the possibility of paranormal powers.

  If she did possess an ability, she’d repressed it most of her life. She could continue to do so.

  Then and only then could she have a normal life. A life with a chance at a relationship with him.

  And she wanted that with every ounce of her being. Even if it was only a sexual relationship…

  So she lied. “I don’t have one,” she said, injecting conviction into her tone. “Having grown up with a healer, I was curious about the study. And I thought it might be interesting to share what I learned with people who frequent my store.”

  His eyes flickered over her, intense, scrutinizing. “Is that the only reason? You’re not a healer like your grandmother?”

  A sardonic laugh escaped her. “No, I’m definitely not a healer.”

  This time his expression registered acceptance. Maybe relief.

  It was a step in the right direction.

  Still, he’d go to CIRP tomorrow. Talk to the doctors.

  But what could Dr. Klondike tell him about her? Nothing. After all, she had failed at her attempts to use telekinesis at the center.

  And as long as she controlled her emotions, she didn’t have to worry.

  She started to reach for him, to cup his face in her hands and kiss him again, to feel the flames ignite between them, but he moved away from her, and gestured toward the guest room.

  “We’d better get some sleep. Tomorrow I’m going to CIRP to question the doctors. If this arsonist is part of that experiment, I’m going to find the bastard and stop him before he can hurt anyone else.”

  She was tempted to ask him if she could sleep with him, but she’d never been that bold. If he said no, she couldn’t handle another rejection.

  And logic told her he would say no.

  So she nodded and wrapped her arms around her waist as she walked into the bedroom alone.

  BRADFORD WRESTLED with sleep all night, but images of Rosanna lying next door wearing nothing but his shirt kept him hard and edgy, and itching to join her in bed.

  When he’d finally dozed, he’d kept one ear alert, listening for any sign that the arsonist might have followed them and launch another attack on Rosanna.

  The next morning he shaved and showered in record time, then sipped coffee while he waited for Rosanna to dress. When she emerged from the guest room, she was wearing one of his shirts cinched at the waist by one of his ties, as a dress. Her bare legs were so sexy he had to look away.

  He offered her coffee, and she accepted, the dark smudges beneath her eyes suggesting that she hadn’t slept, either.

  “You look tired,” he said without thinking.

  “Is that your way of telling me I look bad?” she asked without humor.

  Hell, no. She’d look good if she was dead on her feet. “No. I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged, and he wanted to sweep her in his arms and make that frown disappear.

  “I need to
go by my apartment, see what might be salvageable. Find a place to stay. Get some new clothes.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “Thanks,”

  He offered her breakfast, but she declined. “I just want to get this day over with.”

  The conversation on the ride to her place was stilted. In the early morning light, the strain on her face was evident in the vulnerable tilt to her chin.

  The sight of the yellow crime scene tape encircling her home screamed of the night before. The invasion of a stranger in her life, the destruction of her personal belongings and her sense of security. The violence and realization that someone had intentionally tried to kill her.

  That she still might be in danger.

  “I’ll go in with you,” he offered.

  “Thanks, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  Not against a killer, she couldn’t.

  He pressed a hand over hers. “Let me do this, Rosanna.”

  She hesitated, then nodded, gratitude shimmering in her eyes. But her face crumpled when she saw the extent of the damage as she toured the house. Most of the downstairs furniture could be refurbished, but the upstairs was in shambles. Smoke, fire and water damage had ruined the woodwork, furniture, her clothes.

  “I’m sure this is overwhelming,” he said, sympathy for her surfacing.

  She pasted on a brave face that made his admiration rise a notch. “Things can be replaced.”

  “I’ll call a service to clean up,” he said. “But you may want to be here while they work so you can make sure they don’t throw out something important.”

  She nodded, and he phoned to make the arrangements, then waited outside to guard the house and give her privacy until the crew arrived. He found her upstairs on her knees in the closet scrounging through a box of old photos. A sad smile curved her mouth as she traced a finger over a picture of an elderly woman. “I’m glad these pictures of my grandmother weren’t destroyed,” she whispered.