Under Fire (Southern Heat Book 7) Read online

  She should have been all business. What any of the firefighters she spoke to looked like was of no concern. Something she shouldn’t even have noticed. But when she’d locked eyes with Connor McClellan, the pen she’d been holding had shaken in her hand. She’d forced out a greeting, unable to help but smile as he’d stared at her, taking her in. She’d felt the attraction between them even then.

  Scarlett had allowed her gaze to do its own exploring as they’d talked. She plopped down on the couch, frowning as she remembered what he’d discovered in the house. What the hell was she doing? It was time to stop moping over a sexy firefighter she was never going to be with again and get back to the case. The case made sense. There was evidence to uncover, leads to follow, and forensics to process—everything that would tell her what had been going on in the basement of a house in the middle of suburban Monroe. She sighed. If only people knew what went on behind closed doors but still right under their noses, every day of the week.

  Like she and Connor had on the damn floor that she couldn’t stop staring at.

  She blew out a breath, pushing her hair out of her face, and then stood, stalking to the bathroom. Even if she wanted to, she was never seeing him again. The brush-off she’d given him less than five minutes after he’d made her see heaven ensured that. He’d never want to talk to her again, and she definitely couldn’t blame him. Instead, she’d throw herself back into work—Derek be damned. He was dead. He’d left her, and so his ghost could just put up with whatever the fuck she needed to survive. Connor had been a momentary misstep, a pleasure that she could imbibe again. Her husband’s death had nearly killed her. Even if she wasn’t racked with guilt from being with another man, there was no way on earth or in hell that she’d ever fall for another first responder. Instead, she’d throw herself back into her work. It was simple—never let anyone in again, and then no one could ever hurt her.

  She turned on the shower, letting the water run down her face, washing away any last traces of Connor’s scent and the evidence of their lovemaking forever. She’d clean up, then head down to the station and pull any evidence the techs had managed to gather while she’d been slowly losing her mind on her living room floor. Maybe there’d even been some security footage gathered, either by neighbors with cell phones and no integrity, or an official camera. Who knows, maybe even a house nearby had a security system installed. She could get lucky enough to find the whole thing on tape.

  She closed her eyes as shampoo washed down her face. Had it been simply some idiot taking advantage of an empty house to cook up a batch of drugs, or was there something more sinister going on? There was only one way she’d find out. She pushed any memory of that morning—and Connor McClellan—out of her mind.

  She had work to do.

  5

  Scarlett

  It took Scarlett another hour before she was at all ready to allow the outside world to see her again. After taming her hair into a style that was more no-nonsense cop than sexy-times-on-the-floor, she’d just managed to find where she’d kicked her boots earlier that morning when her phone buzzed. It skittered along the kitchen counter, setting off the low pounding in her head again. The hot shower had leached some of the soreness out of her body, but the headache remained.

  She grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen, popping two with a cup of cold coffee that was sitting on the counter from the day before, wincing at the taste as she scrolled through her messages. She nodded her satisfaction at them—the preliminary work from the fire was back. Sometime today, she’d ask her captain to get in touch with Monroe’s firefighters HQ and get their report. There was no way she was putting herself in a position where it was even remotely possible she’d bump into Connor.

  The phone rang in her hand, and her chief’s name splashed across the screen. “Speak of the devil,” she murmured as she swiped to answer the call.

  “Christensen,” the man barked down the phone. He didn’t exactly have a friendly manner—any manners at all, really, but the man got the job done, and that made him a damn good cop in Scarlett’s eyes. “I need you back out in the field. Pronto.”

  “Sir?” she said. “I was about to come in to the office. The lab’s got a prelim report for me, and I wanted to . . .”

  “Shelve it,” he said. “There’s been another fire.”

  That time the shiver reached down to her bones. Why had his words filled her with the kind of dread usually reserved for horror movies and HQ-sponsored baseball games? Despite her colleagues’ pleading, there was no way they were ever getting her to play baseball. For all her athleticism on the job, she sucked at sports. Badly. She could do without the entire squad seeing her fall flat on her face on first base.

  “I haven’t gained access to the last fire scene yet, sir. Shouldn’t we wait to hear from HQ that I can enter the building before I go down there?” Before she had to see any firefighter again.

  “Negative. You can get back on that as soon as I’ve talked to Chief Stone. This one is different. Witnesses report hearing gunshots right before the house went up. I need you there to get what you can before those smoke-eaters destroy all the evidence.”

  Scarlett couldn’t help but smile at the term. If anything serious went down, then the two departments were there for each other—no questions asked. That didn’t stop the derogatory nicknames flying all over the damn place, especially at the inter-department baseball games she made all efforts to avoid—actually playing, anyway. Sitting in the stands with a slice and a warm beer, watching her colleagues and the rest of Monroe’s first responders make fools of themselves was hysterical. Leave it to her captain to use the terms whenever he damn well pleased. After the hour she’d had since she’d come back to consciousness, she could do with the laugh.

  “I’ll text you the address. Report on my desk by six.” The chief’s voice came down the line, and Scarlett’s expression sobered at the reminder of where she was heading. It didn’t matter if the person shot was a criminal themselves or yet another tragic innocent bystander. Anyone who killed a citizen of Monroe on her watch better be ready for Scarlett to hunt them down.

  After hanging up the phone, she grabbed her shield and slipped her duty weapon into her holster, adding a backup at her ankle. It was time to go to work.

  When Scarlett pulled up at the address, the fire was already out. Lazy tendrils of smoke drifted up from a smoldering home, but no flames were visible. She frowned. This was the second home to go up in flames in Monroe in as many days. True, this was a different callout from the other—reports of gunshots pulling her into the investigation rather than an unknown man fleeing the scene. Still, it was unusual enough to make her pause.

  She shook the thought from her mind. There was no point letting her imagination run away with her, or making any conclusions based on conjecture. She’d wait until she could get in there and see for herself before she started drawing any wild conclusions. For all anyone knew, the previous day had been a case of arson and nothing more.

  She leaned against her car, sighing. She hadn’t even had the time to look through the lab reports and witness statement from yesterday before she’d been rushed off to the new fire. There’d be no wild sex on the living room floor after this shift. At the rate she was going, she’d be in the squad room until the start of her next one, catching up on paperwork.

  Scarlett ran a hand through her hair. She hadn’t done much except throw it back in a messy ponytail before leaving the house that morning. It was as put-together as she felt, and all frizzed on the ends, just like she was, too. She half snorted a laugh. Her appearance hadn’t mattered to her in a long while, but maybe it was time she started taking better care of herself. She was still here, and there was more to experience in life that she wasn’t going to get half-buried in paperwork or sitting on the couch in her sweats on a Saturday night.

  She looked up, groaning. Just when she finally felt like she was coming out of the fog she’d been in, doing something more with her life, the powers that be
clearly felt the need to slap her about the head with what she could never have.

  Of course this would be a Monroe company fire, but what the hell was Connor doing standing in the middle of the group of firefighters? It was supposed to be B-shift’s turn at the wheel. But there he was, in all his sweaty, smoky glory. The same smoky streaks as earlier that morning were tracked across his face and down his neck, and for a moment Scarlett entertained the idea of stripping him down and throwing him in her shower. They’d both fit. It would be a tight fit, but that was the point. Their bodies would touch, sliding against each other in a wet mess as she lathered him up, her hands moving over every expanse of his skin. She bit her lip as heat grew in her belly. As far as she was concerned, all of Connor needed attention before she’d be done.

  Yep. Fate was definitely screwing with her. Connor chose that exact moment to look up from where he was packing away the truck’s equipment. His gaze locked onto hers, no less intense than when he’d been holding himself over her, thrusting deep into her sex. Her pussy fluttered in response, and Scarlett suppressed a groan. Knowing her luck, it would come out as a sex-starved moan instead.

  Well. She wasn’t exactly sex-starved. More like she’d had one taste of the best ice-cream in the world, and now she wanted the entire pint. And then some. She could happily eat at Connor until the end of time.

  Oh, God. Her cheeks blazed at the thought. She said a prayer skyward that at least she hadn’t said that out loud. A small grin slipped across his face, and Scarlett panicked. She hadn’t, she was sure of it. Though he’d done a pretty damn good job of eating her first.

  She slapped a hand over her face, fumbling for her keys. She’d come back later, after Engine 81 had left the scene. It was the only way she was going to be able to get through the case with the respect the victim deserved, instead of her personal porno running through her mind. Before she could get the door open, the thud of heavy boots on muddy ground sounded behind her and Connor appeared, standing at the front of her car. Despite the tailspin he’d put her in, she wasn’t going to run the man over, and so unless he moved without any interaction from her at all, she was at least stuck talking to the guy. “What are you doing here?”

  Great move, Scarlett. Real classy.

  He shrugged. “Adam from B-shift screwed over his ankle, and I volunteered to sub in.” Scarlett nodded but didn’t speak in reply. Perhaps if she didn’t open her mouth, then she could avoid embarrassing herself any further. “You?”

  Unless he asked a direct question. What the hell had she done to piss the powers that be off this much in one day? “My chief. Said there was a report of gunshots before the fire went up. I guess he thinks there might be some relation between today and yesterday.”

  Connor inclined his head in response. “Maybe. There doesn’t seem to be any barrels or chemicals at this one, though. Just a dead body.”

  That didn’t do much to calm Scarlett’s nerves. She liked living in Monroe, but she was also a cop. They got their fair share of thefts and other crimes, like any other town. Murders, however, were a different story. She frowned. As was arson, their rate well below the national average. And now there’d been two suspicious fires in two days? Maybe her captain was onto something. “When can I go in?”

  “Look, Scarlett. If I . . .”

  Nope. If Connor started talking about that morning, she didn’t know whether she’d blush over her entire body, climb him like a tree, or burst into tears. None of those options were the least bit appealing, and so she cut him off. “Perhaps Chief Stone could spare someone to take me through both scenes at once, so you can get back to work?”

  Connor’s mouth opened and then closed again, a look of hurt crossing his face. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but it added yet another layer of guilt on top of Scarlett’s already weighted shoulders. He moved over to the cab of his chief’s truck and grabbed a bright orange hard hat, holding it out to her. “Here. Fire’s out and the house’s structure is still relatively intact. This’ll protect you from any stray debris.”

  She only needed to step into the front room of the home to find the body. Maybe that was why this fire had been easier to contain. She leaned over the corpse, ignoring the noxious smell rising from the burned flesh. From the height, she’d guess male, though the rest of the identification was going to be up to dental records or personal effects. Whether the fire was a result of attempts to cover up a murder or he died in the fire itself, the body was way beyond any identification she could provide.

  Moving on, she poked her way around the room. Soot dusted every surface, and if anyone could make it past the smell of smoke mingling with burnt flesh, there were still puddles of water to negotiate, along with squelching carpet. Scarlett made her way out of the front room and down the hall. There, the overwhelming smell of death was less present, the entire pathway smelling instead a little like a wet sheep as the water saturated the floor and any soft furnishings. She’d take that any day over what was lying back in the front room.

  Making her way through the house, Scarlett was becoming more and more convinced that it had been nothing more than a garden-variety murder; if there was such a thing in Monroe. Still, even that was a better option than an arsonist or serial killer loose on her watch. The guys at Engine 81 had faced both in recent months. She’d heard most of the story from cop friends; she hadn’t been assigned to the case. Still, it had been a hell of a time for anyone working as a first responder in the town, and she didn’t wish that on anyone. But it didn’t look like this case was going to be one of those. She even started to relax a little. Until she hit the third bedroom.

  There was nothing unusual at first glance. A bed. A chair and desk. Even a beanbag sat in the corner. Unlike the front half of the home, the room seemed mostly untouched. Right down to the five weird scuba-looking tanks propped up in the corner.

  She should leave. She should turn around and walk out of there and call in the experts. She didn’t. The tanks stared back at her, as if daring her to look more closely, to get rid of any idea that this case wouldn’t be yet another threat to blow their lives away.

  She moved closer, her heart changing from pumping fast at her discovery to stopping in her chest. What she’d thought were scuba tanks weren’t. They were smaller, more compact. The masks lying nearby didn’t have a simple mouthpiece. Instead, they covered the whole face, and it looked like maybe the head, too. What the hell was going on? She turned to see Connor standing behind her, staring at her find. Without saying a word to her, he picked up the radio on his shoulder and reported the find back to his chief. A reply came back, but Scarlett barely heard it. Her mind was racing with possibilities. Rather than settle anything, the stash of breathing equipment hidden away in a back room created more questions. This was the second find of out-of-place equipment in a suburban home. Who owned the homes? Was there any connection between the two? In all the chaos—both professional and personal—she hadn’t found out. She picked up her phone, dialing her boss. “Captain Harrelson, I . . .”

  Before she could report anything further, it was her turn to be cut off as the captain spoke over her. “Don’t bother, Christenesen. It’s already sorted.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, what’s sorted, sir?”

  “I’m already out the front. Chief Stone and I had a nice little chat. I hope you’re getting along well with Company 81, Scarlett, as you’re their new liaison. Effective immediately.”

  Well, fucking great.

  6

  Connor

  Connor sat down at the breakfast table, dropping a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him. Usually, he looked forward to firehouse breakfasts. They were simple fare: bacon, eggs, and crappy white bread. Not a linseed or avocado in sight, thank goodness. He couldn’t fault them, he supposed, the small but growing legion of women that had managed to take down his squad members, one by one. It came from a place of love, trying to keep their men healthy, but if he saw one more breakfast smoothie or
smashed avocado, whatever the hell that meant, he was going to throw up. He burned off enough calories on the job to eat as much crap as he wanted. That was his excuse, anyway, and he was sticking to it.

  Except that morning, he couldn’t work up much of an appetite, even for the crappy white bread, slathered in butter.

  He’d gone out for a beer with the guys last night. Why any of them felt the need to hang out together when they were about to be stuck with each other for twenty-four hours, he didn’t know. If he had someone waiting for him at home, then Connor could think of far more enjoyable things to be doing the night before he went on shift. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed. The corners of his mouth tilted up at the memory of the night before. Sometime after 8 p.m., nearly twelve hours before they had to be back at the firehouse, most of his squad had found an excuse to leave. Liam was first, but he had a legitimate excuse. Meg was ready to pop any day now, and Liam didn’t want to leave her alone for too long. That Connor agreed with. Dean was next, claiming he needed to accompany Amy when she walked their dog, Penny. Again, Connor agreed. He’d want to be there, too, if the lady closest to his heart was walking the streets, even with the evenings being a little lighter now the last of the seasonal chill had finally been thrown off. He was even fine when Mason made his excuses and left, but when Shane followed, Connor raised an eyebrow. Then Seth. Then Matt, until it had been just him and Jeremy sitting at the table, beers in hand. Giving up, they’d called it one drink later, and Connor had headed home.