Fighting the Flames (Southern Heat Book 2) Read online

  “Your people are at the Red Cross over on Jackson Street,” he replied. He stepped into the room and reached for her hand. When she didn’t reach out to take it, he took another step and clasped her hand to gently tug her toward the doorway. “Come on, Meg. Get changed. I can drop you off at the GBI. I have to go there anyway.”

  Yeah, to take a lie detector test. Because she was the one under suspicion. She glanced down at his hand holding hers and gently pulled it away. She made her own way out of the bedroom, pausing only long enough to take the clothes draped over his arm. Yep, he’d definitely moved on from the entire incident in the kitchen, which was just as fine with her. Or so she convinced herself. With feigned bravado, her pride stung, she turned toward him.

  “I want to apologize for what happened upstairs,” she blurted. “I don’t know what came over me. Heaven knows I’m not looking for any relationship, not since my divorce, but I just want you to know that . . . I don’t normally act like that.”

  He offered a shrug. “I don’t either,” he admitted, a small smile lifting at the corners of his mouth.

  With that, he gestured for her to head upstairs. She did and he followed close behind. She shouldn’t even be acknowledging the chemistry between them, the instantaneous attraction, nor the sensations he evoked within her every time he so much as looked her way. No. She should be worried about clearing her name, finding the money to put this place back together, and figuring out what was going on. Tens of thousands of dollars appearing in her bank account. Someone setting her place on fire. Most importantly, the dead body. As she took the basement steps one at a time, each one caused her heart to pound with increasing dread. Would the GBI detectives believe her? Would she pass the test? Or, because of her erratic emotional state, would she flunk the lie detector test and be placed under arrest, all because that bastard detective Hodges had already appeared to make up his mind regarding her guilt?

  9

  Liam

  “Are you decent?”

  The question came from the other side of the kitchen doorway. Liam hadn’t let her go upstairs to change, but suggested she change her clothes in the kitchen. He’d promised he would give her privacy but he made no bones about letting her know that he would stand outside the doorway to make sure that she didn’t venture off on her own through the house again.

  He’d dealt with difficult homeowners before, and he supposed he could understand what drove them to such stubbornness. This was not his home. It was hers. For him, this was a job. For her, it was her life. As far as she was concerned, she had a right to come and go as she pleased. That it might not be safe to roaming around just yet was not her first consideration. He’d never experienced the loss of a fire, so he couldn’t say that he knew what she felt. Over the years, however, he’d certainly experienced first-hand the wide range of emotions that victims and suspects who torched their own businesses often expressed.

  He wasn’t surprised by Meg’s stubborn insistence on exploring the depth of damage to her house, but until he made sure that it was safe; that the stairs wouldn’t collapse beneath her; the attic floor wouldn’t give way; the roof wouldn’t collapse on top of her, he would keep her out. No matter what she said. No matter how much she pleaded. He dealt with every emotion a human being could express in such situations. He had taken the verbal abuse, dealt with the pleading, the tears, and the raw emotions of homeowners and business owners facing the loss of their shelter, their livelihoods, their sense of stability and permanence.

  He had experienced loss, but not this kind. He gazed at the stairs nearby, the smears of soot covering the banister, the edges of the steps, and then the telltale patterns left by the flames on the weight-bearing wall of the stairway. He had no doubt that this was a case of arson. Based on the markings he had seen through the house, he could imagine the suspect toting a five-gallon jug of gasoline, splashing it onto the kitchen wall behind the stove, the back door way, and then at the bottom of the stairs in the entryway. He imagined the arsonist splashing it along the wall of the stairway, then along the baseboard of one wall of the attic. Another splash in front of the doorway leading to Meg’s makeshift bedroom up there, more evidence in the space utilized as an office and storage space.

  Someone would’ve had to walk right past her door as she slept. She hadn’t heard anything? No creaking of floorboards? No liquid accelerant splashing? The odor of gasoline had not tugged her from the depths of sleep? He didn’t want to think it, but it seemed implausible.

  “Are you done yet?” he asked again, his voice slightly louder this time.

  “Yes,” she replied, stepping from the kitchen. The clothes he’d chosen suited her. Meg didn’t need fancy. She was a jeans and T-shirt kind of woman. The jeans fit snugly and the tee hugged her figure. She had pulled her hair into a short ponytail. A flannel shirt hung loosely over her shoulders, unbuttoned.

  “Ready to go?”

  She frowned at him. “What?”

  “I’ll take you to the GBI headquarters,” he reminded her. “I told you that I have to go there anyway, talk to the detectives.”

  She stared up at him, a slight frown creasing her brow. “It was arson, wasn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer, but merely gestured for her to head toward the front door. For once she didn’t argue with him. He watched her walk in front of him, his eyes riveted on her ass. Desire pulled at him again. What was with this woman? He’d been doing just fine, avoiding women altogether after his rocky marriage and even shittier divorce six months ago. He hadn’t felt the need to date whatsoever. Sure, he got horny once in a while, who didn’t? But when the urge came upon him, his hand and the shower never failed to provide relief. But with Meg, the chemistry was undeniable. Just a glance at her shapely ass had him hard as a rock all over again. It was just as well she’d made it obvious she wasn’t interested, or he’d be fighting the urge to take her where she stood. Another surge of lust ran through him as he remembered the scene earlier in the kitchen. He had definitely crossed a line, but his cock didn’t care. There was nothing he could do about it now other than to keep his hands to himself during the remainder of this investigation.

  Still, he grinned, recalling the smooth silkiness of her warm skin beneath his hand. The wetness in her pussy as he’d teased her. Images of her naked flooded his mind, her lying on his bed, on her back, knees parted, offering herself to him. He’d nestle himself between her legs and lick her pussy until she moaned and writhed beneath him. Then finally, after he’d made her come twice and her fingers were digging into his shoulders, he’d thrust his cock deep inside her. God, what would it feel like, to slide his cock into that wet, tight sex of hers, their hips rocking in unison—

  “Did you hear me?”

  He blinked and pulled his gaze from her ass and toward her face. Hopefully she wouldn’t look down and see him with yet another erection. Already it seemed to be a pretty permanent condition when Meg was around. He tried to cover it, and his daydreaming, by idly tapping his clipboard against his thigh. She looked back over her shoulder at him, reaching for the front door. “What?”

  “If you would let me go upstairs and get my car keys, I could drive myself to the station.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t let you go up there yet.”

  She growled in frustration and headed out the door. Liam dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys and pressed the remote button as they neared the sidewalk. His SUV chirped. Without waiting for him, she stepped to the passenger side and opened the door. By the time he got in, she was already in her seat, seatbelt on, her hands clasped together and pressed between her knees.

  “Nervous?”

  She didn’t look at him but nodded, smiling grimly as she stared through the windshield. “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “I suppose so,” he commented, shoving the key into the ignition. Damn, what was he doing? He had a hard-on for an arson suspect! He didn’t think Meg was guilty, not really, but early on in his career he’d been foole
d once by crocodile tears, the protestations of innocence, even the outraged shock at the accusations. He couldn’t give in to the urges coursing through him. Not until GBI cleared her, at least. Then all bets were off. He’d pursue her so damn hard, work his way under her defenses, until she gave him a chance.

  But if it hadn’t been her, then who? Why had someone tried to burn the shelter down? Was it one of the people who live there? One of her employees? He’d memorized the names of everyone who lived at the shelter full-time. But there was someone he hadn’t spoken to yet. Meg’s unofficial co-manager, Shelby Coultrie. As he pulled the vehicle away from the curb, he asked her about him.

  “You have a partner of sorts, don’t you? Shelby Coultrie? Where is he?”

  She turned to look at him, an expression between surprise and annoyance darkening her features. “Shelby? He’s not a partner, really. He just helps me run the place. I mean, he’s more of a community liaison. I call him a born mingler. He’s good with people, with raising funds, with generating community support.”

  Liam nodded. “So why hasn’t he shown up?”

  “He’s not here,” she replied simply. “He went down to Florida last week. Some family stuff he had to deal with.”

  “Like what?”

  “How should I know?” she snapped.

  They rode the rest of the way to the GBI building on the outskirts of town in silence. They parked and she was out of the car before he even opened his door. She allowed him to lead the way into the building. He knew his way around the GBI headquarters and because most of the guys down here knew him, he was able to merely wave at the officer manning the front desk and reception area and head down the hallway. Several doors down on the right he paused, stood in front of the open doorway, and knocked on the doorjamb. Inside stood a cluster of four desks, two pushed together beneath the window. Detective Hodges sat behind one desk, Detective Petit behind the other. Another set of desks, empty now, was pushed against the far wall, near three shoulder-high filing cabinets. Both the detectives looked up.

  “Hey, Liam,” Rebecca Petit greeted him. She glanced at Meg and offered a polite nod. “Miss Devers. You feeling better?”

  Meg shrugged.

  Hodges leaned back in his chair, his tie askew, his white dress-shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his hairy forearms. His suit jacket hung over the back of his chair. He looked tired, rumpled, and in bad need of a shave.

  “Welcome back, Miss Devers,” he said as he shoved his chair back and stood. “Follow me, please. We’ll get this test over with as quickly as possible so you can get back to what you were doing.”

  Liam almost grinned when he saw her face flush a deep red. He stepped back as Hodges exited the room, Meg following close behind, hands stuffed into her pockets, elbows tucked close to her body.

  “Got anything to tell us?”

  He turned toward Detective Petit. “It was arson. Gasoline.”

  “Think she did it?” she asked, gesturing after Meg.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. The burn patterns . . . especially up in the attic. It looked like someone sloshed accelerant against the long wall and then another puddle of it in front of her door. While she certainly could have lit the fire down in the kitchen, then the one by the back door and as she moved back up the stairway, she would have been taking an awful chance to light the attic wall on fire, not to mention the one right in front of her door. It would have been difficult for her to manage all that and not get burned.”

  The detective nodded. “Well, we’ll be questioning every person living at or involved at the shelter. We’re also checking into her Iraqi tenant . . . resident, whatever. You never know these days.” She shook her head. “And if it wasn’t Devers who started the fire, we’ll have to determine who hates her enough to do this.”

  He nodded, his thoughts somber. “The body in the basement?”

  “Positively identified as Tim Jefferson. Desert Storm veteran. From what we’ve been able to learn, he has a deep hatred for Middle Easterners. And Devers took in Aliyah Habib.”

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  She shrugged. “Too early to tell. Still, from what I saw at the scene, the young woman, Aliyah I mean, was certainly no match for Jefferson.”

  “Strangulation the cause of death?”

  He was surprised when the detective shook her head. “That was nothing but an afterthought, an attempt at misdirection. The guy took several blows to the back of the head. We found shoe treads on the back of his neck. It was broken.”

  Liam huffed out a breath. “I still have a little more work to do back at the house. Complete my notes, gather some materials for testing. I strongly suspect gasoline was the accelerant, you can smell it all over the place, but I won’t know for sure until we run a chemical analysis.”

  “Is the house safe?”

  “Seems to be,” he replied. “It’s going to take some cleaning up, but it’s structurally sound. Good thing the neighbors smelled smoke when they did. Another ten minutes and the entire place could’ve gone up. It’s an old house, wood framing.” He shook his head. “It’s too bad. But I have a feeling that Meg . . . Miss Devers, will have the place back up and running in no time.”Petit nodded. “She ride with you here?”

  He nodded, noticing the look the detective gave him. Assessing?

  “Well, it shouldn’t take too long for her to take the polygraph. You want to wait, take her back, or should I have an officer take her to the Red Cross when she’s done?”

  Liam thought about it for a moment. Whatever this was between them, it was private, if there was anything at all. “Better have an officer drive her. I’m going back to the house.”

  10

  Meg

  “You do understand that you’re not under arrest at this time and that you can get up and leave anytime you wish?”

  It took a moment for Detective Hodges’ words to sink in. At this time? She shook her head. Nothing like being objective. Apparently innocent until proven guilty was something Detective Hodges wasn’t a fan of.

  He stood in the doorway, idly watching the polygraph operator, or whatever the guy was called, organize his supplies, along with a laptop. That wasn’t what she’d been expecting. No long paper printouts marked with pens anymore? Meg sat in a chair, watching him untangle cords, connector cables, and straps, and then retrieve a blood pressure cuff from the desk drawer. No doubt about it, she was nervous, her pulse already racing. Wasn’t there something about anxiety having the capability to interfere with polygraph results? She licked her lips.

  “I understand,” she said. She really didn’t like the detective. He must already assume she was guilty. If not, then why all the attitude? The polygraph test? What kind of investigator made up their mind without even exploring other options, other suspects? Then again, she had no idea what he’d learned from her residents, or if he had even contacted or interviewed them yet.

  In addition to her anxiety over the polygraph was another anxiety altogether. What on earth had she been doing with Liam in the kitchen. In the middle of her fire-damaged kitchen! Her face heated at the thought. She knew exactly what she’d been doing, and it had been damn good, practically the best orgasm she’d ever had. The problem was the aftermath. Never before had she lost control like that. Never before had she literally flung herself into a strange man’s arms, let alone allowed him to make her explode. Then again, she’d never had to be rescued from a burning house, nor seen a dead body, nor been accused of arson, insurance fraud, and whatever else Hodges wanted to accuse her of. It was like the last twenty-four hours had all been a part of some insane dream.

  She glanced again at the accoutrements of the polygraph. She only knew the basics; it recorded physiological measures, often used as indicators of deceit. The gadgets measured and recorded blood pressure, respiration, pulse, and skin conductivity. She knew that there were ways to beat it, but she had no idea what they were. She did know that the results couldn’t be used agains
t a person in court, thank God for small favors, not that she planned on lying or anything. Still.

  Mainly, polygraphs were used as investigative tools. She’d originally thought volunteering to take it would help prove her innocence. But then again, on one of her favorite crime shows, a guy had managed to pass a lie detector test even though he was ultimately proven guilty of a crime—murder. A shiver ran through her. Maybe this hadn’t been such a smart idea. She hadn’t even understood how those squiggly lines or needles worked on the older machines, and this guy didn’t have one like that. No, he was using a laptop. He saw her frowning at the computer and chuckled.

  “You thought I was going to use one of those old polygraph machines, didn’t you? One of those archaic ones with the long strips of paper that move beneath the needles?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “My equipment uses transducers that convert information into digital signals. Those signals are stored and analyzed on my computer using a sophisticated algorithm.”

  An algorithm? So now her answers were being relegated to analysis by a mathematical algorithm? Great.

  “Ready,” the middle-aged man with the comb-over said to Hodges.

  Hodges nodded and exited the room, closing the door softly behind him. Meg turned toward the polygraph guy, having already forgotten his name. He briefly and rapidly explained how the polygraph worked, and stressed that it could detect lies and that she should answer every question truthfully. He explained that he would ask her a number of questions. Some would be irrelevant while others would be focused on the arson, the body in the basement, and the other stuff. She nodded her understanding.

  She tried to quell her nervousness as he stepped around his desk, two long tube-like straps held in his hand. He placed one above her breasts, the other just below her breasts, near her upper abdomen, careful to keep his fingers away from her boobs and explaining as he went.