Sparking His Interest

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

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

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

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.