Sparking His Interest

“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.”