Playing with Fire (11 page)

“And you saw the fire from the balcony?”

“I didn’t see fire,” she corrected impatiently. “Not that I remember anyway. Not at first. I saw smoke. Over the top of the magnolias. And I’m getting really tired of you trying to trip me up, Beau. I didn’t have to call you, but I did. For that, at the very least, I ought to get some brownie points and some slack.”

Without waiting for a response, she jerked open the doors and walked to the ornate railing that rimmed the upper story. The wooden planks beneath her feet were slightly damp from the cooling night air, but Maggie didn’t care. Any sensation that didn’t start with Beau Grayson was welcome. Then she realized his socks would absorb the moisture. “You better not come out here. It’s—”

“Too late.” He slipped noiselessly up beside her, standing too close.

His attention was focused on the field beyond. At the tops of the magnolias. He was judging her again, assessing the truth of her story. The scent of fire was still on the night but diluted by river breeze. His arms were locked, supporting him as he leaned outward into the darkness.

Finally, he made his pronouncement. “It’s possible.”

“Well, thank you, Chief Grayson! Gosh, I know I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that you believe me.”

“I didn’t say I believe you.” Rounding on her, he took her arm. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t be sleeping at all. I’d be working on a defense. Let’s get down to it, shall we? Do you know what the odds are of your finding two fires in such a short period of time, and both before they raged out of control?”

Something about him had changed since stepping out on the balcony. His eyes, she decided. In the moonlight they were a flat, dark sienna, devoid of the compassion that lent them warmth. She pulled away, rubbing her arm, glaring. “I don’t know the odds, and I don’t care. It happened. Deal with it. That’s your job.”

“Oh, I am dealing with it. With you.” His assurance slithered up her spine and raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The next soft question did little to allay her apprehension. “Do you always carefully close and lock the balcony doors behind you?”

“W-what?”

“The balcony doors. They were locked.”

A mental alarm flashed at the edge of her consciousness. “Your point?”

“I’m in the business of details, and that detail does not suggest panic. You said you rushed in to call the fire department. And me. If that’s true, when did you stop long enough to lock the doors?”

She hesitated, knowing how irrational she’d sound telling him she locked the doors because she thought it would make the fire go away. Instead she gave him what she hoped was a plausible lie. Unfortunately, she waited a
second too long. “After I changed. Before I went downstairs.”

“You grabbed a pair of jogging pants and changed downstairs. Try again.”

There was no mistaking the chill in his voice or the intent in his body language. He was waiting to pounce—anxious to spring the trap. Allowing her a second answer was just a formality. A game.

When she refused to play, he took her arm again, drawing her all the way to his chest. This time he was gentle, but the touch actually felt more dangerous than the one before. Their T-shirts didn’t offer much of a barrier to contact. Body heat seared her, and her head fell back to meet his gaze. That’s when she realized his anger was personal, that she’d somehow betrayed him without even trying. God help the woman who planned to betray him.

“Let me lay it out for you, Maggie. The way I see it. You liked the attention you got from the hospital fire, so you thought you’d do it again.”

She started to protest, but the pressure on her arm cut her off.

“You never walked out on this balcony. You didn’t see the fire from up here because you didn’t need to. You set it, Maggie. All you had to do was call it in. Call me in. And wait for the fireworks. That
is
what you wanted, Maggie, isn’t it? Fireworks? Like this?”

He bent his knees and shifted so that her breasts pressed into his chest, so that her body molded to his hard contours. He tucked her arm behind his waist and trailed one finger along her neck. As his thumb outlined
her bottom lip, he mused, “The breathless act was brilliant, by the way. It suckered me right in. And the story about foster homes was inspired.”

His words took on a cruel edge, even as his touch seduced her. “What I can’t figure out is why you have to go to this much trouble to get a man in your bed.”

“
Oh, my God
,” Maggie whispered, uncertain whether she should be horrified, outraged, or just give in to laughter. “You think I’m a lonely woman with a faithful dog and nothing better to do than invent crises for male companionship.”

Beau didn’t know what to think. The locked door had triggered a sixth sense that kept him alive through more fires than he could count. The click of that bolt snapping back had filled him with dread. He’d seen the pattern of vanity fire setters played out too many times. In too many ways. All the pieces fit neatly into place. Maggie St. John was looking for attention.

Maggie inhaled deeply, struggling for control. Her fingers curled into the T-shirt beneath them, anchoring herself as the reality of Beau’s suspicions rocked her. “That is what you think.
Isn’t it?
”

“Convince me otherwise.”

“How could I do that? You’ve got everything figured out. You don’t want to be convinced. You don’t want to know why I locked the door. You want—”

Maggie didn’t bother to finish the sentence. Standing this close, it was obvious what Beau wanted. Each movement of his hips sent a fresh current of awareness rippling through her. Deep inside she could feel the chain reaction beginning. Her body wouldn’t listen to the outrage
of her soul. A tiny pulse began to throb; the baseline of her body’s sensual rhythm.

“Convince me,” he whispered, and let his hands fall away from her face, sliding along her arm, her back, the curve of her hip. “Do it. Trust me. Tell me why you failed the polygraph. Tell me what scares you so much, you have panic attacks. Tell me why you fixed cookies and coffee like this was a date. Tell me about locking the door.”

Suddenly she found herself focusing on his mouth, remembering how he could make her feel. She was only inches away from a mistake. “Don’t do this, Beau.”

“Don’t do what? All I want are some answers. Am I making you tense, Maggie? Is that the problem?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing, and this isn’t about answers anymore.”

His face was so close to hers, close enough that she could feel his words against her cheek. “I’m not doing anything. I’m not even touching you, Maggie.”

Slowly, by excruciating degrees, she realized that the only force holding her to Beau was her own desire. Maggie disengaged and put some distance between them. Beau shoved his hands in his back pockets, waiting. The sound of a car grew loud as it approached. Irrationally Maggie wanted to yell for help, and then it was too late. The sound faded, leaving her alone with Beau’s questions.

“Why did you lock the door?” His voice was soft now, reassuring. For a moment she almost believed the lie that he cared. That he might accept what she had to say.

Maggie leaned against the railing, bracketing her hips with her hands. “It was just a foolish reaction. Fire scares me. Even more than you do.” The smile was weak, but she made the attempt. “It’s so stupid really. I thought if I locked the door and pretended I didn’t see the fire that I could make it go away. That it wouldn’t be my fault. Ridiculous, huh?”

“I don’t know. Is it your fault?”

“No! How many times do I have to tell you? I haven’t lied to you. I didn’t start that fire.”

“If you didn’t set that fire, who did? Why now? Why tonight? It’s a school night. Kids aren’t driving around, looking for a place to make out. The structure had no insurable value for its owner, so no insurance payoff.” Beau paused and shot her a speculative glance. “The only payoff in burning that barn would be for someone who wanted to cause you trouble. It’s certainly done that.”

Denial raced through her as she rejected the idea. “No. Why would anyone want to cause me trouble?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. Made anyone mad lately?”

“Open the phone book to ‘physicians’ and pick a name. I’d give you a list, but I’d get writer’s cramp.” She rubbed her face in frustration and shoved away from the railing to pace as she thought aloud. “No. Absolutely not. I can’t believe someone is trying to get me.”

“Maybe someone saw an opportunity to cause you some trouble. Maybe not. But the explanations that come readily to mind for tonight’s blaze are that you torched the barn or that someone wants me to think you did.”

“The hospital.”

“Excuse me?”

Maggie hesitated, trying to gauge Beau’s reaction to her blunt assertion. Whether he believed his frame theory or not, being set up made perfect sense to her now. Perfectly horrible sense. She even knew which doctor.

“It’s Dr. Bennett,” she said venturing closer. “Today, he warned me that he’d have me fired if I made one wrong move. If anyone did this to cause me trouble, it was Bennett.”

“Maggie—”

“He’s a board member. He has the clout, and we don’t get along. Why not him? As a matter of fact, I’m sure it was Bennett.”

She looked up at Beau’s impassive face, expecting some spark of recognition that she was on to something. When she didn’t find it, she backed away. “You still think I did it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she told him. “What happens now?”

“Nothing.”

“Wouldn’t that be a pleasant surprise,” she quipped. “A few dull days for the diary.”

Beau looked at her for a moment and then started for the bedroom door. “We’re done.”

She hugged herself as a soft breeze stirred the air, and followed him. Neither of them said anything else until they were back downstairs. Gwen didn’t growl this time, merely picked her head up and watched him carefully. Beau gathered his things, and Maggie was swamped by a sudden feeling of abandonment, which was ridiculous.

As he reached the screen door, she asked, “And what if something does happen? What then?”

He paused, as if debating with himself. Finally, he said, “Call me.”

Maggie watched him go and wondered how soon she’d have to pick up the telephone.

The drive home was long, too long. It gave Beau time to think about Maggie, the way her voice got inside his head, her body against his, and the unexpected discovery that he’d rather believe the plot theory than believe she was guilty of setting that fire. Obviously, his objectivity was shot. He was thinking with the brain about three feet from his head. If he had any sense at all, he’d assign the case to Russell first thing in the morning.

If.

Beau swung his car off Highland Road into an upscale south Baton Rouge neighborhood and accepted the fact that he must not have any sense because he wasn’t giving the case or Maggie to anyone. Over the last five days, she’d become his responsibility. He didn’t know how, and he didn’t know why—only that she was. And because of that he was suddenly walking a fine professional line he’d never had to walk before, wondering where it led.

Technically he didn’t have to do anything about the
barn fire. It was out of Baton Rouge proper, and his customary jurisdiction ended at the city limits. When asked, if man power was available, the arson squad helped out some of the other parishes and small cities surrounding Baton Rouge, but the squad wasn’t a gun for hire. They weren’t required to work any case outside the city limits.

No one had even asked him to work this one, except Maggie. So, he had maneuvering room regarding disclosure of the barn fire and how he wanted to proceed from this point. It wasn’t much of a point. He had no physical evidence against Maggie other than proximity. The two fires barely established a pattern, but he couldn’t ignore them. Because if Maggie was innocent, that meant someone else was guilty.

He had only two facts to work with. Neither of those fires had started themselves, and the one common denominator was Maggie. So he was back to square one.

Digging around Maggie’s past.

When he finally made it home to his small town house, he didn’t bother to crawl into bed. Fortunately eight regular hours of sleep had never been a necessity. Tonight he was afraid that thoughts of Maggie would creep into his dreams the moment he closed his eyes. Too big a risk. So skipping the extra couple of hours of sleep seemed the easiest way to avoid his hormones and keep what little perspective he had left.

Besides he’d never get to sleep if he didn’t fix a drink and unwind. He headed for the kitchen, grabbed some tonic water and squeezed a lime—his drink of choice. It tasted like dirty socks, but then so did good scotch. Tonic water was much cheaper.

The answering machine on the bar separating the kitchen from the dining area was still flashing. He hadn’t collected his messages from earlier in the evening. He didn’t bother now. He knew at least one of the calls was from Chief Chenier’s wife pressing him for an answer about Friday night. Lori Chenier believed that God intended the world to pair up, and she wasn’t about to let an “eligible” man waste away in a “spartan hovel” when she could do something about it.

Lori threw dinner parties. The food was wonderful, the women gorgeous, and the hints broad. Beau wondered what Lori would think about Maggie. That made him smile as he slipped in Clapton’s
Unplugged
CD and settled into the couch. What he wanted more than anything at the moment was to unplug from his own emotions and step back.

Unfortunately the music couldn’t accomplish what he wanted. He gave up trying to relax and took a cold shower. While the chilly blast of water sluiced down his chest, Beau replayed the evening, looking for an angle, a toehold, the tiniest crack that he could exploit. Slowly he wrapped his mind around an idea.

Most people were leery of fire, but Maggie St. John’s behavior hinted at more than ordinary fear. Her behavior hinted at a phobia. Phobias could trigger panic attacks. And Maggie had those in spades.

One of the first things he learned on the job was that phobias often had a basis in fact. They could arise from the magnified fear of a childhood event. Once again she fit the profile. Maggie had tried to burn a memory from eighteen years ago, and eighteen years ago she was still a kid.