Wildfire (2 page)

“Let me rephrase my question,” Amanda said. “Did you wish to question me about the fire? If not, I have an incredible amount of work that I have to get back to.”

Brady mockingly bowed his head. “As you so accurately guessed, I want to question you about the fire. Is there somewhere more private where we can discuss this?”

“We could go to my office.”

“Fine. Lead the way.”

Amanda regally did so, unaware of the provocative swing of her hips as she walked ahead of Brady. Her office, a mere cubbyhole separated from the other library offices by thin glass partitions, had two entrances. Today Amanda opted for the entrance in the hallway, preferring not to run the gauntlet of curious looks that walking through Technical Services would entail.

Brady made a point of holding the office door open for Amanda, motioning her through with a turn of his well-shaped hand. His fingers were long and tapered, his nails clean and short. All in all, it seemed a surprisingly sensitive hand for a policeman, and it momentarily had Amanda wondering what it would be like to have those hands touching her, caressing her. A fleeting image streaked across her mind, gone before it could be identified, but leaving behind a smoldering trail of perception.

Assuring herself that her interest was merely idle, Amanda brushed past Brady, noting the silver ID bracelet encompassing his left wrist as she did so. The cuffs of his checked shirt were folded back to reveal muscular forearms, hinting at the compact power of his build. Here was a man to be reckoned with.

Amanda continued on to her desk while Brady quickly surveyed his surroundings. In one glance he took in the framed Alpine poster, the rubber plant flourishing in the corner, and the brass nameplate on her desk. “Very nice, for a fishbowl. By the way, is this what you were looking for when you came sneaking down the stairs?”

“Thank you.” Amanda took the inventory list he held out.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” he asked, setting a small cassette recorder on her desk before settling himself next to it.

“How come?”

Brady didn’t bother looking up from adjusting the recorder. “How come what?”

Amanda eyed his downbent head in exasperation and resisted the temptation to test the texture of his hair by tugging on one of the dark coils that lay along the collar of his vest. “Why do you want to record this? Am I a suspect?”

“No, you’re a possible witness.”

“Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights?” she challenged.

“Only if I’m going to book you.” He paused, tilting his head in a wry gesture of apology. “No pun intended.”

“All right.” With a graceful movement she sat down. “You can turn on the recorder.”

Brady did so, briefly identifying the conversation before asking, “What time did you discover the fire?”

“It was a little after one thirty.”

“How do you know? Did you stop and look at your watch?”

Amanda’s voice was coated with sarcasm. “No, I did not stop to check the time. I thought it more important to pull the fire alarm.”

“Then how do you know it was around one thirty?”

“Because I’d just gotten back from my lunch break and I always take it between twelve thirty and one thirty.”

“That’s good to know.” His murmured comment was too low for the recorder’s retrieval, but loud enough for her ears.

“Oh? Why’s that?” What bearing could her lunch hour habits have on this?

“In case I ever want to take you out for lunch.” Her eyes flicked up to his and caught him staring at her mouth as if he were contemplating making a meal of it. The sheer audacity of the man was overwhelming.

“How did you discover the fire?” he questioned, resuming the interrogation.

“I was going down to pull some material from the storage room.”

“Where were you coming from?”

“Here. My office.”

“Did you notice anything unusual on your way down there?”

“Like someone carrying a flaming torch?” she inquired with saccharine sweetness, resenting his condescending tone.

“Why do I get the impression that you’re trying to make things hard for me?” he mused.

“I can’t imagine,” Amanda tossed back.

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“Besides the fire, you mean?”

Brady punched the cassette recorder’s pause button with an exaggerated sigh. “Are you being deliberately perverse, or are you always this way?”

He was right. She shouldn’t have been so flippant. Normally she wouldn’t be, but something inside of her automatically responded to the challenge that was Brady Gallagher, bypassing her customary caution. “I’m sorry.” Nodding his acceptance, Brady re-engaged the recorder as Amanda continued. “No, I didn’t notice anything unusual.”

“All right. What happened when you got down to the basement?”

“I smelled smoke. At first I thought some students had snuck down to grab a cigarette. There’s no smoking allowed in the library,” she explained. “But it didn’t quite smell like cigarette smoke, it was thicker. Then I noticed that the door to the storage room was ajar and I saw the flames inside.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran upstairs, pulled the fire alarm, and got the students out of the stacks.”

“But while you were in the basement you didn’t see or hear anyone else?”

“No, I didn’t. Why would someone set a fire down there?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Brady replied, turning off the recorder. “I’m going to have to question the rest of the library staff, and I think it might soothe their nerves if you were the one who told them about my interrogation.”

Amanda led the way through a connecting door that led to the library’s central processing area. “Could I have your attention, please?” was her request to the staff, who were no doubt already aware of Brady’s presence if not his identity, since his dark head was clearly visible through the uncluttered panes of glass.

“This is Detective Gallagher from the Deerfield police department. He’s here conducting an investigation into yesterday’s fire and would like to speak to each of you. Please don’t be concerned, this is a routine procedure and in no way signifies any suspicions of you.”

“Thank you, Amanda,” he said.

She pivoted to glare at him, silently questioning his right to use her first name. How had he known what it was anyway? She certainly hadn’t told him. Enlightenment slowly dawned. The nameplate on her desk. The downward slant of Brady’s eyes lent him a slumberous look that was deceptive, because this man certainly didn’t miss a thing.

“I’d like to talk to each of you individually, if that’s all right?” Brady requested with charm, showing none of the taunting mockery that he’d displayed with Amanda.

“Sure.” It stood to reason that the eager agreement came from Susan, who had been eyeing Brady with predatory interest since he’d accompanied Amanda into the room. His answering grin further soured Amanda’s already bad day.

“Is there someplace private where I could conduct the interrogations?” Brady turned to ask Amanda.

She bit back the sarcastic response she was so very tempted to give and instead directed him to a student conference room across the hallway. Susan, never one to be
shy, was flirtatiously asking to be interrogated first when Amanda stalked back to her office.

Of course, given a choice, a man like Brady Gallagher was bound to give more attention to a curvaceous twenty-year-old than to a grandmother like Helen. With the subject of age in mind, Amanda settled back in her office chair and momentarily wondered how old the police detective was. His casual attire made it difficult to pinpoint his age, but she’d guess him to be somewhere in his early thirties.
That
’
s totally irrelevant,
an inner voice reprimanded.
Get back to work and stop this idle speculation.

Amanda felt decidedly foolish for reacting so vehemently to Brady Gallagher’s flirtatious banter. She should have shrugged it off with a cool comment of her own, instead of continually rising to the bait as she had. If some part of her did long to indulge in the thrust and parry of verbal foreplay, it was kept well hidden under the visible professional image she displayed to the world at large.

Her blond good looks had always attracted male interest, but most men grew impatient with her cool self-possession and moved on to less challenging ground. Those men who did stick around treated her with certain deference. Amanda, in turn, found their company amusing and pleasurable, but never disturbing.

Which brought her right back to Detective Gallagher. “Call me Brady,” he’d instructed, probably an automatic reflex when faced with any woman under sixty. “Forget him,” she muttered under her breath, reaching for the inventory list.

It would take her the better part of the afternoon to come up with cost and replacement estimates for the material lost in the fire. A shiver passed over her skin as she realized yet again how lucky they were that the fire had been contained. Despite Deerfield’s reputation as a fine college, like so many other institutions of higher education it had its fair share of financial difficulties. Destruction of its impressive library collection would have been a major catastrophe.

Amanda had successfully relegated Brady Gallagher to the back of her mind when, at four o’clock, she was interrupted by the entrance of a young man carrying a container of mums.

“I’m looking for Amanda Richards,” he announced.

“I’m Amanda,” she replied.

“Then these are for you. Please sign here.” The young man held out a clipboard with a pen attached.

Assuming the flowers must be from Bob, her current escort, she signed on the allotted line. Beth came in the side door just as the delivery boy was leaving from the front.

“Here are those purchase orders you wanted from the acquisition files.” She handed over the manila folders before exclaiming, “Flowers! Who are they from?”

“They’re probably from Bob,” Amanda replied absently, studying the contents of the folders.

“Funny,” Beth mused. “Bob doesn’t seem the type to send flowers. Here, there’s a card attached.”

Amanda opened the envelope Beth handed her to find a message written in an unfamiliar script.
IT WOULD BE
RIGHT
IF YOU
LEFT
WITH ME TONIGHT
. The card was unsigned. Only one man of her acquaintance would resort to such an errant pun.

“So, who are they from?” Beth prompted, her curiosity aroused.

“I don’t have a clue,” Amanda fibbed. “The card’s unsigned.” The intercom on her desk buzzed before Beth could press her further.

“Detective Gallagher for you on line one,” the library secretary told her.

Amanda punched the appropriate button. “Yes, Detective Gallagher?”

“I thought I told you to call me Brady. Did you get my flowers?”

“Yes, Detective Gallagher,” she replied, deliberately ignoring his directions.

“Am I calling you at a bad time or something?” he demanded, obviously picking up the cool dismissal of her tone.

“Yes.” Amanda would have loved to have added “any time is a bad time” but was restrained by Beth’s presence.

“Then I’ll be brief. Come out to dinner with me tonight.”

“No, Detective Gallagher. Thank you for calling. Good-bye.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” he protested, but the rest was unintelligible as she hung up the phone.

“That was short,” Beth noted from her position beside Amanda’s desk. “I couldn’t help but overhear you. What did he want?”

“Something he can’t have!” Amanda snapped and then could have bitten off her tongue.

“Oh, that sounds interesting. I want to hear all about it.”

“About what?” Amanda returned with feigned innocence.

“About you and Brady, of course.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I hardly know the man.”

Noting the militant look in Amanda’s eyes, Beth beat a hasty retreat back to her own desk. Even though Amanda was a friend, she was also her boss and there was no mistaking that look of disapproval.

Amanda unlocked her front door with a tired sigh that evening. Walking into the living room she’d decorated herself right down to hanging the wallpaper, she kicked off her shoes and collapsed on the couch. She’d grown up in this house, slid down the wooden banister as a seven-year-old, sold lemonade on the front porch at eight, and fallen out of the oak tree out in back at nine. A lot of happy memories were enclosed within the two-story frame building, as well as a number of sad ones.

Since becoming a proud homeowner, Amanda had discovered that her desirability had soared with the eligible males in town. In these difficult times, some men saw her as an attractive shortcut to owning a house. But not Bob Mason, a fellow homeowner. That was one of the reasons why she liked him, which reminded her that she’d better get dressed for their date tonight.

She was ready by the time Bob’s car pulled into the driveway. Her glance in the mirror was an automatic reflex, for she already knew the silky plum dress looked good—it always did. Her hair was left loose, the honey-toned flicked-up tips falling with a planned naturalness that bespoke an excellent cut.

Bob took her to one of Deerfield’s nicer restaurants, one not usually frequented by the student crowd. She was waiting in the foyer for Bob, who was parking the car, when a voice hailed her from behind. “Mandy!” No one had called her that since the orthodontist had removed her braces. She turned to find Brady standing behind her.

“I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair down,” he mocked.

“Nor I you, without your vest,” she shot back. The only concession he’d made to the restaurant’s dress code was to replace his vest with a navy blue blazer. His muscular legs were still encased in their form-fitting jeans.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Amanda?” Bob inserted, walking in on the tail end of their conversation.

“Of course. This is Detective Gallagher. Bob Mason.”

Bob thrust out his hand in a reluctant manner, wincing at Brady’s unnecessarily firm grip. “Detective Gallagher,” he acknowledged briefly.

“Call me Brady.” The words may have been spoken to Bob, but the intent was directed at Amanda.