by Rita Herron
A knock sounded at the door. Quiet. Barely discernible. The doctor, most likely.
“Come in,” she said in a hoarse voice.
The door squeaked open, and the detective who’d rescued her stuck his face through the opening. His thick, wavy black hair was ruffled, looked as if he’d jammed his hands through it a dozen times, and soot and exhaustion colored his face. “Are you awake, miss?”
“Yes, please, come in…”
His boots pounded on the floor as he strode toward her. Did he have news about Natalie?
One look into his troubled, dark eyes and she knew the answer before she even asked him.
“My name is Detective Bradford Walsh.”
“Rosanna Redhill,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving me.”
He shrugged, but his jaw remained rigid as if he didn’t want or expect her gratitude. “How are you feeling?”
His rough, thick voice skated over raw nerve endings.
“I’m fine.” She clutched the sheets between shaking fingers, praying she was wrong about the bad news. “Did you find Natalie?”
He nodded, stepped toward her. Shadows haunted his eyes, eyes that had seen violence and death and sorrow.
“I’m so sorry. My partner tried to save her….”
“Oh God, no…” Her voice broke, and she curled into a ball, and pressed her fist to her mouth to stifle a sob.
He lowered himself onto the bed, gently stroked the hair from her face, then wiped a tear trickling down her cheek.
“How?” she asked in a tortured whisper.
“A head injury. The firefighter managed to get her out before the flames reached her.”
Thank God. She couldn’t stand that image in her head. Still, grief swelled in her chest.
She sucked in a sharp breath, determined to hold herself together until he left, but another sob escaped her, and he pulled her into his arms and held her. The gesture was so kind that it undid her, and she clutched him, not wanting to let go. For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to be alone.
Poor Natalie. She had been so young and vivacious, so full of life with so much ahead of her. Her new apartment, internship, classes at the College of Art & Design…
He stroked her hair again, and she gulped back more tears, the tension in his hard body reminding her that he was only a stranger being kind, not a real friend. She couldn’t lean on him….
Finally she swiped at her eyes, managed to regain control. “What about your partner? Is he okay?”
He cleared his throat, then glanced down at his hands. “Parker is alive, but in critical condition. He suffered burns and multiple wounds. His leg was crushed and his lung collapsed.”
With an anguished look on his face, he pulled away and stood, putting distance between them. Guilt tightened her throat and chest. Why had she survived and Natalie died? Why had his friend suffered?
“I’d like to ask you some questions about the fire…if you’re up for it.”
She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “I don’t know what I can tell you. I went to the ladies’ room, then I heard something crash and I heard screaming. People panicked and ran out.”
“You don’t know how the fire started?”
She shook her head. “The stall door was stuck, so I had to crawl underneath it. By the time I reached the door to the bar, a beam had fallen, and flames filled the doorway blocking my path.” She hesitated, felt those moments of panic and fear clawing at her. Saw the fire chewing at her legs when she’d fallen. Heard that second beam come roaring down on her. Her own scream of helpless terror.
She’d thought she was going to die. Had tried to push the beam off of her, first with her hands, then her mind, but there had been no time.
“Did you see anyone suspicious before then?” he asked.
“I…don’t think so.” Her head felt fuzzy, disoriented again, and she closed her eyes, tried to concentrate, but all she could do was think about Natalie screaming. Natalie dying. Natalie never coming back.
“You were at the café earlier tonight, too, weren’t you?”
She clenched her hands, forced her eyes back open. “Yes, I can’t believe it. Two fires in one night.”
He frowned. “You were inside when the fire broke out?”
She nodded reluctantly.
“Why did you run away?” he asked, his voice harder now. “We were questioning everyone at the scene.”
She couldn’t quite look at him. “I don’t know. I was upset. I just wanted to escape.”
“Did you see anything suspicious inside the café?”
“No.”
He studied her for a long moment, and she willed him to leave, not to push her anymore. Her head ached, her eyes hurt and grief for Natalie clogged her throat.
“I’ll let you rest,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll be back tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”
She nodded, miserable, still shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to curl up and cry for her friend, wanted to be alone in her sorrow.
Yet she didn’t want him to go. Didn’t want to be alone. She’d been alone all her life.
But he stepped out the door and closed it behind him, leaving her with her misery and the memory of her friend’s face to haunt her.
His question echoed in her head. Had she seen anyone suspicious at the café or the bar? Had someone set that fire intentionally?
If so, then he had murdered Natalie…
HIS BODY SWELLED with arousal as he lingered in the shadows across from the Pink Martini. So much chaos. People panicking. Crying. Screaming. Gawking in horror and awe at the amazing fireworks display he’d started.
The firefighters had worked so diligently, sweating and shouting orders, hacking away fallen debris to save the injured and extinguish the mountainous blaze. They’d done their best to drown out his handiwork, but they had been too late. Too late to save the woman and man who’d died.
Death…such a nice perfect ending to a dull day. Except neither had actually melted into the fire because their bodies had been rescued first.
Adrenaline fired his blood at the thought of watching flesh and skin sizzle, and he realized that the high from watching wood and plastic burn was no longer enough to satisfy him.
He wanted, needed more. Craved the deeper, more exhilarating euphoria arousing him now at the thought of a body being consumed by the flames.
Yes, next he wanted to see a human burn.
Maybe the redhead…
Her hair was the same rich red, orange and yellow of the flames. He was drawn to her. Wanted to touch her. Make her quiver with fear. Elicit a scream from her pale throat as he turned her body into a playground for his pleasure.
He had seen the terror in her eyes when she’d been trapped in that bathroom. But she had shown amazing courage by running through the blaze.
Then she’d gone down, and a surge of excitement had seized him. She had been trapped beneath the fiery beam of wood. The fire would have eaten her alive in seconds.
Had it not been for that cop. The one man he hated.
It was the second time tonight Bradford Walsh had shown up and ruined his fun. Pretending to be some kind of savior…
But he knew the real detective Walsh—Brad boy he liked to call him.
Brad boy, the traitor.
Soon everyone else would see him for the weak failure he was.
A chuckle rumbled from his chest. Brad boy had no idea who he was dealing with. Or the power he possessed.
He had the gift of fire in his fingers. He would use it again and again, make each mark more impressive.
And no one could stop him.
Chapter Four
Rosanna Redhill’s tortured, tearstained face haunted Bradford as he drove back to the bar. The firefighters were still battling the remnants of the blaze, the arson investigator from the county surveying the scene.
He strode toward Adam Black, the captain of the department.
“How’s K
ilpatrick?” Black asked.
Bradford shook his head. “Alive, but critical. Burns, a crushed leg and lung.”
Black frowned, anger darkening his eyes. “How about you?”
“Pissed.” Bradford gestured toward the ashes and embers of the bar, then around at the crowd still watching. “This one can’t be accidental.”
“I agree, that’s why I called the CSI team out here immediately. I think we’re dealing with a serial arsonist. And he just upped the stakes.”
Bradford nodded in agreement. So far, he liked Captain Black. He was fair, smart, commanded respect and knew the innerworkings of Savannah and the Coastal Island Research Park. “You’re right. And he’s going down for murder,” Bradford said, thinking about Rosanna’s friend Natalie.
“You’re done tonight. Go home, get some rest,” Black ordered.
“No, I want to help here. I have to.”
Ignoring Black’s scowl, he joined the other officers questioning the spectators, and spent the next two hours trying to get a lead on what had happened. But everyone he questioned shared the same story. They hadn’t seen anyone set the fire. Flames had suddenly shot up from behind the bar. Then near the doorway, and on the stage.
Possibly faulty lighting? He didn’t think so. Someone had set the fire; he just had to figure out who and how they’d done it.
The owner of the bar, a big guy named Benny, looked shaken and furious. “I can’t believe this damn mess. I just opened the bar this month.”
Like Hazel, the man had invested all his money into the establishment. He was insured, but the labor costs and time spent rebuilding would mean more money lost.
If Benny had intentionally set the fire for insurance purposes, why do so when the bar was filled to capacity? He would have waited until it was empty, wouldn’t have chanced injuries or deaths, which would stir more questions and bring more serious charges against him if caught.
Two hours later, Black informed him that they had everyone’s contact information and again ordered him to go home. They would meet in the morning with the CSI team, then officers would be dispersed to requestion the people who’d been in the bar.
Exhausted, the adrenaline and anger that had fueled Bradford to keep working waned as he drove toward Tybee Island.
He’d thought living near the ocean might provide a few days of relaxation in between shifts. That the sea air and warm weather might improve his mood swings and help him regain his control over a temper that had nearly cost him his job back in Atlanta. But so far he’d yet to have a day off to enjoy the beach or to go fishing.
As he left town, the city gave way to narrow country roads sprinkled with sea oats and small weathered shacks and cottages. He crossed the bridge and inhaled the salt air and smell of the marshland.
Though the island was only a few miles from downtown Savannah, the celebration had drawn a large crowd. Traffic was a bitch, and it took him over thirty minutes to reach the small house he’d rented. He killed the engine, climbed out and walked up the shell-lined driveway.
Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, he unlocked the door, flipped on a light and welcomed the churning sound of the air conditioner. A frozen pizza, a shower and some shut-eye before the next shift would rejuvenate him.
He only hoped the holiday didn’t bring out more crazies tonight. After all, it was a full moon. And celebrations meant boozing, which often led to trouble.
His own past proved that to be a fact. His little brother, Johnny…
A drunk. An arsonist. A murderer.
In jail now.
And he hated Bradford for it. Blamed him for everything. His screwups. His father’s death.
His arrest and sentencing.
One reason Bradford had relocated after leaving Atlanta. That and the need for a detective here in Savannah.
He’d thought he’d seen it all over his years, had worked special ops in the marines, had been assigned to a missing persons unit in Atlanta, but the bizarre cases with CIRP and Nighthawk Island topped the list of stranger-than-fiction and had piqued his interest.
Tonight’s fires had nothing to do with that, though. But they did make him wonder.
He heated up the pizza, grabbed a beer from the fridge, then took them outside on the patio to eat. The earthy smell of grass, ocean and sea oats helped to cleanse his lungs of the smoke, but the images in his mind refused to disappear.
The blazing building. The dead man on the floor with his jugular sliced. The pale face of Natalie Gorman in death. The redhead Rosanna beating the flames off of her, yet worried about her friend.
And his partner, seriously injured.
Parker…he would survive, the doctor had said. But would he ever recover? Would he walk again? Be able to go back on the street?
He closed his eyes, wondering how he would feel if he had been in Parker’s place. He lived and breathed his job. He’d be lost without it.
Yet lately he’d been filled with restless energy. With the need for something more.
Hell, he just missed having a family. A father who was alive. A mother who spoke to him. A brother who didn’t hate him.
A woman who…wanted him. At least for a night.
Rosanna’s face materialized in his mind, and his body hardened. She had felt so light and fragile in his arms, her voice raspy, but as whispery soft as an angel’s. And those eyes, they had mesmerized him and turned him inside out. When she’d touched his hand to comfort him about Parker, a hot feeling had splintered through him.
Hunger.
Even with her face and hands stained with soot, and her red hair tangled and smoky, he had thought naughty things.
Like how the soft silkiness of her hair would feel against his belly. The way her delicate hand had felt pressed against his chest, holding on to him. Clutching him. Needing him. How it would feel if she’d moved it lower.
He hadn’t wanted to leave her, not with the way she’d cried in his arms when he’d had to reveal the awful truth that her friend hadn’t survived.
He’d seen guilt in her eyes, too.
Guilt he understood. Guilt he related to. Guilt forced him to get up in the morning and keep fighting criminals.
A life that had robbed him of morality, female companionship and a future that evolved around nothing but dealing with other bastards.
Still, like the bastard he was, when he closed his eyes again and inhaled the salty air, he saw Rosanna reaching for him, stripping naked and climbing into his bed.
Begging him to take her.
But she had nearly died tonight. Was a material witness in a possible arson case. A case he had to crack.
He could not get involved with her. Not even for a quick, one-night interlude. Not even if visions of her naked taunted him for the rest of his life.
He gripped the edge of the chair as a disturbing thought struck him. Rosanna Redhill had been present at both fires tonight.
So had her friend Natalie.
He needed to question her again. One motive for arson was revenge. If she wasn’t involved in the arson, she or her friend might be connected to the man who’d started it. And she definitely might have seen the man who’d set the fires…
GHOSTS ROSE from the grave stalking toward Rosanna, their hollowed, brittle bones rattling in the wind, their bulging eyes staring at her with accusations, their screams of terror echoing through the rows of tombstones.
Natalie was there. Shocked and searching, wondering what had happened, still not ready to accept that her young life had ended so unexpectedly.
Her voice whispered for help, pleading with Rosanna to save her, to bring her back to life.
To find her killer.
Rosanna jerked awake, perspiration soaking the hospital nightgown, her breath rushing from her chest in erratic puffs. She blinked against the darkness, and a tingle of alarm rippled through her. She felt someone’s presence in the room, felt an undercurrent of a spirit’s energy charging the air. Smelled the lingering fragra
nce of Natalie’s jasmine perfume.
Crazy. She might have thought she’d made that firepoker move years ago, but she hadn’t. And she certainly had never communed with the dead or had visits from ghosts. She’d never even felt a spirit’s presence before.
Well, except for Granny Redhill…
Inhaling to calm herself, she detected another odor. Masculine. Sweat. Smoke.
Danger.
She jerked her head around, certain she’d find a man lurking in the room, but only shadows hovered in the corner.
The door stood slightly ajar though.
It had been closed when she’d finally succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep.
Perhaps the nurse had come in to check on her. Or could someone else have been in her room?
Ridiculous. She did not have a stalker, ghost or otherwise. It was just her overactive imagination.
The room smelled like smoke because she hadn’t showered since being pulled from the blaze. The masculine scent probably lingered from Detective Walsh’s visit.
Shivering in spite of the heat, she rolled to her side facing the door, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. She didn’t want to have another nightmare, to see ghosts or Natalie’s tormented expression, or hear her voice begging for help.
She wanted to turn the clock back and talk Natalie out of going to the Pink Martini.
And she wanted to see Detective Walsh again.
God, she was crazy.
But she would see him again, she thought with another frisson of panic. He’d ask questions. Want to know what she’d been doing at the club. Where she worked.
What if he looked into her past? What if he discovered the truth?
Her hands shook as she clutched the sheet to her chin. She’d have to be prepared. Answer curtly. Keep it to the point, focus on Natalie and what she’d seen at the bar.
Which had been nothing.
She’d tell him that, then he would leave and she would never have to see him again.