by Rita Herron
Her body throbbed and ached with an emptiness she had never known, with one she didn’t know how to fill. Only the man who’d awakened her desires could do that, and he had claimed the kiss was a mistake.
How could something that felt so incredible be wrong?
But he was wrong for her. He was obviously dead set against the idea of paranormal existence, which she could trace back to the very core of her ancestry.
Was that the reason he’d pulled away, or was it because he could tell she was inexperienced? Had he kissed her out of pity?
No, his reaction hadn’t been pity. His body had hardened and throbbed against hers, and the electricity between them hadn’t been one-sided.
Which confused her even more. She didn’t understand the detective. He didn’t seem to like her or trust her, and she couldn’t trust him with the truth, but she wanted him anyway.
Memories of being shunned at school and the brunt of neighborhood children’s jokes because of her grandmother’s shaman practices jarred her back to reality.
Maybe the study at CIRP would prove that she didn’t possess a power, then she’d never have to reveal that part of her life. Maybe her father’s death had been a freak accident, and she could stop blaming herself, or stop being afraid to get too close to other people for fear of hurting them.
Then maybe she could open herself up and explore the emotions mushrooming inside her every time the enigmatic man touched her.
Not that he would be interested. After he’d kissed her, he’d raced away as if fire was nipping at his heels. He didn’t want any deeper involvement with her.
She had to accept that nothing would happen between them.
After all, neither one of her parents had loved her because she had evil inside.
How could anyone else love her now?
BRADFORD’S CELL phone rang as he drove toward Tybee Island. He checked the number, wondering if it might be Rosanna, but instead the display panel showed his captain’s cell phone number.
He punched the connect button. “Walsh.”
“Detective, one of our guys brought in something you should look at. It’s a diary that belonged to Natalie Gorman.”
“Where are you?”
“At the station.”
“I’ll be right there.” He spun toward the precinct, grateful for duty to drag him from his own lust-driven thoughts. He’d never allowed emotions to distract him from a case before.
Well, except for his brother. And that had cost him dearly.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Especially over a woman he barely knew.
So why did he want Rosanna Redhill so damn badly? Why had he considered going back and finishing what they’d begun with that kiss?
He was just horny, he decided. It had been ages since he’d bedded a woman. He’d have to remedy that one day soon, so his libido didn’t interfere with another investigation.
A few minutes later, Bradford met Black in his office. He explained about the case in Massachusetts, and his chat with Rosanna.
“Interesting. Follow up on it,” Black said. “That theory might fit with what I discovered about Natalie Gorman. Take a look at her journal and see what you think.” He gestured toward the open book, and Bradford read the entry.
I think I’m a witch. I’ve been nervous about exploring it, but finally decided it’s time. Today, I joined a research study at CIRP involving people with special abilities. I met a girl named Rosanna Redhill. She’s kind of spooky but intriguing, and we became fast friends.
She owns a shop on River Street specializing in paranormal books and items. Tomorrow I’m going to her shop and buy some herbs and ingredients to test my spell making ability. I can’t wait to see if I really have powers and what I can do with them.
“Did Miss Redhill tell you anything about this research study?” Black asked.
Bradford gritted his teeth. “No, sir, not a word.” In fact, when he’d specifically asked if she practiced witchcraft, she’d denied it.
“Find out more about this experiment,” Black said. “You can ask around at CIRP, although it’s hell trying to get any information from them. Miss Redhill might be more helpful.”
Bradford inwardly grimaced. He’d do whatever he had to do to solve the case. Even use Rosanna.
“You think this research project might have something to do with the fire?” Bradford asked.
Black shrugged. “That’s what I want you to find out.”
“You’ve been researching CIRP for a while?” Bradford asked.
“Yes. My wife, Sarah, was the goddaughter of one of the founders. She had a hearing impairment and received a cochlear implant there, but overheard a kidnapping plot and helped us track down a scientist they were forcing to work for them.” Black paused. “Fox also investigated them, but they discovered his identity and performed a memory transplant on him to cover up a murder. He almost died.”
Bradford muttered a curse.
“We’re also working in conjunction with the feds to investigate Nighthawk Island. The center houses secret government-sanctioned projects. Most are highly classified, some involving nuclear and chemical warfare. Although the projects are cutting edge and may further medicine and science, occasionally one of the researchers crosses the line. One of the agents actually discovered a project where the scientists brainwashed children to become assassins.”
Sweat beaded on Bradford’s forehead. “My God.”
“Yeah, and a few months ago, we learned about a twin identity experiment where one twin was kept against her will, drugged and received treatments to alter her identity.”
“So you think an experiment might have something to do with our arsonist?” Bradford asked.
“I don’t know, but the fact that Miss Gorman and Miss Redhill are both involved in it, and tied to our arson case, seems too coincidental.”
Coincidences lended to suspicion in Bradford’s book as well.
He gritted his teeth. He’d question Rosanna without succumbing to this ridiculous lust eating at him. Remembering that she’d lied to him would keep him on track. Remembering her penchant toward the paranormal would be the clincher.
Once he’d listened to another woman who claimed she had special powers, the gift of second sight. But she led him astray from finding a missing child in time.
He’d never let that happen again. He’d lost that kid. Lost his family. Work was all he had.
And he wouldn’t jeopardize it for anyone.
Not even if Rosanna’s kiss and the taste of her sweetness haunted him for the rest of his life.
ROSANNA KICKED off the covers in her sleep. She was sweating profusely, so hot she thought she might die. Her skin prickled, felt sensitive, as if someone had lit up her body with a match and turned it into a burning inferno of need.
Bradford Walsh.
His lips caressed hers, his tongue danced inside her mouth, teasing her with promises of a wild night in bed and pleasure beyond anything she could imagine. Hands and bodies mated as he spread tantalizing kisses over her nipples, down her belly and between her thighs.
The pressure, the need, the heat was unbearable. Moisture dampened her center, and a raw ache drove her to press her legs together and roll to her side.
Then he was gone, and she was alone. The emptiness made her feel hollow, needy, and she pleaded for him to come back. To hold her and make everything all right.
To dip his tongue inside her mouth and trail his fingers along her spine. To strip her gown and stroke her sensitive skin. To love her with his tongue and hands until he made her his.
Rosanna jerked awake, on fire with need but suddenly chilled. The past two days’ events rolled through her mind and grief choked her. Bradford’s quick dismissal of their kiss added to her misery.
The air changed. Vibrated. Someone was in her bedroom.
Detective Walsh?
Maybe he felt the same desperate hunger that she did and had returned.
She didn’t reali
ze she’d called his name aloud, until the chill that had awakened her rifled through her again. Her skin beaded with goose bumps, and anxiety danced along her nerve endings. The window rattled, and thunder rumbled outside.
Whispers of another person nearby, an intruder, settled along her spine.
She swallowed hard and opened her eyes, searching the dark confines of the room.
One by one the candles she’d brought home flickered to life again and lit the darkness. The scent of vanilla filled the air, then cinnamon and roses. Then a masculine odor. Sweat. Cigarette smoke.
Her breath caught painfully in her chest and she sat up, searching the room. Shadow hissed and leaped from the bed and ran toward the door, with a yowl.
An intruder was inside her home.
Remembering Detective Walsh’s statement about an arsonist burning women who practiced witchcraft, she reached for the phone to call for help.
But more flames shot up around her quickly, and she jerked her hand back to keep from getting burned.
Then the fire rippled around her bed in a wide arc just as it had Natalie’s grave.
HE SMILED into the darkness as the candles lit a fiery halo around Rosanna Redhill’s bed. She had sensed someone was in her bedroom, but she’d been too late to stop him. A brush of his hands across the tops of the candles, and his heat had transferred to the wicks. Her cat had hissed at him and he’d thrown a fireball toward it, laughing as the animal snarled and shot beneath the bed. Then he’d faded into the shadow of the doorway and focused all his energy and power into the cosmic force of nature that propelled that energy into more heat.
Heat that eventually seared the candle’s wick and burst forth like a lightning strike sent by God.
That was what he had become—a god of fire, controlling part of the universe. Taking lives of the evil ones.
Following his destiny.
Just as Rosanna would follow hers when she died.
He dropped another fireball into the doorway then another on the steps as his final goodbye present.
He couldn’t wait to see Brad boy’s face when he saw Rosanna Redhill burning alive…
Chapter Eleven
Anger surged through Bradford as he left the police station. Rosanna hadn’t met Natalie at her store, but at CIRP during a research experiment involving paranormal powers.
Why hadn’t she told him the truth?
Because she’d known what his reaction would be? Because the experiments teetered on the unethical side like others had at CIRP? Because they were enhanced with some new illegal drug their scientists were researching?
Or could she possibly know the firestarter and want to protect him?
She would tell him the truth.
But not tonight. Not when he was still taunted by that kiss.
Besides, she’d been exhausted and fragile, and grief-stricken when he’d left her. She needed rest, and he needed time to wrangle in his sex-starved craving.
He’d been a fool to try to comfort her and believe that he could stop at that. Touching her meant that spurt of sexual energy that he’d felt the first time he’d laid eyes on her had erupted to life.
He’d kissed the hell out of her. One more minute, one more moan and he’d have had her clothes off and his mouth on her body. One taste of her flesh, and he’d have been inside her.
Another bout of anger added to his turbulent emotions. Anger at himself for his loss of control, for forgetting that as a cop he couldn’t allow emotions to enter the picture and distract him. Because he couldn’t trust anyone.
His family had taught him that, and his job had long cemented it into his brain.
His cell phone jangled, and he snapped it up, quickly checking the display panel. Black.
He connected the call. “Walsh.”
“Detective, a 9-1-1 call just came in from Rosanna Redhill. Her apartment is on fire.”
Damn. “I’m on my way.” He spun around and raced toward her place, grateful traffic tonight wasn’t as thick as it had been on the Fourth. Still, tourists crowded the area, making the drive torturous.
The wail of sirens rent the air, and by the time he reached Rosanna’s, fire was shooting up into the sky from the second floor. Her bedroom most likely.
Panic squeezed the air from his lungs.
Had she escaped or was she trapped inside again?
ROSANNA DROPPED the phone onto the bed, then tried to beat the flames with her pillow, but she wasn’t fast enough. They snapped and hissed, clawing at the bedskirt and rippling upward to eat at the quilt. The scent of burning fabric and wood nearly choked her as she leaped over them. Fighting panic she ran toward the door but flames consumed it.
She grabbed a pillow to stuff over her mouth to keep from inhaling too much smoke, and peered through the thick plumes to see if the rest of the apartment was on fire. If she wrapped herself in a blanket, maybe she could run through the flames and make it downstairs. She had to find Shadow and take him with her or he would die. She couldn’t lose him; he was the only family she had left.
But she spotted flames darting toward the ceiling in the hall and on the staircase and Shadow was nowhere in sight.
Oh God. She couldn’t escape down the stairs.
Her childhood flashed back. The pitiful few dates and relationships she’d tried to have in college. The last two years of being lonely.
She didn’t want to be alone forever, or to die and never have been with a man.
No time to think, though. She had to find a way out. Sirens roared in the distance, then grew nearer. Would they reach her in time?
The fire was spreading like a rabid beast eating up her four-poster bed now, and heading toward the curtains. Heat scalded her face, arms and feet as she jumped over the patches of flames and rushed to the bedroom window.
She yanked the curtains aside, then jerked up the blinds, unlocked the window and pushed at it, but the window was stuck. Sweat trickled down her arms, and flames hissed at her feet as she shoved and struggled. Her eyes stung from smoke and tears, and she screamed in frustration.
Whoever had painted the room had painted the window shut.
Her heart pounding, she ran into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her fist and rammed it into the glass. The pane shattered, sending glass pelting through the air. She broke another pane, then another, then looked down. No fire escape.
“Shadow!” she called the cat’s name over and over, scanned the room, checked the closet. But she didn’t see him anywhere. Maybe he’d made it down the steps.
Desperate, she ran back to the window and tried to judge the distance to the ground. If she jumped, she’d probably end up killing herself.
But if she didn’t, the fire would eat her alive.
BRADFORD’S CHEST tightened as he threw the car into park and ran toward Rosanna’s. The fire truck arrived at the same time, roaring to a stop, the firefighters jumping into motion. He identified himself as they began unrolling the hose and dousing the outside of the house where flames shot up. “The woman who lives here called it in,” Bradford said. “She may still be inside.”
He headed toward the door to check for her, but they stopped him with an outstretched hand.
“I have to save her,” he barked.
“We’ll get her out.” Before he could argue, two firemen raced inside to check the interior.
Feeling helpless for the second time in two days, he circled the house to see if the entire apartment was on fire. Smoke curled toward the sky, rolling above the top of the house. Wood hissed and popped, sparks flying. But so far, the flames appeared to be contained on the second floor and hadn’t spread to the adjoining apartment.
His heart pounded when he spotted Rosanna hovering at the edge of one of the windows. She leaned through the opening, gasping for air, then stared at the ground as if she was contemplating jumping.
“Rosanna, wait!” he yelled.
She reached for the windowsill, and he panicked. She hadn’t heard him
.
He shouted again, waving his arms frantically. “Rosanna, wait, I’ll get help!”
She spotted him, her eyes wide with terror. “Help me! I can’t get out!”
“Hang on, I’ll get a ladder!” Blood pounded through his veins as he raced around the side of the house to the front, and he grabbed one of the firefighters. “The woman’s at a back window. I need a ladder!”
The firefighter nodded, grabbed a ladder from the truck and followed Bradford around back. Smoke flowed through the window now, and soot stained Rosanna’s face as she hung her head through the opening, gasping for air.
He wanted to climb up and get her himself, but the fireman shoved the ladder against the house, then rushed up the steps. Bradford clenched his hands into fists as Rosanna climbed through the window, clutching the firefighter’s hand, and leaning on him as he helped her down to safety. As soon as her feet hit the ground, he caught her arm and pulled her against him.
Pale-faced, she was shaking and crying. “My cat, Shadow, my cat! He’s still in there.”
“Rosanna…” He rubbed her arms, hating the anguish in her voice.
“Please, he’s all I have left. He belonged to my grandmother.”
She looked so tortured, he made a snap decision. “Get her to the paramedic,” he ordered the firefighter.
Then he turned and raced up the ladder. He had to find that damn cat and bring it back to Rosanna. She yelled after him and so did the firefighter, but he quickly climbed the steps, took a deep breath and peered through the window.
“Shadow!” He scanned the patches of flames, the dark room, and suddenly the cat leaped from the corner, clawing at the curtains. “Here, kitty.” He reached out a tentative hand, dropped inside the window and stooped to call him. “Come here, buddy, I’m going to get you down, take you to Rosanna.”
He thought the cat might attack him, but he lowered his voice again, putting out his hand and coaxing the animal toward him. Finally the feline climbed into his hands, and Bradford pulled them both through the window. Flames nipped at his heels, and the wardrobe crashed and splintered behind him. He was breathing hard by the time he reached the bottom and raced around front to the ambulance.