by Lisa Childs
“So you can hit me with it again?”
She tugged on it. “I didn’t hurt you.”
“I’m seeing stars,” he said.
She leaned forward and stared up into his eyes. And he was definitely seeing stars. Well, one at least. She was beautiful, and while she was young, she was already quite successful, if not quite a star yet.
“Did I really hurt you?” she asked, her voice lowering with concern. She dropped her hands from the oar and lifted them to his head. Her fingers skimmed through his hair and down the nape of his neck.
His skin tingled where she’d touched him. And his pulse quickened. Hers was beating fast, too. He could see it moving in her throat.
“Why did you hit me with the oar?” he asked. “Who’d you think was coming through that door?” Had she lived in so many big cities that she was jumpy and paranoid?
“I had no idea,” she said, and her distinctive voice cracked slightly with fear.
He narrowed his eyes and studied her. “You really weren’t expecting anyone?”
“That’s what I told you.”
But was it the truth? “So you just stand around with an oar in your hands?”
Her face flushed. “When I got home a little while ago, it seemed like someone had been in here. I even thought I smelled smoke.”
Smoke. His heart began to beat even harder. “You were smart to grab the oar.”
“I carried it as a weapon when I checked out the bedrooms and bathrooms.”
He groaned over the thought of what could have happened to her. “You should not have looked for the intruder,” he said. “You should have run right out of here and called the police.” Or him.
He would have come if she’d needed him.
“And reported what?” she asked. “The smoke could have come through the open sliders…” Her brow furrowed slightly as she looked toward the sliding glass doors—as if she wasn’t certain she had left them open. They were closed now; the curtains pulled over them. But through the white linen the glass glowed with the last rays of the setting sun.
Why had she shut out the sunset? Or had she been shutting out something or someone else?
“You should have at least gone back to your sister’s,” he said.
“I can take care of myself,” she said, and she was all prickly pride again as she lifted her chin.
“I took that oar away from you,” he said. And finally he released it, tossing it down onto her couch.
“After I hit you with it.”
“If you’d found an intruder, he could have taken it away from you just as easily as I did,” he said. “You shouldn’t have taken that chance.”
“Says the man who fights wildfires for a living,” she said. “Like you should talk to anyone about taking chances. Hypocrite.”
“I know what a fire can do,” he said. He’d learned at a young age—only too well—the destruction and devastation a fire could cause. “You don’t know what an intruder would have done to you.”
She shivered and wrapped her arms protectively around herself. Without her heels and fancy dress, she looked small and delicate and vulnerable.
During a wildfire, rescuing people in danger was part of his job. He wasn’t on the job tonight. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t fight his nature to protect. He couldn’t fight his attraction to Avery Kincaid, either. Silently cursing, he reached for her and pulled her close. Her body felt small and delicate against his but also soft and warm and curvy.
She trembled in his arms. Then her hands clutched the back of his shirt. Instead of pulling him away, though, she burrowed closer.
“You were really frightened,” he said, as he pulled her even closer. The thought of her being alone and scared had a pang striking his heart.
A breath shuddered out of her lips and warmly caressed his throat. “I just had the strangest feeling,” she said. “Like someone was watching me…”
Someone was outside her house. He had felt it, too.
“Who would be watching you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know…”
“You weren’t meeting anyone here tonight?”
“I already told you I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she reminded him.
“You haven’t been talking to anyone in Northern Lakes about a story?”
“Just you,” she replied, her eyes full of suspicion.
“I was at your sister’s,” he reminded her, “looking at every single little thing your nephews own.”
Her lips curved into a slight smile.
“You haven’t been talking to anyone else? No sources?”
Her brow furrowed now. “My nephews are my sources,” she reminded him. “They’re the ones who told me that you were the one who saved them.”
It sounded as though she was telling the truth. But Dawson wasn’t certain he could trust her. Reporters lied. They’d lied to him years ago. Women lied. His friends—Braden Zimmer most recently—had been through enough pain to prove that to him. But if he pressed the issue of sources, she would figure out that there was more to the fire, just as she already suspected.
“Do you have a stalker?” he asked. “An obsessed fan?”
“I don’t know if I’d call them fans,” she remarked, almost modestly. “But I have people who send stuff to the station for me. Letters. Gifts.”
Of course she did. As beautiful as she was, she probably got marriage proposals and jewelry.
“But I wouldn’t call any of them obsessed,” she said. “And not a one of them would know that I’m in Northern Lakes right now.”
Unless they were already in Northern Lakes. Like the arsonist.
But she was right. They couldn’t call the police. They had no proof that anyone had been inside her house. No evidence that anyone was watching her. Only that feeling…
One they shared.
If there had been someone inside, they might come back. Dawson couldn’t leave knowing that Avery could be in danger. It would be against his nature.
“I’m staying here tonight,” he said.
6
SHOCK GRIPPED AVERY. Earlier that day he had refused her kiss, but now he was calmly telling her that he was spending the night. With her. Uninvited.
Avery pulled back, tugging herself out of Dawson’s strong arms. But she immediately missed his warmth as her skin chilled again—even though it wasn’t as cold inside as when she’d first come home. She had shut the sliding glass doors and locked them. She should have locked the front door, too. So that Dawson hadn’t been able to get inside.
That was why a cry had slipped through her lips when he’d knocked. Until then she hadn’t realized she’d left it unlocked. That she’d left herself unprotected if the person who’d been inside her cottage had returned…
“What did you just say?” she asked again. Maybe she’d heard him wrong. She must have.
“I’m staying here tonight,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Do I need to hit you with the oar again?” But he’d already taken it away from her—easily. The way an intruder could have if she had actually found one inside the cottage. He was right about that.
“Maybe you should,” Dawson agreed. “I probably need to have some sense knocked into me.”
“Well, at least you know your suggestion is crazy.”
“It’s not a suggestion,” he said. “I am staying here tonight.”
“No.” She would be able to rest easier with an intruder in her house than with Dawson there. If they hadn’t been in a crowded bar when he’d kissed her earlier, she wasn’t certain what would have happened.
Or maybe she was…
He shook his head. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”
She hadn’t felt alone—even before he’d arrived. While she hadn’t found anyone hiding in the bedrooms or baths, she’d still had that eerie feeling someone was watching her.
“Why not?” she asked. “Why do you care whether or not I’m alone?”
Her family didn’t worry about her. No matter how big the city she lived in, they trusted her to take care of herself. Her sister and parents knew how strong and determined she was. Dawson didn’t. But why would he care? He’d only just met her.
“You’re obviously scared,” he said.
Or maybe he did know her. But she was overreacting. She had to be.
“Yeah,” she agreed, “I’m scared that you’re refusing to leave.” Not because she was afraid of him but of what she might do with him. She was still too busy for a relationship—too busy trying to build a career to risk the distraction of a serious involvement.
He stepped closer, his amber eyes intense as he stared down at her. He stood so close that his chest nearly touched her breasts.
Her breath caught in her throat. He was so good-looking. So sexy…
Why was she protesting his staying? She didn’t have to have a relationship with him—serious or otherwise. She could just have a little fun for once.
He leaned down, his handsome face drawing closer, his mouth just a breath away. And he said, “I want to stay to protect you. Not to sleep with you.”
Her pride stinging again, she glared at him. “You’re not doing either.”
“Avery—”
“Why do you think I need protection?” she wondered, and she narrowed her eyes to study his face. “This is Northern Lakes. The most serious crime that has ever happened here is kids smashing mailboxes. Unless…”
Unless the fire hadn’t been an act of nature. Unless someone had set it…
Why else would a firefighter be concerned about her safety?
“It’s tourist season,” Dawson said. “Most of the cottages on this lake are rented out to strangers. You don’t have any idea who could be staying next to you.”
That was true. But she didn’t think that was the real reason Dawson was insisting on protecting her.
“I will lock the doors and sleep with the oar,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” And it wasn’t like the other cottages were that close. Although maybe that wasn’t a good thing. If they were closer, she wouldn’t be as isolated.
“Or you could go stay at your sister’s,” he suggested. “If you really don’t want me to stay with you…”
As close as he was standing, as sexy as he looked and smelled, she had already started to change her mind about his staying. Maybe she’d rather sleep with him than the oar. But he wasn’t offering to do anything other than protect her. But that was good. She couldn’t risk the attraction between them leading to something more, something that might distract her from what really mattered—the story. She was certain there was one now. But what was it?
“I don’t want to worry Kim and the boys,” she said. Or endanger them.
Not that she was in danger. She was probably just being paranoid. And his concern was compounding that paranoia. Why was he concerned though? What did he know?
“So you think there’s reason to worry,” he said.
She shook her head, and a lock of hair fell into her face. Before she could push it back, his hand was there brushing her hair from her face. His fingertips skimmed across her skin.
And she shivered in reaction as sensations raced through her. “There’s no reason for you to stay,” she said.
But then he stepped even closer and lowered his head. His mouth brushed across hers—back and forth—just a tease of a kiss. Then his tongue swept across her bottom lip.
She gasped at the sensation, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue driving inside her mouth. His hands slid over her, too, down her back to her hips, which he clutched as he dragged her closer.
She felt the erection straining against the fly of his jeans. And instinctively she rubbed against it.
A groan slipped through his lips—into her mouth. She echoed it with a moan as desire overwhelmed her.
He lifted his head, pulling his mouth from hers, and asked, “Is there still no reason for me to stay?”
*
SOMETHING HARD DUG into Dawson’s back and shoulder. It was like sleeping with a damn board. Then he remembered…and reached behind him and pulled the oar from the couch on which he lay.
How had he wound up here? Sure, it had been his intention to sleep on the couch when he’d told her he was staying. But after that kiss…
His body ached and throbbed, and not because of the oar or the lumpy couch. It ached from wanting her. And she was only a few steps away—secured behind a bedroom door. He’d heard the click as she’d turned the lock.
As if a flimsy bedroom door lock could have kept him out if he wasn’t a gentleman.
Because he was a gentleman, he’d forced himself to pull back. Was that why she’d gotten so mad? Why she’d told him to enjoy the most uncomfortable couch she’d ever owned? Had she wanted him…as badly as he wanted her?
But it wouldn’t have been right to make love with her—not when he was spying on her for the Hotshots, trying to find out what she knew about the arsonist.
Was that who they’d both felt watching them outside her cottage? Had the arsonist been inside, as well?
Dawson could smell what she had—that faint trace of smoke. It wasn’t cigarette smoke, though. Or campfire…
It was more like the smell of a lighter—one where the flame had been lit for a long while. Maybe it had even been used to burn something else, like paper or cardboard. Unable to sleep—more because of her than her lumpy couch—he stood up and walked around the small cottage. There was a fireplace on the living room wall; the bricks had been painted white like the wainscoting on the walls and on the cabinets so that it nearly blended in.
The sun had set hours ago. Hell, it was probably about to rise again soon. But moonlight penetrated the white curtains, the way the sunlight had earlier, and illuminated the open area. He stepped closer to the fireplace and peered inside. Black paper was curled into a small pile atop the grate.
A click and a creak drew his attention from the fireplace, had his body tensing. Had the intruder come back?
“Are you cold?” a female voice asked. And Avery stepped from the shadow of her bedroom doorway into the moonlight.
She looked cold. Her nipples were tight little buds pushing against the silky material of her nightgown. She wore only a wisp of satin that clung to the sweet curves of her body. The gown left her shoulders bare but for spaghetti straps and ended mid-thigh.
Heat flooded him, pooling in his groin. “Cold?”
“Aren’t you starting a fire?” she asked, gesturing toward the hearth.
He shook his head. “I was just looking inside—seeing if that was where the smoke you smelled could have come from…”
“But I haven’t started a fire since I’ve been here.”
She’d started something with him. The attraction between them was so hot. He couldn’t remember wanting anyone as badly as he wanted her. Usually he had no problem controlling his desire. He wasn’t like some of his fellow Hotshots. He didn’t date indiscriminately. But he dated.
Just a few months ago he’d been out with a cute brunette he’d rescued from a bar fight. They’d only gone out a couple of times when they’d concluded they would only be friends. Maybe that was because the fire had hit Northern Lakes, though, and work had consumed him after that.
So she had probably realized he wasn’t good relationship material. Women were initially drawn to Hotshots because of the danger of their profession. But when they realized how many hours they worked and how much Hotshots were out of town, they ended things. Absence had never made the heart grow fonder…at least not for him.
He suspected Avery Kincaid wasn’t looking for a man at all. The ambitious reporter was after a story. And he was beginning to worry that she would find it. Or that it had found her.
“There are ashes in the hearth,” he pointed out.
She drew closer and looked inside the fireplace. Then she shrugged her bare shoulders; one of the spaghetti straps slid down her arm and her bodice dipped low, exposi
ng a considerable amount of cleavage.
His mouth went dry.
“Maybe the last renters used the fireplace,” she mused. “But Kim doesn’t usually miss anything when she cleans for me after they leave.”
He doubted Kim had missed the ashes. They were recent. Probably burned just a few hours ago. Someone had definitely been inside her place. He was glad he’d stayed, even though his back—and other parts of his body—ached.
“Someone was here,” she said, as she arrived at the same conclusion he had. Her voice a little shaky with fear, she continued, “I didn’t imagine it.”
He shook his head. “No. You didn’t imagine it.” And neither had he. Someone had been out there last night, watching him walk up to her cottage.
Who?
Some Peeping Tom? Deranged fan? Or the arsonist?
“Why would someone be inside my house?” she wondered aloud. “Nothing was taken. What could they have wanted?”
Probably the same thing Dawson wanted: her. He reached out and tugged up the strap that had slipped down her arm. But the satin did little to cover her body. Her nipples pushed against the thin fabric.
His body tensed, his cock throbbing against the fly of his suddenly too tight jeans. No wonder he hadn’t been able to sleep. He should have taken them off. But instead of taking off his clothes, he wanted to take off hers.
“What could they have wanted?” she asked again.
He glided his fingertips along her shoulder, toying with the strap he’d pulled up. “How can you not know?”
She was beautiful. He knew she knew it. He suspected she used her looks to her advantage, to get people to talk to her. Dawson never felt like talking; he’d done enough of that as a kid—to reporters, to counselors.
But he felt even less like talking around her, and not just because she might report whatever he told her. He didn’t feel like talking because there were so many others things he would rather do with her. Like kissing. Like caressing…
“I wouldn’t ask you if I knew what they wanted,” she said.
“You,” he said. “Whoever broke in here could have been after you…”
She gasped. “But…”
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re staying here alone.”