Playing With Fire: A Loveswept Classic Romance

by Debra Dixon

  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.

  EIGHT

  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 n
ever 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.

  Then there was the failed lie detector test question to be considered. Maggie had stumbled over whether or not she’d caused a fire.

  Everything pointed in one direction, a direction he couldn’t believe he’d missed before. By six o’clock, Beau was out the door again, pausing only long enough to pick up the Morning Advocate from the driveway. He tossed the newspaper in the front seat of his car. Reading the news would have to wait. He had phone calls to make now that he realized trying to trace that burned newspaper scrap was the hard way to get the information he needed.

  The place to look for Maggie St. John’s secret was in a logbook. He’d call every parish and city fire department within a hundred-mile radius. All Beau had to do was open the Greater Baton Rouge Law Enforcement and Fire Company Directory. Find the right engine company, the right parish, a fire within a few days of the old article and involving Ms. Maggie St. John. Eighteen years was the blink of an eye in a fireman’s career.

  If he could find the fire, he could probably find the crew, the case notes, everything.

  When Maggie walked into the break room prior to the start of her shift, Donna Campbell was waiting. The charge nurse was as serious as Maggie had ever seen her. Donna’s anger could demoralize interns and scare cats off kitchen counters for three city blocks, but this expression wasn’t anger. It was concern, uncertainty, and distress. All those scary emotions that made Maggie want to turn around and run.

  Too late.

  Without preamble, Donna handed her the metro section of the Advocate. It was no secret on the floor that Maggie didn’t subscribe to the daily newspaper. But it seemed bad news had a way of catching up with people. She couldn’t imagine Donna lying in wait to hand her anything but bad news. Not with a face like that.

  Slowly Maggie opened the folded section and scanned the page. Even without the big red circle the subhead would have leapt out at her.

  CLOISTER NURSE POSSIBLE SUSPECT IN HOSPITAL FIRE.

  Maggie sank down in the orange molded-plastic chair and spread the newspaper flat on the table. She stared at the subhead, trying to make it mean something else. Anything else. She couldn’t. There it was in black and white, official and complete. Part of today’s news ration for the masses. Fodder for dinner conversation.

  With a shaking hand she smoothed the center crease. The article wasn’t long. Just long enough to do some damage. It reported the utility closet fire of Friday last, the arson squad’s interest in the fire, and the hospital’s decision to request voluntary lie detector tests from employees. Finally, even though Donna had obviously already read the article, Maggie began to read aloud.

  “Sources close to the hospital believe the fire department has gathered evidence that points to Maggie St. John, the nurse who discovered the blaze. Hospital employees have described St. John as disgruntled.” She glanced over at Donna and then continued. “St. John, recently returned to work after serving a suspension unrelated to the fire, did not respond to requests for an interview. Beau Grayson, Baton Rouge’s Assistant Chief of Fire Investigation, also declined comment with regard to St. John’s status as a suspect, indicating only that he was fully aware of her recent suspension and that the investigation was ongoing. A spokesman for the hospital issued a brief statement affirming their commitment to patient safety. ‘Every hospital fire has the potential to cause catastrophic loss of life. Therefore, it is our intention to work closely with arson investigation until the matter is satisfactorily resolved.’ ”

  When Maggie finished reading, Donna sat down across from her. “I’m sorry, Mags.”

  “I didn’t even know they were doing this story.” She leaned back and closed her eyes briefly. She did shock math, and tried to guesstimate the circulation and secondhand readership of the Advocate. Giving up, she said, “God, Donna, my machine at home is broken. It eats the tape when I push PLAY. And I haven’t been answering the phone. The hospital sure didn’t want me to talk to the reporters because the suits never even mentioned a request for an interview. Now this article makes it look like I have something to hide.”

  “Hey, you couldn’t have changed anything even if you’d answered their questions. You’re better off this way.”

  “Better off? I don’t think so.” Anger began to replace the horror and embarrassment of seeing her name publicly linked to the fire. “He never said a word. The sonovabitch threw me to the wolves and never said a word.”

  “What did you expect of Bennett? You’ve been at each other’s throat for months now.”

  “Oh no, not Bennett,” she corrected quickly. “Beau Grayson.”

  Donna frowned. “What does he have to do with it?”

  “Everything. I don’t think he could have made me look more guilty if he’d tried.” Maggie stood and snatched the newspaper up. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with it. In the end she folded it neatly and tossed it back on the table in frustration.

  “Don’t you get it, Donna? Declining to comment is as good as a flashing neon sign over my house that says ‘suspect.’ You either are or you aren’t a suspect. There isn’t an in-between category. And if you aren’t completely, unequivocally cleared, people believe the worst.”

  “Your friends won’t.”

  “This isn’t true, you know,” Maggie said, suddenly driven by an irrational need to refute the implication in the article. “I didn’t set that fire. You know I didn’t have enough time.”

  “What I think or even what I know doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change reality.”

  “Which is?” The question was argumentative and defensive, and Maggie wished she hadn’t been so sharp.

  “The administration isn’t going to like this publicity.”

  “Are you kidding?” Maggie jabbed a finger toward the table. “They’re going to love this article. They’re just waiting for another reason to suspend me. They probably planted the piece, so they’d have an independent reference that I’m dangerous.”

  “You know they didn’t. It’s bad press for them too.”

  “Then who did? Who else has anything to gain? If house counsel didn’t do it at the urging of Bennett, then Bennett did it himself. I’m surprised he’s not down here to gloat.”

  “Oh, but he is.”

  At the sound
of Bennett’s voice, Maggie turned, her skin crawling as it did every time she came within five feet of the man. His voice could have belonged to Dracula. Cultured and evil, it was the voice of someone used to blithely stepping over bodies to get what he wanted. On any other man, his features would have been handsome, but he managed to ruin them with condescension.

  “I’ll get right to the point, Ms. St. John.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and drew it closed. “Chief Grayson tells me you’ve been involved in a second suspicious fire. That leaves the hospital no choice but to put you on leave until this matter is cleared up. Our insurance carrier insists. Effective immediately.”

  The smile as he paused left no doubt of his enjoyment at delivering this news. “The liability premiums on a pyromaniac—even a suspected pyromaniac—are prohibitive. I’m sure you understand our position.”

  Maggie didn’t understand at all. And Bennett wasn’t the right man to explain it to her.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded as she grabbed her purse and shoved past him. “You have to sign some forms, We have to talk.”

  A few feet from the break room Maggie wheeled, forcing herself to be charming. It was an effort. “I don’t work here anymore, remember? The only thing I have to do, Bennett, is see a man about a lie.”

  Beau had expected a woman to come storming into his office this morning, but not this one. Carolyn Poag was middle to late thirties and well-kept. From hair to fingernails, she was a walking advertisement for modern cosmetology.

  Fury didn’t look good with lipstick, eyeshadow and hairspray, though. Unless he missed his guess, the lady was about to unload on him. Trying to blunt some of the explosion, Beau stood up as Russell ushered her into his office and smiled a welcome he didn’t feel. “Why don’t you have a seat, Ms. Poag?”

  He looked past her and nodded a dismissal at Russell, who stood by the door and pulsed his spread fingers twice in a silent gesture for ten minutes. Beau nodded again. Whether he’d take the way out when Russell interrupted them later, Beau didn’t know. But he’d rather have an escape hatch ready than be trapped in a confrontation going nowhere.