"If it doesn't."
"Then I would lose my time, and my money."
"When was the last time you were in the building, before the fire?"
The sudden change of topic surprised but didn't throw her. "I went by for a routine check three days before the fire. That would have been the ninth of February."
He noted it down. "Did you notice any inventory missing?''
"No."
"Damaged equipment?"
"No."
"Any holes in security?"
"No. I would have dealt with any of those things immediately." Did he think she was an idiot? "Work was progressing on schedule, and the inventory I looked over was fine."
His eyes cut back to hers, lingered. "You didn't look over everything?"
"I did a spot check, Inspector." The stare was designed to make her uncomfortable, she knew. She refused to allow it. "It isn't a productive use of time for me or my staff to examine every negligee or garter belt."
"The building was inspected in November. You were up to code on all fire regulations."
"That's right."
"Can you explain how it was that, on the night of the fire, the sprinkler and smoke alarm systems were inoperative?"
"Inoperative?" Her heart picked up a beat. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"They were tampered with, Ms. Fletcher. So was your security system."
She kept her eyes level with his. "No, I can't explain it. Can you?"
He took out a cigarette, flicked a wooden match into flame with his thumbnail. "Do you have any enemies?"
Her face went blank. "Enemies?"
"Anyone who'd like to see you fail, personally or professionally?"
"I—No, I can't think of anyone, personally." The idea left her shaken. She pulled a hand through her hair, from the crown to the tips that swung at chin level. "Naturally, I have competitors…"
"Anyone who's given you trouble?"
"No."
"Disgruntled employees? Fire anyone lately?''
"No. I can't speak for every level of the organization. I have managers who have autonomy in their own departments, but nothing's come back to me."
He continued to smoke as he asked questions, took notes. He wound the interview down, closing it by logging the time.
"I spoke to your insurance adjuster this morning," he told her. "And your security guard. I have interviews set up with the foremen at the warehouse." When she didn't respond, he crushed out his cigarette. "Want some water?"
"No." She let out a breath. "Thank you. Do you think I'm responsible?"
"What I know goes into the report, not what I think."
"I want to know." She stood then. "I'm asking you to tell me what you think."
She didn't belong here. That was the first thought that crossed his mind. Not here, in the cramped little room that smelled of whatever the men were cooking downstairs. Boardrooms and bedrooms. He was certain she'd be equally adept in both venues.
"I don't know, Natalie, maybe it's your pretty face affecting my judgment, but no—I don't think you're responsible. Feel better?"
"Not much. I suppose my only choice now is to depend on you to find out the who and why." She let out a little sigh. "As much as it galls me, I have a feeling you're just the man for the job."
"A compliment, and so early in our relationship."
"With any luck, it'll be the first and the last." She shifted, reached down for her briefcase. He moved quickly and quietly. Before she could lift it, his hand closed over hers on the strap.
"Take a break."
She flexed her hand under his once, felt the hard, callused palm, then went still. "Excuse me?"
"You're revved, Natalie, but you're running on empty. You need to relax."
It was unlikely she would, or could, with him holding on to her. "What I need to do is get back to work. So, if that's all, Inspector…"
"I thought we were on a first-name basis now. Come on, I want to show you something."
"I don't have time," she began as he pulled her out of the room.
"I have an appointment."
"You always seem to. Aren't you ever late?"
"No."
"Every man's fantasy woman. Beautiful, smart, and prompt." He led her down a staircase. "How tall are you without the stilts?'' She lifted a brow at his description of her elegant Italian pumps.
"Tall enough."
He stopped, one step below her, and turned. They were lined up, eye to eye, mouth to mouth. "Yeah, I'd say you are, just tall enough."
He tugged her, as he might have a disinterested mule, until they reached the ground floor.
There were scents wafting out from the kitchen. Chili was on the menu for tonight. A couple of men were checking equipment on one of the engines. Another was rolling a hose on the chilly concrete floor.
Ry was greeted with salutes and quick grins, Natalie with pursed lips and groans.
"They can't help it," Ry told her. "We don't get legs like yours walking through here every day. I'll give you a boost."
"What?"
"I'll give you a boost," he repeated as he opened the door on an engine. "Not that the guys wouldn't appreciate the way that skirt would ride up if you climbed in on your own. But—" Before she could protest, Ry had gripped her by the waist and lifted her.
She had a moment to think the strength in his arms was uncannily effortless before he joined her.
"Move over," he ordered. "Unless you'd rather sit on my lap."
She scooted across the seat. "Why am I sitting in a fire engine?"
"Everybody wants to at least once." Very much at home, he stretched his arm over the seat. "So, what do you think?"
She scanned the gauges and dials, the oversize gearshift, the photo of Miss January taped to the dash. "It's interesting."
"That's it?"
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She wondered which control operated the siren, which the lights. "Okay, it's fun." She leaned forward for a better view through the windshield. "We're really up here, aren't we? Is this the—''
He caught her hand just before she could yank the cord over her head. "Horn," he finished. "The men are used to it, but believe me, with the acoustics in here and the outside doors shut, you'd be sorry if you sounded it."
"Too bad." She skimmed back her hair as she turned her face toward him. "Are you showing me your toy to relax me, or just to show off?"
"Both. How'm I doing?"
"Maybe you're not quite the jerk you appear to be."
"You keep being so nice to me, I'm going to fall in love."
She laughed and realized she was almost relaxed. "I think we're both safe on that count. What made you decide to sit in a fire engine for ten years?"
"You've been checking up on me." Idly he lifted his fingers, just enough to reach the tips of her hair. Soft, he thought, like sunny silk.
"That's right." She shot him a look. "So?"
"So, I guess we're even. I'm a third-generation smoke eater. It's in the blood."
"Mmm…" That she understood. "But you gave it up."
"No, I shifted gears. That's different."
She supposed it was, but it wasn't a real answer. "Why do you keep that souvenir on your desk?" She watched his eyes closely as she asked. "The doll's head."
"It's from my last fire. The last one I fought." He could still remember it—the heat, the smoke, the screaming. "I carried the kid out. The bedroom door was locked. My guess is he'd herded his wife and kid in—you know, you can't live with me, you won't live without me. He had a gun. It wasn't loaded, but she wouldn't have known that."
"That's horrible." She wondered if she would have risked the gun, and thought she would have. Better a bullet, fast and final, than the terrors of smoke and flame. "His own family."
"Some guys don't take kindly to divorce." He shrugged. His own had been painless enough, almost anticlimactic. "The way it came out, he made them sit there while the fire got bigger, and the smoke snuck un
der the door. It was a frame house, old. Went up like a matchstick. The woman had tried to protect the kid, had curled over her in a corner. I couldn't get them both at once, so I took the kid."
His eyes changed now, darkened, focused on something only he could see. "The woman was gone, anyway. I knew she was gone, but there's always a chance. I was headed down the steps with the kid when the floor gave way."
"You saved the child," Natalie said gently.
"The mother saved the child." He could never forget that, could never forget that selfless and hopeless devotion. "The son of a bitch who torched the house jumped out the second-story window. Oh, he was burned, smoke inhalation, broken leg. But he lived through it."
He cared, she realized. She hadn't seen that before. Or hadn't wanted to. It changed him. Changed her perception of him. "And you decided to go after the men who start them, instead of the fires themselves."
"More or less." He snapped his head up, like a wolf scenting prey, when the alarm shrilled. The station sprang to life with running, feet, shouted orders. Ry pitched his voice over the din. "Let's get out of the way."
He pushed open the door, caught Natalie in one arm and swung out.
"Chemical plant," someone said as they hurried by, pulling on protective gear.
In seconds, it seemed, the engines were manned and screaming out the arched double doors.
"It's so fast," Natalie said, ears still ringing, pulse still jumping. "They move so fast."
"Yeah."
"It's exciting." She pressed a hand to her speeding heart. "I didn't realize. Do you miss it?" She looked up at him then, and her hand went limp.
He was still holding her against him, and his eyes were dark and focused on hers. "Now and again."
"Well, it's—I should go."
"Yeah. You should go." But he shifted her until she was wrapped in both his arms. Maybe it was a knee-jerk reaction to the sirens, maybe it was the exotic and irresistible scent of her, but his blood was pumping.
And he wanted to see, just once, if she tasted as good as she looked.
"This is insane," she managed to say. She knew what he intended to do. What she wanted him to do. "This has got to be wrong."
His lips curved, just a little. "What's your point?" Then his mouth closed over hers.
She didn't push back. For nearly one heartbeat, she didn't respond. In that instant she thought she'd been paralyzed, struck deaf, dumb and blind. Then, in a tidal wave, every sense flooded back, every nerve snapped, every pulse jolted.
His mouth was hard, as his hands were, as his body was. She felt terrifyingly, gloriously, feminine pressed against him. A need she hadn't been aware of exploded into bloom. Her briefcase hit the floor with a thud as she wrapped herself around him.
He was no longer thinking "just once." A man would starve to death after only one taste. A man would certainly beg for more. She was soft and strong and sinfully sweet, with a flavor that both tempted and tormented.
Heat radiated between them as the wind whipped in through the open doors at their back. The clatter of street noises, horns and tires, sounded around them, along with her dazed, throaty moan.
He pulled back once to look at her face, saw himself in the cloudy green of her eyes, and then his mouth crushed hers again. No, this wasn't going to happen just once. She couldn't breathe. No longer wanted to. His lips were moving against hers, forming words she could neither hear nor understand. For the first time in her memory, she could do nothing but feel. And the feelings came so fast, so sharp and strong, they left her in tatters. He pulled back again, staggered by what had ripped through him in so short a time. He was winded, weak, and the sensation infuriated as much as it baffled him. She only stood there, staring at him with a mixture of shock and hunger in her eyes.
"Sorry," he muttered, and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "Sorry?" she repeated. She sucked in a deep breath, wondered if her head would ever stop spinning. "Sorry?"
"That's right.'' He couldn't decide whether to curse her or himself. Damn it, his knees were weak. "That was out of line."
"Out of line."
She brushed her hair back from her face, furious to find her skin heated. He'd torn aside every defense, every line of control, and now he dared to apologize? Her chin snapped up, her shoulders straightened.
"You've certainly got a way with words. Tell me, Inspector, do you paw all your suspects?"
His eyes narrowed, kindled. "It was mutual pawing, and no, you're the first."
"Lucky me." Amazed, appalled, that she was very near tears, Natalie snatched up her briefcase. "I believe this concludes our meeting."
"Hold it." Ryan played fair and cursed them both when she continued striding toward the doors. "I said, hold it." He headed after her, and with one hand on her arm he spun her around.
Her breath hissed out between clenched teeth. "I refuse to give in to the typical cliché of slapping you, but it's costing me."
"I apologized."
"Stuff it."
Be reasonable, he cautioned himself. It was either that or kiss her again. "Look, Ms. Fletcher, you didn't exactly fight me off."
"A mistake, I assure you, that will not be repeated." She made it to the sidewalk this time before he caught her.
"I don't want you," he said definitely.
Insulted, provoked beyond her control, she jabbed a finger into his chest. "Oh, really? Then perhaps you'd care to explain that ham-handed maneuver in there?"
"There was nothing ham-handed about it. I hardly touched you, and you went off like a rocket. It's not my fault if you were ripe."
Her eyes went huge, ballistic. "Ripe? Ripe? Why you—you overbearing, arrogant self-absorbed idiot!"
"Tell him, honey" was the advice of a toothy bag lady who shoved past with her teetering cart. "Don't let him get away with it."
"That was a bad choice of words," Ry responded, goaded into adding more fuel to the fire. "I should have said repressed."
"I am going to hit you."
"And," he continued, ignoring her, "I should have said I don't like wanting you."
Natalie concentrated for one moment on simply breathing. She would not, absolutely would not, lower herself to having a public brawl on the sidewalk. "That, Inspector Piasecki, may be the first and last time we ever have the same sentiment about anything. I don't like it, either."
"Don't like me wanting you, or don't like you wanting me?"
"Either."
He nodded, and they eyed each other like boxers between rounds. "So, we'll talk it out tonight."
"We will not."
He would, he promised himself, be patient if it killed him. Or her. "Natalie, just how complicated do you want to make this?''
"I don't want to make it complicated, Ry. I want to make it impossible."
"Why?"
She speared him with a look, skimming her gaze from the toes of his shoes to the top of his head. "I should think that would be obvious, even to you."
He rocked back on his heels. "I don't know what it is about that snotty attitude of yours—it just does something for me. You want to play this traditional, with me asking you out to dinner, that routine?" She closed her eyes and prayed for patience. "I don't seem to be getting through." She opened them again. "No, I don't want you asking me out to dinner, or any routine. What happened inside there was—''
"Wild. Incredible."
"An aberration," she said between her teeth. "It wouldn't be a hardship to prove you wrong. But if we started that again out here, we'd probably be arrested before we were finished." Ryan was enjoying himself now, immersed in the simple challenge of her. And he intended to win. "But I see what it is. I've spooked you. Now you're afraid to be alone with me, afraid you'll lose control."
Heat stung her cheeks. "That's very lame." He shrugged. "Works for me."
She studied him. He wanted to prove something? He was about to be disappointed. "All right. Eight o'clock. Chez Robert, on Third. I'll meet you there."
"Fine.
"
"Fine." She turned away. "Oh, Piasecki," she called over her shoulder. "They frown on eating with your fingers."
"I'll keep it in mind."
Natalie was sure she had lost her mind. She dashed into her apartment at 7:15. Facts, figures, projections, graphs, were all running through her head. And her phone was ringing.
She caught the cordless on the fly and dashed into the bedroom to change. "Yes? What?"
"Is that how Mom taught you to answer the phone?''
"Boyd.'' Some of the tension of the day drained away at the sound of her brother's voice. "I'm sorry. I've just come in from the last of several mind-numbing meetings."
"Don't look for sympathy here. You're the one who opted to carry on the family tradition."
"Right you are." She stepped out of her shoes. "So how's the fight against crime and corruption in Denver, Captain Fletcher?''
"We're holding our own. Cilia and the kids send love, kisses and so forth."
"And send mine back at them. Aren't they going to talk to me?"
"I'm at the station. I'm a little concerned about crime out there in Urbana."
She searched through her closet, the phone caught in the curve of her shoulder. "How did you find out the fire was arson already? I barely found out myself."
"We have ways. Actually, I just got off the phone with the investigator in charge."
"Piasecki?" Natalie tossed a black dinner dress on her bed. "You talked to him?"
"Ten minutes ago. It sounds like you're in good hands, Nat."
"Not if I can help it," she muttered.
"What?"
"He appears to know his job," she said calmly. "Though his methods lack a certain style."
"Arson's a dirty business. And a dangerous one. I'm worried about you, pal."
"Don't be. You're the cop, remember." She struggled out of her jacket, promising herself she'd hang it up before she left. "I'm the CEO in the ivory tower."
"I've never known you to stay there. I want you to keep me up-to-date on the investigation."
"I can do that." She wiggled out of her skirt, and guiltily left it pooled on the floor. "And tell Mom and Dad, if you talk to them before I do, that things are under control. I won't bore you with all the business data—"
"I appreciate that."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 409