"All right. I'll assign a driver for any out-of-the-office meetings today. But I'd like to point out that this man is burning my buildings, Ry, not threatening me personally."
"He called you personally. That's enough."
She hated the fact that he'd frightened her. Stringent control kept her dealing with office details coolly, efficiently. By noon, she had a cleanup crew on standby, waiting for Ry's okay. She'd ordered her assistant to contact the decorator about new carpet, wallpaper, draperies and paint. She'd dealt with a frantic call from her Atlanta branch and an irate one from Chicago, and managed to play down the problem with her family back in Colorado.
Impatient, she buzzed her assistant. "Maureen, I needed those printouts thirty minutes ago."
"Yes, Ms. Fletcher. The system's down in Accounting. They're working on it."
"Tell them—" She bit back the searing words, and forced her voice to level. "Tell them it's a priority. Thank you, Maureen."
Deliberately she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Having an edge was an advantage in business, she reminded herself. Being edgy was a liability. If she was going to handle the meetings set for the rest of the day, she had to pull herself together. Slowly she unfisted her hands and ordered her muscles to relax.
She'd nearly accomplished it when a quick knock came at her door. She straightened in her chair as Melvin poked his head in.
"Safe?"
"Nearly," she told him. "Come in."
"I come bearing gifts." He carried a tray into the room.
"If that's coffee, I may find the energy to get up and kiss your whole face."
He flushed brightly and chuckled. "Not only is it coffee, but there's chicken salad to go with it. Even you have to eat, Natalie."
"Tell me about it." She pressed a hand to her stomach as she rose to join him at the sofa. "I'm empty. This is very sweet of you, Melvin."
"And self-serving. You've been burning up the interoffice lines, so I had my secretary put this together. You take a break—" he fiddled with his bright red bow tie "—we take a break."
"I guess I have been playing Simon Legree today." With a little sigh, Natalie inhaled the scent of coffee as she poured.
"You're entitled." He sat beside her. "Have you got time over lunch to tell me how bad things are over at the flagship?"
"Not as bad as they could have been." She indulged herself by slipping out of her shoes and tucking her legs up as she ate. "Minor, really. From what I could tell, it looked like mostly cosmetic damage to the manager's office. It didn't get to the stock."
"Thank God," he said heartily. "I don't know how much my charm would have worked a second time in persuading the branches to part with inventory."
"Unnecessary," she said between bites. "We got lucky this time, Melvin, but—"
"But?"
"There's a pattern here that concerns me. Someone doesn't want Lady's Choice to fly."
Frowning, he picked up the roll on her plate, broke it in half. "Unforgettable Woman's our top competitor. Or we'll be theirs."
"I've thought of that. It just doesn't fit. That company's been around nearly fifty years. It's solid. Respectable." She sighed, hating what she needed to say. "But I am worried about corporate espionage, Melvin. Within Lady's Choice."
"One of our people?" He'd lost the taste for the roll.
"It isn't a possibility I like—or one I can overlook." Thoughtful, she switched from food to coffee. "I could call a meeting of department heads, get input and opinions about their people." And she would, she thought. She would have to. "But that doesn't deal with the department heads themselves."
"A lot of your top people have been with Fletcher for years, Natalie."
"I'm aware of that." Restless, she rose, drinking coffee as she paced. "I can't think of any reason why someone in the organization would want to delay the opening. But I have to look for that reason."
"That puts us all under the gun."
She turned back. "I'm sorry, Melvin. It does."
"No need to be sorry. It's business." He waved it aside, but his smile was a little strained as he rose. "What's the next step?"
"I'm going to meet the adjuster at the shop at one." She glanced at her watch and swore. "I'd better get started."
"Let me do it." Anticipating her, Melvin held up a hand. "You have more than you can handle right here. Delegate, Natalie, remember? I'll meet the agent, give you a full report when I get back."
"All right. It would save me a very frenzied hour." Frowning, she stepped back into her shoes. "If the arson inspector is on-site, you might ask him to contact me with any progress."
"Will do. There's a shipment due in to the shop late this afternoon. Do you want to put a hold on it?"
"No." She'd already thought it through. "Business as usual. I've put a security guard on the building. It won't be easy for anyone to get in again."
"We'll stay on schedule," Melvin assured her.
"Damn right we will."
Chapter 6
Ry preferred good solid human reasoning to computer analysis, but he'd learned to use all available tools. The Arson Pattern Recognition System was one of the best. Over the past few years, he'd become adept enough at the keyboard. Now, with his secretary long gone for the day and the men downstairs settled into sleep, he worked alone.
The APRS, used intelligently, was an effective tool for identifying and classifying trends in data. It was possible, with a series of fires suspected to be related, to use the tool to predict where and when future arsons in the series were most likely to occur.
The computer told him what he'd already deduced. Natalie's production plant was a prime target. He'd already assigned a team to patrol and survey the area.
But he was more concerned about Natalie herself. The phone call she'd received made it personal. And it had given him a very specific clue.
Reaching for coffee with one hand, Ry tapped on keys and linked up with the National Fire Data System. He plugged in his pattern—incident information, geographical locations and fire data. The process would not only help him, but serve to aid future investigators.
Then he worked on suspects. Again he input the fire data, the method. To these he was able to add the phone call, Natalie's impression of the voice and the wording.
He sat back and watched the computer reinforce his own conclusions.
Clarence Robert Jacoby, a.k.a. Jacoby, a.k.a. Clarence Roberts.
Last known address
23 South Street, Urbana.
White male.
D.O.B. 6/25/52.
It went on to list half a dozen arrests for arson and incendiary fires, all urban. One conviction had put him away for five years. Another arrest, two years ago was still pending, as he'd skipped out on bail.
And the pattern was there.
Jacoby was a part-time pro who liked to burn things. He habitually preferred gasoline as an accelerant, used streamers of convenient, onsite flammables, along with matchbooks from his own collection. He often called his victims. His psychiatric evaluation classified him as a neurotic with sociopathic tendencies.
"You like fire, don't you, you little bastard?" Ry muttered, tapping his finger against the keyboard. "You don't even mind when it burns you. Isn't that what you told me? It's like a kiss."
Ry flipped a switch and had the data printing out. Wearily he rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes as the machine clattered. He'd caught about two hours' sleep on the sofa in the outer office that evening. Fatigue was catching up with him.
But he had his quarry now. He was sure of it. And, he thought, he had a trail.
More out of habit than desire, Ry lit a cigarette before punching in numbers on the phone. "Piasecki. I'm swinging by the Fletcher plant on my way home. You can reach me…" He trailed off, checking his watch. Midnight, he noted. On the dot. Maybe he should take that as a sign. "You can reach me at this number until I check in again." He recited Natalie's home number from memory, then hung up.
Natalie pulled on a robe, one of her favorites from the Lady's Choice line, and debated whether to crawl into bed or sink into a hot bath. She decided to soothe her nerves with a glass of wine before she did either. She'd tried to reach Ry three times that afternoon, only to be told he was unavailable.
She was supposed to be available, she thought nastily. But he could come and go as he pleased. Not a word all day. Well, he was going to get a surprise first thing in the morning when she walked right into his office and demanded a progress report.
As if she didn't have enough to worry about, with department meetings, production meetings, meeting meetings. And she was tracking the early catalog orders by region. At least that looked promising, she thought, and walked over to enjoy her view of the city.
She wasn't going to let anything stand in her way. Not fires, and certainly not a fire inspector. If there was someone on her staff—in any position—who was responsible for the arson, she would find out who it was. And she would deal with it.
Within a year, she would have pushed Lady's Choice over the top. Within five, she would double the number of branches.
Fletcher Industries would have a new success, one she would have nurtured from inception. She could be proud, and satisfied. So why was she suddenly so lonely?
His fault, she decided, sipping her wine, for making her restless with her life. For making her question her priorities at a time when she needed all her concentration and effort focused.
Physical attraction, even with this kind of intensity, wasn't enough, shouldn't be enough, to distract her from her goals. She'd been attracted before, and certainly knew how to play the game safely. After all, she was thirty-two, hardly a novice in the relationship arena. Skilled and cautious, she'd always come through unscathed. No man had ever involved her heart quite enough to cause scarring. Why did that suddenly seem so sad? Annoyed with the thought, she shook it off. She was wasting her time brooding about Ryan Piasecki. God knew, he wasn't even her type. He was rough and rude and undeniably abrasive. She preferred a smoother sort. A safer sort. Why did that suddenly seem so shallow? She set her half-full glass aside and shook back her hair. What she needed was sleep, not self-analysis. The phone rang just as she reached out to switch off the lights.
"Oh, I hate you," she muttered, and picked up the receiver.
"Hello."
"Ms. Fletcher, this is Mark, at the desk downstairs?"
"Yes, Mark, what is it?"
"There's an Inspector Piasecki here to see you."
"Oh, really?" She checked her watch, toying with the idea of sending him away. "Mark, would you ask him if it's official business?"
"Yes, ma'am. Is this official business, Inspector?" She heard Ry's voice clearly through the earpiece, asking Mark whether he would like him to get a team down there in the next twenty minutes to look for code violations.
When Mark sputtered, Natalie took pity on him. "Just send him up, Mark."
"Yes, Ms. Fletcher. Thank you."
She disconnected, then paced to the door and back. She certainly wasn't going to check her appearance in the mirror.
Of course, she did.
By the time Ry pounded on her door, she'd managed to dash into the bedroom, brush her hair and dab on some perfume.
"Don't you think it's unfair to threaten people in order to get your way?" she demanded when she yanked open the door.
"Not when it works." He took his time looking at her. The floor-length robe was unadorned, the color of heavy cream. The silk crossed over her breasts, nipped in at the belted waist, then fell, thin and close, down her hips.
"Don't you think it's a waste to wear something like that when you're alone?"
"No, I don't."
"Are we going to talk in the hall?"
"I suppose not," She closed the door behind him. "I won't bother to point out that it's late."
He said nothing, only wandered around the living area of the apartment. Soft colors, offset by those vibrant abstract paintings she apparently liked. Lots of trinkets, he noted, but tidy. There were fresh flowers, a fireplace piped for gas, and a wide window through which the lights of the city gleamed.
"Nice place."
"I like it."
"You like heights." He moved to the window and looked down. She was a good twenty floors above any possible ladder rescue. "Maybe I will have this place checked to see if it's up to code." He glanced back at her. "Got a beer?''
"No." Then she sighed. Manners would always rise above annoyance. "I was having a glass of wine. Would you like one?"
He shrugged. He wasn't much of a wine drinker, but his system couldn't handle any more coffee.
Taking that as an indication of assent, Natalie went into the kitchen to pour another glass.
"Got anything to go with it?" he asked from the doorway. "Like food?"
She started to snap at him about mistaking her apartment for an all-night diner, but then she got a good look at his face in the strong kitchen light. If she'd ever seen exhaustion, she was seeing it now.
"I don't do a lot of cooking, but I have some Brie, crackers, some fruit."
Nearly amused, he rubbed his hands over his face. "Brie." He gave a short laugh as he dropped his hands. "Great. Fine."
"Go sit down." She handed him the wine. "I'll bring it out."
"Thanks."
A few minutes later, she found him on her sofa, his legs stretched out, his eyes half-closed. "Why aren't you home in bed?"
"I had some stuff to do." With one hand, he reached for the tray she'd set on the table. With the other, he reached for her. Content with her beside him, he piled soft cheese on a cracker. "It's not half-bad," he said with his mouth full. "I missed dinner."
"I suppose I could send out for something."
"This is fine. I figured you'd want an update."
"I do, but I thought I'd hear from you several hours ago." He mumbled something over a new cracker. "What?"
"Court," he said, and swallowed. "I had to be in court most of the afternoon."
"I see."
"Got your messages, though." The refueling helped, and he grinned. "Did you miss me?"
"The update," she said dryly. "It's the least you can do while you're cleaning out my pantry."
He helped himself to a handful of glossy green grapes. "I've ordered surveillance for your plant on Winesap."
Her ringers tightened on the stern of her glass. "Do you think it's a target?"
"Fits the pattern. Have you noticed a man around any of your properties? White guy, about five-four, a hundred and thirty. Thinning sandy hair. Forty-something, but with this round, moony face that makes him look like a kid." He broke off to wash crackers down with wine. "Pale, mousy-looking eyes, lots of teeth."
"No, I can't think of anyone like that. Why?"
"He's a torch. Nasty little guy, about half-crazy." The wine wasn't half-bad, either, Ry was discovering, and sipped again. "All-the-way crazy would be easier. He likes to make things burn, and he doesn't mind getting paid for it."
"You think he's the one," Natalie said quietly. "And you know him, personally, don't you?"
"We've met, Clarence and me. Last time I saw him was, oh, about ten years ago. He'd hung around too long on one of his jobs. He was on fire when I got to him. We were both smoking by the time I got him out."
Natalie struggled for calm. "Why do you think it's him?" Briefly Ry gave her a rundown on his work that evening. "So, it's his kind of job," he added. "Plus, the phone call. He likes the phone, too. And the voice you described—that's pure Clarence."
"You could have told me that this morning."
"Could've." He shrugged. "Didn't see the point."
"The point," she said between her teeth, "is that we're talking about my building, my property."
He studied her a moment. It wasn't such a bad idea, he supposed to use anger to cover fear. He couldn't blame
her for it. "Tell me, Ms. Fletcher, in your position as CEO, or whatever it is you are, do you make reports before, during, or after you've checked your data?"
It irritated, as he'd meant it to. And it deflated. As he'd meant it to. "All right." She expelled a rush of air. "Tell me the rest."
Ry set his glass aside. "He moves around, city to city. I'm betting he's back in Urbana. And I'll find him. Is there an ashtray around here?"
In silence, Natalie rose and took a small mosaic dish from another table. She was being unfair, she realized, and it wasn't like her. Obviously he was dead tired because he'd put in dozens of extra hours—for her.
"You've been working on this all night."
He struck a match. "That's the job."
"Is it?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah." His eyes met hers. "And it's you."
Her pulse began to drum. She couldn't stop it. "You're making it very hard for me, Ry."
"That's the idea," Lazily he skimmed a finger along the lapel of her robe, barely brushing the skin. Her scent rose up from it, subtly, tantalizingly. "You want me to ask you how your day went?"
"No." With a tired laugh, she shook her head. "No."
"I guess you don't want to talk about the weather, politics, sports?"
Natalie paused before she spoke again. She didn't want her voice to sound breathy. "Not particularly."
He grunted, leaned over to crush out his cigarette. "I should go, let you get some sleep."
Her emotions tangled, she rose as he did. "That's probably best. Sensible." It wasn't what she wanted, just what was best. And it wasn't, she'd begun to realize, what she needed. Just what was sensible.
"But I'm not going to." His eyes locked on hers. "Unless you tell me."
Her heartbeat thickened. She could feel the shudder start all the way down in the soles of her feet and work its way up. "Tell you what?"
He smiled, moved closer, stopping just before their bodies brushed. The first answer, whether she wanted him to go or stay, was already easily read in her eyes.
"Where's the bedroom, Natalie?"
A little dazed, she looked over his shoulder, gesturing vaguely. "There. Back there."
With that quick, surprising grace of his, he scooped her up. "I think I can make it that far."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 413