Playing With Fire: A Loveswept Classic Romance Page 6

  Beau slid his hands down the open sides of her overalls, his spread fingers drifting beneath the denim and massaging her back while his thumbs traced the faint swell at the side of her breasts. The thin cotton top teased him because it hid nothing and everything from his touch. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  As he shifted to fit her into the cradle of his thighs, Maggie made a ragged sound of satisfaction. Suddenly he wanted more than just her generous mouth and the softness of her skin. He wanted all of her. Against him. Trusting him. The woman in his arms had no secrets, no sharp edges, no walls. No thorns.

  She kissed the way she talked—reckless. As if there was no room for anything but sensation. His hand slipped completely inside her overalls, finding the edge of the skimpy shirt and shoving it out of his way. The soft denim teased his knuckles as he stroked the small of her back, urging her toward him.

  When she arched against him, desire stabbed him hard. What he wanted—what he needed—was so clear. So close. He almost forgot that he couldn’t have Maggie. But reality never forgot. It tapped him on the shoulder and threw cold water on the fire.

  For the second time tonight he felt robbed.

  Beau pulled away. He stepped back, shakier than he wanted to admit. Jesus. If a kiss did this to him, he wasn’t sure he would survive taking Maggie to bed. Looking at her swollen lips only made him think of things they hadn’t done yet. Things he hadn’t done in a long time. Things he wanted to do. He swiped a hand across the stubble on his jaw and reminded himself to shave.

  For what?

  His brain was finally back in charge. There was no reason to shave. There wouldn’t be a next time. This time shouldn’t even have happened. Beau rested his hands on his hips and waited for Maggie to pull herself together. She had that thunderstruck we’re-not-in-Kansas-anymore look on her face. Beau imagined he had the same look on his. He didn’t even try to hide it. There wasn’t much point. Denying chemistry wasn’t going to change it.

  Knowing she wasn’t the only one shaken by the kiss was small comfort for Maggie. She had no idea what to do with these feelings. They didn’t fit neatly into any of the cubbyholes she reserved for men. What she and Beau had done wasn’t fun or casual or even lust. That kiss went bone deep, real fast, and it rocked her.

  So she did what she always did when life got too real to handle. She pretended it wasn’t real and that she was still in control.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Beau. If you were hoping for a confession, you just wasted a lip lock. I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Does that actually work?”

  “Does what work?”

  “The snappy patter. Does it keep people away? Keep them from figuring out how scared you are of intimacy?”

  Bull’s-eye.

  She recoiled even as she ground out, “Who died and appointed you Freud?”

  “That’s it, Maggie. You keep volleying those one-liners.” Beau nodded; the gesture was anything but approving. “Fire away. Quick, fast, and hard. Maybe if you keep busy enough, keep the focus off you long enough—Well, maybe the panic attacks will go away. Maybe the shadows will go away, too, and you can finally turn the lights off and get some sleep.”

  How did he know?

  Her voice quavering with anger, Maggie argued, “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, darlin’, I know more than you could possibly imagine about what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. I watched fear grab hold of you and shake you like a rag doll.”

  The air rushed out of Maggie’s lungs, and for once she couldn’t even pretend to be in control. He cut too close to the truth. Gwendolyn, unsettled by the edge in Beau’s voice, roused and got between them. She shoved Maggie back another step, offering moral support and protection.

  Maggie was grateful. The dog kept her from doing or saying something she’d regret. She left it at a simple denial and said in barely a whisper, “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know enough to know you’re hiding something from me.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re fishing, Beau.” God, how she wished that was true, but he was dead-on. Her bluff sounded lame even to her. “Go fish somewhere else. I’m not taking the bait.”

  “I did some fishing. I ran you, Maggie. In the computer. I ran you backward and forward.”

  Maggie said a silent prayer of thanks that juvenile records were sealed. With more confidence than she felt, she asked, “And?”

  “And nothing. No priors. No moving violations with the exception of two speeding tickets. No lawsuits—for or against. No marriage license recorded in this parish or the East Baton Rouge parish or any other around here.” He scanned the room and the clutter of books, a little disbelief creeping into his voice. “You don’t even have a library fine.”

  “But that still wasn’t enough to convince you.”

  “Sure it was. It convinced me you don’t get caught.”

  Maggie crossed her arms, trying to hold in the righteous rage that percolated inside her. “So you thought you’d come out here, bring the statement for cover, and snoop around. If a person invites you in, you don’t need a search warrant, do you?”

  For the first time he paused, weighing his words. He sighed, and said, “No, but that’s not—”

  “Liar.”

  “You’re calling me a liar?” Beau retorted. “Oh, that’s rich. That’s more than rich. That’s the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think, Maggie?”

  She kept her expression calm, but her heart sank. He knew about the polygraph already. He knew. Even if she volunteered her past, it was too late. He’d never believe she was innocent. She had motive, opportunity, and a guilty conscience. At this point, her past was simply another nail in the coffin.

  “You have the polygraph results.” It was a statement, not a question, so she didn’t wait for confirmation. “Let me guess. Everyone passed with flying colors. Except me.

  Beau realized he’d revealed too much. Spinning away from her, he almost collided with Gwendolyn’s rump. The dog was just one more obstacle between Maggie and the world.

  What did it matter that she erected walls? he asked himself. She’s a suspect. She fit the profile. Women set fires for revenge. Small fires usually. Fires meant to deface, not destroy completely. That was the pattern, and Maggie’s hospital fire was right on target. Whether he wanted to believe his instincts or not.

  When he turned around, he was struck all over again by an incomprehensible fact—he still wanted her. The irony was perfect. Fate was probably rolling on the floor with laughter. Probably talking to Mother Nature and snickering, “Have you heard the one about the arson investigator and the pyromaniac?”

  Rubbing her arms, Maggie tossed a question at him. “Why’d you have to play this game? Why couldn’t you have just said you had the test back when you knocked on the door?”

  Because you wouldn’t have let me in. Because I wanted to kiss you first. Because I’m a fool.

  Beau couldn’t say any of that. He could barely admit to himself that he’d put an investigation in jeopardy because he was thinking with hormones. He’d never done that before. Never ever come close to being this stupid.

  “I didn’t mention the polygraph because it’s not admissible, and after I came inside … I thought you had enough to deal with.”

  Instantly her eyes narrowed. “Enough to deal with? Grayson, I don’t need you or anyone else looking after me.

  “You need a lawyer. You’re facing an arson charge.”

  “I’m not facing anything. You can’t arrest me. You don’t have any evidence. You just said that a polygraph isn’t admissible. You can’t even mention it in court. You haven’t got anything.”

  “Yet.”

  “Then why don’t you come back when you do? Be sure and wear a coat because hell will be freezing over.”

  Beau snatched up the towel he’d dropped on a stack of books and handed it to her on the way to the door. When she took it, he didn’
t let go. He leaned over the dog to whisper a warning. “I’ll leave, but I’m watching you, Maggie. I don’t want to see so much as a match go up in smoke if you’re in the vicinity. You got it?”

  He felt the change in Gwendolyn before he heard the soft rumble of displeasure. Maggie did nothing to calm the wolfhound. “She doesn’t like your tone of voice either.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t,” he said softly, easing away. When he reached the archway to the vestibule, he took out one of the cards with his home number written on it and tossed it on a chair. “Who’s going to take care of her when you’re in jail?”

  Maggie held her ground until the door clicked shut behind him. Then all her toughness evaporated, and her knees gave out. Gwendolyn joined her on the floor, putting her big head on Maggie’s thigh. The long tail thumped twice on the floor, and big brown eyes looked up to promise her it would be okay.

  But all Maggie could see were dark, intense eyes that would haunt her for a long time.

  No harm done.

  Beau stood in the doorway of his office and gestured for Russell. The man was a clown, but a smart clown and eminently suited for this task. He handed him a copy of Maggie’s statement.

  “Run this over to the hospital for me, and don’t come back without Ms. St. John’s signature. Better have someone over there witness it too.”

  “Say it ain’t so, Beau,” he begged as he took the statement. “Tell me she’s not our girl.”

  Shaking his head at the pretended anguish on Russell’s face, Beau outlined it. “She’s the primary, but the charge won’t stick. Not without hard evidence. So we’re going through the motions on this one and closing it up. I cleared your visit with a Dr. Bennett. They’re advising her you’re on the way and to afford you any and all cooperation.”

  “Okay, boss,” he agreed, but turned back before he’d gone two paces. “I thought you took care of this yesterday.”

  “I got tied up at the Littleton trial.”

  Russell rolled his eyes at the mention of the case. “Riddle me this, Beau. If a woman’s pissed at you for fooling around, and she tells you that she’s going to set your bed on fire, and she’s sprinkling gasoline on the covers, are you gonna get out of that bed?”

  “He didn’t believe her.”

  With a snort, Russell said, “Game, set, and match to Mrs. Littleton.”

  “Game, set, and match,” Beau echoed flatly, and flicked his eyes at the envelope. “She’s waiting.”

  “I’m on it.”

  As Russell left, Beau closed his office door. “So am I.”

  A singed newspaper corner lay in the middle of his desk pad. He studied it as he rounded his desk and sank into the chair. It wasn’t much to go on. Just a printed date on one side, a page number on the other. For all he knew this was a parish newspaper announcement of her first communion, baptism, spelling bee victory, letter to the editor—He stopped. The possibilities were endless.

  But he had a date. He’d start with the bigger papers and work his way backward through the surrounding parishes. Eighteen years ago something newsworthy happened in Maggie’s life. Or the life of someone she cared about. All he had to do was figure out where and what.

  What memory did you burn up, Maggie May?

  “Then just quit, Maggie.”

  The succinct advice was accompanied by the sizzle of frying bacon and the tap of Andrea Poag’s fork as she scooted the meat around the skillet. Tonight was Carolyn’s late night at the shop and her charming redheaded daughter’s turn to cook. Unfortunately Andrea knew how to make only one thing—breakfast for dinner.

  Maggie decided the girl would make some lucky man a wonderful widow. The cholesterol would kill him.

  “Really,” Andrea urged when Maggie didn’t respond. “Quit. It’s not like you own the place and have to work there whether you want to or not. You can get another job.”

  Maggie groaned and pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. God help her! For a second there Andrea had made sense. She was actually listening to career advice from a seventeen-year-old. A seventeen-year-old who’d lost two jobs because she couldn’t remember to ask, “You want fries with that?”

  “Mmm,” Carolyn murmured as she strolled into the messy kitchen, tossing her keys into the junk bowl on the counter. “Breakfast for dinner. Good choice. Ooh, look what we have here! A mutt rug!”

  Gwen jumped up, wagging and probably sending a shower of dog hair into the food, but no one cared. Carolyn’s place was a second home to the wolfhound. The front closet held a spare dog bowl for Gwen and a spare uniform for Maggie.

  “Woof.”

  Capitulating in the face of such canine enthusiasm, Carolyn greeted the dog first. She ruffled the tuffs of hair on Gwen’s muzzle and scratched her behind the greyhoundlike ears before she spoke to the people. “I’m beat, but willing to debate. So what’s the topic of discussion tonight?”

  Before Maggie could answer, Andrea rushed to clarify the situation. “I think Maggie should quit the hospital. She and Dr. Bennett got into another one of those big nasty fights. He’s doping up a patient so the lady will be less trouble. Maggie refused to give her any more. And the doc’s still mad at Maggie for making a fuss over that lady he wouldn’t dope up for pain last week.” Andrea cocked her head. “I hate inconsistent guys, don’t you?”

  Instantly Maggie thought of Beau, before and after the kiss. A classic example of the incomprehensible male. “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do too.”

  “Anyway,” Andrea continued as she arranged canned biscuits in a round aluminum pan, “Bennett is so stupid, he thinks Maggie burnt up that closet. He made her talk to the police again.”

  “Sign a statement,” Maggie corrected as Carolyn’s troubled gaze flew to her.

  Andrea put the biscuits in the oven and swung her long red hair out of her face. The kitchen was a wreck, but Andrea didn’t have a speck on her. Planting her hands on her hips, she delivered her pièce de résistance. “Mom, he made her sign it in his office where he could watch her and brought in her friends to embarrass her.”

  “Witnesses to the signature,” Maggie corrected again. “And they were more like enemies than friends. It was sort of a play staged as grist for the rumor mill.”

  “You okay?” Carolyn asked hesitantly as she laid out silverware on the table, setting a third place without even asking. Her brow furrowed as she waited, and it was clear that she didn’t believe anyone could be okay about this.

  “Do I have a choice?” Maggie asked.

  “Yeah.” Andrea beat the eggs one last whip and poured them into another skillet. “You can quit.”

  “I can’t quit.” Maggie retrieved the grape jelly and butter dish from the refrigerator. “He wins if I quit.”

  “So let him win,” Carolyn suggested, and took the jelly. She widened her eyes in silent warning, directing a meaningful gaze at Maggie, who was beginning to wish she’d toughed it out alone last night instead of calling for support. If she wasn’t mistaken, support was about to turn into a lecture.

  Right on cue, Carolyn took the butter dish and added, “Maggie, you don’t need the stress. Not right now.”

  Because Andrea was listening to every word, Carolyn’s eyes implied what she was obviously dying to—but couldn’t—say aloud. Not when the pressure is screwing up your head.

  Maggie clenched her teeth. Lovely. Her best friend was suddenly adding flashbacks to job stress and coming up with an equation for fragile mental health. Well, thank God she’d edited Beau’s kiss from last night’s fiasco. Carolyn would have a field day with that embarrassing bit of trivia.

  “Mom’s right,” Andrea said as she juggled skillets and biscuits and eggs.

  Carolyn gasped and pressed her hands to her bosom. “Oh, my Lord. Get the camera. Take a picture. I want to immortalize this moment! Mom is right!”

  Laughing, Andrea stuck her tongue out at her mother and then turned her attention to Maggie. “If you don’t quit, Maggie, that man is going
to find a way to make your life miserable. He told you to watch your step! Does he have to draw you a picture? He reminds me of Mrs. Demarco. She decided she didn’t want this guy in my advanced trig class so she started setting him up, picking on him until—”

  A sharp whistle split the air. As much as Maggie loved Andrea, this wasn’t helping. When she took her fingers out of her mouth, she stared at both mother and daughter, making sure she had their complete attention. “Hey, it’s my life we’re discussing. Do I get to say anything?”

  “No.” They answered in unison, laughing. Then Andrea said, “Besides dinner’s— Telephone! It’s probably for me!”

  Andrea was out of the room before the second ring, leaving the older women to gape at the speed that could be obtained by a teenager in search of privacy.

  “Oh, my!” Maggie grinned. “I guess that leaves the cooking to us.”

  “It appears it’s every man for himself now. Andrea will just have to eat it cold.” Carolyn began sorting through Andrea’s mess and ferrying food to the table, but her busy hands and casual tone didn’t camouflage the concern in her next question. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? You can help me clean up.”

  “Hiding isn’t going to make them go away,” Maggie said bluntly, knowing exactly what Carolyn was trying to do—protect her from the past, from the flashbacks. Her friend’s maternal instincts had kicked into overdrive. “You can’t make this one better with popcorn and old movies.”

  Carolyn stopped fussing with dinner and gave her a hard look. “I wish I could.”

  “So do I.” Maggie sat down at the table, thankful that she at least had Andrea and Carolyn to get her through this mess. She didn’t need Beau Grayson, and Gwendolyn didn’t have to worry about who was going to buy dog chow when her owner was in the hoosegow.

  Maggie battled her way out of the covers. The clock said one-oh-four. She hadn’t had a nightmare. It was more like a twilight-mare, a bad dream waiting to be born, drifting in as she drifted off.

  Since getting home from Carolyn’s, she’d paced the floor, read about visiting Ireland on pennies a day, fed the dog, cursed Beau Grayson, and fought sleep. Tired had seeped into her bones days ago. Exhaustion was oozing rapidly into every pore.