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Sparking His Interest
Wendy Etherington
It's not police lieutenant Wes Kimball's imagination. Cara Hughes, the big-city arson investigator from Atlanta, is hot, hot, hot. She's slender, curvy–and rumored to sleep with a six-inch switchblade under her pillow–and Wes is forced to fight his four-alarm desire from the first moment they meet. Cara seems just as intrigued…. But business is business, and she'll lose control with Wes in bed before she'll give ground in their investigation.Equally passionate about their work, Wes and Cara know their white-hot affair must fizzle eventually. Still, a temporary fling has its merits. And where's the harm when it means both of them get exactly what they want–or do they?
Wes wanted more
He crushed Cara’s body against his, the sensation both relief and torture.
She tore her mouth from his. “We have to stop. I don’t do this with colleagues.”
“Okay,” he said, letting go of her and stepping back. Blood still roared in his head, but he forced his desire to chill.
Cara stared at him with a shocked, wide-eyed expression that reflected his own feelings. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Can we just forget it ever happened?” she continued. “We have to work together, and I need to concentrate on the case. Besides, I’m sure you have plenty of women lining up to…”
Wes leaned one shoulder against her front door. He smiled and brushed a strand of hair off her face. “But I was just about to let you cut to the front of the line.”
“The front of the line? Aren’t I lucky?”
His grin only widened. “Let me inside, and we could both get lucky.”
Dear Reader,
Over the past few years I’ve developed a weakness for the Kimball family. They’re a close, boisterous bunch, who support and challenge each other through all the bumps and heights in their lives. As I dived into Wes’s life, I wondered how they would all react to a new kind of test—not just a romantic tangle, but a danger to the very life of their town.
An arsonist is loose in Baxter, and Wes, who longs for acceptance but still walks his own path, is called on to solve the mystery.
I enjoyed exploring Wes’s strengths and vulnerabilities and watching him be awed, frustrated and, finally, embraced by love. By the time I finished the book, he and Cara felt like old friends. I hope they do the same for you.
Visit my Web site at www.wendyetherington.com and tell me what you think. Or you can still reach me via regular mail at P. O. Box 3016, Irmo, SC 29063.
Happy reading!
Wendy Etherington
Books by Wendy Etherington
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
944—PRIVATE LIES
958—ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT?
HARLEQUIN DUETS
76—MY PLACE OR YOURS?
93—CAN’T HELP FALLING IN LOVE
HUNKA HUNKA BURNIN’ LOVE
Sparking His Interest
Wendy Etherington
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Kelly Moses, who embraced me in my new home and who has great strength and a well of courage.
Thanks to firefighter/paramedic Russ Adams for all his assistance with plot details and insight.
Contents
Chapter 1 (#u67d3fb29-9a7e-5c0a-89ac-f5367aa2d4ec)
Chapter 2 (#u7f928ae0-5933-5257-b81b-6a031bc1e46c)
Chapter 3 (#ua94bf58d-1fa8-5b55-8a8a-99e178ef073a)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
1
POLICE LIEUTENANT Wes Kimball slid his truck to a stop behind two patrol cars—the entire force in Baxter, Georgia. The fire department’s ladder truck, pump truck and an ambulance completed the collection of city vehicles.
Less than a hundred yards away the warehouse still billowed smoke. By the light of the three-quarter moon, he could see emergency crews lined along the sidewalk—shadows in the night, fighting a battle the heat and flames had already claimed. Still, two teams of firefighters held hoses of streaming water, aiming the quenching drink toward the building’s crumbling shell.
Wishing he had a hot cup of coffee, Wes climbed from the truck, then strode purposefully toward the scene. The distinctive smell of gasoline washed over him.
He paused, inhaling deep. Great.
The second fire in as many weeks involving gasoline and a building owned by a prominent Baxter businessman. The second time he’d been called out in the middle of the night to investigate. Last time it was a real estate management office; this time an office supply warehouse. Since he was the only cop in town who worked the arson cases with the fire department, and he’d been dealing with the first fire for the past several days, Wes figured he’d hear from the mayor by dawn. That gave him only three hours to come up with a lead. On four hours sleep.
He hunched his shoulders against the brisk October wind and approached the semicircle of cops standing to the side of the ladder truck. Great beginning for a Tuesday.
“Early enough for you?” Eric Norcutt, a high school buddy and fellow cop, asked.
“Too damn,” Wes returned.
Two other members of the Baxter PD snapped to attention.
Wes nodded. “Mornin’.”
They returned his nod, saying nothing. Since he was known almost as widely for his formidable temper as his high rate of solved cases, he could hardly object. One of those things he vowed to work on—usually after he’d had a run-in with his boss or his older brother, who was the fire chief.
“What’s the word on the warehouse?” Wes asked.
“Dead loss,” Norcutt said. “Just like the other place.”
A shout rose in the air, then a loud crash. A large beam fell from an upper floor and crumbled to the ground. Still, the firefighters stood their ground, aiming water toward the smoldering building, the picture of proud dedication. No doubt disciples of his brother Ben, who was the spitting image of their heroic father, both of whom Wes had long since ceased trying to live up to. He’d always felt like something of an outsider in his family, probably always would.
Scanning the area again, he stiffened, recognizing two figures standing off to the side. The mayor—whose portly figure was unmistakable—and Robert Addison, the owner of the building, looked to be in deep and intense conversation.
“BFD got here forty minutes ago,” Norcutt continued. “They found the warehouse already fully engulfed in flames. Thanks to the drought we had all summer, they’re concerned about sparks spreading across the field. They’ve soaked everything pretty good, but it only takes one.”
“And their suspicions?” Wes didn’t have to say more than that. Every citizen—law enforcement, fire department or not—knew the first fire had just been declared an arson by the county fire marshal. With the last crime in Baxter involving a farmer’s cow being tormented by firecrackers and a couple of intoxicated, idiotic teens, the fire had been the talk of the town.
“She’s here.” Norcutt nodded toward the warehouse. “What’s that tell you?”
Wes rolled his shoulders against a twinge of resentment. Well, it seemed his involvement in this case was coming to an end this morning. Didn’t matter. He had other cases to deal with. That cow thing for one.
She was Fire Captain Cara Hughes. Presumably, the state’s top arson investigator, though he’d personally never worked with her. Ben had consulted her by phone after the last fire and had obviously called her to officially lead the investigation. Wes knew little about her. She was tough—there was even a wild rumor she slept with a six-inch switchblade beneath her pillow—serious and by-the-book.
And she had a rough road ahead. The all-male fire and police force in Baxter would no doubt come up with a few asinine, I-have-two-X-chromosomes-hear-me-roar comments about Hughes’s consultation. Personally, Wes didn’t care if the arson investigator was an alien with green antennae on his/her/its head.
“Ben called her,” Wes said simply.
Norcutt crossed his arms over his beefy chest. “We can handle this.”
Technically, an arson case fell under the fire department’s jurisdiction. “Probably.”
“Ah, hell, Wes, we don’t need some woman handling our cases.”
“We don’t likely have a choice.” He cast his gaze toward his friend. “I hear she’s really good.”
Norcutt rolled his eyes as if saying, how could a woman be good at investigating?
“Chill out, Norcutt. I doubt she’ll force you to carry her purse.”
Norcutt’s face turned red. The other guys chuckled.
Deciding he’d had enough male bonding, Wes wandered closer to the warehouse, taking care to stay clear of the firefighters. The smell of smoke, charred wood and gasoline permeated the air. Gas had been the accelerant used in the other fire, though the authorities hadn’t suspected arson immediately. People did amazingly stupid things with flammable liquids—storing them next to heaters, by computers, or other types of spark-inducing equipment.
But the first fire had turned out to be no careless accident, and this one smelled like arson, as well.
He’d just rounded the back corner of the ware-house, intent on checking out the receiving docks, when he saw her.
Wearing worn blue jeans, black boots and a black leather jacket, she knelt on the ground in a circular pool of floodlight, which must have been sustained by an alternate power source, since electricity to the building had been long since cut. She had straight, shoulder-length, dark hair, a trim figure and a surprisingly delicate jawline.
She extended her hand, scraping her fingers across the ash-strewn ground, and he noticed a shoulder holster strapped along her left side. Curious. He didn’t know any fire people who actually carried a firearm. And no sissy revolver for the lady investigator. From the blue steel butt of the gun, it appeared to be a semiauto pistol.
She glanced up suddenly, her steady gaze locking with his. She was attractive, but not beautiful, yet he found himself unable to look away, as if she held him spellbound with her striking blue-green eyes.
Like the Caribbean sea, he found himself thinking romantically, ridiculously.
“You must be Wes,” she said in a husky, sensual voice every bit as gut-clenching as those eyes.
“Yes.” He finally found enough of himself to extend his hand. “Wes Kimball.”
She rose, shaking his hand briefly. Her skin was smooth and warm, and he was almost disappointed when she dropped her hand by her side. “Cara Hughes. Your brother asked me to take over this case.”
Wes slid his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I figured as much when I heard you were here.”
Her gaze slid to a point over his shoulder, then back to his face. “You’ve got some kind of welcoming committee.”
“This was our case before you got here.”
A hint of resentment flashed through those amazing eyes. “This was and still is the fire department’s case.”
Tough, serious and by-the-book. It was always a shock when the town gossips were actually correct. And, surprisingly, they’d left out all the good stuff—intelligent, obviously dedicated to her job, sensual, slender but curvy. He inclined his head in agreement. “We’re just used to handling things ourselves.”
“And you don’t need some hotshot from Atlanta meddling in your domain?”
He smiled. “I can handle my domain just fine, thank you. You can’t tell me you’re not used to some resistance.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Most people stay out of my way actually.”
“I guess so, packin’ heat at a fire scene.”
Her hand slid to her weapon with a casualness that spoke of frequency. Her face flushed. “I forgot it was there. Habit, I guess, going out late at night.”
“Important in Atlanta, I’m sure. It sticks out a bit in Baxter.” And it turned him on, as if that wasn’t weird. He was a cop, could shoot when necessary, but he wasn’t any kind of gun buff. He didn’t have a collection; he wasn’t into hunting. So why did the idea of a woman who treated a pistol with the same familiarity as most women would a watch have desire punch its way into his stomach?
Back to the case, man. You’ve got no time or call for romance now.
“I guess I don’t have to tell you that you’re not going to have an easy time of it. This was our case.”
She sighed. “This is my case now. And it was and continues to be a fire department case. The police have no—”
“When I said our, I meant this town. We’ve handled arson cases before.” Though none with this significance or magnitude.
“You personally?”
“Yes.”
