Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
She’d always dreamed of
finding her birth family.
She
didn’t count on him being there. The perfect man. The man of her dreams. Or is he?
Be careful what you wish for
. . .
A mysterious letter from the
past suddenly gives Jasmine Ross a clue to her mother’s fate and reveals a
family she never knew she had.
Only Rand Sinclair welcomes her into their
fold, and he’s the only one not related to her. Enigmatic, powerful, and
irresistible, he makes her want to trust him, to love him, even as "accidents”
begin to happen to her, suggesting that her new-found loved ones may want her
dead. Could it be that Rand secretly agrees with them?
Kearney, a native of New
Jersey, writes full time and has sold books to the industries’ top publishing
houses. As an award-winning author, Kearney earned a Business Degree from the University
of Michigan. Kearney’s fifty plus books include contemporary, romantic
suspense, historical, futuristic, science fiction, and paranormal novels. She
resides in a suburb of Tampa—with her husband, kids, and Boston terrier.
Currently she’s plotting her way through her 54th work of fiction.
Visit Susan at SusanKearney.com.
Coming soon!
Prologue
A SOFT TONGUE rasped along Jasmine’s
neck and tickled her chin. Groaning, she rolled to her stomach, closed her eyes
and snuggled deeper into the covers.
The tongue stroked the sensitive flesh
behind her ear.
"Go to sleep, Pete.”
Pete kneaded her shoulder.
Jasmine shoved him away. "Cut that out.”
It couldn’t be time to get up, could it?
She peered through cracked eyelids in search of her alarm clock. Inky blackness
revealed it was too soon for her morning run, too soon for even an early riser
like her to consider climbing out of bed.
Flicking the sheet over her head, she
burrowed under her pillow. "I have a new computer program to teach the kids
tomorrow. It’s not fair to keep me up all night when you can sleep in.”
Pete worked loose a corner of the sheet.
His sandpaper-like tongue insistently licked her.
"Stop it.”
Sharp teeth bit her earlobe.
"Ouch!” Jasmine sprang upright. "That’s
all the chances you get, mister. If you can’t behave in my bed, you can leave
right...”
Smoke clogged her nostrils. No.
She must be mistaken. She couldn’t hear any fire alarms, and she’d just
replaced the batteries in the smoke detectors. Gooseflesh prickled her neck and
skittered down her arms. She inhaled again, and the acrid scent of gasoline
fumes and smoke burned her throat, leaving a foul taste in her mouth.
Fire!
Terror skimmed her spine and lodged in
her stomach. For the first time in months, she was glad she lived alone.
Without family, she need only worry about saving herself.
Her gaze darted to her third-story
bedroom window. In the yard, the granddaddy oaks covered with Spanish moss
loomed without a hint of flames to silhouette their gnarled branches. She leapt
to the far window that overlooked the garage she’d added to her home. It too
remained dark and peaceful.
The fire was probably inside the house.
Pete meowed, his soft fur brushing her
ankles. She stooped, picked him up, and tucked him under her arm. "Good,
kitty.”
Grabbing the blanket from her mattress
and covering her shoulders, she whipped toward her door. Pulse spiking and
heart sputtering, she reached for the knob.
Oh, God. Was that the crackling of burning
wood?
This house had been old thirty years ago
when her mother moved in. After baking for decades under Florida’s tropical
sunshine, the aged wooden walls would ignite like kindling, blaze into an
inferno within minutes.
We have to get out. Now.
Still, she hesitated, weighing options.
She couldn’t survive a jump from the third story. If she phoned for help, the
fire department would never arrive in time to catch her.
Placing her palm on the door, she found
the wood cool, not hot, but she couldn’t take time to dress. Her t-shirt and
panties would have to do. Yet if the floors had caught fire, she wouldn’t
escape bare-footed. Keeping a firm hold of Pete so he couldn’t scamper off in a
panic, she hurried to her closet, passing up her lace-up running shoes for a
pair of slip-on sandals.
Urgency throbbed with every palpitation
of her heart. Lunging for the door, she grabbed her backpack. She slung a strap
over her arm, hoping to trap the blanket in place.
Smoke curled under the door. She coughed
and turned her head to fortify herself with one last gulp of relatively clean
air. Her gaze caught on her music box, her only childhood memento, her only tie
to her mother. Snatching the keepsake, she stuffed the music box into her
backpack and breathed deeply.
With Pete under one arm and the blanket
clenched in her hand, she opened the door. Thick smoke billowed up the stairway
and clung to the walls, spreading a gloomy pall to impede her only way out.
To survive, she had to escape down the
stairs.
Squinting against the smoke that stung
her eyes, she raced down the first flight, using the bannister to guide her.
She whirled around the landing, praying the flames hadn’t reached this part of
the house.
Her prayers went unanswered. Flames shot
toward her, licking the steps, and her heart jammed in her throat. Hellish red
cinders swirled amidst the smoke. Pete’s claws dug into her arm. She gripped
him tighter, wishing she could spare the breath to reassure him, but her chest
burned for air. Her eyes teared. Crouching low, she chanced a half breath.
A mistake.
Smoke seared the lining of her throat.
She gagged on the stench of burning plastic, and wracking coughs gripped her.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, she advanced, staggering around flames,
vaulting over a fiery step, careening through the blazing living room that
crackled and glowed from floor to ceiling.
She stumbled toward the side door. But
the fire burned brighter in front of the room’s only exit. Blistering heat
rammed her back.
She sprinted through the kitchen. Bits
of burning debris fell from the ceiling, igniting the blanket. Popping and
hissing accompanied her every step. The odor of gasoline almost overwhelmed
her. Ribbons of flame slithered along the baseboards flaring to a ferocious
wall of fire, blocking the double doors, preventing escape.
With a last burst of desperation, she
threw off the burning blanket, bolted toward a window.
Locked.
With singed fingers she fumbled with the
safety lock, clawed at the window frame.
Behind her a ceiling light crashed to
the floor. She couldn’t breathe. Panic ripped her throat, clawed her stomach.
With blood roaring in her skull from oxygen deprivation, she rammed open the
window and cartwheeled outside.
Pete scampered from her arms and raced
away. Unable to get her legs under her, Jasmine crawled, rolled and fought to
draw precious air into her lungs.
Finally, she shoved to her feet and
watched... watched the only home she’d ever known turning to
ashes.
Ashes.
It was all gone... her
home... her computer business... her
dreams.
She’d been lucky to escape alive.
Clutching her mother’s music box, her only tie to her family, she gazed at the
utter devastation. The humid air carried the reek of smoke and burning wood.
At the sight of a five gallon can of
gasoline, lying on its side, empty, she ached to turn and run. Instead, she
watched the roof cave in, the hellish sparks shooting into the Florida sky.
Damn it. Someone had set the fire.
It was no accident, and the realization
pierced her like a knife to the heart. Who would do such a monstrous thing? Who
had torched her home? And why?
Despite the arrival of fire trucks,
hungry flames swallowed Jasmine’s garage and car, inflaming the rage in her
heart. She’d been lucky to get out with a pair of jeans, an old t-shirt and her
backpack, which included her wallet and cell phone.
She’d survived. She’d rebuild.
But, gone was the home where Jasmine had
spent such happy days with her aunt. Gone was the security of operating her own
computer school there.
All she was left with were questions
about the past.
Somehow, she would find the arsonist.
But how?
She had no enemies. Didn’t know where to
start searching—until a twenty-five-year-old letter arrived in the mail.
JASMINE’S HOUSE might have just burned
to the ground, but the bills kept coming. However, the instant Jasmine Ross
pulled the frayed and faded envelope from her mailbox, her gaze bolted to Return
to Sender stamped in conspicuous red. This was no bill. Positive that the
postman had made a mistake, she checked the return address, but it matched the
Florida cracker house she’d lived in all her life.
Yet, why was this strange letter coming
back to her? She hadn’t written a letter to Mr. Talbot Moore in Dolphin Bay.
And the handwriting wasn’t hers.
Jasmine looked again and recognized the
neatly printed lettering, and an eerie prickle whispered down her spine. She
must be mistaken.
The penmanship couldn’t possibly match
her mother’s penmanship in her baby album, could it?
Get a grip.
Telling herself not to get worked up
over a lost piece of mail did no good. Although she had no family, common sense
told her this letter might shine some light on her shadowy past.
Her fingers shook. For one wild moment,
she considered ripping the letter, shredding it to bits.
But then she focused on the postmark
dated twenty years ago. In May. The same month her mother had walked out of the
house and disappeared from Jasmine’s life.
May. The month she’d become parentless
was forever branded in Jasmine’s memory. She shoved the bitter taste of
abandonment, the fear of desertion, down hard.
Fresh nerves scrambled into her throat.
A throbbing pounded behind her eyes and at the base of her skull. Although she
didn’t even know her father’s name, she had vague memories of her mother,
Daisy. She was never certain if the memories were real or if she’d dreamed of
her mother’s soft, loving voice, the scent of wild flowers, the security of a
goodnight hug.
As her knees turned rubbery, Jasmine
realized the hope of someday finding her mother wasn’t forgotten, just buried.
She’d thought she’d put away the childish dream, the foolish conviction that
her mother would return and explain why she’d abandoned her three-year-old
daughter. But her mother had vanished, her body never found, leaving behind
Jasmine’s grieving Aunt Daisy to raise a child tormented by nightmares where
she faced her fears alone.
Jasmine had finally resigned herself to
never knowing why her mother had left on an errand—and hadn’t returned. For
years she’d wondered if her mother had been murdered or abducted. Or more hurtful,
perhaps her mother hadn’t loved Jasmine enough to stay and raise her alone.
Under Daisy’s loving hand, Jasmine had
moved on with life.
Or so she’d thought.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she
stared at the envelope, her eyes misty. Although she’d never heard of Talbot
Moore or Dolphin Bay, that her mother had written a letter to this man incited
her curiosity. Who was he?
And could he have anything to do with
the fire? It seemed like two much of a coincidence for the letter to have shown
up in her mailbox on the very same day an arsonist had torched Jasmine’s house.
However, she was getting ahead of herself.
With shaking fingers she carefully slit
the envelope, and a folded letter fell into her hand.
Chapter One
FROM THE MOMENT the taxi drove up the oak-shaded street in Dolphin Bay
and Jasmine Ross took in the gingerbread, three-story Victorian that was Moore
House, the looming mansion seemed to suck all the oxygen from the air around
her.
After matching the address on the faded envelope to the numbers on the
red brick mailbox, she instructed the cab driver to pull into a wide circular
driveway. Veiled by the green foliage of thick, moss-draped branches, the
chocolate brown house suggested vastness, timelessness, and a hint of
forbidding secrecy.
In the twilight, she caught a glimpse here and there of a steep roof, a
jutting balcony and a shingled turret. She studied the house, searching for
traces of the owner’s character, wondering about the man who lived there. But
the immaculately maintained exterior couldn’t talk, wouldn’t reveal anything
except an eerie sense of foreboding.
The covered porches along the front and sides held tight to their secrets.
The image made her shiver and raised goose bumps on her skin.
She clutched her mother’s music box for courage. Would she find her
father here, as her mother’s old letter had hinted? After hesitating a moment
to inhale and exhale a deep breath to calm her nerves, Jasmine walked on
unsteady legs up the front porch steps and pressed the doorbell. Would her
father answer the door?
From inside the house, strident masculine voices deep in argument rose in
volume. After waiting several long minutes, a wizened old woman in a maid’s
uniform opened the door. Her hair stood up in orange tufts like an orangutan’s.
"May I help you?”
"I’d like to speak with Mr. Talbot Moore.”
The old woman frowned and started to close the door. "That’s not
possible.”
Jasmine stuck her foot across the threshold. "It’s urgent. I must speak
with him.”
At the sound of footsteps, the maid looked over her shoulder.
"Belle?” a man called out. "Is anything wrong?”
Was that her father speaking? But the voice sounded as if it belonged to
a younger man.
"Someone’s here, insistin’ on speakin’ to Mr. Talbot Moore,” Belle said.
The maid left, and a dark-haired man appeared at the door and appraised
Jasmine. A faint smile, no more than a slim curve, turned up the corners of his
mouth, and black hair swung into his eyes. With a gesture of annoyance, he
dragged a hand through his hair, shoving it back off his broad forehead. What
had been dimples in youth had deepened to creases that could incite a woman’s
fantasies. But it was his steel gray eyes assessing her with intelligent yet
cynical curiosity that had her thinking this man knew what he wanted and went
after it.
"Yes?”
Her mouth dry as cotton, she moistened her lips. Had one of the male
voices she’d heard belonged to her father? Were twenty-five plus years of
wondering about her father about to end? "Is this the Moore residence?”
"Yes,” the man drawled lazily, his gaze lingering on the slight bruise on
her brow and the cut on the back of her hand from her hasty escape of the fire.
At another time she might have admired his rich baritone— soft, mellow and
undeniably sexy.
Hoping her trembling fingers didn’t betray her nervousness, Jasmine held
out her hand, stiffening her wrist to prevent a slight tremor. She met his gaze
with a calm she didn’t feel as he shook her hand. "I’m Jasmine Ross.”
"Rand Sinclair.” His words rippled through the night air, warming her
like caramel poured over ice cream. The evening breeze picked up the faint
scent of sandalwood aftershave from his tanned skin. Radiating authority in his
blue chambray shirt and khaki slacks, he looked every inch the owner of this
house, a man who wasn’t fazed easily.
Caught staring into his gray eyes, she looked away. She hadn’t anticipated
explaining her situation to anyone other than her father. Rand Sinclair was
much too attractive, causing her thoughts to stray from her inquiry. Rand
towered over her, but it wasn’t just his height that she found both appealing
and intimidating. His perceptive eyes could haunt a woman’s dreams.
Under other circumstances, she’d have wished to know him better, but she
didn’t have time for dark and appealingly enigmatic men. "I was hoping to talk
to Talbot Moore.”
One dark brow arched with vivid interest. "About?”
"It’s personal.”
Clearly, he was accustomed to more straightforward answers. His shoulders
stiffened slightly, and a thread of menace entered his baritone. "Talbot
isn’t... available.”
"I can return later. Do you know when he might see me? It’s important.”
She tucked the music box under her arm, hoping she’d masked her disappointment
with a breezy tone.
His eyes bored into her. "Perhaps I can help you.” What was his relation
to Talbot? she wondered, trying to ignore the slippery little fingers of fear
gliding over her. Ever since the fire, she had been a mass of jangled nerves.
She found herself fighting the instinct to confide in someone. After she’d
almost been burned alive, she shouldn’t trust anyone. But since this Rand
Sinclair couldn’t possibly know her connection to Talbot Moore, she shouldn’t
have anything to fear from him.
"Please. You must let me speak to him.”
His mouth softened with compassion. "I’m sorry.”
"I heard voices inside. Is he in the house?”
"You must be mistaken.” His tone sharpened. "No one is home but Belle and
me.”
Jasmine had heard him speaking to someone male, and she hadn’t expected
outright denial of the other man’s presence. She almost panicked, then squared her shoulders and firmed her
lips. She ignored his refusal, his treating her like a door-to-door
salesperson, and made an effort to keep her tone matter-of-fact. "Please, let
me talk to Mr. Moore.”
Rand watched her like a hawk. "Talbot died three months ago.”
Shock sent her reeling, and pain had her fighting back tears. Her knees
buckled. She would have fallen if Rand hadn’t reached out to catch her in his
strong arms.
He steadied her against his chest, practically dragged her into the dark
hall and settled her on a bench. He sat beside her and kept a protective arm
around her. "Hey, are you all right?”
Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, twisting the music box in
her hands, she stared at the polished oak floor. After waiting a lifetime,
she’d missed knowing her father by three months.
Three months.
Somehow she had to get hold of herself, phone for a taxi, and leave. But
between the shock of losing her home and business, and this terrible news about
her father, she needed a moment to get it together.
Talbot Moore was dead.
She struggled to accept that fact. Her mother’s letter, implying that
Talbot Moore was her father, had come too late. Now, just as fate had sent her
to Moore House, fate had whisked her father away.
Shuddering, she closed her eyes and clenched her fists. It would feel so
good to be held, to cradle her head against Rand’s broad shoulder and melt into
the strength of the arm he’d flung around her. But he was a stranger. Not to be
trusted.
He’d lied about the other man in the house, but why? She’d clearly heard
him arguing with someone before she knocked on the door. Or had she? She was
tired. Maybe not thinking straight.
When Rand remained silent, she risked another glance at his rugged face.
His eyes weren’t focused on her, which suited her fine. With the aura of power
he emanated, she was sure he could be most intimidating—and just as sure she
was in no shape to stand up to him. At least not in this moment. Yet at the
same time, if she was honest, she found the coiled strength in him exciting.
Damn it. She was no longer an abandoned child. But the fire had thrown
her. And then the shock of her mother’s letter and the news of her father’s
death... it was a lot to deal with. She needed to take a moment
alone to collect her thoughts.
"Could I please have a glass of water?”
"Sure. I’ll be right back.” He stood and left without a backward glance,
yet she sensed his curiosity beyond his polite façade.
Too bad. She wasn’t up for explanations just yet. First she had to rid
herself of an almost frantic edginess. She had to cope, but for the first time
in her life she had no one to help her. Her best friend was on a bike tour in
Europe. Another friend had just married and moved to California. She was alone.
She reminded herself she was the same independent woman she’d been
yesterday—before the letter, the fire and her knowledge of Talbot’s death,
before she’d practically collapsed in Rand Sinclair’s arms.
She might be emotionally strung out, but her thoughts raced. Suspicions
racked her. Was it just coincidence that her mother had disappeared soon after
her letter was first mailed, asking Talbot Moore for financial help in raising
their child? Could her father have had a part in her mother’s disappearance?
The sinister question took root and blossomed. Perhaps Talbot Moore had
refused to acknowledge Jasmine as his daughter. If her mother had been
persistent, she might have enraged him to the point of violence. And now, could
it really be just a coincidence her mother’s letter had turned up immediately
after the fire?
She’d never known her father’s name until yesterday morning. And with
that name had come questions, suspicions. So why should news of his death hit
her so hard that she wanted to cling to a stranger like a baby?
True, her life had changed drastically since yesterday morning. But she
couldn’t crawl into bed and hide in dark misery. Hell, she didn’t even have a
bed—it had burned with the rest of her furniture.
She knew how to work past the pain of loss. She would move on with her
life. This wallowing in suspicions was unlike her. So was welcoming a man’s
arms to comfort her.
But the last twenty four hours’ events was a lot to take in.
Nothing had prepared her for the devastation of the fire and the turmoil
of her mother’s old letter. Nothing had prepared her for a tall, dark stranger
who seemed both compassionate and wary. Digging into her pocket for a tissue,
she blew her nose.
She would adapt. She could rebuild her house, her business, her life,
bury her past.
"Are you all right now?” Rand asked as he handed her the glass, his concerned
voice breaking into her worries.
"I’ll be fine.” She sipped the water. A sudden thought burst through her
misery. This man could be her half-brother. "Are you Talbot’s son?”
He sent her a peculiar look, as if surprised by her personal question.
The hall lights flickered, throwing a dark shadow across his face.
He spoke as if choosing his words with care. "My dad and Talbot Moore
were partners. After my folks died, Talbot raised me.”
She almost spilled the water on the music box. Carefully she set down the
glass.
Her father had raised him.
She bit back a gasp as his revelation sliced razor
sharp, and agonizing pain hit anew. She glanced down to hide the shock, the
vulnerability that must be in her eyes.
Her father had taken in someone else’s child, while
she’d had no father of her own.
When Rand was a child, had her father tucked him into bed at night, read
him stories? Had her father held Rand on his lap after the boy skinned his
knee? Taught him to use a computer? Catch fish? Play baseball? She shut down
the unbearable train of thought.
Fighting back resentment, she tried to regroup. This wasn’t going the way
she’d planned.
She’d hoped to find Talbot Moore and clear up the mystery of her mother’s
disappearance. Instead, now she had to confront another painful truth. While
she’d grown up without her parents, Rand Sinclair had been raised by her
father.
She suddenly wanted to go home, climb into bed and sleep until the
nightmare faded into oblivion.
Unfortunately, her situation was no nightmare but all too real, and her
home was now in ashes—thanks to an arsonist. Her students wouldn’t be waiting
for her, not until she got the business back on its feet. And without her daily
schedule to keep her mind on practical, humdrum matters, her thoughts kept skittering
around the uncomfortable probability that someone wanted her dead. She covered
her face with her hands, realizing she’d come to Dolphin Bay as much to escape
whoever had burned down her house as she had to find out about her parents.
"What’s wrong?” Rand’s almost reluctant sympathy intruded on her worries.
She drew in another deep breath and raised her head. "Nothing.”
He eyed her with a critical squint. "You don’t look too good.”
"Thanks,” she muttered sarcastically.
His hand closed over hers. "You’re shaky.”
She pulled away, at once missing the heat. "I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Jasmine glanced down the somber hall to avoid his searching gaze. The
house exuded a sense of substance, security and provoked a little awe. A rack
for hats, coats and umbrellas stood by the door next to a grandfather clock.
Two straight-backed chairs bracketed an oversize chest. Family pictures and
etchings hung in a collection along one wall. Talbot Moore must surely be in
one of them. Recalling that Talbot had been a father to Rand but not to her,
Jasmine couldn’t bear to study the photographs. She would.
Just... not... yet.
Instead, she turned, faced Rand and baldly stated. "My house burned down
yesterday morning.”
Then she carefully watched his face for a reaction.
RAND CONCEALED his surprise behind his best poker face.
If Jasmine Ross was telling the truth, no wonder she was acting dazed and
nervous. He had no reason to distrust her—except she had asked for Talbot as if
believing him still alive. Plus, doubting everyone these days seemed prudent.
When Rand had first heard her speaking to Belle, he’d picked up a trace
of panic in her tone. After he’d seen her wide eyes and the bruises on her
face, he’d had only to lean forward to take in the scent of smoke. When she’d
demanded to see Talbot, his suspicions skyrocketed. The fact that she felt so
good in his arms couldn’t deter him. He needed to learn why she’d come here
asking about Talbot and to determine exactly what she knew.
More importantly—how much of the conversation in Talbot’s library had
she overheard?
He noted the bruise on her brow beneath her blond bangs and the skinned
knee her hose couldn’t hide. Her legs were dynamite—lean, muscular, sexy. But
the fact that she hadn’t bothered to hide the dark circles under her startling
green eyes with makeup fascinated him. A good night’s sleep might improve the
pallor beneath her tanned face.
She was a puzzle he needed to solve. Escaping a fire would explain the
assorted cuts on her hands. Still, she could have inflicted minor cuts and
bruises to add authenticity to her story. But even after he’d informed her
Talbot was dead, what would explain her constant glances toward Talbot’s
library, as if she expected him to walk over and join them any minute?
She was hiding something. And she didn’t seem the type of person who
would confide easily. But he couldn’t let her walk away without answering his
questions. Keeping Jasmine Ross at Moore House would provide a perfect
opportunity to observe her, to discover what she knew. Judging from the haunted
look in her green eyes and the paleness ofher tawny, smooth skin, she had secrets of her own. When
he’d told her no one else was home, she hadn’t believed him, but had pressed
her full lips together and swallowed hard. Did she know enough to pose a
threat?
Had she come to pry information out of Rand? If so, she would be
disappointed. His interest in the woman was unusual for him, and it had been
too long since he’d crossed paths with anyone half as fascinating as Jasmine
Ross, but he’d have no trouble keeping secrets from her. He held his liquor
well. And he didn’t talk in his sleep. Although, if Jasmine Ross was in his
bed, he suspected he wouldn’t get much rest.
What was he thinking?
She wasn’t his type. He preferred experienced women who knew the score,
rather than those with the vulnerability he sensed beneath this woman’s outer
shell. He steeled himself not to respond to her on a personal level.
What was she really doing here? And how much did she know about Talbot
Moore?
Rand intended to check out her story. What personal business did she have
with Talbot? Meanwhile, he’d keep his suspicions to himself and his tone
purposely low, seductive. "I’m sorry to hear about the fire. Where did you
live?”
"Seffner, a town just north of Brandon on the
other side of Tampa.”
She’d answered easily, without thinking. Either she was well rehearsed
or telling the truth. But a local resident, even one on the other side of Tampa
Bay, would have read the papers and heard the area news. She should have known
about Talbot’s death. Why had she pretended not to?
Her questions indicated that she could destroy his plans and everything
he’d worked so hard to accomplish. For all his pragmatism, he usually relied on
his instincts. Instinct told him to take her to bed. Common sense told him she
was trouble and to stay away. If he was smart, he’d ignore her combination of
vulnerability and strength that he found far too attractive.
He’d allowed the silence to last too long. Perhaps if he drew her into
further conversation she’d confide in him or, at least, let something slip.
"Were you hurt in the fire?”
She shook her head, and blond tendrils escaped her topknot and curled
around her solemn face. "I never saw or heard the arsonist, but I smelled smoke
and gasoline fumes from upstairs. I only had time to grab my mother’s music box
and my backpack before I got out.”
"Arsonist? The fire was deliberate?”
Color slowly returned to her cheeks, though her bottom lip trembled.
When she noted his perusal, she firmed her lips as if to hide her apprehension,
and he enjoyed the laser gleam in her eyes. He considered taking her into his
arms again and kissing the wariness from her lips, but she edged away. Smart
woman. She must have sensed the danger inherent in being alone with him.
"Someone left a gas can in the yard. The fire was worst around the doors,
blocking the exits. I barely escaped through a window.”
So she suspected the arsonist hadn’t just burned down the house, but had
tried to kill her, too. Stunned, he forced a calm and sympathetic tone. "Sounds
like you were lucky. And smart.”
Her hands closed into fists. "I’m lucky to be here.”
"I’m glad you are.” From the way she kept peeking at the library door,
she obviously didn’t feel safe. Or could she be waiting for Talbot? That last
possibility was crazy. And upsetting. "I suppose you’ve spoken to the police?”
"Idiots!” Disgust glimmered in her green eyes. "They think I set
the fire to collect on my insurance.” Again she’d surprised him. This had to be
the oddest conversation he’d ever had—but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity
to ask questions. "The police accused you?”
She took a long moment to curl a stray lock behind her ear. Although two
nails of her long, slender fingers were broken, the others were clean and well
shaped. Noticing his scrutiny, she clasped her hands protectively over the
music box in her lap. "They say they’re still investigating. But from their
attitudes, I can guess what they’re thinking.”
Rand listened as he watched her mesmerizing fingers. Shoving aside the
fantasy of her hands skimming his face, and puzzled by the police reaction, he
rubbed his jaw.
Why would they suspect she had set her own house on fire? "Can you prove
you’re innocent?”
"Only if I catch the arsonist.”
From her sarcasm, she obviously didn’t think that likely. "Can you think
of anyone who would want to harm you? A lover or husband, maybe?”
"My business keeps me too busy to have time for personal relationships,”
she answered without hesitation. Either she was innocent or lies came easily to
her. "Now that my computers and business are gone... I should
look for a job.”
So she wasn’t going to tell him why she’d come looking for Talbot.
Interesting. Keeping an eye on her had suddenly become a necessity.
Fortunately, she’d just given him the excuse he needed to keep her at Moore
House.
