Hot Attraction. Lisa Childs
the fire...
And that would have been a whole lot worse if not for the Hotshots. If not for Dawson.
Like Wyatt, he deserved to be acknowledged for his heroism. He deserved the special feature she wanted to do. But when she’d thought that was why he tracked her down, she’d been disappointed. She didn’t want him to be like most of the men she’d known. She didn’t want him to be arrogant and self-involved. She wanted him to be the true and modest hero he seemed to be. Hell, she just wanted him...
He obviously didn’t feel the same attraction she felt, though. Was that just because she was a reporter? She knew the press got a bad rap for being nosy and relentless. But Dawson’s aversion seemed more personal than that.
She pushed open her front door and a breeze caught her off guard. She must have left the sliders open to the back deck. The breeze off the lake pushed the curtains into the open area. The living, dining and kitchen areas were all one big room—all painted a paler shade of blue than the outside. The kitchen cabinets had been made out of wainscoting and painted a soft white. The furniture was all slipcovered in white linen—like the window coverings. And in that breeze, the long white curtains billowed like dancing ghosts.
She shivered at the breeze and at the faint scent she caught on it. Smoke.
Had someone been smoking inside her cottage?
Had someone been inside while she was gone?
And, if so, had they left or were they still here? Her heart beat hard and fast as fear rushed through her. If she’d been in Chicago, she would have had her Mace with her. But she’d left her purse, with the Mace inside, in the bedroom. Nobody ever stole anything in Northern Lakes. So she’d thought her purse—and she—would be safe. But now she gazed around, looking for a weapon.
There were no trees on the beach side, so the cottage was lighter than the driveway had been. But the curtains filtered that light, casting shadows around the open room. Doorways led off it to a bedroom and bath on each end. Someone could be in any of those rooms—waiting for her.
But why?
This was Northern Lakes. But she hadn’t lived here in a long time. Maybe things had changed. Maybe bad things did happen in Northern Lakes...
* * *
AVERY HAD WALKED home alone. Her sister had said it as if it was no big deal—as if there was no risk for a woman to be out alone at dusk.
“It’s not like she’s in Chicago now,” Kim had remarked when she’d noticed his wary reaction.
True. But that didn’t mean she was safe in Northern Lakes, either. If the arsonist was in contact with her, it might mean she was in even more danger than if she’d been alone in a big city.
Northern Lakes was busy during tourist season. But this area wasn’t within the village. It was rural. And it was getting dark. He hastened his step along the road she must have taken—the direction in which Kim had pointed him.
“Be careful,” she’d murmured as he’d rushed off after Avery. He wasn’t sure if she was worried that he might stumble in the dark or get hit by a car. Or was she warning him about her sister?
Avery was the one who needed the warning—to go no place alone. To be cautious and vigilant.
But if he warned her, she would know for certain that something else was going on in Northern Lakes. And she already suspected...
Hell, maybe she already knew for a fact—if she’d been in contact with the arsonist.
Had she really just been going home to the little cottage her sister said she’d bought a few years ago? He’d thought a woman as ambitious as Avery wouldn’t have cared about ties to the small town in which she’d grown up. But according to Kim, Avery came home often—especially since the fire.
That was probably only because she was investigating it, though. It should have been old news by now. It was for every other reporter. Why not her?
He slowed his step as he neared a driveway. Was this the one? From the road he couldn’t see the cottage her sister had described to him. He could only see a clearing going through the trees that was wide enough for a car. But the mailbox next to the driveway was a bright turquoise—like the house was supposed to be. Like her eyes were...
This had to be her place. If he’d been driving, he might have missed it, so it was good he’d left the Forest Service truck back at her sister’s house. As an assistant superintendent for the Hotshots, he got a company vehicle. The super-heavy-duty four-wheel drive pickup might not have even fit down the narrow lane. Trees lined both sides and hung like a canopy over top of it. He felt as if he was walking through a tunnel.
And as short hairs rose on the nape of his neck, he also felt as if he was being watched. But if he couldn’t see the house from the road, she wouldn’t be able to see him from the house. So Avery wasn’t watching him.
Who was?
And why?
Had the boys followed him from their home to see if their aunt might try to kiss him? Their mother had told them to get ready for bed, but that didn’t mean they’d obeyed her. He hadn’t listened to his mother, either, or he never would have become a Hotshot.
A crack rent the air—so loud that it sent birds flying from the trees. It hadn’t been a gunshot. This wasn’t hunting season, and this was, after all, Northern Lakes. It had only been the sound of a twig or branch snapping. But for it to have been that loud, the weight snapping that branch had to have been substantial. More than a twelve-year-old boy.
No, the twins hadn’t followed him. But someone had. And they were watching him. He thought about calling out, asking who was there. But maybe it was better if the person didn’t realize Dawson was aware of his presence—especially if that person was the arsonist.
While he tensed, he didn’t whip his head around. He didn’t scan the trees for a glimpse of whoever had made that sound. Instead he continued down the driveway toward the house—toward Avery. He had to make certain she was safe.
Within seconds the turquoise cottage appeared like a beacon at the end of the drive. The trees cleared and the last glow of sunlight shone through the windows of the house—penetrating it from the west side, which was on the lake, through to the east side. He stood at the front door, atop a thick, fiber-like mat emblazoned with bright yellow letters that spelled out Welcome.
He lifted his hand to knock. As soon as his knuckles struck the wood, he heard a soft, startled-sounding cry emanate from inside the cottage. His body tensing with alarm, he pushed open the door with his shoulder and burst into the house.
Something hard struck his head and shoulder. He flinched but ducked as it whapped at him again. Then he reached out and grabbed it. Wrapping his fingers around a long wooden pole, he jerked it from the hand of the person swinging it.
Avery cried out again, but this time it sounded like frustration rather than fear. “What the hell are you doing breaking into my house?”
He stared down at the oar in his hand—the one she’d struck him with. The wood was so weathered and bleached that he could have snapped it in two. He doubted it had recently paddled a boat. Then he noticed its twin hanging on the living room wall. She must have pulled it down from there.
“I knocked,” he said. Or he’d been about to... “I only came in when I heard you cry out.”
“I’m not crying,” she protested as she proudly lifted her chin.
“Sure sounded like a cry.”
“You startled me,” she said, her tone accusatory.
“By knocking?”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
He held up the oar. “So this is how you greet unexpected guests? Maybe you should change that Welcome mat to say Approach at Your Own Risk.”