Playing with Fire (7 page)

If Beau hadn’t feared for his life, he might have laughed. As it was, he was in no mood for humor. Killer-dog Gwendolyn relaxed as swiftly as if Maggie had flipped a switch. The hell hound abandoned her snarling and gave him a gentle nudge with her nose, which Beau took to be an apology and offer of friendship. He wisely accepted, flicked the ashes off his shirt, and stood up very slowly.

When he turned, he couldn’t keep the awe out of his voice. “Jesus! What is that?”

Gwendolyn was at least three feet tall at the shoulder and a good five feet long from nose to rump. Bigger than a Dane. Rough-coated, streaked with silver and gray, and with eyes so dark they were almost black. They were also incredibly expressive. Right now, she looked worried, anxious that he hadn’t truly forgiven her.

“
That
is an Irish wolfhound,” Maggie told him, a hint of amusement in her voice. “They’re really very sweet. Gwen’s four. Someone left her at the vet down the road when she was about six months old, and they never came back. I’ve had her since then.”

Maggie handed him the towel and scratched the top of Gwen’s head. It came almost to her shoulder. “We’ve bonded over our tragic pasts.”

“I noticed. She has your charming personality,” he said as he looped the towel around his neck and rubbed the end over his hair. “Snap first, apologize second.”

Instead of puffing up, Maggie laughed. It was more of a throaty giggle really. The unexpected sound, the way she so easily laughed at herself, coaxed an answering
smile from him. For a moment there wasn’t anything between them but the joke. Then she remembered he was the enemy, and the laughter faded. She tucked it away like a secret she’d never intended to share. All that was left was awkward silence, the wariness in her eyes, and the feeling he’d been robbed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about Gwynnie.” Maggie shrugged. One of the overall straps slid off her shoulder. “She was sacked out in the kitchen chasing rabbits in her sleep when I let you in. I didn’t think she’d wake up.”

“No harm done.”

No harm done.

Maggie’s knees buckled as the phrase registered and the memory flooded in. She shut her eyes against it, tried to force it away, but it didn’t help.

“S-Sarah?”

“Oh, my God! Maggie!” Sarah spun around, wiped her eyes, and looked up at the railing, “Go back to bed, Maggie, Everything’s fine.”

“But Sarah, I heard
—”

“Maggie May, don’t come down here again!” Sarah’s voice was sharp and desperate, scaring her. Sarah smiled suddenly, and Maggie knew the smile wasn’t real, “Go back to bed, sweetie. I broke my mama’s flower bowl is all, and it scared me. I’ll clean it up. No harm done. You go to bed. Okay? No harm done. Please?”

“Maggie?”

Someone was steadying her, shaking her shoulders,
but her mind wouldn’t let go of the past.
Please? Please? Please?
The word reverberated inside her, grounding her in that night. It wasn’t like Sarah to cry or beg. It wasn’t like Sarah at all. Something was wrong. Maggie’s stomach hurt. She didn’t know what to do. Because she was ten years old, she did what Sarah asked.

Maybe everything would have been different if she hadn’t gone back to bed. Maybe—

“Maggie. It’s okay. Open your eyes. It goes away when you open your eyes.”

The hands moved gently over her shoulders, cupping her face, thumbs brushing against her cheeks. Soothing her. Her cheeks were wet. Oh, God, she realized, the hands were Beau’s. He was wiping away tears.

Maggie forced her eyes open, hoping it had all been a nasty dream. Beau’s dark gaze was only inches away. Her knees gave again, but his hands shifted from her face to her elbows, holding her up as she grabbed the front of his shirt. She felt more vulnerable, more exposed than she’d ever felt in her life.

And she couldn’t do a thing about it except hold on. She needed Beau right now. She was straddling two worlds—not really here and not with Sarah. Her hands were shaking; she was cold. The pressure in her chest was almost unbearable, and breathing wasn’t voluntary anymore. She had to concentrate so hard.

All the while she tried to sort little Maggie’s emotions from big Maggie’s terror. Losing control was her worst nightmare. Nothing and no one got to her. It was how she survived, how she kept herself whole. Years in the system had taught her that.

“It’s okay.” His voice rumbled through her, settling
deep inside, anchoring her. And then it turned soft and easy, as if he had all the time in the world. As if he’d done this before. “I’m here. You’re here. It’s just us. And the rain. And Gwendolyn. We’re all here. Shh … whatever it is, it’s over. It’s over, darlin’.”

Maggie felt the prick of tears again. It wasn’t over. She was going to have to go through this again. The same memory … a different memory … it didn’t matter. A slice of that night would come sneaking in, ripping away her control, taking over her mind whether she wanted it or not. Forcing her to face the truth.

Anything could trigger it. Anything. Anyone.

Only her last scrap of pride kept her from surrendering to the urge to lean against him and let the warmth beneath her hands soak into her bones. She had the foolish notion that as long as he held her, she’d be safe. Maggie’d never had safe. Maggie had control. Or she would have as soon as she pulled herself together, repaired the damage.

“I’m fine … now,” she whispered to the top button of Beau’s shirt.

Beau barely heard her whisper, but the quiet words etched themselves on his heart all the same. He knew her eyes would write her need on his soul, but he tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his anyway. He had no choice. His brain wasn’t making this decision. She closed her eyes and drew in a gulp of air as he forced her head up. Maggie finally swept her eyes open as she exhaled.

“Is it so terrible?” he asked softly, the backs of his fingers trailing along her neck.

She swallowed. “Wh-what?”

“Being this close to the enemy.”

“You’re not—”

“Good. I’m glad.” His gaze lingered on her soft, open mouth. “I don’t kiss women who think I’m the bad guy.”

Beau waited for his words to sink in, waited for Maggie to pull away. When she didn’t, he lowered his lips to hers.

Maggie decided she had to be crazy. Because she wanted to be kissed. That fact alone made her certifiable, but she couldn’t seem to care. All of the logic in the world faded, superseded by her need to get warm, to forget the past and what it could do to her. Maybe if she kissed Beau, she could do that. At least that’s the lie she told herself.

Until his tongue flicked against the bow of her mouth.

The touch was his brand, and a warning. This wasn’t about emotional comfort. This was about crossing the line and recognizing the sensual current that flowed between them. Neither of them could afford the risk, and neither of them could stop what was going to happen.

Silence surrounded them, holding common sense at bay. All that was left was anticipation. The unbearable certainty that she’d lost her mind. The world narrowed to a strong mouth, an unshaven jaw, and the scent of rain and musk.

Somehow his hands had moved to her shoulders,
cupping them, drawing her closer. His mouth slanted across hers, and his tongue slipped deep inside. Once. Twice. Each time he withdrew, the motion pulled heat through her. Sent desire snaking through her, swirling and settling deep in her belly.

It had been so long.…

Finally her fingers curled against his hard chest and tugged his shirt, a silent admission that she wanted more. Even as her tongue tangled with his, Maggie knew Beau had managed something that would haunt her. He’d gotten her to admit she wanted him.

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.