Читать книгу Hot Attraction - Lisa Childs, Lisa Childs, Livia Reasoner - Страница 13

5

AVERY WAS USED to people watching her. That was, after all, what a reporter wanted—to be watched. To get the most airtime. To get the best ratings...

But she wasn’t on the air now. She wasn’t even out in public. She was walking the road between her sister’s house and hers, which was rural with just a few houses on her sister’s side. The houses on the other side sat far back—on the beach of one of Northern Lakes’s biggest lakes. Hers was just around the curve in the road, at the end of a long driveway.

Even though the sun set later now that summer had finally arrived, the tall trees blocked its light—making the day seem darker and later than it was. And colder. She shivered. She should have remembered how it got colder at night in Northern Lakes and dressed accordingly—the way Dawson Hess had been dressed. In jeans and a long sleeved black T-shirt. It wasn’t his Hotshot uniform, but he’d still been sexy as hell.

Remembering how he’d looked, how his light amber gaze had traveled the length of her body when she walked to the door, heat flushed her body. She didn’t need warmer clothes, after all—she just needed to think of him.

There was something about him...

Maybe she found him so attractive because he wasn’t trying to get her attention, the way men usually did. If she were to believe him, he hadn’t even stopped by her sister’s house to see her. He’d come over to see the twins.

Was he telling the truth?

Did he have no interest in his fifteen minutes of fame? No interest in her?

She shivered again, but it was because of that eerie feeling she’d had since she’d left her sister’s—the feeling that someone was watching her.

But who?

Nobody else was out walking. And the houses were set so far back from the road no one could have been watching her from their window. Were her instincts failing her? Or maybe she was just paranoid.

The trees thinned as she drew closer to her cottage. She’d painted the vertical wood siding a pale turquoise with white shutters and trim. As usual, she smiled when she saw what she’d had done to the place—how cute she’d made it. She didn’t live in Northern Lakes anymore, but she’d bought the cottage as an investment a few years ago. Most of the time she rented it out to vacationers. But occasionally she used it herself.

She should have stayed at her sister’s a little longer, or at least said goodbye rather than ducking out while Dawson was busy with the twins. But they’d been so excited to see him that she hadn’t wanted to interrupt their time together. And maybe her pride had been stung a little that he hadn’t come to see her. She wasn’t used to men refusing her requests or her kisses.

Of course, he had kissed her...

Maybe that was why she’d left—because she’d wanted him to kiss her again. And she couldn’t afford to be distracted right now. She needed to break a big story, so she wasn’t reduced to covering fluff pieces. She wanted to be a serious reporter, not eye candy for the network. Was the fire a serious story? Was there more to it than had been released to the media?

She needed to find out—which was probably why she should have stayed. She should have interrogated Dawson Hess.

Her hand trembled a little as she reached for her door. The knob turned easily. It wasn’t locked. She hadn’t bothered. After all, this was Northern Lakes; nothing bad ever happened in Northern Lakes.

But 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.”

She reached for the oar, closing her fingers around it. “I’ll take that back.”

“So you can hit me with it again?”

She tugged on it. “I didn’t hurt you.”

“I’m seeing stars,” he said.

She leaned forward and stared up into his eyes. And he was definitely seeing stars. Well, one at least. She was beautiful, and while she was young, she was already quite successful, if not quite a star yet.

“Did I really hurt you?” she asked, her voice lowering with concern. She dropped her hands from the oar and lifted them to his head. Her fingers skimmed through his hair and down the nape of his neck.

His skin tingled where she’d touched him. And his pulse quickened. Hers was beating fast, too. He could see it moving in her throat.

“Why did you hit me with the oar?” he asked. “Who’d you think was coming through that door?” Had she lived in so many big cities that she was jumpy and paranoid?

“I had no idea,” she said, and her distinctive voice cracked slightly with fear.

He narrowed his eyes and studied her. “You really weren’t expecting anyone?”

“That’s what I told you.”

But was it the truth? “So you just stand around with an oar in your hands?”

Her face flushed. “When I got home a little while ago, it seemed like someone had been in here. I even thought I smelled smoke.”

Smoke. His heart began to beat even harder. “You were smart to grab the oar.”

“I carried it as a weapon when I checked out the bedrooms and bathrooms.”

He groaned over the thought of what could have happened to her. “You should not have looked for the intruder,” he said. “You should have run right out of here and called the police.” Or him.

He would have come if she’d needed him.

“And reported what?” she asked. “The smoke could have come through the open sliders...” Her brow furrowed slightly as she looked toward the sliding glass doors—as if she wasn’t certain she had left them open. They were closed now; the curtains pulled over them. But through the white linen the glass glowed with the last rays of the setting sun.

Why had she shut out the sunset? Or had she been shutting out something or someone else?

“You should have at least gone back to your sister’s,” he said.

“I can take care of myself,” she said, and she was all prickly pride again as she lifted her chin.

“I took that oar away from you,” he said. And finally he released it, tossing it down onto her couch.

“After I hit you with it.”

“If you’d found an intruder, he could have taken it away from you just as easily as I did,” he said. “You shouldn’t have taken that chance.”

“Says the man who fights wildfires for a living,” she said. “Like you should talk to anyone about taking chances. Hypocrite.”

“I know what a fire can do,” he said. He’d learned at a young age—only too well—the destruction and devastation a fire could cause. “You don’t know what an intruder would have done to you.”

She shivered and wrapped her arms protectively around herself. Without her heels and fancy dress, she looked small and delicate and vulnerable.

During a wildfire, rescuing people in danger was part of his job. He wasn’t on the job tonight. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t fight his nature to protect. He couldn’t fight his attraction to Avery Kincaid, either. Silently cursing, he reached for her and pulled her close. Her body felt small and delicate against his but also soft and warm and curvy.

She trembled in his arms. Then her hands clutched the back of his shirt. Instead of pulling him away, though, she burrowed closer.

“You were really frightened,” he said, as he pulled her even closer. The thought of her being alone and scared had a pang striking his heart.

A breath shuddered out of her lips and warmly caressed his throat. “I just had the strangest feeling,” she said. “Like someone was watching me...”

Someone was outside her house. He had felt it, too.

“Who would be watching you?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know...”

“You weren’t meeting anyone here tonight?”

“I already told you I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she reminded him.

“You haven’t been talking to anyone in Northern Lakes about a story?”

“Just you,” she replied, her eyes full of suspicion.

“I was at your sister’s,” he reminded her, “looking at every single little thing your nephews own.”

Her lips curved into a slight smile.

“You haven’t been talking to anyone else? No sources?”

Her brow furrowed now. “My nephews are my sources,” she reminded him. “They’re the ones who told me that you were the one who saved them.”

It sounded as though she was telling the truth. But Dawson wasn’t certain he could trust her. Reporters lied. They’d lied to him years ago. Women lied. His friends—Braden Zimmer most recently—had been through enough pain to prove that to him. But if he pressed the issue of sources, she would figure out that there was more to the fire, just as she already suspected.

“Do you have a stalker?” he asked. “An obsessed fan?”

“I don’t know if I’d call them fans,” she remarked, almost modestly. “But I have people who send stuff to the station for me. Letters. Gifts.”

Of course she did. As beautiful as she was, she probably got marriage proposals and jewelry.

“But I wouldn’t call any of them obsessed,” she said. “And not a one of them would know that I’m in Northern Lakes right now.”

Unless they were already in Northern Lakes. Like the arsonist.

But she was right. They couldn’t call the police. They had no proof that anyone had been inside her house. No evidence that anyone was watching her. Only that feeling...

One they shared.

If there had been someone inside, they might come back. Dawson couldn’t leave knowing that Avery could be in danger. It would be against his nature.

“I’m staying here tonight,” he said.