Up in Flames
Rita Herron

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For all the fans who have kept my

NIGHTHAWK ISLAND series alive—

hope you like the firestarter twist!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Four-year-old Rosanna Redhill gripped the charm around her neck as she huddled in the corner of her kitchen. Granny Redhill said the gris-gris would protect her.

She should have given her puppy, Little Doodlebug, one, too.

Her daddy was on a tear tonight. He’d been drinking that brown, smelly stuff. Cussing and pacing. Throwing things. He’d already broken an ashtray and a lamp.

And he’d kicked Little Doodlebug so hard that he wasn’t moving.

She blotted at the tears on her face, and wished her mama was still here. But her mama had run away and hadn’t come back.

Her daddy stumbled to the wooden table, grabbed his cigarettes and lit one. The smell made her stomach hurt.

“Rosanna! Come out, come out wherever you are.”

She gulped and held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t find her. But he knelt down and stabbed her with his beady eyes. Eyes that looked yellow and evil.

“Why are you hiding from Daddy?” he sneered.

She willed Doodlebug to get up and help her, but he didn’t make a sound. Had her daddy killed him?

He reached for her, and she scrambled away and ran into the den. Wind rattled the windowpanes. The fire in the fireplace crackled and popped. Orange and red flames shot sparks into the dark room.

The big deer head on the wall glared down at her as if it was her fault he’d been shot. But her daddy had killed it, too.

She darted behind the big chair to hide. His feet pounded on the wood floor.

She closed her eyes, and in her mind saw Granny bent over her cauldron pot, the water boiling. Granny sprinkling in weird things like toad’s feet, snakeskin and lizard’s eyes. She could still smell the roots simmering. Hear Granny’s soothing voice telling her stories about witches and voodoo. Rosanna wished she had a magic spell right now to save her from her daddy.

Something wet plopped on her head. She opened her eyes and looked up. The deer head was crying.

And her daddy was looming over her, his cheeks bulging red. He was mad as a hornet. And when daddy got mad…

She clenched her hands together. Prayed he’d go away. But his fingers clamped around her wrist. There was no place to hide.

Then she saw the firepoker leaning against the hearth. If she had it, she could swing it at him. She reached out her hand. Clawed for it.

But she was too far away.

A chant her granny used to say echoed in her head. She whispered it into the darkness.

Suddenly the poker flew off the hearth and slammed into her father’s head. He bellowed and fell to his knees, blood dripping down his forehead.

“You’re a devil just like your granny,” he said. “I told your mama that. That’s why she run off. She was scared of you.” He staggered toward her. “Now, you’re gonna be sorry.”

He dug his fingernails into her skin, but a loud roar split the air. Then the deer head dropped from the wall and slammed against his skull.

A loud cracking, like the sound of thunder, followed, and she saw the bookcase falling. She screamed and jerked free just as it crashed down on top of her daddy’s legs. He bellowed like a wild animal. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

She gulped back tears, saw the firepoker with blood on it and knew that she had caused it to move. Shaking all over, she laid her hand on the deer head. It was staring back at her, but it wasn’t crying anymore.

It was smiling.

Chapter One

Twenty-four years later, July 4—Savannah, Georgia

Detective Bradford Walsh was starving. Starved for food.

Starved for a woman.

Starved for a reprieve from the sweltering heat in Savannah, and a break from the recent crime wave terrorizing the citizens.

But as he watched the blazing fire engulfing Cozy’s Café on River Street, the possibility of satisfying any of those hungers that night quickly went up in smoke just like the building had minutes ago.

Dammit. How long had it been since he’d had a good meal? A decent night’s sleep?

A night of hot sex?

A Fourth of July without trouble?

His partner, Parker Kilpatrick, joined him, soot darkening his jeans and shirt, sweat beading on his forehead. He and Parker had arrived first on the scene and had rushed in to make sure everyone escaped the blaze unharmed. In fact, his captain, Adam Black, knew about Bradford’s history and had handpicked him to spearhead investigations into the recent arson crimes in the city.

Bradford was determined to prove that a screwup with his brother hadn’t cost him his job.

Which was the only thing he had left since his family relationships disintegrated with his brother’s arrest.

Dragging his mind back to the current situation, he assessed the scene. A half-dozen patrons milled around the edge of the sidewalk watching the building deconstruct. Thick plumes of gray smoke curled toward the sky, the orange, red and yellow flames shooting into the darkness. The owner, a pudgy Southern woman named Hazel, flapped her hands around, waving smoke away in between bouts of crying in her coffee-stained apron.

Bradford walked over to her and patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry about your business, ma’am. But at least everyone escaped safely, and you can rebuild.”

“We worked so hard to get this place going, to have a clean business. Then my husband died,” she said between sobs. “I don’t think I can start over by myself.”

Compassion for the woman bled through Bradford. “How did the fire get started, ma’am? Was it in the kitchen?”

“No,” she cried. “I was in the back, making my peach pies, when I heard someone shout that smoke was coming from the bathroom.”

“All right, we’ll check it out.” He turned to his partner.

“This is the third fire in three weeks in the Savannah area,” Parker said.

Bradford nodded. “Any signs of an accelerant?”

“No, but the fire chief just arrived. I’ll make sure he checks for arson.”

“Tell him to start in the men’s room. Someone may have lit a match or dropped a cigarette in the trash.” And paper towels would go up in seconds.

“It is a holiday,” Parker said. “Maybe some kids starting their fireworks a little early.”

Bradford once again scanned the crowd. “Yeah, and the night is still young.”

Parker strode toward the fire chief, and Bradford mentally ticked over the facts they had so far on all three fires. The first one was set at a cottage on Tybee Island not far from the one he was renting, and appeared to be accidental, a fluke with old wiring. The second, an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town had aroused questions, but there had been no evidence of accelerant present. The firemen had speculated that a homeless person staying inside might have dropped a cigarette butt, and with old paint thinner stored inside, the building had caught fire.

This one—smoke in the bathroom, not the kitchen—could have been accidental, but on the heels of the others, it definitely struck a chord of suspicion.

Could there be a connection?

He scanned the spectators who’d gathered to gawk. An elderly couple walking their Yorkie had stopped to console a young mother. Three teenage girls wearing short shorts huddled next to a couple of gangly boys taking pictures with their cell phones. A teenage prank? No, they looked curious, but not like arsonists or vandals.

Two men in suits stood chatting quietly. A gaggle of tourists with cameras and souvenirs from the gift shops on River Street hovered around, enraptured by the blaze, but no one stuck out as suspicious looking.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. An older black woman in voodoo priestess garb watched, her colorful clothing highlighted by the firelight. Beside her stood a nondescript blond man in his early twenties.

A movement to the left caught Bradford’s attention, and he spotted a woman with flaming-red curly hair. She was slender, wore a long, flowing skirt, peasant blouse and beads around her neck. A short brunette leaned near her and said something, but they were out of earshot.

Although the redhead looked like some kind of throwback to the seventies, his gaze met hers, and something hot and instant flared inside him. She was so natural, so earthy and untamed-looking, that his baser primal side reacted immediately. Her eyes were the palest green he’d ever seen, and looked almost translucent. For a moment, he felt as if she’d cast some kind of spell on him.

Then she darted away, through the maze of onlookers as if she’d sensed the connection and couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

He started to follow her. But heat scalded his neck, wood crackled and the sound of walls crashing shattered the hushed silence. The owner of the café cried out, other onlookers shrieked and he halted. He couldn’t go chasing some woman during an investigation, not unless he thought she was a suspect. And he had no reason to think that.

After all, ninety percent of firestarters were men, not women. Bradford had studied the profiles. A large percentage were out to collect insurance money or exact revenge. But there was another percent that had a fixation. To them fire was a living, breathing monster. The obsessive compulsion to watch something burn escalated with each fire set.

He knew because his little brother had been one of them.

Shaking off the troubling memories of his past, he squared his shoulders. If an arsonist was playing havoc in Savannah, Bradford damn well wouldn’t rest until he found the son of a bitch and put him behind bars.

FINGERS OF TENSION crawled along Rosanna Redhill’s nerve endings as she passed the graveyard with its tombs and granite markers standing at attention, honoring those who’d passed to the other side. Death surrounded her, as did the stories of witches, voodoo and sin in the city.

Smoke painted the sky in a hazy gray, floating across the tops of the graves like ghosts whispering to the heavens. The pungent smell of the blazing building followed her, chasing away the lingering scent of the therapeutic herbs and candles in her gift shop, Mystique.

At least no one had died in the fire.

Still, the blaze left her with the oddest feeling that something supernatural was happening in Savannah. That something dangerous and evil was lurking nearby. That someone in the crowd was not quite normal.

Like her.

But it was that cop who had her rattled so badly that she was trembling as she rushed toward the apartment she’d rented in one of the Victorian row houses. Her friend Natalie, a girl she’d met at the Coastal Island Research Park, CIRP, three months ago, hurried along beside her.

“Why did you run, Rosanna?” Natalie asked.

She darted up the sidewalk and onto the porch, then jammed her key toward the keyhole in her apartment door. Her fingers shook, though, and she dropped the key, then had to bend to retrieve it and start all over.

How could she explain without revealing the truth about her childhood? Without divulging her secrets? Secrets she’d guarded over for the past twenty-four years.

“Rosanna?” Natalie said softly. “Come on, tell me what’s wrong? You looked spooked back there.”

Rosanna pivoted, wondering if her new friend had a sixth sense. The experiment she’d joined at the Coastal Island Research Park involved testing for special abilities. Some of the participants were control subjects; others claimed to have various gifts ranging from telekinesis to psychic powers to those who communed with the dead. They were beginning a support group session this week, but so far no one had been forced to share his or her reason for being involved in the study.

“I don’t like cops,” Rosanna said, admitting the partial truth. “They make me nervous.”

Natalie arched a dark brow. “Hmm. I thought those two at the scene of the fire were kind of cute.”

Cute was not a word Rosanna would have attached to the hulking male cop who’d stared at her through the crowd. He was tall, broad-shouldered like a linebacker, with a square jaw, strong nose, cleft chin and thick hair as black as the soot from the embers of the charred wood. Even his eyebrows were thick and powerful looking, framing his eyes in a way that emphasized his coldness.

He had a dark side. Whether it was anger, his job, or the criminals he’d dealt with, something had hardened him.

Still, for a minute when he’d looked at her, she’d felt some cosmic force draw her to him.

The reason she’d run. The last person she’d ever get involved with was a cop.

Rosanna pushed open the door and hurried into the foyer, trying to shake the cobwebs of lust from her brain.

After her father had died, she’d been sent to live with her grandmother, a descendant of a witchdoctor. Rosanna had grown up a recluse with Granny Redhill, shunned by some, yet welcomed by the underground population of Savannah’s believers in the supernatural.

She had never had a boyfriend. Had never wanted a man before. And it had never bothered her that she was alone. She liked being alone.

So why had she been drawn to that detective?

“Earth to Rosanna?” Natalie said with a laugh. “What are you thinking?”

“About that fire,” Rosanna said. “There were two others in the past few weeks.”

“But they weren’t related,” Natalie said. “Besides, it’s been so dry with this heat wave that fires have been breaking out all across the South.”

True. So why was she nervous?

“Come on, Rosanna, let’s go to the Pink Martini. They have live music on Saturday nights. Maybe we’ll meet some guys.”

Rosanna sighed and dropped her purse onto the ottoman in the den. She’d read her own tarot cards, and a lovelife was not in her future. “You go ahead, Nat. I’ll just curl up with a good book tonight and go to bed early.”

“No,” Natalie protested. “It’s the Fourth of July celebration. Don’t you want to see the fireworks?”

“We just saw enough fireworks for me,” Rosanna said.

Natalie pushed her toward her bedroom. “Not for me. I’ve been begging you for weeks to party with me, and I’m not taking no for an answer. Now go put on something sexy.”

Rosanna glanced down at her colorful skirt and sandals. She liked her gypsy look. “I don’t exactly have good luck in the relationship department.” Because she could never be her true self. Her own parents had thought she was a devil child and hadn’t been able to love her. And she’d proven her father right that fatal day…

“Please,” Natalie said, giving her another push. “It’s not safe to go barhopping alone. I need a buddy.”

Her last words convinced Rosanna. With the recent crime wave in town, Natalie was right. Rosanna didn’t have very many friends. She didn’t want to lose this one.

In her bedroom, she slipped on a black sundress, strappy silver sandals and silver hoop earrings. Nothing she could do with her mop of hair, so she left it loose, then added some lip gloss. Seconds later, she and Natalie headed back outside into the hot, sultry summer air.

But once again, a chill of foreboding tiptoed up her spine as they strolled toward River Street.

She spun around twice to see if someone was following her, but saw nothing. Still, tension charged the air, and she sensed something dark and sinister in the shadows.

HE STILL FELT the heat of the flames from the café burning his hands, singeing his hair, the smoke filling his lungs. And he tasted the fear.

Laughter bubbled in his chest. The terrified screams of the onlookers was music to his ears. Food for his hungry heart.

While the firefighter raced to extinguish his handiwork, he had stood in the shadows of the live oaks, letting the spidery web of Spanish moss shroud him. His heart raced, his blood hot from the excitement of watching the flames light up the inky sky and the knowledge that he had exerted control over all of them.

They would never catch him because he had left no evidence behind. Laughter bubbled in his throat. Detective Bradford Walsh would spin in circles.

Perfect. He hated Bradford Walsh.

Now the woman was a different story. He’d felt her presence, sensed that she was like him. Different.

What her talents were he didn’t know. But he would find out.

And he would use her if needed.

He followed her now. Had seen her before, but couldn’t place where.

She was dressed to kill and heading toward the party end of town. Probably on the prowl for a man to fulfill her fantasies.

He had fantasies of his own.

His thirst for another fire already burned inside him, stronger and more intense than before. The city would host a fireworks show in the park tonight, but those would be pitiful compared to his work.

The café fire was only the beginning of the festivities he had planned.

But he had cut short his fun in watching the flames die down at the café because of this woman. He wanted that lost time back, those lost moments of joy, of seeing the final embers dwindle to ashes. That part usually satisfied and fed him for hours. Sometimes days. But not tonight.

She had robbed him of that pleasure.

And she would suffer.

In fact, he just might set her afire and watch her skin erupt into flames like kindling.

Chapter Two

Bradford spent the next two hours interviewing the witnesses from the café fire.

Frustration gnawed at him. No one stuck out as a possible arsonist. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious.

Of course, the holiday crowds and tourist season made it easy for a culprit to hide. Restaurants and bars overflowed, catering to the party scene. A ship of sailors had docked and they were combing the streets on their furlough.

If the guy was among them or the tourists, he could disappear tomorrow.

Families had gathered in the squares for picnics and special booths had been set up for the holiday offering cotton candy, sno cones, frozen lemonade and other treats. Face-painting, tarot card readers, clowns, balloon artists and mimes entertained in the square, and a vendor sold voodoo dolls to passersby. The ever-present ghost tours strolled along the graveyards and historic district adding to the atmosphere.

Still, excitement sizzled in the balmy summer air, the sound of children and partiers filling the streets growing louder in anticipation of the upcoming fireworks show.

Hazel’s son Robby had arrived and tried to console his mother while Parker interviewed her.

Bradford listened, then cornered Chief Jackson as the last of the flames died down. Now the ruins, soaked with water, looked like a sludgy mess of charred wood and plastic.

“What do you think?” Bradford asked.

“It’s too early to tell,” Chief Jackson said. “We’ll have to sift through the debris, take samples, run tests…” The tall African-American man shifted, restless himself. “Did you learn anything from the interviews?”

“Afraid not. But three fires in three weeks. Not all accidental.”

“I’ll review the other two scenes,” Jackson said. “See if my men missed anything. Look for a connection.”

Bradford nodded. He’d already talked to the officers himself. In the first two instances, the sites had been vacant. At this one there were people inside. Which meant, if the incidents were related, their perpetrator was taking more chances, growing more confident, more aggressive.

And that he’d just begun his reign of terror. Next time, there might be casualties.

They had to stop him before that happened.

SOMEONE WAS WATCHING her.

Rosanna pivoted in the dark corner of the bar, searching the faces, hunting for someone familiar, or maybe a stranger staring at her. But no one stood out.

Shivering in spite of the heat, she tried to convince herself that the fire and then walking by the graveyard had made her paranoid. After all, for years after her father’s death, she’d had nightmares that he might claw his way from his coffin and try to drag her into hell with him. The fire tonight had reminded her of that nightmare.

The image of that cop helping the café owner to safety returned. He’d been kind and gentle and had consoled the older woman as if he cared.

But when he’d looked at her, she’d seen a coldness that chilled her to the bone.

Determined to put him out of her mind, she studied the dance floor. White lights glittered and popped intermittently across the room, an indoor fireworks show and hopping singles scene. Not one she was accustomed to being a part of.

She sipped a Lemon Drop martini while she watched the hump-and-grind show on the dance floor. Bodies gyrated, sliding against other bodies, men wrapped around women, skin to skin, a game of foreplay in public that made her body tighten with need.

And resurrected images of that detective again.

For a brief second, she pictured the two of them swaying to the music, his big, muscled arms holding her tight, his thigh slipping between her heat, his thick lips skating over hers. Desire shot through her.

A good-looking, blond architect paired up with Natalie and they headed to the dance floor. During the next half hour, Rosanna fended off unwanted advances.

Now she remembered the reason she avoided the clubbing scene.

She’d been alone all her life. And she didn’t mind it. No one to worry about. No one to pry into her secrets.

No one to find out about her past.

And no one pawing at her.

A balding guy wearing a skeleton T-shirt and holey jeans sauntered toward her with a beer in hand. “Wanna dance, baby?”

She gritted her teeth, wondering why she attracted the weirdos. Maybe because she was eccentric herself?

“No, thanks.”

He frowned and cut his eyes over her as if she’d angered him. Uncomfortable with his reaction, she slid off the stool and headed to the ladies’ room. She sensed him following, but refused to turn around.

Near the ladies’ room, another man at the bar made eye contact with her. He was tall, wore a black silk shirt and black dress pants. But instead of approaching her, he removed a lighter, flicked it open and pressed the starter until a small golden flame shot up. Then a slow smile crept over his face.

A smile that did not quite reach his eyes, one that sent a ripple of tension through her.

Anxious to escape his scrutiny, she ducked into the ladies’ room. The line snaked through the cramped bathroom, and it took several minutes to reach a stall. Just as she closed the door, a loud explosion rocked through the room.

Screams filled the air, the sound of panicked scuffling following. She tried to jerk open the door but it was stuck, so she dropped to her knees to look under the stall. Smoke curled through the room and another explosion rocked the floor. Splintered wood crashed from the ceiling, pelting her, and the smoke thickened. She scrambled beneath the opening, pushed to her feet and ran for the door, but when she opened it, a wooden beam crashed down and flames exploded, blocking her exit.

In the bar, chaos had broken out. Flames shot upward, eating the wood and hissing as it danced through the room. People screamed and stampeded to the exit, debris rained down, and bar glasses shattered and spewed glass in all directions. She spotted a couple of people on the floor, blood flowing from one man’s head. Then she saw Natalie trapped beneath a gigantic light fixture.

Oh God, no…she wasn’t moving. She had to get to her friend, save her.

But heat seared her and crackling wood popped near her feet. There was no other way to get out of the bathroom. No window. No back exit.

She was trapped with the flames growing higher all around her.

THE SCENT OF SMOKE and singed fabric permeated Bradford’s clothes as he and Parker left the Savannah square and maneuvered through the crowded streets.

The fireworks were in full swing, but he wanted to go back to the little house he’d rented on Tybee Island, wolf down a pizza and crash.

Parker leaned back in the seat, whistling a blues tune beneath his breath, looking relaxed now that the café excitement had ended. But Bradford’s body felt wired, jittery, as if he was waiting on the other ball to drop. He’d had these same antsy feelings in the military on missions, on missing persons cases in Atlanta. The night his father had died.

The night he’d discovered the extent of his brother’s problems.

The traffic came to a congested halt, and he veered down a side street where two restaurants and a new bar had opened up, then cursed.

Ahead he spotted trouble. More smoke curling toward the sky. Flames shooting from the roof of the Pink Martini.

“Hell, do you see that?” Parker pointed to the nightclub.

“Yeah, call it in.” While Parker called dispatch, Bradford flipped on the siren, gunned the engine and screeched around an illegally parked car. In seconds, both he and Parker jumped out and ran toward the building.

“Fire trucks are on their way!” Parker shouted.

Bradford scanned the street where a panicked mob poured onto the sidewalks. People raced toward cars, the downtown area, some running as if the flames might chase them down, others huddling in shock and hysteria.

“Let’s see if everyone got out!” Bradford shouted over the confusion.

As soon as they entered the bar, Bradford assessed the situation. This fire was ten times worse than the one at the café, and already engulfed half the room. Although the emergency sprinklers had kicked in, the thin jets of water weren’t enough to douse the overpowering blaze, which was feeding greedily on the alcohol. Wood, glass, tables, drinks, lighting equipment—everything lay in shambles.

What the hell had happened here? How had the fire spread so rapidly?

He cut his eyes through the haze, searching for victims, someone trapped, hurt, needing assistance. The fire was a monster, the gray smoke so thick he could barely see, so he removed a handkerchief and covered his mouth. Somewhere amidst the crackling timber and the haze of shattering glass he heard a scream.

“My God,” Parker muttered. “There’s a woman trapped over there. I’m going after her!”

“I heard someone else in the back,” Bradford yelled. “I’m going to check.”

Without waiting for a response, he darted through the patches of flames, coughing into the handkerchief, searching through the thick plumes of smoke.

A curly haired young man wearing an apron who must have been a server lay facedown on the floor, arms and legs sprawled at awkward angles. Bradford knelt and checked for a pulse, but he couldn’t find one. Dammit.

Then he saw the blood pooling beneath the man’s face and neck. Bradford lifted his head slightly, and grimaced. A huge chunk of glass had pierced the man’s throat. Another was embedded in one eyeball.

It was too late for the poor guy. He was already dead.

A terrified scream pierced the air again, faint and hoarse, barely discernible over the roar of the flames.

Heat seared his back, face and hands, but he forged on toward the back.

“Help me!”

His lungs and throat burned as he spotted the caller. A woman lay on the floor, trapped by a wooden beam. She was using her bare hand to beat away the flames crawling toward her skirt. Another burning beam lay behind her.

He raced to her, jerked off his shirt and swatted the flames.

“Help me!” she cried again. “I have to save my friend.”

He glanced at her face and recognized her immediately. The redhead he’d seen in the crowd outside Cozy’s.

“Please,” she whispered. “I have to find Natalie.”

She broke into a coughing fit, and he handed her his handkerchief, then stood and dragged the beam off her legs. She tried to stand, but stumbled, so he swooped her up in his arms and ran toward the front door, praying they made it out in time before the monster eating the building swallowed them completely.

Chapter Three

Rosanna coughed, clinging to her rescuer as he hauled her into his arms. The last few terrifying minutes rushed back, fear tightening her lungs.

She’d been trapped in the bathroom. No way out. But she refused to give up. She had to get to Natalie.

She’d splashed water from the bathroom sink on her clothes hoping they wouldn’t catch fire when she ran through the spiking flames in the doorway. But another beam had fallen and she’d collapsed as it slammed down onto her legs.

Her ankle throbbed, her throat ached and she felt dizzy. She squinted through the smoke, though, desperately searching for her friend. Maybe she’d escaped. Maybe she was huddled in the mob pouring onto the streets.

A siren wailed. Then another. Police cars, ambulances and two fire trucks screeched through the mass, all arriving at once and jumping into motion.

“Miss, are you all right?” a gruff voice asked.

She tried to answer, but her voice squeaked out, low and pain-filled. Disoriented, she blinked through the darkness, but the raging fire illuminated her rescuer’s face, and her stomach tightened. He was the detective she’d seen questioning spectators at Cozy’s earlier. He had saved Hazel, and now her.

She clutched his open shirt in a death grip as he dodged the flames and falling debris. Outside, she dragged in gulping breaths of fresh air, then swallowed against the dryness in her throat, aware of his masculinity and the power of his body as he carried her toward the ambulance.

Her body glided downward, scraping over the detective’s massive thighs as he lowered her onto the stretcher. For a brief second, he pushed errant strands of her hair from her forehead. The gesture was so tender and gentle that tears pricked her eyes.

“Miss, are you okay?”

She nodded. “My friend…” she whispered. “Natalie Gorman, she fell. Find her, see if she’s all right.”

He nodded and squeezed her arm. “I will. What does she look like? What’s she wearing?”

“Brown hair, a green dress!”

An EMT met them and shoved an oxygen mask toward her.

“Check her out!” The detective shouted, then he raced back toward the burning building.

The EMT examined her hands and arms for burns. They tingled from the heat, but she’d survived without any major injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Rosanna tried to tell him that she was okay, but again she broke out in a coughing fit.

The weighty pull of the smoke and exhaustion pulled her under, and she drifted into unconsciousness.

BRADFORD DARTED back toward the blazing building searching for his partner, but he didn’t see him anywhere.

Two pairs of officers had arrived on the scene, and were trying to manage traffic and contain the crowd. He quickly explained what had happened and asked them to canvas the people who’d been inside, as well as the spectators on the street for information.

“See if you can find a Natalie Gorman, too,” he said. “Her friend was asking about her. Brown hair. Green dress.”

He pushed his way back through the mob, but didn’t see a brown-haired woman in a green dress. And no Parker. He radioed him, but Parker didn’t respond, and panic seized Bradford.

He headed to the front door to go back inside, but a fireman grabbed him. “You can’t go in. Too dangerous.”

“Detective Walsh, SPD.” He flashed his badge. “My partner may still be inside. And another woman.”

The burly man’s expression clearly looked doubtful that they’d find anyone still alive. But he turned to one of the other rescue workers. “Search for survivors.”

Bradford paced the sidewalk feeling helpless and angry. He should be questioning people, hunting for clues as to how the fire started, but fear kept him watching the doorway, listening.

Finally one of the rescue workers appeared, sweating and cursing. “We have a live one, trapped. Need equipment.” He grabbed an ax from the truck.

“Let me help,” Bradford pleaded.

The burly man put a hand to Bradford’s chest as his coworker ran back inside. “No, stay put. You do your job, we’ll do ours.”

Bradford scraped sweaty hair from his forehead as another firefighter grabbed an ax and followed his coworker inside the blaze.

Heat scalded Bradford’s face and a wave of anger crashed over him a second later when one of the men carried an unconscious woman outside. He ran to check on her, but the firefighter shook his head. “She’s dead,” he said. “Looks like she took a blow to the head.”

Bradford saw her blood-soaked hair, the green dress, and grimaced. Then he noticed the tiny purse with the strap still wrapped around her wrist. He unsnapped the bag, checked her ID, then muttered a curse.

Natalie Gorman. The redhead’s friend.

God, he’d have to tell her.

“Your buddy tried to save her, but a wall crashed on him,” the firemen said. “We’ll have him out in a minute.”

Suddenly two rescue workers rushed out, yelling for the paramedics who met them with a stretcher. “He’s alive, but we’ve got injuries. Multiple contusions to the body, second-and third-degree burns, his leg needs to be set…”

Bradford shouldered his way to the ambulance, his chest clenching when he saw Parker’s limp body. He was unconscious; nasty blisters were already forming on his charred arms and hands. His leg looked twisted and mangled below the knee, his color ashen.

The EMT’s secured his head and neck, started oxygen and an IV drip, and quickly loaded him in the ambulance.

“Is he going to make it?” Bradford asked.

The EMT shrugged. “We can’t say yet. We need to get him to the hospital ASAP. What’s his name?”

“Parker Kilpatrick,” Bradford said. “He’s a detective with the SPD.”

“Is he allergic to anything?” one of the EMT’s asked. “No.”

A frown marred the second EMT’s face. “If you know his family, contact them.”

“He doesn’t have any family,” Bradford said grimly.

The medic closed the doors, the siren began to screech, and the ambulance rolled away, the lights twirling.

NIGHTMARES OF FIRE, death, hell and eternal damnation consumed Rosanna. She struggled against the exhaustion, but lost the battle and closed her eyes. She was suffocating, couldn’t breathe. The fire engulfed her hair and body, and her skin sizzled. Then her father’s nasty smile found her as he climbed from the grave and grabbed her.

Then she was in the bar. Beside her, a man lay on the floor, his eyes wide pools of nothing, blood floating around his head like a red river. Her friend was sprawled facedown with fire shooting sparks around her, chewing at her hair and fingers. Rosanna’s own skin burned, was frying, sliding off bone until black, sooty ashes fell like brittle, dead leaves onto the sodden floor.

She jerked awake for the hundredth time, and searched the sterile hospital room, wishing she were home in her own bed, wishing she’d talked Natalie out of going to the Pink Martini. Wishing she had someone to talk to, someone who cared that she was lying here alone, dirty and scared.

A knock sounded at the door. Quiet. Barely discernible. The doctor, most likely.

“Come in,” she said in a hoarse voice.

The door squeaked open, and the detective who’d rescued her stuck his face through the opening. His thick, wavy black hair was ruffled, looked as if he’d jammed his hands through it a dozen times, and soot and exhaustion colored his face. “Are you awake, miss?”

“Yes, please, come in…”

His boots pounded on the floor as he strode toward her. Did he have news about Natalie?

One look into his troubled, dark eyes and she knew the answer before she even asked him.

“My name is Detective Bradford Walsh.”

“Rosanna Redhill,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving me.”

He shrugged, but his jaw remained rigid as if he didn’t want or expect her gratitude. “How are you feeling?”

His rough, thick voice skated over raw nerve endings.

“I’m fine.” She clutched the sheets between shaking fingers, praying she was wrong about the bad news. “Did you find Natalie?”

He nodded, stepped toward her. Shadows haunted his eyes, eyes that had seen violence and death and sorrow.

“I’m so sorry. My partner tried to save her….”

“Oh God, no…” Her voice broke, and she curled into a ball, and pressed her fist to her mouth to stifle a sob.

He lowered himself onto the bed, gently stroked the hair from her face, then wiped a tear trickling down her cheek.

“How?” she asked in a tortured whisper.

“A head injury. The firefighter managed to get her out before the flames reached her.”

Thank God. She couldn’t stand that image in her head. Still, grief swelled in her chest.

She sucked in a sharp breath, determined to hold herself together until he left, but another sob escaped her, and he pulled her into his arms and held her. The gesture was so kind that it undid her, and she clutched him, not wanting to let go. For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to be alone.

Poor Natalie. She had been so young and vivacious, so full of life with so much ahead of her. Her new apartment, internship, classes at the College of Art & Design…

He stroked her hair again, and she gulped back more tears, the tension in his hard body reminding her that he was only a stranger being kind, not a real friend. She couldn’t lean on him….

Finally she swiped at her eyes, managed to regain control. “What about your partner? Is he okay?”

He cleared his throat, then glanced down at his hands. “Parker is alive, but in critical condition. He suffered burns and multiple wounds. His leg was crushed and his lung collapsed.”

With an anguished look on his face, he pulled away and stood, putting distance between them. Guilt tightened her throat and chest. Why had she survived and Natalie died? Why had his friend suffered?

“I’d like to ask you some questions about the fire…if you’re up for it.”

She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “I don’t know what I can tell you. I went to the ladies’ room, then I heard something crash and I heard screaming. People panicked and ran out.”

“You don’t know how the fire started?”

She shook her head. “The stall door was stuck, so I had to crawl underneath it. By the time I reached the door to the bar, a beam had fallen, and flames filled the doorway blocking my path.” She hesitated, felt those moments of panic and fear clawing at her. Saw the fire chewing at her legs when she’d fallen. Heard that second beam come roaring down on her. Her own scream of helpless terror.

She’d thought she was going to die. Had tried to push the beam off of her, first with her hands, then her mind, but there had been no time.

“Did you see anyone suspicious before then?” he asked.

“I…don’t think so.” Her head felt fuzzy, disoriented again, and she closed her eyes, tried to concentrate, but all she could do was think about Natalie screaming. Natalie dying. Natalie never coming back.

“You were at the café earlier tonight, too, weren’t you?”

She clenched her hands, forced her eyes back open. “Yes, I can’t believe it. Two fires in one night.”

He frowned. “You were inside when the fire broke out?”

She nodded reluctantly.

“Why did you run away?” he asked, his voice harder now. “We were questioning everyone at the scene.”

She couldn’t quite look at him. “I don’t know. I was upset. I just wanted to escape.”

“Did you see anything suspicious inside the café?”

“No.”

He studied her for a long moment, and she willed him to leave, not to push her anymore. Her head ached, her eyes hurt and grief for Natalie clogged her throat.

“I’ll let you rest,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll be back tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”

She nodded, miserable, still shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to curl up and cry for her friend, wanted to be alone in her sorrow.

Yet she didn’t want him to go. Didn’t want to be alone. She’d been alone all her life.

But he stepped out the door and closed it behind him, leaving her with her misery and the memory of her friend’s face to haunt her.

His question echoed in her head. Had she seen anyone suspicious at the café or the bar? Had someone set that fire intentionally?

If so, then he had murdered Natalie…

HIS BODY SWELLED with arousal as he lingered in the shadows across from the Pink Martini. So much chaos. People panicking. Crying. Screaming. Gawking in horror and awe at the amazing fireworks display he’d started.

The firefighters had worked so diligently, sweating and shouting orders, hacking away fallen debris to save the injured and extinguish the mountainous blaze. They’d done their best to drown out his handiwork, but they had been too late. Too late to save the woman and man who’d died.

Death…such a nice perfect ending to a dull day. Except neither had actually melted into the fire because their bodies had been rescued first.

Adrenaline fired his blood at the thought of watching flesh and skin sizzle, and he realized that the high from watching wood and plastic burn was no longer enough to satisfy him.

He wanted, needed more. Craved the deeper, more exhilarating euphoria arousing him now at the thought of a body being consumed by the flames.

Yes, next he wanted to see a human burn.

Maybe the redhead…

Her hair was the same rich red, orange and yellow of the flames. He was drawn to her. Wanted to touch her. Make her quiver with fear. Elicit a scream from her pale throat as he turned her body into a playground for his pleasure.

He had seen the terror in her eyes when she’d been trapped in that bathroom. But she had shown amazing courage by running through the blaze.

Then she’d gone down, and a surge of excitement had seized him. She had been trapped beneath the fiery beam of wood. The fire would have eaten her alive in seconds.

Had it not been for that cop. The one man he hated.

It was the second time tonight Bradford Walsh had shown up and ruined his fun. Pretending to be some kind of savior…

But he knew the real detective Walsh—Brad boy he liked to call him.

Brad boy, the traitor.

Soon everyone else would see him for the weak failure he was.

A chuckle rumbled from his chest. Brad boy had no idea who he was dealing with. Or the power he possessed.

He had the gift of fire in his fingers. He would use it again and again, make each mark more impressive.

And no one could stop him.

Chapter Four

Rosanna Redhill’s tortured, tearstained face haunted Bradford as he drove back to the bar. The firefighters were still battling the remnants of the blaze, the arson investigator from the county surveying the scene.

He strode toward Adam Black, the captain of the department.

“How’s Kilpatrick?” Black asked.

Bradford shook his head. “Alive, but critical. Burns, a crushed leg and lung.”

Black frowned, anger darkening his eyes. “How about you?”

“Pissed.” Bradford gestured toward the ashes and embers of the bar, then around at the crowd still watching. “This one can’t be accidental.”

“I agree, that’s why I called the CSI team out here immediately. I think we’re dealing with a serial arsonist. And he just upped the stakes.”

Bradford nodded in agreement. So far, he liked Captain Black. He was fair, smart, commanded respect and knew the innerworkings of Savannah and the Coastal Island Research Park. “You’re right. And he’s going down for murder,” Bradford said, thinking about Rosanna’s friend Natalie.

“You’re done tonight. Go home, get some rest,” Black ordered.

“No, I want to help here. I have to.”

Ignoring Black’s scowl, he joined the other officers questioning the spectators, and spent the next two hours trying to get a lead on what had happened. But everyone he questioned shared the same story. They hadn’t seen anyone set the fire. Flames had suddenly shot up from behind the bar. Then near the doorway, and on the stage.

Possibly faulty lighting? He didn’t think so. Someone had set the fire; he just had to figure out who and how they’d done it.

The owner of the bar, a big guy named Benny, looked shaken and furious. “I can’t believe this damn mess. I just opened the bar this month.”

Like Hazel, the man had invested all his money into the establishment. He was insured, but the labor costs and time spent rebuilding would mean more money lost.

If Benny had intentionally set the fire for insurance purposes, why do so when the bar was filled to capacity? He would have waited until it was empty, wouldn’t have chanced injuries or deaths, which would stir more questions and bring more serious charges against him if caught.

Two hours later, Black informed him that they had everyone’s contact information and again ordered him to go home. They would meet in the morning with the CSI team, then officers would be dispersed to requestion the people who’d been in the bar.

Exhausted, the adrenaline and anger that had fueled Bradford to keep working waned as he drove toward Tybee Island.

He’d thought living near the ocean might provide a few days of relaxation in between shifts. That the sea air and warm weather might improve his mood swings and help him regain his control over a temper that had nearly cost him his job back in Atlanta. But so far he’d yet to have a day off to enjoy the beach or to go fishing.

As he left town, the city gave way to narrow country roads sprinkled with sea oats and small weathered shacks and cottages. He crossed the bridge and inhaled the salt air and smell of the marshland.

Though the island was only a few miles from downtown Savannah, the celebration had drawn a large crowd. Traffic was a bitch, and it took him over thirty minutes to reach the small house he’d rented. He killed the engine, climbed out and walked up the shell-lined driveway.

Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, he unlocked the door, flipped on a light and welcomed the churning sound of the air conditioner. A frozen pizza, a shower and some shut-eye before the next shift would rejuvenate him.

He only hoped the holiday didn’t bring out more crazies tonight. After all, it was a full moon. And celebrations meant boozing, which often led to trouble.

His own past proved that to be a fact. His little brother, Johnny…

A drunk. An arsonist. A murderer.

In jail now.

And he hated Bradford for it. Blamed him for everything. His screwups. His father’s death.

His arrest and sentencing.

One reason Bradford had relocated after leaving Atlanta. That and the need for a detective here in Savannah.

He’d thought he’d seen it all over his years, had worked special ops in the marines, had been assigned to a missing persons unit in Atlanta, but the bizarre cases with CIRP and Nighthawk Island topped the list of stranger-than-fiction and had piqued his interest.

Tonight’s fires had nothing to do with that, though. But they did make him wonder.

He heated up the pizza, grabbed a beer from the fridge, then took them outside on the patio to eat. The earthy smell of grass, ocean and sea oats helped to cleanse his lungs of the smoke, but the images in his mind refused to disappear.

The blazing building. The dead man on the floor with his jugular sliced. The pale face of Natalie Gorman in death. The redhead Rosanna beating the flames off of her, yet worried about her friend.

And his partner, seriously injured.

Parker…he would survive, the doctor had said. But would he ever recover? Would he walk again? Be able to go back on the street?

He closed his eyes, wondering how he would feel if he had been in Parker’s place. He lived and breathed his job. He’d be lost without it.

Yet lately he’d been filled with restless energy. With the need for something more.

Hell, he just missed having a family. A father who was alive. A mother who spoke to him. A brother who didn’t hate him.

A woman who…wanted him. At least for a night.

Rosanna’s face materialized in his mind, and his body hardened. She had felt so light and fragile in his arms, her voice raspy, but as whispery soft as an angel’s. And those eyes, they had mesmerized him and turned him inside out. When she’d touched his hand to comfort him about Parker, a hot feeling had splintered through him.

Hunger.

Even with her face and hands stained with soot, and her red hair tangled and smoky, he had thought naughty things.

Like how the soft silkiness of her hair would feel against his belly. The way her delicate hand had felt pressed against his chest, holding on to him. Clutching him. Needing him. How it would feel if she’d moved it lower.

He hadn’t wanted to leave her, not with the way she’d cried in his arms when he’d had to reveal the awful truth that her friend hadn’t survived.

He’d seen guilt in her eyes, too.

Guilt he understood. Guilt he related to. Guilt forced him to get up in the morning and keep fighting criminals.

A life that had robbed him of morality, female companionship and a future that evolved around nothing but dealing with other bastards.

Still, like the bastard he was, when he closed his eyes again and inhaled the salty air, he saw Rosanna reaching for him, stripping naked and climbing into his bed.

Begging him to take her.

But she had nearly died tonight. Was a material witness in a possible arson case. A case he had to crack.

He could not get involved with her. Not even for a quick, one-night interlude. Not even if visions of her naked taunted him for the rest of his life.

He gripped the edge of the chair as a disturbing thought struck him. Rosanna Redhill had been present at both fires tonight.

So had her friend Natalie.

He needed to question her again. One motive for arson was revenge. If she wasn’t involved in the arson, she or her friend might be connected to the man who’d started it. And she definitely might have seen the man who’d set the fires…

GHOSTS ROSE from the grave stalking toward Rosanna, their hollowed, brittle bones rattling in the wind, their bulging eyes staring at her with accusations, their screams of terror echoing through the rows of tombstones.

Natalie was there. Shocked and searching, wondering what had happened, still not ready to accept that her young life had ended so unexpectedly.

Her voice whispered for help, pleading with Rosanna to save her, to bring her back to life.

To find her killer.

Rosanna jerked awake, perspiration soaking the hospital nightgown, her breath rushing from her chest in erratic puffs. She blinked against the darkness, and a tingle of alarm rippled through her. She felt someone’s presence in the room, felt an undercurrent of a spirit’s energy charging the air. Smelled the lingering fragrance of Natalie’s jasmine perfume.

Crazy. She might have thought she’d made that firepoker move years ago, but she hadn’t. And she certainly had never communed with the dead or had visits from ghosts. She’d never even felt a spirit’s presence before.

Well, except for Granny Redhill…

Inhaling to calm herself, she detected another odor. Masculine. Sweat. Smoke.

Danger.

She jerked her head around, certain she’d find a man lurking in the room, but only shadows hovered in the corner.

The door stood slightly ajar though.

It had been closed when she’d finally succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep.

Perhaps the nurse had come in to check on her. Or could someone else have been in her room?

Ridiculous. She did not have a stalker, ghost or otherwise. It was just her overactive imagination.

The room smelled like smoke because she hadn’t showered since being pulled from the blaze. The masculine scent probably lingered from Detective Walsh’s visit.

Shivering in spite of the heat, she rolled to her side facing the door, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. She didn’t want to have another nightmare, to see ghosts or Natalie’s tormented expression, or hear her voice begging for help.

She wanted to turn the clock back and talk Natalie out of going to the Pink Martini.

And she wanted to see Detective Walsh again.

God, she was crazy.

But she would see him again, she thought with another frisson of panic. He’d ask questions. Want to know what she’d been doing at the club. Where she worked.

What if he looked into her past? What if he discovered the truth?

Her hands shook as she clutched the sheet to her chin. She’d have to be prepared. Answer curtly. Keep it to the point, focus on Natalie and what she’d seen at the bar.

Which had been nothing.

She’d tell him that, then he would leave and she would never have to see him again.

Then she would be safe.

And alone again just as she had always been.

Then she could explore this gift, if she really possessed one, and learn how to control it so she would never hurt anyone else again.

Determination gave her courage, and she finally relented to the fatigue draining her and fell asleep.

But when she awakened hours later, she was dreaming about the detective who had saved her from the burning building. This time he was making love to her, and she moaned in pleasure as he caressed her body with his hands, with his hungry kisses, and drove her into oblivion with the sweet lapping of his tongue across her nipples and inner thighs.

When she stirred awake, she saw him sitting in the chair beside her bed, quietly watching her. She could still feel the intense pounding of his body inside hers, the feel of his lips on her skin, the tremors of her orgasm from her dream. His eyes darkened as if he’d read her thoughts, knew the nature of her dreams.

The realization sent a flush to her face. In the next second, that flare of coldness settled back into his eyes, and she had the sudden urge to run from his scrutiny.

If he made her feel so rattled in her sleep, how would she react if he ever really touched her? And if he could turn cold in seconds flat, what would happen if he knew the truth about her?

BRADFORD STARED into Rosanna’s sleepy gaze, his body hard from watching her sleep and hearing those tiny moans she’d elicited. When she’d first begun to sigh and claw at the covers, he’d thought she was having a nightmare about the fire. Reasonably so and expected.

Then that glass of water had tipped over, and spilled and he’d wondered what the hell had happened. She hadn’t touched it and neither had he.

She must have bumped the table when she was twisting in the bed.

When he’d looked back at her, a slow smile had curved that delicate, pouty mouth, and she’d run her hands over her breasts and thighs. He’d realized then that her dreams were more gratuitous. Sexual maybe.

And those moans…they whispered of pleasure. Satisfaction. Arousal.

Which had excited the hell out of him.

Irritated at his body’s traitorous response, he stifled a growl, shifting to hide the painful erection pressing against the fly of his jeans. Dammit. He was here to interrogate her, not drool over her body.

A very voluptuous, sexy body, he noted, thanks to that damn hospital gown coming untied and riding down her shoulder to reveal the delicious curve of one breast.

She cleared her throat, looking shaken. “Detective, how long have you been there?”

Long enough to know she was having sexy dreams. Who had been her lover?

Mentally shaking himself for wondering, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from asking. He’d had no rest the night before. And seeing her, realizing how attracted to her he was, wasn’t helping his mood.

He had no time for his libido. Not now.

Not with her.

“A few minutes,” he said quietly, a little too gruffly for comfort. Then unable to help himself, he asked, “Were you having a nightmare?”

She jerked her gaze from his, but guilt and some other emotion he couldn’t define colored her face. Had he not been so affected by her, he would have laughed.

He knew better than to play this game.

She seemed to notice that her gown had slipped then, and retied it, then yanked the sheet up to her chin. “I did earlier,” she admitted in a somber voice.

The pain in her eyes sucker-punched him.

“I dreamed Natalie was calling me for help, but I was too late.”

He clasped his hands together to keep from reaching for her. “There was nothing you could do.”

Her soft sigh tore at him.

“If I’d only convinced her not to go to the club, she would be alive.”

“So it was her idea to go?”

She nodded. “I’m not really into the club scene, but she begged me to accompany her. I thought she’d be safer if she didn’t go alone. Has her family been notified?”

He nodded. “They’re on their way. Can you talk about what happened?”

She swallowed as if gathering courage. “We both went in, ordered drinks. Natalie met a guy and they went to dance.” She hesitated. “I watched from a corner table.”

“Anybody with you?”

She shook her head. “I turned down a couple of drunk guys then went to the bathroom. Like I told you before, the fire started while I was inside the ladies’ room.”

He twisted his mouth in thought. “Did you know the guys who asked you to dance?”

She shrugged. “No. And they certainly weren’t upset enough to get violent. I assume they moved onto the next girl.”

Something in her tone sounded self-deprecating, but he decided not to explore it. “What about Natalie? Did she have a boyfriend who might have seen her with this other man and gotten jealous?”

She shook her head again. “No boyfriend. She just moved back here a few weeks ago.”

“Where did she work?”

“She was interning at a design studio and taking classes at the Savannah College of Art & Design.”

“What about you?”

She clamped her teeth over her lower lip for a minute. “I own a shop called Mystique. We sell specialty gifts, New Age books, stories of local folklore and ghost legends, candles, voodoo kits and dolls.”

He frowned, still mesmerized by her eyes but disturbed by her answer. So she was into that New Age crap. Probably believed in the supernatural and local ghost legends.

“How did you and Natalie meet?”

She hesitated again, this time looked away as if she didn’t want to answer.

“She visited the store,” she finally said quietly.

He waited, wondering, testing to see if she’d fill the silence and volunteer more information. Instead tension vibrated between them. She didn’t fit the profile of an arsonist, and didn’t seem like the vindictive type to set a fire to hurt anyone. But it still struck him as odd that she’d been present at both scenes.

Although she’d given him no reason to think she or Natalie had been targets or that she knew the arsonist, he definitely wanted to find out more about Rosanna Redhill. What made her tick, what made her so intriguing, what made him want to hold her when they had nothing in common.

Why he wanted to ask if she had a boyfriend or any lovers when it probably had nothing to do with the case.

Why he sensed she was hiding secrets, that she wasn’t at all the innocent angel she appeared to be.

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