“So, when's he sending in the new guy?”
“Surprise. He didn't care. You're still stuck with me. Now get out of my way before I call the cops.”
Logan stepped to one side and let her go even though he wanted to grab her and kiss her over and over until she forgot about the letter, about her things going up in smoke. Until she believed him when he said he was innocent.
Instead, he was going to head back up into Desolation Wilderness on the trails behind Joseph's house and cover the same ground he'd gone over a dozen times during the past two weeks, to make sure there weren't any new fires to put out.
An hour later, Maya sat on a faded bedspread in a motel two blocks away from her old one, trying to forget Logan's kiss—and the way his gentle touch had pierced straight through her heart. Forbidden yearning tore at every last one of her principles, straining them to the breaking point.
Her years as an arson investigator should be giving her a window into Logan's life as a potential firefighter-turned-arsonist. And yet, she could only see him through a woman's eyes, as a man who knew how to give her everything she desired.
But it was more than his kisses that drew her to him. Everything he'd said about her brother had been sincere. Even his surprising offer to help her look into the apartment fire that had killed Tony.
She hadn't let anyone in that close since Tony's death. But Logan hadn't waited for her to open the door. He'd walked inside before she even realized what had happened and got her talking about her brother and how much she missed him.
A loud bang from the parking lot startled her and she jumped off the bed. Her conversation—and her kiss— with Logan had taken up so much space in her head that she'd almost forgotten not only the fire in her room, but the horrible note someone had left for her in the fire-box. It hit her anew that she was in danger, and her heart raced while she prepared herself to fight an unknown predator, hands up, legs braced apart.
Seconds crept by as she waited for someone to crash through the door. But the only sounds that followed were the TV turning on next door and a toilet flushing. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed, taking a couple of deep breaths as she waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. Someone had slammed their car door or started up a rusty engine and she'd just about lost it.
That's what she got for romanticizing her suspect and taking her eye off the ball for even one second. Work. She needed to get back to work.
First, she called the rental car agency, but their outgoing message said they'd closed for the night and wouldn't reopen until 10 A.M. She was supposed to meet a helicopter pilot at the local airstrip at 6 A.M., but without a car she had no way to get there.
She fished around in her bag for the emergency contact number for the Flights of Fancy pilot. The receptionist she'd spoken to that morning had told her to call if there were any changes in her schedule. Five minutes later, she'd worked out the details with a guy named Dennis. He'd come pick her up at her motel and drop her off when they were done.
Putting down the phone, she looked up and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the dresser. She lifted a hand to her disheveled hair. Her suit was sandy and covered with soot. She looked like she'd been in a war zone. She could easily buy a comb and fix her hair, but because her suitcase had been destroyed in the fire, changing into clean clothes wouldn't be quite so easy.
Again, she was struck by a deep sense of violation, even though she'd only lost one piece of luggage and her computer; and it was a strange feeling, being scared. She brushed off her clothes and shook out her hair as she stood up. She refused to let fear—or even anger—get the best of her for one more minute. She needed to get out of her room. Get something to eat. Buy some clothes to wear the next morning. Then crawl under the covers and get some rest.
She'd need to be on her toes tomorrow. Logan, she was certain, would be back on her trail. And he knew exactly how to push every one of her buttons.
Well, she'd be pushing back. Hard. And she wouldn't stop until she knew who was responsible for both the Desolation Wilderness fire and last night's structure fire and note.
She headed down to the gift shop and grabbed a couple of the least offensive T-shirts and sweatpants among the “Love Lake Tahoe” gear for sale, along with a pair of Crocs.
She'd buy proper new clothes tomorrow when regular stores were open, but she doubted the helicopter pilot would care if she was wearing sweatpants and recycled plastic shoes at 6 A.M. Heck, he probably expected people to look like shit at sunrise. The panties were the only thing that really gave her pause, the word “Lake” on one cheek, “Tahoe” on the other, capped off with a big heart over the crotch. But since no one was going to see her without clothes on, it didn't matter.
And then, just as she was about to head for the diner attached to the side of the motel, she decided to make one more phone call, to look into something that had been bothering her all day. Using the pay phone in the hotel lobby, she called the anonymous tip line.
“Hello. Lake Tahoe Crime Stoppers. How may I help you?”
Maya quickly explained that she was an arson investigator working on the Desolation Wilderness case and gave her Cal Fire employee and Social Security numbers so that the woman could log onto the system and verify her identity.
“I was hoping you could pull up the audio for a tip given on Monday afternoon.”
She heard the woman click around on her computer. “Got it. Would you like to hear it now?”
“Yes, thank you.”
A moment later she heard a very strange voice say, “I'm calling to tell you that someone I know has been lighting fires in Desolation Wilderness. His name is Logan Cain. And he's a hotshot.”
Unease twisted Maya's stomach in knots. “Could you please repeat it for me?” she asked, but even after hearing it several times in a row, Maya couldn't tell if it was a man or woman speaking. The voice had an unreal quality to it.
“There's something strange about the voice, isn't there?”
“Now that you mention it,” the woman said, “it does sound weird. Almost like it's a machine and not a person. It was a voice mail left after hours, otherwise I'd let you speak to the volunteer who took the tip.”
Maya thanked the woman and headed into the diner. Ten minutes later she stared into her chicken cranberry salad, remembering what Logan had said about someone naming him on the tip line because of a grudge. Was he right? He'd been unfailingly kind about her brother. Could Logan do anything this cruel? Again she wondered, should he even be a suspect?