“I didn’t get to see the colour of the flames of the driven smoke, nor the smoke’s density or velocity, so unfortunately I can’t report on either. The head caretaker of Broken Downs told me smoke ranged in colour from white to brown to black. Typical smoke for a typical house fire. The seat of the fire appears to be the kitchen, where, it would seem, someone emptied an ashtray into the garbage bin under the sink.”
Desmond cocked an eyebrow. “Appears? Seem?”
Her lips compressed. Her jaw bunched. God, what would that tiny knot of charged tension feel like against his lips?
“Can I assume,” he asked, all too aware his cock was beginning to become uncomfortably constrained in his boxers, “that you don’t agree?”
It was a loaded question, designed to bring his focus back on the investigation. He’d read her report on the flight to the homestead and knew damn well she didn’t agree with what the surface evidence presented. But he had to do something to smother the disarming notion his mind and body were suggesting.
She snorted, the sound brusque and angry. “You can. And I don’t.”
“Because?”
“Aren’t you here to decide the cause of the fire, Des?”
He allowed himself a slow smile. Did he dare tell her just how turned on he was by not only her perception and obvious skill at her job, but her prickly attitude toward him? “I am.”
Just that two-word answer. He returned his attention to the remains of the antique chair positioned near the smoke-blackened, charred stone fireplace. His gut told him the kitchen had little to do with the seat of the fire.
But the chair…
“Care to share your thoughts on the scene?” she asked, the question more like a challenge.
He flicked her a quick look, noting she’d crossed her arms beneath her breasts. He really wished she hadn’t. It drew his attention to how round and perfect they were.
“Given how thoroughly you’ve investigated it in the hour you’ve stood on this one spot,” she finished.
Yep, definitely a challenge in those eyes of hers. In the short time she’d known him, she’d painted him with the same brush as his father—and that brush was completely dipped in condescending-arsehole-who-thought-he-was-better-than-he-was red.
“Sixty-nine minutes,” he corrected, knowing it was going to piss her off. He wasn’t doing himself any favours with her, but she was bringing out a side of him he never released anywhere but in the privacy of his bedroom.
“I fucking knew you were a fucking prick.” Closing her eyes tight, she shook her head and let out a ragged breath.
He waited for her to regain her composure. Given how often her jaw clenched and her chest heaved, he suspected it was a fierce struggle.
“If you look at the burn damage on the concrete next to the fireplace,” she went on, a tenuous calm in her voice, and all hint of profanity gone, “you’ll notice a dark residue not found anywhere else.”
He followed the line her finger made as it pointed to the remains of the antique armchair his instincts kept whispering to him about.
The chair…
Yes, she was good at her job. Observant and attentive to little details. His gut stirred with professional interest and admiration. His groin tightened with something far more elemental, base and physical.
“And the main caretaker swears there is no smoking allowed in the homestead.” The declaration was uttered with that direct challenge again. “So there would be no reason for a cigarette—lit or not—to be deposited in an ashtray inside.”
She shifted her weight on her feet a little, the faint sound of crunching debris under her boots making him want to look at what angle her hips were now. Making him want to see how little he’d need to shift his own position to bring their thighs into contact with each other.
What would that feel like? Her thigh moving against his?
Before he could stop himself, he turned his gaze to her.
And found her studying him, the challenge gone from her eyes, replaced with something he hadn’t been prepared for.
Something as elemental and base and physical as the tension in his—
From his pants hip pocket, the sound of The Doors singing “Light My Fire” shattered the silence.
Desmond let out a muttered curse.