Lisa Childs - Hot Attraction

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.”