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The classic line from Desmond’s favourite movie whispered through his head, as it always did when something about a fire site felt…wrong.
Desmond stood in the middle of the charred carcass of the Broken Downs living room, a homestead owned by the Deputy Prime Minister’s family for over one hundred and fifty years, and let his gaze run over the blackened remains of what was once opulent country furniture. Furniture paid for, no doubt, by Australian taxpayers.
He drew a slow breath, taking in the acrid smell of burnt varnish, wood, upholstery, carpet and plastic. Tasting it.
Analysing it.
This soon after the blaze—only a matter of hours, when it came down to it—the air still hung heavy with the taint. Fire didn’t just destroy property and possessions; it singed the air itself. Changed it.
Every fire was different, regardless of the cause. Not just the conditions, but the burn. The life of the fire told a story, as did the remains. And these remains were telling Desmond something wasn’t quite the way it looked.
Staying motionless, he replayed the inferno that had gutted the house, and this room in particular, in his head.
He hadn’t been here of course, when the homestead was destroyed. He didn’t need to be. He could see every lick of flame, could hear every crack as the structure surrendered to them. Without moving from where he stood, he knew where the flames were at their hottest, at their most greedy.
But what caused such ravenous hunger? And what directed such ferocious burn?
He fixed his focus on the far corner of the room, picturing an exquisitely carved antique armchair gifted to the Deputy PM by the French Minister for Foreign Affairs, where a charred pile of ash now sat.
The chair (or the lack of it)…
There was something…
For it to be nothing but ash now…
A faint crunch—the sound of a booted sole on charred floorboards—shattered the silence of the scene and he drew another breath, yanked from the moment by the one person he didn’t want to be near.
Damn it, she’s too much of a distraction.
Trying to maintain his focus on the corner, he narrowed his eyes. What had the insurance report said about the chair? What kind of wood was it carved from again? Teak? Mahogany? Both burned differently. Neither left ash like—
A whiff of something distinctly feminine tickled his senses. Nothing overt or cloying, just a hint of jasmine. Her shampoo? Her soap?
The chair. Focus on the—
“Far be it from me to question your technique, Des,” Jess said, the prickly distaste still in her voice. “But you haven’t moved from this spot for close to an hour now.”
“Fifty-three minutes,” he said without checking his watch. “And as yet, there is no need for me to do so.”
Another crunch of boot on burnt destruction, this one softer. More…contemplative. Considered.
A small smile tugged at the corners of Desmond’s lips before he could stop it. The captain of the Wallaby Ridge Rural Fire Brigade may be the feistiest woman he’d ever met, but she also knew how to move around a delicate fire scene without disturbing it, and that impressed him. Not many people did, even among seasoned firefighters.
An image of her petite frame navigating the chaos and desolation around them filled his mind, replacing the story the still-smoldering remains were trying to hide from him.
The snug, faded Levi’s and pristine white T-shirt, along with the swanlike column of her neck, high cheekbones and challenging eyes, sent a hot surge of base interest into the very pit of his existence. As did another hint of the subtle jasmine.
Damn it. This wasn’t what he’d planned. Not just because she made him think of all the heartache his alcoholic father had left in his incompetent wake, but because every molecule in his body wanted nothing more than to strip her naked and lose himself in the sweet sexual submission of her—
“The fire was completely out when you and Alexander arrived?” he asked without turning, knowing she was now standing right beside him. “Smothered by the storm?”
“That’s correct.”
“No extinguishing took place?”
“Not from the chopper. By the time we made it here, the Deputy PM’s resident staff was all accounted for and the homestead was a drenched mess. The storm had passed by and all that was left was free-floating smoke settled on the sodden remains, grey in colour and void of energy.”
Once again, Desmond found himself impressed by Jess. She knew the pertinent information to divulge and left out the dramatics a lot of other captains felt the need to bombard him with.
