Pleasantly surprised when the man didn’t argue or ask questions, but immediately pulled out his phone to start taking photos, she glanced around briefly in search of anyone who stood out, or didn’t seem to belong there. But while her eyes were searching the surrounding area, CJ’s brain seemed stuck on Mac’s comment about guarding his body. He was right, of course, someone was going to have to stick close to this man day and night, watching over him while he slept, showered, and shaved. Much as she disliked admitting it, under normal circumstances, she might not have minded such a chore herself. It wouldn’t have been a hardship. At least not on the eyes. The flashing lights of the fire truck were strobing over him occasionally, giving her a better look at the man. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he was a beefcake. His hair and clothes were still a little damp from his time in the tub, and his cotton T-shirt was clinging to his chest, emphasizing his muscular physique, while the pajama bottoms were clinging to other more interesting bits with enough intimacy that it wasn’t hard to tell that his chest wasn’t the only thing that was big on the man. Of course, that could just be a trick of the flickering shadows being cast by the lights on the ambulance and fire trucks. It didn’t really matter, though; these weren’t normal circumstances, because her life wasn’t normal and hadn’t been for three and a half years.
Besides, none of this was her problem, she acknowledged. In fact, her assistance here was no longer needed. She’d helped with what she’d agreed to and could leave.
“I’m heading out,” she announced, loud enough for Simpson to hear, and then told Mac, “Stay close to Officer Simpson. He’ll keep you safe.”
“You’re leaving?” Mac asked with a combination of dismay and a tone that was almost accusing.
He made it sound like she was abandoning him, CJ thought, but merely nodded, and said, “Simpson is in charge here. He’ll drive you back to the station where I’m sure Captain Dupree will arrange some protection for you, Mr. Argeneau.”
“I want you.”
Two
I want you. The words echoed in CJ’s head, sounding really suggestive to her. It also sent a strange shiver through her body that she had absolutely no desire to analyze. She had no interest in men, and the chaos and mess having relationships with them caused. CJ had learned her lesson well during her marriage. Men were bad news. Really bad news. She’d learned that lesson so well she’d resigned herself to living her life alone. Not a big deal. Get a dog for companionship, and buy a vibrator to deal with sexual tension, and you were pretty much covered if you knew how to change tires and fix leaky taps yourself. Fortunately, CJ knew how to do both.
“He’s right. We should keep him close for his own protection,” Simpson said suddenly, and CJ turned to him with surprise. The man hadn’t said a word while she’d asked questions, and now decided to join the conversation? Apparently, he was finished taking the photos she’d requested. Although he couldn’t have got each of the license plates on the vehicles in the driveway, but probably planned to get that on his way out, CJ decided. But she merely smiled grimly at his comment as she closed his notepad and slid it back into his front chest pocket along with his pen. Patting the outside of the pocket then, she said easily, “Yes, you should. You’d better take him back to the station and see what Dupree wants to do about that, then.”
CJ had already started to turn away when Simpson said, “I don’t have a vehicle.”
Pausing, abruptly, she swung back around. “What?”
“I was riding with Jefferson,” Simpson explained, his face still oddly devoid of expression. “He left me and the evidence-gathering kit here, but took the patrol car to go on another call. I was hoping to catch a ride back to the station with you.”
Which meant letting Mac Argeneau into her car too, CJ thought, and found herself really reluctant to agree to that. She had no idea why. It was just a car. She’d ridden in lots of cars with lots of victims over the years. Although usually it was criminals she’d ridden with, and they had been handcuffed and behind the steel mesh cage or bulletproof glass that was installed between the front and back seats of police cars. She didn’t have either in her own car, because she wasn’t meant to be transporting criminals . . . or victims. But she couldn’t see a way to get out of it, so muttered, “Let’s go, then,” and realizing how ungracious that sounded, she added, “I’m ready to call it a night and go back to the bed-and-breakfast where I’m staying. I’ll take you two to the police station first.”
CJ didn’t look around to be sure Simpson and Mac were following her as she headed for her car. She just hurried down the driveway, eager to get out of there. It wasn’t until she’d reached her vehicle and peered back that she saw she was alone.
Huffing out an exasperated breath, CJ propped her hands on her hips and scanned the distance. The fire was out, but even without it adding to the illumination, the scene was somewhat lit by the headlights of the many vehicles scattered around the property. While a long line of pickups bordered the driveway, there were also several on the front yard itself, along with the two fire trucks and the ambulance. There were still dark spots, and strange shadows here and there, but she had no problem making out the group of emergency workers still moving around. Or standing around, really, she thought, noting that the only ones actually moving now were two men working the hose to continue wetting down the interior and exterior of the house.
Her gaze slid over the people gathered by the ambulance, but they were in one of those shadows and she couldn’t tell who made up the group, so she let her eyes shift over the rest of the yard until she spotted Simpson with what looked like a large fishing tackle box but she knew was actually his evidence-gathering kit. She’d forgotten all about that, CJ realized, and relaxed a bit, some of her annoyance sliding away. He might have forgotten about questioning the victim, but at least he hadn’t forgotten the evidence. That was something, she supposed as she watched the young officer walk over to the group by the ambulance.
Once he reached it, a large figure stepped out of the center of the crowd and joined him. Macon Argeneau, she realized as the pair started down the long driveway, stopping at each vehicle so Simpson could take a photo of the license plate.
Argeneau moved like a panther, she thought as she watched the two dark figures make their way along the driveway. He was all sleek muscle, and smooth movement, which she found ridiculously attractive. CJ could have stood there watching him walk for hours, but then realizing just how much she was enjoying surveying his body as he approached, she turned abruptly and got into her car.
“Men,” she muttered to herself as she slammed her door closed. CJ didn’t have the time or patience to deal with them. She liked her life just the way it was: nice, peaceful, no drama. She didn’t need some strutting male stud rampaging through her life, waking up desires she hadn’t felt in years. Not that Mac Argeneau had done that, she reassured herself. So . . . he was attractive. She could appreciate that without it meaning anything. Hell, she thought Rodin’s The Thinker was beautiful too. Didn’t mean she wanted to sleep with the statue.
CJ tapped one finger on the steering wheel as she tried to figure out how long it would be before she could go to bed and get some sleep. She was obviously tired. That was probably why she found Mac attractive: exhaustion. She’d rectify that quickly. She’d take Officer Simpson and his arson victim to the police station, and check in to see if Jefferson was still around. If he was, she would question him. If he wasn’t, she’d find out when his next shift started and flee to the safety of the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying.
Jefferson was the reason she was here, CJ reminded herself. She was going to handle her investigation as quickly as she could and get the hell out of Dodge—or Sandford as the case may be—and drive straight back to Mississauga to present her findings to her superior. Then she would forget all about Macon (hot as hell Mac) Argeneau and get on with her nice, quiet, peaceful life where her hormones played hide-and-seek with her instead of running amok at the smell of woods and spice.
The front passenger door opened and that very scent rushed into the car and straight up her nose to make the synapses in her brain start firing like a roll of caps lit on fire. Blinking her eyes open, CJ ignored the sudden chaos in her head, and watched Mac settle in the front seat next to her.
“I hope we did not keep you waiting long.” He offered her a smile that she saw only briefly before he closed the door and the car’s interior light went out again. Even that brief view was enough to have her pulse fluttering like a Victorian virgin at the threat of being ravished. It had left an imprint in her mind, an impression of his face, and what a gorgeous face it was: piercing silvery blue eyes, full pink lips, sharp cheekbones, firm chin, and a nice straight nose under dark brown hair. But dark brown was too pedestrian a description of the hair color she’d glimpsed; it was mostly dark brown but streaked with every color in the brown spectrum from pale beige sand to the dark brown of coffee beans, and even a few splashes of red strands thrown in. The man could have been a model with his looks, CJ thought, and then the back door opened behind her and the light flickered on again.
“Sorry. I had to get the evidence kit,” Officer Simpson explained as he slid in with his tackle box.
“It’s fine,” CJ growled, and started the engine as he closed the door. The car radio immediately began to blast classic rock and she reached quickly to turn it off, recognizing even as she did that the song playing was Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” . . . which was something she was well acquainted with. Comfortably numb was pretty much how she’d been going through life the last few years. It was a state she’d embraced, but one she feared she’d have trouble holding on to with Macon Argeneau around. Thank God he wouldn’t be in her car, or her life, for long.
Twenty minutes, she told herself. That’s how long the ride back to the station would be, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about, or see, Macon (sexy as hell Mac) Argeneau again. Just one twenty-minute silent car ride. She could handle that, she reassured herself. Just concentrate on the road and don’t look at the man.