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“What’s the matter, Russell? Afraid you might like me in spite of yourself?”
It was already too late for that. Kiley Russell faced him. “Don’t misunderstand. I think we can work together just fine, but let’s keep things strictly business.”
“All right.”
“Which means we probably shouldn’t be dancing.”
Collier released her arm. “Gotcha.”
Ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach. Kiley watched as he turned and made his way through the crowd toward the bar. Good. Now there would be no misunderstandings, no more dancing, no more touching.
Her gaze traced the broad line of his shoulders, the slightly ragged edge of his dark hair as she recalled the seductive feel of his hard body against hers.
Who was she kidding?
What she felt for him was hotter and more dangerous than mere “like.”
Melting Point
Debra Cowan
DEBRA COWAN
Like many writers, Debra made up stories in her head as a child. Her B.A. in English was obtained with the intention of following family tradition and becoming a schoolteacher, but after she wrote her first novel, there was no looking back. After years of working another job in addition to writing, she now devotes herself full-time to penning both historical and contemporary romances. An avid history buff, Debra enjoys traveling. She has visited places as diverse as Europe and Honduras, where she and her husband served as part of a medical mission team. Born in the foothills of the Kiamichi Mountains, Debra still lives in her native Oklahoma with her husband and their two beagles, Maggie and Domino.
Debra invites her readers to contact her at P.O. Box 30123, Coffee Creek Station, Edmond, OK 73003-0003 or via e-mail at her Web site at: www.debracowan.net.
This book is dedicated to firefighters.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest gratitude to David Wiist, retired Chief of Fire Prevention, Edmond, OK, a true gentleman who patiently answers countless questions; to Jack Goldhorn, PIO, Norfolk Fire Rescue, Norfolk, VA, whose enthusiasm always makes me smile. Both of you go beyond the call to help me with accuracy. Any errors are mine. To Linda Goodnight, nurse, writer and friend, and her wonderful son, Dr. Travis Goodnight. Finally to my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins. Thanks for never giving up.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
A gunshot exploded in the frigid night, the sound cutting sharply through the thunking of the hydrant valve and the water gushing through the fire hose. In full turnout gear, Presley firefighter Collier McClain threw himself to the ground. A few yards in front of him, at the door of the burning warehouse, Dan Lazano wobbled and fell. The nozzle flopped. Collier automatically moved his hand up the line to gain control and shouted, “Mayday! Firefighter down!”
Keeping the nozzle on and water streaming into the building, he belly-crawled forward. Light from the flames illuminated Lazano’s steel-soled boot. Collier wet down the surrounding space, making a “safe area” for him and the injured man as the two-man Rapid Intervention Team from the Presley Fire Department followed the hose line straight to him.
The moon was a bloodless white, the January air brittle. Black smoke and hot water wrapped around Collier like a thermal blanket, burning his neck. He sprayed water on the safe area until Pitts and Foster reached Lazano, then he pushed the lever forward to turn off the nozzle.
As two other firefighters dragged in another line already shooting water, Collier moved out behind Lazano and the rescue crew. Pitts and Foster, firefighters and medics, dragged the injured man into the grass, yards away from the building. While they began administering basic life support, Collier yanked off his helmet and Nomex hood, his heart hammering in his throat.
“Damn,” Pitts yelled. “He’s gone.”
Collier followed the other man’s gaze and saw a dark wetness spreading over Lazano’s chest through a ragged hole in his turnout coat.
“McClain, is that Lazano?”
Through the stomp of feet and hiss of water and grunts of effort, he recognized Captain Sandusky’s voice and nodded. He stared down in disbelief at the black stickiness on his glove. Blood?
“What happened?”
Collier shook his head.
Sandusky knelt, reaching toward the downed man. “Is he out?”
“He’s dead.” Collier’s gaze locked with his captain’s.
The other man blinked, alarm rising in his voice. “Where did that gunshot come from?”
Collier jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Pitts and Foster looked away, their throats working.
“This is four.” The captain’s tortured words mirrored Collier’s thoughts.
Since October, three other firefighters had been murdered. Tonight’s victim and one other were from Station House Two.
Sandusky flipped on his flashlight, then cursed. “I’ll call the police. Your new boss, too.”
Collier stood there stunned, only one thought circling through his head. If he’d been first on the nozzle tonight, as he usually was, as he had tried to be, he would be the one lying dead in the grass.
A firefighter had been killed at a fire scene. Not by smoke or burns but by a gun. Murdered.
Detective Kiley Russell wished she didn’t have experience with anything like this, but she did. All of three months’ worth. Lieutenant Hager had paged her tonight because of the other firefighter murders she had been working since October. His grim announcement of another victim had balled a cold knot of dread in her gut. Serial killer. A sniper.
The first victim had been killed during a fire call at the gymnasium of Presley’s oldest high school. The second victim had been murdered five weeks later at a motel he’d checked into with a mystery woman. Number three, the only female, had been shot in her home garage.
Somebody was after the firefighters in this Oklahoma City suburb.
Kiley gathered her mass of wild red hair into a ponytail, stuffed her feet into sneakers and grabbed her heaviest coat out of the hall closet. Moving out of the house, she clipped her badge and holstered Taurus onto the waistband of her jeans. The new year was starting off with a bang. Literally.
January cold pressed the air like a thick layer of batting. As Kiley maneuvered her late-model Mustang through the streets of Presley, she called her sister’s cell phone and left a message so Kristin would know Kiley would miss their weekly Saturday breakfast just a few hours from now.
She headed for the south side of town and Benson Street, an industrial area that housed several warehouses. The fire was at Rehn’s Coffee