Playing with Fire by Debra Dixon Page B

so you thought you’d do it again.”
    She started to protest, but the pressure on her arm cut her off.
    “You never walked out on this balcony. You didn’t see the fire from up here because you didn’t need to. You set it, Maggie. All you had to do was call it in. Call me in. And wait for the fireworks. That
is
what you wanted, Maggie, isn’t it? Fireworks? Like this?”
    He bent his knees and shifted so that her breasts pressed into his chest, so that her body molded to his hard contours. He tucked her arm behind his waist and trailed one finger along her neck. As his thumb outlinedher bottom lip, he mused, “The breathless act was brilliant, by the way. It suckered me right in. And the story about foster homes was inspired.”
    His words took on a cruel edge, even as his touch seduced her. “What I can’t figure out is why you have to go to this much trouble to get a man in your bed.”
    “
Oh, my God
,” Maggie whispered, uncertain whether she should be horrified, outraged, or just give in to laughter. “You think I’m a lonely woman with a faithful dog and nothing better to do than invent crises for male companionship.”
    Beau didn’t know what to think. The locked door had triggered a sixth sense that kept him alive through more fires than he could count. The click of that bolt snapping back had filled him with dread. He’d seen the pattern of vanity fire setters played out too many times. In too many ways. All the pieces fit neatly into place. Maggie St. John was looking for attention.
    Maggie inhaled deeply, struggling for control. Her fingers curled into the T-shirt beneath them, anchoring herself as the reality of Beau’s suspicions rocked her. “That is what you think.
Isn’t it?
”
    “Convince me otherwise.”
    “How could I do that? You’ve got everything figured out. You don’t want to be convinced. You don’t want to know why I locked the door. You want—”
    Maggie didn’t bother to finish the sentence. Standing this close, it was obvious what Beau wanted. Each movement of his hips sent a fresh current of awareness rippling through her. Deep inside she could feel the chain reaction beginning. Her body wouldn’t listen to the outrageof her soul. A tiny pulse began to throb; the baseline of her body’s sensual rhythm.
    “Convince me,” he whispered, and let his hands fall away from her face, sliding along her arm, her back, the curve of her hip. “Do it. Trust me. Tell me why you failed the polygraph. Tell me what scares you so much, you have panic attacks. Tell me why you fixed cookies and coffee like this was a date. Tell me about locking the door.”
    Suddenly she found herself focusing on his mouth, remembering how he could make her feel. She was only inches away from a mistake. “Don’t do this, Beau.”
    “Don’t do what? All I want are some answers. Am I making you tense, Maggie? Is that the problem?”
    “You know exactly what you’re doing, and this isn’t about answers anymore.”
    His face was so close to hers, close enough that she could feel his words against her cheek. “I’m not doing anything. I’m not even touching you, Maggie.”
    Slowly, by excruciating degrees, she realized that the only force holding her to Beau was her own desire. Maggie disengaged and put some distance between them. Beau shoved his hands in his back pockets, waiting. The sound of a car grew loud as it approached. Irrationally Maggie wanted to yell for help, and then it was too late. The sound faded, leaving her alone with Beau’s questions.
    “Why did you lock the door?” His voice was soft now, reassuring. For a moment she almost believed the lie that he cared. That he might accept what she had to say.
    Maggie leaned against the railing, bracketing her hips with her hands. “It was just a foolish reaction. Fire scares me. Even more than you do.” The smile was weak, but she made the attempt. “It’s so stupid really. I thought if I locked the door and pretended I didn’t see