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  Another vehicle pulled into the car park as she slapped a copy of the contract on the desk. “I want a written receipt for that cheque, and the contract signed off. That’s the last payment you get out of Galbraith.”

  Harry began rummaging in the bottom drawer of the desk, presumably for the receipt book.

  Dani was surprised to see Tony Flynn stroll into the office.

  He tapped on the door. “Knock, knock. I know you’re in there, Harry.”

  Harry straightened with a grubby book in his hand. “It ain’t no secret.”

  Flynn drew two fingers in a lightning movement. “Bang, bang, you’re dead.”

  Harry froze like a rabbit caught in the headlights, then just as abruptly relaxed. “Very funny. Have you got that cheque for me?”

  Flynn blew on the end of his fingers and put his “gun” away. “Unfortunately.”

  An hour later, the terminated contract on the kitchen table, Dani celebrated by breaching the “wine cellar”—a cupboard over the kitchen counter which used to be packed with home-made preserves, but these days contained only minimal quantities of Aunt Ellen’s experimental fruit wines.

  Sitting down at the kitchen table, she eased the cap off a bottle of blackberry nip, sniffed the heady fragrance and poured a small amount into a glass. Ellen’s wines might have been experimental, but they were potent.

  Halfway through the glass, she tensed at the sound of a footfall. A brief knock on the door and Carter walked into the kitchen. “Looks like you’re celebrating.”

  Dani tilted the glass and sipped. The blackberry nip was so rich and sweet it had practically turned to syrup, but it had ignited a nice glow in her stomach. “I finished with the ostriches today.” She frowned as her tongue stumbled on the last word. Absently, she noted that her tongue was beginning to go numb.

  Carter eyed the bottle with suspicion. “You did what?”

  She tapped the contract, which was sitting on the table. “I paid the final instalment of the ostrich contract.”

  “I thought you’d done that last year.” He helped himself to a chair. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  He studied the bottle of blackberry nip with a jaundiced eye. “I’ll get myself a glass.”

  Dani pushed to her feet. That was Carter in a nutshell, give him an inch and he took a mile. “It’s my kitchen, my glass. I’ll get it.”

  The counter seemed a little further away than usual, and a little more difficult to get to. Placing the glass in front of him, she resumed her seat, feeling distinctly on edge.

  He poured a syrupy splash of wine. She retrieved the bottle and recorked it, putting an end to the grey area about whether or not either of them should have any more to drink.

  “Don’t you ever relax?”

  “Not lately.”

  She realized he was checking out the instalment amount, which was visible on the receipt Harry had stapled to the contract.

  His gaze connected with hers. “How much money have you got left?”

  The base of the glass hit her table with a click. Dani pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Letting him into her kitchen was borderline; giving him a drink was crazy. “That’s none of your business.”

  The sound of the ticking clock was loud in the kitchen as he studied the contract, making her itch to grab the piece of paper out of his fingers.

  “How much?”

  She noticed he hadn’t so much as sipped the wine. He was stone-cold sober, his control irritating. She walked to the door and opened it. The night air was fresh and cool, making the kitchen seem overheated and stuffy.

  “You’re broke.”

  “Not exactly.” She had the money from the jewellery to come, and a buyer lined up who wanted to look at the furniture. After she’d sold everything she could possibly stick a price tag on, then she would be broke.

  With a shrug, Carter moved past her, halting on the veranda.

  Dani fixed on the awkwardness in his normally fluid gait. “I didn’t know you were missing.” The words spilled out, but in that moment she didn’t care what they betrayed. He had almost died.

  “And no one informed you because you’re not listed as next of kin. My parents knew—eventually—but they were hamstrung. They were told to keep it quiet.”

  Dani understood the reasoning, even if she didn’t like it. If the press had gotten hold of the story they would have had a field day and jeopardized any chance of rescue. “None of this changes what doesn’t work between us.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Refresh my memory. What exactly is that?”

  He was a lot closer than he’d been a second ago. His fingers threaded with hers. If he’d just out-and-out grabbed her, turning him down would have been easy, but the light grip on her fingers bypassed all her defences and he knew it. With a slow, inevitable pressure, he pulled her closer, until she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, and as abruptly as flicking a switch loneliness surged, welling up inside her. As hard as she’d tried not to, she had missed him.

  His gaze settled on her mouth. “I didn’t kiss you last night—and I had the chance.”

  Her fingers curled into the lapel of his shirt. She could feel the ground dissolving from beneath her feet. “Not fair. You’re taking advantage.”

  His hands settled at her waist. “It’s the only advantage I’ve had in a year.”

  Her mouth twitched. “Or are likely to get.”

  His forehead touched against hers. “I called before I shipped out, and a couple of times from Brunei. Some of the calls were picked up, some weren’t. The woman who answered didn’t explain who she was or that Ellen was ill.”

  That would have been Harriet. She was gruff and no-nonsense, and as protective as a lioness with cubs. With Ellen critical in hospital, she had volunteered to fend off the constant stream of calls inquiring about Ellen’s condition so Dani could get some sleep between hospital visits. At the time, Dani had been in a state of shock and completely absorbed with Ellen. When Ellen had died things had gotten even more disjointed. David, who had been home for the holidays, had taken over, and various neighbours had helped with the arrangements and more or less taken over the phone. “Harriet was here for a couple of weeks.”

  “Whoever it was, she was like a guard dog.”

  His mouth came down, shutting off the confused tangle in her mind and for long minutes she floated in a sea of pure sensation. Her hands slid up around his neck as she gave in to the pressure to move in closer, fitting her body to his and for a few seconds glorying in the simple animal pleasure of being held. It had been almost a year since she’d been this close to Carter, a year since she’d felt female and wanted.

  A low humming sound vibrated from his throat, and abruptly the kiss turned hungry.

  A corresponding hunger surged, and with it a warning. This was where their relationship had always foundered. She always gave ground too fast and too easy.

  Long seconds passed while she forced herself to catalogue the myriad sensations and somehow find some distance. Her body felt hot and achy, her skin ultra sensitive. Kissing Carter wasn’t just like stepping close to a fire, it was the equivalent of throwing herself into a blast furnace. Her hands flattened against his chest. With an effort of will she dragged oxygen into her lungs and pushed free.

  He lifted his head. Inconsequentially, Dani noticed that if she had for one moment thought Carter was overcome by passion, she would have been wrong. Aroused he might be, but he was definitely controlled.

  His jaw tightened. “I had a discussion with Wells today. I can help you through this.”

  Dani detached herself with difficulty, despite the fact he was holding her steady more than holding her. For a moment she had trouble grasping the fact that he’d been talking to the bank manager. Wells, despite his GQ appearance, was the original stuffed shirt. He’d refused to talk about Tom Stoddard’s situation with her, but he’d talked about her finances with Carter. The only reason he would
have done that was if Carter had linked himself with her relationship-wise.

  Stone-cold sober now, she stepped back, using the jamb of the kitchen door for support. “What are you suggesting, exactly?”

  His gaze didn’t flicker. “Let me help with the money.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “No strings.”

  Dani didn’t believe him. She studied the line of his jaw, the steady way he watched her. Since he’d come back Carter had changed. He was harder, more abrupt. The physical passion was still there—his drive to get her back in his bed—but there was a coldness underlying it, something almost clinical. She’d turned down his proposition a year ago, now she was certain he was using her financial difficulties as leverage. She knew he was attracted to her and that, like her, he didn’t like the vulnerability that came with it. She understood that he wanted to contain and control the relationship in any way he could, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  Galbraith Station was valuable, but it wasn’t worth that much, and she figured she was worth a whole lot more.

  Her fingers curled around the edge of the door. With a jerky movement she stepped inside and heaved it closed. “Get lost.”

  She was in love with Carter—it had happened, period. The extremity of what she felt was singular and terrifying, but she didn’t trust it. It made her vulnerable in a way she had never wanted to be.

  When Carter reached his kitchen, he picked up the phone and placed a call.

  Since quitting the SAS to repair his marriage, Gabriel West had made the transition into the world of commerce as naturally as he’d slipped from his tough street-kid background into undercover operations. What he didn’t know about the personalities behind big business in New Zealand wasn’t worth knowing.

  Carter noted the name of the company that owned the ostrich facility on the notepad beside the phone. When West picked up, Carter was brief and to the point. “I need a favour.”

  Chapter 9

  Dora McIntosh was a monthly appointment and a home visit. An octogenarian and semi-disabled, all Dani could do for her was massage for pain relief and loosen up stiff joints, but they’d both gotten to enjoy the sessions and the afternoon tea that followed. Dora might be slow on her feet, but she was dynamite in the kitchen. People came for miles to visit and eat her scones and plum jam.

  Minutes after the physiotherapy session was finished, while Dora was pouring tea into translucent porcelain cups, Dani tensed. She could smell smoke.

  Making the excuse that she needed to use the bathroom, just in case she was going crazy, she walked down the narrow hallway with its muted runner and faded sepia photographs grouped on the walls. When she opened the door to one of Dora’s tiny back bedrooms, smoke and heat blasted out in a wave, sending her stumbling back.

  Slamming the door closed, Dani retreated down the hallway, which was now filled with smoke. Dora met her at the kitchen doorway, face pale, eyes frightened. The first order of business was to get Dora to safety. Besides suffering from arthritis, she was an asthmatic; the last thing she needed was an attack brought on by stress or a case of smoke inhalation.

  After gathering Dora’s handbag and her own things, she turned the knob on the front door. It wouldn’t budge. Seconds later, she found that the back door was also locked, and, like the kitchen door, the key was gone.

  After a frantic search that came up blank because the entire container of keys was missing, Dani pushed up one of the old-fashioned sash windows, helped Dora out, tossed out their bags and went back for Dora’s oxygen.

  When she’d made Dora comfortable in the passenger seat of her truck, Dani stood in the dense shade of the walnut tree that overhung the driveway, slipped her cell phone from her bag and made the call. Flames had already engulfed the back third of the house. Dani would do what she could with the garden hose, but Dora lived a good fifteen minutes out of town. By the time the fire crew arrived, it could be too late.

  The emergency operator picked up the call and began taking details. She paused in her list of questions, the tension almost palpable. “Didn’t I take a call from you last week?”

  The Barclay fire. “That was me. Same person, same town, same kind of emergency, although this time we also need an ambulance.”

  Less than twenty minutes later, the fire engine came to a halt in front of the house. It was followed by the ambulance and a police cruiser.

  Tony Flynn slid through the small knot of medics and fire fighters around the ambulance, the inevitable notepad and pen in his hand. “Who do you think set this fire, Mrs. McIntyre?”

  Dora paused as she was being helped into the back of the ambulance. Her gaze settled on the burnt remnants of her cottage. “What makes you think I know anything?”

  “Heard Dani Marlow called it in. Again.”

  The ambulance officer shot Flynn a hard look, and tried to get Dora up the steps.

  Dora resisted. “I would have called emergency services myself, but Dani was quicker. If she hadn’t been here, I would have died.”

  “Rumour is if she hadn’t been in your house, you’d still have one.”

  Dora’s mouth set in a line. “I don’t listen to gossip. Not spoken or printed.”

  The ambulance officer changed his grip, stepping around Dora as he did so and incidentally shouldering Flynn out of the way.

  The doors slammed on the ambulance. Seconds later it was on its way down the drive. Flynn’s gaze settled on Dani.

  Dani crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t bother.”

  Flynn’s expression lost some of its professional blankness and Dani realized he was loving this. Homes and livelihoods were being destroyed, but for Flynn it was a professional windfall. Career-wise, the Jackson’s Ridge fires were the best thing that had happened to him since he’d hit town.

  “People are saying whenever you turn up so do the flames.”

  A shadow fell over Flynn. “If you’re trying to snatch a quote out of the air, Flynn, forget it.”

  Carter. She’d been aware of him in the background, talking to Murdoch and Jackson’s Ridge’s only other police officer, Lowell Higgins. He must have arrived within seconds of the police cruiser. The only way that could have happened was if Murdoch had phoned him.

  Flynn flipped his notebook closed and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Just doing my job, Rawlings.”

  “First time I heard fiction was a legal part of it.”

  Flynn’s face hardened. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

  “Nothing. Yet.”

  Flynn barely registered the threat. Transferring his attention to Dani, he slipped a business card out of his pocket. “If you want to talk I can get you a deal on syndication, maybe even a chunk of dough from a magazine. Think about it.”

  Dani ignored the card. “Keep it, I won’t be changing my mind.” In Dani’s opinion, even if she had something to say, Flynn had brought a style of reporting to Jackson’s Ridge that the small community just didn’t need. The general consensus was that he was a city boy, as hard as nails and brash, but he would adjust to the slower, gentler pace in time. So far, despite Flynn’s enthusiasm for owning his own paper, he hadn’t shown any visible signs of softening, all he’d done was get up everyone’s nose.

  A loud crumping sound was followed by an explosion of smoke and steam as the roof on Dora’s cottage collapsed inward. Walter Douglas roared an order and the men directing a steady stream of water into the building pulled back as a wall collapsed outward.

  A slow burning anger ignited as Dani watched walls fall like dominoes. Within a matter of minutes Dora’s home—the house she’d lived in for sixty years—had been reduced to little more than a pile of smoking rubble, the pretty gardens around it destroyed. The fact that Flynn, and others, thought she might be responsible for the destruction faded in the face of what Dora had lost.

  A chill slid down her spine when she remembered the locked doors. In the scramble to get Dora to safety the cold deliberation o
f the act—locking them in the house while the fire was set—had barely registered. She’d simply opened a window and kept moving, but now that she had time to think, the intent behind the act took on a distinctly sinister note. Dora didn’t normally lock her doors, nor did she leave the keys sitting in the locks. Like everything else in Dora’s house they were kept with meticulous order—in a pottery bowl on the kitchen counter. The entire bowl had been missing, which meant that part of the crime had been as premeditated as the carefully set fire in the back bedroom—the room furthest away from the main living rooms of the house—where the blaze could get a good hold before they realised there was a problem.

  This fire hadn’t been lit by kids or a straight-out pyromaniac, it was the work of an ordered adult mind. She was certain the fire had been set with the intent to panic and injure, maybe even to kill. She wasn’t an arsonist—or a potential murderer—but someone else was. The problem would be convincing Murdoch of that fact.

  On cue, Pete Murdoch pushed through the knot of locals that had arrived to help. He nodded at Carter who had taken up a position beside her and for once Dani didn’t have one qualm about Carter’s presence or the subtext that went with it. Something had happened since her revelation of the previous day—the resistance that had always existed was gone. The issues that had destroyed their relationship remained and she didn’t know if she would ever be comfortable with the vulnerability that went with being in love, but on a subtle female level she had accepted him. She didn’t know how they would work things out, or if they ever could, but she didn’t question his right to protect her.

  After initial pleasantries, Murdoch slid his notebook out of his pocket, but when Flynn appeared, he rolled his eyes and jerked his head in the direction of his cruiser.

  Grimly, Dani fell in step beside Carter, and suspicion coalesced into certainty. “Murdoch’s the reason you’re here.”

  “He rang me when he got the call. We’ve got a theory.”

  “I hope it matches mine.”

  Dani perched on the edge of the front passenger seat and answered the standard questions. When Murdoch was finished she pushed to her feet. “Ever think that whoever’s setting these fires is doing it to frame me?”