Up in Flames. Rita Herron
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scene. Not one she was accustomed to being a part of.
She sipped a Lemon Drop martini while she watched the hump-and-grind show on the dance floor. Bodies gyrated, sliding against other bodies, men wrapped around women, skin to skin, a game of foreplay in public that made her body tighten with need.
And resurrected images of that detective again.
For a brief second, she pictured the two of them swaying to the music, his big, muscled arms holding her tight, his thigh slipping between her heat, his thick lips skating over hers. Desire shot through her.
A good-looking, blond architect paired up with Natalie and they headed to the dance floor. During the next half hour, Rosanna fended off unwanted advances.
Now she remembered the reason she avoided the clubbing scene.
She’d been alone all her life. And she didn’t mind it. No one to worry about. No one to pry into her secrets.
No one to find out about her past.
And no one pawing at her.
A balding guy wearing a skeleton T-shirt and holey jeans sauntered toward her with a beer in hand. “Wanna dance, baby?”
She gritted her teeth, wondering why she attracted the weirdos. Maybe because she was eccentric herself?
“No, thanks.”
He frowned and cut his eyes over her as if she’d angered him. Uncomfortable with his reaction, she slid off the stool and headed to the ladies’ room. She sensed him following, but refused to turn around.
Near the ladies’ room, another man at the bar made eye contact with her. He was tall, wore a black silk shirt and black dress pants. But instead of approaching her, he removed a lighter, flicked it open and pressed the starter until a small golden flame shot up. Then a slow smile crept over his face.
A smile that did not quite reach his eyes, one that sent a ripple of tension through her.
Anxious to escape his scrutiny, she ducked into the ladies’ room. The line snaked through the cramped bathroom, and it took several minutes to reach a stall. Just as she closed the door, a loud explosion rocked through the room.
Screams filled the air, the sound of panicked scuffling following. She tried to jerk open the door but it was stuck, so she dropped to her knees to look under the stall. Smoke curled through the room and another explosion rocked the floor. Splintered wood crashed from the ceiling, pelting her, and the smoke thickened. She scrambled beneath the opening, pushed to her feet and ran for the door, but when she opened it, a wooden beam crashed down and flames exploded, blocking her exit.
In the bar, chaos had broken out. Flames shot upward, eating the wood and hissing as it danced through the room. People screamed and stampeded to the exit, debris rained down, and bar glasses shattered and spewed glass in all directions. She spotted a couple of people on the floor, blood flowing from one man’s head. Then she saw Natalie trapped beneath a gigantic light fixture.
Oh God, no…she wasn’t moving. She had to get to her friend, save her.
But heat seared her and crackling wood popped near her feet. There was no other way to get out of the bathroom. No window. No back exit.
She was trapped with the flames growing higher all around her.
THE SCENT OF SMOKE and singed fabric permeated Bradford’s clothes as he and Parker left the Savannah square and maneuvered through the crowded streets.
The fireworks were in full swing, but he wanted to go back to the little house he’d rented on Tybee Island, wolf down a pizza and crash.
Parker leaned back in the seat, whistling a blues tune beneath his breath, looking relaxed now that the café excitement had ended. But Bradford’s body felt wired, jittery, as if he was waiting on the other ball to drop. He’d had these same antsy feelings in the military on missions, on missing persons cases in Atlanta. The night his father had died.
The night he’d discovered the extent of his brother’s problems.
The traffic came to a congested halt, and he veered down a side street where two restaurants and a new bar had opened up, then cursed.
Ahead he spotted trouble. More smoke curling toward the sky. Flames shooting from the roof of the Pink Martini.
“Hell, do you see that?” Parker pointed to the nightclub.
“Yeah, call it in.” While Parker called dispatch, Bradford flipped on the siren, gunned the engine and screeched around an illegally parked car. In seconds, both he and Parker jumped out and ran toward the building.
“Fire trucks are on their way!” Parker shouted.
Bradford scanned the street where a panicked mob poured onto the sidewalks. People raced toward cars, the downtown area, some running as if the flames might chase them down, others huddling in shock and hysteria.
“Let’s see if everyone got out!” Bradford shouted over the confusion.
As soon as they entered the bar, Bradford assessed the situation. This fire was ten times worse than the one at the café, and already engulfed half the room. Although the emergency sprinklers had kicked in, the thin jets of water weren’t enough to douse the overpowering blaze, which was feeding greedily on the alcohol. Wood, glass, tables, drinks, lighting equipment—everything lay in shambles.
What the hell had happened here? How had the fire spread so rapidly?
He cut his eyes through the haze, searching for victims, someone trapped, hurt, needing assistance. The fire was a monster, the gray smoke so thick he could barely see, so he removed a handkerchief and covered his mouth. Somewhere amidst the crackling timber and the haze of shattering glass he heard a scream.
“My God,” Parker muttered. “There’s a woman trapped over there. I’m going after her!”
“I heard someone else in the back,” Bradford yelled. “I’m going to check.”
Without waiting for a response, he darted through the patches of flames, coughing into the handkerchief, searching through the thick plumes of smoke.
A curly haired young man wearing an apron who must have been a server lay facedown on the floor, arms and legs sprawled at awkward angles. Bradford knelt and checked for a pulse, but he couldn’t find one. Dammit.
Then he saw the blood pooling beneath the man’s face and neck. Bradford lifted his head slightly, and grimaced. A huge chunk of glass had pierced the man’s throat. Another was embedded in one eyeball.
It was too late for the poor guy. He was already dead.
A terrified scream pierced the air again, faint and hoarse, barely discernible over the roar of the flames.
Heat seared his back, face and hands, but he forged on toward the back.
“Help me!”
His lungs and throat burned as he spotted the caller. A woman lay on the floor, trapped by a wooden beam. She was using her bare hand to beat away the flames crawling toward her skirt. Another burning beam lay behind her.
He raced to her, jerked off his shirt and swatted the flames.
“Help me!” she cried again. “I have to save my friend.”
He glanced at her face and recognized her immediately. The redhead he’d seen in the crowd outside Cozy’s.
“Please,” she whispered. “I have to find Natalie.”
She broke into a coughing fit, and he handed her his handkerchief, then stood and dragged the beam off her legs. She tried to stand, but stumbled, so he swooped her up in his arms and ran toward the front door, praying they made it out in time before the monster eating the building swallowed them completely.
Chapter Three
Rosanna coughed, clinging to her rescuer as he hauled