Fire Raiser Read Online Free

expected to have the body she’d had at twenty-something was out of her mind anyhow. Besides, as Lulah had remarked, “Anytime past thirty-five, you might as well enjoy what you look like now, because in five years you’re gonna look worse.”
    The annoying exception was her husband, Holly mused. He was even more good-looking now than when she’d met him five years ago. It was nothing she could put her finger on—or, rather, it was everything she put her fingers on whenever she got the chance.
    “What’re you grinning about?”
    Startled, she dropped the skirt she’d chosen and turned quickly. He stood in the bathroom doorway with a beard made of soap, a straight razor in his hand, a towel around his hips, and a quizzical look in his eyes.
    She considered leering, considered what leering usually led to, and shook her head. “Never mind. Let’s stop off and kiss the kids before we head over, okay?”
    “Sure. Hey, you wanna grab that long-sleeved t-shirt out of the drawer for me?”
    “No.” Holly slid past him into the bathroom.
    “What, you got two broken arms?”
    “No black tonight. You can’t wear the cashmere jacket, either.”
    “The Goddess has spoken?”
    “Yup.”
    “But you always tell me I look hot in the cashmere jacket.”
    “You do. Just not tonight.”
    He pondered. “Oh. Too in-your-face New York, huh?”
    “Not even in the same league as the Yankees jersey,” she teased, and he gave the predictable groan. “It’s just that we want people to come up and talk to you, not ask if you want a Zoloft.”
    “If we don’t get out of this party by ten, I’m gonna need a Zoloft.”
    Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed in dark-wash Levi’s, white shirt, and leather jacket. And, of course, those miserable old ostrich-hide cowboy boots. Despite the casual outfit, despite two years as sheriff of the smallest county in Virginia—even despite the cowboy boots— New York was scrawled all over him. It always would be. He needed a haircut, and he was as tan as any self-respecting country boy ought to be in summer, and the boots should have completed the picture of Sunday-go-to-meetin’ rural chic. But he was instantly identifiable as a New Yorker, as unmistakably as Americans were tagged as such in a single glance by Europeans. It wasn’t just the clothes—his shirt a shadow-striped silk that fit him to perfection, his jacket tailored to within an inch of its life notwithstanding the fact that it was battered brown leather. It was the way he wore the clothes, the way complete contentment fused with complete confidence—plus an intriguing insinuation of power. Nothing could intimidate him, nothing could scare him. He’d spent most of his life in the greatest city in the world, and more than fifteen years as a law enforcement officer in that city. Deposit him stark naked smack in the middle of Buenos Aires, Bialystok, or Borneo, and New York would still gaze arrogantly from his eyes.
    “You’re staring again,” he remarked as he strapped on his wristwatch and snagged up the leather wallet containing his badge.
    “As if this is unexpected,” she mocked.
    “Back at you, lady love,” he chuckled. “Except the skirt’s too long.”
    “No miniskirts after age forty.”
    “And there are how many precincts of fashion police in this county? Turn around.”
    She obediently twirled on her toes so that the tulip hem of her skirt flared around her knees. “Okay?” she prompted, knowing very well that the apple green silk dress was a winner—even if it had come from a catalog instead of Barneys, and even if it wasn’t hemmed halfway to her ass.
    “Oh, very okay.” He tucked his Glock into the shoulder holster beneath his left arm. “Married or not, girl, you’re going home with me tonight.”
    “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
    “Nah,” he replied breezily, catching her by the waist and pulling her in for a kiss. “You just look easy.”

Two

    THEIR DAUGHTER HAD BEEN