Too Hot to Handle Read online

Devon uncapped the pen. "No nights," he replied. "I just want to get a few hours sleep. I'll be out of here by noon."

  "Oh, dear," she said with a frown. "Check-in time isn't until one P.M. You might try the Holiday Inn at the next exit."

  Devon exhaled wearily. He could hardly see straight from lack of sleep, and his legs felt ready to give out any minute.

  "Listen, lady, I've been on the road since yesterday," he said. "If I thought I could make it as far as the next exit, I wouldn't have stopped at this dump in the first place. Either find me a room now or let me speak with the manager."

  The woman glared at him, her blue eyes wide and suddenly fierce. "I don't know who you think you are, but you can just turn around and waltz yourself out of my motel," she shot back. "I don't rent rooms to spoiled brats like you."

  Taken aback by her sharp scolding, Devon cringed. I guess I deserved that, he thought, kicking himself for acting like a total jerk. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I didn't mean to be so rude. It's just that I was up all night, and—"

  "So was I," she snapped, cutting off his excuses.

  Devon flinched and lowered his eyes. The poor lady was only trying to be friendly and helpful. And I sure picked a nice way to thank her! he chided himself.

  He cleared his throat and glanced up at her. "I really am sorry," he said. He held his breath, waiting for her to reply, hoping she would accept his apology.

  She gave him a long, pointed look, but said nothing.

  Finally Devon lowered his eyes again. He felt a deep, empty sadness in his gut. Pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he turned to go.

  Just as he reached the door, the woman spoke. "The housekeeping staff comes in at six o'clock," she remarked softly.

  Devon turned around and gave her a hopeful, questioning look.

  "There might be a room available shortly after six, if you care to wait," she explained briskly.

  Devon nodded. "I'll take it," he replied gratefully.

  She gave him a long, measuring look. "Have a seat and I'll see what I can do."

  Devon obeyed automatically and carried his pack over to the lumpy couch. A few minutes later, she brought him a warm corn muffin and a carton of orange juice.

  "Thanks," Devon said, touched by the kind gesture.

  The woman sniffed. "Try not to get crumbs all over the place."

  "I won't," he promised meekly. He watched her walk back to her station behind the front desk. For some reason, the woman's no-nonsense glare and brusque manner made Devon feel like a five-year-old kid.

  Devon chuckled as he suddenly realized why. She reminded him of Nan Johnstone, the nanny he'd had growing up.

  A wistful feeling welled up inside him. Devon hadn't thought of Nana in years. She had been his favorite person in the whole world, even though one of her sharp looks could send him running for cover. She'd always had a way of knowing when he'd been up to mischief. Unlike the other adults in his life, she hadn't been easily fooled by an innocent expression or charmed by a dazzling smile.

  Nana was the only person he could remember who would actually sit down and talk with him. Most afternoons, she'd pour him a glass of milk and herself a cup of tea, and they'd discuss whatever was on his mind at the time. She had been sitting in the audience when he'd won first place in the math tournament in second grade. On his birthday, she had baked cupcakes for his whole class.

  Devon had often fantasized to himself that Nana was his real mom. But she wasn't, he reminded himself firmly.

  Resentment shot through him, chasing away the fond memories. In the end, Nana had turned out to be just like the rest of the strangers that had passed through his life. She had left his parents' employment and Devon had never seen her again. She'd never even bothered to answer the many letters he'd written to her over the years.

  Devon popped the last bite of the corn muffin into his mouth and chewed slowly. Too many times he'd been taken in by people who pretended to care about him for their own selfish reasons. His parents had wanted a dutiful son to enhance their social status. Nana had been paid wages to spend time with him. More recently, Uncle Mark and Aunt Peggy in Ohio had welcomed him into their home in order to get their hands on his money.

  Devon crushed his empty juice carton. He vowed not to let it happen to him again. His days of being used were over forever.

  Devon had no idea what to expect in Las Vegas. He wasn't even sure his uncle Pete still lived there. Pete had left home years ago and, except for a few sporadic Christmas cards, he hadn't kept in touch. Devon's grandfather had cut Pete out of his will for extreme bad-boy behavior. Family gossip had it that he was a card shark, a loan shark, and a shark with the ladies.

  Devon smirked. He'd tried to find a home with people he'd thought were good and upstanding, and he'd been bitterly disappointed. Maybe he'd have better luck with the black sheep of the family.

  Chapter 2

  Steven sat in his cubicle at the D.A.'s office, his insides twisted in knots. He'd come in early to review the file on the Fowler Crest case. The evidence against Lila was mounting, but Steven still had trouble believing that she could be the arsonist.

  He found the computer printout that had been left on his desk the previous week. It was information taken from a Web page, a psychological profile of the typical arsonist. How it had gotten into his box was still a mystery. He'd asked everyone in the office, and no one claimed to have sent it. Adele, the receptionist who handled most of the busy office's mail and phone messages, had told Steven that it hadn't come through her.

  Steven sat back in his chair and skimmed the profile again: An arsonist is crying out for help and attention . . . needs affection . . . looks for excitement. . . feels tension or emotional arousal before the act. . . is fascinated by fire paraphernalia.

  Steven closed his eyes and groaned. Lila fit the description all too well. She'd admitted to being distraught about her recent breakup with her boyfriend, and she certainly was the kind of girl who needed affection. I'm just the kind of guy who doesn't mind providing it, Steven thought wryly. Whenever he was around her lately, all of his professionalism and clear-thinking skills flew straight out of his mind.

  Steven reached for his cup of coffee, next to the file. He took a sip, barely noticing that the liquid had grown cold. Fascinated by fire paraphernalia, he read again. He shook his head woefully. A few evenings ago, he and Lila had gone out to dinner to discuss her case. He recalled the fascinated look on her face as she stared at the flickering candle flame on their table. Then, as they left the restaurant, Lila had pocketed a book of matches. "To collect new memories," she'd explained.

  That does make sense, Steven assured himself. After all, the fire at Fowler Crest had wiped out every single one of Lila's mementos. She'd wept over the loss of her photos and souvenirs, a lifetime of stored memories. But why matches? he wondered. There had also been a stack of postcards depicting the restaurant's interior. Lila could have just as easily taken one of them instead.

  The case was turning out to be a labyrinth of clues—which all led to Lila Fowler.

  Steven grabbed a pencil from the top drawer of his desk along with a yellow legal pad. He drew a thick line down the middle of the paper and wrote G and NG at the top of the columns: G for guilty, NG for not guilty. The list on the guilty side was easy. A gallon container of gasoline had been found in Lila's car Steven himself had found a pair of gasoline-soaked gloves belonging to her at the scene of the crime. The Web page information added several more items.

  Steven switched his attention to the other column. His fingers tightened around the pencil as he struggled to come up with evidence to prove Lila's innocence. She had mentioned having the feeling that someone was watching her and that someone had trespassed into Fowler Crest the evening Steven had found the incriminating gloves in the bushes. But all that was only her word. Then again, all the hard evidence against her was circumstantial. It was possible that someone had planted it all in an attempt to frame Lila for the crime.
/>
  Deep in thought, Steven jumped when the phone on his desk buzzed. He picked it up and blurted his name into the mouthpiece. The caller was his boss, Sweet Valley's D.A., Joe Garrison, summoning Steven to his office.

  Steven hung up and exhaled a deep breath. He gathered up his papers and tossed the coffee cup into the trash. He knew his boss expected him to help pin the fire on Lila. But despite the evidence, Steven remained convinced of her innocence.

  "I have a meeting with the mayor in twenty minutes," Joe Garrison explained as Steven entered his office. The D.A. ran a hand over his short, curly dark hair, then leaned back in his black leather chair and laced his fingers together behind his head. His wide black desk was cluttered with files and papers, as usual, and a stack of folders was piled precariously on the matching credenza behind him. "But before I go, I want an update on the Fowler case."

  Steven pulled over one of the wooden chairs from along the wall and sat down across from his boss. "I thought I might take a closer look at the employee records for Fowler Industries," Steven said.

  Mr. Garrison narrowed his deep blue eyes. "Why?"

  Steven shifted uneasily. "I want to do a background check on everyone who's been fired or brought up on disciplinary charges."

  "We have our suspect," Mr. Garrison said, shaking his head. "All we need now is motive. Without it, our case against Lila Fowler is weak. That's your job, remember?"

  Steven nodded. "And I have been spending a lot of time with her, trying to get to know her, but . . ." He shrugged.

  His boss leaned over the desk and glared at Steven. "You're supposed to be figuring out exactly why she set that fire," he barked. "What have you been doing instead?"

  Steven felt his face grow hot. He imagined the scene with Lila in his kitchen Friday night and their heated kisses. Lila is guilty of setting a fire all right—but not the kind you think, Steven silently admitted.

  Mr. Garrison picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser end on the desk. "Frankly, I'm disappointed, Steven. I expected high-quality work from you because I thought you were serious about this internship."

  Steven flinched, as if he'd been socked in the jaw. "I've been doing exactly what you told me to do," he replied defensively. "I've been learning everything I can about Lila Fowler. I just don't think she's the kind of girl who would commit such a serious crime."

  His boss began recounting the evidence against her, all of which Steven knew already. "An empty gas can was found in her car. And you yourself found her gas-soaked, monogrammed gloves in the bushes at her house."

  Steven gulped. The evidence did point to Lila. But I know she's innocent, he reminded himself. "Anyone could have planted that evidence," he argued.

  "What about the sulfur on her fingers after the fire?" Mr. Garrison asked. "Did someone plant that too?"

  "Lila already explained that she was burning some letters in the fireplace that evening," Steven pointed out.

  Mr. Garrison exhaled sharply. "Steven, this is an open-and-shut case." He spoke slowly, pronouncing each word clearly as if he were speaking to a not-so-bright child. "We work as a team in this office, and our goal is to put criminals behind bars. You can be part of the team, or you can leave right now."

  Feeling totally defeated, Steven slumped in his seat. "I want to see the criminal punished," he said weakly.

  "Then do your job!" Joe Garrison retorted, throwing up his hands. "We don't have time for wild-goose chases around here. The facts are what matter, and in this case, they point straight to Lila Fowler. She is guilty—and it's our job to prove it!"

  Steven reluctantly admitted to himself that the evidence against Lila was overwhelming. Is it possible that she really is guilty? he wondered. Am I fooling myself by believing in her innocence? Does kissing her make my head spin so fast, I can't see straight anymore?

  His boss gave him a suspicious look, as if Steven's thoughts were plastered across his forehead. "You don't have a, shall we say, personal interest in this case, do you, Wakefield?" Mr. Garrison questioned.

  "Of course not," Steven responded cautiously.

  Mr. Garrison raised his eyebrows. "It's already been established that Lila Fowler is a friend of your sister's, is she not?"

  Steven's throat tightened as he realized he'd stepped into a trap. "Yes, but that doesn't mean—"

  "And you have visited her home," Mr. Garrison interjected coolly.

  "W-Well, yes . . . I've been, um, working on this case," Steven stammered.

  His boss stood up and walked around the desk. Easily slipping into the role of interrogator, he leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his arms. "And before that. You've been to Fowler Crest for social occasions."

  Under the glare of the District Attorney's piercing blue eyes, Steven felt like a specimen on a glass slide. "I went to her parents' wedding," he admitted.

  "How would you rate Lila?" Mr. Garrison asked. "Aside from this case, do you think she's the kind of girl you might like to date?"

  Steven squirmed uncomfortably. "I don't know," he hedged.

  Mr. Garrison smirked. "But you wouldn't mind finding out, right?"

  Steven swallowed hard. "OK, so Lila is a friend of my sister's and I've been to her house a few times. And I admit I think she's good-looking. That doesn't mean I can't be objective about the case."

  "It might," Mr. Garrison told him. "You wouldn't be the first guy to get sucked in by a pretty face and sweet smile."

  "That's not happening to me," Steven countered with a sinking feeling.

  Mr. Garrison leaned closer. "Then what is?" he demanded.

  "I just want to find the person who started that fire at Fowler Crest," Steven replied.

  The D.A. gave him a hard look. "We have found her, Wakefield. Now it's our job to see that justice is done."

  How sickening! Jessica thought as she stared at Lila's dreamy expression during history class. She had a pretty good idea what—and who—was on her friend's mind at that moment. How could Lila and Steven do this to me? Jessica wondered.

  Lila picked up her pen and began writing in her notebook, as if she were taking notes on Mr. Jaworski's boring lecture about the Louisiana Purchase. But Jessica leaned over and saw that Lila was merely drawing little hearts on the blank page. I'm going to throw up, Jessica thought.

  Finally the bell rang, signaling the end of first period. As the students filed out through the door, Jessica grabbed Lila's arm.

  "We have to talk, Li," she said as she pulled her friend into the empty classroom across the hall.

  Lila tugged her arm free of Jessica's grasp and smoothed down the sleeve of her white cotton blouse. "What's wrong?" she asked.

  Jessica slammed the door shut and whirled around to face Lila. "You and Steven," she hissed. "That's what's wrong!"

  A wounded look flashed in Lila's brown eyes. She sank down into one of the desk chairs and folded her hands primly in her lap. Lila seemed extremely vulnerable, which was understandable considering all she'd been through recently.

  Jessica caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She really did care about Lila. Maybe I shouldn't be confronting her right now, she thought. Then she recalled the image of Lila and Steven kissing in the kitchen, his hands spanning her waist, her arms curled around his neck . . .

  Jessica shuddered, her stomach turning. Determined, she looked Lila in the eye and pressed on. "I thought you were my best friend, and here you are sneaking around with my brother!"

  Lila raised her chin. "So? It's not a crime to go out with your best friend's brother."

  Jessica perched on the corner of a desk and folded her arms. "That doesn't make it right," she countered. "And you know it. Otherwise you wouldn't have kept it a secret."

  Lila shrugged. "I felt weird about telling you."

  "That should tell you something," Jessica said. "Because I think what you're doing is plenty weird!"

  Lila's expression hardened. "Maybe I didn't tell you about Steven because I knew you would react this way," she s
aid. "And furthermore, I think your attitude stinks!"

  "The problem isn't my attitude," Jessica retorted. "It's you and my brother."

  Lila sniffed. "You didn't react this way when Steven was going out with Cara."

  "Cara was different. She and Steven had a lot in common. She didn't live in a mansion. She lived in an apartment, and she . . ." Jessica drew a blank and let out an exasperated groan. "That has nothing to do with this," she said defensively. "You and Steven are completely wrong for each other."

  "Thanks for your opinion," Lila spat. "But I don't happen to agree. And I have a strong feeling Steven wouldn't agree with you either."

  Jessica exhaled wearily and moved to the chair next to her friend. "Lila, tell me the truth," she began, scooting closer. "Would you rather have a BMW kind of guy, or a VW one? Steven loves that junky yellow Bug he drives. He'll never give it up for a luxury car."

  Lila smiled. "I don't mind."

  "What about other things?" Jessica asked. "Do you want a guy who snacks on pâté and caviar, or on potato chips and onion dip?"

  "I know what you're getting at," Lila said. "But Steven is a refreshing change from the guys I usually date. I feel like I can relax and be myself when I'm with him." She crossed her legs and laced her fingers on her knee. "Besides, he didn't do too badly when we went to Chez Costa. I think oysters have become one of his favorite appetizers."

  Jessica clenched her jaw. Chez Costa was a fancy French restaurant in downtown Sweet Valley, and definitely not her brother's style. "Steven wears mismatched socks, Lila. With holes!"

  Lila giggled. "I know," she responded coyly. "We've gotten past the shoes-off stage."

  Jessica shuddered, thoroughly grossed out. "You know that blue sweater he wears?" she persisted. She didn't enjoy putting down her own brother, but she reminded herself it was for his own good. "Steven bought that sweater at a yard sale," she told Lila. "And I've seen him eat cold chili straight out of the can."

  Lila smiled dreamily. "That's kind of cute," she remarked.

  Jessica's heart sank. With increasing desperation, she revealed more tidbits and secrets about Steven that she hoped would turn Lila off.