At least now he had a name. Carly Harrington-Reese. After that, Google had inundated him with enough information to make interrogating her an even more interesting prospect.
Picked up by an agency at seventeen, she’d become one of those supermodels, accustomed to the best of everything. She came from the eastside. Probably grew up in hard times. Then her looks turn out to be her ticket out. She’s instantly famous because of the body God gave her. Hard times nothing but a bad dream. She’s certain the good times will go on forever. But something happened. Five years ago, she dropped out at the top. Lots of speculation but no explanation in the tabloids.
Noah didn’t need much imagination to fill in possibilities. Money made in that world comes and goes fast. The high life is expensive.
Maybe the key word was “high.” She could have snorted her fortune away. Other supermodels had been known to do the same.
Now Carly Reese was home, out of the blue, and sinking money into Flawless. Everything she had left? No way to know. But he did know some things. Arson was often about money.
He let his mind wander down possibilities, however remote. She might have had second thoughts before the boutique opened. Had she hired a professional to get her money back via insurance? Then changed her mind when she found a man and his dog—?
He rubbed a hand down his face. None of that explained why he was there unconscious in that blaze. Not likely a boutique owner was involved in that. Someone wanted him, Noah Glover specifically, dead.
The thought carved out a space in his middle. He knew fear. Every firefighter did. The professional learned to control that fear, use it as a tool to fight the fire, and protect himself and his fellow firefighters.
So, no, Carly Harrington-Reese wasn’t his arsonist. But he couldn’t wait to question her.
It had nothing to do with the images that had flooded his screen when he went in search of images of her. Not pornographic, or pervert paparazzi sneak shots, these professionally done images showed the stunning model in all her glory. Most were less provocative than his nude stance in his hospital room.
A flush edged up the back of his neck at the recall of his behavior. It had to have been the residual of the drugs still at work. He’d done some stuff in his life, streaking on a dare through a women’s dorm at the University of Texas, for instance. But flaunting himself as an adult before a stranger? Definitely the drugs.
Now that he was thinking straight, he wanted two things from Ms. Harrington-Reese. One: answers about the events of last night. Two: Harley.
CHAPTER NINE
“I know who you are. You’re the lingerie model Carly Harrington-Reese.”
Carly turned to find Noah Glover filling her rear entrance doorway. He’d yelled her name because of the noise from the giant fans set up next door to dry out the space.
He walked right in like he owned the place. “I read all about you.”
Carly rolled her eyes and kept folding one of the crocheted ribbon sweaters she’d discovered untouched under a tarp. “Good for you. I hope it was an edifying experience.”
He paused as his gaze slid over her in that way men have when they want a woman to know they are looking and liking what they see. “I don’t know about edifying. But it was informative. And entertaining.”
He’d seen the photos! French Vogue. But if he thought that knowledge was going to ruffle her, he truly didn’t know who she was.
She put every bit of skepticism and scorn she could muster into her voice. “You speak French?”
He smirked. “Let’s just say the photo spread didn’t require translation.”
She shrugged and continued to fold. “So we’re even. Not that I care.” Which wasn’t really true. She remembered thinking when she saw the layout that she’d never felt more naked in her life. European magazines preferred their models to look more realistic, dimpled flesh and all. Not that she’d had that problem at nineteen.
She glanced sideways at him, prepared to verbally abuse him right out that door. But to her surprise his mouth had lost its humor.
He backed up a step though he wasn’t actually too close. “About this morning. I apologize.” The strain of shouting raked through his voice “What I did was insulting. That’s not my style. All I can say in my defense is that I was still feeling the effects of the concoction that knocked me out last night.”
An apology was the last thing she’d expected. Concoction? No. She didn’t need to know. She absolutely didn’t want to deal with anyone else—especially not this man—today.
“Apology accepted. Go away.”
Instead, he moved closer so that the shouting, at least, would end. “You wanted to talk so badly this morning you came to see me.”
“Yes. And we talked.”
“No. You yelled and I listened.”