Free Night Smoke by Nora Roberts

when he pushed the right button. “But, as it stands, I can do my job just fine, and still wonder what it would be like to make love with you.”
    Her pulse jolted, scrambled. She used the time while their entrees were served to steady it. “I’d prefer if you’d concentrate on the first. In fact, if you could bring me up-to-date—”
    “Seems a waste to talk shop in a joint like this.” But he shrugged his shoulders. “The bottom line is arson, an incendiary fire. The motive could be revenge, money, straight vandalism or malicious destruction. Or kicks.”
    “A pyromaniac.” She preferred that one, only because it was less personal. “How do you handle that?”
    “First, you don’t go in biased. A lot of times people, and the media, start shouting ‘pyro’ whenever there’s a series of fires. Even if they seem related, it’s not always the case.”
    “But it often is.”
    “And it’s often simple. Somebody burns a dozen cars because he’s ticked he bought a lemon.”
    “So don’t jump to conclusions.”
    “Exactly.”
    “But if it
is
someone who’s disturbed?”
    “Head doctors are always working on the whys. Are you going to let me taste that?”
    “Hmmm? Oh, all right.” She nudged her plate closer to his so that he could sample her lobster. “Do you work with psychiatrists?”
    “Mostly the shrinks don’t come into it until you’ve got the firebug in custody. That’s good stuff,” he added, nodding toward her plate. “Anyway, that could be after any number of fires, months of investigation. Maybe they blame his mother. She paid too much attention to him. Or his father, because he didn’t pay enough. You know how it goes.”
    Amused, interested, she cut off a piece of lobster and slipped it onto his plate. “You don’t think much of psychiatry?”
    “I didn’t say that. I just don’t go in for blaming somebody else when you did the crime.”
    “Now you sound like my brother.”
    “He’s probably a good cop. Want some of this steak?”
    “No, thanks.” Like a bulldog, she kept her teeth in the topic. “Wouldn’t you, as an investigator, have to know something about the psychology of the fire starter?”
    Ry chewed his steak, signaled for another beer. “You really want to get into this?”
    “It’s interesting. Particularly now.”
    “Okay. Short lesson. You can divide pathological fire starters into four groups. The mentally ill, the psychotic, the neurotic, and the sociopath. You’re going to have some overlap most of the time, but that sorts them. The neurotic, or psychoneurotic, is the pyromaniac.”
    “Aren’t they all?”
    “No. The true pyro’s a lot rarer than most people think. It’s an uncontrollable compulsion. He
has
to set the fire. When the urge hits him, he goes with it, wherever, whenever. He’s not really thinking about covering up or getting away, so he’s usually easy to catch.”
    “I thought
pyro
was more of a general term.” She started to tuck her hair behind her ear. Ry beat her to it, letting his fingers linger for a moment.
    “I like to see your face when I talk to you.” He kept his hand on hers, bringing them both back to the table. “I like to touch you when I talk to you.”
    Silence hung for a full ten seconds.
    “You’re not talking,” Natalie pointed out.
    “Sometimes I just like to look. Come here a minute.”
    She recognized the light in his eyes, recognized her own helpless response to it. And to him. Deliberately she eased away. “I don’t think so. You’re a dangerous man, Inspector.”
    “Thanks. Why don’t you come home with me, Natalie?”
    She let out a long, quiet breath. “You’re also a very blunt one.”
    “A woman like you could get poetry and fancy moves any time she wanted.” Ry neither had them nor believed in them. “You might want to try something more basic.”
    “This is certainly basic,” she agreed. “I think we could use some coffee.”
    He signaled the waiter. “You didn’t answer my