Flirting with Fire (Hot in Chicago #1) (2 page)

Huh, he did everything but tell her she should pop her cute little tush into the kitchen and fix up some biscuits. Get the hoses ready, boys, because any minute now, she’d be expelling enough steam from her ears to burn everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You see, I have a problem, Mr. Almeida.” She infused her words with
the businesslike tone she could usually manage in her sleep, but which wasn’t coming quite so easily today.

“Oh, it’s mister now? And I thought after the other night we had something special.”

Not bad, Almeida, not bad.
Struggling to hide the burgeoning smile that she should not be surrendering to, she also tried to ignore the fact that he had moved closer to her on the utterance of the word
special
. She had to tip her head back to meet his gaze directly. No way was she having this conversation with his thick, muscle-corded neck, even if it meant putting a crick in her considerably less muscled one.

“My problem is this.” She poked a finger in his chest. A not unpleasant sizzle fizzed through her fingertips. “You’re. Still. Here.”

“
Here
is where I work.”

Irritation had the unfortunate effect of dilating her blood vessels and making her warm all over. Not his nearness. No, not that. “This is where you
used
to work. As of three days ago, you were placed on administrative leave pending a hearing on your boneheaded actions. You’re not even supposed to be on CFD property until your case is resolved.”

Visibly bristling, Luke cocked his jaw like a weapon. “I happened to be on site when a call came in. I’m hardly going to sit around while my men head to an incident. It was a tough run and we needed all hands on deck.”

Reluctantly, she admitted a grudging admiration at that, but it didn’t change the facts. He had already cast a pall over the entire CFD when a grainy video of his fisticuffs got a million hits on its first day online. She needed to get through to him, and coming down to his intellectual level was her best option. Men like
this only understood threats: to their livelihood, manhood, and food sources.

“I’ve done my research on you, Mr. Almeida. You have the commissioner in your pocket, the unstinting support of the union, and a rather overweening sense of entitlement owing to your family’s contribution to the CFD, but the mayor is tired of his civil servants thinking they are above the rules.”

A number of scandals had recently rocked the foundations of city hall. Bribes for permits. Backroom deals. A CPD detective discovered with more vodka than blood in his veins—and a Baggie of coke in his glove box—right after leaving the scene of an accident. Almeida’s outburst might not relate specifically to endemic corruption, but it highlighted all that was wrong with Chicago’s local government.

“The city has a zero-tolerance policy for violence by its employees,” she continued. “You have five more days of leave and then if—and that’s a big
if
—you get out of the hearing with your balls still intact, you have work to do scrubbing the reputation of your firehouse clean. And I’ve been asked by the mayor to take charge of the cleanup.”

Thunderous rage stormed over his brow. “You?”

“Me.”

“I’ve already explained my side of the story in an incident report. I assume your meticulous research covered that.”

She reached back into her memory, mentally scanning the witness accounts of the bar fight. Mostly bland reports with little variation. A code of silence encompassing CPD and CFD had kept lips sealed tighter than bark on a tree.

“One minute you’re serving drinks in your family’s bar. Next, Detective McGinnis is laid flat and several members of Engine 6 and the Third District are duking it out like it’s an episode of
Real Housewives
. All because he made a pass at your sister.” She tilted her head, taking his measure. “I would have thought an experienced bar owner would know how to handle boozy, grabby customers. Why do I feel like there’s more to this than the black and white of those reports?”

It was a long shot, but she knew immediately she’d hit pay dirt. His eyes darkened to navy, swallowing all that had-to-be-fake blue, and some shutoff in his brain checked what he was about to say. He flashed an unreadable glance at his brothers.

“Too much alcohol, tempers easily frayed,” he murmured. “And it was game seven of the Cup finals. I believe Detective McGinnis is a Rangers fan.” He punctuated that with a pressed-on smile. Still gorgeous, despite being a big, fat phony.

“So just a typical night of boys will be boys?”

He looked bored. “I’m not exactly clear on what you want from me, Miss—”

“Taylor,” she finished before he could drag out the annoying what’s-your-last-name-again thing.

“She wants you to shake hands with McGinnis,” Gage chimed in. “Preferably after you’ve both spearheaded a very public event that benefits the community. Maybe a block party where you grill the dogs and the detective squirts the ketchup. Would I be right, Miss Taylor?”

“No decent idea is off the table,” she said to Gage, “and please call me Kinsey.”

“We already do a lot for the community,” Wyatt murmured.

“Yes, the foster kids support program your father created. I saw that in your file.” And definitely something they could use to turn the tide of public opinion. “We have a lot of options here. A team sporting event, a chili cook-off, maybe even a calendar of all you manly men getting your manliness on.”

Gage snorted loudly, but not loud enough to drown out Almeida’s growl, a sound that signified his manliness would never be at issue. Yeah, she got it.

“I’m sure the Chicago taxpayers, especially the female ones, would love to see a scantily clad muscle factory carrying a big hose in one hand and a kitten in the other. With the proceeds going to charity, of course.” She was starting to enjoy herself now, so she winked. “Sweetheart.”

Wyatt rubbed his mouth, evidently concealing a smile. Gage grinned broadly. As for Luke? She may as well have suggested he wear a matching bra-and-panties set while he stroked that fluffy lil kitty cat.

“Oh, this should be good,” Gage said, and Kinsey no longer bothered hiding her amusement. She’d found her ally at Engine 6.

Determined to have the last word, she leveled Luke Almeida with her most hard-nosed gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a hand of,
Stow it
.

“Keep that silver tongue of yours for your hearing, Mr. Almeida. Once you’re in the clear, we’ll work on making you a star for all the right reasons.”

And then she dropped the mic and skedaddled out of that locker room before he could get a volley off.

 CHAPTER TWO

L
uke slammed his locker door shut, only to have it spring back open like a bad-news boomerang. The violence wasn’t enough to dislodge the photo tucked into the upper right-hand corner: Sean Dempsey and Logan Keyes, his foster father and brother. Frozen in time, their smiling faces shone back at him, a constant reminder of the bittersweet joy of being both a Dempsey and a member of the Chicago Fire Department.

He grabbed clean clothes from his locker and got dressed, covering muscles that still ached even after the hot, pulsing spray of the shower. This morning’s 3 a.m. run to a warehouse fire on Elston could have been tricky, given the hazardous chemicals stored illegally on the north end of the lot, but they had managed to suppress the blaze quickly and seal it off, ready for the boys at hazmat to take over. All in all, a good night’s work.

The mouthwatering smell of bacon hit him like a semi before he pushed through the door to the kitchen at Engine 6. No matter the time of day, everyone was usually starving after a fire. The adrenaline pumping through a firefighter’s veins was like a drug that needed constant feeding. Food first, then
sex. If some eggheads ever did a study on birth dates of children in the CFD, Luke bet there would be a clear relationship between the most taxing incidents and when those kids were conceived. He was always primed for a woman after a fire—and the appearance of Miss Hot in Heels was like introducing oxygen into a nonvented room.

Luke poured a coffee, grabbed a seat beside Wyatt, and spared a glance for what Gage was working at the stove. It looked like eggs, but with his aspirations-to-gourmet-chef brother, that would have been far too simple. Thankfully the kid hadn’t made good on his threat to install an espresso machine with a milk frothing attachment. Luke’s old pal Mr. Coffee did the trick, and hazelnut-flavored half-and-half was as fancy as it needed to get.

“You should call your union rep,” Wyatt said to Luke around his chewing.

“Why? To tell them to get the mayor off my back? Or to tell them I can’t handle his attack dog with the big mouth?”

The full, lush, and crazily lickable mouth, if he was being honest. A dangerous habit he rarely indulged in these days, especially with himself.

“Hmph.” From Gage, who served up a veggie-studded omelet complete with home-fried potatoes. His youngest brother looked a whole lot more serious than he had fifteen minutes ago when he was playing mental footsie with Kinsey Taylor.

“Something to say, Chef?”

“For your dining pleasure, we have a vegetable frittata, with apple-Gouda turkey sausage and salsa verde.” He tilted his head. “And yeah, I do have some
colorful commentary with your delicious meal. You should have been more forthcoming in your report.”

“And how exactly would that make a difference?”

“If you told them what McGinnis did—”

“It would just add more background color to the constantly evolving story of me and Detective McGinnis, but it wouldn’t change a thing about what happened a week ago.” Just saying that prick’s name aloud raised a heat rash on his skin. “He laid his grubby hands on Alex, he got my fist in his face, and now I’m on leave.” Luke smirked. “Or supposed to be, anyway.”

He pointed a fork to shut down Gage’s next complaint. “Talking about my history with the detective only gives them more fuel. It makes it look like I have a grudge and that I was just looking for an excuse to rearrange his face.” So what if he was. He’d rather the CFD brass and those pencil-pushing assholes at city hall didn’t know his entire sorry business.

Luke stole a glance at Wyatt to gauge his response to all of this. His oldest brother was as steady as a rock, cool under pressure, and spare with his speech, even if he had been indulging in a few more daredevil stunts than normal on rescue squad these last few runs.

“You’re right,” Wyatt pronounced, and punctuated it by shoveling a forkful of the fancy omelet in his mouth. Just in case he was tempted to embellish, which he never was.

“See?” Luke said smugly.

Frustration furrowed Gage’s brow at yet again being caught on the wrong end of an argument with the elders who always knew best.

“Yeah, because Wy’s such an expert in the affairs of the human heart. Look at him.” Gage considered Wyatt like he was the saddest thing on God’s green earth. “The guy wouldn’t know passion if it hit him over the head with the Jaws of Life. I’m sick of throwing my lady posse his way only to have them all report back how dull he is.”

“I’m not interested in your froot loops,” Wyatt said so seriously that Gage and Luke broke into laughter.

Gage shook his head. “I love you, man, but you are never going to get laid with that attitude.”

Per usual, Wyatt looked uncomfortable at Gage’s fulsome display of affection. It was the way of the Dempseys to love deeply and hate to show it, except for Gage, who was the well-adjusted one. A frickin’ miracle, considering what he’d been through before Sean took him in at the age of ten. They all had tales to forget and sorrows that had molded them, but Gage was the one who had come furthest the fastest.

“We still trying to get Wyatt laid?” A woman’s smiling voice rang across the kitchen.

“Aren’t we always?” Gage groused.

Luke grinned at his sister, Alex, who had just arrived for the start of her shift. Dark chocolate waves, shot through with fire-engine red streaks, framed a heart-shaped face. Possessed of the killer combo of dry wit and no filter, she also had a temper that made her green eyes flash like winking jewels when tested.

Gage handed her a just-buttered piece of toast, one bite already gone. A preemptive move, because Alex would have plucked it from his hands in about three seconds anyway.

She grinned in acknowledgment of her victory. “Forget about Wy and focus on finding a hot man for yours truly. Don’t you know any hetero guys?”

“I’ve got your hetero right here, baby,” leered Lieutenant Tony “Big Mac” McElroy as he strutted into the kitchen.

“We’ll pretend the fact you’ve been happily married for thirteen years is the only reason I’m not jumping all over that very attractive offer, Antonio,” Alex said with a good-natured leer of her own. Luke tamped down the protective instinct that boiled up—it was just too early for a fight, and Big Mac actually was happily married. Anyway, Alex could handle herself against all comers.

That’s not what he had put in the report, though.

Big Mac’s semi-lecherous grin slipped at the sight of Gage’s fixins. “Can’t you just scramble them like a normal person, Simpson? This isn’t the fuckin’ Ritz in here.”

“You want it or not? I even made bacon for you because you’re my favorite lieutenant.”

“I’m your only lieutenant,” he muttered.

“
Mangia, bambini, mangia
.” Gage placed a piled-high platter with extra bacon down on the table with one hand and, with the other, passed Alex her coffee the way she liked it.

Wyatt’s usually razor-straight eyebrows hoisted slightly, drawing Luke’s smile. Close in age, Alex and Gage lived in each other’s pockets, for which Luke and Wyatt were eternally grateful. Partly because neither of them had the energy to hang with the youngsters at the ripe old ages of thirty-two and thirty-three respectively (dance clubs were usually involved), but
mostly because their tight-knit bond meant they would always have each other if something were to happen to their older brothers. Sure, they were all in danger on every run, but Luke and Wyatt did their best to protect their youngest sibs, including Beck, who was currently on vacation in Thailand with his girl, Darcy. It was the most important one of Sean Dempsey’s many lessons: defend the people you love to the dying embers.

“Speaking of performing a public service and trying to get my elders laid,” Gage directed at Luke. “It’s time you jumped back on the pony. How long has it been now?”

Too long. A year and two months, give or take, since he’d ended things with the woman who was supposed to be his future. Kids, rocking chairs, the whole nine. Lisa had crushed his heart, then took her Porsche and ran back over it to eliminate any remaining electrical activity.

“I’m with Wy. Not interested in any woman who wants you for a friend.”

“What about Miss Taylor?”

“Who’s Miss Taylor?” Alex asked.

“This chick Luke was flirting with.”

Luke grunted. “I was not flirting—”

“You should have seen him, Alex,” Gage said. “It was all zingers and eye fucking and enough heat to set off the smoke alarms. Our Luke’s ready to get his wang back in the game. So proud.”

Ker-ist.
Luke looked to Wyatt for support.

His older brother shrugged. “It was kind of cute.” Back to his eggs.

Cute did not apply to Miss Taylor. That woman
was a heap of trouble, and not just because of the warm, hazel eyes that had shot sparks when he’d gotten her riled. He wondered how their color might change if he stroked her touchable, golden skin, or how big they would bloom if he tangled his fingers in all that honey-silk blondeness that cascaded over her shoulders. She’d had an enticing twitch to her hips as she sashayed her world-class ass out of the locker room, clearly pleased with herself for hijacking the last word. That ass would feel so good crushed against his palm and . . .

He really needed an orgasm that did not come courtesy of his right hand.

But not with Kinsey Taylor. Because then he’d have to listen to her, and Luke was done with know-it-all harpies who got off on bringing a guy to his knees for all the wrong reasons. Next time he set his sights on a woman, she would be soft, pliant, and ready for kids as soon as he put a ring on her finger. Maybe an elementary school teacher or a nice, sweet girl who worked with rescued puppies. Someone easy.

And if she had a world-class ass, all the better.