Flirting with Fire (Hot in Chicago #1) (24 page)

 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

U
nder the shelter of a picture-book-blue sky, the community party to heal the rift between fire and police, and put the finishing touch on CFD’s rehabilitation, got under way. Everything was going according to plan, and why the hell not? Kinsey had organized this event to within an inch of its life. Both fire and police were out in force, split between flipping burgers under Chef Brady Smith’s direction and eyeing their brothers in blue suspiciously. She had pulled in media, the community, and enough dignitaries to be worried about how the city was running in their absence.

It was the perfect punctuation to what had been one hell of a week at city hall.

Courtesy of the online petition, which had hit 350,000 signatures, Alex Dempsey was still employed by the Chicago Fire Department. Eli had commented dryly that when a petition includes the signatures of both Superman
and
Mickey Mouse, who was he to deny the wishes of the people? Between that and the countless calls from women’s groups, concerned citizens, and even a celebrity ambulance chaser offering to represent Alex in the lawsuit to end all lawsuits, Eli risked his bid for reelection if he fired her. So she hung
on to her job by the skin of her teeth, just like Eli did with Sam Cochrane’s much-vaunted clout.

In some undoubtedly shady backroom deal, the mayor had managed to prevent Cochrane from bringing suit and dropping his endorsement. Kinsey was inclined to think that losing Cochrane’s support might not have been such a bad thing, but she recognized that there was more to this situation than met the eye. Those monster egos needed each other. Cochrane wanted Alex gone, but his lawyers advised that the video evidence of his jerkwad—and according to public opinion, patently drunken—behavior was too damning. He should cut his losses and move on.

The people had spoken.

Kinsey had won.

Feeling rather pleased with herself, she surveyed the crowd on the firehouse forecourt until her gaze found the metal to her magnet.

Luke.

He was in rare form today. Checking in on the face-painting station. Ensuring that the visitors got their tax dollars’ worth on the firehouse tour. Flirting (harmlessly) with some of the yummier mummies. Amid the happy chaos, the man even found time to pull her into the bunker gear room for a little one-on-one.

“I need to talk to you, Miss Taylor.”

She rubbed his hard, bulging bicep—she would never get tired of touching this man’s sinfully sexy body—and tried not to get distracted by his raging handsomeness. She had a job to do. “Luke, I’m working.”

“Sure are, sweetheart.” He kissed her slow, wet, and deep. “Workin’ it good.”

Fighting her impulse to jump his bones, instead she splayed a hand on his chest. “So you know what you have to do?”

He grunted. He knew, but he didn’t like it, and she didn’t blame him one bit.

“You’re just going to shake hands with Detective McGinnis, smile for the camera, and then go about your business of making sure everyone knows this is your house.”

Luke sucked in a breath. “So shake hands, get him in a sleeper hold, and shove a two-and-a-half-inch-diameter hose where the sun don’t shine.”

“That doesn’t sound very sporting, Firefighter Almeida. At least let him be conscious when you insert the hose.”

Laughing, he shook his head in disbelief. “You must be so sick of baby-sitting me and my family, Kinsey.”

“Oh, the pros far outweigh the cons.”

“You calm me down, you know that?”

“Not completely, I hope,” she whispered against his lips before she brushed them, knowing he’d do his thing and take over. To her surprise, he kept it soft and sweet, nibbling gently, languorously, like they had all the time in the world and didn’t have to walk out into the firehouse forecourt and put on a show.

“Hey, kids, we ready to get this horse-and-pony gig on the road?” she heard behind her.

Gage.

Luke rolled his eyes as Kinsey scooted away from him. “Are you actually cock-blockin’ me in my own firehouse, bro? Got something against me gettin’ it on?”

“Gettin’ it on?” Kinsey asked, amused.

“Marvin Gaye is my second language. And that one”—he pointed at his brother—“needs a fucking bell.”

Gage held up his hands. “Consider it a favor, Mr. July. You don’t want to get into even more trouble by using city property for conduct unbecoming.”

“Excuse me, sweetheart, while I kick some fraternal ass,” Luke said to Kinsey as he made a move toward Gage, who promptly hightailed it out of the gear room.

Laughing, Kinsey trailed the brothers outside, back into the fray. Out front, she held back near the firehouse entrance and watched Luke scoop a kid off the truck ladder and pop a plastic helmet on his head. Her ovaries jumped in revolt. David had claimed not to want kids, though clearly the rat bastard had changed his mind on that score—or his wandering prick had changed it for him. She had fallen into the trap of thinking a career-oriented woman shouldn’t need children to feel complete. But she realized that she did. She always had. A friend in San Francisco had insisted the man’s only contribution should be the baby batter. Two kids later, she was living her dream—tired, happy, and alone.

That was not for Kinsey. She wanted a partner in all things, a man who supported her professional goals and worked with her to ensure that she—
they
—could handle it all. Marriage, career, a family of fearless blue-eyed moppets she would teach to ski off the side of a mountain.

Blue-eyed? She was in so much trouble.

Beside her, she felt a shadowy presence accompa
nied by a hint of Chanel No. 5. Turning her head, she met the deliberate gaze of Madison Maitland.

“You’ve done a great job, Kinsey. The mayor’s approval rating is up and it’s got a lot to do with how you’ve handled this whole CFD-CPD business. If I cared about community-focused PR, I’d offer you a job.”

Kinsey felt a warm glow in her chest at Madison’s appreciation. “I’m hoping to get the mayor working on a campaign for foster kids.” While she had the ear of the most powerful man in Chicago, she needed to use her connection.

Mayor Cooper moved to a podium that had been set up near the grills, ready to charm the crowd.

“
Aaaand
show time,” Madison murmured.

“I’m not going to patronize you with some speech imploring us all to just get along,” Eli said. Patronizingly. Kinsey knew he was over it and just wanted to put the whole sorry mess in his rearview mirror.

“As the city’s first responders, it’s imperative that fire and police work together for the safety and well-being of our citizens. Cooperation saves lives, is fiscally responsible, and means I can keep the gray out of my hair for a little longer.”

This was met with dutiful chuckles, though Kinsey could have sworn she heard a mutter of “There’s always Clairol Nice ’N Easy” in what sounded suspiciously like Alex’s voice. Whoever it was got a bigger laugh from both fire and police. Nice. Finding a common enemy in management was always a guaranteed way of uniting the troops.

The mayor’s raised eyebrow acknowledged the jab, but with a flash of that voter-baiting smile, he plowed on. “Thanks to everyone who came out
today—CFD, CPD, esteemed members of the press, and most important, the community we serve.”

His beam arced over the crowd, shining especially bright for the female citizenry, who clapped loud and long. The mayor was having a rather awesome hair day.

“Oh, he
is
good,” Madison said under her breath. “At times like this, I wonder why I gave him up.”

Startled, Kinsey turned to Madison. “You and . . . Eli?”

“The first Mr. Maitland,” she said with a wry smile, “for all of thirty seconds about twelve years ago.”

No effen way. Kinsey’s gaze landed on the mayor once more as her conversation with Madison over cocktails in the Signature Room trailed back to her in pieces. Madison’s first husband who had been too young and unformed to get it . . . but he was fully formed now. Perfectly so.

Buckle up, Alex Dempsey. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

The mayor was finishing up the hands-across-America speech and now paused for the reason they were all here. “Firefighter Almeida, Detective McGinnis?”

Eli looked left and right at Luke and McGinnis, who eyed each other warily like old prizefighters deciding if they should push each other around the ring for appearances’ sake or go straight for the knockout punch.

Kinsey held her breath.
Come on, babe, you can do this . . .

Luke stepped in. McGinnis followed suit.

After a taut moment, Luke threw out his hand
toward the man who had bedded his wife and almost destroyed his career. McGinnis nodded and shook the proffered peace gesture with a firm grip. The official photographer snapped a candid for posterity and both men separated as quickly as they had come together.

“Excellent,” Eli said. “Now, there’s still plenty more fun to be had. And I believe the desserts will be coming out soon.”

As the mayor spent a few moments glad-handing with the (female) voters, Kinsey locked eyes with Luke, who shot her a wink and a cheeky smile. Pride in how he had handled this mingled with respect, affection, and a whopping case of
wow
. Caught in the tractor beam of his gaze, she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, with anyone else.

Nothing else mattered, only Luke.

Only this moment.

A
t the face-painting station, Gage was getting made up like his favorite superhero, Spider-Man, ostensibly because it was fun for the kids, but really because he was a nine-year-old trapped in a twenty-four-year-old’s body.

“Hey, Spidey. How’s it goin’?”

Gage hadn’t heard that voice in an age. Squinting up, he found his brother Beck, a scruffy-jawed grin on his face and his lady love on his arm. The beautifully inked, amazingly badass, former heiress Darcy Cochrane. They had been traipsing all over Asia for a month, and Gage had never been happier to see anyone.

He jumped up, almost knocking the face paint artist over, and clasped Beck in a bear hug.

“Hey, watch it,” Beck said. “Don’t get your paint on my fine, fine threads.”

Gage pushed his brother back and assessed him. Tailored linen pants and a silk shirt were not Beck Rivera’s usual.
Ooh la la.

“Your doing,
princesa
?” he asked as he embraced Darcy, who didn’t seem to mind a little paint.

She raised her hands in defense. “This was all him. We brought home an extra suitcase dedicated to his Bangkok tailor shopping spree.”

“You like dressing me up,
querida
,” Beck murmured. “Admit it.”

Darcy’s smile stretched wider. “I prefer stripping you down, handsome.” Grin fading, she turned back to Gage, trouble clouding her eyes. “Sounds like we missed all the crazy.”

Gage nodded. “Yeah, it’s been wild.” Though he knew Darcy was referring to the CFD drama, Gage felt his gaze inevitably drawn to the big grill they had set up at the north end of the forecourt, and the big hunk of crazy hunched over it. Brady Smith, assigned to community party cookout duty by his buddy the mayor. Gage had already been blessed with the “didn’t I know you once?” nod from the guy when he walked by thirty minutes before. Now the bustle of neighborhood kids and parents, as well as single women looking to hook up with Luke, were milling about, creating not nearly enough of a distraction.

“. . . I’d like to believe my father wouldn’t say or do any of those things but . . .” Darcy waved a hand before his eyes. “Earth to Gage.”

Gage jerked his gaze away from the jerk who was still taking up far too much of his mental real estate.

Beck followed Gage’s treacherous eyeballs. His face lit up. “Hey, Darcy, look who it is. Brady!”

“You know him?”

“I do his ink.” Darcy’s green eyes gleamed. “Beck met him a few months ago around Christmas.”

Small world. If Brady knew Beck and Darcy, why the hell hadn’t he said so? Oh yeah. Because that would be far too personal for a guy as closed off as Brady “Can’t Do You” Smith.

“More to the point, how do you know him?” Darcy asked, mischief in her tone.

Gage shrugged. He didn’t know him, not really—he only wanted to.

Beck put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Ignoring his brother, Gage directed 100 percent of his attention to Darcy, the brains of the operation. “Tell me everything.”

“Well, he’s a Marine Corps vet, several tours of Afghanistan. Served with Eli Cooper—that’s how we met, actually. Eli’s an old friend of the family, and he and I were having dinner in Paris about three years ago. Brady was apprenticed at this amazing restaurant there, L’Astrance and . . .” At Gage’s impatient look of,
Get to the good stuff
, she rolled her eyes. “He’s been a good friend to me, especially when I came back to Chicago last year. He doesn’t like to be touched and I think it’s because something happened to him overseas. He makes himself suffer for the ink.”

He makes himself suffer for the ink, but he couldn’t go that far for Gage.

“How do you know him, Gage?” Darcy asked again, this time more softly.