Flirting with Fire (Hot in Chicago #1) (30 page)

She gasped. “You took the exam?”

“Results came in yesterday.”

“Luke, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you.” She kissed him, then broke away before her brain turned to mush. “You’re right to question who’s getting the better deal here, Mr. Almeida. I’m seeing a bit of an imbalance in our relationship already, and you know how much I hate that. What are you going to do for me?”

He considered this, and she felt that thrill of anticipation at what he’d come up with.

“Here’s my promise to you, Kinsey. There’ll be talking and laughing and loving. There’ll be fighting, as well, because we’re both damn stubborn and we won’t agree on everything, but that’s okay, ’cause we’ll figure it out like adults. I will never blindside or disrespect you. I’ll listen as long as you’re not yammering on about other women’s hair or clothes or what shade of paint should go on the walls of our bedroom.”

“But I value your opinion. Especially when it comes to paint.”

“Don’t interrupt. Declarations of love are in progress.” He gifted her that sexy, so-help-her-Luke grin. “There’ll still be surprises. Every now and then I’ll do something so romantic it’ll make you cry.”

She sniffed. Blinked rapidly. Must be something in her eye.

“Yeah, you, Kinsey Taylor. I’ll make you cry with my rare romantic gestures. And then there’s the sex.”

“That’s more like it.”

“I said no interruptions. Now, where was I?”

“The sex.”

“What about it?”

She squeezed his biceps. “You were making promises, Luke. Wonderful, wonderful promises.”

“Okay, I’ll offer up a few surprises there to keep it fresh. After my shift, I’ll race home smelling of smoke and need and so beat I can barely stand. But that won’t stop me from taking what’s mine. And when I’m buried so deep inside you that you won’t know where I begin and you end, I’ll make sure you understand why you’re here with me in the city I love and with the family I love. Why you are the woman I love and how I’ll never forget that you came back to me.”

His smile was killer, those astonishing blues filled with all she could ever need or want. Filled with his love for her. Her heart hurt with the joy of it all. It was a good hurt, though. The best hurt.

He molded her tight to his hard, sinful body, and cupped the ass that belonged to him. Completely.

“Welcome home, sweetheart.”

She looked into the eyes of the man she refused to live without and let him see how much she adored him.

“Best city in the world, right?”

He nodded. “It is now.”

 EPILOGUE

T
he siren blared as the truck burned rubber through a largely residential neighborhood on Chicago’s north side. Single-family homes, modest flashes of green, a good place to raise kids. By the time they made it to their destination, Luke was about ready to leap out of his skin with anticipation.

With a smooth drop to the ground, he surged forward, ignoring the shouts of his crew. For some runs, a man had to go it alone.

He approached his quarry, but no obstacle was tall enough to defy him, no barrier wide enough. The front door fell open. The stairs disappeared under his long stride. At the top, he paused and listened.

All quiet.

But not for long.

He threw open the door to the bedroom and assessed the scene.

“Did someone call the fire department?”

“You’re late, Lieutenant,” said the vision lying beneath a crisp, white sheet that barely covered her golden skin and delectable assets.

“It’s only eight twelve, sweetheart.”

She gave a languorous stretch on the bed they had bought together and raised a sultry eyebrow.
“You promised me eight sixteen.” Lifting the sheet, she pointed a slender finger to the treasures that lay below. “In here. And because you take so long getting your gear off, I very much doubt you’re going to make that deadline, Mr. Almeida.”

“Why, that sounds like a challenge, Miss Taylor.”

He curled his thumbs under the suspenders of his bunker gear and let them fall to his sides. Normally, he would never leave the firehouse wearing them, but this morning he had plans. Wicked plans.

“You like the slow reveal, Kinsey.” He ran a hand over his erection, which hungered to break free and find her warm, wet haven.

She sighed, resigned to the accuracy of that statement. “I do.”

In the month since she’d come back to him, they had moved into a two-flat rental a few blocks away from Engine 6. It was fitting that they start their life in a place not filled with the toxic remains of his marriage. They had the rest of their lives together to figure out a more permanent solution.

“Tough night?” she asked, as she always did.

“No more than usual,” he replied, as he always did, knowing there would be time later to share his recap of the shift’s events. Two house fires, a multicar pileup, and a guy who handcuffed himself to his ex-girlfriend’s radiator. Everyone lived, though the ex-girlfriend looked like she might have murder on her mind. It was a good night for his first stint as lieutenant on the A shift, taking the place of McElroy, who had transferred to Engine 69.

Returning to his striptease, he unsnapped his bunker gear.

Pop.

She squirmed. He enjoyed that immensely.

Pop.

She arched her back and slipped her hand below the sheet.

Pop.

“Luke,” she rasped, her voice so needful he could barely stand it.

He ripped off his tee, shucked the rest. Five seconds later, he was settled in the embrace of her body. Where he belonged.

But that didn’t mean it would be easy. Nothing with his woman ever was.

On his way to twining his fingers in all that honey blondeness, he encountered a hard edge under her pillow. He pulled to reveal . . . Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, the damn
Men on Fire
calendar.

“Came in yesterday,” she said with a husky giggle. “Josie sent a box of them over to M Squared. Madison and I spent all afternoon checking each and every photo over martinis. Quality control, you know.”

Unsurprisingly, Kinsey had managed to talk her way into a job with Madison Maitland at the top PR firm in Chicago. She would be running their new nonprofit division, pairing up worthy causes with corporate sponsors. The Cook County foster care system was the first project on her slate.

He was so damn proud of her.

But there was this matter of the calendar.

“It’s not even open to July,” he said, uncertain if the gravel in his voice was because of the sexy game they were playing or his annoyance that she was get
ting juiced up with Mr. March, one of those rescue squad show-offs from Engine 57.

“Oh, that’s just the appetizer, babe.” She flashed him a naughty grin, then her hand found him and gripped hard, just how he liked it.

That calendar went flying over his shoulder.

“Now I’m ready for the main course.”

Needing no further invitation, he slipped inside her in one long, possessive, perfect stroke.

Eight sixteen on the dot. He’d always had exquisite timing.

With each pump of his hips, both new and familiar pleasure rolled through his veins. Along with fire and smoke, this woman was in his blood, and every day he thanked the gods for bringing her back to him. She was the center of his universe—and that was where she would stay.

Those stunning hazel eyes, drunk on desire, imprisoned him in their depths. “Love you, Luke.”

“Love you more, baby.”

Because they were never not competing.

As she crested toward her orgasm, and the pleasure wound tight and built toward his, his overriding thought was how to top this happiness. Only one thing might. These days, he was a man of unstoppable ambition. Making this woman Mrs. Luke Almeida would be his next lofty goal.

Oh, who was he kidding? If his woman had her way, it would be Mrs. Taylor-Almeida. And she’d get no complaints from him.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my amazing editors, Elana Cohen and Lauren McKenna, for your energy and dedication in making this book awesome. Thanks for taking a chance on me.

To the great team at Gallery and Pocket Books, thanks for my hot-as-the-hinges-of-hell cover and all the work you do making me look good. And to copy editor Faren Bachelis, your insightful notes and catches of my errors made me sound less stupid, and your smiley faces at my jokes were just what I needed in the homestretch.

To Captain Jerry Hughes of Truck 33 and his crew, thanks for making me feel welcome at your firehouse and for your patience with all my questions. And extra thanks for the amazing food. CFD chefs are the best!

To Nicole Resciniti, my agent, cheerleader, and friend, thanks for your faith in me. I hope to make you money one day!

To Monique Headley and Lauren Layne, who are the best beta readers a writer could ask for. I really should send you flowers.

Finally, to my family, both Irish and American. I feel blessed to know you all and have your support.

Keep reading for a sneak peek of

PLAYING WITH FIRE

Book two in the sizzling
Hot in Chicago series

by KATE MEADER

Available Fall 2015 from Pocket Books!

A
lex Dempsey considered herself a highly skilled woman.

Prop a fifty-foot ladder against a burning building and watch her blitz that baby in sixty seconds. Hauling a thirty-pound hose bundle up multiple flights of stairs and down again? Child’s play. She could even drag a body to safety without breaking a sweat (she also knew a few prime locations for hiding one).

But for the life of her, she could not master the art of wearing a thong.

Unfortunately, this painted-on dress that left nothing to the imagination required that particular skill. Because going on her thirty-fourth date in ten months required that she wore this particular dress. Once a week, the results always the same. No callbacks. What she had been doing before clearly wasn’t working, so time to bring out the big guns—aka the girls.

As for other weapons in her arsenal . . . Tonight, she was test-driving smoky eyes that were more emo panda than sex kitten along with a pair of inadvisable heels—inadvisable because she was already too tall at five ten. On the plus side, courtesy of a bout with a hair iron, her usual rumpus of chocolate curls now knew who was boss.

Looking across the table in the farmer-chic restaurant Smith & Jones, three days before the New Year, Alex prayed she might finally be reaping the benefits of her itchy underwear, low-cut dress, and overlong primping. Her embarrassingly long dating résumé included prospects from all walks of life: stockbrokers, artists, auto mechanics, to name a few. A miscellaneous lot, they enjoyed the novelty of dating a female firefighter, but once the honeymoon was over—usually by dessert of the first date—doubts scudded like petulant storm clouds across their faces, the forecast always the same.

How can
I
be the man if
you’re
being the man?

God, she was so over it.

She didn’t crave excitement—she got that in her work. She just wanted someone who wasn’t a complete dick and could stand up to her occasionally abrasive personality. Tonight’s
victim
opportunity bashed a hockey puck around a rink with her brother Gage and was a Chicago police detective who she hoped had enough self-confidence to handle hers.

Detective Michael Martinez, are you the one?

“So, America’s favorite firefighter, huh?”

Don’t judge him yet, she cautioned. It was inevitable it would come up.

“I have good people on my PR payroll,” she said with a deferential smile.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side. Plenty of nights on the sofa in my future, huh?”

No nights if he didn’t quit being such a jackass. But then it seemed she was a magnet for jackasses. Five months ago, she had made headlines all over the country when she took the equivalent of a chain saw
to the Lamborghini of one of Chicago’s wealthiest and most influential men. Mega mogul Sam Cochrane had drunkenly crashed his car and miraculously not injured himself or others. When he wasn’t extracted quickly enough from the pin-in, he leveled a chauvinistic, racist, and homophobic rant against Alex and her family. The upshot? She extracted Cochrane out of that car all right.

Through the large opening left by the sawn-off door. There was also the two-foot gash she’d carved (unnecessarily) into the roof.

Pretty.

Also pretty stupid. She knew that. So, not her finest moment, but anyone who messed with her family risked her wrath. Growing up Dempsey meant all other considerations fell by the wayside.

“Good thing someone filmed it,” Michael continued, sounding like it wasn’t such a good thing at all. “Got the women and the gays on your side. Put the mayor in a difficult spot.”

Real good thing. Alex had escaped with her job and damp toes from her dip in the fifteen-minutes-of-fame pool. Her semi-celeb status as “America’s Favorite Firefighter” (thanks, Wolf Blitzer) had faded quickly as real news stories took precedence. Now she saw no reason why that unfortunate incident should have any impact on her professional—or her love—life.

Except that everyone kept bringing it up.

“You know how the news blows stuff out of proportion,” she said with a minimizing shrug. She’d noticed that on her most recent dates she had started channeling a softer version of herself. More datable.
More lovable. Less likely to use the Jaws of Life on the personal property of anyone who pissed her off.

She leaned in, a tip she had read today on HuffPo’s Lifestyles section. Boobs out, smile wide, voice low. Being sexy was exhausting.

His gaze fell to her cleavage. Spectacular stuff, she knew, but rarely did the girls get this much air.

“Do you like the squash blossoms?” Alex asked, her voice dropping to bedroom-husky as she tried to get the date back on track.

“The what?”

She gestured to the dish of tempura-fried goodness between them. Chef Brady Smith, who was currently groping Gage on a semi-regular basis, had sent it over with his compliments.

“Oh, yeah, they’re good.” He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “These flashy places don’t really do it for me. Overpriced food, undersized portions. Gimme a burger any day.”

She laughed, feeling at ease for the first time that night. “I know. Gage is a big foodie, so he’s always dragging me to restaurants with stuff like veal cheeks and charred orange and—”

“Seaweed and shit.”

“Yes!”

He chuckled and she joined in. Everyone around them was the epitome of hipster, looking like they drove Priuses and had Lolla ticket stubs in the pockets of their ironic bowling shirts. The restaurant did feel cheerfully festive, though, with beautiful holiday wreaths hung over the large antique mirrors. But it also had a bread program, which, while delicious, was unforgivably pretentious.

“I sort of know the chef,” she whispered to keep her traitor-talk out of the hearing range of Brady’s server spies, “so I thought it might be a good place but . . .”

“Next time, we’ll get a burger.”

Next time.
Score!
But she needed to rein in her runaway thoughts. It wasn’t over until the gingerbread pudding had made an appearance.

His phone pinged—again—and her heart sank as his expression morphed to cop-serious. “Got to take this, sweets. Back in a sec.”

“Sure.”

He headed off toward the restrooms, leaving her to wonder if he had designated a buddy to dial in for rescue at a certain point into the date. Like “call a friend” but in reverse.

Time to do her own check-in. She took out her phone and conference-texted her posse: Gage, who was on shift at Engine Company 6, where they both worked, and her friends/future sisters-in-law, Darcy and Kinsey. Otherwise known as Team Get Alex Laid.

He’s left the table 2x in 10 mins
. Either his gun’s digging into his tiny bladder or he’s on a coke break in the can.

Five seconds later from her brother:
Stop looking for faults!

Gage said she was impossible to please. As his standards up until meeting Brady six months ago involved being pleased fifty ways from Sunday by any guy who raised an eyebrow of come-hither in his direction, she’d say she might have the moral high ground here.

The need to complain wouldn’t let go.
He keeps staring at my tits.

Darcy chimed in with,
That’s what they’re fucking for!

Touché.

Next up on deck was Kinsey, who could usually be relied upon for a healthy jolt of common sense.
Try channeling your inner sexpot. Suck on a straw.

Real subtle,
Alex texted back.

Subtle does not
lead to man-made orgasms!
Gage again.

Alex found it rather priceless how people started to channel the love child of Yoda and Oprah the second they bagged a regular sex partner. But she wanted what they had with a heady desperation that sometimes left her breathless. She wanted to be smugly in love.

Her phone buzzed again, and a smile tugged her lips at the prospect of yet more oh-so-sage advice from her loved-up peeps. But the new message wasn’t from her crew.

Her pulse rate skyrocketed as it always did when she heard his name or saw him on TV or spent a single moment in his presence. Of course, he had no idea how much he affected her. She planned to keep it that way.

Try the quail,
the text read.
It’s excellent.

He was there. In the restaurant. Either that or he had surveillance trained on her, which, given her past behavior tainting the good name of the CFD, might not be so far-fetched. While she pondered how to play it, another message came in.
Check your six.

If she ignored him, it would look like she actually cared, and yet the idea of turning her head because he issued an order was equally galling.

Deciding that following his “suggestion” sat with her better than letting him think his presence bothered her, she twisted her shoulders and met the raw blue gaze of Mayor Eli Cooper. He was seated alone in a booth near the back, paperwork and an iPad laid out before him, long fingers curled around a tumbler of scotch.

He didn’t smile. She wouldn’t have believed it if he had. There was something predatory about him, like a lazy python lying in the sun ready to uncoil and strike at any moment. Before he straightened to his full six two, she knew he would come to her table.

She wanted to look away as he approached, but it was only twenty feet and again,
So don’t care.
Watching him walk over, she mused that Eli Cooper was the sort of man who knew how to use his physicality. Beneath his handmade shirts and tailored suits, a street fighter hummed through every loose-limbed motion. But that impression did not extend to his face, which was structurally perfect. High cheekbones. Superhero jaw. A mouth that should have a government warning. There were no signs of past trouble with a jealous husband or an abandoned girlfriend. No one had ever broken his nose. No one had busted his lip.

Strange, because her first instinct on seeing him was to roundhouse-kick him into the next millennium.

“Alexandra,” he drawled.

“Mr. Mayor.”

He sat without invitation. “How’s your date going?”

“Just dandy. Probably won’t appreciate a threesome, though.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth, and she longed to bite them back. That well-worn smirk, like a stray comma at the corner of his full-lipped mouth, activated.

“No one would like to share you, I imagine, Alexandra. However, you’re so difficult you’d probably need several CPD officers to handle you.”

Passing over the fact that he knew her date was Chicago blue, she blew out a bored sigh.

“Slow night on the campaign trail? I would think you’d want to get out there if your latest poll numbers are anything to go by.” She tsked. “Less than two months to the election and you’re hovering under forty percent.”

“All that matters are the numbers on the night.”

“Still, I’m sure you have babies to kiss, MILFs to ogle.” Donor dicks to suck. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Given your recent popularity, I should have you stump for me, but there’s no telling what might come out of your mouth from one second to the next.”

She raised her fruity Cab to her unpredictable mouth and took a ladylike sip instead of her usual gulp. Now would be a fabulous time for her date to reappear.

“I’m not for sale, Mr. Mayor.”

“Call me Eli. You did before.”

One mistake, a lifetime of regret. “You bring out the worst in me.”

“Oh, it doesn’t take much to get you riled, Alexandra. All that passion just looking for an outlet.” It was never Alex with him, which everybody and their aunt called her, but her full name. Just another dig that ensured her XX chromosomes would not be forgotten.

But this time, it didn’t feel like a dig. It felt like . . .
a caress. She lowered the glass of wine to the distressed mahogany table and stared at it accusingly because that was just, well, loco.

Done blaming the alcohol for that ludicrous flight of fancy, she lifted her chin and thought she saw his gaze snap up as if he’d been looking at her chest. Not likely, except to disapprove. Eli Cooper disapproved of her from his perfectly pedicured feet to his overly produced hair.

Hell and damn, so the man happened to be an exceptionally good-looking son of a bitch. The gods had been generous, giving him a strong brow beneath that wavy, black hair. Ice-blue eyes that hinted at secrets and numerous ways of uncovering hers. A dimple, too. Not that she’d ever seen it up close because he had never smiled at her, not a real smile, anyway. But she’d seen it on TV, a sunshine pop in the hard plane of his cheek. Practically every woman in Chicago had a lady boner for him, even the ones who hated his politics. Put her in the latter camp—not the lady boner part, just the politics-hating.

“Feel free to call me Firefighter Dempsey or plain Dempsey. That seems more appropriate for a boss-employee relationship.”

His brows rose. “You consider me your boss?”

“I consider you an asshole.”

He laughed, deep and rich, and the sound corkscrewed down her spine with a pleasurable thrill she resented. Fascinating how a basically nice person like herself could turn nasty, but then she always felt slightly unhinged around him.

“Ah, but you put it so much more colorfully before when you called me a
patriarchal woman-
hating
asshole
. In this very restaurant. Over there.” He pointed to the booth where he’d been sitting. His regular table, she supposed.

Twice in the last six months she had crossed swords with Mayor Eli “Hot Stuff” Cooper, the most arrogant, chauvinistic jerk of her acquaintance—and she should know, because he had stiff competition from the throwbacks she worked with at CFD. (Except for her firefighter brothers, who were generally cool with the presence of a woman on the job. They had to be or she’d kick their asses.)

The first time she ran into Cooper, he had made it clear that he thought firefighting and breasts were incompatible.

The second time he was pissed to all hell at her, and she was woman enough to admit he might have had good reason. That foul-mouthed big shot with the Lamborghini? Only Mayor Cooper’s preeminent donor, another guy who thought his dick had its own zip code. After her luxury car slice-and-dice, the mayor had summoned her to his town house in Lincoln Park—by text, which was why he had her number—and proceeded to bawl her out. For a long time. The guy did not like Alex or her family or the CFD.