It's a Wonderful Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novella (The Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel) (17 page)

Holy RBI. This girl could certainly talk. Her face moved as she spoke, her eyes danced; every bit of her seemed alive and in motion. She looked to be in her early twenties and had a sort of student-gypsy vibe about her. Her lips curved in a way that suggested she liked to laugh . . . and talk and tease. She wore a tight white T-shirt molded to high, pretty breasts, and a flowery skirt that ended just above her knees. And red cowboy boots. Damn. How could he resist red cowboy boots? Those things ought to be banned.

He plucked the folder from her hand. “Got a pen? You seem like the kind of girl who would have a pen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And yes. But no. Why?”

“Want to clarify any of that?” He raised an eyebrow at her, while trying to get a surreptitious peek at the typing on the document inside the folder. “Whereas we, the residents of Kilby County . . .” it began.

She snatched the folder back. “Yes, I have a pen. No, you can’t write on the petition. And why do you want to?”

He put on a wounded expression. “I was going to draw you a map. These passageways can be superconfusing. It’s completely understandable that you got lost and found yourself at the place where the guys get undressed.” He winked, watching the flush rise in her cheeks. Yes, she was definitely fun to get riled up.

Then her words sank in. “Petition? What petition?” He tried to take the folder back, but she whisked it out of his reach. He barely missed grabbing her breast instead.

Before he could apologize, she stepped back with an exaggerated gasp of outrage. “There you go again. You Catfish really are a menace to decent society. Just like the petition says.”

“What?”

“That’s right.” She waved the folder. “They say you’re completely out of control.”

Caleb had heard the talk about the Catfish too. They liked to party a little too much, and they indulged in the occasional bar-clearing brawl, but then, they were fun-loving young baseball players, so what could you expect? Anyway, it wasn’t his problem. He intended to put Kilby in his rearview mirror as soon as possible. “I wouldn’t know. Can’t say that I care, either.”

“So the stories are true? Did you guys really fill the community pool with rubber catfish? I heard the senior exercise group had quite a scare and had to call the paramedics.”

He snorted.

She shook her head sadly. “Things sure have changed since I came to games as a kid. And to think I thought it was safe here for a nice, civilized girl like me. Next time I’ll make sure to bring a bodyguard.”

A bodyguard? Now that was taking it a little too . . . he caught the gleam of mischief she hid under the sweep of her eyelashes. Damn. He’d been right before. She was teasing him.

Whether it was the incredible frustration of the past two hours, on top of the preceding frustration of being sent down, then traded—throw in the never-ending worry about his family—whatever the cause, all his emotions boiled over in that moment. In two quick steps, he crowded her against the wall—no contact, just heat and sweat and closeness.

He growled in her ear, his lips almost brushing against the delicate skin there. “There’s only one way to find out if the stories are true. But you have to want it. Bad. You have to be so hot for it, you come chasing after me and beg for it. Then you have to prove you can handle it. Put that in your petition.”

She stared up at him, her pupils dilated so far her eyes looked black, with a rim of glowing amber. The little pulse in her neck beat like a drum.

All of a sudden his cock was so hard his vision blurred. Damn. Where had that come from? She wasn’t even his type. In fact, she was on the irritating end of the female spectrum.

He let her go as if she was a grenade about to explode. “Duke’s office is down the hall to your right.”

Pushing open the clubhouse door, he headed directly for the shower. It was going to have to be a cold one.

And don’t miss the latest installment in the Bachelor Firemen series!

Read on for a taste of

THE NIGHT BELONGS TO FIREMAN

Available now from Avon Books.

An Excerpt from

When fireman Fred Breen rescues a bachelorette party after a construction crane collapses onto their limo, the media label him “the Bachelor Hero.” But all Fred can think about is the petite brunette with the sexy mane of dark curls who bolted away from him faster than a wildfire after he carried her to safety. And when he discovers she’s none other than Rachel Kessler, the daughter of a tech billionaire, the girl whose kidnapping riveted the nation, he’s intent on learning every intimate detail about this intriguing woman who sets his pulse on fire.

Rachel can’t deny the lean-muscled firefighter is smokin’ hot. But after having one too many drinks at the bar where she first meets him, Rachel knows she’s made a fool of herself. Yet when he rescues her from the limo, she feels the safest she’s felt since she was held for ransom as a child. Then her overprotective father insists Fred be her bodyguard—and his close presence kindles a burning desire that only he can extinguish.

N
O WOMAN COULD
help but notice the two men who strode into the City Lights Grill just after midnight. Not with that amount of pure, knockout maleness walking through the door. One had the broken-nose look of a boxer, the other a more fresh-faced appeal, along with a slight limp. Both moved as if they knew exactly what to do with their bodies at all times.

The two, who happened to be off-duty firefighters, didn’t register the influx of feminine attention, maybe because they were used to it. Or maybe because the rougher of the two firemen was too busy lecturing the other.

“The problem with you, Fred,” said Mulligan, “is that you’re too—”

“If you say ‘nice,’ you’ll be on your ass in two seconds.” Fred Breen was at the tail end of a rough night. “And you know I can do it.”

“Yeah,
now
I know, since you finally let me in on your big secret. But check it out.” He reached for the trophy Fred dangled from one finger, as if he didn’t even care about it. “ ‘Second place,’ it says here. You know who second place is for? Nice guys. Guys who don’t have the killer instinct. Guys who give kittens CPR—”

“Don’t start with the freaking kittens again. They lived, didn’t they?” Fred flung himself into a chair at a table in the corner, then winced. He’d just spent the evening getting the crap beat out of him at the Southern California Muay Thai Championships. Every bone in his body ached, and his muscles had gone into some sort of traumatic shock. “And did you happen to notice the guy who took first? Jet Li couldn’t have beaten that guy. He’s like a sixth-generation master.”

“Excuses, excuses. My point is, I’ve noticed a theme in your life, Freddie-boy. Take Courtney—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Mulligan.”

Even Mulligan, instigator that he was, backed off from the feral glare Fred aimed at him. “Pitcher?” he asked innocently.

“Yeah, sure.” Beer or a full-body transplant, either would do.

Mulligan headed for the bar while Fred, nearly comatose, slumped farther into his chair. He knew that no one at the firehouse liked his ex-girlfriend Courtney, which was
exactly
why he hadn’t told anyone they’d broken up. He was tired of everyone’s opinions on his life. Including Courtney’s. She insisted on calling their current breakup a “trial separation.” Getting beat up by Muay Thai masters was easier than ending things with Courtney.

He flexed his left elbow gingerly. It seemed to still function, and apart from the bruises on his rib cage, he’d gotten off pretty easily. His face showed nothing worse than exhaustion. He didn’t ever notice the pain during a bout. But afterward . . . that was a different story. That was why he trained only during his four days off from his firefighting duties. It took time to recover.

Why, he asked himself for the thousandth time, did he insist on throwing himself into that ring? What did he get out of it besides bruises and stiffness? Well, and the secret knowledge that he could disable every guy in the San Gabriel Fire Department. After all his training, he could probably even beat his brothers, who were all in various branches of the military.

He planted the trophy, a brass-plated karate figure mounted on a square base, in the middle of the table and glared at it.
Second place.
Never mind that second place was the highest he’d ever ranked. Never mind that Namsaknoi Yudthagarngam was essentially unbeatable. Never mind that his brothers wouldn’t take him seriously even if he had won. Was Mulligan right, and he was doomed to second place because of his—

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden whisking away of the trophy. He looked up to see a girl in a bridal veil brandishing it in the air. Under the veil she had masses of wild dark hair and looked like big trouble.

“Cindy Barstow is hereby awarded the title of Most Bodacious Bride!” She mimicked a trumpet call to the women crowding around her, one of whom, a curvy blonde, raised her arms in a victory gesture and made a “gimme” gesture at the trophy. The dark-haired girl in the veil then bent to whisper in Fred’s ear. “Sorry, it was a dare. You can’t deny a bride during her bachelorette party.”

Temporarily stunned by the sudden onslaught of femininity—and the clean, rosewater fragrance of the girl’s hair—Fred warily surveyed the women surrounding him. Four of them, all dressed in skimpy party dresses and sparkly tiaras. All seemed seriously buzzed.

With perfect timing, Mulligan reappeared with a foaming pitcher of beer. “Ladies,” he said in greeting. “If you’re here to celebrate, welcome aboard.”

“What are we celebrating?” an Asian girl in a hot-pink tube dress asked. “I mean, besides the tragic loss of an exceptional single lady to the enslavement known as matrimony?”

“I like your style, babe.” Mulligan gave her a once-over. “You busy later?”

“Oh, I plan to get busy later.” She flipped her hair. “But probably not with you.”

“Ouch.” Mulligan mimed a shot to the heart. Then he plucked the trophy from the dark-haired girl’s hands and transferred it to the Asian girl. “There you go. Prize for best putdown.”

“Hey!” The girl in the veil squawked and dove after the trophy. “I stole that fair and square.”

The girl in hot pink held on tight to it. “Back off, Rachel. I earned it with my outstanding bitchiness.”

Laughing, the two girls pretended to tussle over the silly prize.
Rachel
, thought Fred.
Her name is Rachel.
The other two girls took sides, raucously rooting them on.
Oh yes. Seriously buzzed.

Fred, watching their antics, heaved a sigh, which hurt his ribs. He was too sore for this. But he’d been carrying that trophy and he knew how cheaply it was constructed. He knew what would happen next. He rose to his feet, wincing all the way, and stationed himself strategically behind the girl in the veil. Sure enough, the thing flew apart, the statuette in the hands of Hot Pink, its base in the hands of Bridal Veil.

Rachel stumbled backward, right into Fred’s arms. He absorbed the impact of her petite body and sputtered against a mouthful of bridal veil.

“Oops! I’m so sorry!” The girl righted herself, pushing away from him. Suddenly his arms held no silky, warm presence. He swiped the veil out of his vision and found himself looking into wide, concerned eyes of an unusual deep indigo color. Two spots of pink burned in her cheeks. “Are you okay?” she asked him. “Did I hurt you? You look like you’re in pain.”

“I’m fine,” croaked Fred, whose ribs were throbbing. “Are you okay?”

“Just embarrassed.” She leaned toward him intimately, a little wobbly. He caught that fresh fragrance again, like morning rain in a rose garden. “I really shouldn’t ever, ever drink. And usually I don’t. But it’s a special occasion, you know. And Cindy made me wear the veil, which means I have to do what she says. According to her rules. ’Cuz she’s the bride.”

Mulligan came over and clapped a hand on Fred’s shoulder, harder than he had to. “Freddie can take it. He’s a stud. That’s what we call him, actually. Stud. Not just any guy can win this.” He hoisted the trophy high in the air. “Champion in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off.”

Fred shot him a baleful look. “That doesn’t look like someone baking,” pointed out the curvy blonde, Cindy the bride. “Unless that’s a rolling pin in his pants.”

“Fred,” Mulligan whispered loudly in his ear, “I’m in love. Can we party with these girls for a while?”

Rachel overheard. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not. Right, girls? Bachelorette parties aren’t supposed to have
boys
.”

“Unless they’re strippers,” said the fourth girl, whose short hair looked like a spiky red dandelion. “Are you guys strippers?”

“Something could probably be arranged,” said Mulligan. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He jerked his head meaningfully in Fred’s direction. “You should get him to tell you about it.”

True, Fred had once taken part in a bachelorette party strip show. Never to be repeated, he’d vowed. “Mulligan, sit down and shut the fuck up,” he told the other firefighter.

“Ooh,” said Hot Pink. “Are you going to let him talk to you that way, big guy?”

Fred shot Mulligan a warning look. He was nearing the end of his tether. Sore, bruised, and he hadn’t even had a sip of that beer yet. Plus he was hungry. True, the dark-haired girl, Rachel, had felt wonderful falling into his arms. If it were just the two of them, alone, maybe with a hot tub and a bottle of ibuprofen . . . some Tiger Balm . . . massage oil . . . Not that he was thinking
that
, no way, not with Courtney still calling every few days. He wanted out, but he didn’t want to hurt Courtney.

“Yes, I am,” said Mulligan, dropping into a chair. “He’s more of a badass than he looks. Nice seeing you, girls. Best wishes on your upcoming nuptials.”

“Nuptials!” the redhead shouted. “Someone said ‘nuptials.’ You know what that means. Everyone do a shot!”

The other girls groaned and they all fluttered away toward the bar.

As she left, Rachel flipped her veil over her shoulder, catching Fred in the corner of his eye. He clapped his hand over it, while she muttered a horrified apology, then fled.