The Night Belongs to Fireman (10 page)

“No, thanks. I don't have a lot of time. A guy's coming over to fix the toilet and . . .” He felt like an idiot talking about plumbing in this immaculate space, with this beautiful girl looking at him expectantly. “Never mind. What did you want to talk about?”

She bit her lip. “There's a very uncomfortable chair in the corner. Guaranteed to keep you awake. I'll be back in one second.”

Uncomfortable though it was—the fabric seemed to be made of recycled scrub brushes—he still nearly drifted off. He should have gone straight home for some shut-eye before coming here. He started when she appeared with a tray that held a silver coffeepot and two large mugs. A basket covered with a napkin released an amazing, buttery, sugary, life-is-good fragrance. Mingled with the aroma of rich, dark coffee, it was enough to make him decide the place wasn't so bad after all.

She pulled another armchair across the soft carpet. “Do you want to sit here now? Have you had enough?”

“Nope. I'm good. My butt is used to it now.” He took a gulp of coffee and downed the pecan raspberry muffin she offered him. Moaning in appreciation, he barely remembered his original reason for being there. But he couldn't delay forever. “So what's up, Rachel? If it's about the media, I'm doing what I can to keep it under control. But there's not a whole hell of a lot I can do. I'm sorry about Ella Joy showing up the other—”

“My real name is Rachel Kessler,” she interrupted. “Allen was my mother's name, so it's not a lie. But my real last name is Kessler.”

“Oooo-kay.” This didn't seem like groundbreaking news. So she used a different last name. Maybe she liked it better. He looked at her blankly, noticing the tension in her posture and the way she was watching him, as if cringing internally. “Cool,” he offered.

Man, he was tired. He swiped a hand across his eyes, trying to focus.

“That name doesn't mean anything to you, does it?” The realization seemed to stun her.

He frowned.
Rachel Kessler
. Maybe it did have a certain ring to it. If only he weren't so exhausted. “I suppose I've heard the name before, but I can't put my finger on it. Rachel Kessler,” he repeated.

“Try Rob Kessler.”

Now that did strike a chord. A big one. How had he missed
that
? He shook his head to clear it. “The computer genius billionaire. That Rob Kessler?”

“Yes. He's my father.”

Her father was Rob Kessler?
Fred's thoughts went on a dizzying carnival ride, the kind that spins you upside down and makes you throw up on your date. Rob Kessler was one of the richest men in the world. He'd invited the daughter of one of the richest men in the world to his house for spaghetti. Then he'd dropped the spaghetti on the floor and ordered pizza. Not only that—horror filtered through him. He'd
kissed
her.
Twice
.

Oh God. Did Rachel invite him here to warn him that Rob Kessler didn't want Fred the Fireman touching his daughter ever again?

“I . . . I didn't know,” he managed to get out.

“I know you didn't know. That's why I'm telling you,” Rachel said, a bit impatiently. “I felt you deserved to know why I'm so camera-shy, and why I had to leave that night at your house. Very few people in San Gabriel know who I am, and I definitely don't want the local news to find out. Now you understand, right?”

Did he? He was so confused. So tired and jumbled up. So Rachel had a rich computer genius father, which somehow explained why she didn't like the media. Yeah, he supposed that made sense. But it's not like she herself was famous. Reporters didn't bother with the adult children of billionaires unless they got a DUI or partied with Lindsay Lohan or did something else newsworthy . . .

And then some long-forgotten fact niggled at his memory.
Rachel Kessler
. A tech legend's child kidnapped . . . held hostage . . . it had been on all the news channels. He'd been thirteen, and caught up in his own crap, but the story had been so chilling and dramatic, everyone had been talking about it. She'd been held in a tiny cage for weeks. It suddenly clicked.

“Small spaces.”

She gave a tiny, wistful nod, as if the world was closing in once again.

I
n the time she'd known Fred, Rachel had never had any trouble interpreting his feelings. Exasperation, concern, the intent to kiss . . . it was all written right on his face with no attempt at disguise. But now, something had changed. He sat sprawled in her grandmother's horsehide armchair, peering blankly up at her through bloodshot eyes. Rachel had no idea what he was thinking. Maybe her revelation was no big deal after all. He'd probably seen all kinds of things in his line of work. Maybe he was angry and didn't want to tell her. Maybe . . . maybe . . .

Rachel clenched her hands around her mug of coffee. It smelled acrid to her, and the muffins she'd ordered from Cindy's parents' bakery clogged in her throat. This was a mistake, a huge mistake. What if he told someone else her secret? She'd have to leave San Gabriel and the Refuge and her only real friends and . . .

She made to stand up, but he snaked out an arm and stopped her. “Do I get to ask questions?”

She sat back down, jerky as a marionette. “Possibly,” she said, not wanting to promise too much. “What kind of questions?”

“Are you okay now?”

For a moment she went blank. “You mean since the kidnapping,” she said slowly as his meaning sank in.

“Well, yeah.”

Was she okay? Interesting question with no simple answer. “You're looking right at me. What do you think?”

He narrowed his reddened eyes at her. “I think you're avoiding the question. That's okay, it's probably a dumb question anyway.” He stopped, and scratched the back of his head, leaving a swath of mink-dark hair standing straight up. Staring into his coffee cup, he seemed to draw in a deep breath. “So you're, what's the word, the thing celebrities do when they don't want anyone to spot them . . . incognito?”

She crossed one leg over the other, not liking the tone of his question.

“First of all, I'm not a celebrity. I'm just a person who happens to be the daughter of Rob Kessler, who happened to make a lot of money and a lot of enemies. Can you blame me for not wanting to walk around announcing my identity?”

He set down his mug with an ominous click. “I didn't say I blamed you. I just asked.”

She hated the way he was looking at her, as if he was disappointed or maybe annoyed.
Annoyed?
What right did he have to be annoyed? She shot to her feet. “I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. If I used my real name, people would assume I'm trying to win special favors. If I don't, then I'm ‘incognito,' like some spoiled movie star.
Incognito
. Do I look like I'm incognito?” Even she knew she wasn't making sense, but the unfairness of the situation made her blood boil. She hadn't asked for any of this.

“Hang on a damn second.” Fred leaped to his feet too, brushing against his coffee cup, which wobbled dangerously close to the edge of the table. “You insist I come over here after the longest fucking shift in history, throw your fancy apartment in my face, and announce you're a billionaire. Then I ask one simple question and you jump all over me.”

The shock of his reaction reverberated through her system. No one talked to her like that.
No one
. Not even her best friends. Definitely not the Refuge staff or Marsden or her father or any of her father's household staff. “I didn't throw my apartment in your face. It's my apartment. That's all. How do you throw an apartment anyway? I'm not Thor.”

He ignored her feeble attempt at a joke. “You could have met me at a coffee shop, or a park, or at my house. You wanted me to see your place.”

“So you could understand.”

“Understand what? That you're wealthy? Point taken.”

Their gazes locked. Steam was practically coming out of Fred's ears. She thought of the panic buttons installed throughout the apartment. One click and Marsden would be up here in a flash. He was probably waiting right outside the door.

She pictured Fred being dragged out of her apartment. That would teach him to be nicer to her. She'd shared her deepest secret; why was he focusing on her apartment? Who cared about that?

She tried one last attempt at an explanation. “I don't want people to know me as Rachel Kessler, famous kidnapped kid. I want them to know me as Rachel Allen, dog therapist. Is that a crime?”

Fred struck the heel of his hand against his forehead as if a light bulb had just turned on. “The Refuge for Injured Wildlife. You own that place. That's why there's so much security. I thought you just worked there.”

“I never said that.”

“You can probably hire every dog trainer in California. I bet you were laughing your ass off at my pathetic little offer of help.”

“No, of course not,” she said hotly.

He didn't seem to hear—or care. “Is that why you decided to come to my place? You were slumming it?”

“No! That's ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous. Right.” Again he passed his hand across his eyes. “My God, and then I kissed you. I was one step away from boning you right there on the couch. You must have been thanking your lucky stars Ella Joy showed up when she did.”

The blood drained from her face. How dare he say something like that? Before he could say any more cruel things, she said loudly, “Three-two-seven,” the code numbers for the voice-activated panic button.

“Three-two-seven? What are you talking about?” Again, Fred scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Rachel, look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. That was way over the line. You threw me for a loop and I'm trying to get my bearings, that's all.” He gave her an exhausted-looking smile. “Ask any firefighter's family. End of a shift is no time for a serious conversation.”

At the sound of Marsden at the door, she turned her back on Fred. Even though fury still raced through her veins like acid, it turned out that she didn't want to actually
witness
Fred being dragged from her apartment.

“Time to go, kid,” she heard Marsden say.

“Rachel!” Fred said in an urgent tone. “What the hell's going on?”

The sound of a scuffle followed, but since Marsden was a highly decorated former Marine she had no doubt how it would turn out.

She was wrong.

“The least you could do is tell me you want me to leave,” came Fred's furious voice. She spun around. Astonishingly, he had Marsden in a headlock, and didn't even seem to be breathing hard. “You invited me here, Rachel
Kessler
. Don't you think it's a little rude to throw me out?”

She clutched her hands together. “Stop it! You're hurting him.”

“I'm not hurting him.” He released Marsden, who stumbled forward, his hand at his throat. Rachel rushed to help him.

“I'll be leaving now,” Fred announced to them both, then glanced around the room. “I'm leaving now,” he repeated, more loudly. “In case anyone at the other end of a hidden camera wants to know.”

And he stalked out of her apartment.

Rachel helped Marsden onto the suede loveseat, where he sat, taking in deep, wheezing breaths. “Are you okay?”

“Humiliated. But okay.”

“Oh, that jerk! I can't believe he did that to you!”

Marsden gave a dry chuckle. “Child, I started it. Took him about half a second to get the best of me. Kid's got some moves.”

“Well, it seems very rude to me. Stay right here, let me get you some water.”
Moves
, she thought indignantly as she hurried to the kitchen. He had moves all right.
I was one step from boning you right there on the couch
. Shivers raced through her at the memory of that statement. Is that really what would have happened if Ella Joy hadn't appeared? Spontaneous, hot sex—that was the kind of thing Liza did. And hadn't Cindy had sex in the kitchen the first time she and Bean had gotten together?

As she filled a glass from the filtered water spigot on the front of the fridge, another thought struck her. Fred hadn't coddled her the way many did. He'd shown her his honest reaction, whether she liked it or not. For better or worse, he hadn't held back. A secret sense of astonishment curled through her. Whatever else that exchange had been—surprising, distressing—it was real. So few things in her life, aside from the dogs she worked with, ever felt real. Even the Refuge was a carefully guarded bubble.

And in thanks, she'd kicked him out of her apartment. Well, tried to kick him out. Even in that, Fred the Fireman had surprised her.

F
red was halfway
down the street, completely caught up in his fury at Rachel's actions, when he noticed the black sedan cruising next to him. It had black-tinted windows and a German name he didn't recognize. It looked like the sort of car the CIA might use, or some international assassin. When the rear passenger side window rolled down, he half expected a revolver with a silencer to come next. Except that this was sunny San Gabriel, California, not some spy movie. Instead of a gun, two very intense dark eyes aimed virtual bullets at him.

“Frederick Lancaster Breen. Let's talk.” The man in the sedan had a deep voice, and sounded like he was in a big hurry.

Fred kept walking. “I don't talk to strangers. Especially anonymous ones who know my middle name.”

After a brief silence, the man said, “I'm Rob Kessler. Please, this won't take long. I'll drive you home.”

“That would be counterproductive, since my truck's right over there.”

“Then we'll take a short drive. We'll be done in fifteen minutes. That's all I can spare.”

Now that made Fred want to laugh. God forbid he take up too much time during a conversation he hadn't asked for. After amusement came curiosity. Given how he'd just left things with Rachel, he couldn't imagine many fond feelings would be coming his way from her father. But maybe he didn't know about the scene in her apartment. Or maybe he did, and wanted to yell at him about it. Since there was only one way to find out, he got in the car, circling around to slide onto the rear driver side seat.

The black leather interior welcomed him like some kind of exclusive men's club. He caught the scent of smoky green tea. Steam curled from the stainless steel mug in Rob Kessler's gloved hand. The man was long and lean, almost emaciated, and sat tailor-style on the backseat. He had dark slanting eyebrows—much like Rachel's—and a chin studded with dark stubble. He wore a black turtleneck and wire-rimmed glasses.

Fred had read a few things about Rob Kessler over the years, but in his advanced state of exhaustion, he couldn't remember any of them. Not that it really mattered at the moment.

“What do you want?” he asked bluntly. “I'm late for my nap.”

“I don't sleep much myself,” said Kessler, taking a sip from his mug. “Rarely more than two hours at a time.”

“Then you'd make a good firefighter.”

“Not a career I ever considered,” he said dryly.

Fred gave an unwilling laugh. “Yeah, well, only a certain kind of lunatic does.”

“Have you ever thought of a different career?” At some unseen signal, the driver began coasting forward. “Around the block, that's all,” Kessler told them both. “We should be able to finish our business by then.”

“Probably, since I can't imagine what business we might have.” Fred was truly bewildered, and he didn't think it was due to sleep deprivation. Something strange was going on here. “As for your question, I considered the military. Air force, most likely. But I ended up with the fire service.”

“You have an excellent record.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the sleek leather. “You checked? Why?”

“I'm an information addict. I can't ever know enough.”

“But why would you want information about me? I barely know your daughter. And after this morning, I'm sure I'll never see her again.” That statement made him suddenly miserable. He'd behaved horribly to her, he knew it. Finding out she was Rachel Kessler was like finding out she was Beyoncé—completely and terminally out of reach. “You can stop collecting information on me.”

“Not true,” said Kessler sharply. “You will see her again. I want to hire you.”

“
What?
” He shook his head, certain he'd misheard. “What the hell for?”

“Protection.”

“She has a security guard. The dude who kicked me out of her apartment.”

“That's not what the tape shows.”

“I knew there were hidden cameras!” Fred's triumph shifted to disgust. “You spy on your own daughter?”

“Only when necessary. An unknown man coming to her apartment made it necessary. The video camera activated when she gave the alarm code.”

Fred remembered all the things he'd said to Rachel. Hadn't he mentioned boning her on his couch? Was Kessler going to murder him now? Was that what this was all about? But no . . . she'd said the code after that part of the conversation. After he'd been so rude.

“What I saw was the second-place winner of the Southern California Muay Thai Championships kicking my security guard's ass. I want to add you on as a second bodyguard.”

“What . . . no . . .
what
?” He'd officially stepped down the rabbit hole and landed in a train wreck. “I'm not a bodyguard. I'm a firefighter.”

Kessler ignored him, continuing in his intense, vibrating voice. “I have congressional testimony coming up. That means extra, undesirable media attention. I need someone with my daughter twenty-four hours a day. I need someone living in her apartment with her. Someone quick and smart and strong. Someone she's comfortable with.”

“That is not me,” Fred said firmly. “She just booted me out.”

“Yes, but you were there because she invited you. She's never invited anyone inside before. Except her friends, and none of them are bodyguard material. She trusts you, or she never would have told you who she was. I've forbidden it.”