The Night Belongs to Fireman (20 page)

“Funny-smelling,” Sabina tossed over her shoulder as she strode away. “Are you guys here to shoot the shit or help out?”

F
red had to
hand it to Rachel. She didn't run for her safe zone after meeting the crew, but instead joined right in with the rest of them. Everyone got back to work filling boxes, loading them into a U-Haul, or doing whatever else Patty told them to do. As the slightest, least muscular person on the premises, Rachel volunteered to make sandwiches and hand out drinks. Every time Fred got a glimpse of her, she was chatting and laughing it up with some other firefighter.

Ace, the rookie, spent way too much time talking her ear off. Probably yammering about surfing or all the pranks the guys had pulled on him. Ace was a charmer. He had that Southern accent the girls went crazy over. Since Vader had gotten married, Ace had taken on the role of station player. At the last police versus firefighters softball game, he'd had his own cheering section.

Rachel wouldn't fall for all that, would she?

On his third trip to the yard to grab more empty boxes, Fred decided he'd had enough of Ace's flirting. He headed toward Rachel and the rookie, intending to drag the kid away by force if necessary. Vader stepped in his path.

“Going a little overboard over your ‘cousin,' don't you think?” He put his hands on his hips, his massive biceps flexing. Fred tried to peer over Vader's shoulder at Rachel and the rookie, but he couldn't see past the mountain of man in front of him. “How much do we really know about Ace?”

“Are we talking about the same person? The blond one the girls call the Angel in Turnouts? The one who cries into his KFC chicken basket because it reminds him of home?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” said Fred darkly.

“No kidding. Look at you. Who figured you for a dog in the manger type?”

“I'm not her dog. I mean, I'm not in her manger.” Fred felt the blood rush to his head. “I mean, we're not . . .”

“Save it, Stud. I see what's going on here. Now that the girls are all over you, you're getting greedy. Protecting your turf. You're like the lion chasing off the other lions. Or maybe Acie's a gazelle and you're about to rip the hide off him. Pull out his guts with your bare teeth.”

“Vader, just get out of the way.” Fred's vision swam red. Vader had a way of needling him that got under his skin every time.

“Peace, brother, peace.” Vader squeezed his shoulder, making him wince. That degree of muscle-power ought to require a weapon license. “I get it, bro. I know what you're going through. Chicks will make you crazy if you let them. And you have to let them, because what choice do you have unless you want to be a sad and lonely lion who isn't getting any gorgeous, fake-cousin pus—”

Fred lunged at him. Vader not only outweighed him by a lot, but he was a dedicated bodybuilder. Fred had seen guys back off at the mere flexing of one of Vader's pecs. It wouldn't take much for Vader to smash his face in. But at that moment, he didn't care. He dove under Vader's arm, yanked his shoulder forward, flipped him over so he spun in the air, then swiped his feet from under him. Vader landed with a thunderous thud on the lawn.

Voices shouted, footsteps pounded across the lawn, but to Fred it was all a vague buzz. He flew through the air, using his momentum to pin Vader's legs to the ground. When Vader tried to swat at him, he caught his arm and bent it backward until Vader swore.

“Holy Mother Mary,” said Double D, who was suddenly next to them, staring down. “Freddie took down Vader.”

“Damn it, Fred,” said Mulligan. “What about my fight club bets? You just blew the whole thing.”

“You got some crazy-ass skills, Freddie.” Vader struggled to sit up. “What were you doing, saving them for a rainy day? How come you never beat my ass before?” Fred shifted to let him up. He blinked at his captain, the red haze clearing from his vision. What the hell had he just done?

“Sorry, Vader,” he muttered. “I don't know what . . . I shouldn't have . . .”

Vader gave a tiny shake of his head, indicating something behind him. Fred looked over his shoulder to see Rachel, wearing a horrified expression, drop to her knees next to him.

“Are you okay, Fred?” Fluttering like an anxious dove, she patted his arms and back.

“Shouldn't you be asking me that?” Wounded, Vader brushed himself off. “I'm the one who got dropped.”

“Right. Of course.” She switched her gaze ever so briefly to Vader. “Are you okay?” At the same time she reached for Fred's hand and cuddled it in both of hers. The lump in his chest, the tension that had made him explode, dissolved at her touch.

“No, I'm not okay,” said Vader. “Your ‘cousin' attacked me for no reason.”

Rachel turned on him, violet eyes firing sparks in that way Fred knew so well. “Don't be ridiculous. You must have done
something
to deserve it. Everyone knows Fred wouldn't attack someone out of nowhere.”

“Sure he would,” said Mulligan promptly. “Did it to me once.”

Rachel's glare swerved to land on Mulligan. “I'm
sure
you deserved it. You probably always deserve it.”

“True, that.” Mulligan clapped Fred on the back. “Freddie, I approve of your cousin. But don't attack me for it,” he added quickly. “I know you can beat me.”

“That was awesome. How'd you do that?” Ace crouched next to Rachel.
Too
close to Rachel. Fred felt his hackles rise again.

“Keep it up, Acie, and you'll see firsthand.” Vader gestured at his position right next to Rachel.

“What?” The kid looked completely confused, as did Rachel. Frowning, she looked from one to the other of them, as if trying to decipher a foreign language. Slowly the truth seemed to dawn, and she yanked her hands away from Fred's.

Vader smirked. “You guys have an interesting family.”

“Shut up, Vader,” Fred growled. He flipped to his feet in a jujitsu move that had taken two years to master and faced the small crowd of his fellow firefighters. He loved them like brothers, but right now he had to take a stand. Too bad if it caused problems. He could handle problems. But he couldn't handle anyone putting the moves on Rachel.

He raised his voice so everyone could hear. “For the record, Rachel isn't my cousin. But she is
with
me. We're
together
. And that's all either of us is going to say on that subject. Any questions?”

Mulligan raised his hand mockingly. “Just one. Isn't she the one from the City Lights Grill? And the limo?”

Rachel went pale. Fred had been sure Mulligan wouldn't recognize Rachel, since he'd been crushing on her friend Feather. Damn. He had to do something, fast.

“Yes,” he said simply, meeting everyone's eyes, one by one. “But now Rachel is under my protection. No one outside of this group needs to know she was ever here. If you're not cool with that, tell me now.”

No one said a word. He scanned the familiar faces of Station 1's A shift. Their expressions ranged from curiosity to respect to acceptance. He held Mulligan's glance for a long moment, making sure they understood each other. Mulligan nodded briefly. That's all Fred needed. The man's nod was as good as his bond.

“Say no more. We're cool, Freddie. You need anything, let us know.” Double D finally said. Everyone nodded. Fred felt a rush of love for his crew. They always had his back. Always.

“Except my wife is about to blow a gasket,” Double D continued. “Think we can get back to business here?”

“Yes.” Relieved, Fred let out a quiet whoosh of breath. The firehouse had survived some outrageous scenes, but he'd never been at the center of one before. “Let's do it. Tell Patty I'll be right there.”

The crowd dispersed, including Rachel, who huddled with Sabina as they headed into the house. Obviously they were discussing something very serious. He reached a hand down for Vader, who grasped it and hauled himself to his feet.

“I'm sorry, man,” he told his captain, low so no one else could hear. “I shouldn't have thrown you. I lost my shit there.”

“Yeah you did,” Vader said cheerfully. “You proved my point, bro. I hate to say it, Freddie-boy, but you're in love.”

C
halk up another new experience in Rachel's life; she'd never before had two guys come to blows over her. She still wasn't completely sure if that's what had happened, since Fred had clammed up. After the fight with Vader, he'd stalked into Patty and Double D's bedroom and slammed the door.

Sabina did her best to explain. She took Rachel into the kitchen to help pack up the dishes and flatware. With a morbid sense of humor, someone had draped police crime scene tape around the microwave.

“When Fred first came to the firehouse,” Sabina told her as she wrapped glasses in newspaper, “he had a very serious girlfriend. She seemed like a real sweetheart. On his first day she made blueberry pie for the whole crew. It was adorable. The guys teased him because she called him all the time and left little love notes in his lunch. On his first day, Double D overheard her calling him ‘you big stud' on the phone, and that's how he got the nickname. Anyway, it turned out she wasn't so sweet after all and she dumped him for someone on the C shift. Someone with more seniority who was about to make captain. So what it comes down to is that he might be a little sensitive about bringing girls around the crew.”

“Was that Courtney?” Rachel asked, remembering the girl from the bowling alley. She followed Sabina's lead and picked up a mug, surrounding it with a sheet of newspaper.

“No, this was ages ago. He broke it off with Courtney . . . well, a few weeks ago, I think. Here's the thing about Fred. He's a sweet guy, but push him too far and he pushes back.”

“I guess he proved that today.”

Sabina laughed. “I know, right? Fred's one of my favorites at the firehouse. He's got a heart the size of California. But he doesn't get the attention he deserves. I've been waiting for the right person to show up, someone who really appreciates Fred.”

Rachel couldn't tell if Sabina was welcoming her or warning her. She set the mug in the box and reached for another one. “Fred is . . .” How could she put this without revealing too much? “He takes good care of me.” She winced. That made Fred sound like a babysitter. “I mean, I trust him.” That wasn't any better; now he sounded like a
trustworthy
babysitter. “I care about him. I . . . we have fun together.”

Sabina put up a hand to stop her. “I don't need the details. In fact, I beg you not to share the details. Fred's like a brother to me. But I thought you should know that when his old girlfriend hooked up with that C shift guy, he seemed relieved more than anything. He sure didn't knock anyone around. Something to think about.”

Just then Patty hurried into the kitchen like a hurricane in flip-flops, and the conversation ended. Rachel was dying to ask Sabina more questions but never got a chance. And then they were all draining the last of their beer, saying good-bye, and heading home.

During the entire trip back to her apartment, Fred didn't say a single word.

“Do you miss the station?” Rachel finally asked, just to break the silence. He didn't answer, just frowned at the road ahead. She tried again. “I bet you'll be glad to get back to your real job.”

Nothing. Maybe he hadn't even heard her.

The communication blackout continued all the way home. Fred barely said hello to Marsden in the lobby. Once he'd checked the entire apartment and done the usual security check, he took Greta for a walk.

With a sick feeling in her stomach, Rachel used the time to go through the mail she'd been neglecting over the past few days. Her mail went to a post office box, which Marsden emptied twice a week on her behalf. Not that there was anything interesting—mostly solicitations and catalogues. She flipped through a pet care catalogue while she sorted through her thoughts, and especially Sabina's words.

It sure seemed that Sabina was suggesting Fred had feelings for her. More feelings than he'd had for his ex-girlfriend. Strong feelings, the kind that drove a guy to tackle his own captain. But if so, why was he ignoring her now?

She hadn't wanted to think about their feelings for each other, because he wasn't going to be around much longer. Falling for Fred would be a silly thing to do. Her father's testimony would take place any day now, and that would be the end of their arrangement. Fred would go back to his regular life at the firehouse and she'd retreat to her isolated bubble of an existence.

What man would be willing to put up with the kind of constraints she lived under? Once he went back to the firehouse, he'd be the Bachelor Hero again. And if they kept seeing each other, the media might start investigating her, and if they found out who she really was . . .

She shuddered. She couldn't let that happen.

But still . . . Sabina's hints kept stealing into her mind. What if Sabina was right and he was starting to develop real feelings for her?

She rolled the thought around in her mind, testing it to see how it felt. Her hands trembled on the slick pages of the catalogue. To love and be loved by Fred . . . it was something she hadn't really dared to think about. It seemed almost too wonderful to imagine, his warm, sunny strength by her side, forevermore.

But when she tried to figure out how it would work in real life, she ran into a blank wall. How could their lives possibly fit together when he wasn't acting as her bodyguard? What would that look like?

Unfortunately, Fred wasn't talking. He also, for the first time since the night of Cindy's wedding, slept in the guest bed. After his usual careful check of the apartment and testing of the alarms, he gave her a polite good night and disappeared into his room.

Rachel lay awake, cursing her stupidity.
This
was why you shouldn't get involved with your bodyguard. Because if something went wrong between you, he was
right next door
, so close, yet so torturously far.

But what had gone wrong? If only he'd give her some kind of clue. She considered calling Cindy for advice, then remembered she was on her honeymoon. What would Cindy do in this situation? Probably go out and party. Forget her troubles
and
make Bean jealous at the same time. But that wasn't an option for Rachel, not without her bodyguard—the source of her problems. Total catch–22.

The next day, her father called her from his private jet to say he was on his way to Washington and that his testimony was scheduled for shortly after he arrived. Her stomach clenched. This was it. The end, drawing near.

“Isn't that cutting it close?”

“If I'm late, they'll wait,” he said with typical arrogance. Only Rob Kessler would make an entire U.S. Senate subcommittee wait for him. In the background, she saw his assistant bring him a glass of water. Lemon-ginger-cucumber, no doubt. Her father had very strict dietary requirements wherever he went. “How's your bodyguard?
Where's
your bodyguard?”

“He's here. He's on the treadmill.”

“Marsden says he's working out well.”

“I'm alive, aren't I? Still breathing in and out, still exchanging oxygen for carbon dioxide.” She couldn't hide her irritation, or explain that it was very likely due to the fact that said bodyguard had slept in his own bed last night.

“You don't sound too happy about that.”

“Of course I'm happy. If you're happy, I'm happy.”

“Are you going to watch the testimony? It'll be on C-SPAN later in the evening.”

“Sure, if you want me to.”

“Watch a bunch of politicians make asses of themselves? How could you miss it? Besides, then it'll be over. As I promised, you can ditch the bodyguard and go back to normal.”

She forced a smile. “Yes. That'll be a big relief.”

“Thank you for being patient with me, honey. Means a lot.”

“It's all right,” she said dully, unable to summon any particular joy or pride. She knew her safety meant everything to her father. But sometimes she wished she had something else to boast about other than the fact that she was still sentient.

F
red had been
walking around in a kind of stupor ever since Vader had hit him with that “you're in love” comment. It was just a word, a phrase—“in love”—what did it even mean? It certainly didn't describe his feelings for Rachel. No way. He was Rachel's protector. That's why he'd freaked out about Acie, not because he was jealous. He was simply protecting her from a Southern-boy charmer. In love? That would create so many problems, he didn't even want to think about it. A guy like him falling in love with someone like Rachel Kessler would be like . . . asking to get kicked in the head by Vader Brown.

In desperate need of some room to think, away from her scent, her wide smile, the tumble of her hair, he took extra care with the safety check, then closeted himself in his room.

It didn't help. He barely slept. Perhaps the low point of the night was when he pictured himself telling Rob Kessler he was in love with his daughter. In his imagination, a SWAT team of Namsaknoi Yudthagarngams came crashing through the picture windows to take him down. Rachel deserved the best, someone who could both protect her and give her the world. Maybe some combination of Rambo and . . . Prince William. And Bill Gates, for good measure.

Not Fred the Fireman, the only Breen son not serving in the armed forces. The one his brothers loved to tease. It wasn't about the Kessler billions, not really. It was more about . . . worthiness. To win someone like Rachel, there ought to be tests—feats of strength, or daring quests.

The difference between his world and Rachel's had never been clearer than during the evening broadcast of the Congressional Subcommittee on Internet Security's hearings, which had taken place that afternoon. He joined Rachel in the living room, but instead of sitting on the couch with her, he chose the uncomfortable horsehair armchair he'd sat in that very first day. He wasn't sure why; all he knew was that he needed to keep some distance.

Rachel didn't say anything about the seating arrangement. She whistled softly for Greta, who trotted across the room and curled up at her feet. She clicked the remote that controlled the wall panels hiding the big flat-screen, and selected C-SPAN.

As they watched Rob Kessler testify, Fred's heart slowly sank into the region of his toes. The ones in worn tube socks with holes in the heels.

Facing the most powerful men and women in the nation, Rob Kessler made them all look like idiots, the way the guys at the computer store made him feel when his hard drive crashed. Brilliant, articulate, dynamic, even photogenic, he ruled that hearing the way a kindergarten teacher rules recess.

Rob Kessler probably never had holes in his socks.

Fred was frowning at the big plasma screen, searching for similarities to Rachel—same winged eyebrows, same bold cheekbones—when suddenly he found himself staring at a picture of her as a little girl. Her hair was in two braids on either side of her head and she wore a red sweater with a pattern of snowflakes around the neck. There was a gap between her two front teeth.

C-SPAN had taken a break from the testimony while a point of discussion got hashed out in private. To fill the time, they were running a profile of Rob Kessler.

“It was the most notorious kidnapping since the Lindbergh case, the kind of thing we're more used to seeing in Colombia, where the children of the wealthy are under constant threat. Rachel Kessler, eight years old at the time, was snatched off her bicycle and held captive for nearly a month.”

Shots of an exclusive neighborhood scrolled across the screen.

“A ransom note was received, but then withdrawn. Two days later another note was delivered. Every communication was sent not only to Rob Kessler, but to the local San Francisco TV station. Experts speculated that the kidnapper was someone with a big grudge against the Kessler family, someone seeking attention, because nothing seemed to satisfy him. Even once the original ransom amount was paid, he demanded more.”

They switched to a shot of Rob Kessler, much younger, shoving his way through a crowd of reporters.

“Just when investigators were beginning to despair of a breakthrough, little Rachel Kessler, in an incredible act of bravery, managed to escape. A neighbor in the remote Mojave Desert found her passed out under their trailer, bloodied, bruised, and dehydrated. The kidnapper was never located.”

The newscaster, a middle-aged man Fred didn't recognize, paused for drama.

“To this day, Rachel Kessler has never gone public with her story, although she was, of course, questioned extensively by the FBI. Little is known about her current whereabouts, though we have learned that she no longer resides at Cranesbill, the Kessler estate. Wherever she is, it's safe to assume she's under tight security. All requests for comment from the Kessler camp were denied. In the journalistic world, an interview with Rachel Kessler would be considered one of the biggest ‘gets' of any reporter's career.”

Fred felt sick. The newscaster called Rachel a “get,” as if she were some sort of hunting quarry. Maybe that's how the kidnapper had thought of her too. A “get.” He glanced over at the couch. Rachel's face had gone completely blank and dead white. Her hands were deep in Greta's fur, gripping so tight her dog gave a soft little whine.

“Rachel,” he said sharply, to break the spell she seemed to be under. “Are you okay? That newscaster's a freaking idiot.”

She didn't answer. She didn't even look at him. When they'd started watching the broadcast, he'd been lost in his own thoughts, far away from her. Now it was her turn to be distant, and he hated the feeling. Panicking, he launched himself across the room and grabbed her by the shoulders. She didn't resist. It was as if she was somewhere else entirely.

“
Rachel
. Tell me what you're thinking. Tell me what's going on. Please talk to me.”

Slowly her eyes seemed to focus, the lost look replaced by something hard and desperate. Her eyebrows drew together, slanting across her forehead. Two spots of pink appeared in her cheeks. “Let's go out,” she said abruptly.