The Night Belongs to Fireman (3 page)

Rachel just had time to wonder how on earth he was going to open a door that had been partially flattened when another firefighter heaved into view a giant tool that looked like a claw. After some loud, horrible mechanical screeching, the door was lifted away and Fred the Fireman was crouching next to Feather. An intense desire to flee the stifling, stinking deathtrap of a limo grabbed hold of her. If she could just get out, fight free, run and run until no one could catch her . . .

She yanked herself back to reality. She was here, now, not in that other bad, horrible place. And her friends needed her. If there was one thing she would never, ever do, it would be to leave behind someone who was trapped, or someone who needed help. She'd die first.

Focusing carefully, she unclenched her fists, where her nails had dug gouges into her palms. She took hold of Cindy's hand in both of hers, looked into Fred the Fireman's kind eyes, and said something she rarely, if ever, said to anyone.

“Tell us what to do.”

Rachel made it through the next half hour on a combination of sheer willpower and random babbling. Every nerve in her body screamed to get out of that limousine, but she refused to give in to the panic. Cindy passed out again, but Rachel managed to stay alert while Fred, with the help of another firefighter, maneuvered Liza and Feather out of the car. As soon as each girl was freed, Fred handed her off to a team of paramedics who whisked her away on a gurney. As each moment passed, the desire to be free of the space grew stronger. If she gave in to her deepest primal instincts, she'd be clawing her way past her best friend, broken bones be damned.

But she didn't. When it was Cindy's turn, she tried to help, though she had almost no room to move. Fred had to come halfway into the limo to operate, and this close she saw sweat beading his face and tension in his jaw. He looked so young for such a big responsibility as saving four people's lives.

“How old are you?” she asked him without thinking.

He ignored her, rightfully so, focusing his entire attention on maneuvering Cindy's limp form into his grip. She liked his face, with its square jaw and nicely shaped mouth.
Nicely shaped mouth?
Was this really the right moment for that kind of observation? Hell, she had to distract herself somehow.

“I'm sorry. That wasn't an appropriate question. Clearly you know what you're doing. And I hate it when people jump to conclusions when they don't really know you. Don't you?”

His jaw tightened.

“And now I'm making it worse. I'm really sorry. I'm not myself at the moment. Although you probably wouldn't like me when I am myself either. My father says I'm headstrong. But that's just because I don't do whatever he tells me. Don't get me wrong. I do some things he tells me. Most things, actually. And that's probably what's wrong with my life, right there. Do you think you could give me something to make me stop babbling?”

A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and when he looked up, Cindy securely in his arms, the light in his eyes made her momentarily breathless.

“Don't worry. Nothing you say during an emergency counts. It's like Vegas.”

“What happens in the car crash stays in the car crash?”

“Exactly. I'm ready to take Cindy out now.”

Rachel felt cool air against her side as Fred bore Cindy toward the door. She could practically smell the freedom. Once Cindy was out, she could scramble out of here and run, run, run . . .

Too bad she couldn't explain so Fred the Fireman could understand.
See, when I was eight, I was kidnapped and held for ransom in a cage the size of a cereal box, and ever since then I've been a little sketched out by tight spaces.

“One more thing,” Fred added as he neared the door. “You'll probably be tempted to get the hell out of here once Cindy's gone. Please don't do that. You might have injuries you don't realize. The safest course is to take it nice and slow and controlled. And let me do all the work.”

She nodded. And she certainly intended to do as he asked. Fred, unlike many people in her life, had proven himself to be completely trustworthy up to this point. But when Cindy's warm, suffocating weight had been lifted off her, giddy relief flooded through her in a hot rush. Suddenly all her carefully maintained control shattered. She crawled across the seat toward the gaping hole torn in the side of the limo.

Fred was still blocking the door—or the space where the door had been—with his bulky fireman's jacket. He was saying something to someone but everything was just a buzzing in her ears. She had to get out,
out
. She aimed a shove at his back but her hand landed on the rear of his jeans. He turned, looking down at her with an exasperated expression.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to . . . I need to . . . get me out . . .” The air felt like cement moving in and out of her lungs.

“I told you to wait.”

The censure in his voice was exactly the right thing to bring her to her senses. “Right. And I did. Now I'm ready to leave,” she announced, clinging to her dignity with all her might.

Her efforts didn't seem to impress him at all. He looked amused by her declaration. “You can leave. I promise. I'm not aiming to keep you in a wrecked limo all night. I was trying to deal with these reporters out here. I don't know how they got this close, but they did. I blame Ella Joy; that woman could talk her way into a mama bear's den. Anyway, come on out, but you'd better be ready to be famous.” He shifted to the side, and she saw something even worse than being trapped in a small space.

Camera crews.

She shrank back in the limo, chills racing up her spine. “No,” she told Fred. “I'm not getting out until they leave.”

He did a double take. “Excuse me? A second ago you were practically mauling me to get out.”

She tried to answer but couldn't, emotions seesawing through her.

“I'm confused,” he said. “What's going on?”

Digging deep, she dredged up enough control to answer. “I won't go on camera. Either make them go away or I'm staying in here.” She gave him her most mulish look, the one that made her father practically lose his mind. But in this case, her father would agree with her one hundred percent. She couldn't let the cameras get a shot of her.

“I have a better idea. Let me handle this.” Fred crouched down and beckoned to her, opening both his arms. “If you turn your head against my chest, no one will be able to see your face. I'll put you right in the ambulance, and you'll be off to the hospital before anyone's the wiser. Okay?”

She stared at him, feeling as if he were the only solid thing in the swirling fog of panic. She took in the warmth of his dark eyes, the firmness of his jaw. If she didn't get out of this limo soon, she might seriously lose it. If she could trust anyone, surely it would be this kindhearted, if slightly annoyed, firefighter.

She nodded, then felt his arms come around her. It happened so swiftly it took her breath away. Suddenly she was surrounded in warmth and strength. His arms, under the padded jacket, felt reassuringly powerful. The guy was strong, she realized. He didn't look like a huge, muscular guy, but he didn't blink at carrying her weight. She felt his muscles tense as he gathered her close. Crowded against his jacket, she inhaled the scent of the thick fabric. It reminded her of the smell of the dock at their place in Marin County. A little bit of tar, a little bit of diesel. The smell of a working man.

“Here we go,” he murmured, and slid her off the seat.

T
he white glare of camera lights made Rachel burrow her head against Fred's chest. She felt him adjust her hair so it covered her face. His glove brushed against her cheek in the process, an oddly gentle touch.

In the safe darkness, nestled against his chest, she took deep breaths of the night air, saturated with the comforting scent of Fred's jacket. Thank God, thank God she was out of there. She couldn't go through that again, couldn't
ever
go through that again.

One of the firemen dropped a tool, and the sharp clang triggered one of the memories she'd been keeping at bay while trapped in the limo. Her kidnapper had brought her food in a dented tin dish. For the first few days of her captivity, she'd flung it against the bars. Headstrong even at eight years old. Later, she'd given in and eaten his food.

She began to tremble, and felt the fireman tighten his grip. The gentle up-and-down bounce of his stride was surprisingly soothing.
Forget those horrible memories
. It was history, long ago and far away. It had nothing to do with the bizarre freak event of a crane landing on their limo.
Focus on the handsome firefighter
.

Outside the safe circle of Fred the Fireman's arms, reporters were shouting questions.

“How long were you trapped inside? What's your name? Is it true you were on your way to a bachelorette party? Did you ever expect something like that to happen? It's a miracle everyone survived the crash, do you have anything to say to the heroes who rescued you?”

“Keep back,” she heard Fred say in a commanding tone. “She doesn't want to talk. If she changes her mind, she'll contact you.”

“Can you at least tell us her name?”

“You know I don't have clearance to talk to the media. We have a PIO for that. Contact him if you have any more questions.”

“Come on, Stud,” came a sultry female voice. “You gotta give us something here. This is the biggest story we've had in months. We're calling it the Miracle on Main.”

“You're a genius, Ella Joy. How do you do it? Year after year after year after—”

“Very cute, Stud. You're going to pay for that one.” But from the way the reporter teased him, Rachel had the feeling she liked him. And why not? He'd just rescued four damsels in distress, practically single-handedly. Now he was going above and beyond the call of duty by shielding her from the cameras. And Lord, he was strong. He didn't even seem to be breathing hard after everything he'd done.

She heard the sound of a car door open, then found herself peering inside another confined space, this one packed with medical equipment, IVs, a gurney, a paramedic. Suddenly the craving for freedom overwhelmed her.
No
.
No
.
Absolutely no
.
I can't go in there
. Like a wild animal, barely aware of what she was doing, she pushed against Fred's hard chest and wrenched herself out of his hold.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, but her feet were already on the ground. One of her strappy sandals slipped under her foot, and she staggered. Fred reached for her, but she yanked her arm away so he couldn't grab it. Her flying hand accidentally slammed against his nose, and he jerked back.

“What are you doing?” He sounded more shocked than angry about his nose.

He grabbed for her, but she backed away from him. Even in her runaway panic, she remembered to keep her face turned away from the cameras, and her hair loose across her features. The reporters might think she was a madwoman, but at least they wouldn't get a shot of her face. She launched herself away from the cameras, away from Fred, dodging other firefighters who tried to stop her, scrambling past the orange cones that marked the perimeter of the accident.

She ran and ran, just as she had when she'd scrambled out of that warehouse prison. When she reached the next street, out of sight of the nosy media and the well-meaning firefighters, she slowed to a fast walk, taking big gulps of the night air. Her heart was still racing with the aftereffects of her terror. Her skin felt clammy with sweat, not exercise sweat but the fight-or-flight kind.

Fight or flight—or
both
, in her case. Looking down at herself, she heaved a giant sigh. Flecks of blood dotted her silver mesh party dress. One of her sandal straps had broken, making her drag her left foot. She probably looked like a runaway from a home for deranged debutantes.

She wondered what time it was. The occasional car rumbled past her, but the street was mostly deserted, the streetlamps granting pools of amber light to the sidewalk. Even though San Gabriel was generally safe, she had no business walking alone out here.

She should call Marsden for a pickup. The security guard was on call until the limo brought her home, which wasn't going to happen now. Luckily, her little chain purse still dangled against her hip. She'd call in a minute, once she'd gotten hold of herself. Once she could face getting into another vehicle.

Tremors kept traveling through her body. Had she really punched Fred the Fireman in the nose before taking off as if the flying monkeys of Oz were after her? Now he probably thought she was bipolar
and
paranoid. She winced, remembering the shock on his face as her hand connected with his nose. It hadn't been a hard strike, more of a glancing blow, surely not enough to actually break his nose.
Sorry, Fred the Fireman
.
Sorry about the nose. Sorry I won't ever see you again
.

Reaching Vista Street, she turned right, toward her apartment building. It was only a few miles away. Surely she could face a short ride with Marsden at the wheel. She'd open all the windows and keep her head halfway out the window, like a dog enjoying the rush of wind against her face.

Okay, she could admit it. Her behavior wasn't always what most people would call normal. But she'd learned over the years not to judge her occasionally weird reactions. Her only real regret was punching Fred, who'd been extremely cute and kind and strong and someone she could absolutely develop an enormous crush on given the opportunity. Which she wouldn't have, thanks to her temporary return to Crazytown.

She wondered why the reporter had called him Stud. Most likely because she wasn't the only one who'd noticed his thoroughly obvious hotness.
Put him out of your mind
, she advised herself. Punching someone who's trying to rescue you, then fleeing with no explanation isn't the recommended method for attracting a guy.

With a big sigh, she dug out her cell phone and called Marsden. “The limo had an accident,” she started to explain, her voice wobbling, the shakes starting again.

“Stay right where you are. I'm on my way.” His gruff, worried voice nearly made her cry.

“I'm at—”

“I have your location.” He ended the call. Of course he had her location. All Kessler employees were equipped with the most cutting-edge technology, as befitted members of the Kessler Tech empire.

She put her cell back in her purse, and rubbed her arms against the slight night chill she hadn't noticed in the throes of her adrenaline rush. As soon as Marsden got her home, she'd feed Greta, her border collie; take a shower; change out of her blood-speckled party clothes; and go to the hospital to check on Cindy, Liza, and Feather. She'd overheard one of the paramedics say that everyone was alive and responsive.

But as she knew all too well, some injuries couldn't be seen from the outside.

T
he next morning
, Fred's nose still ached and had turned purple. He considered blaming it on his epic bout with a Muay Thai master, but unfortunately, he was pretty sure the whole incident with Rachel had been caught on camera. As he padded gingerly through his sunny, tract-style house toward the kitchen, he vowed not to turn on the TV today. He did not want to know what that embarrassing moment looked like on Channel Six.

He also had no intention of setting foot inside his favorite spot, his garage–turned–martial arts studio. He'd started studying jujitsu, then gotten into Muay Thai, and become so dedicated he'd banished his truck to the street so he could use the garage to work out. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one who liked to work out there.

Barely eight o'clock in the morning, and already the three bright-eyed Sinclair kids from across the street were sitting on his front porch. As soon as they caught sight of him through the front picture window, they banged on the door until he opened it.

“You locked your door,” said ten-year-old Tremaine indignantly. “How we supposed to get in if you do that?”

“You're not supposed to get in unless I want you to,” explained Fred. Not that he'd ever turn them away. He got a huge kick out of the kids, and they were nearly as obsessed with martial arts as he was.

“Aw, man. That's cold,” complained Tremaine's twin, Jackson, as they all bounded into his house, as if propelled by a slingshot. “Dude, whazzup with your face?”

“Accident,” said Fred shortly. He didn't want to think about his damn nose. Every time he remembered last night, it throbbed. “Where's your mom?”

“She's studying.”

“No, she's in the shower,” said little Kip, who was two years younger and very literal-minded. “
Then
she's studying.”

With three rambunctious boys, their mother, Jasmine, had her hands full. Fred didn't mind helping her out, but at the moment he could use some peace and quiet.

“Why don't you boys come back later and I'll teach you some new moves?”

“What about breakfast?” Kip, who was going through a growth spurt, asked.

“You haven't eaten yet?” Fred winced as he bent to pick up the newspaper off the front porch. Maybe he'd go to the gym later for a sauna.

“Mama said she'd pay you back if you give us some Froot Loops or something. While she's studying.”

“Froot Loops are not a healthy breakfast.”

“She said you'd say that, and that she'd pay you double for a healthy breakfast.”

Fred unrolled the newspaper. Usually he did a quick scan for news from the various parts of the world where his brothers were deployed. But today the crane accident dominated the front page. Crap. He rolled the paper back up. Maybe he'd give it to Stan, the firehouse dog, as a chew toy. “Your mom drives a hard bargain.”

Kip took his thumb out of his mouth again. “If that's too 'spensive, we'll take the Froot Loops. We won't tell.”

Fred had to laugh at that. The kids were so cute. Their father, a member of the Army Rangers, had been killed in Afghanistan. They'd told him that they'd only seen their father for short bits of time. Jasmine got some money from the government, but her real challenge was time. She was trying to finish her real estate training so she could bring in some extra cash.

“Tell you what. I'll pour you boys some cereal and you can eat it—quietly—while I take a hot shower. If you're quiet enough, I'll let you spar.”

Tremaine jumped to his feet. “How quiet do you mean?”

“Like is this okay?” Jackson mimicked chomping cereal as if he were a warthog gnawing on a bone.

“No.”

“What about this?” Tremaine moved his jaw up and down with a high-pitched whining sound.

“No.”

“What about this?” Kip joined the fun, chewing while jumping up and down so hard the windows clattered.

“You guys are hilarious. I think you should join a comedy club, I really do. Maybe go on tour and buy your own breakfasts. Now do you want cereal or not?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” They all performed admirable salutes. There was something to be said for the military, Fred thought as he led them into the tidy kitchen. In fact, sometimes the Sinclairs reminded him of an African-American version of his own family—a bunch of boys destined for the armed forces.

The kids crowded around the bar he'd built to separate the kitchen from the living room while he barked orders.

“Tremaine, bowls. Jackson, spoons. Kip, milk.”

They hopped to it, and in under a minute they were each perched on a stool and had a bowl in front of them. He poured the raisin bran—Jasmine knew perfectly well he didn't keep Froot Loops in the house—and ignored the groans of complaint.

“Eat quietly, or no lesson,” he warned.

They all instantly went silent. As a threat, it worked every time. They loved their jujitsu lessons. In the silence, his phone rang. He took it into the living room and lowered himself carefully onto his couch.

“Hello?”

A brisk female voice answered, “Hi Poochie. It's me.”

Fred nearly groaned out loud at the horrible nickname. Where had Courtney gotten Poochie? And why had she never asked if he minded? And why was she calling him? “Hi, Courtney. How did your exam go?” Courtney was getting her business degree. After that, she wanted to get married. On their third date, she'd told him that he fit all her criteria for a husband. He hadn't felt complimented; he'd felt cornered.

“Killed it.”

He pictured her aiming a shotgun at her exam book. Courtney almost always got what she went after, as she was fond of boasting. The only thing she hadn't gotten yet was a commitment from Fred. No matter what Fred told her, she couldn't quite believe that he didn't want to link his future with hers.

But he didn't. He wasn't in love with her and was never going to be. As soon as he'd figured that out, he'd begun the breaking-up process.

“I saw you on TV. You're a superstar.”

“Nah, just another day at the office.”

“They didn't make it sound that way. And they kept referring to you as a Bachelor Fireman.” She sniffed, which evoked a vivid picture of her. That sniff usually went with a curl of her lip and a twitch of her perfectly highlighted blond ponytail.

“That's just a stupid media thing, Court. Sells papers, or ad spots, or whatever.”