The Night Belongs to Fireman (9 page)

“Holy Bomb Squad,” he muttered. “I thought it might have been a fluke, but it wasn't.”

That was more words than she could manage. She struggled to sit up, still mute, while he backed away, adjusting his jeans. Her eyes flew to the impressively large bulge at his groin. The thought came to her that she'd done that. She'd turned him on and gotten him all hot and bothered, with nothing but a kiss. Heat flashed through her all over again.

“Must be the pizza guy. Let's hope he's nearsighted,” he said, wincing as he swung off the couch. “Lamb chops,” he chanted under his breath. “Cod liver oil. Creamed spinach. Bugs in my cereal milk.”

She giggled, which she seemed to do a lot around Fred, when she wasn't kissing the bejeezus out of him.

“Just warning you,” he said over his shoulder as he loped uncomfortably toward the door, “if I look at you I'll lose it again. So don't take it personally if I avoid looking your way until my . . . um . . . tent pole goes away.”

She was already thinking of ways to get the tent pole back when she caught sight of the very last person she wanted to see at Fred's door.

T
he person who'd
rung the doorbell wasn't carrying a pizza box. She was carrying a bottle of wine.

“Hi, Stud,” purred Ella Joy as she prowled toward him. He held up a hand to stop her.

“This isn't a good time.”

“Not yet, it isn't. If you play your cards right, it could be.”

“Ella, I'm serious. Whatever you're up to, I'm not interested.”

Fred looked nervously over his shoulder, but couldn't see Rachel or Greta. Maybe she'd found her way to the bathroom. He devoutly hoped that she had. He didn't want Rachel to get the wrong idea. Ella Joy was a man-eating anaconda, and sure, he'd been bowled over by her the first time she'd had dinner at the firehouse. But that was a long time ago, and he was no longer susceptible to her brand of sleazy ambition.

She was staring at his crotch. “My, my. Have you been thinking about me?”

“
No
. Except to wish you'd leave me alone. You're taking this too far, Ella.”

Her gaze was still fixed on his erection. It was starting to go down, thanks to the shock of her appearance, but it had a long way to go. He'd never felt anything like the urgency that had overwhelmed him while kissing Rachel.

“I'm starting to see the reason for your nickname,” mused Ella. “You never struck me as a ‘stud' before now. But my, my, my. Little Freddie's packing some heat.”

She advanced toward him, handing him the bottle of wine. He backed away in horror. The last thing he wanted was to have Ella touch him, or to accidentally touch her. He was sure it would be like touching a snake.

“What are you doing here, Ella? I'm busy.”

“You don't look busy.”

“I'm about to meet someone.” If Ella hadn't seen Rachel, he didn't want to give away her presence.

“Someone better than me?” She pouted.

So much better
. It would be like comparing ice cream to a frozen lump of coal. “I didn't invite you here.” He put some steel into his voice. “You're one step away from trespassing.”

“Rawr.” She mimicked a tiger claw. “Oh fine. How about we cut the crap?”

“Since you're the only one dishing out the crap, go right ahead.”

“Tired of your fifteen minutes already, Freddie?”

Again she tried to move past him, but he barred her way. He couldn't, absolutely
could not
, let Ella see Rachel. Rachel was trying to avoid the news cameras, for some reason.

“If it was just fifteen minutes, I wouldn't mind. But we're past a week now, and enough is enough.”

“Never enough, Stud. Never enough. But don't worry your pretty little”—again she glanced down his body—“head about it. I'm willing to negotiate.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'd planned to simply seduce you, but you clearly want to make my life difficult. So I'll make you an offer instead. I'll lay off the Bachelor Hero stuff, even though it's great for ratings and my news director will complain, if you do one thing for me.”

“What?”

“The missing bridesmaid. I happen to know that you received a thank-you note from her. I've been hitting one dead end after another. None of the other bridesmaids will tell me anything.” She pouted. “Women can be so difficult to work with. The limo driver is useless. None of my usual sources will give me anything. My investigative instincts are telling me there's something interesting going on here. And now you, dearest sweetest Fred, have the only hint of a clue. So, let's deal.”

He stared at her. Maybe calling her an anaconda was too kind. “Why do you care about finding someone whose only claim to fame is getting rescued from a crushed limo? You interviewed everyone else, why isn't that enough?”

“Because, since you seem to forget, I am a reporter. Something tells me there's more to this story. Why did she run away? Why is she so hard to identify? Why did my killer footage of her punching you disappear from our news archives? It doesn't make sense. Think of it this way. If she's perfectly innocent and has nothing to hide, then it won't matter if I talk to her. If she isn't, well . . .” She shrugged. “Then you've done nothing wrong by telling me where she is.”

A niggling seed of doubt entered Fred's mind. Ella was right. There was something odd going on. Rachel was very secretive and she had run away for no good reason. Something was going on. Something she hadn't told him.

But right now, none of that mattered. With a lightning-quick move, he flipped Ella off her feet and over his shoulder in the classic fireman's carry. Then, as she pounded her fists on his back, he marched her down his front walkway. He deposited her next to her BMW and pointed to the sidewalk.

“See that line?” He indicated the seam where the sidewalk met his front lawn. “You step one foot over it and I'm calling the police. I'll file charges of trespassing and invasion of privacy. Not to mention being a total B word.”

Ella flounced toward the driver's seat of her little convertible. “You're in for it now, Stud.”

“Bring it,” he growled, hands planted on his hips. “Just don't try any crap like this again.”

The convertible peeled off in a plume of expensive German exhaust. That made twice in a week that he'd pissed off a woman in a BMW. Hopefully they wouldn't all form a gang or something. Fred took a moment to catch his breath, then jogged back inside his house.

Rachel and Greta were gone.

R
achel slipped out the side door and paused at the edge of the lawn long enough to see Fred manhandle Ella Joy into her sports car. She and Greta hopped into her dark blue Saab with its tinted, bulletproof windows. Then she drove home, refusing to think about what she'd witnessed until she was safely inside the cocoon of her own apartment.

Marsden, of course, was waiting in the foyer of the building. He frowned when he saw her and lumbered to his feet. Greta trotted happily toward him for some cuddling. “Home early, eh?”

“A reporter showed up at his house,” she said glumly. She'd sworn Marsden to secrecy about her dinner at Fred's. “Greta and I had to make a quick escape behind his back. Now he probably thinks I'm even weirder than before.”

Marsden grunted, then fell silent as he walked her to the private elevator that serviced her floor. He turned the key and the cherrywood doors opened silently. All three of them got in. Rachel steeled herself as the doors slid shut, enclosing them in claustrophobic, luxurious privacy, as if preserving them in amber for some future generation.

A sense of defeat gathered in the pit of Rachel's stomach as the elevator lifted them upward, away from Fred's world, into her private, lonely sanctuary. So much for a nice, normal evening with a cute fireman. Why had she even bothered to try? It was impossible. Every time she tried to step out of her own little bubble, something happened to drive her back in. The only saving grace was that her father didn't know about Fred.

“You could tell him the truth,” Marsden commented.

“Tell my dad? There's no need. I won't ever see Fred again.”

“Not your dad. Fred.”

She whipped her head around, shocked down to her toes. “Tell Fred the truth about what?”

“Who you are. Why you left.”

For a moment she was too stunned to say anything. “How can I do that? My father would freak out.”

“It's possible,” Marsden acknowledged. The elevator came to a gliding halt at the top floor and the doors whispered open. Rachel stepped out quickly, with her usual sense of relief at being released from a small space.

Marsden did his routine check of the apartment and the security system while she opened a can of dog food for Greta. The only other people in San Gabriel who knew her real name were her roommates at San Gabriel College. And her father had insisted on vetting them, interrogating them, and asking them to sign confidentiality agreements. It had been humiliating. Sometimes she suspected that the staff members at the Refuge might know, though none of them had ever said so.

She didn't want to put Fred through anything like that. But what if she just told him on her own, without bringing her father into it? The thought made her slightly dizzy, as if she'd stepped onto the edge of a cliff.

If she were smart, she would avoid Fred completely. He was a link to that reporter, Ella Joy. But the truth was, she didn't want to avoid him. The mulish, headstrong side of her rose up in revolt. Why should she have to avoid someone so great—and such a good kisser—because of something that had happened nearly twenty years ago? It wasn't fair.

Marsden entered the kitchen. “All clear.”

As always. Sometimes she thought he had the most boring job in the world. “He could have sold me out, you know.”

Marsden just listened, in that stolid, calm way of his.

“The reporter was looking for the missing bridesmaid, and I was right there. She even tried to bribe him. But he didn't give an inch. He threatened to charge her with trespassing.” She smiled at the memory. “I don't think he likes to be pushed around.”

“Sounds solid.”

“He's a good guy.” Somehow, that seemed like an understatement. In the short time she'd known him, Fred the Fireman had rescued her, protected her, and put himself on the line for her. Without any idea of who she was.

Didn't she owe him the truth?

Her stomach growled. She thought of the pizza that had probably been delivered to Fred's house by now. “Want to order a pizza?” she asked Marsden, who nodded.

“I could eat.”

V
ader fed the
length of four-inch hose toward Fred, who stood on a platform atop the hose tower. “You're saying she skipped out on you again? Stud, you're losing your touch.”

“I thought I didn't have a touch.”

“Oh, you have a touch, all right. You've got your own fan club now. I saw a story on it.”

Fred pulled the hose over the top of the tower and straightened it. They'd just finished washing it and now it had to dry. “Let me guess. Ella Joy.”

“Yeah, dude. I think she's obsessed with you.”

Fred groaned. “She's trying to pressure me. But I'm not giving in. If I ever seem like I might give her an interview, I want you to tie me to this hose tower and stuff a rag in my mouth.”

“Kinky,” said Vader approvingly. “Didn't know you had it in you.”

“What?” Fred shook his head. “What is wrong with you?”

“The question is what is right with me. Ask Cherie, she'll tell you.”

Fred finished adjusting the hose and climbed down from the tower. “No thanks. I don't need another lecture on the wonders of Vader Brown.”

Vader sighed happily, his rugged face going soft around the mouth. “I gotta tell you, Freddie, I never thought marriage would be such a good time. You should try it. Not with Courtney,” he added quickly.

Fred tightened his jaw. Courtney had left three messages on his phone over the past two weeks. He had no interest in calling her back. They hadn't even dated that long, and they'd never had the kind of sparks he had with Rachel Allen.

But at least Courtney wasn't mysterious, like Rachel. The doubts sown by Ella Joy had multiplied in his mind. He'd Googled the name “Rachel Allen” and found about a billion, none of whom seemed to be the Rachel Allen he knew. Or didn't know.

“I broke it off with Courtney,” he told Vader. “But she's pissed.”

Vader threw an arm across Fred's shoulders. “Stay strong, bud. Stay strong. You know she's not right for you. Want some advice?”

Fred wanted to refuse, but Vader barreled forward without a pause.

“Now that you're a superstar, you're going to have to grow some balls. I'm not finished.” He tightened his grip as Fred tried to pull away. “I know what a stand-up guy you are. Hell, you saved my mother's life. I'm not calling you a pussy here. I'm saying that you bend over backwards for the ladies, and sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes it isn't. Sometimes they don't want you to bend over backwards. They want you to bend
them
over while they beg you for—”

“Okay, okay,” said Fred hastily. “You're a captain now, remember?”

“Right. You get the point. Standing up to Ella's a good start. Breaking up with Courtney is good, even if it was a long time coming. Now you have to carry that same attitude into finding the right girl. Go after what you want. Don't take no. But say no when you mean no. Get it?”

Before Fred could tell Vader what to do with his idiotic advice, the audio alarm interrupted them with a USAR call for Truck 1. Man stuck in a ravine—that meant a high-angle rescue. Fred ran to the apparatus bay, pulled on his jumpsuit and steel-toed boots, grabbed his bag of gear, and hauled himself onto Truck 1. On the way to the location he fastened himself into his harness and put on his helmet, then stuck his radio into a pocket of his jumpsuit.

Five minutes later Fred peered down from an overpass into a ravine, where a man had been stuck in a tree since four in the morning. The IC ordered a two-line rappel system set up, and told Fred, the best paramedic on scene, to lower himself down to the victim. As they worked, the victim, whose name was Diego Montoya, told them in a mix of Spanish and English about how he'd been running from his ex-girlfriend, who was coming after him with a knife. He'd climbed over the guardrail, then tumbled headlong into the upper branches of a eucalyptus tree. He was very anxious to know if there was a blond woman with a knife nearby.

“Have you and your girlfriend ever considered counseling?” Fred asked once he'd lowered himself into the tree. He did a quick assessment of Diego's condition, but didn't see anything beyond scrapes and a cut over his eye. “I'm going to fasten this harness around you. Keep holding on to the tree,” he instructed.

“You think that would help, sir?
Mi madre
says Kelly is just crazy. But you know what they say, crazy in the head, crazy in bed.”

“Sure, but is that the kind of relationship you want?” He secured the harness around Diego, then pulled the line as a signal to the others to pull him up.

“Very good question,
señor
. I ask myself this, as I sit in this tree, one inch from certain death. Is she worth my life? Maybe I shouldn't have flirted with her sister.”

“Really, you think so? All right, you're going to get hoisted up to the overpass now. Hang on. I'll be right behind you.”

Diego kept getting caught in the branches, and Fred had to do some impromptu chopping with his knife. Sweat was pouring down his face by the time Diego swung free from the branches. The crew pulled Fred up next. As soon as he stepped over the guardrail, Diego grabbed him in a bear hug.

“
Gracias, gracias
,” he kept saying, tears rushing down his cheeks.

“
De nada
.” Fred shook his hand, trying to put things on a more professional footing. “Don't forget the counseling.”

“
Sí, señor
. Whatever you say.”

Fred turned to find himself face to face with a camera and a smug Ella Joy. “The Bachelor Hero strikes again,” she said into her mic. “Fred Breen, what can you tell us about this life-or-death situation? Witnesses say you saved this poor man from plunging to a gruesome death.”

“
No hablo inglés
,” he said as he brushed past her.

Some of the other crew members cracked up. He heard Ella address the victim. “What do you have to say to your rescuer?”

“I want to say, Kelly, baby, I love you and I'm sorry,
mi amor
.”

Fred smiled as he stowed his lines and harness into his bag.
Take that, Ella Joy
.

When he got back to the station, he found out that several people had called. The messages included the usual flirtatious invitations, a call from Courtney, and one from Rachel. She had, miracle of miracles, actually left her phone number.

He hesitated a moment before calling her back. On the one hand there was that urgent attraction and even fascination. Even the sight of her name on the slip of paper made his blood run hot. On the other hand, he didn't need any more drama. He'd reached his quota with Courtney.

In the end, there wasn't really any question. He dialed the number.

“Can you come to my place?” she asked without much preamble. “I really need to talk to you.”

“Is everything okay?”

“It's fine. I . . . I'll explain when you get here.”

“I'm working until tomorrow morning.”

“I'll have breakfast waiting. Pepperoni pizza okay?”

“Cute, very cute. Fine, I'll swing by after work.” She gave him the address. He stuffed it in his pocket and refused to think about it until the next morning.

U
nfortunately, by the
next morning he was a sleep-deprived zombie. The crew had kept busy with call after call. And when he wasn't out on a call, he was receiving platters of baked goods from the residents of San Gabriel. Oddly, they all seemed to be female.

So when he strode to the front door of 100 Vista Drive, it didn't register at first that he was looking at a building more suitable for Los Angeles or New York than humble San Gabriel. It was all glass and steel. It even had a doorman, a grizzled African-American fellow who seemed to be expecting him. The doorman guided him to the elevator and pushed a button. The elevator whisked him up on silent, whizzing pulleys, then whispered to a stop at the top floor.

The elevator button panel called it the penthouse. Fred had never been in a penthouse before.

Rachel was waiting for him at the open door of the only apartment on the floor. Even in this state of advanced fatigue, he appreciated the sight of her forest-green leggings, loose yoga-type top, and bare feet.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, her gaze darting behind him. Was she nervous? What did she have to be nervous about? She lived in a mansion, or the apartment building equivalent of one.

“You mentioned breakfast,” Fred said. “I hope that includes coffee, because I'm wiped.”

“Of course. Rough night? I saw you on TV.”

He held up a hand. “Don't tell me. I don't want to know.”

“It wasn't that bad. They only called you Bachelor Hero twice.”

He smiled, and she beckoned him inside.

For a surreal moment, he wondered if he was still asleep and having some kind of very weird dream. Everything inside her apartment was pristine and perfect and looked like it cost a million dollars. The coffee table seemed to be formed of some rare metallic substance with speckles of glitter embedded in it. The rug was so soft and plush, it was probably hand-woven cashmere from wild goats roaming the Himalayas. Everywhere he looked, something impossibly expensive and luxurious stared back.

And the worst of it was, Rachel looked as if she belonged here. With this backdrop, she looked rare and expensive herself. The thought of his spaghetti sauce and eight-year-old doorman named Kip made his face prickle with mortification.

“I'll get the coffee. Sit down and rest.” Rachel pointed to a couch upholstered in buttery soft rust-colored suede. A woven throw was artfully draped over the back.

“If I sit down on that I won't wake up until tomorrow,” he told her.

“Do you want to talk later? We can reschedule. I'm not due in at work until later this afternoon.”