by Jill Winters
Pellucci paused, tilted his head, as though he knew something. A moment of silence stretched between them and Gretchen sucked in a breath. She had to admit he had a decent face. Though it might be improved with a little smiling. Honestly, she couldn't believe she was even finding him attractive at all! Yes, he was... well... ruggedly eye-catching. Not just his height or his dark scruff, but his overpowering presence, the way he seemed to consume most of the space and air and energy in the room. But still, did any of that make up for his bullying personality? Confidence was one thing, but Pellucci seemed to radiate arrogance—a whole other effect and much less appealing.
Why she was even analyzing any of this, she didn't know. It wasn't like he was asking her out. More like he was thinking of filing some kind of complaint against her.
"No problems with your cousin?" he pressed. "Like maybe you two had a fight this evening? Maybe you went a couple of rounds over a guy or something?"
Now it was Gretchen's turn to grimace. "No, of course not! And if we ever did fight—which we don't—I can guarantee it would never be over something as insignificant as a guy." Should she break out the Gloria Gaynor to punctuate her point? No, that seemed a little desperate. Then, suddenly, she realized: "Wait a minute... Are you saying... Oh my God!" she yelped. "Are you trying to imply that I set Dana's stuff on fire?"
He just looked at her.
Her jaw dropped even lower as her eyes grew wider with feeling, with shock, with outrage... with fear. Was she in some kind of trouble? "That's what you're saying, that I caused a raging inferno in there on purpose."
He shrugged. "Fine, so maybe it was an accident. You never meant for it to get so out of control."
Heat crawled up her neck and spread across her cheeks as frustration and anger bubbled up inside her. "This is crazy! I didn't even do anything!"
"Exactly. You didn't call the fire department because you thought you could handle it? But of course, being kind of a spoiled princess, you couldn't." His vitriolic tone was like acid and seared a hole through the last shred of civility in their fabric of conversation. Stunned, Gretchen didn't know whether to correct his wrong impression of her as pampered and useless, or simply to punch him in the tightly locked jaw.
Finally, shaking her head, mouth agape, she pressed a palm to her forehead as the other slid to her hip. "God, this is insane. Do you treat all your damsels in distress like this—or just the ones who want to rip your face off?"
In her state of agitation, she'd forgotten about her low—cut nightgown and full, jiggling breasts. When Pellucci's eyes dropped down, though, she quickly remembered. As he eyed her nearly naked breasts, his expression changed, his face became unreadable.
Gretchen's breath caught in her throat. Her pulse soared. God, he made her nervous. Swallowing hard, she crossed her arms again. But why? What was done was done. When Pellucci's gaze slid up from her breasts, it seemed to linger on her lips. As he studied her mouth, a different kind of tension climbed into the space between them. It strung tight and stretched on with more than anger. Attraction. No, but that couldn't be right...
Her fingertips dug into the soft flesh of her upper arms as her face flamed hotter. It wasn't like her to feel so suddenly flustered, so rattled, so disconcerted. But she supposed everything that had happened was just crashing down on her.
Pellucci stepped closer to her then, and Gretchen stepped back, though not as quickly as she should have, and when their eyes locked, her heartbeat quickened. She became powerfully aware of how near he was, of the seconds ticking and the tension thrumming between them, and before she could speak, Pellucci's blue eyes drifted down to her mouth again. Then slowly, wordlessly, he raised his arm, brought his hand to her face. Taking Gretchen by surprise, his fingertips grazed her cheek; they were warm and gentle as they moved lightly over her skin.
Her breath caught in her throat, her heart jumped beneath her breasts, and she was suddenly speechless. Maybe not so suddenly.
When he pulled back, his fingertips were tinged with smoky black. "Ash," he said, bringing his hand back to his side. "Lock up behind me," he added, and then he was gone.
Chapter 2
Later that night Broderick "Rick" Pellucci sat at the Firing Squad, a rundown bar a few blocks from Engine 88. Most of the guys on third watch tonight were there, too, filling up a couple of tables in the back. The last call of the night had been the hot woman on East 81st Street. Or rather, a neighbor had placed the call—the woman had been a surprise.
Tonight was supposed to be some kind of send-off for Rick, who had a week's worth of vacation starting tomorrow. In truth, taking the vacation hadn't been his idea, but more of a stern invitation from his captain. It had been more than a year since Rick had taken any time off and, as he'd observed in the five years he'd been with the New York Fire Department, people in civil service didn't like it when you pissed off the benefits of working for the state, the generous vacation package being one of them.
He didn't plan to do anything in the next week except spend time at his late father's house in Maine. He would fish, watch some sports, maybe read—hell, there was a thought. How long had it been since he'd actually read a book? A whole book? In the not so distant corner of his mind Rick wondered how much longer they'd have the dad's house. He and his brother, Brett, had inherited the cabin earlier that year, but they were still divided on what to do with it. Brett wanted either to fix it up or sell it. Too boring for him the way it was now; whether it was money or stuff, Brett always seemed to need more. Tack on a sauna, cut down half an acre of pine, put in a pool. Rick could still hear his brother's voice, trying to persuade him.
Now, as Rick glanced around the Firing Squad, nursing his beer, he realized that his so-called send-off was really just an excuse for the guys he worked with to stay out later than usual and get a little drunker. He took another swallow and thought back to the four-alarm that had blazed nearly half a block a few hours earlier. With a shake of his head, he tried to dismiss the images that still tormented him—so violent, so vivid still. An electrical fire, for sure. What else would light up a whole building so savagely, so fast?
His mind kept echoing back to the little girl who'd been crying out, screaming for someone to help her. Rick and DeMarco had climbed their way higher, rushing up the claustrophobic interior of the high-rise apartment building, hearing one high-pitched voice still calling out. At first she had been crying "mommy"; then her cries became just screams to anyone. As he'd run to find her, Rick had heard his boots thundering up the stairs, through the old building, and the pounding of his heart in his ears. He'd felt the sweat running down, dripping from his hair to his forehead, the heat and anxiety baking him, but driving him on, and abruptly, the screams stopped.
Then he found her. So small, buried under a chunk of burning ceiling beam, which had fallen and trapped her there. She was tiny, no older than six, and was losing consciousness, no longer able to speak. It had taken Rick seconds to get her out from under the beam and to carry her from the room, pressing her toward his jacket while he darted back down the stairs.
After the fact, he'd found out that her name was Tara Golden. She had been asleep when the fire broke out. Her nineteen-year-old babysitter had apparently fled the scene and in her panic, forgotten about Tara. Thinking about it now made Rick exhale with relief, but also burn with lingering anger. When he'd overheard a police officer talking to the babysitter outside, she had sounded like such a self-justifying airhead, full of excuses, and was more preoccupied with texting on her phone than answering questions.
"What a night, huh?"
It was Charlie Spire, one of the EMTs who'd been on duty tonight, flashing his usual thrilled, dopey smile after a shift of total chaos. Most of the time Rick couldn't stand the asshole; any major catastrophe made him giddy.
Vaguely, Rick nodded.
"Major rager on Lex, huh? Gotta love it!" When Rick shot him a look, Charlie clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a half-apologetic grin. "Oh, come on, the rush—that's
what it's all about, man. And it's not like anybody died."
"Yeah, I guess," Rick mumbled. But little Tara Golden had come damn close, and technically, still could. She'd been taken to the ER for smoke inhalation.
"So don't look so miserable," Charlie added.
"What can I say. I'm just not a trauma junkie like you," Rick replied dryly.
"Pellucci always looks like that," Jon DeMarco announced, sliding into the other side of the booth and setting his beer mug down with a clunk. "This guy's always fuckin' serious. And brooding... always fuckin' brooding." He picked up his glass and took a drink, then said, "Buddy, you're on vacation. You're supposed to be celebrating. Hey, look. The captain's even doing a special hula dance for you and everything."
When they glanced over, Charlie burst out laughing, stomping his foot on the floor like he could barely control himself, and Rick chuckled in spite of his mood. The captain, a chubby, cheery guy who everyone simply called "Clip," looked ridiculous.
"That's better," DeMarco said with a nod.
Leaning back against the booth's torn upholstery, Rick watched the noisy, rowdy antics of the others and though he didn't want to, he couldn't help feeling too old for this crap. He was only thirty-two, but still, he couldn't shake the thought—especially when he watched his fifty-five-year-old boss trying to belly dance on top of his chair with a paper napkin hat. Instead of Rick thinking, I hope I have that kind of kick in me at fifty-five, Rick found himself simply thinking, Jesus, that's pathetic.
Suddenly Clip noticed Rick across the room and called out, "Pellucci! Come over here, son!" Rick got up and crossed over, taking his bottle of beer with him.
"What's up?" he said, smiling and coming closer as Clip jumped from his chair back to the floor, immediately becoming surrounded by a bunch of guys. Included among them was Dan Bennet, who some called the Wall, not for his size or strength but because he was solid, sturdy, and always steady. While Bennet had been polite to Ms. Gretchen Darrow, the last call of the night, Rick had pretty much acted like a jackass.
Now Rick towered over Clip, who stood only about five feet, six inches tall. "We're gonna miss you next week," Clip said, reaching up to put his arm around Rick's shoulders, and Rick humored him by bending down a little. "First vacation in—what? Over a year? How does it feel?"
"Has it been that long?" Rick said, then shrugged. "Feels fine."
"Hey, I hear you put out a fire for a naked woman tonight," Clip said.
"Naked woman?" Jake Bowen echoed, raising his eyebrows, obviously eager for details.
"I said half naked," Bennet explained, holding up his hand to set the record straight. "I never said naked."
"Bennet, you shmuck," Rick remarked. He didn't feel like getting into it. Then he'd have to feel guilty about how he'd acted, putting the brunt of his mood onto Gretchen Darrow—his anger about Tara Golden's spoiled, irresponsible babysitter, his disgust with careless people, and his pissy mood in general.
"Fine, fine, half naked," Clip said. "So come on."
"Come on what?" Rick said casually. He offered another shrug, as if he'd barely noticed the woman's body. Yet how could he not notice? She was curvy, with lightly tanned skin that looked soft and smooth to touch. And her breasts were unbelievably sexy; big and bouncy, straining against the low-cut front of her nightgown—but still with plenty of jiggle. Damn, he thought with a shake of his head. Well, hell, he wasn't a saint after all. And the nightgown didn't hide that much.
Even though she was obviously some Manhattanite princess—judging by her apartment, which had to cost at least four grand a month—he supposed he had been kind of rough on her.
He took a swig of his beer, set the bottle on the table. Rescued a little girl tonight, put out two fires, lost his temper, and watched Clip hula dance with a napkin on his head. Shaking his head, Rick laughed briefly to himself. Helluva way to start his vacation.
* * *
The next morning Gretchen was getting dressed for her first day of work when her pillows began to ring. So that was where she'd left her cell. She dove across her bed, nearly sliding on the sleek satin of her red comforter, and pulled her phone out from under one puffy pillow. Then she rolled over onto the other and propped herself on her elbow.
"Hi, Dana."
"Hey, G. Get this. I haul ass at seven this morning and find a note on the door. The casting call was moved to four o'clock!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Gretchen said sympathetically.
"It's just so annoying!" Dana yelped. "How am I gonna make it now? I've gotta work from twelve to eight today. I mean... I think..."
Rolling her eyes, Gretchen scooted her way off the bed and swung her legs around till her wool socks hit the floor. She'd been living with her cousin for only a couple of weeks and already she'd come to expect Dana's less-than-diligent attitude toward her job. But then, working as a waitress at Medieval Faire, Dining and Jousting, pretty much screamed "transitional gig"—or was that Dana who screamed it, usually after she'd been reprimanded for coming in late or for having a little too much fun with the skull mace?
Gretchen pulled out the expensive but bland power suit her parents had bought her to celebrate her new job. With a sigh, she gave it the once-over. She didn't like it any better now than when she'd first unwrapped it. It was so her parents. They had as much flair as you'd expect from a forensic psychologist and a dentist, but—as her mother had written in the brief card that had come with the gift—it was very expensive and "top of the line."
"I'll just have to sneak out while I'm at work," Dana was saying.
"Really?" Gretchen said skeptically. "You can do that?"
"Eh. I'll ask Lolly to cover for me. If Al comes sniffing around, I'll have Lolly tell him that I'm in the bathroom, sick from the food they serve. That ought to shut him up."
"Can't Lolly just tell your boss that you're on break?"
"No. The casting call could run over an hour, maybe two," Dana explained. "But I have to go or I'll die. I will literally drop dead." Meaning that Dana was not great at handling disappointment. As it was, for the past eight years she'd been juggling her love of acting with her need to make a living, and ignoring her English degree altogether. Dana was pretty optimistic by nature, but from what Gretchen could see, acting was a neurotic but tough business.
Today's casting call was for a soap opera, which once upon a time Dana had said was beneath her. Now she was praying for just a chance on it. She remained hopeful about her proverbial big break, especially after it had happened to her friend Marcia Rabe, who soared into celebrity status last year with a much-hyped miniseries.
It was thanks to Marcia Rabe, in fact, that Dana and Gretchen were living like queens (by New York standards, anyway). Marcia had been in London filming a television show for the past three months and would be there for at least another five. Still, she wanted to keep her place in New York. Not only was it gorgeous, but this way, she'd have it whenever she was back in town. So she'd struck a deal with Dana: In exchange for keeping up the place—taking in the mail, paying the utilities, watering the plants, and dusting occasionally—Dana could stay there rent free. To Marcia, that was far better than leaving the place vacant for months, vulnerable to burglary, or subletting it to a stranger who would scour it for something to sell to the tabloids.
Like the rest of Marcia Rabe's apartment, the guest room Gretchen was staying in was meticulously stylish, with elegant, antiquey touches—like the copper and glass lantern dangling from the ceiling on a heavy black chain and the lavish grandfather clock standing regally in the corner.
Too bad Dana's scented candle fiasco had pretty much marred the beauty of her bedroom. In fact, when Gretchen had ducked her head in earlier that morning, she'd turned her nose up at the pungent smell that still lingered. Winced at the black holes that had bled through the pale yellow curtains, leaving each a charred and filthy version of its former self.
"By the way, are you nervous for your big day today?" Dana asked now.
&
nbsp; "Yes," Gretchen admitted.
"What are you gonna wear?"
"Good question," she said, studying the suit in her hands again.
Hmm... should she wear this? A suit would be the most professional way to go, and she was trying to make a great impression. Not only for Susanna Tate, her new boss, but also for the other powers-that-be at the Culinary Network (TCN).
Touching the hem of the blazer, she deliberated. Top of the line, maybe, but it was just so damn... monochromatic. In dark, lifeless blue. And was it just her or were those shoulder pads kind of hard core?
"You know that suit your parents gave you?" Dana said, talking over street noise in the background and the honking of a horn; she was obviously walking and talking.
"That's so funny you mentioned that!" Gretchen began. "You're reading my mind."
"Please don't wear that. You look like the Incredible Hulk in that jacket."
With a startled laugh, Gretchen said, "Oh, thank you." So glad she'd tried the thing on once for her tactful cousin. Though Dana hadn't said much at the time—she'd been too busy suiting up in dishwashing gloves, getting ready to scrub the kitchen, with her dark red hair tied back babushka style. Now, apparently, she had the focus to be blunt.
"Sorry," Dana added with a frothy little giggle, "but I had to tell you. The Incredible Hulk is definitely not the vibe you want to be putting out when you meet Romeo Ramero."
"True. Or ever." Gretchen had to admit with her hour-and-a-half-glass figure, suits tended to make her look boxy and huge.
"Hey, do you think you'll meet him today? Oh my God, I would die!"
"No, you wouldn't," Gretchen said with a grin, and pulled out a tea-length lime green dress. It was a smooth material that fit loosely enough to be appropriate for work. Nothing was worse than a garment that was too tight around her breasts, as it seemed to invite people to stare at them all day. Men and women alike. Gretchen doubted it was even sexual for the most part. It was almost like people just couldn't help looking—as if thinking, Huh, now those are some big jugs. I wonder if she needs a back brace.