by Kathryn Shay
His glance strayed to Chelsea. She was staring at the cat, at his neck, as if…He refused to finish the thought. It was stupid. Jake plucked the kitten off his neck and stood up. “A gift’s a gift. I’m keepin’ her.”
“You are?” The pleasure that shone in Chelsea’s eyes forced him to turn away. He wished he’d put on his pants—hell, armor might be better—to hide his reaction to her.
Placing the kitten in the box, he kept his back to her. “Yeah, I am.” Without turning, he said, “Good night, Whitmore. Thanks for the kitten,” and made a beeline for the dark anonymity of the bunk room.
AGAIN THE DARKNESS enveloped him. The man needed it—to let the other side come out.
It wasn’t going according to plan. Not only had she done all right in the calls, but some of the guys actually seemed to like her. Hell, even he liked her sometimes, when he was himself. Not a good thing. Concentrate on the bad, he told himself. Let it out.
He couldn’t get used to sleeping with her there. For one thing, she paraded around in shorts and a T-shirt, bringing out the animal part of a guy that would make Hyde look like a puppy. What the hell had the brass been thinking when they let broads into the department? They were men. They knew men. Living with women like this was unnatural. This whole thing was against nature.
Had he been good at hiding his feelings—this dark side of him? Usually he was. But sometimes it slipped out at the firehouse. She couldn’t know. And the rest of them, too. Scarlatta, especially. He couldn’t know. The lieutenant was too nice. An easy mark. He’d already been taken in by her. He’d heard them talking at night. Suddenly he wondered if Jake had the hots for her. Nah. Jake was a cold fish where women were concerned. Unlike him, who, when the mood struck, was hot and liked his women hot. Blazing hot.
Hyde wondered briefly what it would be like to have Whitmore underneath him.
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CHAPTER SIX
PUMPERS WAS HOPPING. The long mahogany bar was three deep with people, mostly firefighters, and all the tables were full. It was the Friday night following the night shift, and Jake was sitting at a table in one of the back areas.
“I’ll have a Corona, Cordaro. Don’t forget the lime.”
Francey Cordaro Templeton threw him a look of disgust. “I almost won.”
“Almost doesn’t count, kid.” He winked at Alex.
“Now go. I’ve worked up a thirst.”
Rising, she stuck out her tongue at him. “Come with me, Dylan. There are a lot of people at the bar. We can talk while I’m waiting.”
O’Roarke smiled at his wife, Beth, as he rose, slid his hand to her neck and squeezed. “Don’t let anybody pick you up while I’m gone.”
“As if someone would.” She glanced at her pretty green blouse and jeans. “I’m not exactly pick-up material right now.”
“You kiddin’?” Dylan’s shock—and cow-eyed reaction to Beth—made everybody chuckle.
When he left, Beth turned to Diana Cordaro, Francey’s mother, who sat across the table. “These jeans are two sizes bigger than what I usually wear. He’s nuts.”
There was wisdom in Diana’s smile. “For some reason the aftermath of pregnancy fascinates some men.” She leaned into her husband, Battalion Chief Ben Cordaro, and squeezed his arm.
Ben held her there. “You’re damn right. I loved the way Diana looked right after she had our babies.” He grinned. “During, too.”
Jake felt a stab of envy. For a brief minute he wanted what it was the Cordaros and O’Roarkes had. Ruthlessly suppressing the unexpected—and unwanted—emotion, he asked Beth, “Who’s with Timmy tonight?”
The smile on her face was sunshine bright. “Connie Cleary and Sandy Frank. You remember them?”
“Yeah. Last year’s recruit class. ‘I Am Woman’ from karaoke.”
Beth looked as if a genie had granted all her wishes. “Connie’s especially sweet on him. She’s going to help care for him when I go back to work and Dylan’s on days.”
“When will that be?” Ben asked. Jake saw the twinkle in his eyes. The man who had been a surrogate father to him had some of the devil in him.
“Not for a while. Isn’t my replacement working out?”
“Hell, no. We need you back next week.”
Beth caught on. “Sorry, boss. No way.”
“They grow up so fast.” Diana’s voice trembled. “You don’t want to miss it.” A poignant look passed between her and Ben. They’d gotten divorced when their children were young, and Diana had missed much of their childhood.
Which reminded Jake to call Jess.
And Derek.
When Alex prodded Diana to talk about what she did remember of Francey’s childhood, and Diana obliged, Jake recalled going to see Reed about Danny’s son.
“The kid’s headed for trouble, Reed,” he’d said.
“We’re not even sure he’s going to graduate from high school.”
“From what you told me, the sooner he gets help, the better. I don’t have experience with teenagers, but I can give you some names.” He’d swiveled to his computer and called up a file. “This is from a local organization I belong to. The psychologists in it keep a list of people outside their specialty that they can personally recommend.” Reed had ripped the sheet out of the printer and handed it to Jake.
Jake had scanned it, and his eyes skidded to a halt near the bottom. “Delaney Shaw? Do you know her?”
Reed’s scowl was totally out of character. It made him look little-boyish, less world-weary. He pulled off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Afraid so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I took a couple of workshops with her at the University of Rockford recently. She’s a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Well, first she looks about fifteen, so it’s hard to take her seriously. Probably because of that, she’s like a pit bull in making her points. I disagreed with her a couple of times in discussion and became her target. But in all honesty, other psychologists say she works miracles with adolescents.”
Jake thought for a minute. “Did she know your connection with the fire department?”
“Yeah. We had to introduce ourselves, and where we worked inevitably came up.”
“She’s Chelsea Whitmore’s sister.”
“Ah.” Reed, who’d been seeing Billy, had understood right away why Delaney might have a grudge against him.
“I didn’t connect them because of the name difference,” he said.
“Look who we found!”
Jake was pulled back to the present by the return of Francey and Dylan—with Chelsea Whitmore in tow.
And a guy.
“Hi.” Chelsea’s gaze rested briefly on Jake. Then she reached for and clasped the tall, muscular man’s arm.
“This is Spike Lammon. Spike, you know Dylan’s wife, Beth, and Alex and Ben from the gym. This is Diana, Ben’s wife.” She zeroed in on Jake. Her tone changed almost imperceptibly. “And this is my lieutenant, Jake Scarlatta.”
“The cat man,” Dylan teased as he yanked out the chair next to his wife.
“Don’t start.”
Jake stood and gave Spike a firm handshake.
Spike. Interesting name. Jake had known a guy in high school who’d been called Spike apparently for his sexual performance. He shook off the thought and averted his eyes from Chelsea and her friend as they sat down and began to chat with Diana and Ben.
“He runs the gym for me when I’m working at the firehouse.”
Spike smiled at her with eyes that simmered with all-male interest. They were sleeping together, Jake bet. He remembered the oversize shirt she’d thrown on the other night.
Chelsea’s voice oozed like warm honey as she praised Spike. “I’m lucky to get him. Spike was an Olympic contender for the U.S. volleyball team a few years ago.”
Alex gave a low whistle. “Did you make it?”
“I wrecked my knee after the second day of tryo
uts. I never knew how far I’d have gone.”
“He would have made the team.”
Spike slid his arm around Whitmore’s chair and squeezed her shoulder. “My biggest fan.”
“That’s because you’re helping her get in shape for the triathlon,” Beth said.
From what Jake could tell, Chelsea didn’t need any help getting into shape. Tonight she wore a long flowing navy skirt with white flowers; in deference to the early-June warm weather, she’d donned a gauzy sleeveless top. For the first time, Jake was treated to an unobstructed view of her arms. Beautifully sculpted and no bulges. They’d been firm when he’d touched her. In a spurt of sexual curiosity, he wondered what the rest of her would feel like, sleek and bare, under his hands.
Jake turned away and smothered the vivid image; it was as dangerous as sparks near gasoline.
“I wonder where Reed is,” Dylan said.
“Reed’s coming to Pumpers?” Surprised, Jake switched his focus fast.
“Yeah, Beth talked him into it.” Dylan ruffled his wife’s hair. “She’s a regular meddler in his life these days.”
“Reed’s a good friend to us. I want to see him happy.”
“Speak of the devil.” Ben stood and clapped Reed Macauley on the back.
“Hi, guys.” The fire department psychologist scanned the group, was introduced to Spike—who still had his arm draped on Whitmore’s chair—then sat down next to Jake. He made small talk with Beth and Dylan as he sipped a draft.
After a moment Chelsea stood and murmured to Spike, “I’m going to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”
Chelsea hoped her leaving hadn’t signaled to anybody that something was wrong. But the truth was, Reed Macauley’s presence made her uncomfortable. He was seeing Billy regularly, she knew, and by now, he’d be privy to all their dirty laundry. Private things that should have stayed between them. And it made her cringe to think the man knew only Billy’s skewed view of their relationship. After sneaking into the long, narrow alcove where the phones and coatroom were, she rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes, scolding herself for being such a wimp.
She didn’t know how many minutes had passed when she heard a voice, “The phone’s not being used.”
Oh, great. Of all the people to notice her retreat. She opened her eyes. “Jake.”
“You okay?”
She bit her lip. “I’m fine.”
He studied her implacably. “You look upset.”
She didn’t reply.
“It’s Reed, isn’t it.”
Damn. Why did he have to understand? “It’s stupid. But it makes me uncomfortable to see him.”
Jake shoved his hands in the pockets of his navy blue cotton pants. The action made his open-at-the-throat white linen shirt pull across his pecs. She remembered how hard they’d felt under her fingers the other night in the weight room. He said, “Not stupid. Human.”
“I shudder to think what he knows about me. Or thinks he knows.”
“If it’s any help, Reed never passes judgment. And he’s as ethical as the Pope.”
“It’s dumb anyway,” she said. “I’m a grown woman. I should be able to handle this.” She shook her head.
“Still, it’s worse than his reading my diary. At least that way he’d get the truth.”
The corners of Jake’s mouth turned up in a mischievous grin. “Firefighter Whitmore keeps a diary? Now that I’d like to see.”
“It was just a figure of speech.”
He didn’t believe her, she could tell. God, how embarrassing. She thought of those little fancy blank books she’d filled up nightly for as long as she could remember.
Finally he said, “Well, I’m sorry you’re upset.”
“Did you come out here just to—”
“Jake, there you are!”
Chelsea pivoted to see a petite woman approaching them. She looked familiar.
“Barb,” Jake said in greeting.
Shapely, auburn-haired Barb stood on tiptoe to hug him. Chelsea couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to do that to hug anybody. Jake’s return embrace was brief but warm and familiar. When Barb pulled back, she smiled at him—like Bergman had at Bogart in Casablanca. Her gaze dipped below his chin. “The shirt looks nice on you.”
“You’ve got great taste.”
So Barb had given him the sexy shirt. Chelsea felt a sinking sensation in her chest.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I got tied up at the restaurant.”
Restaurant. Chelsea had seen the woman before.
Grasping Barb’s arm, Jake faced Chelsea. “Chelsea Whitmore. Barb DeLuca.”
Chelsea smiled. “From DeLuca’s Diner. I eat there a lot.”
Delicate eyebrows arched. “I hope it’s been good.”
“Very.”
Barb turned to Jake. “Look, if you’re busy…”
“No, I want to talk to you,” he said, “and we keep missing each other. This can’t wait any longer.” He glanced over her head at the bar. “But it’s a zoo in here. Let’s go out to my Bronco.”
Chelsea straightened. “Well, I’ll get back to the group.”
“Tell Francey that Barb and I are going to talk for a while. Otherwise, she’ll come looking for me like a mother hen.”
“Sure.” Chelsea nodded to Barb. “Nice to meet you.” She gave Jake a weak grin and started to the table.
After she took two steps, he caught her arm. “Chelsea?” She turned. “You all right to go back there?”
Emotion welled in her throat, but she battled it. Talk about stupid. “Sure.”
As Chelsea headed to the group, she saw Jake and his friend start for the exit.
To his car.
To talk.
And what else?
Like a good firefighter, used to suppressing unpleasant images, she didn’t let herself think about it.
JOEY SANTORI blared the horn of the truck for the fifth time to signal their arrival at the high school. He grinned at Jake, who rolled his eyes at the unnecessary drama. Though Jake knew Joey was a highly competent firefighter, right now he looked like a kid with a big toy.
Things were a lot more relaxed at the station house these days. Chelsea had been on board for almost a month. The guys seemed to have accepted her; she’d given them no choice, really, with her competence, her guts in standing up to them and all the things she’d added to their lives—fitness expertise, medical and fire-suppression knowledge, even a willingness to go in on their jokes.
When Joey blew the horn again and Jake frowned, Joey said, “Hey, old man, you forget what it was like to be in high school?”
“When I was in high school, kids didn’t need these kinds of assemblies.”
“You were an angel, right?”
Hardly, Jake thought, remembering how he and his then girlfriend and soon-to-be wife, Nancy, and Danny and Barbara had skipped out of their last assembly of the year. They’d gone to a cabin owned by Danny’s grandfather and spent the sizzling hot day screwing their brains out and skinny-dipping in the lake. Jake found it hard to believe he’d ever been that young.
“Of course I was an angel. You know me, straight-as-an-arrow Scarlatta.”
The trucks took the turn fast onto the bus-loop blacktop of Jackson High School. Two hundred seniors filled the bleachers that had been set up outside for the special Stay Sober assembly planned for the day of their senior prom. Jessica was somewhere in the midst of the hormone-driven mass.
“All right, gang, time to impress the kiddies,” Joey said.
Though they might joke about this activity, they knew it could save lives. All six tumbled out of the trucks, in full turnout gear, and rushed to the scene of a staged critical car accident.
A Rockford deputy police chief stood to the side of the blacktop, speaking into a microphone. The kids were attentive and somber-faced. The same reaction they had every year. “Usually the first to arrive at an accident scene is the fire department. Our city station house
s are located so that they can reach any place in their jurisdiction in three minutes.”
Jake led his crew to the car that had crashed into an abutment erected for the demonstration. He knew that the vehicle, donated by a local Kiwanis Club, had two victims pinned inside; one was hysterical and one was near death, hypothetically speaking, of course. The inebriated driver stumbled around the blacktop. The roles were played by students.
“Now watch as the firefighters go into action.” The police chief’s voice was grave.
As arranged, Jake confronted the driver while Chelsea and Huff hurried to the right side of the vehicle, Mick and Joey to the left. Diaz stayed with the small rig. All of them but Chelsea had participated in this yearly drill. Not surprising, she was doing well in this activity, too.
“Son, are you hurt?” Jake asked with just the right combination of concern and authority.
The boy’s head lolled back and forth. “Juss fiiii…”
Quickly Jake checked his pupils, took his pulse. He angled his head to the vehicle. “Who’s in the car?”
“Girlfriend…her buddy.”
Jake yelled, “Two victims.”
Joey yelled back, but was drowned out by a police car swerving onto the scene. The officer at the mike said, “The police will now take care of the legalities.” Another siren split the air. “And although the ambulance will arrive in seconds, the firefighters are in charge of the scene. While they extricate the victims, Lieutenant Jake Scarlatta of the Rockford Fire Department will talk you through what’s happening.” He waited a beat, then said, “And don’t lose sight of the drama off to the side.” In his peripheral vision, Jake could see the police approach the drunk driver.
Jake took the mike. “First the firefighters will stabilize the wheels to prevent movement of the car.” Diaz and Santori, who’d gotten the material from the Midi, chocked the wheels.
“Now, two of them, who happen to be EMTs, will assess the victims.”