Feel the Heat

by Kathryn Shay

  “Sorry we missed lunch yesterday,” Francey said. “You were a little incapacitated.”

  She held up her arm. “Yeah. Think I’ll be off work more than two months?”

  Beth shook her head. “I looked at the X rays. It’s a hairline fracture. You should have the cast removed in four weeks, then four weeks of physical therapy will give you back your strength.” She rubbed Francey’s hand. “I’ll bet it hurts.”

  “The painkillers help but I don’t like taking so many.”

  “Take them, anyway,” Beth told her with the maternal concern she sometimes exhibited. “Anyway, you’ll be good as new in a couple of months.”

  “Especially after we put you to work lifting weights.” Chelsea referred to the training they did together at the gym she owned.

  “I can’t fathom how I’m gonna stand…”

  Francey’s words trailed off as she was distracted by a movement in the doorway. Alex Templeton leaned against the jamb. Today he was dressed in street clothes—an off-white collarless shirt made of some gauzy material, the long sleeves rolled up his forearms. Doe-colored pants and Docksides shoes finished the outfit. His hair was damp and brushed off his face, highlighting his classic features. A Greek god clothed in modern dress, she thought whimsically.

  “Hello.” His voice was still hoarse from smoke inhalation. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m being discharged and I wanted to say goodbye.”

  “Oh, sure.” Quickly she made introductions.

  Chelsea’s appreciative gaze swept over Alex. Then she turned mischievous eyes on Francey. “We were about to go get ice cream for the patient here. Come on, Beth.”

  “No, I’m fine, you guys, I’m not—”

  “See you in a bit,” Chelsea sang as she exited, tugging Beth behind her.

  Francey was seriously regretting her confession to her friends that she found the man whose life she’d saved attractive.

  Alex approached the bed. “Having a party?”

  She nodded.

  He scanned the remains of the chicken Caesar salad, croissants and sparkling water the women had brought for her. “They fed you, too?”

  “We were supposed to go out for lunch on my birthday.”

  His eyes grew serious. “Oh.” He stared at her arm.

  “Alex, it wasn’t your fault you were caught in a fire and I got hurt.”

  “I still feel bad.”

  Francey shifted on the bed, uncomfortable. Unfortunately the movement drew Alex’s attention to her birthday gifts. Without asking permission, he leaned over. His scent, male and musky, ambushed her. He picked up the teddy. When he rubbed the strap between his fingers, Francey’s stomach somersaulted. She could practically feel that slow, sensuous touch on her skin.

  “Pretty.” He flashed her a grin. “And very feminine.” She could read the rest in his eyes. Just like you.

  Stifling the urge to groan, Francey glanced away. After a moment, Alex dropped the silk and shifted his gaze to the firefighter print. “That’s beautiful.” Then he glanced behind him at the door. “Are they in the fire department?”

  “Chelsea, the blonde, is. She works over at Engine Four.”

  “Engine Four?”

  “That’s a station house. They’re referred to by the type and number of their rig.”

  “Oh.”

  “And Beth is an EMS trainer at the Rockford Fire Academy.”

  At his questioning look, Francey explained. “She trains EMTs—emergency medical technicians—and paramedics, as well as conducting certified first responder classes for recruits.” Francey smiled. “She was my teacher and Chelsea’s. Since there’s so few women at the academy, we got to be friends.”

  “That’s nice. I haven’t had time to make many friends since I came back to Rockford to work.”

  “From where?” Francey asked in spite of her decision to remain aloof.

  “Boston. I had a job there for several years after I got out of business school.”

  “Let me guess. Harvard.”

  “Yes.”

  He’d graduated from Harvard Business School, and she had an associate’s degree in firefighting from a community college, and that only because her father had insisted. The reminder of her and Alex’s differences brought back her resolve.

  Trying to hurry his departure, she asked, “You’re being discharged?”

  “Yes.” He seemed to search her face. “I came to say goodbye.”

  Goodbye was good. “You should take it easy for a while.”

  He shrugged. “My family will hover, I’m sure.”

  Family. Oh, God, Francey hadn’t even thought there might be a wife in the picture. Now that she did, she could have kicked herself for not realizing a guy like him was most certainly married. She refused to check out his hand for a wedding band.

  “I was wondering if I might call you,” Alex said.

  With intentional frost in her voice, she asked, “Wouldn’t your family mind?”

  “My parents and brother are grateful that you saved my life, Francesca. Why would they mind if I called to see you again?”

  Without her consent, her eyes dropped to his left hand. He tracked her gaze. When she looked up, he was grinning.

  “Do you think I’d ask to call you if I was married? For that matter, would I flirt with you so blatantly if I had a wife?”

  Francey was enthralled by his seductive tone, his confession that he was flirting with her. “I, um…” Her breath caught when he raised his hand and brushed her hair off her forehead. She suppressed a shiver. “I-I don’t know you well enough to answer that.”

  His eyes flickered with interest. He glanced at the lingerie, then at her face. “I’d like to do something about that.”

  Steeling herself, she shook her head. “I don’t think so, Alex.”

  He frowned, as if being refused was foreign to him. Francey was pretty sure it was. “May I ask why?”

  “It’s just not a good idea.”

  “Have I misread the signals?”

  Inherently honest, she shook her head. “No. But I have reasons.”

  “I’d like to know them.”

  “Let’s just leave it alone, okay?”

  With masculine grace—and arrogance—he stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I’m not sure I want to accept that.”

  Francey stared him down. “I am.”

  He angled his head.

  “Sure. That I don’t want to see you again.”

  A petite redheaded nurse appeared at the door. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ve got to record your vitals.” Francey watched the woman give a long perusal of Alex.

  “That’s okay.” Francey was grateful for the distraction. Wondering if she would have given in to the sexual intensity in his eyes, she nodded to the nurse. “My visitor was just leaving.” She pasted a fake smile on her face. “Take it easy, Alex.”

  His gaze narrowed on her. “You, too, Francesca. And thanks again. For saving my life.” He strode out of the room without looking back.

  As the nurse took her blood pressure, Francey squelched the disappointment inside her. She’d done the right thing. The smart thing. She was very sure it was not a good idea to let Alex Templeton into her life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “The sprinkler system in the basement of the Templeton Industries warehouse was manually disconnected.” Fire Marshal Bob Zeleny leaned back on his leather chair in his downtown office. The tone of his smoke-husky voice was casual.

  Alex, however, was openly incensed. “What?”

  “When my people went in after the fire, the first thing we checked was the failure of the sprinklers. They didn’t work because they’d been turned off.”

  “Why would someone turn them off?”

  Zeleny’s gaze narrowed on Alex. “You have any ideas?”

  “No.” Alex tried to calm himself. “What are you implying?”

  “Not a thing. I’m conducting an investigat
ion. That’s my job.”

  “Does this happen often—people disconnect sprinkler systems?”

  “All the time.”

  That made Alex feel better. “Why?”

  “Are you a smoke-free company?”

  “Yes, I implemented the policy when I came here two years ago.”

  “Somebody might be smoking in the basement and worry the system would go off.”

  “Why the hell would anyone risk that?”

  “Addiction. It gets its claws into you and can eat you alive. Say somebody needed a smoke bad. He goes down to the basement during the day and dismantles the system, then he forgets to turn it back on. So when the fire started Friday night…” The fire marshal let that thought trail off. “Of course, there’s always the possibility that someone torched the place. Turned off the system intentionally to aid the fire.”

  “Arson? You implied that the day after the fire.”

  “Yeah. We call it incendiary. The sprinkler situation makes me even more suspicious.” The man observed Alex closely. “Made any enemies lately, Templeton?”

  Shifting in his seat, Alex’s navy blue suit suddenly felt uncomfortable. “We’ve been downsizing. There’ve been layoffs.”

  Zeleny turned away coughing. Then he said, “Sorry. Bad cold. Revenge is a common motive for arson.”

  “I can’t believe that of anyone I let go.”

  The man stood, signaling Alex that the meeting was over. “I’ll make a preliminary report. Note the absence of cause and the sprinkler deactivation. We’ll be digging deeper into this. In the meantime, you might put together a list of people you laid off and any other enemies you might’ve made.”

  Preoccupied, Alex left the office and headed out of the Public Safety Building to his car, barely noticing the mild April afternoon. Driving through the city, he thought about the newest development in the bizarre events of last week.

  Could someone possibly have set the fire? He’d kept himself from jumping to conclusions after his initial meeting with the fire marshal, hoping they’d find the cause was faulty wiring or something of that ilk. He’d discussed the notion briefly with Richard yesterday. His brother had been questioned at length and was troubled by the implication of arson, too. He and Richard had decided to table the issue until they had more information, which the fire marshal said should take about a week. After what Alex had learned today, they had more reason to believe the cause of the fire was suspicious. God, he hated that idea. But Rockford was a big city—more than a million people including the suburbs—with a high crime rate. It could happen here.

  Made any enemies lately? Other than the layoffs, had Alex made enemies since he’d come back to take over the presidency of Templeton Industries? Damn it, he hadn’t had time to make any enemies or friends.

  Which reminded him of the beautiful Francesca Cordaro. He’d told her about his lack of friends since he’d come back to Rockford. That was four days ago, and her violet eyes and husky laughter had been haunting him ever since. He could still picture her, lounging in the bed, mussed in a way she might be after sex, the silky underwear nestled in her lap. He’d been having fantasies, X-rated fantasies, about that underwear and her in it.

  She doesn’t want to see you again, Templeton. Why can’t you get that through your head?

  As he maneuvered through the city streets, he tried to analyze why he couldn’t accept the fact that Francesca wasn’t interested. Hell, first of all, he’d felt the vibes from her. And she’d admitted to them. But that wasn’t the only reason he was unwilling to acknowledge her brush-off. He thought back to his conversation with Richard. Alex had confided in his brother about Francesca rejecting his request to see her again…

  “Why would you want to see her, anyway? She isn’t exactly your type.” His brother’s disapproval was evident in his scowl and critical tone. Richard’s reaction surprised Alex. He’d attributed the vehement objection and Richard’s other strange behavior to the fact that he looked like he hadn’t been eating or sleeping well. Because of the fire, of course.

  “That’s why. I’m bored with my type. I’d like to spend time with a woman of substance, a woman who has a job and interests outside of me.”

  “Damn it, Alex, there are women who fit that bill and still have something in common with you.”

  “Yeah? I haven’t met any since I left Boston.”

  “Because you hole up in that office all day and half the night.” Richard stared past his shoulder. “How about Elise Hathaway? She’s made no secret she’s interested in you. And she works.”

  Alex thought about the wispy blond beauty, Diana Hathaway’s daughter, who helped out, as she put it, in her mother’s shop. “She’s Francesca’s half-sister, did you know that?”

  Richard had rolled his eyes like a sulky teenager. “No, I didn’t make the connection. In any case, you’d be better off with Elise…”

  Thinking of Richard’s advice, Alex pulled the Porsche into his reserved parking space at the Templeton Industries building. A relatively new brick-and-glass structure, located three blocks from the warehouse, the top floors were offices and the entire bottom level housed the factory. It was after seven and most people were gone. A good time to tackle his paperwork, which had piled up in the three days he’d been off because of the fire.

  But once seated at the big oak desk he’d inherited from his father, he didn’t get to work. Almost against his will, he ferreted out the clippings his secretary had left on his credenza. There had been several articles about the fire in the Rockford Sentinel over the past few days.

  Though the damage to the warehouse had been extensive and would require weeks of cleanup, the paper had taken a whimsical view of the human interest side of the story. One headline read, CEO rescued by female firefighter. A reporter had called it the stuff of romance novels.

  Several pictures of Francesca had appeared in the paper. On top was the one he liked best—a color photo of her in uniform. The light blue shirt stretched nicely across her breasts, and the tailored trousers showcased her long legs. Next in the pile was a blowup of her face, no doubt printed to show off her remarkable beauty. Slowly he traced his finger down the gentle curve of her hair, remembering the silken texture. He ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, wondering how soft it would feel. And those eyes—they seemed alight with confidence and contentment.

  Yes, he was definitely interested. And not willing to let it go. At least not without a fight. He smiled at himself and shook his head wryly. As he put the clippings aside and picked up the insurance forms, he admitted there was another reason he didn’t want to let Francesca Cordaro go. Pure male ego. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had turned him down. He glanced at the phone. The hospital had told him she was staying at her grandparents’ house for a while. He could call her. Her contact information had been on the report he’d gotten from the fire department. By now, the efforts he’d made all week to charm her had probably worked. He wondered what she was thinking.

  oOo

  Francey was ready to scream, tear out her hair and commit murder. But, as Grace Cordaro plumped the pillows behind her for the thousandth time, Francey bit her lip and smiled feebly. “Thanks, Grandma.”

  The woman who, along with her grandfather, had raised her from the time she was three, frowned. “I know you want to go home this weekend, but I don’t think you should.” Grace smoothed a hand over Francey’s dog, a tiny white Maltese named Killer, who lay asleep on the couch at Francey’s feet, then turned to the other person in the room. “Talk to her, Jakey. She listens to you. She’s not ready to stay by herself.”

  Jake Scarlatta smiled at Grace. His family had lived next door to Grace and Gus. When his father—Ben Cordaro’s best friend—had died in a fire, Ben had become Jake and his sisters’ surrogate parent. But Jake had had a tough life being the only Scarlatta male and had taken on too much responsibility. Almost ten years older than Francey, he’d also fallen into the role of another older brother t
o her—as if two weren’t enough. “I’ll do my best, but she was always stubborn.”

  “You boys spoiled her, that’s why.”

  Grace left in pretended offense, and Francey glared at Jake. “Thanks, Benedict Arnold. Grandma’s hovering is driving me crazy.” She stretched out her long legs, clothed in comfy gray sweats. “You could have stood up for me.”

  “What, and risk getting cut out of Sunday dinner? Not on your life.”

  She laughed good-naturedly, glancing at his tall, muscled physique, clothed today in a slate blue designer T-shirt and coordinated shorts. Jake’s one weakness was his penchant for nice—read, expensive—clothes. Then she sobered. “Did you hear anything about the Templeton warehouse fire investigation at the station?”

  “Not today. All I know is it might be incendiary.” He scrutinized her face. “Why, France?”

  She averted her gaze, leaned over and scooped up Killer, then settled him comfortably in her lap. As she petted him, she said, “No reason.”

  “Oh, sure.” Jake’s eyes glinted knowingly. Then he pointed to a wicker basket that sat on the coffee table. “This the latest?” The basket was filled with expensive sweets—Godiva chocolates, Swiss candy, several kinds of mints and chocolate-covered cherries and peanuts.

  “Don’t start. Everybody’s picking on me.”

  “The guys on my group at the station are wondering about all the attention.” When Jake had turned eighteen, he, too, joined the fire department and was a lieutenant on the opposite shift to Francey at Quint/Midi Twelve. “Did Templeton really send you a gourmet pizza from Geppetto’s, all cut up in bite-size pieces?”

  “Yep. It was so big I shared it with the nurses.” Francey smiled in spite of herself. The night Alex had been discharged from the hospital, the huge pizza with everything on it had been delivered in time for dinner. The next day, a quart of her favorite Rocky Road ice cream arrived at noon. Then, the evening before she’d been released, he’d sent an expensive dry red wine along with a mouthwatering filet mignon, rare, just the way she liked it, done as a shish kebab so she didn’t have to cut the meat. “This goody basket arrived here yesterday.”