Feel the Heat

by Kathryn Shay

  When they reached the top, Francesca turned to check out the window. A huge half-moon of stained glass separated the two staircases. It was an explosion of colors—cherry red, indigo blue, shades of yellows all fanning out as a background of fire.

  “Oh, Alex, look!” He studied the design. Woven into the glass were firefighters in the act of various rescues. In the center, a man carried a young child. To the right was a raised ladder with a firefighter at the top and one at the bottom. Opposite that, several men aimed a stream of water at the fire, shown bursting everywhere in the background.

  She stared at the artwork as if it were the Sistine Chapel ceiling. “This is breathtaking.”

  Throughout the afternoon, Alex took several shots of her, mostly funny ones—perched on top of a quilted, circular ring that looked like a trampoline but was one of the original nets used to catch victims; sidling up to a dummy of a firefighter who appeared to be talking to her; seated at the smooth oak desk in the simulated chief’s office wearing an antique helmet; at the highly polished wheel of a fire-boat reconstruction. She tried to take pictures of him, but he refused. She teased him about fearing he couldn’t measure up to the dummy firefighters’ muscles.

  When they entered the last room, Francesca’s enthusiasm was still high. The space held a hodgepodge of displays—sprinklers, posters, ancient fire hydrants, or plugs, as they were called. She stopped short in front of one of the walls. A quote from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar was scripted in almost foot-tall letters. “The coward dies a thousand deaths, the valiant dies but once.”

  Underneath the saying were hundreds of small brass plaques. “This is what I remembered about my great-grandfather.”

  There’s a plaque there somewhere with his name on it.

  “I didn’t know he died in a fire.”

  She nodded and edged closer to the wall. He followed her. Starting at the left, she read each nameplate. Alex looked over her shoulder, noting the repetitive dates on several of them. More than one firefighter died in many of the fires. His stomach knotted.

  When she reached the middle, she lifted her hand and touched one of the squares that read, “Lieutenant Francis Benjamin Cordaro, 7/17/21.” A quick scan told Alex no one had died with him.

  Alex squeezed her arm. “Do you know how it happened?”

  “He went in after some of his brothers. Two had gone down.”

  “They get out?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but he didn’t.”

  “He was a real hero.” Alex watched her. He was entranced by her shining eyes and the reverence on her face. “You all are.” And he meant it. He’d never realized before just how much.

  Her gaze drifted to a poem on the wall above the plaques. What Firefighters Face. “Not everybody agrees with you. Most people think that firefighters are a bunch of uneducated, beer-swilling jerks.”

  “Not most people.” Though, Alex was ashamed to admit, he had believed the stereotype of a typical firefighter before he’d been rescued by one.

  He inched closer to read the poem. It reflected the popular prejudice about how firemen earned their pay—hours with no calls, night shifts they slept through, many days off at a time. Then the verses went on to recount the horrors they’d all faced at one time or another—ice-covered clothes and equipment, volcanic heat, people trapped in burning buildings or crushed cars, losing a child…

  Alex’s throat closed up as he read the words. He pictured the woman beside him on a spongy roof or inside a building, timbers falling around her, or trying to extricate someone pinned by a steering wheel. Images right out of an action film raced through his mind, immobilizing him. When he could, he turned to her. “These things have happened to you, haven’t they?”

  Her violet eyes filled with feeling. “Yes.” She pointed to one line about a victim trapped in a car. “Just last year, on a routine EMS call, I climbed in the car to administer some first aid—the guy was bleeding too much so we couldn’t wait to get him out. When I got inside, the vehicle shifted, and I was trapped until we could get more help. The man—” she looked at Alex “—he died anyway. I was in there with him for a long time when he was dead.”

  Screw it, Alex thought, reached out and pulled her to him. She went willingly. “It was awful. The smell of blood and urine. Death literally staring me in the face. I thought I was going to be sick. Afterward, my dad and Dylan tried to get me to talk about what happened but I couldn’t.” She burrowed into Alex. “I’ve never told anyone about the experience till now.”

  He held on to her tightly. “Thanks for sharing the story with me,” he said after a moment, his lips in her hair. Inside, he battled the flood of emotion he felt for the woman he held close. “Do you have any idea how special you are?”

  She shook her head but stayed where she was. “I’m not.”

  “Oh, yes, sweetheart, you are. You most definitely are.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Come on, hit me, Francey, baby.” Her brother Nicky held her gaze as Francey shot him a card across the scarred oak table. With the ease of a hustler, she dealt three more each to the other guys in her monthly poker group.

  “Aw, hell,” Ed Knight said when he examined his hand.

  “You always did have a good poker face,” Gus Cordaro, Francey’s grandfather, told her captain dryly. Francey guessed that someday her dad would have her grandpa’s full head of gray hair. She wished he would also have Gus’s twinkling brown eyes, but Ben’s attitude toward life was far too sober.

  Tossing his cards into the pile, Ed scraped back his chair and stood. “I’m folding, anyway. Why prolong the agony? Anybody want a beer?”

  “There’s more in the cooler I brought over from next door.” Jake Scarlatta pointed to the ice chest that sat against the wall of the den. He turned to Ben. “Thanks for switching to your place at the last minute.”

  Glancing up from his hand, Ben smiled. “No problem. I know what it’s like to have a teenage daughter.” He winked at Francey. “They take over the house.”

  Jake laughed. “Yeah, but I’ll bet Francey never threw a makeup party. Hell, there were a dozen seventeen-year-olds putting all this goop on their faces in my living room. No wonder her mother wouldn’t let her have the party at her condo.”

  “Francey was never into anything like that.” Tony’s voice held affection. “We could hardly get her to wear a dress to church on Sunday.”

  Francey rolled her eyes. “See what you missed by raising a tomboy, Dad?” Though Francey had, she admitted to herself, considered using some makeup lately. God, what had gotten into her?

  Alex. Who hadn’t called or come over in three whole days. It was the longest she’d gone without seeing him since she’d come home from the hospital after the warehouse fire.

  And she missed him. A lot.

  Let him go, girl. You know it’s for the best.

  Her mother had known that about her father. And look what happened because Diana gave in.

  “Francey, you with us?” Nicky asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Your bet, honey.” This from her dad.

  “Oh.” She squinted at her hand and tossed in a chip. “I call.”

  The bet went around the table again. When Sean O’Roarke, an older, more wiry version of his son, Dylan, raised a quarter, Francey folded. “I’m out.” So were Jake, Nicky and Ben.

  As the two remaining players studied their cards, Francey leaned back in her chair and thought about Alex again. Something had happened to him at the museum. After several hours of sight-seeing, they’d gone to the hotel to relax. Alex had been quiet as they had a snack and watched the news. When they’d changed for dinner and she’d come out of her bedroom, his reaction had bolstered her feminine pride, especially given his unusual mood. His jaw had dropped, and for a moment he was speechless.

  “That outfit ought to be illegal,” he’d finally said, nodding to the knee-length black lace dress she’d bought to go to the annual Firefighter’s Ball last year. The neckl
ine scooped just low enough in the front to hint at her curves, and the back hugged her ass nicely. She’d matched it with not-too-uncomfortable heels.

  “Hey, rule number three—no flattery.”

  Shadows had crossed his face, but he shook them off. “It’s only flattery if it isn’t true. I’d better go get a stick or something. I’ll be beating off the guys at L’Auberge.”

  Francey eyed the way his charcoal suit was cut to fit his wide shoulders and lean frame. “Get me one for the girls. Nice rags, Templeton.”

  He’d been less moody at dinner. After a couple of glasses of wine, he’d loosened up, encouraged her to try new dishes and danced with her to the soft rock band the restaurant featured. She remembered how big and masculine his hand felt on her back and how his cologne sent tingles of awareness through her. How he’d held her hand tightly to help support the cast.

  During one slow song, he drew back and stared at her. His eyes darkened to forest green, their pupils dilated. His lips formed a thin, hard line. “I think we’d better go.”

  She’d been so lost in the sensation of being held against his rock-hard chest that she’d stared at him with a glazed expression. Finally recognizing his reaction to their closeness she’d murmured, “Yeah, I guess we’d better…”

  “France, come on, get with it.” Nicky’s annoyed tone halted her daydreaming.

  She scanned the table; all the guys were staring at her. “Oh, sorry.”

  She stayed with them through two rousing games of seven card stud and one of follow the queen. When she raked in the last pot, Gus squeezed her am. “That’s my girl. I knew you’d do me proud when you were five and I taught you this game.”

  “What am I, Grandpa—chopped liver?” Nicky asked.

  Tony grinned at Nicky’s perpetual harangue about being the middle child who never got enough attention.

  “You’re in the hole, kid,” Gus said easily. “Nothin’ there to be proud about.”

  For the next hand, Francey folded early, so her mind zeroed right back to Alex again, like a laser finding its target.

  When they’d returned to the Warwick Hotel, Alex had said he was tired and disappeared into his bedroom. Francey changed into sweats. She was edgy and anxious—like her skin didn’t fit right, Grandma used to say—and she knew she wouldn’t sleep. She’d flicked on the TV. One of the movie offerings was When Harry Met Sally. Against her better judgment, she chose it. She told herself she’d only watch a little of the film about best friends becoming lovers. Because she wanted to stretch out, she opened up the sofa bed and got on top of it with pillows and the remote.

  After a half hour, when Francey was glued to the story, Alex wandered out of the bedroom, wearing low-slung navy sweatpants. And nothing else. His chest was sprinkled with dark blond hair over a road map of muscles.

  She quelled the urge to gape. “Can’t sleep?”

  “No.” His eyes flared when he saw the sofa bed was open. “I was going to watch TV with you, but you’re in bed.”

  She patted the mattress beside her. “Don’t be silly. I pulled out the bed because it was more comfortable.” When he just stood there, she grinned mischievously. “I’ll push the thing back in if you don’t think you can control yourself on a bed with me.”

  He didn’t smile.

  “Alex? What’s wrong?”

  His look was dark and brooding. “Nothing.” He crossed to the mini bar and poured himself a generous Scotch. “Want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He returned to the bed, eased onto the mattress, lay back against the pillows and stared at the TV. When he recognized the movie, he glanced sideways at her. “Why are you watching this?”

  “It was on.” She handed him the remote. “Here, change the channel.”

  Immediately he switched to a talk show. After a few tense moments, they laughed at one of Letterman’s jokes, and Francey felt herself relax.

  Too much. The next thing she’d known, the sun was filtering through the windows, and her head was pillowed on a naked male chest that felt warm and—

  “Damn it, Francey, get with the game.” Nicky scolded her for the third time and muttered under his breath, “Girls…”

  She closed her eyes briefly, feeling her face flush as if she’d gotten caught parking with a guy in the back seat of his car. “Deal me out of this one. I’ve got a call to make.”

  Tony stood when she did. “I’m out, too. I told Erin I’d be home early because the baby isn’t feeling well.”

  “Anything serious?” Ben asked.

  “Nah, just a cold.”

  Francey left the table as Tony got his coat and said his goodbyes. She couldn’t concentrate on poker. She wanted to know what was wrong with Alex. In the kitchen she grabbed a beer and stood in front of the open window, letting the breeze cool her face, looking for answers in the backyard where she’d played as a child. Things had been easier then.

  “Hey, kid, you all right?” Tony leaned against the door-jamb, jacket on, jangling car keys in his hand.

  She glanced at him. “Yeah. I hope the baby’s okay.”

  Crossing to her, he placed his hand on her neck and squeezed. The brotherly gesture soothed her. “I’m here, you know, if you need to talk. Being off work must be hard for you.”

  “It’s not that.” She turned to him, stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Go home to Erin. She needs you.”

  “The offer stands, anytime.”

  When Tony left, Francey sipped her beer and thought about Tony and his family. She wondered if she’d ever have that—a man she could care about as much as her brother cared about his wife. A man who interested her as much as Alex…

  On Saturday morning, they’d ignored the fact that they’d slept together Friday night and avoided mentioning that, obviously, after Francey had fallen asleep, Alex had turned off the lights and TV and returned to the sofa bed—instead of going to his own. And on the long drive home, he’d been so withdrawn she’d danced around his mood for a while and finally fell silent…

  Torn, Francey pulled out her cell and scrolled to see if he’d phoned. She’d called him four times since they’d gotten back to Rockford. Twice she’d left messages. It was obvious he was avoiding her. Why?

  At her house Saturday night, he’d insisted on walking her to the door, chivalrous as always. After stowing her things inside, she’d turned to him…

  “You want to come in?”

  He checked his watch. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Got a hot date?”

  Anger turned his eyes dark, as if she’d said something inappropriate.

  “Alex, is something bothering you?”

  “No.”

  “You seem angry.”

  He’d stared at her; the wind had ruffled his hair, and her hands itched to smooth it. “Give me a hug goodbye.”

  She cocked her head. They’d been good about limiting physical contact—up until this weekend, that is. There’d been a lot of touching in Philadelphia. It had seemed natural enough, but her skin sizzled every single time. So not a good idea. At her hesitation, he said, “Damn it, Francesca, you slept in my arms last night. What’s a little hug?”

  Even though her cast made the hug awkward, Francey reached up and wound her arms around his neck. God, he always felt so good. He drew her to him, his strong body seeking hers. Their chests, hips and legs were in perfect alignment, like they’d been designed for each other. She felt his lips in her hair, then he squeezed her tight and let go. “I can’t run for the next few days,” he said, stepping back.

  Surprise momentarily silenced her. “Oh, okay.”

  “And I’ll be busy at work, so don’t plan on meeting me at Chelsea’s.”

  That did it. “Alex, something’s wrong. Tell me.”

  He shook his head. “We’ll talk in a few days.”

  She reached out and gripped his arm. “Alex—”

  Firmly he’d put his fingers to her mouth. But the quelling gesture became a c
aress. His thumb swept her lips, and desire streaked through her, all the way to her toes. “Shh,” he’d said hoarsely. “In a few days.”

  And then he was gone…

  She punched out his number, put her phone to her ear and waited through six rings. “This is Alex Templeton. Leave a message.”

  “Alex,” she said into the mouthpiece, “this is Francey again. It’s about nine. I’m at Dad’s but I’ll be home by ten. Call me back tonight.” She hesitated. “Please. We need to talk.”

  She clicked off. Turning, she came face-to-face with her father, who loomed in the kitchen doorway. “I came out to see if you were all right.” He scowled at the cell she still gripped in her hand. “What’s going on, France?”

  Before she could answer, the back door flew open. Her grandmother burst through the entryway, saying, “And then he tripped over his feet, trying to get another glimpse of you.”

  Behind her stood Diana. “You’re exaggerating, Grace. Men haven’t tripped over their feet for me in—”

  Both women stopped abruptly when they caught sight of Francey and her father.

  “Ben, Francey, what are you doing here?” Diana asked.

  Francey glanced at her father. His face was granite-hard. His eyes burned with hostility. “I could ask you the same question.”

  Grace straightened. “I had dinner with Diana at Antonietta’s. We came back here so I could show her the new dress I made.” She raised her chin. “I thought you and Gus were next door at Jake’s playing poker.”

  “It got changed to here. Jessie preempted us with some party.” Ben’s eyes fastened on Diana, who looked soft and feminine in various shades of pink. “Since when did you two start having cozy suppers together?”

  Very deliberately Diana stepped in front of Grace. “Don’t be angry with your mother for seeing me, Ben. I asked her to go out.”