Feel the Heat

by Kathryn Shay

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll arm wrestle you later to prove it.”

  He guffawed. “Try it, little girl.”

  Francey smiled, grateful to be healthy enough to work, happy to be sparring with Duke, looking forward to her first run.

  “Hey, Duke,” Robbie, the probie, called from the doorway, “can you come in here? Dylan wants you to look at the confined-space plan.”

  “Go ahead, I’ll finish up the dishes,” Francey told him.

  “Then stop the woolgathering or you’ll be here all night.”

  Francey shot him a rude retort, and Duke laughed all the way to the common area.

  Once he was gone, she sighed. God, she was daydreaming. About Alex. Who’d left her bed at three o’clock this afternoon with a satisfied smile and a much-too-smug attitude. They’d been in that bed for almost seventeen hours, leaving it only to shower and use the bathroom. They’d even snuggled there while they ate. Francey shivered, remembering how Alex fed her chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne at ten in the morning. Though she hadn’t exactly drunk any champagne, because she had to go on duty. But he had. Maybe drinking was a stretch—more like sipped. She touched her chest, remembering what the bubbly felt like dribbling down her bare skin as he licked it off. She sighed again.

  “Tough getting back?”

  Ed Knight had come into the kitchen. “Nah, Cap, I’m great.”

  “Hey, we all know it’s hard. Sometimes, being off so long, you lose your concentration.”

  “A little bit, maybe.” She rinsed the last pan.

  Knight crossed to the coffeepot, drew himself a cup and settled into a chair. “I remember when I sprained my ankle and was out for a month. It was tough focusing when I finally got back here.” He smiled. “And you’ve only been on three hours.”

  She looked at the clock. Seven. She told Alex she’d call him around ten.

  Francey chatted with Ed as she sponged off the counters and stored the leftovers. When he went to check his computer, she let her mind drift to Alex again—to after the first time they’d made love. Both of them had been a little awed…

  “You pack quite a punch, Francesca.” His complexion was still flushed from the vigor of his response.

  “So do you.” She stared at him. “I practically lost consciousness.”

  He grinned. “I know.” He was still inside her, and he flexed his hips, sending aftershocks through her.

  She closed her eyes and moaned.

  “I do hope this puts all notion of that nasty S-word out of your mind.”

  “S-word?”

  “You know, as in stuffy?”

  She giggled. “I think this pretty well proved me wrong.”

  “You were wrong about a lot of things,” he said soberly.

  She reached up and brushed her fingers down his cheek. “I know I was. And I’m so glad.”

  Easing to his side, he took her with him. And frowned. “I lost it with you. I couldn’t even have told you my name.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I’m not sure I like that.”

  “Alex?” she said, nuzzling into him.

  “What?”

  “I did, too. I lost it, too.”

  He’d drawn her close. “We’re in this together, I guess.”

  “Yep. We are…”

  The overhead speaker clicked on. Francey had forgotten how the static. “Automobile accident on the ramp off four ninety and Child Street. One car involved. Quint/Midi Twelve and Engine Seventeen go in-service.”

  For a moment Francey was disoriented. Then years of training kicked in. Dylan and Robbie had reached the bay by the time she got to it. Both had their bunker boots on and pants half up before she’d flung off her shoes. Duke and Adam were right behind her. Ed Knight stopped to grab the computer printout of the call and was the last one into the Quint. Duke and Adam took the Midi. After donning all their gear, they exited the bay where Robbie jumped out to close the doors. Quint and Midi Twelve were rolling within three minutes of the call.

  The evening was warm and dry, so maneuvering the roads was easy. As Dylan drove, Captain Knight addressed Robbie. “What do we do, probie, if a victim is trapped?”

  Snapping his turnout coat, Robbie answered, “Try the doors and windows first before compromising the body of the vehicle.”

  Dylan glanced at Francey, who sat behind the officer. She said, “Before you touch the car, what do you do?”

  “Damn. You check for utilities that pose a hazard.”

  “Then?”

  “You stabilize the vehicle.”

  Above the blaring siren, Knight told him, “Right, kid. And the overriding rule is to do exactly what I say.”

  As they pulled up to the accident, streetlights illuminated the dusk-shrouded scene. Cars whizzed by on the expressway behind them, and horns broke the monotony. Captain Knight reported in to the dispatcher. “Quint/Midi Twelve on the scene. Only one car involved. No fire or hazards evident.”

  And then they were out of the truck.

  As with most collisions, the vehicle remained upright. It had slid off the ramp and crashed into a concrete abutment.

  The front end looked like an accordion. Ed Knight raced to the car. Dylan and Francey began to remove the chocking from the bed of the truck while Robbie and Adam dragged out the Hurst tools and generator from the side of the Midi. When Francey and Dylan reached the captain, he was talking to the woman inside. “You okay, ma’am?”

  The driver’s side window was smashed, providing an opening, but glass had cut the victim’s face. Blood trickled down her cheek. She was conscious. “I hurt,” she said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Carolyn Devlin.”

  Sirens from Engine Seventeen and the ambulance sounded faintly in the background. Out of the corner of her eye, Francey saw the battalion chief’s jeep pull up.

  “Chock the wheels.” The captain issued the standard operating procedure to stabilize the vehicle before any rescue work was attempted. As they followed orders, Francey could hear Ed talk to the chief before the blare of the sirens reached fever pitch as the rest of the emergency vehicles arrived at the scene. She was dimly aware of the actions of the other firemen, police and paramedics as she and Dylan placed step-like rubber supports under each side of the car. By the time the vehicle was secure, the captain had ascertained the situation. Into the radio he said, “Confirming that a victim is trapped. We’ll proceed with extrication. Engine Seventeen is on the scene. Ambulance and police just got here.”

  The doors were jammed too badly to spring them with the spreader-like Hurst tool, commonly known as the Jaws of Life. Knight made the decision to cut open the top of the car with the hydraulic shears, removing the car from around the victim, rather than vice versa. “Dylan, get inside with her.”

  Through the broken window, the captain, who’d donned rubber gloves, spread a blanket over the woman to cover her. Francey taped the passenger-side window before she popped it with a small cylindrical metal tool. Glass shattered outward. Dylan crawled through the opening wearing protective plastic gloves and face mask. Francey heard him say, “Hi, Mrs. Devlin. My name’s Dylan. If you’d keep talkin’ to me, it would help me figure out what’s going on here.”

  “About what?”

  “Got grandchildren?”

  “Yes. I was coming from their house.”

  “I miss my grandma. She was my best sweetheart.”

  The victim smiled weakly at Dylan.

  “Mrs. Devlin, we’re going to cut you out of here,” the captain said to her from outside. “Can you handle that?”

  “I think so.” Her frail hand gripped Dylan’s big one; he held on tightly.

  Francey watched Captain Knight tape the front windshield. Within minutes, with a specially designed handsaw from the Midi toolbox, Francey cut vertically along each side, then across the top, watching the metal slice the glass like butter. The front windshield folded down.

  Duke, wearing goggles and leath
er gloves, came up behind her with the heavy Hurst shears dangling from one hand. Back at the Midi, Adam started the generator; a lawn-mower-like roar split the air. Duke lifted the shears and popped the posts of the body of the car. They came apart like toy building blocks. By now, Dylan had treated the woman’s superficial wounds, taken vitals and told Ed Knight she was fine.

  “Okay, Mrs. Devlin, we’re gonna spring you now.” Dylan grinned. “You all right, darlin’?”

  The older woman chuckled. “Don’t get fresh, young man.”

  Outside, Duke began cutting the roof with the shears; the metallic grating made Francey’s teeth hurt. The tool ate away at one side, then another, cutting a vee in the rear of the car. Francey hopped on one side, Duke on the other. Grunting, they yanked back the hood.

  Dylan stood and reached for the neck gear the paramedic handed him. When the extrication was complete, the ambulance personnel would take over. “You still with us, sweetheart?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Devlin answered groggily.

  “Good. You know, your calm’s keepin’ me from panicking.”

  She smiled. “You’re a charmer, Dylan.”

  After he stabilized her with the cervical collar around her neck, one of the medics threaded in a backboard, which Dylan slid into position behind Mrs. Devlin. As they’d done countless times before, Francey, Dylan and the captain hefted the victim out of the vehicle. A stretcher was ready for her. As Francey and the others exited the car, the medical crew strapped Mrs. Devlin down. In a few minutes, she was in the ambulance and speeding away.

  Their adrenaline rush subsiding, Dylan and Francey leaned against the car. The captain spoke into the radio; Duke took the tools to the Midi. As Robbie approached them, Francey felt a sting in her shoulder. When they were lifting the woman out, she must have caught her turnout coat on the jagged edge of the hood.

  Dylan looked over and gave her a tired salute. “Welcome back, Cordaro.”

  oOo

  Diana raised her glass of Chardonnay and clinked it with Jeremy Smith’s Manhattan. The subdued lighting of the Rio cast his longish gray hair and kind brown eyes in a flattering glow. His well-cut suit was the perfect complement to his good looks. “Cheers!”

  “Cheers.” She smiled at him. She was holding it together pretty well, considering.

  “How long have you been back in Rockford?” he asked her.

  Long enough to make a mess of things. No, she wouldn’t think that way. She’d made a conscious decision this morning to go out with the handsome doctor and have a good time, no matter how many demons hovered in the wings waiting to get their claws into her.

  “About eight months.” Again she flashed him a smile full of bravado. She adjusted the light beaded jacket she wore over a one-piece black silk jumpsuit. “Tell me about your practice.”

  But as Jeremy Smith filled her in on the daily life of a burn specialist, she only half listened.

  Her thoughts were on her ex-husband. Ben had acted exactly as she’d expected he would this morning. Like the young man she’d married, he’d swept her upstairs last night and made sweet love to her—twice. The reality of being with him again brought tears to her eyes. When he’d linked his hands with hers and told her sex had never been as good, as meaningful, with another woman, tears slipped onto her cheeks. But he’d shut down when sanity returned, which happened to be late morning.

  Only this time Diana had been ready for him. She’d awakened to find him staring at the vanity table in the corner of her bedroom. He’d been up for a while, she guessed and looked youthfully sexy, dressed in his slacks and white undershirt, with a dark growth of beard stubbling his face. He’d made coffee and was sipping from a mug…

  When she spoke his name, he turned to her. “How did you get this?”

  “Grace. She made Gus rescue the piece from the trash pile and hide it in your basement.” Diana had angled her chin. “She knew how much the vanity meant to me.”

  He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the wood, which looked as good as it had more than thirty years ago. Their first year of marriage, Ben had spent hours honing the surface, since a homemade gift was the only Christmas present he could afford for his young bride. “The thing lasted,” he said hoarsely, then swung his gaze to her. “Unlike us.”

  She struggled to sit up and tucked the sheet around her breasts—poor protection against the thunderclouds on his face.

  His eyes narrowed on her. “You’re still as good in the sack as you always were, Diana.”

  His words were in stark contrast to the endearments he’d murmured as they’d made love. I never forgot how you smelled…You’re so, so sweet…Oh, God, Dee.

  She shook her hair back. “You can try to demean what happened between us, Ben. But I was here in this bed with you last night. I know how you really feel now.” She’d straightened her shoulders. “Still.”

  He watched her.

  “And you may as well know something else. I’m through letting you tromp all over me. I’ve paid long enough for my weakness years ago. If you want to see me again, you’re going to have to get over my leaving you.”

  His brows had practically skyrocketed off his face. “Who says I want to see you again?”

  “You did. With every touch last night.”

  That made him mad. Probably because he knew it was true. “Good sex always made you spunky.”

  “Some things haven’t changed.”

  Diana could read him so easily. He was petrified, confronted with that idea. He jammed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, that’s right. There’s still chemistry between us, like there always was. We’re matches and tinder when we get near each other. If you want to screw occasionally, it’s fine with me. But don’t expect any more.”

  Angry, she’d whipped off the covers and stood naked before him. She took satisfaction in watching his jaw drop. “No, thanks, I’m not into casual sex. Not with you, anyway,” she’d told him as she crossed to her closet and pulled out a robe. She donned the soft garment but left the top scandalously gaping. “I love you, Ben, but I’m not going to let you treat me badly anymore. I deserve better than that.” She headed for the bathroom, glancing over her shoulder. “Be sure to lock the door on your way out…”

  “Shall we order?”

  Jeremy Smith’s words drew Diana to the present.

  “Yes, the lobster looks good to me. How about you?”

  He reached out and squeezed her hand. “My choice exactly. We have a lot in common.”

  She nodded. “Yes, we do. I’m glad you called me to go out, Jeremy.”

  And you can go to hell, Ben Cordaro, she thought as the waiter approached them. Just go straight to hell.

  oOo

  Alex was worried when he awoke at eight Sunday morning. He threw the covers off the bed, yanked on sweatpants and grabbed his phone. He didn’t really expect a message, though. He’d have heard the cell buzz if she’d tried to reach him. He hadn’t dozed off until two, and even when he’d slept, he’d dreamed of leaping flames and falling timbers—with Francesca trapped in the middle of them. Just like the mural in the Philadelphia museum.

  No messages.

  Zombielike, he trundled downstairs, assembled the coffee and paced while he waited for it to drip. All right, he told himself, she didn’t call him at ten last night as they’d planned. In all fairness, she’d said if they got a run, she wouldn’t. But surely they’d been back to the firehouse at some point, and she could have contacted him. He knew better than to call the station to see if she was all right. She’d told him once that it was an unwritten rule that a significant other didn’t check up on their firefighters—especially late at night. He glanced at the clock. She was off at seven this morning, so he’d try her at home. He punched in her numbers and her voice mail came on. “Francey Cordaro. Leave a message.”

  “Francesca, this is Alex. I’m worried. Call me as soon as you get in. Oh, and don’t forget the brunch at Mother’s. We’re supposed to be there at ten.”

>   After he hung up and poured coffee, he sat at the breakfast table facing the lake. The wind whipped the boat moorings, and the waves crashed onto the shore this morning, matching his tumultuous mood. So different from yesterday, when he’d awakened with her and they’d made love with sleepy passion once again. He could still feel the sensation of being inside her, still hear those tiny little gasps she made when she came, still remember how she’d looked at him as if he was all she wanted in the world.

  How could his sense of well-being change so fast?

  At ten o’clock, as he drove to his parents’ home, Alex was anxious and angry that she hadn’t called. He’d left two more messages. He tried to quell his worry that something had happened to her. Instead, he concentrated on his disappointment that she was missing this chance to meet his parents.

  His mother greeted him at the door. She looked good today, her face having lost some of the tension over Alex’s injury in the warehouse fire. Dressed casually in yellow slacks and matching top, she smiled. “Hello, darling.” She glanced behind him. “Where’s Francesca?”

  “I don’t exactly know,” he told her, after kissing her cheek.

  “Come in. Your father and Richard are in the back.” Alex followed her to the screened-in porch that jutted off the kitchen.

  “Hello, son.” His dad gave him a little wave.

  “Hi, Dad. You look great.” He had a tan, probably from golfing these past few weeks.

  “Well, you don’t,” Richard observed from across the room. “You look like you’ve been up all night.” He frowned. “Do we dare ask why?”

  Alex scowled. “It’s nice to see you, too, Richard.”

  His brother ignored his remark. “Where is she?”

  Sticking his hands into the pockets of his dress khakis, Alex prayed for patience. He didn’t appreciate Richard’s needling when he was already feeling raw.

  “You said you didn’t know, dear?” his mother Maureen asked.

  “No. She worked last night and she didn’t call this morning.” He shifted his stance, angry at being put in this position. “I probably shouldn’t have planned for her to join us. If the station had runs during the night, she’d be too tired to come, anyway. More than likely she’s home in bed.”