One Fine Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  He shook a finger at her. “Peace and harmony, my friend. Peace and harmony.”

  Too late, he realized he should have taken away her left foot along with the bat.

  “Ow.”

  An Excerpt from

  SEX AND THE SINGLE FIREMAN

  REVENGE, DECIDED SABINA Jones, was a dish best served on the side of the road to the tune of a police siren.

  It had all started with Sabina doing what she always did on Thanksgiving—hitting the road and blasting the radio to drown out the lack of a phone call from her mother. Thirteen years of no Thanksgiving calls, and it still bothered her. Even though she now had her life pretty much exactly how she wanted it, holidays were tough. When things got tough, Sabina, like any normal red-blooded American woman, turned up the volume.

  In her metallic blue El Camino, at a red light in Reno, Nevada, she let the high-decibel sound of Kylie Minogue dynamite any stray regrets out of her head. She danced her fingers on the steering wheel and bopped her head, enjoying the desert-warm breeze from the half-open window.

  So what if she had her own way to celebrate Thanksgiving? This was America. Land of the Free. If she wanted to spend Thanksgiving in Reno letting off steam, the founding fathers ought to cheer along and say, “You go, girl.”

  The honk of a car horn interrupted Kylie in mid “I will follow.” She glanced to her left. In the lane next to her, a black-haired, black-eyed giant of a man in a black Jeep aimed a ferocious scowl her way. He pointed to the cell phone at his ear and then at her radio, then back and forth a few times.

  “Excuse me?” Sabina said sweetly, though he had no chance of hearing her over the blaring radio. “If you think I’m going to turn my radio down so you can talk on your cell phone while driving, forget it. That’s illegal, you know. Not to mention dangerous.”

  The man gave an impatient gesture. This time Sabina noticed that his eyebrows were also black, that they slashed across his face like marauding horsemen of the Apocalypse, that his eyes were actually one shade removed from black, with maybe a hint of midnight blue, and that his shoulders and chest were packed with muscle.

  She rolled her window all the way down, pasted a charming smile on her face, and leaned out. With her window wide open, the noise from her radio had to be even louder. “Excuse me? I can’t hear you.”

  He yelled, “Can you please turn that down!” in a deep, gravelly voice like that of a battlefield commander sending his troops into the line of fire.

  Despite his use of the word “please,” it was most definitely not a request. Sabina guessed that most people jumped to obey him. An air of authority clung to him like sexy aftershave. But she’d never responded well to orders off the job. At the station she didn’t have a choice, but here in her own car, no one was going to boss her around, not even a gigantic, sexy stranger. She reached over and turned up the volume even higher.

  “Is that better?” she yelled through her window, with the same sweet smile. With one part of her brain, she wondered how strict the Reno PD was about noise ordinances.

  She couldn’t hear his answer, but she could practically guarantee it included profanity.

  For the first time this miserable Thanksgiving, her mood lifted. Her childhood holidays had always been spent fighting with her mother. In her absence she’d have to make do with bickering with the guy in the next car over. As someone who prided herself on never complaining, she’d much rather fight than feel sorry for herself

  It occurred to her that he might be talking to a family member. Some people had normal families and celebrated holidays in a normal fashion—or so she’d heard. She moved her hand toward the volume dial, ready to cave in and turn it down.

  The man rolled his window all the way up, stuck one finger—a very particular finger—in one ear, and yelled into his phone.

  Sabina snatched her hand away from the dial. If he yelled at his family like that, and had the nerve to give her the finger, he deserved no mercy. Besides, the light was about to change and she was going to make him eat her El Camino’s dust.

  She stared at the red light, tensing her body in anticipation. The light for the cars going the other direction had turned yellow. The cars were slowing for the stoplight, and the last Toyota still in the intersection had nearly passed through. She poised her foot over the accelerator.

  Then something black and speedy caught the corner of her eye. The Jeep cruised through the intersection. The big jerk hadn’t even waited for the light to change. It finally turned green when he was halfway through the intersection.

  Indignant, she slammed her foot onto the accelerator. Her car surged into the intersection. He wasn’t too far ahead . . . she could still catch him . . . pass him . . .

  A flash in her rearview mirror made her yank her foot off the accelerator. A Reno PD cruiser passed her, lights flashing, siren blaring. It crowded close to the Jeep, which put on its right-turn signal and veered toward the curb. She slowed to let both vehicles pass in front of her. As the policeman pulled up behind the Jeep, she cruised past, offering the black-haired man her most sparkling smile.

  In exchange, he sent her a look of pure black fire.

  Sweet, sweet revenge.

  Sabina’s cell phone rang, flashing an unfamiliar number. For a wild moment, she wondered if it was the man in the Jeep, calling to yell at her again. Of course that was impossible, but who would be calling from a strange number? She’d already wished the crew at the firehouse Happy Thanksgiving. She’d already called Carly, her “Little Sister” from the Big Brothers Big Sisters program.

  Was her mother finally calling, after thirteen missed Thanksgivings? Annabelle wasn’t even in the U.S., according to the latest tabloid reports. But still, what if . . .

  Her heart racing, she picked up the phone and held it to her ear. “Hello.”

  Clucking chicken noises greeted her. She let out a long breath. Of course it wasn’t her mother. What had she been thinking?

  “I can’t talk right now, Anu. I’m in Reno.”

  “Yes, skipping Thanksgiving. That’s precisely what I want to talk to you about.”

  “I’m not skipping it. I’m celebrating in my own way.”

  “I located a potential partner for you. A very obliging guest here at the restaurant. He’s letting me use his phone so you can install his number in your contacts.” Anu, who was from India, claimed pushy matchmaking was in her blood.

  “Seriously. Can’t talk.” Especially about that.

  “Very well. You go to your soulless casino filled with strangers, drink your pink gin fizzes and pretend you’re celebrating Thanksgiving.”

  In the midst of rolling her eyes, Sabina spotted the police cruiser in her rearview mirror.

  “Gotta go.” She dropped the phone to the floorboards just as the police car passed her. The cop cruised past, turning blank sunglasses on her.

  A sunny smile, a little wave, and the officer left her alone. A few moments later, the black Jeep caught up to her. The gigantic black-haired man looked straight ahead, either ignoring her or oblivious to her. For some reason she didn’t like either of those possibilities. Or maybe she just wanted another fight.

  She reached for her volume control and turned the radio up full blast. The man didn’t react, other than to drum his fingers on his steering wheel. Fine. She rolled her window down to make even louder, knowing how ridiculously childish she was being.

  Thanksgiving brought out the worst in her, she’d be the first to admit.

  The corner of the man’s mouth quivered. Good. She was getting to him. The sounds of Kylie filled the El Camino, high notes careening around the interior, bass line vibrating the steering wheel. Adding her own voice to the din, she sang along at the top of her lungs. She might as well be inside a jukebox, especially with that gaudy light flashing in the rearview mirror . . .

  Oh crap.

  ONE HUNDRED AND twenty dollars later, she pulled up in front of the Starlight Motel and Casino. Why couldn’t she experience, jus
t once, a peaceful Thanksgiving filled with love, harmony, and mushroom-walnut stuffing? Her mother had always dragged her to some producer’s house where she’d be stuck with kids she didn’t know, rich, spoiled, jealous kids who mocked her crazy red hair and baby fat. She’d always ended the evening in tears, with her mother scolding her. “This is what we do in this business, kiddo. Would it kill you to make a few friends? Those kids could be getting you work someday.”

  Her mother had gotten that part wrong. Sabina had found her own work, thank you very much. And it meant everything to her.

  The setting sun beamed golden light directly into her eyes, mocking her with its cheerful glory. Thanksgiving always messed with her, always bit her in the ass. On a few Thanksgivings, she’d tried calling her mother, only to get the runaround from her assistant. But now Annabelle was in France and none of her numbers worked anymore.

  Damn. Why hadn’t she just signed up for the holiday shift at the station and spent the day putting out oven fires?

  She grabbed her bag and marched through the double front doors, only to stop short, blocked by a giant figure looming in her path. Even though she couldn’t see clearly in the dimmer light of the lobby, she knew exactly who it was. A shocking thrill went through her; she should have guessed the man in the Jeep would turn up again.

  “Well, this is a lucky coincidence,” the man said in a voice like tarred gravel. “The way I figure it, you owe me three hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Cash will be fine.”

  “Excuse me?” She peered up at him, his black hair and eyes coming quickly into focus. Her stomach fluttered at the sheer impact of his physical presence. He was absolutely huge, well over six feet tall, a column of hard muscle contained within jeans and a black T-shirt. “If you’re referring to your well-deserved spanking from the Reno PD, don’t even start. No one made you run that red light.”

  “Sorry, did you say something? I can barely hear you over the ringing in my ears.”

  Sabina lifted her chin. If he thought he could intimidate her, he didn’t realize who he was dealing with. She worked with firefighters all day long, not one of them a pushover. “Maybe you should try not yelling at your family for a change.”

  “Excuse me?” He glowered down at her, looking mortally offended. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Realizing she’d probably crossed a line, Sabina scrambled to recover. “Anyway, you already got your revenge. They gave me a ticket too. We’re square.”

  “I wouldn’t have had to yell if you’d had the common decency to respond to a perfectly reasonable request.”

  Sabina felt her temperature rise. He wasn’t making it easy to make peace with him. “Request? Something tells me you never make requests. Orders, sure. Requests, dream on.”

  “You think you know me?”

  “Why should I want to know you when all you do is scowl and shout at me?”

  “Shout?” He shook his head slowly, with a stupefied look. “They told me the people were different out here. I had no idea that meant insane.”

  Sabina tried to sidestep around him and end this crazy downward spiral of a conversation. “I wish the police gave tickets for rudeness, you’d have about three more by now.”

  He blocked her path again, so she found herself nose-to-chest with him. Sabina imagined him as a Scottish laird or a medieval warrior hacking at enemies on the battlefield. The man was fierce, but annoyingly attractive. He even smelled nice, like sunshine on leather seats.

  “How about drowning out a man’s first phone call with his son in two thousand miles? How’s that for rudeness?”

  He had a point. But a surge of resentment swamped her momentary pang of conscience. So some people did talk to their children on Thanksgiving. Normal people, irritatingly, aggravatingly, unreachably normal people. People who were not her or her mother.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Here.” She dug in her pocket and took out a handful of change. “We’re at a casino, right? Play your cards right and you’ll get your precious three hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Good luck.”

  She lifted one of his hands—so big and warm—and plopped her small pile of change into his palm. With the air of an offended duchess, she swept past him, deeply appreciating the way his black-stubbled jaw dropped open.

  So maybe she’d been wrong before. Maybe revenge was a dish best served in a hotel lobby with a side of loose change.

  About the Author

  * * *

  JENNIFER BERNARD IS a graduate of Harvard and a former news promo producer. The child of academics, she confounded her family by preferring romance novels to . . . well, any other books. She left big-city life for true love in Alaska, where she now lives with her husband and stepdaughters. She’s no stranger to book success, as she also writes erotic novellas under a naughty secret name not to be mentioned at family gatherings. Visit her on the Web at www.JenniferBernard.net.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Also by Jennifer Bernard

  The Fireman Who Loved Me

  Hot for Fireman

  Sex and the Single Fireman

  (available February 2013)

  Give in to your impulses . . .

  Read on for a sneak peek at seven brand-new

  e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.

  Available now wherever e-books are sold.

  THREE SCHEMES AND A SCANDAL

  By Maya Rodale

  SKIES OF STEEL

  THE ETHER CHRONICLES

  By Zoë Archer

  FURTHER CONFESSIONS OF A SLIGHTLY NEUROTIC HITWOMAN

  By JB Lynn

  THE SECOND SEDUCTION OF A LADY

  By Miranda Neville

  TO HELL AND BACK

  A LEAGUE OF GUARDIANS NOVELLA

  By Juliana Stone

  MIDNIGHT IN YOUR ARMS

  By Morgan Kelly

  SEDUCED BY A PIRATE

  By Eloisa James

  An Excerpt from

  THREE SCHEMES AND A SCANDAL

  by Maya Rodale

  Enter the Regency world of the Writing Girls series in Maya Rodale’s charming tale of a scheming lady, a handsome second son, and the trouble they get into when the perfect scandal becomes an even more perfect match.

  Most young ladies spent their pin money on hats and hair ribbons; Charlotte spent hers on bribery.

  At precisely three o’clock, Charlotte sipped her lemonade and watched as a footman dressed in royal blue livery approached James with the unfortunate news that something at the folly needed his immediate attention.

  James raked his fingers through his hair—she thought it best described as the color of wheat at sunset on harvest day. He scowled. It did nothing to diminish his good looks. Combined with that scar, it made him appear only more brooding, more dangerous, more rakish.

  She hadn’t seen him in an age . . . Not since George Coney’s funeral.

  Even though the memory brought on a wave of sadness and rage, Charlotte couldn’t help it: she smiled broadly when James set off for the folly at a brisk walk. Her heart began to pound. The plan was in effect.

  Just a few minutes later, the rest of the garden party gathered ’round Lord Hastings as he began an ambling tour of his gardens, including the vegetables, his collection of flowering shrubs, and a series of pea gravel paths that meandered through groves of trees and other landscaped “moments.”

  Charlotte and Harriet were to be found skulking toward the back of the group, studiously avoiding relatives—such as Charlotte’s brother, Brandon, and his wife, Sophie, who had been watching Charlotte a little too closely for comfort ever since The Scheme That Had Gone Horribly Awry. Harriet’s mother was deep in conversation with her bosom friend, Lady Newport.

  A few steps ahead was Miss Swan Lucy Feathers herself. Today she was decked in a pale muslin gown and an enormous bonnet that had been decorated with what seemed to be a shrubbery. Upon closer inspection, it was a variet
y of fresh flowers and garden clippings. Even a little bird (fake, one hoped) had been nestled into the arrangement. Two wide, fawn-colored ribbons tied the millinery event to her head.

  Charlotte felt another pang, and then—Lord above—she suffered second thoughts. First the swan bonnet, and now this! James had once broken her heart horribly, but could he really marry someone with such atrocious taste in bonnets? And, if not, should the scheme progress?

  “Lovely day for a garden party, is it not?” Harriet said brightly to Miss Swan Lucy.

  “Oh, indeed it is a lovely day,” Lucy replied. “Though it would be so much better if I weren’t so vexed by these bonnet strings. This taffeta ribbon is just adorable, but immensely itchy against my skin.”

  “What a ghastly problem. Try loosening the strings?” Charlotte suggested. Her other thought she kept to herself: Or remove the monstrous thing entirely.

  “It’s a bit windy. I shan’t wish it to blow away,” Lucy said nervously. Indeed, the wind had picked up, bending the hat brim. On such a warm summer day as this, no one complained.

  “A gentle summer breeze. The sun is glorious, though,” Harriet replied.

  “This breeze is threatening to send off my bonnet, and I shall freckle terribly without it in this sun. Alas!” Lucy cried, her fingers tugging at her bonnet strings.

  “What is wrong with freckles?” Harriet asked. The correct answer was nothing since Harriet possessed a smattering of freckles across her nose and rosy cheeks.

  “We should find you some shade,” Charlotte declared. “Shouldn’t we, Harriet?”

  “Yes. Shade. Just the thing,” Harriet echoed. She was frowning, probably in vexation over the comment about freckles. Charlotte thought there were worse things, such as being a feather-brain like Lucy.

  Charlotte suffered another pang. She loathed second thoughts and generally avoided them. She reminded herself that while James had once been her favorite person in England, he had since become the sort of man who brooded endlessly and flirted heartlessly.