by Lisa Childs
Every man in the place was checking her out. And she seemed to return their interest. Her gaze traveled from one man to the next and the next. She was looking, but she wasn’t finding what or who she was looking for…until those greenish-blue eyes focused on him.
Her gaze holding his, she walked toward their booth. Those long legs closed the distance quickly, her heels clicking against the wood floor, through the peanuts strewn across it. She didn’t belong in a place like the Filling Station—not with her snug blue dress and high heels. She looked as if she belonged on television—which made him abruptly realize why she seemed familiar.
Even worse was the way she was looking at him—as if he was familiar. Then she stopped at their booth and addressed him directly. “Dawson Hess.”
It wasn’t a question. She knew who he was.
Dawson felt as if he was facing the fire all over again. And this time he wasn’t sure he’d survive…
2
AVERY WAS USED to everyone looking at her when she returned home. Reporting the big news in the big city—despite her limited airtime—had made her big news in the small town where she’d grown up. She was also used to men looking at her—usually with admiration. Not the hostility with which the men in the back booth were regarding her.
Apparently they knew who she was. But she extended her hand anyway—toward Dawson Hess—and said, “I’m Avery—”
“I know who you are,” he interrupted, his voice gruff with irritation. “How do you know who I am?”
“You’re a Huron Hotshot.” She glanced at the other men. They were no more welcoming than Dawson Hess. “You all are.”
“How did you know where to find us?” Superintendent Zimmer asked. His voice was even colder than Dawson’s.
“The curly-haired kid who was washing trucks at the station told me you had all come here,” she said. He’d also told her Dawson’s last name.
“Damn kid,” the superintendent murmured.
“I’ll talk to Stanley,” the blond firefighter said. He slid from the booth, and as he did, his glance traveled from the top of Avery’s head to her toes peeping out of her high heels.
She’d purposely dressed up for her trip into the village of Northern Lakes. But she hadn’t dressed up for him. The man she’d dressed up for had barely glanced at her.
The blond guy shook his head and murmured, “What a shame…a damn shame…”
The superintendent slid out behind the blond firefighter. “As every other reporter has been told, Ms. Kincaid, the US Forest Service is not granting interviews at this time.”
“Why not?” she asked. “This is a great time to bring more attention to the heroic work you and your team do.” And especially to the heroic work that Dawson Hess had done. He had saved her nephews. And he deserved some of the accolades Wyatt Andrews had monopolized.
“I’m not giving any interviews,” Wyatt said. The dark-haired man sat at the end of the booth between her and Dawson Hess. But, until he’d spoken, she hadn’t really noticed him.
“I don’t think she’s interested in talking to you,” the blond firefighter remarked with a deep chuckle.
“None of us are giving interviews,” the superintendent told her. “We don’t need attention. We just need to do our jobs.”
She tilted her head and remarked, “I don’t hear any sirens. There isn’t a fire right now. I wouldn’t be keeping you from your work.”
But she wasn’t keeping them at all. Wyatt Andrews stood up with the other two men, and the three of them walked out together—leaving Dawson Hess alone in the booth. Before he could slide out, too, she perched on the seat next to him. Not that she would be able to physically hold him in the booth if he wanted to leave. His shoulders were so broad that her arm inadvertently bumped his when she sat down. He was so muscular—big arms, big chest—that he could easily move her out of his way if he wanted.
“Please, give me just a few minutes of your time,” she implored him. “I’m sure I’m not keeping you from anything.”
Or anyone? She glanced down at his left hand. He wore no ring, but that didn’t mean anything. She knew a lot of men—in professions less physical than his—who chose not to wear their wedding bands.
“Just because we’re not at a fire doesn’t mean we’re not at work,” he told her.
She glanced at the pitcher of beer in the middle of the table and arched a brow. “Hard at work apparently…”
Those light eyes turned out to be a pale brown—like gold or amber—until they momentarily darkened.
So much for sweet-talking him into granting her an interview or a kiss.
“We’re not on duty right now,” he admitted. “But we were discussing work.”
They had looked intense when she’d walked up.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said. “I was just teasing.”
He shrugged, and his arm rubbed against hers. “You didn’t offend me.”
Heat rushed through her—starting at the contact with his body. Her dress had long sleeves, but they were thin and silky, so she could easily feel him through the light material. His arm was bare, the muscle taut as if he were tense.
All of the men had looked tense. Before the blond guy had noticed her, she’d noticed them—had seen their heads bent together in what had appeared to be an intense exchange. Over a pitcher of beer?
Why had they looked so serious? So preoccupied?
As Dawson had said, just because they weren’t at a fire didn’t mean they hadn’t been working.
Her instincts were as trustworthy as they always were. There was more going on with the Huron Hotshots than a regular wildfire season.
And she intended to find out exactly what.
*
SHE HADN’T OFFENDED HIM, but Avery Kincaid had damn sure affected him—so much so that he hadn’t been able to move as fast as his friends. He wasn’t going to hear the end of that back the firehouse. They would tease him mercilessly.
And with good reason.
He wasn’t like Wyatt and Cody. He didn’t chase after every female who had a pretty face and a great pair of legs. Even Braden had let a woman mess with his head and his heart. Dawson had always been smarter than that—until Avery Kincaid had stared at him with those gorgeous eyes of hers.
Her beauty wasn’t what worried him the most, though. She was smart and ambitious, or she wouldn’t be working for a national network at her young age. Everyone in Northern Lakes bragged about the hometown girl who was making it in the big city.
“If I didn’t offend you,” she asked, “what is bothering you?”
She turned toward him now, so that her breast rubbed against his arm. And her knee pushed against the side of his thigh. Every muscle tightened in his body.
“I said you hadn’t offended me,” he replied, “I didn’t say that you weren’t bothering me.” She was bothering the hell out of him right now. She was so damn hot that he felt as if his skin was sizzling despite the fabric between them.
Her mouth—wide and sexy, with full, shiny lips—curved into a smile. She leaned a little closer—maybe because it was loud in the bar, maybe just to tease him. In a husky, seductive whisper, she asked, “How am I bothering you?”
By breathing…
Every breath she drew pushed her breast against his arm. It was full and soft and warm. He struggled to hold his gaze up, to stop it from slipping down to her chest. But focusing on her face was just as dangerous. She was movie-star beautiful. Her golden skin highlighted her unusual turquoise eyes even more, making them shine brighter.
He’d seen eyes like that before—actually, two sets of eyes that had looked exactly like hers. So maybe they weren’t that unusual. Hell, hers could have been colored contacts, but he was close enough—staring intently enough into them—that he would have noticed the telltale rims of the lenses.
She was really that naturally beautiful. His uneasiness grew, and he drew in a deep breath. Big mistake. She smelled of sunshine and
wildflowers. Was it her or some expensive perfume made to smell like nature?
She leaned even closer, but thankfully she was much smaller than he was, so her lips were nowhere near his mouth. Just his throat…
He swallowed hard when her warm breath slid over his neck, as she asked again, “How am I bothering you?”
He eased back as far as he could in the booth. And reminding himself, he said, “You’re a reporter.”
The media had made the biggest tragedy of his childhood—hell, his life—even worse. They had exploited his mother’s pain and his.
She laughed. “You make it sound like I’m a serial killer.” But he hadn’t offended her; amusement sparkled in her eyes.
“You might be as dangerous.”
“Why?” she asked. “I only report the news.”
He snorted. “Or you make news out of nothing.”
“Nothing? That fire wasn’t nothing,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “But it was several weeks ago. It’s time to let it die now.” Like the fire had died—except for the hot spots that sprang up every once in a while. That was why, except for the occasional trip out West to relieve crews there, his team was sticking close to Northern Lakes—to protect the town.
“There’s more to the story,” she said.
He wasn’t supposed to comment. But he hadn’t been told not to question. And since he wanted to know what she knew—or suspected—he asked, “What?”
“You.”
And he laughed, even as nerves clutched his stomach.
“I know,” she said. “I know that Wyatt Andrews wasn’t the real hero that day—you were.”
He tensed. He hated that word—hated even more how easily it was used to describe someone who was just doing his job. He shook his head.
“I know,” she said. “I have sources.
He laughed again. “Your sources are wrong.”
“My sources were there,” she said. “In a shelter that you brought when you and another firefighter found the campers and Wyatt Andrews. My sources were with you—in one of those shelters.”
“Kade and Ian,” he said. That was where he’d seen her eye color before—when those terrified twins had stared up at him as they’d asked him if they were going to die. No, he’d told them, and had hoped like hell he wasn’t lying. “Your younger brothers?”
“Nephews,” she said, and pride and affection warmed those beautiful eyes. “They are alive today because of you.”
“Wyatt—”
“Wyatt Andrews didn’t have enough shelters for all of the campers. If you hadn’t brought the extra ones…” She shuddered.
He lifted his arm to the back of the booth, tempted to slide it around her—to offer her comfort. But the boys were fine. He hadn’t had to lie to them.
“Everybody survived,” he said.
“Because of you!”
He shook his head. “Because of the team.”
“But you deserve to be personally acknowledged like Wyatt Andrews was,” she insisted. “Let me do a special feature—about you.”
At the thought of all those reporters focused on him, shoving mics in his face, asking him questions, he shuddered. He’d endured too much of that as a kid. “Hell, no!”
She flinched, making him regret the harshness of his refusal.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be hounded by the media again—couldn’t have his life laid bare for all the world to see. Because they wouldn’t be happy reporting just the current event. They would drag up his past and his pain…
“Why not?” she asked.
He forced a grin and told her, “There’s nothing special about me. I’m just a man doing my job.”
“A dangerous, heroic job,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s not the only dangerous profession. You have plenty of other subjects for your special features.”
“But I want you.” She reached out and brushed her fingertips over his chest.
Beneath her touch, his heart slammed against his ribs; it began to pound fast and hard. If only…
But she was playing him, just working him over so he’d agree to her interview. He shook his head.
“Let me do the feature on you,” she said, “as a thank-you for saving my nephews.”
He chuckled. “That’s the last way I’d want to be thanked.”
Her eyes narrowed for a moment, and she studied his face as if trying to figure out why he wanted no publicity. Then her eyes brightened as they sparkled again with amusement. “Well, I did have another idea of how to thank you…”
He knew he was going to hate himself for asking, but he couldn’t resist. “How’s that?”
She pitched her voice to that low, husky whisper again and leaned closer—so close that her lips nearly brushed his throat. “With a kiss.”
He couldn’t resist her, either. His heart hammering now in his chest, he closed his arms around her and drew her even closer.
3
AVERY’S PULSE QUICKENED, and her breath caught in her lungs as Dawson’s arms tightened around her. He was going to kiss her.
But he lifted her, instead, right out of the booth. He moved with her and set her on her feet. Her legs trembled beneath her. Maybe it was just that her heel was on a peanut—maybe that was the reason. It couldn’t be because she’d wanted him to kiss her, that just anticipating his kiss had weakened her knees.
No man had ever weakened Avery’s knees before. Not even while kissing her. She had never felt an attraction like this. His photo had intrigued and interested her. But in person…
He was even more handsome. More muscular. More serious and tense…
She clutched at his arms before he could release her. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Wrong?” He shook his head. “You’re unbelievable. I’ve heard about you—the whole town talks about you.”
She was aware of that. Kim told her stories—with pride and admiration. There was no admiration in Dawson’s deep voice—only disgust.
“I knew you were ambitious,” he said.
She supposed she’d made no secret of how badly she had wanted to leave Northern Lakes, where nothing ever happened—until the fire.
He continued, “But I had no idea the lengths you’d go to for a story.”
She blinked and released his arms. She had apparently already given him the wrong idea, the wrong opinion of her. “Now you have offended me,” she admitted. “I wasn’t trying to seduce you into agreeing to that special feature.”
His amber eyes were narrowed though, as if he didn’t believe her. Or trust her.
“It was just a thank-you kiss…”
A muscle twitched along his tightly clenched jaw. That square, sexy jaw with a shadow of stubble on it. Although she was grateful that he’d rescued her nephews, she hadn’t wanted to kiss him only out of gratitude. She’d wanted to kiss him because she was attracted to him.
He was so tall, so broad, so muscular. In heels she wasn’t used to having look up so far into a man’s face. He had to be well over six feet.
She uttered a regretful sigh. “Second time I got rejected today…”
He laughed. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?” she asked. “You turned me down.”
“I turned down the interview,” he said. “Not you…”
Then his arms slid around her again, and he pulled her up against his hard body. His chest crushed her breasts as he leaned down, and his mouth covered hers.
She was supposed to kiss him. That was the thank-you she’d intended to give him. But he was kissing her, his lips gliding over hers. At first it was just a brush of his mouth, a tantalizing taste of passion.
She gasped as sensations raced through her, the attraction between them intensifying. Her pulse quickened and her skin tingled. He was touching her, too, one hand moving up her back to tangle in her hair. He held her head while he deepened the kiss. He parted her lips and slid his tongue inside her mouth, over h
ers.
She moaned as desire coursed through her. Her breasts swelled and her nipples hardened, pushing against the thin material of her bra and dress. They rubbed against his chest, and she moaned again, wanting more than a kiss.
He tensed and his head jerked back. His amber eyes had gone dark, his pupils dilated. His skin was slightly flushed. He shook his head and glanced around them.
And her face flushed—with desire and embarrassment. How had she forgotten where they were? That they were in a public place?
Because of his kiss…
She hadn’t remembered lifting her arms, but they were linked around his broad shoulders. Her fingers had slipped into the short hair at his nape. It was silky against her skin.
Maybe he would be the one—the man she would finally miss when they broke up. Not that they ever had a chance of being together. They didn’t live in the same city. And it was clear that Dawson had no use for reporters.
She didn’t need a man in her life, though. She needed to focus on her career—on breaking the story that would guarantee her airtime. Even though her body ached for his, she didn’t need Dawson Hess.
He released her and stepped back so that her arms dropped from his shoulders. Then he stepped around her, leaving her standing—legs shaking—next to that booth. Just before he walked away, he leaned down and murmured, “You’re welcome.”
*
“SO DID YOU get rid of her?” Wyatt asked when Dawson walked into the firehouse.
He was lucky his legs could carry him; they weren’t quite steady yet—not after that kiss. The passion that had burned between them was so hot he’d nearly gotten scorched.
He glared at Wyatt. The guy wasn’t alone. Cody leaned against the truck next to him. It was a bright yellow fire engine—more likely to catch the attention of other drivers than red. That was why they wore yellow, too—to be more visible in the smoke and flames.
“What?” Wyatt asked. “We didn’t intentionally ditch you with the reporter.”
Cody gave him a pitying glance. “We thought you could move faster than that. You must be getting old.”