Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

His older brother shrugged. “It was kind of cute.” Back to his eggs.

  Cute did not apply to Miss Taylor. That woman was a heap of trouble, and not just because of the warm, hazel eyes that had shot sparks when he’d gotten her riled. He wondered how their color might change if he stroked her touchable, golden skin, or how big they would bloom if he tangled his fingers in all that honey-silk blondeness that cascaded over her shoulders. She’d had an enticing twitch to her hips as she sashayed her world-class ass out of the locker room, clearly pleased with herself for hijacking the last word. That ass would feel so good crushed against his palm and . . .

  He really needed an orgasm that did not come courtesy of his right hand.

  But not with Kinsey Taylor. Because then he’d have to listen to her, and Luke was done with know-it-all harpies who got off on bringing a guy to his knees for all the wrong reasons. Next time he set his sights on a woman, she would be soft, pliant, and ready for kids as soon as he put a ring on her finger. Maybe an elementary school teacher or a nice, sweet girl who worked with rescued puppies. Someone easy.

  And if she had a world-class ass, all the better.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The grim, sagging walls of CFD HQ on South Michigan could definitely do with a sprucing-up, which wasn’t far off from how Luke felt as he sat, stiff as bamboo, outside the hearing room a week after Daniel McGinnis had walked into Luke’s fist. God, he felt like crap. The collar of his button-down was pulling double duty, cutting off all the air to his lungs and making him sweat so much he thought he might die of dehydration.

  In a few minutes, he would learn his fate. He’d almost prefer a kick to the curb rather than mandatory counseling for some perceived anger-­management problem, because the idea of talking out his problems with whatever four-eyed nut doctor they assigned to him was enough to give him the shakes.

  As a kid, he’d endured countless sessions with psychologists and social workers, everyone eager to get to the root of his emotional problems. Like the facts of Luke’s life so far hadn’t clued them in. Mother a crack whore. Father MIA. Baby sister ripped from his arms and stashed in another group home, miles away from Luke.

  Most of the time during his two-year stint in the group home, the arranged visits to see little Jenny had been canceled because some social worker wasn’t around to drive him, but more often because Luke had acted up and been placed in a time-out. Splitting up siblings was common in foster care, but his anger at everyone—his drugged-up mom, the parade of do-gooders, the other sniveling kids—wouldn’t allow him to see reason and play ball long enough to figure out how to game the system.

  Nine-year-olds aren’t really known for their problem-­solving skills.

  Apparently, neither are thirty-two-year-olds.

  The promise of reuniting with his family was extinguished when his mom set herself ablaze while hanging with a gang of tweakers at a meth lab, incinerating any hope Luke had of salvaging a good life with Jenny. His sister, an indomitable streak of sunshine, was snapped up by an adoring family in one of those white-bread suburbs on Chicago’s North Shore. Safe at last, or so Luke thought, but not even happy-as-a-pig-in-shit suburbia can guarantee that. Of course they had no room for a “behaviorally challenged” kid in their picture-perfect family. If they had—if he’d been less of a pill—maybe he could have saved Jenny from that speeding car barreling down a quiet residential street.

  Fortunately, Sean and Mary had room in their house and their hearts for a kid whose primary method of communication was with his fists. Shame rolled through him. Neither of them would be particularly proud of him right now.

  “Can’t leave you alone for a second, Almeida.”

  Shit, just kill him now.

  Luke didn’t bother to look up as the hard bench groaned and nearly splintered under the new weight. His seating companion’s thick, widespread thighs, encased in CFD uniform navy, shifted to diffuse his heavy bulk.

  “Said your piece yet?”

  “Any minute now.” Counting the cracks in the tile wasn’t going to prevent the ball-breaking lecture he knew was coming. Unable to avoid it any longer, Luke turned his head to take in Commissioner Laurence Freeman, better known as his godfather, Larry. Big, bald, and black as midnight on a moonless night, this man had been just as instrumental in Luke’s upbringing as Sean Dempsey. Luke had cried just once in his thirty-two years—and the man currently invading his personal space was the only person to have witnessed the meltdown.

  “You need to cooperate,” Larry said. “There’s only so much I can help you with.”

  The steel in the older man’s voice pulled Luke up short.

  “What gives?” Luke wasn’t so stupid as to think he’d emerge scot-free here, but he figured a short suspension and a couple of rounds with the CFD shrink would be enough to move it from the loss to the draw column.

  Larry’s usually smooth forehead crinkled. “You’re the straw, Luke, and they mean to make an example of you. The mayor’s under a lot of pressure to clean up city hall, especially from some of his bigger donors like Sam Cochrane. I’ve promised you’ll cooperate with his press secretary. Anything they want. And not just token, blow-it-up-their-asses cooperation. You’ll have to mean it.”

  “Or what? The union’s not going to stand for some bullshit media campaign that makes us look pretty.”

  Larry’s expression was pained, which looked mighty strange on him. The guy was the calmest person Luke knew.

  “They’re threatening to split you up.”

  Cold dread pooled in Luke’s gut because that . . . that was the worst thing that could happen to the Dempseys. He and Wyatt had made a pact when Logan and Sean died: insofar as was humanly possible, they would ensure no harm came to the kids. The oldest Dempseys had pulled strings, called in favors to make sure the five of them stayed together at Engine 6. And, short of persuading their pain-in-the-ass sibs not to join the CFD, which would have gone over like a fart in church, keeping them intact at 6 was the next best thing.

  It was also why Luke had placed his own ambitions on hold. Because as soon as he passed that lieutenant exam, he’d be transferred out to another house.

  Now that dickhead bureaucrat on the fifth floor of city hall thought a crusade against the CFD—against the Dempseys—was going to help his reelection. Not exactly fair, but as Sean used to say, the only thing fair in life is the hair on a Norwegian albino’s ass.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Luke finally ground out.

  Larry’s face turned as hard as the bench that was numbing their asses. “Get your temper under control, go charm the brass in there, and cooperate with the mayor’s girl.”

  The door to the hearing room swung open with a whoosh, ejecting Detective Daniel McGinnis like a halfhearted upchuck. Larry placed a placating hand on Luke’s arm, but so not necessary. Luke’s anger had found a new target. As disgusted as he was with Dan, his fury was now focused entirely on Mayor Eli Cooper and his click-clacking lap dog, Kinsey Taylor.

  McGinnis strode by in a sharp-looking suit, not a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. Smooth as a slug’s slime. But Luke was pleased to note that his splotchy bruises looked far worse than Luke’s. His once close friend had the common sense to keep his mouth shut and his eyes forward as he passed.

  “Firefighter Almeida?” a voice called out. “They’re ready for you.”

  And he was ready for them. Time to put on his game face and power through this. He’d keep the good stuff for the PR princess.

  Jimmy Choo could kiss her ass.

  Kinsey leaned against the wall outside her office and rubbed her sore feet. For the second time in a week, the cranky old elevator in city hall had crapped out and she’d taken it as an opportunity-slash-sign to get some much-needed exercise after a calorie-laden lunch with Jillian Malone, a reporter from the Chicago Tribune (Bloody Mary, extra bitters). The endorphin high of scoring 70 percent off the Choos at Nordstrom’s semiannual shoe sale a week ago had long faded. These fucker
s hurt.

  A musical tinkle of laughter perked up her ears. Her assistant, Josie, who Kinsey shared with two more senior members of the Media Affairs team, was a sweet girl who spent all her time on Facebook when she thought Kinsey wasn’t paying attention. Now, from the sounds of that throaty giggle, she was flirting with one of the staffers—probably Caleb, who liked to sniff around the admins—instead of working on that press release about the summer learning program assigned to her an hour ago.

  But Kinsey couldn’t have been more wrong.

  At the glass door to the media suite, she stopped cold as the source of Josie’s chuckle fest became clear: Luke Almeida. His expansive back, covered in a charcoal suit jacket, filled her vision. A band of white peeked above the collar, a nice contrast to those mink-brown waves that today looked a little damp from the humidity of the asphalt-melting June heat. Casually, he sat on Josie’s desk, one strapping leg swinging back and forth.

  Strapping. That was the word that came to mind when Kinsey saw Luke Almeida.

  Josie was all aflutter, alternating between leaning back in her chair, a view that stretched her blouse taut against her twenty-two-year-old breasts, and leaning forward, dipping so as to place her cleavage directly in Luke’s line of vision.

  “Ricky is five and he’s a terror,” she was saying. “Well, I’m sure you know how awful boys are at that age.”

  “Know from experience, having been one,” he murmured.

  Josie laughed so hard she risked dislodging a lung. “If he wasn’t my nephew, I’d be tempted to disown him, but sometimes he’s just so adorbs.”

  Luke’s meaty paw gripped a pewter photo frame, the cat whiskers one that held an ovary-explodingly cute pic of Josie’s two nieces and nephew.

  “I see you’re an animal lover, as well,” he said, gesturing to the array of critter photos on her desk.

  “I am!” she squealed. “They’re just so unconditional in their love, aren’t they?”

  “They sure are.” Said in what Kinsey assumed was his seductive voice, if you liked that kind of thing. Which she most certainly did not.

  Lately, Kinsey was feeling a tad raw at how flirtations and relationships had the nerve to proceed without her. Not that her never-ever-after with David should be cause for love the world over to come to a standstill, but she was getting increasingly fed up with being confronted by other people’s happiness at every turn.

  Her abused feet back in their prison cells, she stepped into the office and cleared her throat like a scene-interrupting cliché. She placed a grande Frappuccino on Josie’s desk.

  “A little pick-me-up for the afternoon.” Not that the girl needed it, as she seemed to be getting picked up all by herself.

  “Oh, thanks, Kinsey,” Josie said, a guilty blush tinting her cheeks.

  Luke barely moved a muscle except to raise his startling blue eyes in Kinsey’s direction. They revealed nothing but disdain. Shocker.

  “We need to talk, Miss Taylor.”

  The way he said her name confirmed his less-than-sunny feelings toward her, but he followed it up with something unexpected. Surely this was a figment of her imagination, but in those eyes, she thought she saw a flash of appreciation for her legs, the prolonged visit to her hips, the flare of arousal as his gaze touched her breasts like a kiss. Perhaps she should upgrade Josie to a venti next time for getting Luke primed.

  Blinking herself back to Earth, Kinsey looked past him to her assistant. “What does my schedule look like this afternoon, Josie?”

  “You’re free for the next thirty,” Luke cut in as he unfolded to his full height. All six four of it. His suit was a little rumpled from the heat. The blue-and-silver striped tie had been loosened to the point that he may as well not have bothered. The snow-white shirt still bore just-opened-from-its-package creases. Bought special for the hearing, she assumed, which had taken place this morning. Wearing a suit did not come naturally to him. His body fought its bonds, and her brain stuttered with the image of him tearing it from his hard, ripped torso as soon as he got home.

  A lot less skin was on display than the last time they met, but what she saw was just as enticing. Smooth, buttery cocoa that looked good enough to taste. His ethnicity was not listed in his file, but she had overheard two of the flightier interns gossiping about his Cuban-Irish roots in the restroom yesterday.

  Drooling over it, to be precise.

  Uninvited, he walked ahead of her toward her office, devouring the carpet with long, muscular strides. Jodie raised an eyebrow but Kinsey ignored her. This wasn’t the time for girly camaraderie.

  She followed him in and shut the door, the resounding click loud and final to her ears. Luke stood stiffly at the window, hands in pockets, scoping out the busy Loop streets.

  “I expected the view would be better,” he said, not turning around.

  “The mayor’s office up one level has it best.” She needed to alleviate the deadweight she suddenly felt in her legs, but she certainly wouldn’t be the one to sit first while he took in the view like a king on his perch. The pain of gender relations in the twenty-first century.

  “Would you like a seat, Mr. Almeida?”

  He turned and leaned against the window, his flinty gaze clashing with a forced smile. “I think it’s time we did away with the formalities. After all, we’ll be working closely together.”

  She nodded. “I assume your hearing went well . . .”

  “Luke.”

  Heat pooled in her abdomen with that simple word, said in the huskiest, sexiest tone she had ever heard.

  “Luke,” she said, annoyed to find she sounded breathless.

  “It went as well as can be expected, given the circumstances. I have to speak with the CFD shrink and work up a publicity plan with you. Apparently, you’re going to have some say in how soon I can return to active duty.”

  Shock sloshed over her at this unwelcome news. “Why would I have any input? I just need you to cooperate with me to make Engine 6 look good.”

  He laughed, short and bitter. “I have a history of not playing nicely with others, Miss Taylor. And there are some people who don’t like me or my family and would welcome any excuse to make things difficult for us.”

  The “Miss Taylor” wasn’t lost on her. There was no trust here despite his invitation to get less formal. He assumed she was part of some conspiracy to bring his family down, which was worrisome. Not that there was a conspiracy, but that he thought there was.

  Violent and paranoid. She’d let the CFD psychiatrist sort that one out.

  “My job is to show how important the Chicago Fire Department is to the lifeblood of this great city—”

  “Sounds like you’re reading from a press release.”

  Her throat worked over a swallow. It did sound like that. A PR professional learned quickly to speak in guarded statements, though she was beginning to realize that keeping her bodily defenses in place around Luke Almeida might be the true challenge.

  Willing her hand to move deliberately, she flipped through a pile of file folders on her desk until she found the one she needed. From it, she extracted a multisheet document. Her ideas for rehabilitating the rep of Engine 6.

  “So I thought we could host a community party. Kids could visit the firehouse, climb on the fire engine while supervised of course, hang with real-life heroes.”

  Luke rounded the desk and leaned beside her, an action that strained the suit fabric over his thighs. His strapping thighs. His clean, male scent topped with a hint of—was that smoke?—curled through her blood. God, he smelled incredible.

  She blinked and returned to her list.

  “We could host a barbecue and set up a bouncy house—”

  “A bouncy house?”

  She studied him past her lashes. “Yes, you know, a bouncy house. My nieces love bouncy houses.”

  Why had she mentioned her nieces? So what if Josie had nieces and Luke had spent a few moments poring over that photo and—dammit, she had nothing to prove
here.

  Competitiveness isn’t very feminine, Kinsey.

  Oh, shut it, David.

  “A bouncy house,” he repeated dazedly, as if his entire life had been distilled to this one moment and he couldn’t believe his rotten luck.

  She pressed her lips against a smile. “I also think your connection to the foster kids would make a great promotional piece. I had lunch with a reporter from the Trib today, and she’d love to see the other side of Luke Almeida. The one who gives back to honor his foster father and brother.”

  He cut her a look, and she felt it to her perfectly manied toes. “The kids stay out of it. I won’t have them used as pawns to make me or the CFD or your damn mayor look better.”

  While it was impossible to predict what would stick in the minds of voters, sad-eyed, underprivileged kids playing softball with firefighters had win written all over it.

  “It would really be the easiest route—”

  “Not happening, Kinsey.” He took the list from her with one hand, her pen with the other, and slashed through that bullet point. “Next.”

  Kinsey wasn’t quite ready to give up on that idea, especially as he had used her first name. They were finally getting somewhere, though she couldn’t be sure where exactly. Or if it was a place she wanted to visit.

  She tried another tack. “The members of CFD, and Engine 6 in particular, are heavily involved in the city’s community, from their great service and public education to volunteer work and charity drives. Our campaign needs to focus on those efforts so we can minimize the negatives. Maybe even wipe those negatives out of existence.”

  Laying the list down on her desk, he stared at her in a way that completely unnerved her. “When the negatives are caught on camera and blasted onto YouTube, sweetheart, there’s little chance of scrubbing the record. It’s out there forever.”

  “True—”

  “Plus, there’s a place in our society for those negatives, as you call them. Usually, men channel their anger into approved routes of violent expression—the military, sports, a charity boxing match between CPD and CFD. When it’s unapproved, that’s where there’s trouble. But, Kinsey, if I had a chance to do it over, I’d still punch the living daylights out of McGinnis and take my lumps.”