He craned his neck, but all he made out was a long, curvy, jeans-clad leg hooked onto the rung of the stool. So a woman was causing this stir. She wore little bronze sandals that showed off tidy, unpainted toenails. Sexy, but unusual; the women of Loveless went through a lot of nail polish, as he recalled. So maybe this woman wasn’t a local. Increasingly curious, he wound his way through the tables to get closer.
Then, through the interwoven hum of the crowd, the throaty strand of the mystery woman’s voice shone through. He felt the impact at the base of his spine, in his cock. Holy fuck, was it Lara? What was she doing here? She didn’t drink, let alone socialize with the citizens of Loveless. In a hurry now, he bobbed his head this way and that, aiming for a clear visual.
And there she was, a white T-shirted goddess gracing a Loveless dive with her presence. Her thick blond hair tumbled down her back in a freewheeling riot. She perched on the edge of the stool, one hand carelessly clutching a glass, the other flinging gestures into the air like confetti. Her eyes glowed like flaming whiskey; she looked like a lioness in tight jeans. No one could look away.
Lara Nelson, lit as a pinball machine?
Patrick shook his head, blinked, checked again. This time she was leaning forward to listen to an older man who was holding a beer bottle. Patrick conceived an instant dislike for the guy, who had to be at least forty and had no business talking to a hot babe like Lara. As the man leaned in to touch Lara on the arm, Patrick strode forward and blocked the move.
“Hands off, mister. Don’t you think she’s a little young for you?”
The man gaped at him, but Patrick ignored him, paying attention only to Lara. Her eyes darkened and her mouth fell open as she took him in. That mouth . . . he gazed at it hungrily, following the generous curves that promised so much.
“No, I don’t,” said the man.
“What?” Patrick had already forgotten what they were talking about.
“I don’t think she’s too young. She’s a doctor. She just told me how she helped a woman with hyperemesis something.”
“Gravidarum,” said Lara solemnly. “Hyperemesis gravidarum. It’s a severe form of morning sickness that . . .”
Was he doomed to hear about pregnancy wherever he went? “Just how buzzed are you, Lara?”
The man shouldered his way back into the conversation. “And who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Yeah,” said Lara, slightly slurred. “Who the hell are you?”
“So you don’t know this bozo?” the man asked her.
She shook her head in strong denial. “Oh no. I know him inside out. Upside down and all around.”
Patrick’s cock stirred, damn that pesky organ. It was her voice that did it to him, that sexy, sultry, velvet glove of a voice. “You’re drunk.”
“No. I have drunk. But I am not drunk. And I will drink.”
Amused, he put his hands on his hips. “Do you always parse verbs when you drink?”
“Look, son, I don’t think she wants you here.”
“Too bad. I am here. And I’m not budging.”
“If Lara wants you gone, you’re gone.”
Patrick glared at the other man. He could take him, no problem. But an uneasy glance around the rest of the crowd told him he’d have to battle them all. He lowered his voice. “Lara, let’s get out of here. You’ve had enough. I’ll take you home.”
“Why,” she swayed toward him and poked him in the chest, “should I go home with you? And what are you doing here anyway? Didn’t you go back to San Gabrehel? San Gariel? San Gabie-ell?”
Man, she was really toasted. “I’ll tell you later. Right now, let’s get some air.”
“I don’t want air.”
“Okay, then maybe some water.”
“Don’t want water.”
“What do you want? Whatever you want, we’ll get it.” He tried to keep his voice low, for her ears only. If he could just coax her out of the Love ’Em and Leave ’Em, he could sober her up enough to get her home. The Goddesses probably had some homeopathic hangover cure they could give her.
Lara grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and dragged him in closer, so her mouth, that luscious, sex fantasy mouth, was whispering in his ear. “Wanna know what I want?”
With a hand on her upper back to keep her from sliding off the stool, he nodded. The movement made her lips brush against his ear. He went hard as a rock.
“I want you,” she said in a husky murmur. “I want your hot, hard, thick, throbbing . . .”
Oh God, he was going to come in his pants, right here in the Love ’Em.
“ . . . lotus root.”
Chapter Twelve
Holy crackerjack, Lara was drunk. Nothing else could make her use Haven language, which she’d always mocked in high school. Patrick hooked his arm around her waist and slid her off the stool.
“Let’s go, honey,” he said, for the benefit of the onlookers.
“Yes, let’s go.” She’d forgotten about whispering, and was in fact yelling over the sound of vintage Olivia Newton John blasting from the jukebox. “Take me to bed and show me what all the fuss is about.”
Someone snorted.
“Y’all can take me too,” said a girl in a skintight tube top, winking.
“Where’s the party headed?” a guy in a cowboy hat asked.
Patrick put his arm around Lara in a gesture of pure possessiveness, just to get the point across. “The party’s staying right here. We’re going home.”
“Aren’t you the Callahan kid?” someone asked as he guided Lara toward the exit. He recognized the voice as belonging to a mechanic in town. Patrick knew, from personal experience, that he liked to pick fights in bars, especially with college kids.
“Yeah,” said his drinking buddy. Patrick knew him too; he owed him a split lip from the night he turned eighteen. “That’s the one who nearly killed his little brother.”
“There was somethin’ weird about that kid anyway,” someone else chimed in.
Lara twisted out of Patrick’s grip and stomped toward the two customers. “Liam’s not weird,” she said, hands on hips. “Who said that? Who? I’ll take you down, right here, right now.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Patrick dove after her, snagging the waistband of her jeans before she launched herself at the little knot of men. They put their hands up in a What’d I say? gesture. He gave them a long warning look, which he hoped they’d interpret as “I’d kick your ass if I didn’t have to get this drunk girl out of here.”
He wrapped his arm around Lara and steered her in the direction of the front door.
“They’re talking trash about Liam,” she insisted, squirming in his grasp. He tried not to think about how warm and womanly she felt, all curves and heat and satin-soft skin.
“Who cares? They’re drunks at a bar, trying to get something going. Ignore them.”
“You aren’t the boss of me.”
He bent down and growled in her ear. Only a few more steps and they’d be out the door. “Right now, I am the boss of you. And you’d better not forget it.”
She drew in a long, wondering breath and looked up at him, her golden eyes going wide. “Patrick! That’s so . . . politically incorrect.”
“Oops.” Not that he cared.
“No, I like it. It’s . . . rawr . . .” She made a gesture like a cheetah clawing the air. “ . . . very hot.”
Now that was more like it. Not that he was going to follow up on it, given the amount of alcohol in her system. “How many drinks have you had, Lulu?”
“See, there you go!” She tore herself away from his grasp and faced him, hands back on hips.
Patrick sighed, glancing longingly at the door, only a few feet away. So close, yet so far. “You sure get feisty with a few drinks in you. I had no clue.”
“You,” she poked him in the chest, “have no clue about a lot of things. Like that I don’t like the name Lulu.”
“You don’t?” He was genuinely astonished. “You never t
old me that.”
“So you’re blaming me now?”
“No, but if you’d told me . . .”
“Oh, because you’re so sensitive and care so much about my feelings.”
He drew back. “Why wouldn’t I care about your feelings?”
“You only cared about your own feelings. Not Liam’s, not mine, not your mother’s, not your father’s . . .” The list showed every sign of continuing for an indefinite amount of time, but another customer, Patty from the craft store, apparently decided the conversation ought to become general. She stepped between them, brandishing her glass of red wine.
“This here is a learning moment, y’all. If I’d known about learning moments earlier, I might never have split with my ex. He was a monster in bed, and now all I’ve got is my vibrator, and—”
“We’re not in a relationship,” Patrick interrupted.
“Ugh, no way,” Lara agreed. “Never.”
He took advantage of the change in subject to grab her arm again. One step, two steps. Finally, they were going to make it out the door. He could practically touch it. But he had to clear one thing up first. He looked down at her, capturing her hazy gold gaze, noticing the flush on her cheeks. “What do you mean, never? I thought you wanted me to show you what all the fuss is about. I thought you wanted my hard, throbbing—”
She flung herself at him. Suddenly she was pressed against his chest, her body molding against him, warm and soft and ridiculously tempting. He staggered and grabbed onto her upper arms to stabilize them both. And then her mouth was on his, and oh Lord almighty, full contact was just as insanely arousing as that barely-a-kiss at the ranch had been. No, more so.
He slid his tongue across her lips because he simply had to taste those rich, generous curves. That sizzling moment at the ranch had been just a tease, and now that her lips were touching his again, the need for more consumed him. She moaned into his mouth, parting her lips so his tongue slipped between them, into the intimate haven beyond. Excitement, thick and urgent, stirred his cock.
He breathed in her scent, which was both familiar and exotic, with that trace of sandalwood he associated with the Haven. As if they had a mind of their own, his hands slid down her back, finding the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip, the arch of her back. He groaned.
“You’re killing me, Lu . . . Lara,” he mumbled against her mouth. “We can’t do this.”
And yet somehow his hands were on her ass, and he was absolutely sure he’d never felt anything that good in his life. Full and firm and sensual, her ass fit perfectly into his spread hands, exactly in the right spot to yank her closer against his groin.
Fuck, that felt good.
She tightened her arms around his neck. “You said my name right,” she murmured happily. “You do care!” Kisses peppered his neck and jaw, sending sweet fire straight to his cock.
Oh Lord. They had to stop. And he, as the more sober one, had to be the one to do it. He dragged his hands off her ass and glanced over his shoulder at the crowd. Everyone was goggling at them. Was someone taking a picture with their camera phone?
He grabbed her hand. “Come on,” he growled. He swung open the door, pulled her outside and dragged her behind him toward his rig.
“There’s my car,” she sang happily as they passed a white Aveo.
“We can get it tomorrow. You can’t drive tonight.”
“Okay, boss.”
When he looked at her, she winked provocatively. That one tiny gesture acted like a bolt of lightning to his overexcited system.
“Stop that right now.”
“Stop what?”
“No coming on to me, Lara. I can’t take it. You’re too damn sexy, and I’m not a freaking monk.” Reaching the Hulk, he found his keys and opened the door with such violence it nearly came off its hinges.
She laughed as if he’d said the funniest thing ever. Then she pulled her hand from his and did a little runway dance right there on the sidewalk. “I’m too sexy for my fireman . . . too sexy for my fireman . . . so sexy . . . it hurts.”
Patrick gritted his teeth, unable to look away, even though every little thrust of her pelvis made his vision haze over. “Get. In.”
“Okay, boss.”
This time he managed to look away when she winked. He waited, envisioning himself as a big, unfeeling boulder as she settled herself into the passenger seat. When she was safely inside, he closed the door, locked it—because who knew what she’d do next—and jumped into the driver’s seat.
“Fasten your seat belt,” he said, but her head was already lolling against the back of the seat.
“Shit,” he muttered, and reached over to pull the seat belt across her, which turned out to be impossible to do without touching her. He clenched his jaw against the rush of heat that accompanied every brush of his hand across her flesh.
“Hey, you,” she murmured, her eyes slitting open. “Are you coming onto me?”
“No,” he said roughly.
“That’s mean.”
“Don’t think I wouldn’t, babe. I’d be all over you like pink on cotton candy if you weren’t buzzed out of your mind.”
“I’m not as drunk as all that,” she protested, suddenly sounding almost sober.
“You’re drunk enough.” A muscle twitched in his jaw as he turned the key in the ignition. “You’re staying at the Haven?”
She heaved a sigh. “Yes.”
“Drink this while I drive.” He handed her a bottle of water. As soon as she put it to her mouth, he looked away, telling himself it was best to concentrate on driving rather than the way her lips wrapped around a long object.
A long silence followed as the mostly empty streets of Loveless slipped past, giving way to the road that headed out of town toward the Haven. Patrick figured Lara was probably dozing off, but he kept his focus on the road.
When they’d almost reached the town limits, she finally spoke. “Would you really?”
“What?”
“Would you really come on to me?”
Hell. She probably wouldn’t remember much about tonight anyway. “Yes.”
“You really think I’m sexy?”
“Hell yes.”
More silence. When he finally looked over at her, she was looking back with a mystified expression on her face.
“Patrick . . .”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing here? The fire’s out.”
“How about I explain it sometime when you’ll remember?” He pulled up to the crazy, nymph-adorned front entrance of the Haven.
“You think I’m going to forget?”
He stepped out of the truck and walked around to the passenger door. When he opened it, Lara was giving him a funny, frowning look, as if he were a math problem she was trying to solve.
“What are you doing?”
“Memorizing,” she said softly. “I don’t want to forget.”
His breath stopped. He felt like some kind of butterfly pinned by the golden intensity of her gaze. No one had ever looked at him so comprehensively, as if he was someone worth a thorough examination. While he stood there, paralyzed, she stepped out of the truck. At first he thought she might plaster herself against him again; his whole body tensed in aroused anticipation. But instead she brushed past him. “Thanks, Patrick. I really hope I don’t forget. Anything.”
And she stepped, mostly in a straight line, toward the Haven’s gold-painted door. He watched her from the truck, not trusting himself to accompany her, but needing to make sure she made it okay.
When she finally disappeared inside, he drove away, trying to remember the last time he’d been this rattled, and failing.
To say the Callahan family was surprised to see him would be like calling a backdraft a pleasant breeze. His father stomped around, roaring at the top of his lungs, while Patrick planted himself in the living room, arms crossed over his chest, letting the rant flow past him. Megan was at work, which meant there was no one to hold back
Big Dog’s fury.
When his father had finally tapered off, Patrick laid out his intentions and reasons for being there.
“Someone’s got to get this place fire-safe. The vegetation needs to be cleared back a hundred and fifty feet from each structure, or this could all burn. The whole enchilada. Think about your legacy, Callahan. Do you want to leave Megan and Liam with nothing?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Megan is my little sister. You think I want her out on the street?”
That did it; Big Dog never could stand for anything bad to happen to Megan. “ ’Dozer’s broken,” he grunted, which Patrick took as a statement of surrender.
“I’ll see about fixing it.”
His mother, who had come into the room, clapped her hands together. “You’ll stay in the guesthouse.”
“I can sleep in my truck, Mom,” Patrick protested. “I don’t mind.”
“Don’t make me mad,” she said. “Come along, I’ll get you settled in.” She led him outside, where he took a deep breath of air. It held a tinge of smoke, but anything was better than the stench of hostility inside the house.
The guesthouse was a small, cozy wooden structure that squatted between the barn and the big house. It used to be the well house of the original ranch, and had been converted to a tidy little cabin with its own kitchenette and tiny bathroom.
“Not bad,” he said, surveying the hardwood floors and cowhide-upholstered furniture. It put his own apartment to shame.
“Well, we fixed it up for Liam’s physical therapist,” his mother said, avoiding his glance. “When she left, after he was recovered enough, he moved in here.”
Patrick went still. Liam was the last person to occupy this space? He tried to picture his brother living here, but in his memory his brother was still a kid. “Did he cook for himself and everything?”
“He did. It was strange, Patrick. In some ways, the accident made him a lot more mature. He had to grow up quickly, I guess.”
How to Tame a Wild Fireman Page 13