“I’d love you to be there, kiddo,” Chelsea had said, wrapping an arm around Jessica’s shoulder….
An announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Ladies. Take your places.”
Chelsea was in the first heat; she found her place and nudged her toe to the very edge of the starting line.
“Get on your mark, get set…go!”
Taking off like the wind, Chelsea reached top speed in seconds, her longs legs eating up the distance. Rounding the corner, she summoned more energy, like she did when she faced an unexpected turn in firefighting. She could see another entrant coming up on her left.
She pushed harder.
The finish line was just ahead. With one last Jesse Owens-like burst of speed, Chelsea broke the ribbon a split second ahead of her nearest competitor.
Sucking in air and letting it out in great whooshes, she glanced at the bleachers, where her personal cheering section was standing and clapping. She smiled and gave them a little wave. It was fun having them here, sharing this with them.
I wish Jake had come.
But she’d promised herself there would be no more confidences, no more sharing of their lives outside the fire station, no more closeness, physical or otherwise.
He’d found her before she left work today at the lockers. No one else was around. He’d stood a few feet away, as if afraid to come closer. Since the sparks between them seemed to ignite when they were in proximity, it was just as well.
“I wanted to wish you luck tonight,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He hadn’t moved, just stood there and stared at her. Finally he said, “I can’t go. I want to, but I can’t.”
She’d been shocked by his statement and the volatile emotion on his face. So she tried to defuse them. “Oh, well, I don’t expect you to.” She gestured to encompass the rest of the firehouse. “It goes a little above and beyond the call of du—”
In a flash, he was next to her, his fingers against her mouth. “Don’t.”
She remained silent. His heat scorched her.
“We both know what’s happening here,” he whispered.
She stared at him. “Please don’t say it aloud.”
After a long moment, he stepped back. “All right. Knock ’em dead, Whitmore.”
He’d left then, and she had felt a sting of tears as she watched him go…
Glancing at the stands again, she saw his daughter waving to her. She waved back and felt her eyes sting again.
AT TEN THAT NIGHT, Jake unlocked the door to his house, crossed to the kitchen and, juggling the mail, grabbed a beer and headed upstairs. It was cool and lonely inside, but it was late enough to come home now. Feeling like a kid who needed rules and regulations, he hadn’t allowed himself to be alone until he was sure the triathlon was over.
Sinking onto his favorite leather chair by the window of the top floor of his house, he took a slug of beer and closed his eyes, remembering the last beer he’d drunk. He’d been stretched out on the floor of her sitting room, and she’d fetched him one like his own personal—He felt something plop in his lap. Hester Two. The kitten waited patiently every night for him to come home, then bothered the hell out of him until bedtime. She was a constant reminder of Chelsea.
He ran his hand down her velvety fur. “Hi, sweetheart, how ya doin’ tonight?”
Hester pushed her head into his chin and purred madly. At almost four months old, she was still a runt.
“Think she won?” Jake asked the cat. “Think Spike is celebrating with her?”
What would she be doing afterward? He glanced at the clock. No, he wouldn’t call her.
Settling Hester in his lap, he grabbed the mail. Bills. A form from Cornell. He read the letters carefully, then riffled through the catalogs. Jess got so much junk mail here he could hardly…What the hell?
The last catalog stared at him. Victoria’s Secret.
On the cover was a lithe but shapely model. Long-limbed. Muscular. Blond. Wearing scarlet panties.
Ones he’d seen before. Ones he’d touched.
His hand went to the picture. Slowly, as if it were Chelsea, he outlined the lacy red band. He could almost feel her skin burn his fingertips. The smell of her lotion tinged the air, tantalizing him. Working its way down the page, his finger skimmed the juncture where leg met hip. He closed his eyes, imagining Chelsea hot and ready.
Swearing vilely, he bolted from the chair, dislodging the cat and sending the mail spilling to the floor.
“Son of a—”
The phone cut off his tirade. He crossed to it. “Scarlatta.”
“Dad, it’s me. Jess.”
His heart started to pump fast. Suddenly he wanted very badly for Chelsea to have won, for all her hard work to have paid off.
“Hi, honey,” he said casually. “How’d it go?”
“Oh, Daddy, it was great! Chelsea won!”
He let out a pent-up breath. “That’s terrific.”
“You should have seen her. She was awesome. What a body.”
Oh, God.
“They invited me out to eat with them, but I couldn’t go. I’ve got to get up…”
He missed the rest of Jess’s words.
They? He had to know. “Oh, who went?”
“Francey and Alex after they dropped me off. Delaney and this really hunky guy. Dylan and Beth. And Chelsea and Spike.”
“I see. Well, I’m glad you had a good time.”
“Chelsea’s so cool, Dad. I wish Mom was more like her.”
Oh, Lord, he couldn’t do this tonight. “Do you? Maybe we’ll talk about that sometime.” In a million years. “It’s late. If you have to get up early, you’d better get to bed.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“You okay? You sound…sad.”
“Nope, I’m fine, pumpkin. Don’t worry about me.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Jake hung up. He was fine. Just peachy. Couldn’t be better.
Turning, he kicked the wastebasket halfway across the room.
STARS WINKED at her through the skylights as Chelsea entered her bathroom. She lit some candles, set a glass of wine on the edge of the tub and climbed into steaming water scented with Sinful Nights bath salts. Immediately she regretted her impulse. It was the fragrance Jake had used when he’d drawn her bath the night Billy attacked her. When he’d held her on this very floor.
Closing her eyes, she sighed as the hot water soothed her tortured muscles. She felt like a gladiator after a battle. Maybe she was getting too old for grueling competition.
You do it to fill the emptiness in your life, Delaney had told her with all the subtlety of a train wreck.
Her sister was right. But at least Chelsea had won. If only she could choose her prize. She knew without thinking what it would be…
Jake behind her in the bathtub, her back against his hard chest, his big hands gliding down her arms, raising goose bumps on her skin. Then his hands sliding around her waist, moving up, touching her breasts, kneading them. One hand disappearing into the water, his fingers creating magic as they—
She was startled out of the fantasy by one of the cats batting open the door to the bathroom. She shooed Blaze away and reached for her wine. As she sipped, one tiny tear trembled on her eyelashes, then found its way down her cheek.
No use in crying about it, her mother had said when Chelsea would beg for them not to move again so she could stay in the same school.
She and Jake were not meant for each other, and she knew it.
Shake it off. Let it go. Get over it.
She climbed out of the tub and dried herself quickly. In her bedroom, she drew open a drawer in the dresser her grandfather had made, bypassed the ice-blue satin she’d worn the night Jake had been here. Enough reminders. Enough surrendering to memories.
Donning a yellow nightshirt Delaney
had given her printed with First God created man, then He had a better idea, she slipped into bed and shut off the lights. She couldn’t prevent one more renegade tear tracking down her cheek.
But she brushed it away and willed herself to sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHELSEA WAS IN better spirits when she entered the fire station two days after the triathlon. She’d taken a couple of days off—she had a lot of furlough accumulated—and it had been just what she needed, time away from work and time to restore her body. She was happy that she’d won the event; she’d also won the internal battle to keep from calling or seeking out Jake Scarlatta for any personal reason.
“Drum roll, everybody.” She heard the words as she walked into the kitchen at seven.
Trumpet blasts from a CD greeted her.
“Come right in, Ms. Triathlon Winner.” Mick smiled at her from beside a chair, over which was draped some kind of robe and a crown from a local fast-food place.
“Can it, Murphy.” She scanned the room. A newspaper picture of her after she’d won, hot, sweaty and elated, had been copied and was posted all over the kitchen. “Our heroine,” one caption read; others were labeled, “Ms. Universe” and “Calendar Girl Material.” Smiling secretly to herself—the affection under the teasing felt good—she got coffee and joined Joey and Don at the table.
Mick frowned at her. “Aw, come on, Chelsea, aren’t you gonna sit on your throne?”
“You be Queen for a Day, Murphy.”
From behind her, he plopped the crown on her head and hugged her. She shrugged him off but left the crown where it was.
Diaz said, “Nice shot of your legs in the paper, Whitmore.” His tone was dry.
“Yeah, I think they got my good side.” Remaining nonchalant was crucial, or these guys would eat her alive.
Joey raised his eyes from the newspaper. “Way to go, Whitmore.”
“Thanks.”
Jake hustled through the door, buttoning his shirt. “Sorry I’m late. I overslept.” His gaze found hers immediately. He grinned at her crown. “Congratulations, Your Majesty.”
She yanked off the paper hat, then gave him a brief nod. “Thanks.” Hmm. He looked tired, for having overslept.
After a charged moment, he walked to the counter and poured himself some coffee. “It’s gonna be a scorcher out there today.” He angled his head to the window. “They’re predicting ninety.”
Diaz moaned. “Maybe we won’t get any runs.”
The crew made small talk, then Jake turned to her. “You’re riding shotgun on the Midi with Adam Genier today.”
“Adam?” She glanced around. “Where’s Peter?”
“Took some sick time,” Jake said. “Flu, I think.”
“I’ve never known Huff to be sick a day in his life.” Diaz frowned. “On the police force, they called him Iron Man, said he had the constitution of an ox.”
“He’s been acting weird since he cooked the turkey meatballs for the brass,” Joey said.
Jake harumphed. “He’s probably tired of listening to your complaining.”
“You know what this means, don’tcha, Whitmore?” Mick asked.
Absently scanning the paper, she shook her head.
“You’re low man on the totem.”
She snapped the paper down and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I can’t be.”
“Yep, you are. Peter’s new and got the least seniority, so he’s always done the low-life stuff. But he’s out.”
Low man meant she’d have to do the rookie jobs like roll up the hoses, get wet if a hydrant broke—messy stuff.
“I’m older than Joey and Adam.”
“We’ve got more years in the department than you, though, sweetheart.” She was surprised by Joey’s teasing endearment.
When she thought about it, she realized it was true. She hadn’t entered the academy until she was twenty-seven. She swore, and the guys laughed.
“Looks like Ms. Universe is gonna get herself dirty.” Joey was really getting into this.
“Any luck with Operation Suzy?” she asked to deflect more ribbing.
Jake shook his head. “We know she stayed in a shelter Wednesday night and hit another in town Thursday.”
Chelsea saw Mick get up and go to the coffeepot even though he’d just filled his cup. Jake, it appeared, noticed this, too.
“Somebody over at Six’s said she was spotted in Manhattan Square Park.” Jake went on. “All the places Delaney told us to look.”
Chelsea smiled. “I’m glad. I can help tonight.”
“Good. There’s a sign-up sheet in the back.”
Adam came in from the bay. “Truck’s checked out. Hi, Chelsea. Hear you’re riding shotgun with me.”
Chelsea nodded, resigned to her new lower status. When they broke for housework, Jake snagged her arm. She felt his touch curl through her like warm brandy.
“Hold on a second, Chels.”
Her heartbeat accelerated. Not seeing him for two days had cooled the flames between them, but she knew the smallest thing could reignite her feelings for him. She worried about being near him, being alone with him.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “Jess said you were great the other night.”
“Your daughter is a doll.” Just like you.
“Yeah, she is.” He grinned. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
His expression sobered, and he studied her. His eyes asked what he wouldn’t. Can we do this? Do we really want to?
Her return message was as clear. I don’t know. Then she stared over his shoulder at nothing and said, “Well, I’d better go help clean up the bay.”
He made no response.
The call came at noon just as they sat down to lunch. Swearing colorfully enough to make longshoremen proud, they dashed to the trucks. Though it was only a flooded basement, they took every call seriously. But in deference to the heat, they stayed in T-shirts and didn’t don their turnout gear, but the equipment was on the truck in case it was needed.
Both engines pulled up to a narrow, two-story house on Meigs Street. A few children played in a neighbor’s yard, but the stifling city heat had kept most people indoors with fans or air conditioners. Jake got out of the truck and scowled as Mick, Don and Joey dropped back to circle Chelsea. They were riding her like three big brothers.
“Get your wadin’ boots out, girl. You’re gonna be swimmin’ today.”
“Stuff it,” she said, but a grin turned up the corners of her mouth.
It was good to see her so relaxed with the guys. She was still stretched like a tightrope with him, but if they could stay away from each other as they had the past two days, they might keep their heads above water.
Instead of drowning in each other.
Jake climbed the steps of a four-foot-square porch and knocked on the door. A small, obviously pregnant woman opened it.
“Fire department, ma’am.”
“Oh, gracias à Dios. Mi sotano esta inundado.”
“Do you speak English?”
“No Ingles.”
“Don, get up here.”
Diaz jogged up the steps.
“She doesn’t speak English. Ask her what happened.”
Diaz listened to the woman, then turned to Jake. “She said the kids were playing in the basement. Next thing she knew, it was flooded.”
“Ask her if the gas and water into the house are turned off.”
Diaz questioned the woman again. “She says no.”
“Find out where the utilities are, and you and Mick turn them off.” He crossed the threshold. “Come on, Whitmore.”
Chelsea followed him through a tidy living room, Joey and Adam traipsing along to gloat. Shades were drawn, blocking out the hot noon sun. Sweat beaded everywhere on Jake’s skin. In the kitchen they found two little boys sitting on worn chairs, as stiff as soldiers at attention. On impulse Jake said, “Adam, go tell Don to come in and ask the kids what happened.”
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Chelsea and Joey followed him down a creaky wooden staircase. They took six steps, hit a landing, then jogged down a few more. The smell of stale water and something foul assaulted them. “Lucky you,” Jake said dryly.
She grunted.
They stopped about a foot before water hit the steps. Jake and Chelsea both shined flashlights into the cellar. All sorts of debris was floating on the surface. He angled his head. “Water’s gushing from that pipe in the corner. You’ll have to turn the valve off over there at the bottom if they don’t shut it off from outside.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Scoot, Whitmore. Get your boots and gloves on.”
Sourly she said, “Yes, sir.”
Passing Joey on the stairs, she scowled at him.
“Goin’ for a dip?” he asked.
“Get outta my face, Santori.”
As Jake stared at the basement, he had an ominous feeling, one he’d had before. “What did Diaz get from the kids?” he asked Joey.
“Nothin’. But the gas is off.”
“Hmm.”
“Why?”
Jake shrugged. “I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.” He sniffed. “Smell anything funny?”
“It smells like the farm my grandfather used to own.”
“Yeah. Tell Diaz to ask the woman if dogs or cats live down here.” If there was animal dung, sanitary concerns meant they wouldn’t be able to pump.
Again, Joey passed Chelsea on the stairs. “Don’t go in until I get to watch.”
She sidled in next to Jake. She was sweaty from the heat; her shirt was damp and clinging to her curves. He swallowed hard and forced himself to concentrate on the flooded basement.
This was routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.
But he still sensed that something was wrong.
She raised her foot to step down and he said, “Wait a second, Whitmore. Let’s hear what the kids have to say first.”
She glowered at him. “Oh, no, you don’t, buster. You just want me to have an audience while I go wading through this shit and stick my hands in it.”
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