“I broke it off with Courtney,” he told Vader. “But she’s pissed.”
Vader threw an arm across Fred’s shoulders. “Stay strong, bud. Stay strong. You know she’s not right for you. Want some advice?”
Fred wanted to refuse, but Vader barreled forward without a pause.
“Now that you’re a superstar, you’re going to have to grow some balls. I’m not finished.” He tightened his grip as Fred tried to pull away. “I know what a stand-up guy you are. Hell, you saved my mother’s life. I’m not calling you a pussy here. I’m saying that you bend over backwards for the ladies, and sometimes that’s a good thing, sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes they don’t want you to bend over backwards. They want you to bend them over while they beg you for—”
“Okay, okay,” said Fred hastily. “You’re a captain now, remember?”
“Right. You get the point. Standing up to Ella’s a good start. Breaking up with Courtney is good, even if it was a long time coming. Now you have to carry that same attitude into finding the right girl. Go after what you want. Don’t take no. But say no when you mean no. Get it?”
Before Fred could tell Vader what to do with his idiotic advice, the audio alarm interrupted them with a USAR call for Truck 1. Man stuck in a ravine—that meant a high-angle rescue. Fred ran to the apparatus bay, pulled on his jumpsuit and steel-toed boots, grabbed his bag of gear, and hauled himself onto Truck 1. On the way to the location he fastened himself into his harness and put on his helmet, then stuck his radio into a pocket of his jumpsuit.
Five minutes later Fred peered down from an overpass into a ravine, where a man had been stuck in a tree since four in the morning. The IC ordered a two-line rappel system set up, and told Fred, the best paramedic on scene, to lower himself down to the victim. As they worked, the victim, whose name was Diego Montoya, told them in a mix of Spanish and English about how he’d been running from his ex-girlfriend, who was coming after him with a knife. He’d climbed over the guardrail, then tumbled headlong into the upper branches of a eucalyptus tree. He was very anxious to know if there was a blond woman with a knife nearby.
“Have you and your girlfriend ever considered counseling?” Fred asked once he’d lowered himself into the tree. He did a quick assessment of Diego’s condition, but didn’t see anything beyond scrapes and a cut over his eye. “I’m going to fasten this harness around you. Keep holding on to the tree,” he instructed.
“You think that would help, sir? Mi madre says Kelly is just crazy. But you know what they say, crazy in the head, crazy in bed.”
“Sure, but is that the kind of relationship you want?” He secured the harness around Diego, then pulled the line as a signal to the others to pull him up.
“Very good question, señor. I ask myself this, as I sit in this tree, one inch from certain death. Is she worth my life? Maybe I shouldn’t have flirted with her sister.”
“Really, you think so? All right, you’re going to get hoisted up to the overpass now. Hang on. I’ll be right behind you.”
Diego kept getting caught in the branches, and Fred had to do some impromptu chopping with his knife. Sweat was pouring down his face by the time Diego swung free from the branches. The crew pulled Fred up next. As soon as he stepped over the guardrail, Diego grabbed him in a bear hug.
“Gracias, gracias,” he kept saying, tears rushing down his cheeks.
“De nada.” Fred shook his hand, trying to put things on a more professional footing. “Don’t forget the counseling.”
“Sí, señor. Whatever you say.”
Fred turned to find himself face to face with a camera and a smug Ella Joy. “The Bachelor Hero strikes again,” she said into her mic. “Fred Breen, what can you tell us about this life-or-death situation? Witnesses say you saved this poor man from plunging to a gruesome death.”
“No hablo inglés,” he said as he brushed past her.
Some of the other crew members cracked up. He heard Ella address the victim. “What do you have to say to your rescuer?”
“I want to say, Kelly, baby, I love you and I’m sorry, mi amor.”
Fred smiled as he stowed his lines and harness into his bag. Take that, Ella Joy.
When he got back to the station, he found out that several people had called. The messages included the usual flirtatious invitations, a call from Courtney, and one from Rachel. She had, miracle of miracles, actually left her phone number.
He hesitated a moment before calling her back. On the one hand there was that urgent attraction and even fascination. Even the sight of her name on the slip of paper made his blood run hot. On the other hand, he didn’t need any more drama. He’d reached his quota with Courtney.
In the end, there wasn’t really any question. He dialed the number.
“Can you come to my place?” she asked without much preamble. “I really need to talk to you.”
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine. I . . . I’ll explain when you get here.”
“I’m working until tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll have breakfast waiting. Pepperoni pizza okay?”
“Cute, very cute. Fine, I’ll swing by after work.” She gave him the address. He stuffed it in his pocket and refused to think about it until the next morning.
Unfortunately, by the next morning he was a sleep-deprived zombie. The crew had kept busy with call after call. And when he wasn’t out on a call, he was receiving platters of baked goods from the residents of San Gabriel. Oddly, they all seemed to be female.
So when he strode to the front door of 100 Vista Drive, it didn’t register at first that he was looking at a building more suitable for Los Angeles or New York than humble San Gabriel. It was all glass and steel. It even had a doorman, a grizzled African-American fellow who seemed to be expecting him. The doorman guided him to the elevator and pushed a button. The elevator whisked him up on silent, whizzing pulleys, then whispered to a stop at the top floor.
The elevator button panel called it the penthouse. Fred had never been in a penthouse before.
Rachel was waiting for him at the open door of the only apartment on the floor. Even in this state of advanced fatigue, he appreciated the sight of her forest-green leggings, loose yoga-type top, and bare feet.
“Thanks for coming,” she said, her gaze darting behind him. Was she nervous? What did she have to be nervous about? She lived in a mansion, or the apartment building equivalent of one.
“You mentioned breakfast,” Fred said. “I hope that includes coffee, because I’m wiped.”
“Of course. Rough night? I saw you on TV.”
He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“It wasn’t that bad. They only called you Bachelor Hero twice.”
He smiled, and she beckoned him inside.
For a surreal moment, he wondered if he was still asleep and having some kind of very weird dream. Everything inside her apartment was pristine and perfect and looked like it cost a million dollars. The coffee table seemed to be formed of some rare metallic substance with speckles of glitter embedded in it. The rug was so soft and plush, it was probably hand-woven cashmere from wild goats roaming the Himalayas. Everywhere he looked, something impossibly expensive and luxurious stared back.
And the worst of it was, Rachel looked as if she belonged here. With this backdrop, she looked rare and expensive herself. The thought of his spaghetti sauce and eight-year-old doorman named Kip made his face prickle with mortification.
“I’ll get the coffee. Sit down and rest.” Rachel pointed to a couch upholstered in buttery soft rust-colored suede. A woven throw was artfully draped over the back.
“If I sit down on that I won’t wake up until tomorrow,” he told her.
“Do you want to talk later? We can reschedule. I’m not due in at work until later this afternoon.”
“No, thanks. I don’t have a lot of time. A guy’s coming over to fix the toilet and . . .” He felt like an idiot talking about
plumbing in this immaculate space, with this beautiful girl looking at him expectantly. “Never mind. What did you want to talk about?”
She bit her lip. “There’s a very uncomfortable chair in the corner. Guaranteed to keep you awake. I’ll be back in one second.”
Uncomfortable though it was—the fabric seemed to be made of recycled scrub brushes—he still nearly drifted off. He should have gone straight home for some shut-eye before coming here. He started when she appeared with a tray that held a silver coffeepot and two large mugs. A basket covered with a napkin released an amazing, buttery, sugary, life-is-good fragrance. Mingled with the aroma of rich, dark coffee, it was enough to make him decide the place wasn’t so bad after all.
She pulled another armchair across the soft carpet. “Do you want to sit here now? Have you had enough?”
“Nope. I’m good. My butt is used to it now.” He took a gulp of coffee and downed the pecan raspberry muffin she offered him. Moaning in appreciation, he barely remembered his original reason for being there. But he couldn’t delay forever. “So what’s up, Rachel? If it’s about the media, I’m doing what I can to keep it under control. But there’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do. I’m sorry about Ella Joy showing up the other—”
“My real name is Rachel Kessler,” she interrupted. “Allen was my mother’s name, so it’s not a lie. But my real last name is Kessler.”
“Oooo-kay.” This didn’t seem like groundbreaking news. So she used a different last name. Maybe she liked it better. He looked at her blankly, noticing the tension in her posture and the way she was watching him, as if cringing internally. “Cool,” he offered.
Man, he was tired. He swiped a hand across his eyes, trying to focus.
“That name doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?” The realization seemed to stun her.
He frowned. Rachel Kessler. Maybe it did have a certain ring to it. If only he weren’t so exhausted. “I suppose I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t put my finger on it. Rachel Kessler,” he repeated.
“Try Rob Kessler.”
Now that did strike a chord. A big one. How had he missed that? He shook his head to clear it. “The computer genius billionaire. That Rob Kessler?”
“Yes. He’s my father.”
Her father was Rob Kessler? Fred’s thoughts went on a dizzying carnival ride, the kind that spins you upside down and makes you throw up on your date. Rob Kessler was one of the richest men in the world. He’d invited the daughter of one of the richest men in the world to his house for spaghetti. Then he’d dropped the spaghetti on the floor and ordered pizza. Not only that—horror filtered through him. He’d kissed her. Twice.
Oh God. Did Rachel invite him here to warn him that Rob Kessler didn’t want Fred the Fireman touching his daughter ever again?
“I . . . I didn’t know,” he managed to get out.
“I know you didn’t know. That’s why I’m telling you,” Rachel said, a bit impatiently. “I felt you deserved to know why I’m so camera-shy, and why I had to leave that night at your house. Very few people in San Gabriel know who I am, and I definitely don’t want the local news to find out. Now you understand, right?”
Did he? He was so confused. So tired and jumbled up. So Rachel had a rich computer genius father, which somehow explained why she didn’t like the media. Yeah, he supposed that made sense. But it’s not like she herself was famous. Reporters didn’t bother with the adult children of billionaires unless they got a DUI or partied with Lindsay Lohan or did something else newsworthy . . .
And then some long-forgotten fact niggled at his memory. Rachel Kessler. A tech legend’s child kidnapped . . . held hostage . . . it had been on all the news channels. He’d been thirteen, and caught up in his own crap, but the story had been so chilling and dramatic, everyone had been talking about it. She’d been held in a tiny cage for weeks. It suddenly clicked.
“Small spaces.”
She gave a tiny, wistful nod, as if the world was closing in once again.
Chapter 10
In the time she’d known Fred, Rachel had never had any trouble interpreting his feelings. Exasperation, concern, the intent to kiss . . . it was all written right on his face with no attempt at disguise. But now, something had changed. He sat sprawled in her grandmother’s horsehide armchair, peering blankly up at her through bloodshot eyes. Rachel had no idea what he was thinking. Maybe her revelation was no big deal after all. He’d probably seen all kinds of things in his line of work. Maybe he was angry and didn’t want to tell her. Maybe . . . maybe . . .
Rachel clenched her hands around her mug of coffee. It smelled acrid to her, and the muffins she’d ordered from Cindy’s parents’ bakery clogged in her throat. This was a mistake, a huge mistake. What if he told someone else her secret? She’d have to leave San Gabriel and the Refuge and her only real friends and . . .
She made to stand up, but he snaked out an arm and stopped her. “Do I get to ask questions?”
She sat back down, jerky as a marionette. “Possibly,” she said, not wanting to promise too much. “What kind of questions?”
“Are you okay now?”
For a moment she went blank. “You mean since the kidnapping,” she said slowly as his meaning sank in.
“Well, yeah.”
Was she okay? Interesting question with no simple answer. “You’re looking right at me. What do you think?”
He narrowed his reddened eyes at her. “I think you’re avoiding the question. That’s okay, it’s probably a dumb question anyway.” He stopped, and scratched the back of his head, leaving a swath of mink-dark hair standing straight up. Staring into his coffee cup, he seemed to draw in a deep breath. “So you’re, what’s the word, the thing celebrities do when they don’t want anyone to spot them . . . incognito?”
She crossed one leg over the other, not liking the tone of his question.
“First of all, I’m not a celebrity. I’m just a person who happens to be the daughter of Rob Kessler, who happened to make a lot of money and a lot of enemies. Can you blame me for not wanting to walk around announcing my identity?”
He set down his mug with an ominous click. “I didn’t say I blamed you. I just asked.”
She hated the way he was looking at her, as if he was disappointed or maybe annoyed. Annoyed? What right did he have to be annoyed? She shot to her feet. “I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. If I used my real name, people would assume I’m trying to win special favors. If I don’t, then I’m ‘incognito,’ like some spoiled movie star. Incognito. Do I look like I’m incognito?” Even she knew she wasn’t making sense, but the unfairness of the situation made her blood boil. She hadn’t asked for any of this.
“Hang on a damn second.” Fred leaped to his feet too, brushing against his coffee cup, which wobbled dangerously close to the edge of the table. “You insist I come over here after the longest fucking shift in history, throw your fancy apartment in my face, and announce you’re a billionaire. Then I ask one simple question and you jump all over me.”
The shock of his reaction reverberated through her system. No one talked to her like that. No one. Not even her best friends. Definitely not the Refuge staff or Marsden or her father or any of her father’s household staff. “I didn’t throw my apartment in your face. It’s my apartment. That’s all. How do you throw an apartment anyway? I’m not Thor.”
He ignored her feeble attempt at a joke. “You could have met me at a coffee shop, or a park, or at my house. You wanted me to see your place.”
“So you could understand.”
“Understand what? That you’re wealthy? Point taken.”
Their gazes locked. Steam was practically coming out of Fred’s ears. She thought of the panic buttons installed throughout the apartment. One click and Marsden would be up here in a flash. He was probably waiting right outside the door.
She pictured Fred being dragged out of her apartment. That would teach him to be nicer to her. She’d shared her deepest s
ecret; why was he focusing on her apartment? Who cared about that?
She tried one last attempt at an explanation. “I don’t want people to know me as Rachel Kessler, famous kidnapped kid. I want them to know me as Rachel Allen, dog therapist. Is that a crime?”
Fred struck the heel of his hand against his forehead as if a light bulb had just turned on. “The Refuge for Injured Wildlife. You own that place. That’s why there’s so much security. I thought you just worked there.”
“I never said that.”
“You can probably hire every dog trainer in California. I bet you were laughing your ass off at my pathetic little offer of help.”
“No, of course not,” she said hotly.
He didn’t seem to hear—or care. “Is that why you decided to come to my place? You were slumming it?”
“No! That’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous. Right.” Again he passed his hand across his eyes. “My God, and then I kissed you. I was one step away from boning you right there on the couch. You must have been thanking your lucky stars Ella Joy showed up when she did.”
The blood drained from her face. How dare he say something like that? Before he could say any more cruel things, she said loudly, “Three-two-seven,” the code numbers for the voice-activated panic button.
“Three-two-seven? What are you talking about?” Again, Fred scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Rachel, look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. That was way over the line. You threw me for a loop and I’m trying to get my bearings, that’s all.” He gave her an exhausted-looking smile. “Ask any firefighter’s family. End of a shift is no time for a serious conversation.”
At the sound of Marsden at the door, she turned her back on Fred. Even though fury still raced through her veins like acid, it turned out that she didn’t want to actually witness Fred being dragged from her apartment.
“Time to go, kid,” she heard Marsden say.
“Rachel!” Fred said in an urgent tone. “What the hell’s going on?”
The Night Belongs to Fireman Page 10