Hot as Sin (Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Katherine Lace

  “This looks like the place,” I say. Whitaker nods, looking pleased.

  “Right here,” he says. “There’s an electric blanket—or what’s left of one. Guessing it shorted out or something—”

  “Wow, you’re a fucking genius, Whitaker.”

  I turn, looking over my shoulder at the fireman who’s just entered behind us. I didn’t invite him along. My hackles pop up at the sound of his voice then pop up a little more when I see him standing there looking at Whitaker like he’s a pile of garbage. Whitaker’s dark face crumples vaguely, and I want to smack Phil Curry upside his head. Joseph’s just a kid—he needs encouragement, not the kind of old-school, boot-camp-style crap Curry dishes out.

  “You got a better theory, Phil?” I snap.

  Phil hates to be called Phil. It’s his name, but what he really wants to hear is “Chief Curry.” That’s not happening anytime soon, though, because when Chief Pilsner retired, I got the interim position.

  Curry sneers. “No. But it doesn’t take much brainpower to put two and two together and get four. Obviously the blanket shorted out.”

  “Who was in this apartment?” I direct the question to Whitaker.

  “Older couple,” Whitaker answers. “They weren’t home—went out for dinner.”

  “And left the goddamn electric blanket on.” Curry doesn’t want to shut up. “I’d sue ’em into next week if I lived here.”

  “Well, you don’t live here,” I shoot back. Curry’s stamping on my last nerve. He just has that way about him.

  He just stares at me. “You gonna call an all clear, or just let us all stand around all night?”

  I don’t even honor that with a response. I wave to Whitaker, and we head back outside.

  Down at the parking lot, people are still milling, waiting to find out if they can go back to their apartments. I spot the older couple right away, near the edge of the group. One of the female firefighters has taken them under her wing and is talking to them. I’m glad—the older woman is crying, and I know Diez has a way about her that will help them calm down.

  Whitaker sees them, too. “Poor people,” he mutters, eyes cutting sideways to where Curry is just out of earshot. “I feel bad for them.”

  “Yeah.” I’ve seen this so many times, and I haven’t gotten used to it. “Fortunately it wasn’t horrible damage. I mean, it could have been a lot worse.”

  Whitaker nods, shakes his head, and goes on to join the others. I whistle for everyone’s attention, and the entire crowd—civilians and firefighters alike—fall silent.

  “Okay, we’ve got an all clear. We’ve tracked down the origin of the fire, and everything’s under control. Second floor, you might still smell some smoke, but it should be clearing out through the rest of the building. You can head on back inside.”

  Except them, I think, looking again at Diez and the older couple. They’ll be looking for a hotel tonight. I hope they have relatives to stay with instead.

  I’ve almost—almost—managed to get girl-in-a-towel out of my head when she suddenly emerges from the crowd and stomps up to me. That can’t be comfortable, stomping with her bare feet on the asphalt, but she does it. She looks just as angry as she did when I carried her down the stairs. Obviously she’s been nursing that anger since I left her sitting on that bench a few minutes ago.

  “Can I help you?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. It’s almost like she’s been practicing that move, because she does it just right—keeps her towel up but mounds her tits so they poke up nice and round from under the edge.

  “Who’s paying for my door?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You broke through my apartment! Smashed my bathroom door, too. I’ve got two doors and two locks to repair. Who’s going to pay for that?”

  I shrug and start to turn away. “I guess you are.”

  She follows me, though, and gets all up in my face. She’s got one hand gripping the towel now, while with the other she shakes a finger at me. The motion makes the tops of her tits wobble. I try to keep my eyes focused on her face despite the fact that towel looks like it could drop at any second.

  “I am not paying for damage you caused! There was no reason for you to come storming into my apartment.”

  “The building was on fire.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  I point toward the remnants of the charred apartment. “It was on fucking fire, and if your alarm had been in working order, you would have evacuated already. Any damage to your house is not my problem.” Again I try to turn away. This time she grabs my arm and swings me back. I let her.

  “No, Mr. Smart-ass. It very much is your problem.”

  She’s still wagging that finger, but I can’t take my eyes off her skin. Damn it. How am I supposed to be professional when a half-naked woman is getting up in my face? That towel’s going to give way any second.

  “Or it will be after I file a complaint with the fire department. Who’s your superior?”

  Calm your tits, woman. “I’m the interim fire chief.”

  Her mouth tightens. “Fine. I’ll go online and find out who I need to talk to. I am not paying for those doors. I’ve got enough going on as it is.”

  I look her up and down. “You certainly do.”

  “Are you— Did you just make a pass at me?”

  Shit. Not cool. Not cool. “Lady, all I’m saying is you could be inside your apartment right now. Instead, you’re standing half-naked in the cold, screaming at me.”

  “You know why? I’m a single mom—I don’t have money to throw around for new batteries when the ones that are already in the alarm test out fine. And I sure as hell don’t have money to replace my apartment door just because you felt the need to shove your giant shoulders through it!”

  Giant shoulders. I like that. I also like the way her eyes spark at me. She’s a feisty one. I bet she’d be a spitfire in bed.

  I cut that thought off before I completely lose my ability to function. I notice then that we’ve gathered a bit of a crowd. There seems to be quite a bit of interest in our conversation—or maybe everybody’s just waiting to see what happens with her towel. A couple of guys appear to be taking bets.

  Something about the sheer fury in her eyes makes me laugh. “Fine. Go ahead and talk to my supervisor about it. I really don’t care.”

  Once again I try to disengage, but this time she takes a firm step forward and shoves me hard in the middle of the chest. She has to take both hands off the towel to do it, and for a second I just stare at the little twisted half-knot between her breasts, the little knot that’s barely holding that towel in place.

  “You might want to be careful,” I tell her calmly, with a nod toward her chest. “Unless you want to give everybody a show.”

  She growls. Actually growls. It’s damn sexy.

  Laughter titters across the crowd behind me, spiced up with a few guffaws from the guys. The woman makes an incoherent sound and flips me a double bird. Damn if that towel doesn’t stay right where it belongs. It’s a crying shame.

  And it doesn’t even slide off when she spins on one foot and storms back toward the apartment building.

  I’m still picturing that red-cheeked, pissed-off face, the flames shooting out of those green eyes, when I pull up into my driveway and get out. I head for the front door, rattling my keys in my hand and starting to whistle, thinking about the curves of her naked body, the swell of her breasts above her hand clenched on that towel. The thrill of knowing that towel could give way at any minute. That part of it—the anticipation, the suspense—had been even sexier than actually seeing her naked.

  The thoughts keep me distracted until my foot hits the first step on the way up to my porch.

  And then I remember. And I stop whistling.

  I pause at the door, quietly opening the screen and then tipping my ear toward the glass, listening. I can’t hear anything. Is Thor on the other side? Just waiting?

&n
bsp; I swallow hard. I hate this. I’m an invader in my own house these days, welcome or unwelcome depending on Thor’s whim. And it’s usually the latter—even more so over the last several days. He’s less and less tolerant of me, and I’m walking on eggshells every minute I’m home, trying not to set him off.

  I hear only silence, though. Could it be I’ve got safe passage tonight?

  It’s too much to hope for as I slowly ease the key into the lock and turn it. Carefully I push the front door open and reach around to turn on the light. Still silence…

  The light flares on, filling the entryway with brightness. And there, on the bottom step of the stairway that leads up to my bedroom, is Thor.

  He’s the biggest fucking Maine Coon I’ve ever seen in my life—probably the biggest one that ever existed. Seriously, he’s like the size of a bobcat. Gray-and-white fur sprouts around his face, sticking out in an unruly manner from his shoulders and back. I’m pretty sure he needs to be brushed, but there’s no way in hell I’m trying it, not after what’s gone down between us. I’m not sure I’d survive the encounter.

  True to form, Thor locks eyes with me, lays his ears back, and hisses. His tail is swishing back and forth—I always thought that meant an animal was happy, but it’s definitely not the case with cats. His sharp, white teeth gleam in the bright light.

  Yes. I’m the chief of the fire department, and yes, I’m being held hostage by a goddamn cat.

  He’s been here a couple months, trashing my house, scaring the hell out of girls I try to bring home, scratching the carpet and the furniture, and literally ambushing me with deadly intent every chance he gets. He’s a fucking menace.

  I hate him.

  He hates me, too, so I guess we’re even. It’s like he knows I can’t do anything about him. Like he knows I’m stuck with him, so he can get away with whatever he wants to get away with.

  As I take another careful step into the entryway, I smell gigantic fresh cat-dump, a sharp, acidic aroma on the air. I hope to God that’s coming from the litter box and not from the middle of the living-room carpet. So far the one thing he hasn’t done is piss and shit outside the litter pan.

  It’s a face-off. I know animals can sense fear, and I know that Thor knows I’m straight-up scared of him. But Thor also knows I put the food in his dish. I swear, if he had opposable thumbs he would have murdered me in my sleep by now.

  One more step. Thor just sits there, twitching, eyes narrow, the yellow in them bright and lurid.

  “All right, Thor,” I say quietly. “Fuck the hell off and let me in the house.”

  Thor hisses again, baring those white teeth like tiny knives. He doesn’t move off the bottom step.

  “I’m not putting up with any more of your bullshit. Or your cat shit, for that matter.”

  Still, I’m wary of moving closer. As if he can sense it, Thor lowers his head then vaults himself off the step right into me. The maniac wraps his paws around my leg and opens his little mouth, tiny fangs gleaming before there’s a sharp pain on my leg that makes me scream so loud I’m glad I live alone. It’s not the pain, but the fucking suspense of the attack. A second later Thor has disappeared in a streak of gray into the living room.

  “Fuck!” I reach down for my leg where the cat bit me—he fucking bit me, for God’s sake—expecting to find torrents of blood pouring out. “Fuck!”

  There’s no blood. There’s not even a hole in my pants. Damn. It felt like he ripped a chunk out of me. It still stings, but maybe it’s just a scratch. I’ll have to look at it, clean it up to be sure it doesn’t get infected.

  I head into the kitchen. There are shreds of white paper towel all over the floor. On the holder next to the stove, where there was a half-full roll this morning, there’s now an empty cardboard cob. I grit my teeth. If this is the worst Thor’s done today, I can live with it. But I have a feeling this is only the tip of the iceberg.

  Glancing toward the fridge, I catch sight of the picture of my sister that’s hanging there, secured under a silver magnet. She’s smiling out, looking happy and healthy and beautiful.

  “I hate your cat, Lacey!” I holler at her suddenly, as the bite on my shin starts to throb. Then all the guilt rolls back over me, all the sadness, and I take a deep breath. Lacey loved Thor, and I promised to take care of him for her. I can’t back out now.

  I squat and pick up the shredded paper-towel bits, gathering them together into a paper-towel ball that I crush in one hand. I’ve got to take Thor to the vet tomorrow for a checkup, and I’m not even remotely looking forward to shoving him into a carrier to get him there. I’ll probably end up looking a lot like this roll of paper towels, but bloodier.

  Straightening, I toss the paper towels into the trash. I never wanted the responsibility of pets or kids, but now I’m stuck with the cat from hell.

  At least there’s beer in the fridge. I’m off duty and I’m not on call, so I’m free to indulge. I pull out a can of Guinness and pop the top.

  There’s no sign of Thor as I move into the living room, so I let myself relax a little, thinking again of Hot Single Mom from the apartment building, her precarious towel and her smokin’ body. I can’t even enjoy those thoughts now, though, because I start to wonder if she really can’t afford to fix her door—doors—after I bashed my way through them. She’s got a kid to feed, after all—or kids, even—and I have no idea what she might do for a living. She looked awfully young. She could be trying to get by on a minimum-wage job, or even more than one, juggling them around a day-care schedule or something.

  Wow. Add that to the Thor situation, and that’s a lot more guilt than I can handle tonight.

  Sighing, I settle into my favorite armchair and take a long drink of the dark beer. For a moment, there’s a blessed silence.

  Riiiiip.

  Shit. My head jerks toward the noise, and there’s the damn cat, tearing into the arm of the couch. A deep noise rumbles from his throat as he closes his eyes, the needlelike claws piercing the fabric as he kneads.

  “Stop that!”

  He doesn’t react to the noise, so I fling the nearest copy of Sports Illustrated in his general direction. Thor sidesteps it and runs across the top of the couch like some kind of four-legged tightrope hero, then leaps onto the mantelpiece.

  This isn’t going to end well. Shit.

  I sit forward in the chair and try to stare him down, afraid to startle him. The mantel is lined with huge framed family pictures.

  “Get down.” I point toward the ground.

  Thor’s triangle-shaped head turns toward me and utters a soft mew.

  “Don’t you dare move. Do not take one single step.”

  The cat keeps staring, those yellow eyes locked with mine. As if in deliberate defiance, he takes a step forward.

  “Get down!”

  As he weaves between the frames, one of his back feet hits a picture and it crashes to the floor in a shower of glass.

  “Shit! Goddamn it, you stupid piece-of-shit cat. Stop!”

  The noise of the falling picture, the shattering glass, and my yelling at his ass startles Thor. He bolts the rest of the way across the mantelpiece and leaps for the kitchen, leaving a trail of broken pictures behind him.

  I collapse back into the chair. There’s glass everywhere. I’m going to have to clean everything up, hopefully without opening a vein and having to call 9-1-1. I can just see the expressions on the other guys’ faces if they have to show up at my house for a paramedic call.

  I really, really hate cats. Why can’t they just be sensible? Why can’t they just learn English?

  But there’s not much for it now but to brave the glass-covered carpet and go get the vacuum cleaner.

  3

  Maddy

  Maddy

  “Now, Christopher, you be a good boy for your Auntie Mel, okay?”

  I’m holding Christopher on my hip. I poke the arc-reactor design in the middle of his Iron Man T-shirt and give him a kiss on the nose. “Auntie Mel—g
oggy,” he says. He’s starting to lose patience with my extended good-bye ritual. I’m too clingy, I guess.

  “Yes, and you need to be nice to the doggy.” He loves the dog, but Sparks is a smallish dog—some kind of mutt, maybe part Yorkie, part Pomeranian, and part Corgi, and just as weird-looking as that mix implies—and Christopher can get pretty intense.

  “Nice goggy.” Christopher squirms, reaching toward Melinda, who holds her arms out for him.

  “Yes,” Mel says. “Nice goggy. And nice Christopher, okay? She didn’t like when you decided to build the big dungeon around her. She likes to run around, okay?”

  “Okay. Nice goggy.”

  Reluctantly I pass Christopher over to Mel, who tucks him against her, holding him firmly while he bends and twists, looking for Sparks. Sparks, I’m pretty sure, is under the couch. She’s no dummy.

  Normally I’d turn and head out right away so Christopher wouldn’t have time to notice I’m gone, but for some reason I’m reluctant today. Mel frowns at me and finally sets Christopher down. Christopher heads toward the couch and starts looking under it. He’s no dummy, either.

  “You okay, Mads?” she asks me.

  “I’m fine.”

  Mel plops her arms across her chest. “You seem a little off.” Trust Mel not to let it go.

  “I’m just…” I glance back toward Christopher, who’s thoroughly occupied in his quest to find Sparks. In a lower voice, I add, “There was a fire in my apartment building last night.”

  “Oh my God.” Mel’s entire attitude changes. “Are you okay? Did you lose anything? Did anybody get hurt?”

  I almost feel guilty for making it sound worse than it was. She’s probably picturing the entire building up in flames, me leaning out my upstairs window waving a handkerchief and hoping a handsome fireman would hold a blanket out for me to fall into. A blanket would have been better than that damn tiny towel, that’s for sure.