by Kathryn Shay
She shook her head.
“How about a good cry?”
Visibly she choked back the emotion. “No.”
“What can I do for you, Chelsea?”
“Nothing.” He could see her struggle to stay calm. “Thanks for calling nine-one-one. You can leave now.”
A little stung, he said, “I just got here.”
She shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I just don’t like to put anybody out.”
“Hey, you’re saving me from panic on prom night.”
She smiled weakly.
“Talk to me about it.”
A heavy sigh escaped her lips. She leaned against the cushions. “Did you see the movie Pretty Woman?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember that scene where Richard Gere’s lawyer hits Julia Roberts?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Billy hit me like that. Do guys learn how to do that in school?”
Jake remembered Roberts asking Gere that. In spite of the gravity of the situation, he was a little flattered to be compared to the movie star. He leaned over and ran his knuckles down her good cheek. “Like Gere told Roberts, not all men hit, Chels.”
Her eyes filled, but she battled back the tears. Still, she leaned into his touch, wanting comfort.
“What can I do?” he repeated.
“Can you stay?” she whispered. “Just for a little while?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He dropped his hand to her shoulder and squeezed it. “Did you take a painkiller?”
“No.”
“Do you have any?”
“Yeah. Upstairs in the bathroom.”
Jake crossed the room and took the stairs by the door two at a time. At the top, a long hall stretched before him. The first door on his left was the bathroom.
He was surprised by its size. About twelve by twelve, it was painted completely white with slate-blue fixtures; matching blinds covered two long windows. As he rummaged through an oak medicine chest, he could see the sky beginning to darken through the skylight. His eyes dropped to the long, wide vanity. On it were dozens of jars. Intrigued at this glimpse of Firefighter Whitmore, he picked one up. Bubble bath. Another was bath gel. A third, body wash. There had to be ten jars altogether.
Hmm.
Pivoting, he faced the huge blue tub that sat gleaming in the corner.
Even that wouldn’t be so bad, but I already wrenched my shoulder working out earlier.
He flicked the silver knobs on the faucets; then retrieved some Sinful Nights bath bubbles and opened the jar. The scent made him think of good sex, and lots of it; he poured in a generous amount. Letting the water run, he smiled. Who would have thought tough-girl Whitmore would harbor geisha-girl sensuality? Suppressing the images conjured up by that, he rose and headed downstairs. He detoured to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Anger came back big-time when he caught sight of the shattered window. Damn Milligan. Jake would board it up before he left.
Armed with water and a renewed dose of resolve, he entered the living room; she was lying back, eyes closed. “Chelsea?”
She stirred. “I’m dozing.”
“I started a bath for you.”
“How did you know….?”
“Your collection of bath soap’s a dead giveaway. Here, take this.”
She looked at the pill. “Percocet?”
“Yeah, your cheek has to be throbbing.”
“It is. But these put me to sleep.”
“Good.”
“I want to hear your story.”
“Later. Take it.” She swallowed the pill with water. He noticed that her hands were still trembling when she returned the glass. “Come on, up.”
The cat on her lap scampered off as she moved, and the other darted from the room. She groaned painfully. Jake bent and clasped her arm, helped her stand. He saw her bite her lip, watched her struggle for equilibrium. He slid a hand around her waist. It felt firm even through the fleece of her sweat suit. She leaned heavily on him as he guided her up the stairs to the bathroom door.
“You’re pretty shaky,” he said. “Need some help in there?”
She gave him a weak grin. “No, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Look, I’ll wait right out here.”
“That’s silly.”
“Then I’ll be silly.”
“At least go into the sitting room back there.” She angled her head to the end of the hall.
“I will when you’re settled.” He waited, not wanting to upset her. “Chels?” She turned. “Do you have any wood around here? I’ll board up the window for you.”
Whatever color she’d regained drained from her face. The bruise stood out like a neon sign, advertising Milligan’s aggressive fist. Taking a deep breath, she said, “There’s some plywood in the basement. I think there’s a hammer and stuff there, too.” She gave him a wrenchingly grateful look. “Thanks for doing that. I don’t know if I could—”
“You don’t have to. I’ll take care of it.”
But he didn’t. Not right away. After she closed the door behind her, he leaned against the wall outside the room until he heard the toilet flush, then the faucets go off. He turned to head downstairs to fix the window when he heard the sound of breaking glass. He circled to the bathroom door.
“Chelsea?” No answer. “Chels?” Still silence.
He pushed open the door.
She was against the wall across from the mirror; a broken cup lay in the sink. She’d stripped off her sweats and was clothed only in a long T-shirt and underwear. She stood openmouthed, staring at her reflection. Then, like a rag doll, she slid down the wall to the tile floor and buried her face in her hands.
He dropped to his knees. Forgoing any platitudes—she did look like hell—he soothed his hand down her silky hair. “It’s okay, Chelsea. Let it out.”
She shook her head, but he could see her shoulders shake. Firefighters were notorious for keeping their emotions inside, especially in front of somebody else. And he knew from Francey that female firefighters were even more determined to be stoic. He thought that as a colleague, he should probably let her get it out in private.
But as a man, he couldn’t leave.
“Chels?”
Slowly she raised her head. Her eyes were dark with pain. He sank down next to her and pulled her onto his lap. She didn’t resist, which was testament to how raw she was. Gently he enfolded her in his arms; her face nestled in his neck as she cried with quiet restraint. It was all the more heartbreaking for its reserve.
Chelsea was mortified by her weakness. She’d been holding on to her composure like a rookie to a life rope, but lost her grip when she was finally alone, when she saw the hideous bruise on her face. The fear of Billy violating her safety engulfed her all over again. Her control shattered, her resistance vanished, and she turned to Jake. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat in anybody’s lap, let alone cried like a child.
But after a moment sanity dribbled into her brain. This was her lieutenant. She was half-dressed. They were on the floor of her bathroom. She tried to pull away. He held her to him. She tried again.
His words stopped her retreat. “I never told anybody before, but I cried like this once when somebody I cared about turned on me.”
Startled by his stark confession, she drew back to look at him. She hadn’t realized her hands were gripping his shirt collar. “A woman?”
“No, my best friend.” Jake nudged her face to his chest, as if he wanted anonymity to tell the story. She felt him swallow against her cheek. “He got into drugs, booze. Eventually it affected his work. I covered for him. Made excuses. When I realized I couldn’t protect him any longer, I reported him to the chief.”
“Oh, Jake.”
“Then he turned on me. After he told me off for betraying him, he walked out of the firehouse, and out of my life, forever. We’d been friends since we were five years old.”
“I’m sorry.”
�
�Some of the guys hated me for ratting on him. Others condemned me for not doing it sooner. I lost stature in the department and gave up my dreams to go further. But what hurt most was that those guys were my buddies, too.” His hand locked on her neck. His lips were in her hair as he whispered, “So, see, I know how it feels.”
She nodded.
For a long minute they sat on the floor of the dim bathroom, silent, sharing a kindred pain.
Chelsea stirred first. She drew back. Sniffled. Wiped her eyes. “Thanks for telling me.” She nodded at his chest. “And for that. I feel better.”
“A good cry’ll do it every time.”
She angled her head to the tub. “Now get out of here while I take a bath.”
“Okay. I’ll go fix the window.”
She sank onto the floor away from him. He stood and stared at her. His eyes twinkled with masculine mischief.
“Sure you don’t need some help in here?”
Glad for the lightened mood, she shook her head. “No.”
He turned to the door. When he reached it she called, “Hey, Lieutenant?”
He looked back. “Yeah?”
“You’re a nice guy, you know that?”
“Remember that on our next training stint.”
It only took about fifteen minutes to board up the window until a repairman could get to it. Then he bounded up the stairs and put his ear to the door. The sound of a woman taking a bath had been absent from his life for a long time, and he’d forgotten how sexy it was. For a minute he let the sensual feelings wash over him, then he headed for the sitting room. At the end of the hall, she’d said.
Flicking on the lights, his gaze swept the room. It was shaped like an L, the longer section a living area that opened up through a curved archway into the bedroom proper.
Its colors matched the bathroom: white walls, slate carpeting. A white wicker couch with thick blue cushions and throw pillows was flanked with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A matching rocker, lamp and footstool were across from the door, an oak desk in the corner. Various lamps in white wicker or wood graced the room. An unusual piece, a white cradle, housed magazines in the corner. Four huge plants grew in wild profusion, one in each corner.
He crossed to the archway. On the other side of it sat a big white wrought-iron bed with a blue-and-white floral-print comforter; windows flanked it. Two large dressers, then another door, probably access to the bathroom. Surrounded by such blatant femininity, he stared at the paneled door, swamped by images of Chelsea in the bath. Her long legs all soapy, water trickling between her breasts, down to…
Forcefully he shook off the vision and headed to the sitting area. To distract himself, he checked out the contents of the bookcases. A row of history texts. Bestsellers. He grinned. Two whole shelves of romance novels. At the bottom were rows of books with no titles on the spines. He pulled one out. It was a diary. He chuckled. So she did keep them. He’d wait until the right time to jab her about those.
To the left of the bookcases was an embroidered framed poem, “A Fireman’s Prayer.” It reflected what he asked for every time he walked into a burning building—to be brave and skillful enough to save others, and that God would guide him to the right places. On the chair below it was an embroidered pillow. He picked it up. It read Men, Coffee, Chocolate. The richer the better. Hmm. That didn’t sound like Chelsea. As a matter of fact, he had trouble picturing Chelsea doing—what was this called, needle-point?—at all. Then he saw the signature in the corner. Delaney. It figured.
He heard a rustle behind him. Turning, he froze and briefly closed his eyes to block out the vision of Chelsea standing in the archway. The dull ache he’d felt all night for what she’d gone through turned into an ache of a totally different kind.
Unsuccessfully he tried to keep his eyes off her hair, washed and dried, just a bit damp and curly around her face. His gaze dropped to her breasts. They were covered in ice-blue satin; the gown was scalloped at the neck and hung in soft folds past her waist to her feet. His body responded with sharp need. At least he was dressed to cover it this time, he thought dryly.
“You’re staring at me.”
His grin came straight from his libido. “I…you…” He drew a deep breath. “You look like you just stepped out of the pages of a fairy tale.”
“Why, Lieutenant, how poetic.” Suddenly she weaved slightly and grabbed the door frame.
He crossed to her and clasped her upper arms. “Steady.” The satin slid seductively beneath his fingers.
“I’m woozy from the pill.”
“Let’s get you into bed.” His voice was raw. Sexy.
Pure feminine reaction lit her eyes.
Ignoring it, he crossed behind her and turned down the covers. He swallowed hard at the satin sheets. Could she recreate a man’s fantasy any more accurately? he thought with grim humor. “Get in,” he said gruffly.
“Yes, sir.” Her sass was diluted by a big yawn.
Dutifully she climbed in; he tucked the covers beneath her chin, letting his fingers linger on her skin.
Her eyes were already closing. “You can leave now,” she said trustingly. “And you can lock up with the key by the back door.”
“Oh, I can, huh?”
“Yeah.”
But he stood over her and watched her until her breathing evened. Then, without censoring his reaction, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. She smiled in her sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THREE DAYS LATER, on her last day off before starting a new shift, Chelsea marched into the Rockford Fire Academy. Though her stomach still churned from seeing her face in the mirror this morning—her cheek looked like a modern art painting with its obscene mixture of yellows, blues and reds—she wasn’t going to hide out. She’d done nothing wrong.
But she sighed as she opened the academy’s front door. If only she didn’t have to face her new group from Quint Twelve and her old crew from Engine Four, who’d also been Billy’s group. They were all scheduled for a training session together. To top it off, she and Jake were meeting her sister at noon about Derek DeLuca. Delaney had been out of town at a conference for three days, and although Chelsea had filled her in on the basics over the phone, her sister hadn’t seen her face yet.
Actually, since the assault, Chelsea had seen only Jake and the police officers. She smiled as she remembered opening the door to her lieutenant the morning after.
“Hi,” she’d said with not a little surprise—and something else she didn’t want to name.
Dressed in wheat-colored jeans and a plain forest green T-shirt, he’d looked like a model for L.L. Bean.
“Hi.” His jaw was tight as his eyes narrowed on her face.
“Please, come in. Want some coffee?”
Jake stepped inside. “Yeah, if we have time.”
“Time?” she asked as he followed her to the dining room.
“I want to go with you to the police station.”
A warmth worthy of Jamaican nights spread through her. “Really?”
He nodded. “If it’s okay.” He gave her an assuring grin. “I thought you might not want to go down alone.”
“I don’t.” She reached out to touch his forearm. Felt muscles tense beneath her fingers. “Thanks for being so considerate.”
His eyes had twinkled. “Wouldn’t want you to write bad things about me in your diary.”
“Oh, God, did you see them?”
“Mmm.” He took a seat at the light oak table as she veered into the kitchen.
After pouring coffee for both of them, she returned and set a mug in front of him.
She remembered what she’d said about him in the revealing little books. “Did you read them?”
“What, a Boy Scout like me?”
She’d stared him down.
“No, of course not.” He’d sipped from his mug, then glanced at the saying on it. It was Delaney’s gift and read Firefighters Like It Hot. His laugh had been male and hearty.
Thinking
about the luscious masculine sound, Chelsea headed to the first-floor arena, where the off-duty firefighters who were being paid overtime to do special training on the elderly were having coffee. About two dozen RFD personnel milled around the cavernous gym. She scanned the crowd; her heart hammered in her chest when she saw some of her old crew standing to the left where the kitchen jutted off the arena—Captain TJ McManis, Miller, Connors and Donatelli.
When Donatelli caught sight of her in the doorway, he nudged the others, and they all turned to look at her. Their grim expressions changed to surprise at her battered appearance. Pinning them with a stare that said, This is why I pressed charges, she strode, head held high, to her new group, who were by the stage. As she made her way through the crowd, she could hear the whispered murmurs.
Jake noticed her first. He winked, and she felt her stomach contract. Things had changed between them. She’d seen him twice since the other night, and both times, like now, she’d felt a connection with him, an intimacy she didn’t feel with the others. He seemed to feel it, too. She’d been unable to forget how she’d sat on his lap, how he’d soothed her and told her of his demons.
Mick’s head snapped around when she reached them. She was shocked by the expletives that poured from his mouth. He ended with, “The bastard.”
She shrugged. “Needless to say, he’s not my favorite person.”
“Are you all right?” Diaz asked, his brow furrowed.
“Yeah, it looks worse than it is.”
Jake’s grim expression told her he did not agree.
Huff grasped her arm and tilted her chin. With EMT thoroughness, he examined her cheek. “Man, what the hell’s the matter with the guy?”
Warmed by their sympathy, she was beginning to relax when Joey came up behind Jake. He looked hard at her, then shook his head and said, “You okay?”
“Yeah, Joe, I’m okay.”
Over the mike, Reed Macauley defused the moment.
“Time for your lessons, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll meet in the EMS classroom on this floor.” Though the main offices at the academy were upstairs, the EMS office and a large airy classroom were attached to the gym.
