by Kathryn Shay
“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.”
Maybe that was it, he thought. But maybe not. He took two steps up backward. “No, really, Chels, wait.”
She looked at him then, no doubt to see if he was serious. Apparently she decided he wasn’t, for she turned her back on him.
When he saw her again raise her foot to step down, instinct propelled him forward. He reached her just before her boot hit the water and encircled her waist with one powerful arm. As he dragged her against his chest, she said, “What the hell?”
Simultaneously, there was clambering on the stairs. Joey yelled, “Jake, wait, don’t let her go in. There’s an electric space heater on down there.”
And then the flashlight that was still in Chelsea’s hand illuminated a cat floating on the water. A dead cat.
THE FLASHLIGHT crashed to the wooden stairs and tumbled into the contaminated, electrified water. Chelsea felt herself being dragged up the steps to the landing. Shouting and screaming could be heard overhead, but only one thought registered.
She’d been a step away from dying.
Her throat seized up at the knowledge. She closed her eyes, and spots swam before her. She was on a landing now, still supported by Jake’s big arm around her waist.
“Can you stand?”
Was that Jake’s strangled voice? “Uh, yeah.” But her legs wobbled, and she sank against him. His other arm crossed her chest, and he held on. He felt so good, so solid. So alive.
“It’s okay, Chels,” he murmured. “You’re safe.” She could feel his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Its rhythm matched hers.
“I know.” Her voice was hoarse. She looked up.
Joey perched on a step above her. Mick behind him. Diaz last. Their faces were ashen, their expressions stunned.
She swallowed hard and drew in a breath. She knew she had to be brave. Not to prove she was a good firefighter. Not to prove she was as strong as a man. But because her group was so obviously shaken. Summoning deep inner strength honed by years of taking care of herself, she said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I guess I coulda been one, but I’m not.” She smiled weakly.
In unison they deflated like balloons releasing air. Jake let go and, her insides whirling like a merry-go-round, she instantly missed his strength. Nevertheless she straightened.
Joey stepped forward first. He enveloped her in a hug. “You almost bought it, Whitmore.”
She hugged him back. “Glad I didn’t?”
“Yeah. I am.”
Mick hugged her next, lifting her off the wooden steps. “God damn it, Chelsea…” When he drew back, his eyes were moist.
Diaz’s face was stricken.
“I’m all right, Don,” she said, accepting his embrace.
“Dios mio!” Then he added, “Las mujeres fueron destinadas a ser protegidas.”
Chelsea translated the latter. Women were meant to be protected. She hugged him hard.
Jake blew out a heavy breath. “Okay, let’s take care of this. Joey and Don, keep everybody upstairs. Mick and Adam, get the electric company out here.”
When the group trudged up the steps, Jake waited a second, then grasped her arm and turned her to him. Gazing at her chalky face, he said nothing, just drew her to him. Her breasts were flattened against his chest, and her arms slid around his neck. One of his hands was at her waist and the other at her bare neck. He breathed in the scent of her.
She’d almost died.
Right there, amidst the cobwebs and dirt, he drew her so close that every possible inch of their bodies touched.
For one intense minute, his emotions bubbling up inside him like a hot spring, he allowed himself to bathe in his feelings for her. He’d almost lost her, really lost her.
Hearing voices from above, he let her go. And when she stepped back, he saw the same awareness—and an emotion so strong it almost leveled him—in her eyes.
AT EIGHT that night, Jake was sitting in his car in front of Chelsea’s house. The sun was low in the western sky, but the temperature hadn’t fallen. He’d showered, changed into jean shorts and an RFD T-shirt; they’d all cleaned up after their reliefs arrived, washing away the fear along with the grime of the day. Then they’d whisked Chelsea off to Pumpers for a beer.
Jake knew the syndrome. They’d needed to assure themselves she was all right. That each of them was all right. He noticed they touched her, and each other, more than usual.
Of course, the ribbing had been typical firefighter black humor. You were almost toast, Chels. Wonder if her hair woulda curled. It’s one way to get outta shit detail. But underneath had been a relief so acute it was almost palpable. They’d discussed what had happened…
“Can you believe it?” Diaz said. “The two brats were havin’ a contest to see who could stand the heat the best. Ninety degrees outside wasn’t enough. They went to the basement while their mother was napping and turned on the electric heater somebody’d given their father.” He scowled. “Man, I’d banish my kids to their rooms for a year if they did this.”
“How’d the basement get flooded?” Mick asked. Of them all, he seemed the most upset.
“The heater was old and had something wrong with it, so it caught fire. An exposed water pipe was right there. The kids panicked and hit it with a hammer, hoping to crack it and douse the fire with the water. They did that, all right. They just didn’t know how to stop it.”
“Those kids are lucky they didn’t get electrocuted,” Jake said.
Joey shook his head. “Almost taken down by two punks, Whitmore.”
She’d grinned, but Jake could see the strain around her mouth, knew she was still shaken. She sipped her beer and put up a brave front, but eventually she said, “I’m whipped. I’ve gotta go home.” She found Jake’s gaze. “I can’t help canvas for Suzy tonight.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got a lot of guys on.” He’d squeezed her shoulder and wondered where he’d find the strength to let her go.
He hadn’t. He’d called and canceled his stint at Operation Suzy to go keep vigil at Chelsea’s house. Now that he was here, what would he do?
He scanned the quiet neighborhood from his open window. A lawn mower rattled down the street, and he could smell a barbecue cooking somewhere. She hadn’t come home. He guessed she could have stopped at the gym. Or Delaney’s. Did she go to Spike’s?
Minutes later her sassy red Camaro sped down the road and pulled into the driveway. As she drove into the garage, he got out of his Bronco. Leaning against it, arms folded, he watched as she sat in her car for almost a minute. Then, unaware of his presence, she slid out and headed toward the door that led from the garage to the kitchen.
She wore a short denim skirt and a white camisole top that made his mouth water. At the bar, he’d noticed she had no bra on. Not that she needed it. Her breasts were perfectly shaped and firm, like the rest of her.
What would he do? She hadn’t shut the garage door.
If she looks my way, sees me, I’m going to her. If she doesn’t, I’ll go home. He felt like a teenage boy making a deal with God.
Or the devil.
He saw her d
rop her keys. Was she still shaky? Her hair falling to cover her eyes, she bent and retrieved the keys. When she stood up again, she saw him. And froze.
In a flash he pushed away from the Bronco. Blocking out the warning bells that went off in his head, he moved up the driveway with long, purposeful strides. He was in front of her in a minute.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
Flicking his gaze to the wall, he reached out and pushed a button; the garage door creaked down noisily, landing with a heavy thud. Slants of light poured in from the four tiny windows, bathing her in an ethereal glow.
And then he touched her.
“I WANT YOU.”
His husky words warmed her like old Scotch. They were just as intoxicating. His hand, cupping her cheek, sent tingly shivers everywhere. His eyes searched hers for a response.
She gave him the only one there was. “Yes.”
Leaning forward, he grazed her earlobe with his mouth. “No talking about it. Until after.”
Her senses reeled with his nearness; she nodded, then felt the brush of his lips on her skin. His hands came up, skimming her bare arms from shoulder to elbow with a feather-light touch. Passion and its potential simmered between them, like a fire about to rage out of control. But he contained it, saying, at her temple, “I’m not going to hurry, honey. I’ve waited too long for this. I’m going to savor every—” he kissed her hair “—single—” then her forehead “—second.”
A moan, low and lusty, escaped her throat.
Callused fingertips sought her neck and initiated a slow, sensual massage. Her stomach contracted.
“Tell me you want me, Chels,” he whispered.
“I do…”
“Say it. Let me hear you say it.”
“I want you,” she said huskily.
He kissed her eyelids, her nose and then her mouth. At the very first taste of him, she inched as close as he’d allow and put her hands at the nape of his neck. His hair was incredibly soft, and his smell, clean and male, permeated her nostrils.
He touched her intimately, searing her. Still, he kept the flickers low, smoldering. “I’ve wondered what you’d feel like for so long….”
She let her hands go on their own discovery, thrilled when his back muscles bunched, his buttocks clenched as she touched them.
“Chelsea,” he gasped, drawing back, “I’ve got to have more.”
She’d dropped the keys again, and he bent to retreive them, then unlocked the door and urged her inside. They went through the kitchen, up the stairs to her bedroom.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and drew her to him, positioning her between his knees. Smiling with a deep inner joy, he undid each button of her camisole. His clever mouth traced every inch he bared.
Soon, her top fell to the floor. He gazed at her breasts, took them in his hands and said, “Watch,” as he caressed her. After a long, delicious minute, he fumbled at the snap on her skirt. He slid it down her legs, then traced the band of her red panties. “These kept me up all night,” he said as he ran his finger down the elastic to the notch where her leg and hip joined.
She murmured, “I’ve got a drawerful of them.”
His finger sneaked under the band and felt her wetness. He moved it back and forth over the tiny nub exposed by his searching until she whimpered, “Jake, please…”
With trembling hands, he pushed the scrap of lace down her legs, leaned back and took her to the bed with him.
“No, your clothes,” she said.
“You do it.” His voice was husky, urgent.
He kept his eyes closed as he felt her ease back from him. He knew if he looked at her, kneeling there naked, the dynamite inside him would explode. He heard his zipper rasp, then felt her hands wander inside his clothes, searching, finding him. He came up off the pillow when she clasped him in her strong fingers and stroked his hard, aching length, and his moans toppled one over the other. Any minute, he thought, steam would pour from his body, and his skin would turn to cinders.
She slithered the shirt up his ribs and over his head, scraping him with her nails. Leaning forward, she explored his chest with her mouth; he struggled for breath.
Finally she dragged off his shorts and briefs. But she took a detour in coming back to him, brushing her lips on his shin bones, the underside of his knee, the inside of his thigh.
His restraint broke. He reached for her shoulders, flipped her onto her back, then covered her with his body. He felt like he was hurtling though space, his blood so heated it propelled him even against his will to take her now. Before passion consumed him, he reached for his pants, found one of the condoms he’d bought earlier and rolled it on.
“I want you so much,” she said simply.
“Then here.” He entered her in one swift stroke.
Her hips arched reflexively and they began to move, slowly at first, their rhythm matched like that of longtime lovers. His thrusts increased, deeper, faster…
Her eyes were closed, and he wanted to tell her to look at him when she came, but he couldn’t talk, only feel. Then she tightened around him in the first spasms of her pleasure.
The inferno crept up on him, too. He thrust faster, spurred on by her moans, and the heat between them grew in intensity. When at last it exploded, they both cried out and surrendered to it.
TONIGHT THE DARKNESS taunted him. The Hyde in him told him he had to act again. The stove incident hadn’t worked. He had to do something else. And soon. He had to save her.
She’d almost died. He needed to see that this didn’t happen again. He rose from the bed and crossed to the window. Men and women had gone against nature, and now they were paying for it. He remembered seeing The Handmaid’s Tale on TV not too long ago, and it had hit him then. Women needed to be taken in hand. They needed to be protected. They were too fragile, too soft, to be competing in a man’s world. Those men were right to put women where they belonged, even though the movie tried to say otherwise.
He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out the window. It calmed him, soothed his nerves.
Time for action. He’d made the plan last week. Now he’d implement it. It shouldn’t take too long to get Chelsea Whitmore back where she belonged.
She was only one woman, but it was a start.
The good side of him—Jekyll—surfaced briefly and protested the unfairness of his plan.
Ruthlessly, he squelched Jekyll and let Hyde take over.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY PLAYED HOOKY for as long as they could, which turned out to be thirty-six hours. At nine that night, Jake slid into the bathtub behind her, fitted Chelsea to him and groaned when she shimmied back. The room was dimly lit by jasmine-scented candles burning on the vanity; the open windows allowed a cool August night breeze to waft around them.
He said, “Tell me about this again.”
Water lapped her hips, kissed her stomach, flirted with her breasts. “I wished you’d been here the night after the triathlon. I pictured you here, what you would do….”
He brushed his lips over her ear and whispered, “Tell me.”
When she did and he followed her fantasies to the letter, she twisted around and brought his mouth to hers. “It’s so sexy,” she whispered, her voice a silky rustle, “having you do to me what I imagined.”
His grin was male and smug and gorgeous after he kissed her.
Submerging his hand in the water, he slid it between her legs. “I think I can take it from here.”
“YOU’RE KIDDING, right?” Chelsea said late the following morning.
They’d shared coffee and kisses and confidences after awakening. Jake lay on the bed, both drained and renewed by their cataclysmic lovemaking of the night before. Linking his hands behind his neck, he said, “Nope, I want to see all that sexy underwear you said you had a drawerful of. I want to see you in it.”
Grabbing a short white satin robe from the floor and slipping it on, she sashayed across the room to one of the
dressers. She opened a drawer and pulled out panties and a matching bra. Slowly, her back to him, she slid on the panties underneath the robe, then dropped the robe to the floor and put on the bra. Then she turned.
He gasped. “Unbelievable. The gold lace goes great with your coloring,” he said hoarsely. His gaze raked her from head to toe. “And I like what the underwire does to your breasts.” He coughed, wondering how far he dare go. “Put on some heels with it.”
Her brows arched, but she crossed to the closet and drew out backless three-inch black satin heels. As she headed to the bed, her hips swayed mercilessly and her breasts swelled above the scalloped lace. When she was close, he murmured, “Kneel on the bed.”
She did.
By the time Jake had fulfilled every fantasy he had about her underwear, scraps of gold lace, teal satin with tiny bows, plush midnight black velvet and a naughty leopard print lay in a heap where he’d thrown them to the floor.
On the bed she made even more of his dreams come true.
BY SIX O’CLOCK that night it was pouring rain. From the sitting room floor where he rested his head in Chelsea’s lap, Jake listened to it hitting the roof like tiny drumbeats. The room smelled of incense, which he’d discovered she was fond of burning. They both felt as contented as the two cats curled at their feet.
“Okay, read it to me,” Jake told her.
At his request she’d agreed to read some bits of her diary. “May twenty-ninth—Jake was a doll today, and I was a bitch to him. He’s so strong and solid, he makes me feel safe.”
“Hey, I could be a golden retriever. Where’s the good stuff?”
She chuckled. “There is one good part from that day.” She read again. “Delaney met him at the game and says he’s yummy.”
“Yummy? I’ve never been called yummy in my life.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Well, you are yummy.”
Angling his head up, he sipped his wine, a dry Chardonnay she’d had in her fridge. Wine was something neither of them usually drank, but they’d wanted to celebrate.
