Chasing Fire

by Nora Roberts

  with humor, and there was something in the way they leveled on his that made the moment intimate—as much of a hot slide through the system as the tequila.

  Matching his pace to hers, he picked up the next shot glass.

  Then there was her mouth, just shy of wide, heavy on the bottom—and the way it so naturally, so habitually formed a smirk.

  Small wonder he lusted for a good, strong taste of it.

  “How ya doing, hotshot?”

  “I’m good. How about you, Swede?”

  In answer she tapped her third shot glass to his before they tossed back the contents together. She brought the lime wedge to her mouth. “Do you know what I love about tequila?”

  “What do you love about tequila?”

  “Everything.” After a wicked laugh, she drank the fourth with the same careless gusto as the first three. Together they slapped down the empties.

  “What else do you love?” he asked her.

  “Hmm.” She considered as she downed number five. “Smoke jumping and those who share the insanity.” She toasted them to a round of applause and rude comments, then sat back a moment with her full glass. “Fire and the catching of it, my dad, ear-busting rock and roll on a hot summer night and tiny little puppies. How about you?”

  Like her, he sat back with his last shot. “I could go along with most of that, except I don’t know your dad.”

  “Haven’t jumped fire yet either.”

  “True, but I’m predisposed to love it. I have a fondness for loud rock and tiny little puppies, but would substitute heart-busting sex on a hot summer night and big, sloppy dogs.”

  “Interesting.” They tossed back that last shot, in unison, to more applause. “I’d’ve pegged you for a cat man.”

  “I’ve got nothing against cats, but a big, sloppy dog will always need his human.”

  Her earrings swung as she cocked her head. “Like to be needed, do you?”

  “I guess I do.”

  She pointed at him in an aha gesture. “There’s that romantic streak again.”

  “Wide and long. Want to go have heart-busting sex in anticipation of a hot summer night?”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “That’s a generous offer—and no.” She slapped a hand on the table. “But I’ll go you another six.”

  God help him. “You’re on.” He patted his pocket. “I believe I’ll take a short cigar break while we get the next setup.”

  “Ten-minute recess,” Rowan announced. “Hey, Big Nate, how about some salsa and chips to soak up some of this tequila? And not the wimpy stuff.”

  The woman of his dreams, Gull decided as he opted to go out the back for his smoke. A salsa-eating, tequila-downing, smoke-jumping stunner with brains and a wicked uppercut.

  Now all he had to do was talk her into bed.

  He lit up in the chilly dark, blew smoke up at a sky sizzling with stars. The night struck him as pretty damn perfect. Crappy music in a western dive, cheap tequila, the companionship of like-minded others and a compelling woman who engaged his mind and excited his body.

  He thought of home and the winters that engaged and absorbed most of his time. He didn’t mind it, in fact enjoyed it. But if the past few years had taught him anything, it was he needed the heat and rush of the summers, the work and, yes, the risk of chasing fires.

  Maybe it was just that, the combination of pride and pleasure in what he’d accomplished back home, the thrill and satisfaction of what he knew he could accomplish here that allowed him to stand in a chilly spring night in the middle of almost-nowhere and recognize perfection.

  He wandered around the building, enjoying his cigar, thinking of facing Rowan over another six tequila shots. Next time—if there was a next time—he’d make damn sure they had a bottle of Patrón Silver. Then at least he’d feel more secure about the state of his stomach lining.

  Amused, he came around the side of the building. He heard the grunts first, then the ugly sound of fist against flesh. He moved forward, toward the sounds, scanning the dark pockets of the parking lot.

  Two of the men Rowan had dealt with in the bar held Dobie while the third—the big one—whaled on him.

  “Shit,” Gull muttered, and, tossing down his cigar, rushed forward.

  Over the buzz of rage in his ears, Gull heard one of the men shout. The big man swung around, face full of mean. Gull cocked back his fist, let it fly.

  He didn’t think; didn’t have to. Instinct took over as the other two men dropped Dobie in a heap and came at him. He embraced the madness, the moment, punch, kick, elbow strike, as he scented blood, tasted his own.

  He felt something crunch under his fist, heard the whoosh of expelled air as his foot slammed into belly fat. Someone dropped to his knees and gagged after his elbow jabbed an exposed throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Gull saw Dobie had managed to gain his feet and limped over to the retching man to deliver a solid kick in the ribs.

  One of the others tried to run. Gull caught him, flung him so he skidded face-first over the gravel.

  He didn’t clearly remember knocking the big guy down, getting on top of him, but it took three of his fellow jumpers to pull him off.

  “He’s had enough. He’s out.” Little Bear’s voice penetrated that buzz of rage. “Ease off, Gull.”

  “Okay. I’m good.” Gull held up a hand to signal he was done. As the grips on him loosened, he looked over at Dobie.

  His friend sat on the ground surrounded by other jumpers, a few of the local women. His face and shirtfront were both a bloody mess, and his right eye was swollen shut.

  “Did a number on you, pal,” Gull commented. Then he saw the dark stain on Dobie’s right pant leg, and the dripping pool. “Christ! Did they knife you?”

  Before Gull reached him, Dobie two-fingered a broken bottle of Tabasco out of his pocket. “Nah. Busted this when I went down. Got a few nicks is all, and a waste of good Tabasco.”

  L.B. crouched to get a better look at Dobie. “You carry Tabasco in your pocket?”

  “Where else would I carry it?”

  Shaking his head, Gull sat back on his heels. “He dumps it on everything.”

  “Damn right.” To prove it, Dobie shook out the little left on the ass of one of the semiconscious men. “I came out for a little air, and the three of them jumped me. Laying for me—or any of us, I reckon. You sure came along at the right time,” he said to Gull. “You know kung fu or some shit?”

  “Something like that. Better go get patched up.”

  “Oh, I’m okay.”

  Rowan moved through, crouched in front of Dobie. “They wouldn’t have gone after you if they hadn’t been pissed at me. Do me a favor, okay? Go get patched up so I don’t have to feel guilty.” Then she leaned over, kissed his bruised and bloody cheek. “I’ll owe you.”

  “Well . . . if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “Do you want me to call the law?” Big Nate asked him.

  Dobie studied the three men, shrugged. “Looks to me more like they need an ambulance.” He shrugged again. “I don’t care if they go to jail, to fiery hell or back wherever they came from.”

  “All right then.” Big Nate stepped over, toed the man sitting up nursing his face in his hands. “You fit to drive?” When the man managed a nod, Big Nate toed him again a little harder. “You’re going to get in your truck with the fuckers you travel with. You’re going to drive, and keep on driving. If I see you around my place or any other place I happen to be, you’re going to wish to God almighty I had called the law. Now get off my property.”

  To expedite the matter, several of the men hoisted the barely conscious big guy and his moaning companions into the truck, then stood like a wall until it drove away.

  Gull received a number of shoulder and back slaps, countless offers of a drink. He wisely accepted all of them to avoid an argument as he watched Libby, Cards and Gibbons help Dobie into one of the vans.

  “Do you want a doc to look you over?” Little Bear
asked him.

  “No. I’ve had worse falling out of bed.”

  Little Bear watched the van as Gull did. “He’ll be all right. It takes more than three assholes to down a smoke jumper.” He gave Gull a last shoulder slap, then turned back toward the bar when the van pulled out of the lot.

  Gull stayed where he was, trying to reach for his calm again. He knew it was in there, somewhere, but at the moment, elusive.

  “Is this yours?”

  He turned to see Rowan holding his cigar.

  “Yeah. I guess I dropped it.”

  “Butterfingers.” She took a few puffs until the tip glowed true again, then helped herself to one long, deep drag. “Prime cigar, too,” she added, then offered it back. “Shame to waste it.”

  Gull took it, studied it. “That’s it,” he decided.

  He flung it down again and, grabbing her, yanked her against him. “That’s it,” he repeated before his mouth crushed down on hers.

  A man could only take so much stimulation before demanding release.

  She slapped both hands on his chest, shoved. “Hey.”

  For a moment he figured he’d experience her excellent uppercut up close and personal. Then she mirrored his initial move and yanked him back.

  Her mouth was as he’d imagined. Hot and soft and avid. It met his with equal fervor, as if a switch had been flipped in each of them from stop to go. She pressed that killer body to his without hesitation, without restraint, a gift and a challenge, until the chilly air under the sizzling stars seemed to smoke.

  He tasted the sharp tang of tequila on her tongue, a fascinating contrast to the scent of ripe peaches that clung to her skin; felt the hard, steady gallop of her heart that matched the pace of his own.

  Then she drew back, looked in his eyes, held there a moment before drawing away.

  “You’ve got skills,” she stated.

  “Ditto.”

  She blew out a breath—a long one. “You’re a temptation, Gull, I can’t deny it. Stupid to deny it, and I’m not stupid.”

  “Far from it.”

  She rubbed her lips together as if revisiting his taste. “The thing is, once you mix sex into it, even smart people can get stupid. So . . . better not.”

  “No’s your choice. Mine’s to keep trying.”

  “I can’t hold that against you.” She smiled at him now, not her usual smirk but something warmer. “You fight like a maniac.”

  “I tend to get carried away, so I try to avoid it when I can.”

  “That’s a good policy. What do you say we postpone the tequila and get some ice on that jaw of yours.”

  “That’s fine.”

  As they started back, she glanced over at him. “What was that technique you were using on those bastards?”

  “An ancient form called kicking ass.”

  She laughed, gave him a friendly hip bump. “Impressive.”

  He returned the hip bump. “Sleep with me and I’ll give you lessons.”

  She laughed again. “You can try harder than that.”

  “I’m just getting warmed up,” he told her, then opened the door to the overheated bar and lousy music.

  ROWAN ZIPPED her warm-up jacket as she stepped outside. She’d put in some time in the gym, and checked the jump list on the board in Operations. She was first load, fourth man. Now she wanted a solid run on the track, maybe some chow. She’d already checked and rechecked her gear. If the siren sounded, she’d be ready.

  Otherwise . . .

  Otherwise, she thought as she shot a wave to one of the mechanics, there was always work, always training. But the fact was she was ready, more than ready, to jump her first fire of the season. She cast a look up at the sky as she walked toward the track. Clear, wide and as pretty a spring blue as anyone could want.

  Below it, the base chugged along in early-season morning mode. Jumpers and support staff stayed busy, washing vehicles or tuning them up—or tuning themselves with calisthenics on the training field. After the night’s revelry plenty were getting a slow start, but she wanted air and effort.

  And saw as she looked toward the track, she wasn’t the only one.

  She recognized Gull not only by the body, but the speed. Fast feet, she thought again. Obviously tequila shots and a bar fight hadn’t slowed him down.

  She had to admire that.

  As she jogged closer she noted that despite the cool air he’d worked up a good sweat, one that ran a dark vee down the faded gray tee he wore.

  She had to admire that, too. She liked a man who pushed himself, who tested his limits even when he was in his own world.

  Though she’d already loosened up, she paused to stretch before peeling off her jacket. And timed her entrance to the track to veer on beside him.

  “What’re you up to?”

  He held up two fingers, saving his breath.

  “Going for three?” When he nodded, she wondered if he could keep up that killing pace for another mile. “Me too. Go ahead, Flash, I can’t keep up with you.”

  She fell off his pace, found her own rhythm.

  She loved to run, loved it with a pure heart, but imagined if she’d had Gull’s speed, she’d have adored it. Then she forgot him, tuned into her own body, the air, the steady slap of her shoes on the track. She let her mind empty so it could fill again with scattered thoughts.

  Personal supply list, juggling some time in for sewing some PG bags, Gull’s mouth, Dobie. She should give her father a buzz since she was on call and couldn’t get over to see him. Why did Janis paint her toenails when nobody saw them anyway? Gull’s teeth scraping over her bottom lip. Assholes who ganged up on a little guy.

  Gull kicking ass in a dark parking lot.

  Gull’s ass. Very nice.

  Probably better to think of something else, she told herself as she hit the first mile. But hell, nothing else was as appealing. Besides, thinking wasn’t doing.

  What she needed—what they all needed—was for the siren to blast. Then she’d be too busy to fantasize about, much less consider, getting tangled up with a man she worked with.

  Too bad she hadn’t met him in the winter, though how she’d have run into him when he lived in California posed a problem. Still, say she’d taken a vacation, dropped into his arcade place. Would she have experienced that sizzle if she’d met him across the lane in the bowling alley, or over a hot game of Mortal Kombat?

  Hard to say.

  He’d have looked as good, she reminded herself. But would there have been that punch if she’d looked into those green eyes when he sold her some tokens?

  Wasn’t at least part of the zip because of what they both did here, the training, the sweat, the anticipation, the intense satisfaction of knowing only a select few could make the cut and be what they were?

  And, hello, wasn’t that the reason she didn’t get sexually or romantically involved with other jumpers? How could you trust your feelings when they were pumped through the adrenaline rush? And what did you do with those feelings when and if—and most likely when—things went south? You’d still have to work with, and trust your life to, somebody you’d been sleeping with and weren’t sleeping with anymore. And one or both of you had to be fairly pissed about it.

  Entirely better to meet somebody, even if he sold you tokens in an arcade, have a nice, uncomplicated short-term relationship. Then go back to doing what you do.

  She kicked up her pace to hit the last mile, then eased off to a cooldown jog. Her eyebrows lifted when Gull fell into pace beside her.

  “You still here?”

  “I did five. Felt good.”

  “No tequila haze this morning?”