by Kathryn Shay
“You’ve got to use the oxygen, Alex.” His younger brother Richard’s voice was strained, and his normally pale complexion was chalk-white. He’d never matched Alex’s six-foot-plus height and broad shoulders, but today Richard’s hunched posture made him appear even smaller. And his blue eyes were clouded with anxiety and fatigue.
“I will, but I want some answers first. What happened at the warehouse?” Alex coughed again, deep spasms racking his body, shooting pain to his already sore extremities. He fell onto the pillows. The doctors had told him to expect a general malaise, but this exhaustion rivaled his bout with mono when he was a teenager.
“Son, your recovery is more important than the business.” Jared Templeton, haggard and drawn, leaned on Alex’s mother, Maureen. Worry seemed to have erased some of the progress he’d made since his heart attack ten months ago.
Alex grabbed the mask, took a few deep breaths and lay back. All he could remember about that hellish night was being so tired he put his head down on the desk. He’d awakened in a haze of smoke, stumbled to the door and collapsed against the wood. They said that the small amount of oxygen he’d gotten from being on the floor probably saved his life. The next thing he knew, he was outside on the ground, his eyes stinging, his head pounding like a jackhammer, and his lungs ready to explode.
After sucking in some oxygen, he set down the mouthpiece. “Where did it start?”
“In the basement.” Richard’s scowl was pronounced.
“Do they know how?”
“Not yet,” his father told him.
“What happened to the new thirty-thousand-dollar sprinkler system we put in?”
“No one knows.” Richard again. “When I tried to talk to the firemen—”
“You were at the warehouse? Why?”
“I was driving by on the expressway and saw the smoke. I called in the alarm.” He glanced away for a moment, then back. “Anyway, it was such a zoo putting out the fire and getting you two into ambulances that the firefighters didn’t say much. What the hell were you doing there at midnight, anyway?”
Alex ignored the question. “Us two? Was someone else in the building?”
“No. The second person hurt was a firefighter.”
“How badly?”
His mother answered. “A broken arm. A concussion. Apparently he fell down the steps after he dragged you out of the warehouse.” Maureen Templeton had been through a lot in the past few years, and her steel core always surfaced. She lifted her chin. “He dropped you before he fell. That’s why you have that bump on your head.”
“Are you sure he’s all right?”
“Yes. I didn’t see him, of course, but I inquired about him after we got through with Emergency. He’s in a room right down the hall.” She drew a neatly folded paper from her pocket. “His name is Fran Cordaro.”
Swallowing hard, Alex let the realization sink in. “I’d like to see him. He saved my life.”
“We know, dear. But you look tired.”
Alex closed his eyes. He was tired. Every part of his body hurt—especially his head. He could see bruises forming like different-size patches on his arms. “What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty.”
Alex yawned.
His father’s voice soothed him. “Why don’t you rest? We’ll go get some breakfast, then come back up.”
“You don’t have to stay,” Alex murmured sleepily, wondering about the guy who’d pulled him out of the fire. What did you say to a man who’d risked his life for yours?
Then he felt soft lips on his forehead and two gentle pats on his arm before sleep claimed him.
oOo
When Alex woke up, he ate some hospital food and, with the help of an orderly, took a blessedly hot shower. Richard had retrieved pajamas and a robe for him, so when he was dressed, Alex convinced his mother to take his father home to rest. Richard had been harder to send off.
The brothers had gotten closer in the past two years. Richard had had a bout with drug abuse when he’d lived in the Midwest. After a painful divorce and some rehab, the only good that had come out of his whole ordeal was that he’d returned home to upstate New York and assumed a management position at Templeton Industries. Though Alex enjoyed playing big brother again, he wanted Richard to get some rest. At last his brother cooperated and left around four.
Not much later, another man entered the room. He introduced himself as Fire Marshal Bob Zeleny.
A burly man—the stereotypical image of a firefighter—he was dressed in a suit and tie, not a uniform. The bulge in his jacket told Alex he carried a gun.
“How are you feelin’?” Zeleny asked.
“Better.”
“I need to ask you some questions.” Zeleny coughed, then cleared his throat. “What do you remember about last night?”
“I was tired and put my head down on the desk.”
“What time was that?”
“About midnight, I think.”
“Why were you there?”
“I hadn’t gotten a chance to open the invoices for some circuit boards we’d built. I arrived about nine to do it.”
“Okay. So you put your head down about midnight. What next?”
“For some reason, I woke up. The room was filled with smoke.”
Zeleny scribbled notes on a small leather-covered pad. Again, he coughed. “Some research studies say your sense of smell in sleep is still active and could wake you in case of a fire. Others don’t support that view.” He nodded. “Go ahead.”
“I tried to get to the door but didn’t make it out.”
“This helps us pinpoint the time of the fire.”
“Why?”
“Our rigs arrived at the scene at twelve-fourteen. If you zonked out about midnight, you must’ve breathed in the carbon dioxide only a few minutes. Much longer, you’d be dead.”
Alex’s eyes widened at his candor.
The fire marshal shrugged. “Anyone else in the building?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Cars in the lot when you got there?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Richard Templeton your brother?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He called the alarm in. We talked with him last night but need to get more information from him.”
“What’s this all about, Fire Marshall?”
“When the origin of the fire is unknown, it’s my job to determine what happened.”
“Is there some kind of trouble?”
“We’ll let you know. I’ll be back.” Zeleny headed for the door, coughing again. Hazard of the job, Alex guessed.
He rested another hour, then got out of bed, walked slowly down the hall and stood in front of room 435. Fran Cordaro, the nameplate read. He wanted to see for himself that the guy was really all right. And thank him, of course.
Alex knocked. No answer. Maybe he was asleep. Edging inside, Alex blinked to adjust to the dim light of the room. Rockford Memorial Hospital had just been refurbished—his family had donated some of the money for the renovations, along with building a new wing—and the decor had been spruced up considerably. Mini-blinds were half-closed against the late-afternoon April sunlight. He could barely make out the muted rose-and-blue-striped wallpaper and accent chair.
A figure lay motionless in the narrow bed. From the doorway, the man seemed slight, at least compared to Alex himself. Some firefighters were small, he knew, but they were usually muscular and tough as nails.
Quietly, he crossed to the bed. The guy’s back was to him. Something wasn’t right. In the filtered light, he caught sight of the graceful slope of a back and the rounded curve of a hip. Damp dark brown hair came almost to the neckline of the hospital gown. Most firemen he’d seen sported military cuts.
The figure shifted.
Alex froze.
A long-fingered hand rested on the pillow. And full breasts stretched the cotton of the gown.
Damn, he’d gotten the wrong room.
But he could
detect a faint acridity of smoke. And the name on the door matched the one his mother had given him.
Intrigued, Alex stepped closer.
The woman on the bed shifted again, uncovering her face.
Alex winced at the swollen purplish bruise near her temple and the long, angry scratches under her chin. Her mouth fell open slightly, accenting the lush poutiness of her lips. She stirred, stretching one arm over her head, arching her back, burrowing her cheek into the pillows.
Her eyes opened, and she blinked. “Dylan?” she asked huskily. “Is that you?”
“No.” Alex cleared his throat. “I’m Alex Templeton.”
He could see her eyes narrow on him. She struggled to sit up and moaned. “Could you turn on a light or open the blinds a little? I can’t see very well.”
A bit chagrined, Alex crossed to the window and cracked open the blinds, then switched on a corner lamp. Coming back to the bed, he scrutinized her face again, clearer to him in the light. She’d managed to ease herself into a half-sitting position. The nasty bruise was worse from this vantage point; her cheek had swelled too. But it was her eyes that snared him. They were huge, almost translucent and the oddest color, indigo fanning out to deep purple. He’d seen a sky in Saint-Tropez once layered with those hues.
When he realized he was staring, he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I was looking for the firefighter who saved my life last night.” Though awareness had dawned on him, he said, “You’re not him.”
“No.” Her voice was laced with amusement. “But I’m her.”
“Yes, so I’ve guessed.” He smiled. “What’s Fran short for? Frances?”
“Francesca.” The amusement spread from her eyes to her mouth. He couldn’t stop staring at her face. He didn’t think he’d ever seen such a perfect arrangement of features.
“You pulled me from the building.”
“Yep.”
Though he’d never thought of himself as sexist—and certainly the existence of female firefighters was not new—the idea was somehow unsettling that this attractive female had rescued him.
He shoved back the disconcerting feeling. “Hmm. What does a person say to someone who saved his life?”
Those violet eyes twinkled like amethyst. “How about thank you?”
Alex reached over and squeezed her hand. It was warm and surprisingly soft. “Thank you. For saving my life.”
“You’re welcome.” Her enjoyment of his surprise and discomfort at learning Fran wasn’t a man was obvious in her mischievous grin. “You, um, don’t look like your ego’s handling this very well.”
“I think my ego will survive.” he told her dryly. But the stutter in his heart, the restless stirring of his battered body, indicated that the rest of him might not deal with the incident quite as easily.
CHAPTER TWO
“May I sit down?”
Francey stared at Alex Templeton. Though she’d been awakened from a nap and was still fuzzy-headed, she was conscious enough to notice he was a very attractive man. Big. Muscular. Classic nose. Cleft chin. His eyes were grass green, and they watched her with interest. Male interest. Francey recognized the look, although she was rarely tempted to return it.
“Sure. Pull up a seat.”
His shoulders were stiff and his gait uneven as he dragged a chair to the bed.
“You’re hurting, aren’t you?”
Sighing heavily, he sank onto the chair. “My lungs still burn some. And a headache’s got its claws in me.”
“That’s to be expected from smoke inhalation. But the rest of you—you’re sore from where I dropped you.”
He smiled, and Francey felt an unfamiliar sensation in her stomach. “I’m not complaining. You saved my life.”
“I wish I could have done it without wiping the staircase with your face.”
His brow furrowed. “How did you fall?”
“You jerked unexpectedly when we got out on the landing. You’re pretty heavy, and besides I had on forty pounds of gear and a pry tool stuck in my pocket. I lost my balance.”
“I caused your fall?” Spontaneously, it seemed, he reached out and brushed her cheek beside the bruise with his fingertips. She shivered involuntarily. He glanced at her cast. “And I did that?”
“No, of course not. Hazards of the profession.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, when the painkiller wears off.”
“I’m sorry.” He sat back, then glanced around the room. Sunny daisies, fragrant roses and two big green plants had arrived. “You have a lot of friends.”
“The fire department’s like family. When one of us gets hurt, news spreads like wildfire, no pun intended.”
He studied a big pink and silver balloon swaying gracefully in the draft from the heat vent. “Don’t tell me. Hell, it’s your birthday, too?”
“Uh-huh.”
He sighed. “How old?”
“Thirty.”
“Ah. A big one. Happy birthday.” He waved his hand toward the flowers and balloons. “I like the arrangements.”
She scowled at the plants, unimpressed. “I wish they’d sent food.”
“Food?”
“Yeah. I can’t cook, but I eat like a longshoreman. I’d sell my soul for some real, honest-to-goodness food instead of the grub from the hospital kitchen.”
His eyebrows shot up this time. “Really? What would you eat if you could have anything you wanted? On your birthday?”
“Something I don’t have to cut.” She held up her cast. “I know—seafood. Peter, the best cook in the fire department, makes this fancy shrimp and scallops dish when he subs at our station.” She licked her lips.
Alex stared at her. “I see. May I use your phone? I left my cell in my room.”
Francey shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
He picked up the receiver, punched in a number and asked for a listing for the Rio. He winked at her as he made a second call.
The gesture unnerved her.
“Hello, Lawrence, this is Alex Templeton. I’d like to order dinner. No, it’s not for business this time. Just for two.” His laugh rumbled deeply in his chest. “She is gorgeous. But she has a broken arm and I’d like to pamper her. So make it good. Shrimp scampi, coquilles Saint Jacques and stuffed snapper. Maybe some of that white asparagus if you have it. And dessert. Can your driver deliver to Rockford Memorial?” After a few more instructions, he hung up.
Francey stared at him, then shook her head. “You do this kind of thing often?”
“Mostly for business meetings.” He sat and smiled warmly. “Sound good?”
“Sounds wonderful. And expensive. I’ve been by the Rio.”
“Hey, nothing’s too good for the woman who saved my life.”
“Put that way, I graciously accept.”
He gave her a sideways glance; she got a good look at his square jaw. “There’s a catch. You have to invite me to share it.”
“Oh, I think I can endure your company.”
As they waited, he lounged in the chair, the soft cashmere of his bathrobe hugging his shoulders. She’d seen one like it on a patient when they went out for an emergency medical service call at the Hyatt Hotel. Dylan had told her how much the robe cost. Given that and the meal he’d cavalierly ordered, Alex Templeton must be well-off.
“Would you like to rest before dinner arrives?” he asked her.
“No! I’m going to die of boredom.” She lifted her arm weighted by the cast, which was a pain though not as bad as the old plaster ones from when she was a kid. “This is gonna kill me.”
“You won’t be able to work for a while.”
“No.”
“How long have you been a firefighter?”
“Eight years.”
“Mind if I ask how you got into the profession?”
“Typical story. My great-grandfather, my grandpa, my dad and a brother are firefighters. I’ve wanted to be one as long as I can remember.”
“What did your mother think of
that?”
“My mother wasn’t in the picture.”
When he looked at her quizzically, she shook her head indicating she didn’t want to pursue the subject. Instead of prolonging that conversation, he asked, “Do you like the job?”
“It’s my life. I couldn’t do anything else.”
“Is it still hard to be a woman in a traditionally male role?”
“Things were tough at first. The men weren’t too happy when women joined the department. But once a woman—or for that matter a man—proves herself on the line, the veterans accept her.”
Picturing Francesca at her job, Alex asked, “And how did you prove yourself?”
He was beginning to make her nervous. Not his questions but his physical presence. She adjusted the sheet. “You sure you want to hear this?”
“Yes, of course.”
Deciding he meant what he said, she answered. “I was in my fifth fire. I’d never been on a roof before. I was up high with an officer to ventilate.” At his quizzical look, she explained. “Open the roof to let air out. The saw stuck, but I didn’t panic. I got the K-12 going, made a clean cut through the shingles, knocked out the hole just in time for the ground firefighters to go in. I didn’t lose it when the flames shot through the opening. I guess the guys realized I was good. I think any of them would feel comfortable with me at his back.”
“Well, you can save my life anytime, Francesca.”
“It also helps that I can fix their cars.”
“What?”
“I’m a mechanic, too. I was the top student in my auto mechanics class at East High School in the city.”
He roared with laughter. She liked the way his eyes crinkled with mirth. “You must have driven the boys crazy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Francesca, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
She hadn’t, but given his obvious appreciation, she was tempted to primp a bit. She stifled the urge. “Oh, well. My looks have always been a problem.”
“Tough luck,” he said dryly.
Trying not to show she liked his teasing, Francey rolled her eyes. Flirting with him probably wasn’t the best idea, so she changed the subject. “Do you have any idea how the fire started?”
Alex shook his head, and his mouth formed a grim line. “The fire marshal came to see me today.”
