by Kathryn Shay
“Diana, we don’t have to defend—” Grace began.
Gently Diana put a hand on Grace’s arm. “No sense in his being angry with us both.”
Her dad’s hands clenched at his sides, and his chest expanded as if he was hefting hose. “I’m not angry at you, Diana.”
She glanced pointedly at his fists.
He said, “I don’t care enough about you anymore to be angry.”
Diana recoiled as if he’d struck her. Her face went ashen.
Francey swallowed hard. She leaned into the wall and felt the phone in her hand. The phone she’d just used to call Alex. Suddenly she was besieged with regret for having made the contact. Before her was living proof of why she shouldn’t be calling Alex, shouldn’t be thinking of him at all.
oOo
What a sap you are, Alex chided himself as he sat on Francesca’s porch Tuesday night. You’re acting like a lovesick teenager mooning over a girl who won’t give you the time of day. Son of a bitch. This was as bad as his impulse to crawl onto the sofa bed with her Friday night. He’d given in to that bit of foolishness because he’d come to accept the fact that he’d never have the opportunity to hold her through the night again.
To distract himself, he studied the yard. Yellow and white flowers had been planted along the walk and in fat boxes on the porch. Their scent permeated the night air. She’d obviously been busy for the past three days. Of course. He’d never met a woman who had more trouble sitting still. Or a braver woman. Or a more admirable one. Or one he wanted more.
Which is what brought you here in the first place, jerk.
He checked his watch again. He could leave before she got home. Wait. Think this over. But he’d been pondering what to do for three days with more seriousness than international peace talks. And tonight was the last straw. The photos of the museum trip had fallen off a shelf where he’d put them after he’d printed them. He’d sat at his kitchen table, in the bright overhead light so he could see them clearly, and studied each one, alternately laughing at the poses she’d struck and wanting to put his fist through the wall because he couldn’t have her—really have her. His startling anger spurred him to action. Never in his life had he reacted like that to a woman. Then, when she’d called, and he’d been reduced to listening to her voice on the machine several times, he decided to take matters in hand.
And so he sat on her porch at nine o’clock at night, waiting for her to return from her father’s so she could break his heart. Inside, her dog scratched and whimpered at the front window, sensing someone was out here. A door slammed across the street and a pair of teenagers exited a beat-up Pontiac, giggling and razzing each other. Then he saw them stop and kiss in the driveway, a long, full-body smooch. Alex turned his head away.
The Red Devil pulled in next to his Porsche ten minutes later. Francesca killed the engine, climbed out of her truck and headed toward him. “Alex, hi.” She was a little breathless and a lot gorgeous. In the light from the front porch, he could see she wore a pink T-shirt, broken-in jeans and Docksiders without socks. She’d tied her hair on top of her head, like she did when they worked out, and soft tendrils framed her face, accenting her wide, translucent eyes.
“You got my message?” she asked.
He nodded. “All of them.”
“Finally decided to talk to me?”
He smiled in spite of the battle waging in his heart. Most women he knew would dance around the issue, or pout, but not Francesca. Cut to the quick, that was her. “Can we go inside? I do want to talk to you, and it’s getting chilly out here.” He scowled. “You should have worn a jacket.”
At her door, Killer greeted them with barking and nipping at their feet. Francesca nuzzled her dog, then disappeared into the kitchen to send him out to the backyard. While she was gone, Alex stood by the fireplace, staring at the Manwaring print over the mantel. A birthday present. Like the lacy purple underwear she’d received. He wondered if she’d worn it yet. And for whom.
“Can I get you something?” He pivoted. She stood about ten feet away, holding an ice bucket. Her smile was unsure as she nodded to a cabinet to the right of the fireplace. “I bought some Johnny Walker.”
For me. How ironic. “Sure.”
She made quick work of pouring him a drink and handed him the glass. “Want to sit?”
“No, but you go ahead.”
She took a chair opposite the couch and stared up at him. Those violet eyes sucked him in like a whirlpool.
“I’m going away tomorrow,” he said simply.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“There’s a trade show in Boston. It will be good for the business for me to meet with the reps.” At her puzzled expression, he explained, “The people who sell our products.”
“How long does it last?”
“Until Friday.”
“You’ll be back then?”
“No, I’m staying over the weekend. I phoned some people I knew from school who still live there. We’re getting together.”
Frowning, she plucked at a pillow on the sofa. “Oh. Sort of like The Big Chill.”
“Yes, I guess.”
She raised her arm and smiled weakly. “I’m getting my cast off tomorrow.”
“Terrific.”
“What’s this all about Alex? Going away again. Not returning my calls. The deep freeze for three days. Just tell me what’s happening. Be honest with me.”
He hadn’t expected this to be so hard. But the catch in her voice, the frown wrinkling her lovely brow disconcerted him. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. “This isn’t working for me, Francesca.”
“What isn’t?”
“This situation. Between you and me.” He took a long swig of Scotch. It helped. “I know I said we’d be friends. That I could have that kind of relationship with you. And I’ve tried. But it’s not working for me.”
“This comes as a surprise.”
“Does it?”
“Um, yes. I thought…I thought we were friends.”
“Oh, we are.”
Francey frowned. He was being clumsy. Not his usual glib style.
His stomach churned, like it had the first time he scuba dived. “We are friends, but that’s not enough for me anymore.”
She stared at him, shredding his control with a look.
Ironically, what she could do to him, so easily, firmed his resolve. “I thought I could do what you want. But I can’t. I know I said I could, but I was wrong.”
God, this wasn’t coming out right. He couldn’t express the revelation he’d had at the fire museum when he realized the danger she was in on the job. Quite simply, his recognition of her vulnerability drove home how precious she was. And made him want her more. Made him yearn for her. A romantic word for a painful feeling.
“I’m not saying this well, I guess. The point is, I am your friend. I cherish spending time with you. I look forward to seeing you every day.” He set the glass on a nearby table and crossed to her. Reaching down, he drew her up to stand before him, so lovely, so much what he wanted in a woman that she weakened him. “But I have to have more.”
He saw her swallow hard.
Slowly he lifted his hand and tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, letting his knuckles graze her cheek.
She shivered. Leaned into his caress.
“I want to be your friend, Francesca, but I want to be your lover, too. I’m attracted to you. I want to act on that attraction.” He could hear the huskiness in his voice. “I want to touch you the way a man touches a woman.”
Her eyes dilated and her breath speeded up. But she stepped back. “We discussed this, Alex.”
That was true. Though she showed all the signs of arousal, he was, after all, the one to renege on their agreement. So he stepped back, too. “I know we did. I was wrong to think I could keep this relationship just friends. That’s why I haven’t called you. That’s why I’m going away for a few days. To try to get some perspecti
ve on our relationship. When I’m with you, these feelings intensify.” He cleared his throat. “And now it hurts to be with you.”
She looked stricken. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you.”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he memorized the slight upturn of her nose, how her bottom lip was a little fuller than the top, the dimple in her cheek when she frowned.
“These people you’re seeing?” she finally said. “Are they all from Harvard?”
“Yes.”
“Frat brothers?”
He nodded. “Some.”
“Women, too? Who you knew back then?”
His heart lurched. Her question confirmed she felt something for him—something beyond friendship. He guessed he knew all along she did. “If you’re asking if I’m going to rekindle old flames, the answer is, I don’t know. I am going out with Suzanne on her yacht Saturday.”
“Suzanne?”
“The woman I was engaged to. She married a few years after we broke our engagement, but she’s divorced now.”
“How convenient.”
He smiled sadly.
“I’ll be staying at the Hyatt in downtown Boston. If you need me, I’ll be there until Friday.”
She didn’t ask where he’d be staying after that.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he sighed. “I guess I’ll be going.”
Still, she stared at him.
He studied her for a minute, bombarded by the reality of never seeing her again, of the fact that she didn’t ask him to stay, didn’t throw herself at him and tell him she’d been wrong, ask him not to go Boston, not to go to another woman.
And because the pain of her rejection was unlike any he’d ever known, he reached for her. “Oh, hell, what do I have to lose?”
As he’d done a thousand times in his fantasies, he framed her face with his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. The touch electrified him.
She hesitated a moment, then leaned forward. It was all the encouragement he needed. He grasped her shoulders, plastered her against him, molded them hip to hip, chest to breast and demanded entrance to her mouth. She opened for him like a flower blooming before the sun. And, God, she tasted honey-sweet, like he knew she would. He ravaged her lips while his hands slid around and cupped her bottom. She moaned, and he let himself go, thinking if this was all he was ever going to have of her, he’d take it greedily.
But before the situation became irrevocable, before something happened that he knew was an unconscionable betrayal of their friendship, he pulled back. Somewhere in the passion-drugged haze of his mind, he knew she didn’t really want this. For a minute she swayed into him, her eyes closed. He righted her, and she looked up at him.
Though the fist of desire lodged in his throat, he managed to whisper around it, “Think of me, Francesca.” And with one last brush of his thumb over her lips, he left her.
oOo
“Screw this.” Francey slammed the silverware drawer shut and swore some more. She was wired and tense and mad as hell. She hadn’t fallen asleep until dawn, then she’d dragged herself out of bed at nine o’clock this morning only because Dylan was taking her to the doctor’s to get her cast off and to lunch afterward.
Think of me, Francesca.
Damn him. Damn him. She’d thought of nothing else for twelve hours. Leaning against the kitchen counter, she closed her eyes and rubbed them wearily.
Please, God, don’t let me do this, she prayed, remembering her mother and father facing each other in the kitchen last night. Remembering the tangible pain arcing between them.
But she couldn’t stop the images of Alex. The kiss was branded on her mind. On her body. She lifted a finger to her lips. She could still feel his mouth on hers. She could still feel his arms around her and his arousal pressing insistently against her.
She wanted him. This wasn’t the first time she’d admitted that, but around two in the morning, she came to terms with the depth and breadth and all-consuming nature of her desire. Around four she found the strength to tell herself the feelings she had for Alex didn’t matter, that involvement with a man from Diana’s world wasn’t worth the risk. And she feared that, like Diana with her father, he’d never be able to accept her job as a firefighter. He seemed to have a Victorian-male protective streak that would prevent that.
The bell chimed and, grateful for the distraction, she strode to the door and opened it.
“Hi, doll, ready to get sprung from that cast?”
She smiled at her friend. “Yeah, Dylan, come in.”
“It’s turned nasty out there,” he said, shaking rain from his black hair and plucking at his navy slicker. “You need a coat.”
Grabbing a red windbreaker from the closet, she tugged it on. She could get into jackets more easily with the lighter cast but still had trouble with the zippers.
Hey, if you need any help with zippers and stuff, let me know.
“You okay?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah.”
He tipped her chin and studied her face, a brotherly gesture that made her eyes sting. “Didn’t get much sleep last night?”
She shook her head.
“Hot date?”
Tears welled in her eyes. God, she really must be tired. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried.
“France, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Let’s go get this thing off.”
Dylan accepted her reluctance to talk and baited her with firefighter trivia on the trek to the doctor’s office. As the windshield wipers beat rhythmically and the rain spattered on the roof, Francey began to relax.
“True or false—the reason Irishmen became firefighters was because many American businesses refused to hire Irish immigrants.”
“True.”
He smiled. “Right. What’s the ratio of career versus volunteer firefighters in the U.S.?”
Francey sighed. “Two to one, volunteers higher?”
“Nope, two hundred and sixty thousand career, seven hundred and ninety-five thousand volunteer. A little more than three to one. All right, last question,” he said as they pulled into the doctor’s parking lot. “What’s the highest award for valor in the Chicago Fire Department?”
“The Lambert Award.”
“No fair. You’ve been reading Jake’s books again.”
She tried to smile but failed.
Shedding the cast, at least, was a relief. She was grateful that most of her convalescence was over. But on the way to DeLuca’s Diner—a restaurant that used to belong to a good friend of Jake’s before he left town and was now another firefighters’ hangout—she listened halfheartedly while Dylan entertained her with stories about the recent events in the department. She paid more attention when he told her that any day now he expected the results of the lieutenant’s exam he’d taken.
After their food was delivered and they began eating, Dylan gave an exasperated sigh. “Okay, I’ve done everything I can think of to make you smile. You got the cast off, and even that didn’t cheer you up. What’s goin’ on?”
Toying with her club sandwich, she shook her head.
“Francey, come on, you’re not eating. The world must be about to end.” He scowled. “No one’s sick, are they? Gus or Grace? Your dad?”
“No, no, nothing that big.”
Dylan leaned back, his blue eyes sparkling with awareness. “Aha, it’s love.”
“Love?”
“Yeah, I recognize the signs.”
“You’ve never been in love in your life.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see the emotion in someone else.”
“I’m not in love.” Even to her own ears, the words sounded pathetically whiny.
Dylan watched her.
“It’s Alex.”
Thankfully, Dylan didn’t tease. “What about him?”
“He wants more.”
“Honey, he’s wanted more from day one.”
“I know. But now he won’t settle for less.”
“That w
as only a matter of time, France.” Dylan took a big bite of his hamburger. “You two were bound to get to this point.”
She stared at him. “Why? Things were fine the way they were.”
“Were they?”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “Women! Do you have any idea how much you talk about Alex Templeton? And the way your eyes glow when you do?”
“You’re such a romantic, Dylan. You don’t see things clearly.”
“Yes, I do. You don’t have to act on your feelings, but it’d help to admit them.”
“I can’t act on them. My father took a chance with my mother and he was miserable. I think he’s still suffering from her loss.”
“You and Alex aren’t your parents.”
“I know, but it’s too great a risk.”
“Life without risks isn’t worth living.”
“Spoken like a true firefighter.”
He grinned.
“I’m scared.”
Dylan threw up his hands. “This from one of fifty women out of five hundred firefighters in the Rockford Fire Department? This from a person who faces flames without a quiver? I’m shocked.”
“Emotional risks are worse.”
“No, they’re just different.”
“What do you think I should do?”
He arched a brow. “If you want him, take him.”
“As simple as that.”
“Uh-huh. It’ll work itself out.”
“Since when did you get so smart about all this stuff?” she asked, annoyed.
“Since I dated a psychologist.”
She smiled begrudgingly. “You’re something else.”
Dylan shrugged, ate three French fries at once and was about to make a retort when his eyes strayed to the door. And went as cold as frozen steel. When Francey tracked his gaze, she saw that Beth Winters had entered DeLuca’s with one of the battalion chiefs from the academy. Francey waved to her. Beth frowned, turned, said something to her companion then headed their way.
“Damn,” Dylan muttered.
Beth reached their table. “Hi, Francey.” She smiled at her friend, then tilted her head, glancing at Dylan. “O’Roarke.”
“Ms. Winters.”
Pointedly ignoring Dylan, Beth turned to Francey and smiled warmly. “Got it off, I see.”
