The guys cheered and set to playing foosball with gusto, and, for now at least, the subjects of Carly and modeling in his underwear were dropped.
But before they could phone in their usual pizza order, the alarm rang and they raced to their boots and coats, sliding down the pole and jumping on the engine as it pulled out of the garage. An apartment fire. They were never good. It took all night to extinguish the spreading fire and make sure everyone was evacuated, including a cantankerous cat. But a little kid was wailing about finding his kitty.
Joe’s oxygen tank was almost empty as he and Miller went in after the pet. The heat was so intense, Joe thought they might have to leave it. The whole floor was about to go. Deciding he’d give it a couple of more minutes, he signaled to Miller to wait in the hall. Miller gestured the affirmative and advised the chief of their location.
Joe crawled through the front room to another door, felt for heat behind it, then opened it and went through. The smoke blinded him and he couldn’t hear any meows in the apartment for the roar of the fire. Their chief came over the walkie-talkie ordering them to get out. Joe relayed a request for five more minutes, then turned down the volume, stilled and closed his eyes. Come on, Kitty. Help me help you. He held his breath and tuned his hearing to the sounds beneath the sounds. And waited.
Then he heard it. The faintest hint of a high-pitched meow. Crouching low, he followed the sound, ducking under a collapsing door frame, dodging falling debris until he caught sight of the cat. He turned up the volume on his walkie-talkie, reported his position, then grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck and hightailed it toward the exit, following Miller to the stairwell. They’d barely reached it as exploding fire enveloped the floor.
The blast propelled Joe down the stairs. He landed hard on his side, his temple slammed against a brick wall. For a moment the room spun. Where was Miller? He looked up and the ceiling above him was buckling. This might be it. Any minute he could be buried beneath the rubble. His mother would kill him if he died. Okay, that was stupid. Then, even more stupidly, he thought of Carly. He wanted more time with her.
Suddenly hands were dragging him to his feet and Stockton and Everman helped him down to the bottom of the stairs. Miller took the cat and just as Joe’s vision cleared, he saw Wakowski handing it to the crying kid.
A paramedic ran up and began administering first aid to Joe, examining his sore shoulder and bleeding temple. And the chief stalked over to yell at him about taking unnecessary risks. But this was why he loved what he did. “Look at that kid’s face, Chief. You wouldn’t want to be the one to tell him Mr. Whiskers didn’t make it, would you?”
“I don’t want to have to tell your mother her little Joey didn’t make it!” the chief yelled, his face red, a vein in his temple bulging.
“Chief, I told him to go,” Miller tried.
But the chief only snarled. “Either one of you do that again, you’re suspended, you got me?”
Joe nodded. His chief was right. That had been too close. He shouldn’t have risked it. He’d had a couple of minutes to think about his death in there. It’s not as though he was a thrill-seeker, but it was a given that he had a dangerous job. All his friends and family knew that. Still, he guessed it was one thing to acknowledge a loved one had a dangerous job, and another to have to face his death.
He knew his family would grieve. His mother, especially. But at least he wouldn’t leave a widow, or make kids fatherless. Miller, heck, all the other guys had wives, kids. He didn’t know how the rest of his ladder coped with that.
He supposed with the right kind of woman, a strong, independent woman who had her own life and wasn’t totally dependent on him...he wouldn’t have to worry so much.
What a thought that was.
When he got home to his empty apartment after his twenty-four-hour shift, he had to dodge a sneaky cameraman hiding down the stairs to the basement. He thought of Carly again. How was she handling the brutal media storm?
The headlines were all about Piper’s return to New York and her conspicuous absence from the nightclub scene. The front-page photo was of Piper, but the story still mentioned Carly and her connection to her father. It insinuated that she lived off the money he’d cheated from honest hardworking people.
Joe had spent five days with her. Well, four. And three nights in her bed. In every imaginable position. And some he hadn’t imagined. Great. Now his jeans were uncomfortable. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he held the cold bottle to his forehead.
Despite the great sex, he knew next to nothing about her. Maybe he should just give her a call. Make sure she was weathering the media attention okay. He could follow up on the release date for the magazine. Had she said his picture would be in the May issue? Or the June? Either way, he wanted some kind of warning so he could prepare for when his family went berserk.
Yeah. That’s all he wanted. Information on the magazine.
He reached for his cell phone and brought up her number.
10
CARLY WAS GOING stir-crazy.
She’d been cooped up in her apartment for five days, avoiding the paparazzi staked outside her building. After the first couple of days she’d hoped they’d moved on to fresh meat, so she’d ventured out for her usual grande nonfat espresso. The swarm had driven her backward against the front doors.
Lesson learned. So, she’d stayed in. She had plenty to keep her busy. Her blog needed updating. The blog that would never be part of Modiste now.
But she dreaded opening her laptop for fear of seeing her father’s sordid tale gone viral. The same old footage of his arrest, her mother’s too-timely collapse, now with nasty anonymous comments beneath the videos.
Still, she had to leave her apartment sometime. Next week the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week gala was opening at Lincoln Center to unveil the fall and winter collections and reporting on Fashion Week was essential to her blog’s success. She’d get a scoop on the latest trends, note which industry leaders were in attendance, maybe even try to get a photo and quote from the top designers. She absolutely couldn’t not go. What was her blog without Fashion Week?
Her big fat failure of a blog.
Still, by next week, surely the paparazzi would have found someone new to torture.
Her cell rang and she jumped. Please, not Mother again. She picked it up to check the ID and froze. Her heart thumped against her rib cage. Joe.
She should just let it go to voice mail. She swallowed and hit Answer. “Yes?” Good. Her voice was steady, in control.
There was an instant of silence. “Carly?”
Her breathing hitched at the sound of his deep voice. Had it only been a week since she’d been tangled in the sheets with him? “Joe. Did you need something?”
“I was just checking to see if you were okay.”
She blinked. He was worried about her? After the way she’d practically thrown him out of her shower and cabin that last day of the cruise? “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” She winced, squeezed her eyes closed. Defensive much?
Another pause. “I saw your picture in the tabloids. It can’t be easy having all that brought up again.”
Her throat tightened. When was the last time anyone had cared if she was okay? “I told you, I’m fine.”
Another moment of awkward silence. “Did you need anything else?” Good. That should get rid of him. But a part of her ached at the thought.
“I...thought I might come over. Take you to dinner.”
She stifled a sigh of relief, of yearning. “Look, Joe. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I don’t need a hero to ride in on his white horse and save me.”
She heard an exasperated growl and pictured him running a hand through his hair. Oh, how she remembered that low growl from deep in his throat when he was turned on. She sat and crossed her legs, trying to ease the sharp pang of arousal.
“It’s just dinner, Carly, I’m not slaying the kraken.”
She couldn’t help but smile. L
eave it to Joe to reduce a complicated issue to a simple concept. And, oh, how she missed that. Missed smiling. Missed being the carefree woman that only seemed to exist when he was around. She thought it’d just been the atmosphere of the cruise. The flavor of the Bahamas. Yet the moment Joe had left her cabin she’d felt a weight press in on her again.
But that was probably because the cruise had been over and the high from the endorphins from the mind-blowing sex had been wearing off. Maybe they could go to dinner, keep it simple and see where it led? As long as Joe understood it was just for tonight.
“Carly?”
She focused her gaze and realized she hadn’t answered. “Dinner?” She couldn’t be seen with him in public. The paparazzi would really have a field day with that. She closed her eyes, shook her head. “We can’t go out.”
“O...kay.”
She inhaled. “I mean, I don’t want to go out. The cameras, the—”
“Let me take care of it.”
“What are you—”
“I’ll be there at seven, okay? See you tonight.”
“But, Joe!” But he’d already ended the call.
* * *
NO, TOO DRESSY.
Standing in her bra and tummy-control undies, Carly tossed the padded hanger with the jersey dress onto her bed and strode back to her closet. Shoving aside one outfit after another, she pulled out a silk blouse, held it in front of her and twisted to check it in the mirror. Maybe she should just wear jeans. But she wanted to wear the Ferragamos.
She dropped the hanger with the blouse back on the rod. Why was she obsessing over what to wear? It’s not as if she was going to let Joe take her out. She slumped into a chair. Wasn’t it obvious? For the same reason she’d spent the entire afternoon waxing and shaving, painting her nails, fixing her hair and applying her makeup just so.
She was an idiot.
An emergency siren blared, sounding as if it were right outside her building. She got up and moved to her window, pulled aside the blinds and peeked out.
A bright red fire truck with lights flashing rolled through the sludge of muddy snow and came to a stop about half a block down the street. Was there a fire somewhere? Or was someone hurt?
As she watched, firemen jumped out of the truck, some racing for the building next door, others pulling out a long hose and another heading for the fire hydrant. Not a good sign.
Then something amazing happened.
Moving as a single entity the paparazzi rushed over to snap pictures of the firemen and the building. The moment they left her stoop, a guy in a heavy winter coat carrying two shopping bags appeared from the opposite direction and jogged up the steps. Just before he disappeared from view, he looked up.
Joe!
Carly grinned. And kept grinning as she danced all the way to her intercom to buzz him into her building. Then she ran back to her bedroom, rethinking her undies. She tore them off and slipped on a thong, some jeans and the silk blouse and raced back to the door. She stood there, her stomach in knots, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Feet! She looked down, groaned, and hurried back to yank off her fuzzy socks and slip on her Kate Spade ankle boots.
Her buzzer rang and she ran back to answer the door. Her trembling hand on the knob, she hesitated. She couldn’t catch her breath. This was so dumb. To be so eager over a guy. Really. She wasn’t fifteen anymore. Even at fifteen she’d never gone gaga over some dude.
She breathed in. Let it out slowly. Just as a knock sounded on the door, she turned the dead bolt, unlocked the chain and opened it.
And there he was.
Her breath whooshed out of her lungs. No guy had ever made her feel this rush of desire, the overwhelming stimulation to her senses. But something about Joe made her skin tingle. Made her want to throw herself at him. Tear his clothes off, wrap her legs around his waist and—
“Hi.” He was smiling and his stubble had thickened to a beard, emphasizing his white teeth. But he still had that clean woodsy fragrance. She made a mental note to ask him the name of his cologne.
She smiled casually. “Hi.”
He raised his brows and lifted the two shopping bags to eye level. Her eye level, anyway. “I brought stuff for lasagna.”
“Oh.” Her mouth watered at the image of home-cooked lasagna. When had she last eaten homemade anything? But she’d expected takeout. Or...she didn’t know, but not something so time-consuming. “You cook?”
He grinned as he stepped inside. “Of course. I got the double whammy. I’m Italian and I’m a fireman.”
“We could’ve just ordered something.”
He looked offended. “No way.” Moving past her, he stopped and surveyed her tiny apartment and nodded toward the kitchen area. “With your permission?”
She waved him on, and then shut the door, locking the dead bolt. “Sure.”
He shed his coat, tossed it over a barstool, and started unloading the ingredients from the shopping bags. His tight black sweatshirt sported the bright yellow block letters FDNY across his chest.
Joining him at the counter, she fingered the fresh loaf of French bread, the romaine lettuce and ripe tomatoes. The fresh garlic. “I’d offer to help, but you’d be sorry.” She gave him a rueful grin.
“Can you open wine?” He handed her a bottle of 2005 Massolino Barolo. Mmm, impressive. She dug in the drawer for her corkscrew.
“And you could put on some music.”
She made herself stop staring. Music. What did she have on her iPod that he would like? As she opened the wine and reached for wineglasses, she mulled over her somewhat eclectic assortment. Heavy metal was out. She didn’t think he’d appreciate her opera soundtracks. She poured the wine and then settled for country rock.
Meanwhile Joe had helped himself to her limited number of pots and pans, had water on to boil and meat sizzling on the stove. He was chopping garlic and onions and scooping them into a pot of tomato sauce. Her stomach rumbled. When had she last eaten? This morning sometime.
Almost in a daze she moved the laptop, magazines and bills off her tiny table and set out plates and...why not? Candles.
Her stomach rumbled again and she moved to the pot with the sauce. Joe was chopping mushrooms. “How much longer?”
He scowled. “Never rush a good sauce. Look in there.” He pointed to the shopping bag with his elbow. “I brought appetizers.”
Oddly pleased, Carly grabbed the bag and peeked inside. She threw him a puzzled glance and pulled out an avocado-green plastic container. “What is it?”
He raised his brows. “See for yourself.”
She popped the lid and stared at asparagus perfectly wrapped in prosciutto. They were covered with sprinkles of freshly grated parmesan. Her mouth watered. She actually hummed as she licked her lips. “Are you secretly a top chef or something?”
He winced sheepishly. “My mom made those.”
The fact that his mother had made food for him should’ve been a huge red flag. But she pictured the plump woman she’d seen hugging him at the airport, the love for her son radiating from her, and how she’d gone to so much trouble for him tonight.
Her throat tightened as depression hit her.
Geez. What was all this moodiness about? She shook it off.
Besides, at that moment he could’ve told her Tony Soprano had made them and she would’ve written the mafia don a personal thank-you note. Grabbing a plate and fork, she served herself, and cut a bite, stuffing it into her mouth. Mmm. She closed her eyes, and maybe swayed on her feet a bit. “Your mother is a goddess,” she said after swallowing.
He smiled. “Man, would she love you. We all take her cooking for granted.”
Carly fiddled with the knife and fork. A mother’s love. Now in her case, there was an oxymoron.
Those onions were stinging her eyes. “So, you have a lot of family?”
He nodded as he chopped mushrooms. “The Tedescos are the reason for the cliché of the big Italian family. Two brothers, two sisters. All older th
an me, which sucks.”
“I don’t know...” She shrugged.
“Believe me. You wouldn’t say that if you knew what they’ve put me through over the years. One time, my brother Bernardo and I were altar servers together, and he hid our pet hamster inside the tabernacle—where they keep the Eucharist—and when I opened it during Mass the hamster jumped out and, well, you can imagine the rest.”
Carly gasped. “That’s awful!”
“It’s okay.” Joe grinned. “I got even eventually.”
“How?”
“By the time I was in ninth grade, I was half a foot taller than Bernie. I never let him forget it. And I never had to wear his hand-me-downs again.”
Carly shuddered. “You’re right. I’m glad I’m an only child.” She looked up from taking another bite and got caught in his dark gaze.
“Still, it must be nice to not be so...alone.”
His smile faded. Had she said that out loud? What was that look in his eyes? Sympathy? Whatever it was, it was too intense. She cut another bite of the asparagus and held the fork to his mouth.
With both hands full of mushroom pieces, he opened his mouth and angled his chin to catch all the asparagus. But his gaze never left hers. As he chewed, his eyes heated, staring into hers. Was he remembering all the things they’d done together in that cruise-ship cabin? Suddenly she wanted to postpone dinner and lead him to her bedroom.
“How long does that sauce have to simmer?” Her voice sounded husky. She laid her palm on his chest.
His brown eyes flared, darkened, the color of espresso. His gaze dropped to her mouth and his head lowered. His lips parted. He had such full sensual lips. He dropped the mushrooms to the counter, cradled her head and brought those lips to hers.
His kiss was deep and powerful, full of hunger. She reached up and circled her arms around his neck, clinging to him. She’d missed this. Missed his passion, his strength, the way he could make her feel as if she was the only person on the planet he wanted to be with.
His fingers raked through her hair, angling her head. And his tongue swept in, devastating her mouth, demanding her response. His hands slid down to the small of her back, one to rest on her butt. He held her tight and a low groan rumbled in his throat.
Cabin Fever Page 8
