Hot Attraction

by Lisa Childs

  She stopped just outside the last room on the left where that curly-haired kid had directed her to. No one must have yelled at him about talking to her, because he had been as helpful as ever when he’d told her they were in the workout room. Then he’d told her where to find that room.

  Only a few of them were inside, he’d said. Superintendent Zimmer, Cody Mallehan and Assistant Superintendent Dawson Hess. Dawson had never said he was an assistant superintendent.

  But then, he’d never said much about himself.

  She’d gone to the wrong source for the information she wanted. She’d tried to investigate but the US Forest Service provided very little information about their Hotshots. There was no list of names or who held what position available to the public. If not for Superintendent Zimmer talking at the press conference during the fire, she probably wouldn’t have known he was in charge. And of course Dawson had told her nothing the night before. He was the only male she’d met who didn’t like talking about himself. So she would talk to the others about him. She would get his story whether he liked it or not.

  She drew in a deep, bracing breath. She could do this; she would do this. It was good she’d dressed professionally because it reminded her that she was a reporter. And a reporter’s face was a blank slate. She couldn’t betray any bias, or any reaction at all to what was going on around her.

  So her eyes didn’t drop out of her head and her tongue didn’t roll across the floor like some cartoon cat who’d found a juicy bird spinning on a rotisserie when she walked into the room.

  Dawson Hess wasn’t spinning. But he was lifting. His shirt off, every muscle in his chest rippled as he effortlessly—almost absentmindedly—lifted the barbell in his hands. Sweat trickled down between his pecs and rolled across his washboard abs before disappearing into the waistband of his low-slung shorts.

  The man was as hot as the fires he fought. He was also oblivious to how damn sexy he was. And to her…

  He remained focused on his workout while his coworkers turned to her.

  “Good morning, Ms. Kincaid,” the superintendent greeted her. His coolness from the day before was gone; he seemed almost friendly.

  Why?

  She narrowed her eyes. She’d expected more rejection. When she’d tracked them down at the little tavern, they had all been adamant that they didn’t want any more media attention.

  “Good morning,” she replied.

  The morning was almost gone, though. She’d wasted too much time worrying about what to wear; she’d told herself that she was only doing it for herself—so that she’d feel professional. But she realized now that she’d wanted Dawson’s reaction.

  Instead, she got Cody Mallehan’s. The blond firefighter was openly staring at her. His green-eyed gaze ran up and down her legs. She hadn’t thought Dawson was paying attention until she saw him bump Cody with the end of his barbell.

  Cody grunted and glanced down at him. “What? That weight getting too heavy for you, old man? Want me to show you how it’s done?”

  Dawson bumped him again. Then he effortlessly lifted and snapped the barbell into the holders at the top of the bench.

  Avery knew how strong he was from how easily he’d lifted and carried her to her bedroom. But now she saw the muscles bulging in his arms and in his broad shoulders. She closed her lips to hold in a wistful sigh at the sight of the sweat glistening on his skin. Then she dragged her gaze from Dawson’s impressive physique back to his friend, who was pulling off his shirt.

  “I’d actually like to ask you some questions,” she told the blond firefighter, “if you have time.”

  Cody paused and glanced at his boss. She didn’t notice anything, but Superintendent Zimmer must have given him an imperceptible nod, because the guy began to speak, “So you finally found out Wyatt Andrews wasn’t the only hero the day of the big fire.”

  And her gaze returned to Dawson. He’d tensed.

  “I know he wasn’t,” she said. “Dawson rescued my nephews.”

  “The twin blond kids?” Cody asked.

  She nodded. “Kade and Ian Pritchard.”

  “Cute kids,” Cody said. “Hess did take care of them. I was there, too, though. Hess and I went back together to find Wyatt and the campers.”

  Mallehan was the kind of man she was used to—the kind who wanted his accomplishments noted.

  “Wyatt found them first,” Dawson said. “He got them clearing ground to set up the fire break. He was the true hero.”

  Cody sighed. “Yeah, he was.”

  “But Dawson brought the extra shelters,” Cody said. “He made sure there were enough for everyone.”

  Dawson shook his head. “There’s no point in dredging all this up again,” he said. “It happened several weeks ago.”

  “But the true story was never told,” Avery persisted.

  When the men all exchanged furtive glances, she knew her instincts about the fire hadn’t failed her. There was even more to that story than Dawson Hess’s heroism. And she vowed to find out what.

  *

  DAWSON SHONE HIS flashlight beam around the ground, looking for footprints in the soft soil beneath the trees in the yard of Avery Kincaid’s little cottage. He should have looked the night before, but he hadn’t wanted to leave her alone in the house. He should have looked that morning, but he’d known then that if he didn’t walk back to her sister’s place, get in his truck and drive off, he would go back inside. And he would make love to her.

  Idiot…

  That was what his body had been calling him the entire day. The intensity of his workout hadn’t eased any of his tension. He ached with it—ached with wanting her.

  And it hadn’t helped that she’d showed up at the firehouse in mile-high heels and a skintight dress. The gold silk had nearly been the same color as her skin, making it all too easy for him to imagine her in nothing at all.

  Cody had obviously been imagining her naked, too. He’d followed her around the firehouse like a puppy while she’d talked to the other members of his crew.

  Why had Zimmer allowed it? They’d been determined to avoid drawing more media attention to the fire. What the hell did he think a special feature was going to do?

  Sure, the guys had been careful to say nothing about how the fire had started. But she’d asked, and she had to have noticed that no one had actually answered her. They’d asked her questions, too, but she’d been just as careful and hadn’t revealed any of her suspicions. And Dawson knew that at the very least she suspected something. Maybe she even knew that it had been arson; maybe that was why she was being so persistent. She wanted to be the first to break the news.

  The arsonist would love that—would love finally getting the attention he wanted. Whoever set the fire must have been the one inside Avery’s place—the one who’d been watching her. The beam of light bounced across the ground. It had been disturbed. The imprints were large, the tread deep. The boots belonged to someone bigger and heavier than her nephews—just as he’d suspected when he’d heard the branch snap the night before. Someone had been out there, hiding in the trees and watching her.

  He strode back to his truck. He needed to call Superintendent Zimmer and let him know what he’d found—what he suspected. But what could Zimmer do? If he sent anyone to check out the area, she’d know for certain that there was more to the story. That was why Dawson had waited until night to investigate, in the hopes that she wouldn’t notice his looking around her yard.

  He tossed his flashlight inside and leaned in to reach across the console to the passenger’s seat. Something hard dug into his lower back. He’d parked near trees. He’d had no choice since the driveway was barely wide enough for his truck. But none of those trees had low-hanging branches. It had to be something else.

  Someone else…

  “What the hell are you doing?” Avery asked.

  “What the hell were you doing today?” he asked. And instead of reaching across the seat, he reached behind him and wrapped his ha
nd around the oar as he turned to face her. He didn’t jerk it from her hands; he pulled slowly enough that she came with the oar and fell against him. Her hips pressed into his—only the narrow wooden part of the oar separated her breasts from his chest.

  “What do mean?” she asked. And she sounded breathless. “What was I doing?”

  “Coming down to the firehouse,” he said. “Talking to my friends.”

  All proud and professional, she lifted her chin and haughtily replied, “I was doing my job.”

  “You’re still determined to do this special feature on me?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He shook his head. “You’re wasting your time.”

  “It’s my time to waste.”

  “Isn’t it your station’s time you’re wasting?” he asked. He couldn’t believe a major-market news program would care about a fire that had happened weeks ago.

  “I took a week off from the station,” she said. “So it’s my time.”

  A week. That was all she was going to be in Northern Lakes? He could last a week surely—hold off her questions that long. Hold off his desire for her…

  Maybe her questions, at least…

  And he might not even be in Northern Lakes a week. Hopefully he and the rest of the Huron Hotshots would be called to work another fire, far away from her.

  “It’s your time,” he agreed. “But it’s my life. If you want to know about me, talk to me—not to my friends.”

  Because he was afraid they would say too much, give up enough details that she could actually run something about him. Unfortunately they had confirmed that he’d been the one to rescue her nephews. Damn Cody’s big mouth. He didn’t need or want to be in the media spotlight again. But she’d have to dig deep to find out about his past. He just wanted to do his job—and part of that job was stopping the arsonist.

  She snorted. “Like you’re going to tell me anything…”

  He chuckled. They hadn’t known each other long, but they were getting to know each other well.

  “What were you doing?” she asked. “Shining a flashlight around my yard?” The dome light in his truck cast a glow in the yard—over her face, which was pale. He’d scared her.

  He shouldn’t have risked shining the light around, shouldn’t have risked her noticing.

  “My job,” he said.

  She glanced around. “I don’t see a fire.”

  Not yet.

  “I was checking to see if there were any footprints around your yard, any indication that someone had been sneaking around here like you thought last night.”

  She cocked her head and studied him skeptically. “How is that your job?” she asked. “You’re a fireman—not a police officer.”

  That was true. But in a small area like Northern Lakes, firefighters often pulled double duty. He worked as a paramedic in the off season, when the Hotshot crews weren’t needed to battle major blazes.

  “I was checking to see if you needed to call a police officer,” he said.

  “Do I?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Then he released the oar. She stumbled back slightly with it. He turned and reached into his passenger seat for what he’d been trying to retrieve before she’d shoved the oar into his back. Pulling out his pillow, he said, “You don’t need to call the police because I’m spending the night again.”

  She chuckled now. Bitterly. “Like hell you are.”

  “You’re not safe being here alone,” he said—especially not now that he’d seen those footprints. And if the arsonist had been there once, he could come back. Dawson didn’t want to be there just to protect her; he wanted to be there to catch the fire starter.

  “You just said I didn’t need to call the police,” she reminded him.

  “Because you have me.” He wished the words back the minute he said them—because it felt like that, as if she had him. Despite his best efforts to resist his attraction to her, she had him.

  “You’re a fireman,” she said. “Not a bodyguard.”

  “I can protect you.” Probably better than a bodyguard, since the person he suspected represented the threat to her safety was an arsonist. He just wasn’t sure who could protect him from her.

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “You are pretty sure that someone was in your place last night,” he reminded her.

  She shook her head. “I talked to my sister. She doesn’t remember cleaning the fireplace. Those ashes could have been there for a while.”

  He doubted it. Whatever had been burned hadn’t been there long before he’d discovered it. “And the feeling that someone was watching you?”

  “Paranoia?”

  He could have showed her the footprints—could have proven to her that her instincts had been correct. “Maybe you’re right,” he agreed. “But what if you’re not? What if someone had been inside—what if he comes back? You can’t take the chance of being alone.”

  She snorted. “I don’t take unnecessary risks,” she said. “I had dead bolts installed today. And I’m keeping my can of Mace close.”

  He chuckled. “I guess I’m lucky you didn’t bring that out here.”

  “I recognized your truck,” she admitted.

  “So you didn’t want to Mace me,” he said. “Just whap me with the oar.”

  “You deserved to get whapped with the oar for sneaking around out here in the dark,” she said. “I wanted to save the Mace in case there’s a real threat.”

  Then with the prickly pride and stubborn independence he was beginning to find strangely endearing, she lifted her chin and said, “I’m perfectly safe.”

  Not from him. He’d spent the day cursing himself for not having sex with her. And his body had punished him for denying it the release it needed. Maybe he’d only looked for those footprints to give himself a reason to stay.

  Now he had to give her a reason to want him to stay—to want him…

  Tossing the pillow back into his truck, he reached out and wrapped his hand around the oar. Then he pulled it and her back toward him—as if he was reeling her in. She stumbled on the uneven ground and fell against him again.

  Her beautiful turquoise eyes widened with surprise. Maybe she felt it—the hardness of his body, his erection straining against the fly of his jeans. “Dawson…?”

  “You’re not safe,” he said. “You’re not safe at all…” And he lowered his head to hers.

  9

  AVERY HAD NEVER been more afraid. Her fear had nothing to do with a potential stalker and everything to do with Dawson. Just as with every other time he’d kissed her, her knees weakened and her body quivered. Since she’d come outside in the cool night air, she’d been cold. Heat flashed through her now, and she no longer noticed the chill. She was unaware of everything but his lips on hers.

  His hands were on the oar; he wasn’t touching her anywhere but her lips. His mouth slid over hers—gently back and forth. But then he increased the pressure, and her lips parted on a gasp of desire. His tongue slipped inside her mouth, driving deep.

  And her desire increased. She wanted that tongue on other parts of her body—wanted him inside her. And she wanted to touch him, too. So she tightened her grip on the oar. She didn’t want to reach for him only to be rejected again.

  That was why she was afraid. She had never wanted anyone as much as she wanted this man. But she worried that she might want something she couldn’t have.

  Sure, he seemed to like kissing her. He’d done it often enough, but then he always walked away. Just like those other times, he lifted his head from hers and stepped back.

  Regret formed a hard knot low in her stomach—where she ached for him. He turned away back toward the open door of his truck.

  Summoning her pride, she forced herself to say, “Goodbye.”

  But the driver’s door slammed—with him outside the truck. He turned back to her and, his voice gruff, said, “I told you I’m spending the night.”

  “And I told you
I don’t need protection.” She didn’t want him to stay because of the thing his friends had dubbed his hero complex. She’d spent some time at the firehouse—trying to get them all to talk about him. But they’d been reticent—especially with him staring at them threateningly. The teenager who washed their bright yellow trucks and cleaned up the firehouse had told her the most—as he usually did. He’d told her that all the Huron Hotshots talked about Assistant Superintendent Hess’s hero complex. Whether it was from fires or bar brawls, he couldn’t stop himself from stepping in and saving people. She intended to use that for her special feature, but not for herself.

  “We both need protection,” he said.

  “Why?” Was he in danger, too? The firefighters in Detroit had been in danger; those gang members had threatened them, too. As if fighting fires wasn’t dangerous enough, they’d had to worry about bullets and knives, as well. What the hell had really caused the fire in Northern Lakes? She intended to find out, even if her life was threatened again. She was a reporter, so it was her job to uncover the truth.

  He reached out and grabbed the oar. “You won’t need this anymore,” he said, as he tossed it into the bed of his pickup truck. Then he reached out and grabbed her. His hands wrapped around her waist, he lifted and slung her over his shoulder, fireman-style.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked—as she already had once that night. And she wriggled around, trying to slide down.

  He held her with just one hand on the back of one of her thighs. She felt the imprint and heat of his palm through the thin material of her yoga pants.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  His deep voice still gruff, he murmured, “Probably…”

  She dangled down his back as he carried her toward the cottage. She’d left the door open, light spilling out. He walked over the threshold and kicked the door closed.

  She pressed her hands against his back and tried to push herself up so she could slide over his mammoth shoulder. But the hand not on her thigh touched her butt, easily holding her in place.