by Anne Marsh
He opened his mouth. Damned if he knew what he wanted to say, but she took full advantage.
Her mouth covered his and she planted one hot kiss on him. Her tongue tasted his bottom lip, swept inside, and tangled decadently with his.
The groan was out before he could bite back the rough, hungry sound. He hadn’t kissed a woman in a long time. Too many fires, not enough time. Sarah Jo had no idea just how hungry he was, or that he wanted to make a sensual feast out of her body. If she did, she’d have run like hell.
But she didn’t know and she didn’t run. Her mouth locked on his, her tongue feathering along his lower lip with a light, teasing stroke that sent him higher. And, Christ, when her fingers sought the back of his neck, tracing a little up and down there, he was completely lost.
Being kissed by Sarah Jo was nothing he could have imagined. When her tongue finally dipped inside his mouth, he kissed her back as much as she’d allow. Pressed and coaxed, answering her kiss with one of his own.
Dimly, he was aware of the Rogues whooping and hollering around them, while the other cooks laughed and cheered Sarah Jo on. Mostly, though, he was aware of the woman in his arms and the sweet scent of her pressed against him. Maybe it was her shampoo or perfume, or maybe it was some secret female thing, but she smelled damned good.
When she pulled back, her lips pink and swollen, and tried to dance away from him, all he wanted was to hang on tight. That mischievous smile of hers tugged at the corner of her mouth.
Too bad for her he wasn’t done with her yet.
Tossing the tray away, he scooped her closer with one arm. “Seconds,” he growled. “Honey, I’m definitely wanting seconds today.”
Dade’s big hands threaded through her hair, holding her in place for his next kiss. He’d either forgotten about or didn’t mind their avid audience, because his mouth covered hers in a take-no-prisoners kiss. He pulled her into his body, a body that was every bit as hard and muscled as she’d fantasized. That full-body caress was followed by the firm press of his lips and then the sweet, erotic sting of his teeth nipping her lower lip. When she gasped, he swept inside like he belonged there and he’d just been waiting for her to open up.
The whole damn fire camp could burn down around them now. She wanted more of this. More Dade. More kissing. His tongue stroked hers, exploring her mouth and leaving behind a wicked burn of pleasure. Hell, the man kissed like he was in charge, and the heated arousal building low in her belly said that her body, at least, had no complaints about the change in management. God. Dade Johnson was one hell of a kisser. Sliding her hands up over his arms, she held on to his broad shoulders as he deepened the kiss.
This attraction exploding between them was a five-alarm blaze. Dade wasn’t pulling his punches, was going all out as he devoured her mouth. She’d tossed a lit match into dry grass, and now they were both on fire. His mouth moved expertly on hers, and he showed her exactly how he felt. Hungry. Possessive.
His scent teased her. Unlike her city dates, who sported expensive colognes, Dade smelled of smoke and pine, a woodsy, outdoor scent as wild and rugged as the man himself. He should have come with a warning label. She breathed in deeply, sinking further into his kiss. The chest beneath the ash-smudged white T-shirt was as hard and unyielding as the muscled thighs pressed against hers. There wasn’t an ounce of give in Dade Johnson.
He was damn hot.
And she needed to take control. This time, when she pulled back, he let her. He lifted his mouth, examining her face for a long minute, before he slowly untangled his fingers from her hair. As he stepped back with a polite nod of his head and a “Thank you, darling,” whoops and catcalls erupted from the hotshots watching the show.
That tacit male permission made her burn in a whole different way. He’d taken charge of their kiss, taken over. So letting him know that he’d shaken her—woken her—to her very core wasn’t an option. She’d never let him know how close she’d come to losing control. Men like Dade Johnson didn’t just take an inch. They took the whole goddamned mile and then some. Putting him in his place suddenly mattered a great deal. He’d turned the tables on her and she needed to turn them back. Fast.
Whirling, she sauntered back to the laughing, clapping cooks.
Game. On.
Chapter Two
It took all of the next day for Dade to get Sam alone. Of course, the four-thousand acre fire blowing up the side of the nearby mountain might have had something to do with that. The blaze had started out small enough. The Rogues had arrived and scratched out a line, shoveling dirt over the smoldering embers. Initially, there had been plenty of grass burning, but no trees. The fire had crossed the line unexpectedly, however, and the scene had exploded, flames devouring the dry grasses and rushing upslope. Boxed in by cliffs, the fire’s crackle seemed overly loud, amplified by the rock walls. The tall, black column punching up into the sky guaranteed that every breath he took was thick with smoke and the unmistakable smell of burning. Eventually, the fire’s head had hit rocks upstream and died, a lucky break, leaving only the treetops flaming, along with patches of smoldering grass.
Now, all that remained was mop-up and a quick break while they waited for the helicopter to swing by and lift them out and back to the base camp. Dade had taken the Rogues’ teasing as best he could, laughing and shrugging Sarah Jo’s kiss off like it hadn’t meant a thing.
Maybe it hadn’t.
Maybe he was crazy for thinking that kiss had possibilities.
He definitely understood the value of a good joke. He got that the camp cooks had been teasing Sarah Jo and that he’d merely been a convenient bystander. Any other summer, any other woman, and he’d have laughed it off right along with them. But he’d felt something when Sarah Jo kissed him, and he’d been almost certain she’d felt that something right back.
He’d always made a point of steering clear of his coworkers, and that included the camp staff. So it was too damned bad that Sarah Jo had kissed him, because she’d put ideas in his head and now he was curious.
Beside him, Sam’s Pulaski chewed through the iron-hard ground. Two regulation inches down and then straight back up, turning over the dirt nice and neat. Too bad it wasn’t as easy to get a handle on Sarah Jo.
He eyed Sam, not breaking his own rhythm. Of course, Sam would keep pace no matter how fast Dade dug. The front line was loud enough that he almost rethought the heart-to-heart thing. Men shouted over the roar of chain saws, almost drowned out by the crackle of the fire and the steady chop of the helo ferrying new crew in.
Too tired to bother with subtleties, he opened with the truth. “You set me up.”
“That kiss?”
Dade shot him a look and Sam just grinned. “Uh-huh.”
Sam flipped the Pulaski, dropping the hoe end down into the dirt and spreading it around. The line was good. The trees, however, were a damned problem.
“Hazard tree,” he said, jerking his head toward the nearest snag. “She’s leaning and the fire’s got her good.”
Sam tilted his head back and gave the tree a once-over. “Let’s drop her,” he decided. A quick round-trip to the pickup and he was back with a chain saw, the rest of the hotshots falling back to a safe distance.
Dade fell into step with him as they cased the tree. The risk wasn’t unacceptable here, and they’d cleared the team out. Better to drop her safely before her top snapped off and landed on someone’s head. Good men died that way every year.
Sam wasn’t done with their previous conversation. “Those girls do that every year. You know that.”
Yeah. That secret, unreasonable disappointment was back. Sarah Jo had kissed him like she meant it. Had she? Or was it all just a game in keeping with her playful, free spirit? Still, he’d had himself a taste of her now and he wanted more. If that kiss had been a move in some game, he’d just have to change her mind.
With more kisses.
“I was distracted,” he grumbled, pinning his eyes on the snag, ready to call any
movement.
“Right.” Sam yanked the cord and the chain saw roared to life. “More like you saw Sarah Jo standing there and you lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“Did not.”
Sam shook his head, making the first cut through the trunk. “Say what you want, but if I’d gone first, Livy would have killed me.”
“Maybe.” Dade considered that possibility while Sam got started on his second cut. Olivia didn’t strike Dade as undiscerning. She’d understand the hijinks that happened in camp. Dade had a feeling she’d either have words with the offending cook or simply kiss Sam long enough that he forgot all about an unexpected lip-lock. Maybe both. Livy was a good woman and Sam was a lucky man. He’d come close to losing her twice, but he’d hold on good and tight now.
“Besides, you liked it just fine.”
The chain saw roared through the back-cut, and the snag toppled. For a long moment, the charred treetop hung there in the smoky air, undecided which way to fall.
Sam looked right at Dade and made a give-it-up gesture.
He smiled. “Watch the sky, hotshot. You’re not getting me to kiss and tell.”
Calling a warning, he stepped back. Right on target, the snag came down in a slow-motion, flaming arc. The clearing lit up like a birthday cake for an octogenarian.
Sam Clayton was no talker, either. A month ago, he’d gone into the woods looking for a bunch of government agents tracking a survivalist whack job and he’d come out with Olivia Albert. He hadn’t shared the details, but he’d been smiling ever since. Catching up, he’d volunteered, because he and Olivia had known each other years before in high school. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that there was a whole lot of kissing involved. Camp gossip was betting on Sam’s producing a diamond ring before August.
Sam seemed perfectly happy that his days were numbered. “So was that kiss a onetime thing?”
“Guess that depends on what Sarah Jo is thinking.” Dade rolled his shoulders as he thought that one through. He knew he was no prize. Hell, he was working-class all the way. He worked his ass off, and he paid his bills, but not much more. A man didn’t get rich fighting fire. He liked Budweiser, Monday Night Football, and burgers. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try other things—when he looked at Sarah Jo, he could imagine all kinds of things he’d like to try on her—but he appreciated simple and straightforward.
Sarah Jo was a city girl and too damned good for him.
Because she’d kissed him—and then she’d let go of him like a hot potato. She’d peeled her mouth off of his—he hadn’t been ready to let go, not yet—and she’d danced back behind the table. As the guys had jostled forward, elbowing him, he’d stared at her like an idiot. Thanks, she’d said, like he’d popped a lid on a jar or passed the salt.
Thanks hadn’t begun to cover that kiss. His senses had been still singing Hosannas, his fingers curled into his thighs, because just seconds ago he’d had them wrapped around her waist. Yet she’d wanted to pretend that nothing had happened.
Hell, he’d half-expected her to call next, and he didn’t know what he’d have done then.
Because he was going to be her next and her last, at least as far as this summer went.
The look on Dade Johnson’s face as she’d strolled away from him yesterday had been priceless. And Sarah Jo knew precisely how he looked because the other cooks, armed with iPhones, had been more than happy to share photos. He’d looked amused. Deliciously confused. It was the sensual warmth in his eyes, though, that had her melting. She’d kissed him on a dare, but she definitely didn’t need any more trouble. Or men.
So maybe she’d made Rosalie’s pic of Dade her wallpaper. Dade was a good-looking man. He kissed even better than he looked, too, which was a definite plus in her book. It was too bad she couldn’t start something with him, but she’d learned her lesson. No more policemen, sheriffs, first responders, or firemen, because that kind of guy was nothing but take-charge trouble.
Still, walking away from him had been hard.
Especially since parts of her—the southern parts—had her wanting to grab his hand and lock him in her cabin. He’d make one hell of an afternoon off.
On the other side of the camp, a car started up. She jumped and silverware she’d been holding bit it, scattering on the ground. Hell. Bending down, she scooped up the dirties and eyed the departing vehicle. Just one of the hotshots leaving camp for an afternoon of R&R. A car pulling out—not in.
Still safe.
“Don’t overreact,” Sarah Jo told the silverware she was sorting. “He can’t find me out here.”
Unfortunately for her peace of mind, the sound of a second motor approaching the camp had her rechecking the impromptu parking lot through the cafeteria’s front windows. The battered pickup definitely seemed like hotshot material. Hotshots didn’t make billionaire money, and they liked their trucks tough and rugged, chosen for their ability to take on backcountry roads and haul loads. Like the men themselves. There was, she decided, a certain raw beauty about that kind of dedication and power. These were men with staying power.
Unlike her ex.
Thad Hill was looking for her. She’d never been one to ignore the truth. She should have known better. Thad was law enforcement and she’d fingered him for a jewelry theft and cover-up arson … then he’d deflected the blame back onto her. Still, the possibility of discovery seemed far away right now. She was three hundred miles away from the scumbag. Plus, the fire camp, for all its rough-and-tumble ways, was more peaceful than any town or city. Instead of skyscrapers, ponderosa pine stretched toward the summer sky, which was all hazy heat and summer gold. There were at least a dozen kinds of birds, and even the squirrels had glossy coats, for crying out loud. The place certainly smelled a hell of a lot better as well.
Line cook was certainly no harder than her last job as a home care worker. She’d had her own small business, taking care of a few elderly women. She’d met Thad when she’d picked up the phone and called for a wellness check for one of her ladies who hadn’t answered the door or collected her mail. He’d arrived in uniform. Different from her usual dates, but he’d been polite. Considerate. Her client had been fine, but he’d kept on coming by. Calling, her ladies had said.
Sniffing around, more like.
Sarah Jo should have known. Small-town dating had never been her thing. She didn’t do sitting on the front porch or evening walks and sweet sunsets. Maybe he’d been interested in her. Maybe he hadn’t. He’d met her Mrs. Joan, however, when Sarah Jo had run late one night and he’d come by for her, and his interest had done a 180. The elderly lady sat outside with him, wearing her “diamonds” and chatting Thad’s ear off, while Sarah Jo finished up inside. Unfortunately, the only diamonds Sarah Jo was familiar with were the tiny engagement rings her friends’ fiancés had picked out at the local Sears. She’d had no idea that those big stones were real.
Yeah. Reality check.
Dragging her attention back to her new here-and-now, she added more clean forks to the pile. Fifty had to be enough. Eight hours into her shift and quitting time was definitely on the horizon. She hated loose ends, though, so she’d finish the sorting, prep the tables for tonight’s hungry hordes, and then clock out. After all, it wasn’t as if she had anywhere to go. Her deluxe, five-star summer accommodations were a bunk in a shared cabin with three other single women. The mattress sagged something fierce, and the slippery art of keeping the sheets put still eluded her after four weeks in the field. So there she had it. More forks, or an early night curled up in her bunk with a paperback.
Choices, choices.
Another car crawled up the rutted fire road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. She didn’t have to look. She really didn’t have to.
Lying to herself didn’t help.
She looked. And, oh, God, that was a patrol car. She couldn’t read the words on the passenger side door, couldn’t tell if this was the local sheriff or if Thad had found her. The cold clench of her stomach was a
ll too familiar, as was the wave of nausea. Like being in one of those little rowboat things that the waves tossed around ruthlessly. It could be a coincidence. She craned her neck, trying to see.
Someone moved in behind her. Someone large, who was scuffing his feet because he was afraid he’d scare the shit out of her. The hotshots could be a real sweet bunch.
“Be right with you,” she said absently, craning her neck for a better look at the car. Should she go? Stay?
She honestly didn’t know what she’d do if Thad came looking for her. The car’s driver was clearly male, but she couldn’t make anything else out through the tinted glass. She’d have to wait for him to get out, and then she’d have only a few seconds to decide. After all, it wasn’t like she could announce that the good deputy was a thieving bastard. She’d already tried that and had gotten precisely nowhere. She knew that he’d broken into Mrs. Joan’s house, stolen enough jewelry to purchase a small island in the South Pacific, and then covered his thieving ass by setting the house on fire. Problem was, she’d caught him leaving—but she had no proof. It was her word against his. And no one had believed her. Her only consolation was that Mrs. Joan hadn’t been home—thank God for Bunco night at the senior center—so no one had been hurt. Physically, at least. She imagined the older woman mourned the loss of a houseful of memories that no insurance check could replace.
“Problem?” Dade’s husky drawl behind her shouldn’t have been a surprise. He’d never really pulled back after that kiss of theirs. She’d beat feet back behind her table that day, but he’d stood his ground. Her instincts said he’d been five seconds from clearing the table and repeating their kiss, and she hadn’t known how to feel about that. Now, he stepped closer, and she swore she could feel the heat of his big body despite the three feet of empty space between them. It was a good feeling, too.
Hell.
Independent, she reminded herself. She’d declared her independence from the male of the species. She wasn’t dating and she wasn’t putting herself in another no-win situation with a guy others looked to as an authority figure. Dade Johnson all but ran this fire camp, so tangling with him was a mistake. Everyone here would take his word over hers any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
