Vader followed him, muttering under his breath, but Roman was too glad he’d separated him from Sabina to mind.
He reminded himself that he and Sabina despised each other. Or at least, she despised him. He could accept that, he supposed. That didn’t mean he was okay with watching her get cozy with someone under his nose.
But as the day went on, he kept catching other little moments between them. Sabina and Vader were both part of the engine company. Vader was the hose man who hooked up to the hydrant, Sabina the nozzle person. They worked smoothly together—suspiciously smoothly. After one drill, performed to perfection, they took a little too long to emerge from behind Engine 1. “Jones! Brown!” He nearly went in after them with a hose. When they appeared, Sabina looked a little flushed and Vader wore a smirk. He swore he heard Vader saying something to her in French, something that sounded like an endearment.
Later, after demonstrating a new technique with the two-line rope system for rappelling during rescues, he caught Sabina whispering in Vader’s ear. His hand rested intimately on her back.
A shocking, volcanic surge of irritation rocketed through Roman. He pictured himself ripping Vader away from her and tossing him through a window. Sabina would jump into his arms and cling to him, gazing up at him with lovely, adoring turquoise eyes and sighing over his manliness.
He gritted his teeth so hard he tasted blood. Dio, why had he let this woman get under his skin so quickly?
Forget Sabina and Vader. Firefighter romances were common. That’s how he’d met Maureen, after all. Whatever they had going on, it had nothing to do with him. He was here to do a job. With a superhuman exercise of will, he erased the image of Sabina and Vader from his mind.
“Okay, let’s switch gears. Let’s look ahead to hazmat procedures. How many hazmat calls have you responded to here?”
The firefighters all seemed to pipe up at once.
“There was that explosion at the treatment plant . . .”
“An oil truck turned over on Highway 90, that was a mess . . .”
“What about the time Ella Joy set the turkey on fire?”
Laughter broke out, until Roman shut it down with one hand gesture. “Hazmat calls are among the most dangerous situations a firefighter can face. These days, you have to consider the possibility of terrorist involvement. They’re no laughing matter.”
All the smiles disappeared. Bravo, Roman. Chief Hard-ass, bringing down the hammer. Doing the job they pay you to do. That didn’t mean it felt good.
That night Sabina woke up suddenly on her little bunk in her home away from home. She spent two to three nights a week in this room and never had trouble sleeping here. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stuck her feet into the fuzzy slippers she kept here. Shaped like ladybugs, red with black spots, they inspired endless teasing from the guys. She called them her firebug slippers and claimed they prevented fires from breaking out at night during her shifts.
In her ribbed tank top and cotton shorts, she padded out to the hall. A light at the end of the hallway guided her in the direction of the bathroom. Someone must be in there. Too much of Ace’s sweet iced tea, no doubt. They’d all guzzled it down with their fried chicken and collard greens, along with frequent toasts to Southern mothers who sent their homesick sons their family recipes.
Yawning, she leaned against the cool plaster wall of the hallway, waiting her turn in the bathroom. Finally the toilet flushed, water ran in the sink, and the door opened. The light was immediately entirely blocked by a towering figure emerging from the bathroom. It could only be Chief Roman.
Immediately Sabina snapped to attention. “Good evening, sir.”
She could barely see his face, silhouetted as he was against the light from the bathroom, but it seemed as though his mouth twitched in a smile.
“Buona sera.”
“Buona sera,” she repeated.
He gave a visible start. “You speak Italian?”
“Not at all.” Crap. Her knack for accents always came back to bite her at the wrong moments.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Are you finished in there?”
“Yes. Sorry.” He came forward, holding the bathroom door open for her. As she passed him, she surreptitiously scanned him from head to toe, hoping to God he didn’t notice how she devoured every detail of his nighttime wear. His loose drawstring pants hung low on his hips, revealing the taut, pale-skinned valley between his hipbones. His stomach muscles marched in double formation up his long, long torso. Her tongue tingled. How she’d love to put it just there, at the point of his hipbone, and go for a wild roller-coaster ride up his spectacular musculature.
She dragged her eyes away before he caught on to her completely inappropriate lust.
He looked embarrassed. “I’m not used to the heat here yet. I always seem to want to take something off.”
That didn’t help her temperature one bit. Thanks a lot, mister.
“Don’t worry about it,” she mumbled, imagining him taking off his one remaining piece of clothing—his pants.
Once inside the brightly lit bathroom, she turned to smile her thanks and caught him doing exactly what she’d been doing one moment earlier. Checking her out. His gaze seemed to be trapped by the stretch of bare skin between her shorts and her top.
Then he snapped his eyes up to meet hers. His jaw was black with stubble. A crease on one cheek showed how he must have been sleeping.
“Good night, Sabina.” He nodded formally, as if they were at a ball. She almost curtsied back.
“Good night, Chief—”
“Roman’s fine.”
“Roman.”
He left, closing the door behind him. She slumped onto the toilet, the sound of his voice saying her first name echoing in her mind.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, as the early relief guys were showing up, Roman passed by the apparatus bay, where two of the crew, Stud and Psycho, were checking their equipment.
“Everyone knows him and Two are hot for each other,” Psycho was saying.
Roman went dead still. Was Psycho talking about him? Had the crew already picked up on the tension between him and Sabina? And . . . was she still “hot” for him?
“That’s a load of baloney,” said Fred. “They’re just friends.”
“Oh yeah? I heard they were making out in the backseat of the pumper. Pumper. Get it?”
Roman frowned. They couldn’t be talking about him. He hadn’t gone near the pumper.
“You’re lying. Two would never do that.”
“What, does ickle Fweddy have a crush on the pwetty girl?” Psycho, whose name suited his insanely bright blue eyes, made girly faces at Fred.
“I don’t!”
Roman smiled. Of course Fred the Stud had a crush on Sabina. It was a common condition at Station 1.
“Why wouldn’t you? She’s hot. Did you see her doing Pilates in the workout room? I wanted to crawl onto that mat and sex her up, Psycho-style. Talk about working your core . . . ooh, yeah, baby . . . lift and tighten . . .”
Roman knew ruthless goading when he heard it, but Fred had an unbroken record of falling for a tease.
“Don’t talk about her that way! She’s not like that!” The clatter of equipment being tossed to the floor told Roman it was time for the hard-ass to step in.
When Roman strode into the bay, Psycho had his hand on Fred’s forehead and was laughing as Fred wheeled his feet helplessly, unable to get close. Psycho dropped his hand as soon as he spotted Roman. Fred staggered.
“What’s going on here?” asked Roman in the voice that had terrified ten years’ worth of Brooklyn probies.
Fred scrambled to his feet. “Psycho was . . .” Fred sputtered, then went silent. Clearly he didn’t want to mention Sabina.
Roman turned to Psycho, who he knew to be an excellent firefighter with a dangerous taste for living on the edge. Tattoos covered his torso and upper arms; he was a battling-his-demons t
ype. Roman could relate, except for the tattoos. “Psycho?”
“It was my fault, Chief. I was speaking inappropriately about two of my fellow firefighters. It would be entirely understandable if you elect to administer punishment.”
Oh yeah. And the guy had most of a psychology degree from Princeton.
Roman raised an eyebrow. “Just out of curiosity, what punishment would you consider appropriate?”
Psycho’s brilliant blue eyes flashed in surprise. He gave a resentful shrug.
“I overheard the word ‘Pilates.’ Maybe a Pilates demonstration for the crew would be a good start.”
Psycho choked out an extremely reluctant “Yes, sir.” Hatred radiated from him in near-visible waves.
“And Stud?”
“Yes?” The kid’s face was contorted from the effort to hold back his laughter.
“Come with me. I have a job for you.”
Roman ushered Fred out of the apparatus bay. The youngster skipped alongside in a way that reminded Roman of Luke. “Chief, I just wanted to make him shut up, I wasn’t going to hurt him. But he was saying things he shouldn’t. I don’t know why he gets like that . . .”
“It’s okay, Stud. You were defending your fellow firefighter. I have no problem with that.”
“So you heard what he said? It’s a lie, Chief.” Fred seemed to have forgotten where they were. His voice rose passionately. “Two and Vader are just friends. She never goes out with guys from the station, she always swore she wouldn’t and I believe her no matter what they say . . .”
He snapped his mouth shut as they rounded the corner into the training room and caught sight of Sabina perched on the couch.
Too late. Obviously she’d overheard him; a slow wave of pink traveled up her cheeks. She looked sleepy-eyed and groggy. Steam rose from the coffee mug gripped tightly in her hand. Stan leaned his head against her knee in a state of apparent bliss.
An awkward silence encompassed the three of them. Roman couldn’t read her expression. Curious? Furious? She must hate being the subject of rumors. Her hands tightened around the mug. A glance at Fred told him the kid had gone a painful red.
Finally Sabina summoned a bright smile. “This coffee tastes different. Good different. I can actually swallow it for once. I was trying to find Ace to tell him so. Anyone seen him?”
“I made the coffee,” said Roman brusquely. The rookie, Ace, had yet to brew a decent pot. Unable to stomach his sludge one more time, Roman had brought in the best Italian roast the Lavazza exporters could provide.
Sabina’s eyes widened. “You did?”
“I can put up with a lot, but not bad coffee.” Or with the way Sabina kept throwing him off balance. He couldn’t afford to be off balance. He had to do something about it. “Fred, have yourself a cup. Jones, in my office, please.”
Roman shut the door behind her with a sharp click.
Sabina assumed an at-ease military posture, her hands clasped behind her back. Roman looked about as happy as a granite cliff. His usual firehouse expression, in other words. He’d been different in Reno. More relaxed, more sociable, more attractive . . .
She watched him cross his arms over his massive chest. Even under his shirt she could see the muscles of his upper arms flex.
No. His attractiveness level hadn’t changed one bit. If anything, it had increased in the short time she’d known him. The sight of him walking into the training room, with fresh stubble on his jaw and his black hair a tiny bit sleep-mussed, had nearly knocked her off the couch. She hadn’t even noticed Fred, until he’d turned red as a maraschino cherry. Whatever they’d been talking about, it must have been embarrassing.
The chief cleared his throat. “Romances between firefighters are bad for station morale.”
A shock wave of heat flashed through her. Firefighter romances. Why was he bringing that up?
“Yes, sir,” she answered faintly.
“I checked department policy. There are no rules against it.”
Good Lord, was he talking about the two of them? Her heartbeat picked up speed, as if she were headed into the first curve on a roller coaster. Was he was going to ask her out? “That’s true. There aren’t.”
If he did ask, what would she say? Did she want to go out with him? How quickly would they end up in bed together? The constant nearness of Roman had rattled her nerves and disturbed her sleep all night. The only relief had come when they’d been called out on a fire. At least it had distracted her from Roman’s magnetic presence and midnight eyes.
And now he was talking about firefighters dating.
When he opened his mouth to speak again, she blurted, “Yes.”
“Yes. That’s your answer?” If anything, his expression looked even grimmer. It occurred to her he’d never asked her a question. Her face flamed.
“It might be,” she said cautiously. “That depends.”
His black eyebrows drew together like the wings of a crow. He rubbed his forehead. “In Reno you told me you were unattached.”
Her mind raced. Why was he talking about that? It had to be the preface to an invitation. But he didn’t act like a man trying to ask a woman out—more like a man trying to get a hairball out of his throat.
“That’s true.”
“True that you told me that, or true that you’re unattached?”
Suddenly the whole thing felt like a trap. All her highly developed wariness kicked in.
“Chief Roman, may I ask why you’re asking about my personal life?”
He reacted as though to a slap on the face. Matching her stance for stance, he locked his hands behind his back and nodded, suddenly all business. “Yes, you may. The reason is this. If you choose to get involved with another member of your company, think hard about all the ramifications and the potential for trouble. If you want Captain Kelly to change your shift or your assignment, he will do so. Obviously, we can’t forbid you to date a fellow firefighter. But since I’m charged with bringing discipline to this fire station, I’m asking you to be discreet.”
Sabina felt a wave of mortification sweep from her head to her toes. The man wasn’t asking her out. Of course not. What was she thinking? There were rules against firefighters of different ranks dating. As a Battalion Chief, he was her superior. What an idiot she was. Good Lord, he was probably talking about Vader. Everyone knew they were just friends.
Everyone but the new guys.
She flashed back to the bit of conversation Roman and Fred had been having when they’d walked into the training room. She’d been too busy ogling Roman to decipher it. They’d been talking about her. She was used to it, of course, but somehow it felt different with Roman involved. What did he think, that she slept around? With her fellow firemen? Then again, she nearly had, in Reno.
She drew herself up to her most correct, most military posture, spine straight, jaw jutting forward. “Chief Roman, this conversation is completely uncalled for. You should know not to listen to firehouse gossip. I have a strict policy against dating fellow firefighters.”
He rubbed his jaw. “So, in Reno . . .”
“I didn’t know you were a firefighter. It wasn’t a date. And besides, we . . . well, we didn’t.”
“True. Good thing, too,” he said thoughtfully, though his narrowed, sidelong look suggested something different.
A vision of Roman, chest bared, hands on his belt buckle, flashed through her brain. “Good, yes,” she agreed, her voice only a tiny bit squeaky. She cleared her throat. “Satisfied?”
“Mmm,” he answered, although she didn’t think “satisfied” quite described his expression. He looked more as if he’d stumbled into a very confusing hornet’s nest. She jumped on the opportunity to take him off guard.
“Answer me this, Roman. Why don’t you cook for the firehouse? You can cook circles around most of us.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Most?”
Sabina raised her chin. “Hoagie used to make a pretty good Thai curry.”
A gleam of
interest flashed in Roman’s eyes. “Sorry I missed that.”
“You haven’t answered the question,” Sabina said, after a short silence.
Roman looked away, fussing with some paperwork on the desk. “I don’t have an answer. Cooking is . . . well, it’s . . . personal.”
She watched, fascinated by his embarrassment, as he straightened a pile of folders, placed a paperweight on top, glanced over at Stan’s empty dog bed.
“What about cooking at La Piaggia? That’s not very personal.”
His head swung up, fire in his eyes. “It certainly was. I took that arrabiata atrocity very personally. How any self-respecting restaurant could serve something one step removed from ketchup and call it— Are you laughing at me?”
“No, sir.” Sabina pressed her lips together to keep away the smile that wanted to spread across her face. Roman might be intimidatingly huge and powerful, but right now, he was . . . well, adorable. “I just think it might help the crew warm up to you a little if you cooked for them.”
He straightened to his full height and glowered at her. “Why would I want that?”
“No reason. Just station morale. Teamwork. That sort of thing.”
“Discipline. Authority. Respect. That’s what I care about.” Each word dropped from his mouth like a heat-guided missile.
Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” Roman barked, all trace of the passionate defender of arrabiata gone. Fred poked his head in, Stan worming his way between his feet. The dog headed for his corner after an indignant look at the two humans keeping him from his morning nap. “Psycho says his Pilates demo is about to start.”
Roman gave a sharp nod. “Discipline,” he repeated as he ushered her out the door. As she passed in front of him, she could have sworn he winked.
A warm, fizzy feeling spread through her, as if at any moment a hot air balloon might lift her off the ground.
That delicious state of mind disappeared the instant her shift ended and she spotted the beige Mercedes parked in front of the fire station. A man leaned out the window and called to her in his three-pack-a-day voice, “Munchkin! Over here.”
Sex and the Single Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novel Page 6
