Desperately Seeking Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  Last year. He swore it. He was becoming a cliché.

  “Isn’t that your friend, Cherie?” A smirky male voice caught his attention. “I think he’s trying out for a Crystal Geyser ad. Hand me the camera, Nick.”

  Vader groaned. He knew that voice. While he didn’t hate anyone—it wasn’t in his nature—if he’d hated someone, it would be the owner of that voice, Soren. He was one of Cherie’s housemates, the other being Nick. Soren and Nick had an emo-goth-trance band called Optimal Doom, which for some reason they thought was super-hip.

  Vader refused to say what he thought. Cherie’s housemates were friends of her brother Jacob, and she was fiercely, unshakably loyal to her brother.

  Reluctantly, he turned his head. And there she was, standing just behind the two weedy guys in their black T-shirts, her cinnamon-red hair in a haphazard pile, a little sundress the color of pink lemonade skimming her generous curves, looking so delicious every muscle in his body clenched.

  She smiled uncertainly at him and gave a little wave. He frowned at her. How dare she smile at him, after shooting him down a second time?

  She lifted her chin and intensified her smile. That was Cherie. Always determined to make the best of things and stay friends, no matter what. “Yes, that’s my buddy Vader.”

  Buddy? Buddy? Vader saw red. She didn’t call him her “buddy” when she screamed his name in mid-orgasm, she didn’t call him “buddy” when he tied her to the bedposts—granted, she’d been pissed that he’d used his socks, but that hadn’t stopped her from coming three times and . . .

  He shook himself to attention just as Soren took a picture of him, most likely looking like an idiot as he gaped at them over an empty water bottle. “That’ll be five dollars for the photo,” he told Soren.

  “But I didn’t pose with you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. If you want a picture of me, it’s five dollars.”

  “Dude, get real. This is a public place. I can take whatever pictures I want.”

  Vader’s jaw tightened. “This is a charity event. It’s five dollars.”

  “Then I take my picture back. Here.” He deleted the photo from his camera. “Gone.” He smirked. “No more Poland Springs ad for you.”

  “Hey,” Cherie protested. “Was that necessary?”

  Vader would have liked to pick the loser up and launch him toward the dunk tank, but he reminded himself that Cherie appreciated Soren’s prompt rent payments. “Let me guess. You guys have been walking around here, taking pictures and making fun of stuff, and you haven’t bought one thing yet.”

  The two guys looked at each other, smirking. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  He shook his head, disgusted, and turned away. They weren’t worth his time. He didn’t know why Cherie put up with them. Maybe it was just one more indication of how wrong for each other he and Cherie were.

  Too bad the rest of him didn’t seem to believe that. Even now, a little current of electricity was racing through his body.

  “Don’t you worry, I’m spending enough money for all of us,” said Cherie, with a trace of a Southern accent and another determined smile. “I got a Sloppy Joe from Ryan that was pretty much out of this world. I bought a whole strip of those raffle tickets. They said the prize was a Firefighter for a Day.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “No wonder they’re going so fast.”

  Cherie was always innocently making comments that others could interpret as lascivious, as he was doing at this very moment. Then she’d realize it, and two spots of pink would appear on her cheeks and . . .

  Vader didn’t want to look back at her, fought not to do so. He fixed his gaze on the orange and black swirls of the photo backdrop, but damn it, when it came to Cherie, his willpower evaporated faster than mist in the July heat. He gave in and let his eyes travel back to her. She was digging in her little silver purse, the one that was shaped like a dog bone. She triumphantly held up a twenty-dollar bill.

  “And now I’d like a photo with San Gabriel’s sexiest fireman.”

  “You’re going to pay twenty bucks for a picture of you and your ex?” Soren laughed.

  Nick chimed in. “Maybe he’ll make his pecs do a little jig for the camera.”

  Vader clenched his hands into fists so tight, they could have broken through steel. Sure, he played the clown sometimes. He liked to bring a smile to people’s faces. That didn’t give them the right to—

  A soft hand on his forearm interrupted his train of thought. “Ignore them,” Cherie whispered. The scent of lilac, her favorite, surrounded him, making him feel as if he’d just lain down in a spring meadow with Cherie beside him. “They’re just being jerks. Because they can. Now come on, let me make it up to you. Twenty dollars for a photo.”

  He pulled his arm away from her touch. “I don’t think so, Cherie.”

  “Why not, for mercy’s sake? It’s for charity. Think of all those widows and orphans.”

  He pulled her aside, well out of earshot of her housemates. “Why did you come here?”

  Her lips parted, as if he’d taken her off guard. They were distractingly curvy, just like the rest of her. She studied him with serious gray eyes. They weren’t really gray, he knew. One afternoon, during a picnic, he’d spent a long time studying them, noticing concentric rings and identifying their colors. The shimmery green of dew-covered grass, the deep gold of an antique picture frame, the gray of evening fog over a lake. “Vader, please. I support the fire department just like everyone else here. I support you. And I wanted to see you. I . . . I missed you. Vader, you’re . . . well, you’re very dear to me. You know you are.”

  He groaned out loud. No freaking willpower. “You turned me down, Cherie. Twice.”

  “I thought we were going to erase all that. Besides, I wouldn’t put it like that. What I said was that I wasn’t interested in getting married. Lots of people aren’t.”

  “Yes, but your eyelid twitched.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t you know that your right eyelid twitches when you’re not telling the whole truth? I’ve really got to get you to a poker table one of these days.”

  Her hand flew to her right eye. “It does not.”

  “Fine. Five-card stud, dollar a point.”

  Just then Fred came back and flipped the sign back to “Open.”

  “Hey, Cherie.” He glanced at Vader, clearly looking for a clue as to how friendly he should be to her. Vader shrugged, and Fred’s smile broadened. “Great to see you. Ready for your close-up?”

  “You know it. Now, Stud, I’m paying extra for this baby, so make it good.”

  He handed her a helmet. “Why don’t you put that on? It’d be cute.”

  Vader knew plenty of girls who wouldn’t have wanted to mess up their hair with a clunky, heavy old fireman’s helmet. But Cherie was game for anything. She grinned at Fred, then gave Vader the helmet. “Hold it for a sec, please.”

  She reached into her pile of hair and pulled out the pins that were holding everything in place up there. A torrent of spicy, sun-spangled hair came tumbling down over her bare shoulders.

  Vader ground his teeth against the inevitable hardening of his body. Did she have to be so damn sexy? She planted the helmet on her head, and he lifted his eyes to the heavens, wondering just what he’d done to make the Almighty torture him like this. She looked . . . adorable. And he adored her. That’s all there was to it.

  And that’s all there’d ever be. Him, adoring her. Her, back and forth about him.

  He took a deep breath and stepped toward her. He could suffer a little more, for charity. Widows and orphans. Widows and orphans. “Come on. Let’s get in front of the backdrop.”

  Cherie glanced at the sheet of plywood behind them. It featured dramatic flames and billowing smoke taken from a close-up of an apartment fire. “The photo’s going to show a fire raging behind us?”

  Hopefully it wouldn’t also show the fire raging inside him. He wondered if she felt a fraction of the lust scorching throu
gh his veins.

  Soren hooted with laughter. “That’s called the fire down below, babe.”

  She shot her housemate a scathing look. “Shut up, Soren. You’re acting like an idiot.”

  Instantly, the guy piped down. Vader rolled his eyes. Cherie loved to mother people, and in the case of her housemates, that included trying to correct their rude manners. Maybe he should let her boss him around too. But, no. He had too much leader-of-the-pack, take-charge, tough-guy in him. He’d tried to tone it down, but what was the point? He’d never be the emo type. He’d never be Nick.

  Which gave him an idea. In one swift motion, he swept Cherie into his embrace, one arm under her legs, the other supporting her back. The breath whooshed out of her in a gasp of surprise. Her hands clutched his shoulders. Cherie was tall and she was all woman, an overflowing armful of warm flesh. He’d bet anything not many men would try to carry her like this. He, on the other hand, barely noticed the weight. Those workouts sure paid off when he wanted to sweep a woman off her feet.

  He stepped in front of the backdrop, where he braced his legs apart in a heroic stance and bent over her. She stared up at him, her pupils widening until her eyes were storm-cloud gray. He knew this look. He’d seen it many times, in the throes of arousal. It meant she wanted him. It meant if they weren’t in the middle of a crowded charity event, they’d be on each other in a millisecond.

  That look made hope pound feverishly through his veins. She still wanted him, no matter what she said.

  He leaned his head close to hers, so mere fractions of an inch separated them. At this distance, he saw the tiny pulse that beat at her temple, the glimmers of moss green in her irises, the dimple by her chin, the hint of sunburn at the peak of her cheekbones. He felt her heart rate skitter, her body tremble. Deep satisfaction settled in his gut. No doubt about it. She felt the pull just as much as he did. She might try to hide it or deny it or laugh it off or any of the other wacky things she’d done since they’d met. But he knew their crazy chemistry worked both ways.

  Mutual knowledge hummed between them. Both were attracted; both were aware the other was attracted.

  Cherie splayed her hand on his chest, as if to push him off. But the hell if he’d let her. He was tired of that inevitable arm’s length she kept putting between them. She’d come here, into his territory, and she could damn well deal with the consequences. He tightened his grip.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered fiercely.

  “Giving you your money’s worth,” he growled. “Now smile for the camera.”

  She started to look toward the camera, but he shifted her so she was angled his direction. “For the camera, not at it. Look at me. I’m the one rescuing you from certain death.”

  She regained a bit of her usual bravado. “Certain death? My, my. That does sound dire.”

  “Oh, it is. You see, we were making love in the third floor bedroom. We were a little distracted.” He adjusted his grip so one of his hands cradled her head. He knew how much she loved his hands.

  “Let me guess. Things got so hot there was a spontaneous combustion.”

  “As soon as I saw the flames, I leaped into action.”

  “And put a helmet on me?”

  “Sure. And some clothes. That part was a mistake.” He let his eyes rake down her body and caught her shiver.

  She swatted him on the chest, exactly how the other girl had, but with completely different results. Under his padded firefighter’s pants, he went rock-hard and aching. If only they were alone, if only he could turn this little scene into something real, something that involved nothing but their two naked bodies and lots of moaning.

  He bent his forehead to hers, fighting to get a grip on his hot need for her. “What is it? Why do you keep running away from me? It’s like you’re afraid of something.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Are you afraid of someone?”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly.

  Her right eyelid twitched.

  The camera clicked.

  “Awesome shot,” said Fred. “We should put this one in the calendar.”

  “No,” said Cherie quickly. “It’s strictly personal.” Her eyelid twitched again.

  Vader knew he was on to something. Cherie was afraid . . . of something or someone.

  As Vader let her slip back to her feet, he decided that one way or another, he was going to get the truth out of Cherie Harper. Once a man had been turned down twice, he deserved some answers. It was time to haul himself out of his funk and take some action.

  He was damn tired of being underestimated.

  About the Author

  * * *

  JENNIFER BERNARD is a graduate of Harvard and a former news promo producer. The child of academics, she confounded her family by preferring romance novels to . . . well, any other books. She left big-city life for true love in Alaska, where she now lives with her husband and stepdaughter. She’s no stranger to book success, as she also writes erotic novellas under a naughty secret name not to be mentioned at family gatherings.

  Visit her on the Web at www.JenniferBernard.net.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Also by Jennifer Bernard

  Four Weddings and a Fireman

  How to Tame a Wild Fireman

  Sex and the Single Fireman

  The Fireman Who Loved Me

  Hot for Fireman

  One Fine Fireman: A Novella

  Give in to your impulses . . .

  Read on for a sneak peek at six brand-­new

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  Available now wherever e-­books are sold.

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  An ancient curse, a pair of meddlesome ghosts, a girl on the run, and a fateful misunderstanding make for the perfect chance at true love in Lecia Cornwall’s latest novella.

  “I’ll have your decision now, if you please.”

  Lady Caroline Forrester stared at the carpet in her half-­brother’s study. It was like everything else in his London mansion—­expensive, elegant, and chosen solely to proclaim his consequence as the Earl of Somerson. She fixed her eyes on the blue swirls and arabesques knotted into the rug and wondered what distant land it came from, and if she could go there herself rather than make the choice Somerson demanded.

  “Come now,” he said impatiently. “You have two suitors to choose from. Viscount Speed has two thousand pounds a year, and will inherit his father’s earldom.”

  “In Ireland,” Caroline whispered under her breath. Speed also had oily, perpetually damp skin and a lisp, and was only interested in her because her dowry would make him rich. At least for a short while, until he spent her money as he’d spent his own fortune—­on mistresses, whist, and horses.

  “And Lord Mandeville has a fine estate on the border with Wales. His mother lives there, so she would be company for you.”

  Mandeville spent no time at all in his country estate for that exact reason. Caroline had been in London only a month, but she’d heard the gossip. Lady Mandeville went through highborn companions the way Charlotte—­Somerson’s countess—­devoured cream cakes at tea.

  Lady Mandeville was famous for her bad temper, her sharp tongue, and her dogs. She raised dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of yappy, snappy, unpleasant little creatures that behaved just like their mistress, if the whispered sto
ries were to be believed. The lady unfortunate enough to become Lord Mandeville’s wife would serve as the old woman’s companion until one of them died, with no possibility of quitting the post to take a more pleasant job.

  “So which gentleman will you have?” Somerson demanded, pacing the room, his posture stiff, his hands clasped behind his back, his face sober. Caroline had laughed when he’d first told her the two men had offered for her hand. But it wasn’t a joke. Her half-­brother truly expected her to pick one of the odious suitors he’d selected for her and tie herself to that man for life. He looked down his hooked nose at her, a trait inherited from their father, along with his pale, bulging eyes. Caroline resembled her mother, the late earl’s second wife, which was probably why Somerson couldn’t stand the sight of her. As a young man he’d objected to his father’s new bride most strenuously, because she was too young, too pretty, and the daughter of a mere baronet, without fortune or high connections. He’d even objected to the new countess’s red hair. Caroline raised a hand to smooth a wayward russet curl behind her ear. Speed had red hair—­orange, really—­and spindly pinkish eyelashes.

  Caroline thought of her niece Lottie, who was upstairs having her wedding dress fitted, arguing with her mother over what shade of ribbon would best suit the flowers in the bouquet. She was marrying William Rutherford, Viscount Mears—­Caroline’s William, the man she’d known all her life, the eldest son and heir of the Earl of Halliwell, a neighbor and dear friend of her parents’. It had always been expected that she’d wed one of Halliwell’s sons, but Sinjon, the earl’s younger son, had left home to join the army and go to war rather than propose to Caroline. And now William, who even Caroline thought would make an offer for her hand, had instead chosen Lottie’s hand. Caroline shut her eyes. It was beginning to feel like a curse. Not that it mattered now. William had made his choice. Still, a wedding should be a happy thing, the bride as joyful as Lottie, the future ripe with the possibilities of love and happiness.