A vinyl case held CDs, and Shannon flipped through them. She had to smile, because if these were any indication, she and John had the same eclectic taste in music.
She pulled out the Kinks and slid it in the player.
“Come dancin’, it’s only natural.’”
She sang with the chorus, and John joined in, his soft, slightly off-key baritone blending with her contralto. It was a fine California evening. The sun was about to set over the ocean, and the sky was coral and scarlet and gold. Shannon was having trouble remembering how much she distrusted the handsome man beside her.
“Where’re we going?”
“It’s a surprise. I did some research, and I hope it’ll be good.”
It was. The Tangerine Bistro was new, situated right on the water. Shannon had heard of it, but she’d never been. It had earned an early reputation for exquisite French food and horrendous prices. They were led to a table outside on the covered balcony. John ordered wine, and soft piano music drifted out from the lounge.
When the wine came, he held up his glass in a toast.
“To you, Ms. O’Shea. Thank you for not making me arm wrestle you in front of the crew. I would have done it if necessary, but it’s so much more civilized not to have to.”
Shannon laughed. “Think you’d win, huh?”
“Absolutely.” His smile brought out the dimples she’d noticed before. “I have my master’s degree in arm wrestling.”
She sipped her wine and challenged him with her eyes. “I suspect you’ve also got your master’s in duplicity, John Forester.”
The waiter came to take their order, and when he left, John reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out a manila envelope. He placed it in front of her.
“My credentials, ma’am.”
Shannon opened the envelope. First, there was a driver’s license with his name, his photo and a New York address. Next was his fireman ID, social security, several credit cards. His birth certificate, giving date and place. He was thirty-two, four years older than she was. Last of all was a photograph, a faded black-and-white print. A man in a dark suit and a fedora stood in front of a roadster. His face was the same shape as John’s, strong-jawed and sharp-planed.
In spite of the fact that she felt self-conscious and a little ridiculous, Shannon took her time studying the assortment. Now that she was with him, she couldn’t quite convince herself that John was a fraud. And the assortment of ID certainly backed him up; true to his word, he’d even included the airline’s boarding pass. She took note of the date.
It was the day of the second warehouse fire. So he’d been telling the truth. He hadn’t been in Courage Bay when she’d been trapped in that warehouse. But how come Salvage knew him?
Stuffing everything back in the envelope, she handed it to him. He took it, brushing her fingers with his, prolonging the contact.
“So, Detective, am I still under suspicion?”
The waiter brought their food just then, so she didn’t have to answer right away, and when he finally left, John changed the subject. “Courage Bay is a beautiful place. How long have your family lived here, Shannon?”
“Generations. An ancestor of my dad’s—Michael O’Shea—was shipwrecked off the coast in the mid-1800s. The story goes that a beautiful native girl rode out in a canoe and saved his life. They fell in love, so our family has both Irish and Chumash Indian heritage.”
“I remember the story from that documentary I watched about smoke jumping. What was the guy’s name again, the one who kept the other crew members from drowning when the ship went down?”
“Michael. Michael O’Shea. And the woman’s name was Kishlo’w.” Shannon watched him, liking the way his brown hair waved over his forehead. He had remarkable eyes that curved down at the outer corners. His nose was a little crooked, as if he’d broken it once or twice. She knew all about broken noses. Sean had had his broken more than once. It gave a man’s face character.
Character. Truth. Did she believe him? Almost. Nearly. She ate her lobster and sipped her wine, finished off her bread roll and reached for a second.
“I think our heritage and our environment have a big effect on what we choose as a career and the way we live our lives,” John said. “Your family’s lucky. You all have this symbol of great courage to inspire you.”
“So what inspires you, John?” She buttered the roll.
“The job. I love my work.”
“Me, too. Did you join up because of your dad?”
He was chewing a bite of steak, so he didn’t answer right away, but he nodded in a thoughtful way. “Yeah, you could say my dad had a big influence on my life and my choice of career.”
“How about your mom?”
“My mother?” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Mom. Yeah. Well, that’s another story. She’s not well, my mother.”
“I’m sorry, John. What’s wrong with her?” In case he figured she was just being curious, Shannon quickly added, “I know how it feels, having your mom sick. My mother had cancer six years back. She went through chemo and surgery. We were all scared out of our minds at the time. But she’s been okay, and now that five years have gone by, they figure she’s in the clear. Thank God. I know how crazy it can make you when someone you love is sick.”
And how you can worry about your actions causing a relapse. She still worried that going against Mary’s wishes would make her sick all over again. Not that her mother had ever insinuated that. Give credit where credit’s due.
He didn’t really answer. Instead, he said, “I guessed from that photo that your family’s close-knit. Sometimes I almost wish my mother’s illness was one that surgery could cure, but it isn’t. She’s an alcoholic.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, and Shannon could only guess at the pain behind the straightforward words. He hid it well. In the course of their job, firefighters saw the effects of alcoholism almost on a daily basis. It took an enormous toll on the lives of the people affected and on their relatives, and it often tested the firemen’s patience to the limit.
“Gosh, I’m sorry. That would be tough to deal with. No one in my immediate family suffers from alcoholism, but I have cousins who’ve lost jobs and ended up in court because of drinking.” She didn’t add that as a firefighter, she’d seen enough horrible deaths that were alcohol related to last her a lifetime. John would also have seen them. “Is she in a treatment center?”
He shook his head. “Not at the moment, although she’s been in and out of the best over the years. She’s not able to live on her own. She has a companion, a nurse who watches out for her. She’ll go months at a time without drinking, but when she does, somebody has to keep an eye on her. I did it for as long as I could, but I finally realized a stranger would do a better job.”
Shannon nodded. “I can see that. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Nope, only child. I always wanted siblings, but it never happened. My mother never remarried after my father died.” His voice was calm and very controlled. In spite of his seeming openness, Shannon felt there was a lot he wasn’t revealing. There was something mysterious about this man, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“Do you think your dad’s job had something to do with her drinking? I mean, being married to a fireman can be pretty stressful. My mother didn’t want Patrick or Sean applying, and then when I did—well, she’s never really accepted it.” To put it mildly.
He shrugged. “I think you can use almost anything as an excuse to drink, if you have the disease. I’ve always been grateful that I didn’t inherit that particular gene.” He reached across and touched her arm. “Enough of that. Let’s get to the important stuff. Tell me what you want for dessert.”
Shannon scanned the menu the waiter produced. “Crepes with chocolate and bananas. And whipped cream.”
“For two.” John handed the menus back and grinned at her. “It’s so refreshing to be with a woman who isn’t on some strict diet.”
“A
re you insinuating that I ought to be?” She was teasing. She had no hang-ups about her weight or her appetite. But she was curious about the women he’d dated who were on diets. Actually, she was just as curious about the ones who weren’t. Had any of them managed to ruffle that air of total control?
He shook his head and laughed aloud. “I walked straight into that one. And the answer is absolutely not, you’re perfect just as you are.”
“You, too. I mean, who am I to argue with dogs and elderly ladies and babies?”
They laughed, and went on to talk about books. He enjoyed the same complex English mysteries she did, although he read more nonfiction.
When the dessert arrived, Shannon took a bite and savored it. Then she said, “Who would you be if you were a historical hero, John?” It was a game she and her brothers had often played.
“Fictional or real?”
“Either.”
“Robin Hood.” He didn’t seem to have to think about it. “I practically wore out a copy of that book when I was a kid. And you?”
What would he do if she said Maid Marion? Shannon was tempted but she didn’t quite dare. “Joan of Arc. She got to play with the boys, which is what I spent my childhood trying to do. My brothers attempted to either ditch me or drown me, and I used to think a lance would be the greatest thing.”
He forked up crepes and chocolate and nodded. “And there was the horse, right? Not to mention all those faithful men following wherever you led.”
She nodded. “Power. Heady stuff. It would have been pretty exciting. Although I don’t fancy the ending. Not with my job.” She shuddered, remembering just for a moment the warehouse and the flames all around her. She shoved the memory out of her mind. “What ever became of Robin Hood, anyway?”
“Didn’t he and Marion live happily ever after in Sherwood Forest? In a tree?”
Shannon hooted. “That story had to be written by a man. A woman would have explained how he built her a two-story cottage and rerouted a stream so she could have indoor plumbing.”
They laughed as they finished dessert and lingered over coffee, talking about other books they’d enjoyed as children.
When it was time to leave, John gestured at the sandy beach and the moonlight streaming across the water. “Want to go for a walk?”
“Sure. I’ll ditch these shoes first.”
“Good thinking. I’ll take mine off, too.”
Outside, she slipped off her heels and he put them in the car along with his loafers. He had long, strong, elegant feet.
“Anybody ever tell you your legs are spectacular, O’Shea?”
“Maybe once or twice. But I don’t mind hearing it again.”
“And the rest of you matches, so that’s a real bonus.” He took her hand and led the way down to the water’s edge. The tide was out, and the sand was wet and soft under her feet. She was very aware of his palm, and the way he’d threaded his fingers between hers. It was intimate. It was sexy and arousing. She was powerfully aware of him, of the skin on his hands, his large shape beside her, the way the length of their strides matched as their naked feet plowed through the sand.
His voice was soft and deep, blending with the sound of the surf. “So, Shannon O’Shea, what do you see for yourself in the years ahead? Do you want to be chief?”
It was a question she’d asked herself more than once. She knew the answer, but just how honest could she be with him? Men freaked when a woman started talking about love and commitment, even when it was only in general terms.
You want honesty from him, O’Shea. So give out what you expect back.
“I love what I do, but I want more than just a career. I want what my mom and dad have, what Sean and Linda found together. I want to get married, have a mess of kids and a house filled with dogs and toys and noise and pesky relatives, the way our house was when I was growing up. I want happily ever after.” Funny, she’d never managed to say that to her mother. Mary’s fears got to her, and then Shannon ended up spouting stuff about a firefighting career.
“You really think that’s possible? Happily ever after?”
“Sure I think so. I don’t think it’s easy, though. I think it calls for more hard work and openness and honesty than most people are willing to give, which partially accounts for the high divorce rate. There’s also the fact that sometimes divorce really is the best alternative.” As it was with Willow and Steve. “I guess it’s hard to know when to go on and when to end things.” Shannon had waded in this far, so might as well go deeper into murky waters. “You ever seriously consider marriage, John?”
“Nope. My track record has always been shallow and short, and I don’t see it changing anytime soon.”
Well, that was honest enough. So she knew what to expect. She glanced up at him. He was staring out at the water. The moon outlined his profile. His jaw was set, and she thought there was something terribly lonely about him.
“I guess you could say my work is my mistress, Shannon.”
She frowned. “I’ve heard of dedicated firefighters, but that’s a little extreme, don’t you think? I mean, I understand it’s possible to have a life besides work.”
He grinned down at her and nodded. “Yeah, but when you say that about your work, it really impresses the hell out of the bosses.”
She laughed with him, and she was still laughing when she stepped hard on something sharp that pierced deep into the sole of her foot and sent pain shooting up her leg.
“Oww.” She sank down to the sand and drew her foot up, trying to see what was hurting. “Oww, I stepped on something sharp. It’s in my foot.”
“Let me see.” He knelt beside her and pulled out a key chain with a small flashlight attached. “Here, let’s have a look.” He took her foot in his hand and shone the light on it. “It’s a piece of glass—somebody left a broken bottle in the sand. Hold still.” He held the flashlight with one hand, and with the other pulled the fragment out.
The pain was so intense it made her dizzy. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”
“All done.” He held up the long, sharp shard of glass. “We need to clean the wound and put some antibiotic on it. I’ve got my first aid kit in the car.” He pulled her up so she was balanced on one foot. “We don’t want any more sand in that. It’s bleeding a lot. Hold on to my neck.”
He curled one arm under her thighs and swept her into his arms.
“Put me down.” Shannon felt totally panicked and out of control. “I’m way too heavy for this—put me down.” No one had carried her since she was a small child. She felt ridiculous and helpless and annoyed and aroused, and she fought him for a moment.
“Relax.” He laughed and walked across the sand as easily as he had before he picked her up. “Unless you’d rather I used the traditional fireman’s carry?”
“No. No, this is fine.” The thought of exposing her panties while her head dangled halfway down his back made her stop struggling. She had no choice except to loop an arm around his neck. She was intensely aware of him, of the smell of his aftershave, the warmth and intimacy of his forearm on her bare thighs—why had she worn such a short skirt? Oh, hell, the damn man was a giant. He made her feel almost fragile.
He made her feel safe, the way she’d felt…The memory of the warehouse rushed into her brain. The huge man in the silver—he and John were the same size. She could swear these arms were the ones that had circled her waist that day. She shoved the thought away.
Her cheek was against his chest, and she could feel the rumble of his voice and the thumping of his heart. “Forester, you’re gonna have a heart attack from packing me. Your heart’s thundering like a freight train.”
He didn’t answer until they reached the car. He set her down, but he still held on, even after she was balanced on one leg. He drew her close, supporting her weight with an arm around her waist so that even her good foot was almost off the ground. He pressed her close against him, and she could feel that she wasn’t the only one aroused.
“It’s
not exertion.” His voice was low and rough and tender. “You’re a sexy lady, and I’m just reacting to having you in my arms.” He waited until she looked up at him, and his dark gaze made the blood pulse through her veins. The moment stretched and stretched, and then very slowly he lowered his head and took her mouth.
CHAPTER NINE
LORD, HE TASTED GOOD. Her pulse shot up a notch, and her resistance faded. She slid her hands up and gripped his shoulders. Her skin felt hot, his mouth was wonderful, and she eased her hands under his suit jacket, running her palms over the thin cotton of his shirt, feeling the definition of muscle and the warmth of skin. And then she was kissing him as if her life depended on it.
He held her tighter, anchoring her with one arm and using the other hand to stroke her, up and down her spine, the curve of her hips, at last using his palm to cup her breast.
“Mmm.” She melted against him, into him—and yet some tiny part of her brain wouldn’t let go of the fire, the man in the silver. John felt familiar, as if she’d been close to him before. She drew away from him, and pulled in a shaky breath.
“Maybe—maybe we should get in the car?”
“Yeah.” He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. “For sure we should. We’re gonna get arrested out here. It’s an upscale restaurant—there’s probably rules about making out in the parking lot.” His voice was unsteady. “Your foot sore? I’m sorry, I should have treated that for you before…”
He released her, letting the rest of the sentence fade. He made sure she was balanced on her good foot before he fumbled for his keys, unlocked the door and helped her in. “Loop your legs over the gearshift, up on the driver’s seat. I’ll get the kit from the trunk and dress that cut for you.”
“But I’m gonna bleed all over your fancy car.”
“So? I’ll get it cleaned.”
Her heart was still hammering, her blood pulsing through her veins, and she watched through the window as he unlocked the trunk. She was powerfully attracted to him. If only there was some way to be sure, to absolutely know without a single doubt that he was telling her the truth. Who was he, really? Why did her every instinct signal recognition, even in the face of the evidence he’d presented to the contrary?
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