Slow Burn (Smoke Jumpers)

by Anne Marsh

  He laid in a course for her.

  “Faye?” When he slapped a hand down on the jukebox next to her, her head followed the movement of his hand first, before snapping back to his face. Brown eyes stared up at him. She sure didn’t look sad.

  She looked pretty. That was his first thought. Real pretty. He could see the soft curve of her jaw and cheek. Not tall, not short, just somewhere comfortably in the middle, where her head would hit his shoulder when he tucked her up against him. Which he wasn’t going to do. Honey-colored hair, thick and wavy and cut into layers, framed her face.

  “Who wants to know?” The soft, liquid edge of her words was a definite tip-off. The woman holding court on the jukebox wasn’t one hundred percent sober.

  “Evan Donovan,” he drawled. He leaned in closer, but she didn’t move away. That could be a good sign, right there. Most people flinched when he got too close. Especially now, when he was jonesing for that shower and had more than his fair share of soot from the fire streaking his face and his clothes. No way she wanted to be close to him.

  “I don’t know you.” Those brown eyes examined him.

  “Does it matter?” He could take advantage of the whole halfway-to-drunk thing to get her safely out of there. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t even ask too many questions.

  She eyed him, clearly considering something. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t think it does matter. Not tonight. We’re singing.” She patted the jukebox. “You want to come sing with me, Evan Donovan?”

  “No,” he said bluntly, and she sucked in a breath. Way to go, making her feel better.

  “You don’t like to sing?” She asked her question as if he’d copped to pulling the wings off butterflies.

  “Not really, darlin’,” he drawled. He was tempted to tell her exactly what he was interested in—and where he wanted to put his hands—but he was supposed to be watching out for her, not putting the moves on her.

  “Oh.” She chewed her lower lip. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  If she bought him a drink, he’d have to sit down and drink it. Getting in and out quickly was starting to look like pure fantasy on his part.

  “Where are you staying?” he asked, ignoring her question. “I’ll take you there. You shouldn’t be driving.”

  The big, dark bear of a man had come through the bar’s door like some kind of medieval knight. Or a Viking. Faye could definitely imagine Evan Donovan as a helmeted invader, bare-chested and draped in furs. The man was too big and too close, but some primitive, feminine side she didn’t recognize had come alive when he burst through the door. Her ex hadn’t been a small man, either, but this stranger was the largest man she’d ever seen. And Mike had been more pleasant, more charming. Evan Donovan was irritable as hell. He smelled strongly of smoke and the outdoors. Despite some recent attempt at a cleanup that had left his short hair slicked with dampness, he’d clearly scrubbed at his face with one big paw of a hand, because dark streaks of soot painted his jaw.

  Definitely not her type, though that too-large build of his promised an adventurous ride a woman wouldn’t quickly forget.

  You wanted adventure, a familiar voice whispered.

  “Come on,” he said again.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  He leaned in closer, the heat of that large body surrounding her. “You can’t stay here,” he pointed out, annoyingly logical. The smile tugging at his lips did something less logical to her insides. “And it’s going to be closing time real soon. You got a plan for tonight, Faye? You need to go home, darlin’.”

  She didn’t have a home to go to and didn’t know why he wanted her gone—but it was perfectly clear that he didn’t want her. Any other man would have seen the opportunity for a pickup, so his lack of interest both hurt and pissed her off. Sure, she wasn’t looking for a quick hookup in a no-name bar to break up her road trip. Not really. Not if she was being honest with herself. Which was, she admitted, much easier to do after too many rum punches. But she’d been enjoying the possibility, the fantasy of choosing someone and enjoying a no-holds-barred, no-strings-attached night of pleasure. He could have at least flirted with her.

  Played the game a little, because she’d admit he was beautiful in a raw, male way that woke up some part of her she’d buried when her marriage headed south.

  “Christ,” he said. “Why does this have to be so difficult?”

  She snagged her drink and raised the glass to her mouth, wrapping her fingers around the cool, damp sides. Most of the rum punch was gone, leaving just a handful of ice cubes slowly melting, watering down the leftover alcohol. Not bad, though.

  His hand came up and carefully tugged the glass away from her. “You want to be careful with those.” He shot a warning glare at the leggy blond bartender. “Mimi doesn’t pull her punches when it comes to alcohol.”

  She let him take the glass. She was done with it, anyhow. His fingers were so warm, closed around hers. Did he know what he was doing to her? Should she care that such a simple little touch felt so very, very good?

  “It’s time for you to get out of here,” he said, tugging gently on her hand.

  He was right, of course, but she suspected he was used to being right, because he looked like the kind of man who wouldn’t open his mouth, wouldn’t speak, until he’d thought things through and come to a conclusion. She leaned toward him, staring up at that rugged face of his. Too bad he was in such a rush. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

  “I was planning, darlin’, on going home. To bed.”

  “Sounds good to me,” she whispered.

  Her head hit his chest before her brain could kick into gear. She was too tired, the events of the day—her “six plus one”—pulling her down. She had the sudden urge to let it all go, to fall asleep right where she was, as if she were a baby. Or drunk, she thought, wry humor spiking through her. Too many rum punches in an unfamiliar bar. Dimly, she heard Evan Donovan say something, but sleep was tugging at her eyelids. She’d figure it all out tomorrow. Right now, all that mattered was the solid-and-warm beneath her cheek and the reassuring beat of his heart.

  There was a sigh from somewhere up above her, and strong arms closed around her, anchoring her. She let it all go and slipped into sleep.

  Well, hell. Just hell.

  Mike Thomas’s wife—his ex-wife—had gone to sleep. On his chest. She slumped against him, all sweet and warm, as if they were spooned up in bed together. Evan carefully closed his arms around her and looked down. This wasn’t good, wasn’t part of the plan. There was an unwelcome feeling in the pit of his stomach, a sensation he hadn’t felt since the last time his steel-toed boots had cleared the jump plane’s bay and sent him hurtling out into empty sky, only to discover that the wind had shifted and the drift streamers he’d checked mere minutes before weren’t pointing in the same direction anymore. He’d jumped off course that day and hung up in the mother of all ponderosas.

  The woman in his arms was pure trouble. And if he hung on to her, he’d be off course now, so fast, his head would spin.

  Mimi came around the end of the bar, sauntering up to him. All long, jean-covered legs, she looked a bit like an angel, too. One who’d fallen but didn’t mind the change in her location one bit. Yeah, she was also trouble, but she wasn’t his problem. He liked Mimi, always had, but last time he’d checked, she’d been busy running the bar she’d inherited and giving his younger brother hell. “You got this?” she asked, propping a hip against the bar.

  He looked down again at the woman sleeping against him, but Faye clearly wasn’t going to be any help. She let out a little mumble and snuggled in. Definitely not going anywhere on her own.

  “You can put her on the couch in my office,” Mimi offered.

  He ignored her. “Hey,” he whispered roughly. His mouth brushed Faye’s ear, and his dick came alive. That was too close to a kiss, too close to touching her deliberately. And he wasn’t. Wouldn’t. He was enough of a gentleman to know there were lines a man
didn’t cross. “Wake up,” he growled.

  She didn’t. She just turned her face farther into his chest with a long sigh.

  Tightening his arms around her, he let himself savor the sweet, hot weight of her body against his for one moment. Maybe two. The filmy material of her skirt floated around his legs. She was impossibly feminine and delicate-looking, but he could feel for himself that she wasn’t fragile. She was strong, despite the sweet, soft brush of her breasts against his arm that he was trying to ignore.

  Sliding his elbow beneath her shoulder, he lifted her until her chest was pressed against his. Another thing that felt too damn good. This was professional, he reminded the unruly part of himself that had other ideas. A routine rescue and nothing to get excited about. Grabbing her right wrist with his left hand, he draped it over his right shoulder. Slipped his right hand between her thighs, on the back of her right leg. After that, it was easy money to lift her over his right shoulder in a fireman’s carry and step away from the jukebox.

  “She can’t sleep here,” he said to no one in particular.

  Mimi looked at him, and there was no missing the humor in her eyes. “Yeah,” she agreed. “This is so not a hotel. Although, again, I’m going to point out that I’ve got a couch in my office. You can put her there.”

  “And then what?”

  Mimi gave him a strange look, almost as if she didn’t recognize him, even though he’d been hanging at her bar for years. Not that he was all that much of a drinking man. Sure, he liked a cold one after a long day, but getting drunk off his ass had never appealed to him. Growing up rough the way he had, until Nonna had stepped in and adopted him, he’d known early on that he couldn’t afford to lose himself like that. A beer or two at the end of the day, yeah, but never enough to forget who he was or what he was doing.

  Mimi was still staring at him.

  “When she wakes up”—alone and somewhere unfamiliar, because she wasn’t from Strong—“then what?”

  Mimi shrugged. “Whatever she wants, if she’s okay to drive.”

  Cheerful shouts from the other end of the bar had her turning back. “Put her in my office, okay, Evan? It’s not like there’s a Motel 6 in this town.”

  He strode down the hall, toward the office, and gave it a once-over. Mimi’s couch wasn’t going to cut it. No way that plaid monstrosity could be comfortable, even small as Faye was. The cushions looked hard. Plus, there wasn’t a blanket.

  Maybe, though, the woman in his arms had already solved this problem for herself. Maybe she’d had a plan for the night. Cradling her in one arm, he rummaged quickly through her handbag, looking for answers. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much in there. The usual feminine bits and pieces. A package of tissues and a pretty little gold compact with a French name he couldn’t pronounce. And a set of car keys. He’d seen her car on the way into Ma’s. It was hard to miss a red Corvette, especially when it was parked on Strong’s one and only Main Street.

  No sign, however, of where she’d planned to lay her head for the night.

  The way he saw it, that left him in charge.

  He carried his load out Mimi’s back door—he’d already hear about this rescue for the rest of the fire season, so there was no need to give anyone a closer look—and got the passenger-side door to his truck open. It was probably a good thing his unexpected passenger was out of it. He eyed the cherry-red Corvette parked haphazardly down the street. After driving a real pretty car like that, she might not like riding in the beast. His truck was a big, mud-splattered behemoth of a Ford that took him where he needed to go, and fire roads were no racetrack—that was damned certain. The beast could eat up asphalt if he needed the speed, but it was tough, too, if he ran out of road and needed to keep going.

  Still, the Corvette would be plenty of fun to drive.

  He slid her into the seat, dropping her bag at her feet. Good enough. He buckled her in, careful to avoid the danger zone of her chest. There was no missing that soft rise and fall. She was out real good.

  Fine. He’d take her to his place. Mike’s request to watch out for her meant he couldn’t leave her at Ma’s, and, as Mimi had reminded him, Strong was singularly lacking in the rent-a-bed market. There was no motel he could cart her to closer than thirty miles away, which he was too damned tired to do. Plus, she’d want to collect that Corvette of hers in the morning. He damn sure wasn’t letting her near any sports car right now. If he did, he’d be fishing her out of the nearest ditch before long. He palmed her keys from her bag and closed the passenger-side door.

  Two minutes later, his tires spat gravel, and he tore out of the parking lot as if he was running from something. But he wasn’t sure that something wasn’t sitting right there, in the cab of his truck.

  Chapter Two

  The need for an Advil reached kill-for-it status, the dull throb behind Faye’s eyes a warning last night’s adventure had not gone as planned. Her headache threatened to spiral out of control.

  God. What had she done?

  Little flashes of memory teased her, unfortunate reminders she didn’t really want. Ma’s bar. The positively lethal rum punches the leggy blond bartender had poured. Someone popping a quarter into the jukebox, and who’d’ve thought this town would still have an old-fashioned jukebox? She’d wanted to dance and sing and laugh.

  She’d done the dancing, met a few folks—and then what?

  Because she clearly wasn’t sleeping it off in the Corvette, as she’d intended. She dug her fingers into the lush softness beneath her. That was one hundred percent mattress. Instead of the Corvette’s plush leather, she was lying on cotton sheets.

  Hell. She was fairly certain that Strong didn’t have a motel and that she couldn’t spare the cash even if it did. Hence her whole sleep-in-the-Corvette plan.

  The sound of steady breathing behind her had her opening her eyes wide despite another stab of protest from her head. It was still early, the room wrapped in that not-dark-not-quite-light shadow. She was in a cabin of some sort, the dim outline of a bathroom half-visible through a partly open door. From the middle of the enormous bed where she lay, she could also see a stone fireplace. Two easy chairs. The collection of clothes dropped haphazardly on the floor included jeans and a pair of work boots. A man’s balled up T-shirt.

  No, she definitely wasn’t alone.

  She looked down. A man’s arm was a warm, heavy band around her waist. There was a military tattoo on his wrist, a dangerously sexy swirl of dark ink that branded that too-large, capable hand as the lethal weapon it probably was.

  Great. She’d started off her grand adventure by hooking up in a bar. She wanted to think she’d been all bold and luscious, that she’d swept this man, whoever he was, right off his feet. Unfortunately, it was looking as if she’d been the drunk pickup instead, because here she was, parked in his bed, wearing only her panties and an unfamiliar, too-large T-shirt.

  At least the panties were good ones—Betsey Johnson and all wicked black mesh with little pink bows. She’d picked them out for a weekend getaway with her husband—now ex—all part of a master plan to rekindle the romance that had somehow gone AWOL from their marriage. Instead, she’d come home that afternoon and found Mike in bed with another woman.

  Now she was in bed with someone else herself. Rolling over carefully, she took stock. And what a man.

  She remembered this version of big, dark, and sexy from the bar all too clearly.

  Unfortunately, when his eyes snapped open, on full alert, Evan Donovan didn’t look as if he was enjoying this morning-after any more than she was. He looked pissed.

  “You’re the firefighter from the bar.” She couldn’t keep the note of accusation out of her voice.

  “That shouldn’t come as a surprise to you,” he grumbled. “The whole damn bar was full of firefighters, darlin’. I’m just the one you happened to fall asleep on.”

  “I fell asleep?” That didn’t seem possible, but he kept right on glaring at her. Still, whatever had happened, h
e’d brought her here. He’d put her in this bed—she was suddenly damn sure of that—and then he’d put himself right there beside her. So he had no business acting so pissy.

  “Yeah,” he drawled. “One minute, there you were, perched on top of Mimi’s jukebox. The next minute, you’d picked my chest out as your new pillow.”

  Pieces of memories, pieces of last night, assaulted her. Since the best defense was attack, she forced herself to lean toward him. Plus, that chest of his was something else, all hard muscles and summer-kissed skin. She wouldn’t mind starting at the top and working her way down, kissing each tempting ridge.

  “You’re a big boy,” she said coolly. “I don’t think you did anything you didn’t want to do.”

  Lying in this unfamiliar bed—in his bed—felt deliciously wicked. This high in the mountains, the day wasn’t hot yet. Not like it would be later, when the sun climbed right on up the sky and got to work. The cotton sheet felt good. She stretched her legs, working out the aches.

  He was so big, and she didn’t know him, she reminded herself. God, this was beyond foolish. She should get out of his bed, find her clothes. Leave.

  Only, she didn’t know where she wanted to go.

  And she’d wanted an adventure. Last night, when she’d first laid eyes on him—before he’d opened his mouth—she’d thought he was every big-brute fantasy she’d ever had come to life. If she’d been home, back in L.A., maybe she would have worried. Right now, though, in this sleepy little town, he represented possibility, and she could feel the anticipation building inside her. He didn’t know it, but he was going to be hers. Only temporarily, of course, but she was so very tired of not living. Of coming home to an empty house. Of having empty arms.

  “What,” he growled, “do you think our next step should be?”

  He clearly expected her to acknowledge her mistake and get the hell out of his bed. Where he’d put her for some inexplicable reason of his own, undoubtedly tied to those protective instincts so many men seemed to come with. He was a firefighter, and that meant he knew how to protect. To defend. To keep on fighting when all that stood between the flames and others was his body and his determination to defeat the fire.