Slow Burn (Smoke Jumpers)

by Anne Marsh

  She sensed he was the last person who would hurt her.

  Why not ask for what she wanted, explore where this could go? He’d been standoffish last night, but then he’d brought her here. That had to mean something.

  She put a hand on his arm, soaking in the warmth of his bare skin. God, he felt so good. Live in the moment, she reminded herself.

  “You could kiss me,” she said boldly.

  Faye Duncan was killing him.

  “You think this is about sex?” he growled. “Not yet, it isn’t.”

  Evan didn’t do relationships. Hell, he barely even had sex anymore. There was no room in a smoke jumper’s life for that kind of complication. When a man jumped head over ass into the heart of a wildland fire at a moment’s notice, that man wasn’t “keeper” material. He never knew when he was coming home or even if he was. Call came in, and he headed out. It didn’t matter what time of day, what day of the week, or if he’d had plans. Fire didn’t wait.

  Home was the hangar and the belly of the plane that spat him out over the day’s hot spot, and that left no room for a lover. He certainly didn’t want to make the space or the time, but giving this fire season his all wouldn’t be possible if he kept staring at the woman in his bed the way he was. Damn.

  He’d known Faye Duncan was trouble the moment he laid eyes on her.

  “Well?” she demanded cheekily instead of answering his question. Her hand stroked his arm as if he was some animal she’d decided to tame.

  She needed to learn that he didn’t heel.

  “You don’t want me to kiss you.”

  There. She sucked a breath in, as if he’d hit her. Now she’d get up and go.

  Instead, she simply slid closer. Another handful of inches and they’d be skin to skin, and then she’d know exactly how much she affected him. He’d brought her here because he’d been too damned tired to think straight. Leaving her, alone and vulnerable, in the bar, even on Mimi’s couch, hadn’t been acceptable. What he should have done, however, was cart her ass to Nonna’s. Let his adoptive mother deal with her; Nonna was good at handling strays like Evan and his two brothers.

  His erection told him all too clearly, however, why he hadn’t taken that saner, wiser course of action. Part of him really, really wanted to get to know Faye Duncan better.

  Much better.

  “I think you do,” she challenged.

  Yeah, she was right about that.

  Cupping the side of her face, he dragged a thumb along her jaw. She had the softest skin. He’d stripped off her clothes last night, telling himself she couldn’t sleep in a skirt and itty-bitty tank top that smelled of smoke and rum punch. Truth was, even though he’d done it quickly in the near dark, he’d wanted to sneak a peek. Yeah. He was definitely a bastard.

  He should have thought more about how those memories would stick with him. He’d seen all that pretty skin of hers. Bare. He hadn’t touched, though, not more than was necessary. When she woke up, he’d thought, then he could touch a little more. Kiss that neck and those shoulders, kiss his way straight on down her body if she’d let him.

  She was Mike’s ex. She was a woman he’d rescued—temporarily, he reminded himself—from a night spent sleeping it off on Mimi’s office couch. He needed to get up. He needed to go.

  Ignoring the unmistakable dare in her brown eyes, he jackknifed off the bed. His pager picked that moment to go off, and fate handed him an ironclad exit plan. Spotter had seen a fire, and the plane was going up.

  “I’ve got to go.” He swiped his clothes from the floor and got ready to bail. Whatever it was she really wanted from him, he’d have to figure out later.

  Leaving. Story of his life.

  “Fire call?” She rolled over in the bed, taking his sheet with her. She didn’t look surprised, but then, she’d been married to a firefighter, hadn’t she? He’d bet Mike had left her on more than his fair share of late-night calls. “Or is this how you leave all your women?”

  Wordlessly, he tossed her the pager. He wasn’t going to argue with her, and he didn’t have the time, anyhow. Time was a luxury none of the jump team had. Summer up here might be slow and hot, real quiet—until the fires started, and the plane went up. But once a fire hit its sweet spot, found the fuel and the air to burn like hell, there was nothing slow about it. The men who fought fires knew, when that happened, that they were pure out of time.

  She tossed the pager back to him, but not before she eyeballed it. “I was teasing.”

  Grabbing his jeans, he stepped into them and pulled the worn denim up his legs. So much for taking another shower this morning.

  He could feel her gaze on him, and suddenly it was that much harder to get the denim past his erection. Hell.

  “I know you all work hard.” She sat up, and the sheet fell away. At some point during the night, his favorite T-shirt had tangled around her waist. From where he stood, he could spy a strip of bare, sun-kissed skin peeking out between the bottom of the shirt and her panties. With her hair tangled around her face, she looked like a woman who had been well-kissed. Last night she’d been a stranger. She’d been a name dropped in a phone conversation.

  Now she was half-naked in his bed, and Evan knew that this image of her was one he wouldn’t soon forget. She wasn’t just Mike’s anonymous ex anymore; now he had his own damned fantasies about her. He wanted to learn her. Wanted to thread his fingers through that silky hair, memorize the texture and the scent of her. Hold her real close.

  Instead, he grabbed a T-shirt and yanked it on. Not too far from the cabin, the powerful throb of a plane’s engine kicked to life. His boys were getting business done at the hangar across the runway, and he needed to be there.

  “You’re a firefighter,” she said for the second time when he didn’t break the silence but got on with dressing.

  “Smoke jumper,” he corrected, because as great as his admiration was for the boys who rode the trucks, that wasn’t who he was. He jumped.

  “I came to Strong to take some pics,” she informed him. “Firefighters, smoke jumpers, and progress on the new firehouse here.”

  He opened his mouth to share Mike’s request and closed it.

  His brother Jack was revamping the mostly volunteer fire department in Strong. Strong had been a one-truck town with a single paid fire chief, until Jack bought the old fire station earlier that summer, with visions of adding more trucks and more men. Too bad the place was a run-down piece of crap. Maybe it was an antique and on the historic register, but Evan figured that was shorthand for fixer-upper and money pit. Ben Cortez had held the place together all these years, whipping his volunteers into shape, but the older man had to be thinking retirement one of these days, and Jack had apparently picked up a vision of something a little bigger and better, along with a fiancée, in Strong.

  If Faye Duncan was supposed to be documenting Jack’s progress, Jack would be plenty pissed about her current location in Evan’s bed. He’d tainted the witness, all right.

  It didn’t matter that nothing—much—had happened. Jack had drummed into his brothers’ heads that sometimes appearances mattered almost as much as facts. And this was clearly one of those times. Jack had been hunting down outside funding sources for Strong’s new fire department, and Evan could easily imagine this magazine piece starring front and center in Jack’s efforts.

  “I’m already impressed by what you and your guys are doing.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He sank onto the bed’s edge to pull on his socks and steel-toes, because it was the bed or the floor, and his dignity had taken enough of a blow.

  “No, I mean it,” she said, and maybe she did. Her voice rang with sincerity, and she shifted closer, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight. “The firefighter at that mountain brush fire yesterday was really spectacular. He was right there, pronto, before I could even phone it in. It’s like you guys pop out of the woodwork or something when there’s a fire.”

  Christ. According
to the official reports, Evan had been first on the scene of yesterday’s only brush fire, pinch-hitting for one of Ben’s guys. He hadn’t seen any sign of another firefighter—or of Faye or her fancy car. “You saw a brush fire yesterday?”

  “Yeah.” She tucked the sheet beneath her arms and eyed him. “On my way into Strong. I came around a bend, and there it was. I drove right through it.”

  “You remember what time that was?” Had there been another fire he hadn’t known about?

  She shrugged. “Three or four o’clock. Exact time-stamp will be on the pictures.” She grinned at him. “Happy hour had already started at Ma’s when I got there about twenty minutes later.”

  Christ. Of course she’d taken pictures.

  Her next words were the final nail in the coffin. “I’m sure I can use some of them in the photo spread.”

  “You work for a magazine.” Shit just kept on coming, didn’t it? He needed to go, but he also needed to hear what she had to say. His fingers flew up the laces of his steel-toes, but no plan popped ready-made into his head.

  “Catalogs mostly, but I’m freelance now. This piece on Strong’s volunteer fire department is for a magazine. Show the firefighters doing their thing in a historic firehouse that’s being restored.”

  Jack was definitely going to kill him for getting involved with her.

  “We need to talk about that brush fire.” He stood up, considering his options. He’d ask Ben to double-check with his team and verify that Evan really had been the first responder. Maybe someone else had put in an unofficial appearance, but something was off here and, until he figured out what, he needed her to stay put, so they could have that conversation. “When I get back.”

  “Really.” Her eyes narrowed.

  He’d seen that look of feminine outrage on Lily Cortez’s face. His brother’s fiancée didn’t take orders well, either. He knew he’d stepped in it. Again.

  “Look, I appreciate the bed for a night, but now I’m out of here. I need to do my thing. I got some good quotes last night. I’ll talk to one or two of the firefighters down at your firehouse. Take a few more pictures. Then I’m hitting the road. All I need is the name of a good mechanic. My car was acting up on the way into town.”

  “Wait for me,” he repeated. “I’ll hook you up with a mechanic, if that’s what you need, but first you have to talk to Ben Cortez, the local fire chief, and my brothers. Tell them about this brush fire you saw.”

  “I can’t afford a motel,” she admitted.

  He wanted to pull her toward him, stroke away the pink flush on her cheeks. He’d done things to be ashamed of. He doubted that this woman had.

  “You saw my car?” she continued.

  “I saw it.” It would have been damned hard to miss the cherry-red Corvette, and they both knew it. “It’s a real nice car. Fast, too, I’ll bet.”

  “That car,” she said simply, “represents the sum total of my life savings. Beyond the change rolling around in the bottom of my purse, that car is all I’ve got. Whatever your fire chief needs to discuss, I need it to be quick.”

  This he could fix. “So you need a place to stay.”

  “Other than in my car? No. I need to take my pics and leave. It’s almost too bad,” she said, and she smiled her Mona Lisa smile. “There could be a whole lot to like about this Strong of yours.” That trick she had of looking up at him from the corners of her eyes was pure sex kitten. But there was something else—someone else—hiding behind those eyes.

  He was suddenly sure of that much.

  Playbook said kissing her would be a mistake. She’d be entitled to call a penalty, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had to taste her, had to find out if she lived up to the promise of those mischievous eyes.

  “I’m going to kiss you now,” he warned, because giving her fair warning he was taking her up on her earlier offer was the right thing to do.

  “That right?” she asked. The words were pure challenge, but she glanced over his shoulder, toward the door and the buzz of noise outside warning him he didn’t have much time left. He needed to go.

  Still, he’d make this kiss his opening salvo in the battle they were apparently waging.

  She didn’t say no. He gave her the time, and she stared up at him, impish challenge painted all over her lovely face. “Well,” she said, “I guess a guy’s got to do what a guy’s got to do. So you go off now and save us all from the fires. The incoming. Whatever.” She shrugged, and his T-shirt slid down her shoulder in a little tease that had his blood heating right up. That shirt always had been a favorite of his.

  “I do need to go. But that’s not all I need.” The words coming out of his mouth didn’t belong to him. The words were smooth, the practiced lines of a player. He’d never been a player. Funny thing was, he meant them. And that was almost enough to send him running for the door.

  She hummed, a small sound of doubt and feminine pleasure, and nodded. “Guess that makes two of us then, smoke jumper.”

  So he wrapped an arm around her waist and swung her beneath him. Got her pressed right back against his mattress.

  This time, it was arousal that pinkened her cheekbones, and when she turned her head, last night’s earrings kissed the line of her jaw the way he wanted to do. The silver sparkled and moved along her skin in short, teasing strokes.

  “I’m going to touch you now,” he warned.

  “Are you?” She tried to shift backward, the mattress halting her little retreat.

  The soft cotton of his T-shirt slid farther down her shoulder when he hooked a thumb in the stretchy fabric and tugged. That white cotton coming down her tan shoulder undid him. He wanted to see the rest of her, but that would be too much, too soon. He didn’t want to scare her.

  He wanted to taste her.

  All of her.

  Wanted to lay her down here on his bed and taste every secret she was hiding beneath his T-shirt. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and it was more delighted observation than statement. “Not now.”

  She leaned her head back against his sheets, all tousled hair and sexpot smile, watching him with those curious eyes of hers. He wasn’t stopping her from escaping. Not really. If she wanted to get out from under him, she could take one little wiggle to her left, and she’d be free and clear.

  “Not yet, but I will,” she disagreed, putting a hand on his arm. Her face said she wanted to ask him something, but he didn’t want to talk anymore. All he wanted was to taste.

  Bracing a hand by the side of her face, he threaded his fingers through the teasing mass of hair and lowered his head, wrapping an arm beneath her to gather her gently up toward his body. Strong and firm, she felt even better than she looked. Stroking a thumb over the small of her back, he stole a moment to savor the heat and the softness of her through the fabric.

  His lips against hers were a simple little tease, a gentle brush of his skin on hers. He’d meant to fire the opening salvo in this sweet game they were playing, but sensation rocketed through him with that first touch of his mouth to hers. Liquid pleasure burned through him, reducing him to a single, primal urge.

  The taste of her was all sweet, hot summertime. No fleeting sensation, though, because, Christ, she packed a punch, the heat and taste of her nearly knocking him out.

  Mine.

  He tore his mouth away from hers, rolled off the bed, and made for the door. Faye Duncan was even more trouble than he’d imagined—and that was saying something.

  She made a sound behind him—outrage or protest, he couldn’t tell—but he was beyond caring. He opened the door.

  Sure enough, when he looked back, she was scrambling off the bed. “Stay put,” he growled. “I’m jumping, and then I’ll be back to finish what we started.”

  In case he was misreading the anticipatory look on her face, he made sure he still had her car keys tucked safely in his pocket. Then he let the door slam shut behind him and got the hell out of there.

  Chapter Three


  The DC-3 waited out on the runway. Their pilot, Spotted Dick, had her gassed and ready to go, the bone-jarring rumble of the engines thundering through Evan in a familiar, exciting rhythm. Time to go. Time to jump. The hand crew had already loaded up the plane, moving the jump gear and equipment on board with ruthless efficiency. Men’s voices barked final orders and curses, and the spotter hauled himself in, ready to go.

  The team would be airborne in ten.

  The DC-3 could hold eighteen jumpers. Today, Donovan Brothers was fielding a team of eight. Spotted Dick, his ass parked in the pilot’s seat, was running through the start-up checks. That plane was Jack’s baby; he had rebuilt her, piece by piece. Evan’s brother cared for that ninety-five-foot wingspan like a lover, although that might be changing now that Jack had Lily Cortez heating up his life. The betting pool the boys had going was leaning toward a September wedding and a whole string of little Jacks and Lilys following shortly thereafter.

  It was still hard to reconcile that image of domesticity with Jack, the bad boy who’d caroused with the best of them.

  Ten jumps already this summer and hundreds during the years he’d spent working side by side with his brothers and the jump team, but the pure adrenaline rush of facing the plane on the tarmac, of knowing he was headed up and out—that never faded, never got old. He’d do this as long as he could, until his body gave out. Domestic bliss wasn’t in the cards for him.

  He took the hangar at a dead run and reached for his gear, banging open the locker door. The place was already a beehive of mad activity. He was late to the party.

  “Thought we were leaving your ass on the ground, soldier!” Zay hollered in greeting, and Evan flipped him the bird. Zay had fought his way across half of Asia and the Middle East, and there was no better man to jump with.