Kiss of Fire (St. James Family)

by Parker, Lavender

  But being a free man, he had absolutely nothing to do with himself. So he had every intention of heading to the pub and drowning his sorrows in Guinness until he had to work again on Monday. But first, a shower. He felt so fucking disgusting. He couldn't wait to stand under the hot water and let it wash away all the soot, the pain, and the tension—sexual and otherwise.

  He stood on the 7 train and let himself zone out. Fortunately or unfortunately, the pain was ebbing, leaving room in his brain for other thoughts. Thoughts about a certain no-nonsense black girl floated through the ether. Antoinette St. James was so damn beautiful. But that wasn't all. There was something more under the polished surface, a sizzling sexual energy. A passion. She had an outward elegance and poise, but she wasn't cold. She hid a raging heat beneath her skin. A heat that drew him in like a moth to a flame.

  He wanted her. And he had a feeling he wasn't going to stop wanting her. He was crushing hard but mostly, he just wanted her to stay away. He was still getting over the disappointment of his failed marriage and his failed attempt at having the future he wanted. The last thing he needed was a complication like Antoinette. She was a lovely distraction, and that was all.

  It wasn't about Gwen. True, she'd destroyed his ego when she served him with divorce papers after less than one fucking year of marriage. But he wasn't in love with her. He didn't know if he had ever been in love with her. He used to love the way she fucked. He used to love the way she tasted. But that wasn't the same thing, was it? The rub was, he'd made a promise to her. When they got married, he hadn't lied when he said 'til death. He'd been willing to stick it out because he craved the comfort. He craved a warm body next to him in bed. He craved someone to talk with about his day. He craved a home-cooked dinner on the table at night. It was unglamorous, but it was true. He wanted a boring, middle-class life in the suburbs. Like his father and older brother before him. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Girls like Antoinette St. James withered like dying flowers in the suburbs.

  At his stop in Woodside, he sidled off the train, and moved with the stream of people heading for the exit. He headed toward his apartment, on auto-pilot. When he got to his sparsely furnished one-bedroom, he slammed the door behind him. He pulled off his shirt, wincing at the stab of pain he felt. He popped a beer and sauntered into the bedroom. He kicked off his jeans, slowly, careful not to agitate the bandage on his thigh. He felt so damn old and creaky. When he stepped into the hot shower, he felt his body finally relax.

  A moan escaped his lips and he dropped his head back. It was the little pleasures in life, truly. His hand found his dick, and he stroked himself, finding more relief. Although he tried to force himself to think about the cute waitress at the pub, or the hot doc who signed his discharge papers, it was impossible. Antoinette St. James was haunting him. There was no pretending otherwise. His dick was a picky bastard.

  He imagined her soft lips on his, kissing him rough and tumble like she did two years ago in the dark hospital room. He remembered how her tongue had slid against his, so needy and insistent. Like if she didn't kiss him, she was going to go crazy. And before he knew it, he was exploding in his hand, too quick to satisfy the deep need inside of him. Leaning a shoulder against the tile wall, he let the orgasm pulse through him, annoyed at himself despite the pleasure. He'd come just from thinking about kissing her.

  Fuck.

  He was so screwed.

  Chapter 6

  Toni wandered down the Queens street after exiting the train station. The map on her phone told her that the 163rd ladder, O'Donovan's firehouse, was close. She'd called the hospital earlier and they told her he'd been discharged, so she'd headed for the firehouse. It was her best hope. Not that she was stalking him or anything.

  She tamped down on the butterflies fluttering in her chest, telling herself that she was going to check up on him and that was all. If something more came of it, then so be it. She owed him. And she didn't give a damn if he liked it or not. Toni knew that she didn't know much about him, only that he had a permanent scowl and a dirty Irish mouth. He'd made it quite clear that he didn't want to be bothered. And yet, here she was, in the middle of Queens, seeking him out. Why was she so drawn to him? Her memories of him from that terrible night two years ago were so strong. The way he'd cradled her to his chest and kept her safe. She just had a feeling that he wasn't as big and bad as he tried to pretend. She knew how he'd responded to her kiss, too. He couldn't fake a response like that.

  But she wasn't going to be anybody's punching bag. She told herself that this was the last time she went out of her way for him. He might have saved her life, but that didn't mean she was going to stick around for the abuse he seemed content to throw her way. Not after today, anyway. Today was his last chance.

  She realized she was coming up on the firehouse. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath. The big red garage doors of were open, the gaping mouth of the the firehouse open for anyone to see inside, where one fire truck was parked. Big burly guys meandered about, in navy blue pants and polo shirts. Toni noticed a tall black guy standing outside, having a smoke. Putting on the smile that usually made men smile back, she stepped to him.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Well. Hello,” Big, Dark, and Handsome said, squinting and smiling at her in the sunlight. So apparently, her smile wasn't broken. It was just O'Donovan's reaction to her smile that was broken.

  “Is Sergeant O'Donovan here, by chance?”

  “What would you want with an asshole like that?” he said, straightening and tossing his butt into the street. Toni took in the breadth of his shoulders and his flat stomach. Shoot. Maybe to hell with O'Donovan, she thought.

  “He's a friend of mine,” she said, letting her sweet Southern girl act run a little rampant. “I know he's been in the hospital and I figured I would bring him something to make him feel better.” She held up the peach pie, wrapped in plastic, that she had slaved over that morning. The man's face lit up.

  “I'll take it to him,” he held out his hand, a flirtatious smile curving over his face.

  “I can do that, but thanks,” she said, wagging her finger at him. “He wouldn't be here, would he?”

  “Hey Bradford, I think your wife is on the phone.” An older white man from inside the firehouse stepped out into the light. He patted his beer gut with a good-natured smile. Bradford, a sheepish look on his face, ducked his head.

  “Sure, Captain. Sure she is.” He laughed. “Nice to meet you, Toni,” he said with a wink before strolling back into the firehouse.

  “I'm Captain O'Reilly, can I help you?” the older man said.

  “Nice to meet you, Captain,” Toni gushed, trying a little too hard. “I'm Toni. I'm looking for Sergeant O'Donovan?”

  “O'Donovan's not here,” O'Reilly, said. Toni felt the wind go out of her sails. “Can I ask what you need?”

  “To give him this.” Toni held up the pie. Then she went off the cuff, hoping that her assumptions were correct. “He's been laid up and hasn't really been eating too well lately, so I thought I would break the habit for him.” The older man peered at the pie, his interest apparently piqued. “Maybe I could take it to his place, if I knew where it was.”

  “What kind of pie is that?”

  “Peach,” she said, batting her eyes innocently. “Does he like peach pie?” she said, almost gagging on the laugh that was threatening to force itself out of her mouth. O'Reilly cleared his throat and clapped his chest.

  “Hell if I know,” he bit out. “But he'd be crazy not to.” Toni beamed. She hoped to get the same reaction from O'Donovan. “I tell you what, Toni. O'Donovan is nursing that broken heart of his right around the corner. Murphy's Pub,” he said, pointing the way. “I think you might be just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Thanks so much.” Toni gave him a wink and headed in the direction where O'Donovan pointed. Then she stopped and turned back. “What broken heart?” she asked.

  “Maybe you should ask him that
,” O'Reilly said, before heading back the way he came into the firehouse. Hmm. Toni narrowed her eyes. Everything was starting to fall into place. So she'd been right. O'Donovan had been unlucky in love, and that's why he was acting like a major asshole.

  Poor baby.

  She couldn't stop herself from smiling and she could feeling herself perk up immediately. She'd be his rebound chick, gladly. She was too busy for a boyfriend, besides. Although she had a feeling once she got another taste of him, she wouldn't be so keen on giving him up. But she'd cross that bridge when she came to it, she decided. First, she just had to get him to be nice to her.

  A white guy in a Mets cap stepped out of the graffitied door of Murphy's Pub, blinking his eyes in the bright sunlight. Lighting a cigarette, he watched her as she walked to the door and then stood there, holding the pie. She looked from the door to the man. He made no move to help her, the old bastard. Apparently, chivalry really was dead.

  “Excuse me sir, can you get the door?” His scowl never changing, he yanked the door open begrudgingly. “Thanks so much,” she said with a bright smile. Geez. She saw where O'Donovan got his social skills if this was the crowd he was hanging with. She stepped into the dark bar, her eyes taking a moment to adjust.

  A few men sat around the long oak bar, the televisions above blaring soccer matches. The bartender, a grizzled, middle-aged guy, stared at her like she had three heads. She scanned the room, looking for her man. And she found him, at the end of the bar, his big shoulders hunched over his drink. She confirmed it was him by his twin towers tattoo, peaking out from under his ratty t-shirt. Feeling a thrill run through her, she took a deep breath. Be strong, she told herself. Then she crossed the space between them and plopped her ass on the barstool next to him.

  “Sebastian O'Donovan, fancy meeting you here,” she said, setting the pie on the counter. He shook his head, a day's growth of beard on his face. Damn, did he ever know how to rock a beard.

  “Jaysus, what have I done, oh Lord?” he said, his Irish accent thicker than she'd ever heard it. He slammed his palm on the bar. “What have I done to deserve this?”

  “The lord ain't gonna save you,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You smell like you've been bathing in the stuff.” She reached around him, taking his empty glass and sniffing it. Whiskey. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Shit, Antoinette,” he growled, his voice back to normal. He signaled the bartender for another round. “One more.” Then he motioned in her general direction. “And whatever she wants.” Toni smiled. O'Donovan was chivalrous, at least. For whatever that was worth.

  “I'll have what he's having,” she said. The bartender nodded but didn't look her in eye.

  “Jameson? You man enough for all that?” O'Donovan asked, giving her the side-eye. “Don't you want some girly white wine or some shit?”

  “Whiskey's fine,” she said, cocking her head, taking his challenge. He chuckled, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

  “So is this what you normally do on your days off?” Toni said, looking around.

  “So what if it is?”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” she murmured, as the bartender slid two whiskeys across the bar. O'Donovan caught them and handed her one.

  “If you're going to have the pleasure of sitting beside me, you're going to drink with me.” He lifted his drink and she mimicked him. “Down the hatch.” He tossed his head back and downed the drink in one gulp. She shrugged. Her parents, and Annata and Christophe, for that matter, were firm believers in cocktail hour. Drinking hard liquor wasn't such a foreign concept. She followed suit, downing the whiskey in two gulps, but it stayed down. She slammed the glass on the bar top. He laughed, a husky sound that sent a shiver down her spine.

  “You think you're just the tits, don't you?” He looked at her then, like he was really seeing her for the first time. He dragged his eyes from her head to her toes, taking in the skinny jeans, silk camisole, cashmere cardigan, and expensive ballet flats. “You know what I hate about girls like you?” he asked, his eyes finally back on hers.

  “I highly doubt you know any women like me,” she said.

  “See? See, it's that. That attitude,” he shook his head. “That fucking attitude. I can't stand it.” He slammed his hand on the bar again.

  “You haven't seen my attitude. I don't know what you're talking about,” she said, feeling herself bristling. “Did these other women bring you a homemade pie all the way out in the middle-of-nowhere Queens?”

  “What pie?” he said, giving her the side-eye. She slid the pie over to him.

  “This one. Did I mention it was homemade?”

  “Who made it?” he said, peering under the plastic wrap.

  “I made it, you jerk,” she said. “I kneaded that dough with my bare hands. So you better appreciate it.” He leaned over it and sniffed.

  “There's no rat poison in it?” he said, dipping his finger in some of the exposed fruit filling. She snatched it back, holding it to her chest.

  “I think I'll take my pie and give it to someone who'll appreciate it. Excuse me, excuse me!” She waved her hand at the bartender, who tore his eyes away from the soccer match to give her an annoyed look. “You want a homemade pie?”

  “Hey! That's mine!” O'Donovan swiped a big hand under her barstool and dragged her stool closer to him. She was shocked enough that she dropped her hands and he snagged the pie back.

  “No outside food, O'Donovan,” the bartender said, turning his eyes back to the game.

  “Go fuck your sister, Murph,” O'Donovan said, lifting the plastic wrap again on the pie. He dipped his finger in the filling and tasted it this time, sucking on his finger. He closed his eyes briefly and she felt a pang in between her legs as the look of bliss crossed his face. “What kind of pie is this?”

  “Peach,” she said, innocently. “'Cause you're so damn peachy.”

  “You made me a peach pie?” He rolled his shoulders, then winced. She wondered if he was still feeling pain from his injury. “Fuck, you go right for the jugular, don't you?” He stood and reached over the bar to snag a fork from the hidden area below. “Alright. Let's see if you're as good as you think you are.” He stuck the fork in the pie and took a big bite. Toni realized she was holding her breath, and released it in a whoosh when he made a face. “Ugh.”

  “What?” Toni said, feeling heat flaring up her chest.

  “Disgusting,” he tossed the fork down. “You trying to kill me, lovely?”

  “Motherfucker,” Toni murmured before grabbing his fork. She leaned over to take a bite. The flavor was great, the peaches melt-in-your-mouth, the pie crust buttery and flaky, just like her granny had instructed her to make it. She wanted to punch him when she saw he was grinning. A big shit-faced grin, complete with straight white teeth. It was then that she realized she'd never seen him smile. Warmth flooded her. She'd actually gotten him to smile, even if it was at her expense. The damn butterflies were back in full-effect.

  “You're a dick,” she said, her mouth full. He laughed and slapped her lightly on the ass and she jumped. His hand lingered for a moment—or maybe she imagined that—and then he snatched the fork out of her hand.

  “I couldn't resist,” he turned away from her and dug in, turning his eyes to the soccer match. Apparently, he was going to ignore her while eating her pie. She felt the now-familiar annoyance flaring up inside her. The man was insufferable. So why was she in the middle of Queens, in a dingy dive bar, filled with a cast of creepy characters? Because she was a sap, that's why. O'Donovan had smiled at her, and that's all it took. She was hooked.

  ***

  O'Donovan kept his eyes on the football game, but hell if he knew what the score was. All he could do was focus on the woman to his right. He had to give her some credit, she was stubborn. And bringing him a homemade peach pie? Shit. She was an evil genius. If he wasn't thinking about eating her pussy before, he definitely was now. Antoinette St. James was a force to be reckoned with. Those
big, innocent eyes looking at him like he was a lost puppy in need of a home? And those long legs and perky tits and soft lips she had? Holy Mary.

  He took another heavenly bite. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a girl bake him anything. He'd been with Gwen for a long time, and she wasn't much for baking. The last pie he'd had was probably made by his poor dead mother, God rest her soul. And he hadn't eaten since the night before. How had Toni known that?

  He shook his head. Stop thinking about her, he told himself, even as the flavor of her pie burst on his tongue. He continued to ignore her, hoping that she was getting the hint. He didn't want to be friends. He didn't want to talk. He wanted her gone. The last thing he needed was a Toni-shaped distraction when the ink on his divorce was barely dry.

  Toni slipped silently off the barstool next to him and he couldn't keep his eyes from following her as she wandered across the bar. Her expensive clothes and graceful sophistication didn't belong in a shitty place like Murphy's, that was for sure. She stuck out like a beam of light in a bottomless pit. She sidled up to old Cranky Frankie at the dartboard, who was as old as O'Donovan's father and had received his nickname for a reason.

  “What have you got going on over here?” she said, her smile bright. Frankie looked up at her, startled.

  “Just... uh, just got a game of darts going,” Frankie said, his glass eye practically whirring in his head.

  “Darts, huh? Is that an easy game or does it take a lot of skill? It seems like you're pretty good at it.”

  “Well, I think it takes a lot of skill, yeah,” Frankie said, looking completely flabbergasted. O'Donovan couldn't help but laugh.

  “You up for showing me how to play?” Toni glanced back at O'Donovan, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “O'Donovan over here is boring me.” she said, in a stage whisper, motioning to him. He could only shake his head, waiting to see how the scene was going to play out. Cranky Frankie surprised O'Donovan and himself, probably, by nodding in agreement. Toni clapped her manicured hands and then put her full attention on Frankie, her eyes never leaving his face as he showed her how to best aim for the bulls-eye. She squared her shoulders, placing her feet hips-width apart. She took a deep breath and took aim. When she hit the board, not a bulls-eye but close, she squealed in excitement. Even Frankie couldn't suppress a gruff smile. O'Donovan motioned for Murph to keep the drinks coming. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.