“Rachel,” he said sharply, to break the spell she seemed to be under. “Are you okay? That newscaster’s a freaking idiot.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at him. When they’d started watching the broadcast, he’d been lost in his own thoughts, far away from her. Now it was her turn to be distant, and he hated the feeling. Panicking, he launched himself across the room and grabbed her by the shoulders. She didn’t resist. It was as if she was somewhere else entirely.
“Rachel. Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me what’s going on. Please talk to me.”
Slowly her eyes seemed to focus, the lost look replaced by something hard and desperate. Her eyebrows drew together, slanting across her forehead. Two spots of pink appeared in her cheeks. “Let’s go out,” she said abruptly.
“What?”
“Out. I want to go out. We need to celebrate.” She jumped to her feet, stumbling a little. He gripped her elbow to steady her. Shaking him off, she dashed in the direction of her bedroom.
He scrambled after her. “Celebrate what?”
“My father’s testimony. It’s just about done. That means your job is done. He told me I only needed a bodyguard until he testified. Well, he did it. It’s done. So you’re done. I bet you’ll be relieved to get back to your real job, huh? Don’t answer that.”
He didn’t like the manic tone in her voice. There was no doubt in his mind the broadcast had triggered this mood. It must have been terribly unsettling for her to relive her kidnapping via a national news broadcast. “Rachel, maybe it would be better if we stayed home. Maybe you want to talk about it. Or call someone. What about Cindy or Liza or Feather? Or your father?”
“I don’t want to talk to my father,” she said tightly. “He’ll be doing his own celebrating. Caviar sushi or something. I want to get out of here. You can come or not. I don’t care. Technically, your job might be already over.”
“For crap’s sake, Rachel. If you’re going, I’m going. I’m not letting you roam around by yourself in this state of mind.”
“You don’t know anything about my state of mind.” She rummaged through her closet, finally emerging with a purple, sparkly dress with a wide zipper up the front. It looked like something Space Barbie might wear. In fact, he was pretty sure Lizzie’s old Barbie had that exact same dress.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting dressed to go out. Are you coming?”
Even though it sounded as if she didn’t care one way or the other, he repeated, “I said I was.”
“Then let’s go. It’ll be just like the night we went out, except even more fun. We can pull out all the stops because it’s your last night as my bodyguard. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I don’t drink on the job.”
“Then I’ll buy you a lap dance.”
“We’re not going anywhere near anyone’s lap.”
She shot him a furious glare over her shoulder. Bright pink still burned in her cheeks.
“You aren’t the boss of me. No one’s the boss of me. I’m so. Damn. Tired. Of everyone thinking they can control me.”
She whipped off her white T-shirt and shimmied into the dress.
“Who are you talking about? Me? Your father?” He took a deep breath, daring himself to throw out one more possibility. “The kidnapper?”
Thrusting her head deep into her closet, she ignored that question. “I’m leaving in three minutes. Come if you want.”
“I said I’m coming.”
He had a very, very bad feeling about this.
Chapter 21
Rachel didn’t give herself a minute to think about what she was doing. All she knew was that she had to breathe some open air, that she couldn’t stay trapped in her apartment with that television one more second. Or was it herself she couldn’t bear? Who knew? Didn’t matter. The drumbeat of “get out” thundered through her veins and there was no stopping it.
She snagged a little purse made of oyster silk and stuffed her cell phone and some cash into it. She rifled through her wallet, keeping her Rachel Allen driver’s license and one credit card and tossing everything else on the bed. If she could have left her identification behind, she would have.
If she could leave herself behind, she would.
Ballerina flats. Loose hair, with an extra bit of spritz for a tousled look. Lip gloss. A quick glance in the mirror to confirm that she looked nothing like that little girl on the television, with her sweet little braids and her innocent grin. What if she hadn’t insisted on riding her bike that day? What if she’d stayed home and gone swimming in their own pool? What if she’d run at the sight of the Heating and Cooling Repair van waiting at the corner?
Maybe everything would have been different. Maybe that little girl would have grown up to be the wild, carefree tomboy she was meant to be. Maybe she would have traveled the world, competed in the Olympics, danced on tabletops . . . who knew? All she knew was that girl wanted her moment. For this night, she was going to pretend that girl was alive and well and ready to dance. There must be a tabletop out there with her name on it somewhere in San Gabriel.
Marsden jumped to his feet and tossed his newspaper aside as she came barreling out of the elevator. “What’s going on?”
She waltzed to his side and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Dancing. That’s what going on.”
“Dancing?”
“Not the ballet kind. The having fun kind.” A frown creased his weathered forehead. She knew she probably sounded kind of crazy and manic, but she couldn’t help it.
“I don’t like this, Rachel. The timing’s bad.”
“But that’s just it! The timing’s perfect. We’re celebrating my dad’s testimony. He killed it, totally killed it. Didn’t you see?”
Marsden started to object again, but Fred spoke up from just over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Marsden. I got a handle on it. But stay on standby, if you don’t mind, in case I need backup.” She felt a strong arm come around her. “We’ll be careful, right, Rachel?”
She opened her mouth to say she was done with being careful, but Fred squeezed her shoulder, and she nodded instead. No need to put Marsden on full alert.
As Fred hauled her out of the foyer, she wondered if she was tipsy, and tried to remember if she’d drunk anything alcoholic lately. That led to the memory of sitting on her couch watching the nightmare of her life play out on national TV. She pushed the remembrance aside.
Whatever was causing this light, frenzied, go-go-go feeling, she’d take it. It was better than fear.
She danced into the warmth of the early evening and threw her arms wide. Tilting her head back, she took in the brilliant pinprick stars, the deep comfort of the endless twilight sky. “What does it matter, Fred? One little life in the middle of all this. Why do we get so worried about things? Every time I get upset, I ought to come out here and just look up. That’s all. Just look up.” Taking a deep inhale, full of wonder at this revelation, she glanced over at Fred.
Fred wasn’t looking up; he was looking around, scanning the surrounding area. “Look at the sky, Fred! In case you need directions, it’s right over your head.”
“Yes. It’s nice. Are you done now? I don’t know if it occurred to you, but now is not the best time to go out. You haven’t changed that much since you were eight. If people were watching the testimony and saw your picture, it might still be fresh in their minds. They might recognize you.”
“Up, Fred. Look up,” she insisted.
Finally he did so, and she took his hand, swinging it back and forth. A slight breeze whispered against her cheek. A car rumbled past. In this crazy mood, she didn’t think about a possible threat inside the car, as she usually would. Instead, she felt sorry for them, trapped inside a car instead of enjoying the unbelievable beauty of a simple evening sky. She filled her lungs with sweet desert air. “Isn’t that sky spectacular?”
“Sure.” Even though Fred was probably just humoring her—she recognized that tone of voice�
��she appreciated the gesture. After one more long breath, she squeezed his hand.
“Okay, we can go now.”
“Back inside?” he asked hopefully.
“No way. I want to go to a strip club.”
“What?” Fred yanked his hand from her clasp and whirled her to face him. “What are you up to, Rachel? What’s going on here?”
“I want to dance,” she said firmly. “On a tabletop. Or a countertop. On top of something. If I could dance up there, I would.” She jerked a thumb toward the sky. “Just dance, that’s all. I’m not even going to drink anything. I don’t need to. I’m high on the sky right now.”
He studied her for a long moment, his jaw working. The amber light spilling from the foyer outlined his solid, well-muscled frame, flickering around him like a halo. She knew he was worried, and she didn’t blame him. If only she could share this crazy, transcendent, overflowing feeling with him, maybe he’d relax. She leaned in, puckering her lips slightly, as if she could transfer her mood with a kiss. But he kept his arms rigid, maintaining the distance between them, and she wasn’t strong enough to force it.
“Don’t do that,” he warned her. “I need to think.”
She tucked a smile into the corner of her mouth and waited patiently while he debated with himself. The heat of his grip added to her manic restlessness. She wanted him up there on that tabletop too. It would be so much more fun with Fred. Everything was more fun with Fred.
“Okay,” he said finally, reluctance dripping from his voice. “I’ll take you to a club where occasionally people dance on the bar. It’s packed with off-duty firefighters and I know the owners and I know you’ll be safe. Deal?”
She cocked her head, thinking it over. “What’s it called?”
“Firefly. It’s an old converted firehouse. Everyone always has a good time there. Guaranteed.”
“Firefly. The little glow bugs that fly around at night, that kids like to catch and put in a jar?”
“I suppose.” Two little frown lines appeared between his eyebrows. “So?”
“I’d never, ever do that to a firefly,” she told him earnestly. “Never. I’d let them keep flying around as long as they wanted.”
A sparkle appeared in the brown depths of his eyes, then the familiar creases fanned from their corners, then his whole face opened into a laugh. A wonderful laugh. A laugh that seemed to capture light from all the stars up above and send it shimmering along her skin.
At that moment, she knew she was in love with Fred.
She didn’t do anything with the thought. There was nothing to do. It didn’t change the fact that he was going back to the firehouse and she was going back to her old life. But it settled into her bones and tissues and fibers as if it had always been there and had no intention of leaving.
He grabbed her hand, and hauled her toward her car, which she’d left parked out front.
“Let’s take your truck,” she protested. “It’s much more fun.”
“Your car’s safer. Better gas mileage too. But I’m driving.”
That was fine. She felt too floaty to drive. With Fred at the steering wheel, she opened the moon roof and sang to the stars. You twinkle above us . . . we twinkle below. The air rushing past held a hint of summer, of banked heat ready to be unleashed. In a month it would be summer, and in San Gabriel that meant fire season. Fire season meant Fred would be throwing his precious, beloved self into danger.
Don’t think about it. Not tonight.
The Firefly parking lot was jammed; the place must be hopping. They found a spot toward the middle of the lot. She followed Fred as he wound his way between vehicles, toward an old brick building. It had a big garage-type door that must have been where the fire engines used to exit. The glass in the windows had a wavering, watery look; it must be the original, or close to it. Even from halfway across the lot, she saw the old panes rattle from the thump of dance music. Red and orange lights played over the jerking, flowing bodies within.
She stayed close behind Fred as he checked out the parked cars. “I see Mulligan’s car,” he murmured. “Asshole has an old Mustang my brothers would kill for.”
“I liked him,” she announced.
“Only because you don’t know him,” he said darkly. “He has that broken nose for a reason.”
“Did you break it?”
“No. It was already broken. He won’t say how it happened but everyone’s got a theory. He’s also got a big ugly scar on his leg and one of his thumbs is crooked. Man likes trouble. Lizzie saw him at a softball game and went all mushy. She says he has that bad boy thing the girls like.”
She squeezed past a Corvette with a “Firefighters Can Take the Heat” sticker. That reckless mood seized her again. “You’ve been ignoring me ever since we saw him and the others.”
He frowned over his shoulder, a streetlight picking up hints of gold in his eyes. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
“You,” he admitted wryly, ushering her ahead of him. “I tried to change the subject, but it didn’t work.” A melting sensation spread through her, like brandy filtering through her veins. What if Sabina was right, after all?
They’d almost reached the end of the lot, just one more car between them and a triangular stretch of concrete bordered by the street, the lot, and Firefly. She angled her body sideways to inch around the bumper, when suddenly, from somewhere, headlights switched on. Momentarily blinded, she threw up a hand to shield her eyes. Something rammed against her from the side.
Hit by a car, she thought, laughing at the absurdity. In a parking lot. After all her father’s crazy security. And then she realized that it wasn’t a car. Someone was holding her, roughly. And he smelled strange.
“Hey,” she said, pushing at the arm around her middle. It felt like a boa constrictor.
“Shut the fuck up.” A harsh voice assaulted her ears.
Black panic, thick as smoke, closed in on her.
“Fred!” she screamed desperately, before the man clapped a cloth over her mouth.
Fred had seen the first man and was already airborne when he heard Rachel scream. Two more men emerged from behind the blinding headlights. They went after him while the other grabbed Rachel. Fred jammed his elbow into the throat of the man to his left. A hideous crunch and furious howl told him he’d connected with the fucker’s windpipe.
Good.
The other man wrapped an arm around his neck and squeezed. Fred didn’t waste a second. He half fell, half dove sideways, making the man lose his balance. In the split second that his attacker didn’t have control, Fred grabbed on to his arm and wrenched him sideways. Surprised, the man let go of Fred’s neck and tumbled onto the hood of a white Toyota. Fred grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his head against the car, once, twice, then one more time to make sure he was unconscious. Dark blood seeped onto the white metal, but Fred didn’t linger.
Fred spared one glance for the crushed-windpipe guy, saw that he was clawing at his throat and wasn’t a threat at the moment. Then Fred launched himself over the top of the cars that stood between him and the bastard dragging Rachel toward a black Escalade idling on the street, only a few yards away. He landed on a white Ford and slid across the hood, keeping his gaze on Rachel.
Rachel was kicking and clawing at the man who was dragging her away. Those Krav Maga lessons must be coming back to her, although fighting in a real-world situation was completely different. Her attacker wore a stocking cap and polarized sunglasses and moved like a young man, which meant it wasn’t the same man who’d grabbed her seventeen years ago.
Unless that man had hired these thugs to do his dirty work.
It didn’t matter who was behind this. The only thing that counted was stopping that man from taking Rachel. The kidnapper was only a few steps away from the Escalade. Fred had maybe half a minute to stop him, if that. He dove through the air, did a somersault across the sidewalk, feeling the concrete scrape his forehead, an
d whipsawed the guy’s feet from under him. He toppled like a tree, pulling Rachel down with him.
“Run, Rachel,” yelled Fred. He didn’t have time to say anything else, because someone landed on top of him. Someone bulky, someone whose hacking breaths rasped above him. Crushed Windpipe. Fred had to give him credit for persistence. He jabbed his elbow backward, making contact with something soft. He didn’t really care what, he was focused only on Rachel.
With a deft move, she used the momentum of the man’s crashing body to twist out of his grip—mostly. Sprawled across the ground, he still hung onto her with one meaty hand wrapped around her ankle. She yanked hard, but the man kept his hold on her. She was panting, frantic little gasps of fear that went straight to Fred’s heart. The man on top of him was raining blows on his head, but he tuned out the distraction and, dragging the man, crawled across the few feet of sidewalk until he reached Rachel’s attacker. He used a hard karate chop on the man’s forearm. He’d used the blow hundreds, probably thousands of times, to break blocks of wood in half. It was all about finding the right angle, the right amount of force, the right speed.
It worked.
He heard the man’s bone crack, and saw his hand fall away from Rachel’s ankle. A howl of pain made Fred’s ears ring. Or maybe the ringing came from the drumbeat of blows hammering his head. He rolled onto his back to stop the man’s attacks. A vicious fist struck the bone above his ear. His vision hazed, went crimson. He blocked out the pain, the way he’d learned in the ring. Focus, focus. Stop the head jabs. He needed to stay conscious, at least until he knew Rachel was okay.
Rachel. In her sparkly purple dress, she was dancing around the edge of the action, sidestepping the flailing arms of her former attacker with little hops, even trying to stomp on his hands. To his blurred gaze, she looked like a dancing firefly.
“Fred,” she was shouting. “Fred! Help! Someone help!”
Yeah, help would be nice. Where was fucking Mulligan when he needed him? But he couldn’t wait for someone to stumble out of Firefly, all buzzed and happy. Gritting his teeth, he dug into his pocket. He grabbed her car keys and slid them across the sidewalk. He overshot, sending them under a Ford pickup, but she immediately crouched to snatch them up.
The Night Belongs to Fireman Page 21
