The Fireman Who Loved Me (4 page)

Brody watched her with a bemused smile, then leaned in. She noticed how broad his shoulders were. Something else she wasn’t used to. “You okay? All done?”

She nodded, wiping her eyes.

“Then let’s get back to what we were just talking about. I believe the last thing you said was, you definitely would have bid on me.”

“It was just a hypothetical.”

“Then hypothetically, we could pretend this is the date we would have had
if
I had been up for auction
and
if you had bid for me.”

“Would our hypothetical date include dinner that’s easy on the intestinal tract?” She giggled again. Giggling was so unlike her. She hadn’t even had wine yet.

“Oh, an easily digestible dinner is just the beginning.”

“Really? What’s next?”

“Well, I was thinking I’d take you . . . your grandmother . . . dancing at the Oasis. The Les Barrett band is playing, and I understand she’s a fan. And then, if she . . . you . . . still have energy, there’s a movie about a Scrabble competition that’s supposed to be interesting . . . What’s wrong?”

Melissa stared at him in fascination. “You really thought about this. Grans loves to dance. Les Barrett is an old friend of hers. And Scrabble is her passion.”

“I know.” Brody ducked his head and sipped his water. “I did a little research. I’ve got a friend who’s good at digging up information.”

“That is really—” Melissa began indignantly.

“Did you know your grandmother has five outstanding parking tickets and a couple moving violations?”

“—extremely—”

“I took care of the tickets. Can’t touch the violations.” He seemed to brace himself for her verdict.

“—sweet,” finished Melissa softly.

“Well, she did bid a lot of money.”

Her face fell at the reminder. “My Grans has made up her mind to get me married off, whatever it takes. I’m sure she thought it was money well spent.”

The waitress arrived and plunked a bottle of wine on their table, then filled two glasses in the no-nonsense manner of a nurse doling out medication. Melissa took her medicine gladly, a long sip of cool white wine. Maybe it would relax her. Brody definitely put her on edge.

“But you have other ideas?”

“Is that so bad? I just haven’t had the best luck in the romance department. I’m better off sticking to my career.” Not that things were going any better in that area. But if she thought about her life too much right now she’d get depressed. “What about you? Do you like being a firefighter?”

“Sure. What is your career?”

“I’m a news producer at Channel Six. What do you like about being a firefighter?”

“News producer.” Most people were fascinated to hear she worked in the news. Not this man. His dark eyebrows drew together. “Channel Six? Ella Joy?”

Melissa made a little face, which she quickly hid with another sip of wine. It would never do to show anything less than wholehearted support for the most demanding and aggravating anchor she’d ever worked with. “Yes, Ella Joy. We work together quite a bit.”

“My guys all love her. Every night at eleven, no matter what’s going on, the TV gets turned to Channel Six.”

“She’ll be happy to hear that,” said Melissa politely. “So how long does it take to become a fire captain?”

“You must be good at your job. You’re a good interviewer.”

Not good enough, thought Melissa. She was getting nowhere with him. Which was frustrating, since she really wanted to know more about him. “You don’t talk about your work?”

“Not really, no.”

“Why not?”

Brody shrugged. “I don’t want to bore you.”

She blinked at him indignantly. This, she reminded herself, was why she never went out with this kind of man—a man’s man, who probably saw women as pretty, empty-headed decorations. Pointedly, she adjusted the glasses on her nose. “So that’s the way you think. That I can’t handle it.”

“Handle it?” He looked startled. “Oh. You mean . . . No, of course that’s not it. Please, look at you. You’re obviously very smart.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I would say the glasses, but then you’d think I was an idiot who assumed every girl with glasses is smart. No, it’s the way you challenge the things I say.”

Melissa felt her face heat. How had this man, this stranger, this macho man, put his finger on her worst fault? “It’s a bad habit. Career hazard.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s not because of your career. But I’m sure it helps you. You don’t have to apologize for it, I like it.”

“You do?”

“Sure. Same reason I like racquetball. Keeps me on my toes.”

After a pause, Melissa gave a gurgle of laughter. “Likewise. Every time I think I have a handle on you, you throw me a curve.”

He cocked his head at her. “You have a lovely laugh.”

And there went another curve.

Chapter Four

T
he fire captain was truly unpredictable. Melissa never would have guessed they’d find so many things to talk about. Through their delicious, if bland, meal of baked salmon and boiled potatoes, they discussed all sorts of things, from their hometowns (San Gabriel for her, Phoenix, Arizona, for him), to their favorite movie (
Casablanca
for her,
Ben-Hur
for him), to their first loves (Betty in second grade for him, Keanu Reeves for her). Brody seemed to actually listen to her, rather than waiting for her to finish so he could describe his latest screenplay. As she talked, he watched her closely with those deep charcoal eyes. Somewhere in the middle of the second bottle of Chardonnay, while digging into her chocolate soufflé, she decided his eyes were the most beautiful she’d ever seen.

After dinner they drove to the Oasis Club and danced to the Les Barrett band, which hadn’t changed their play list since about 1960. Melissa watched with awe the older couples who swirled around them on the polished dance floor. No matter how stiff in the joints, how gnarled and bent their limbs, they still moved in perfect harmony with each other. She wished she’d paid more attention when Nelly had tried to teach her ballroom dancing.

“Everything okay?” asked Brody, as they executed a slow spin.

“Great. But my Grans wouldn’t be stepping on your toes like this.”

“She’d probably be boxing my ears instead. That’s what they did in her generation, boxed people’s ears. I’m not even sure what it means.”

Melissa laughed, and caught the answering flare in his eyes. Suddenly she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. If she pressed her lips to that firm mouth, would he lose that calm control of his? Bend her backward right here on the dance floor? Flushing, she dragged her gaze away from his mouth.

She’d had way too much Chardonnay. There would be no kiss. It wasn’t a real date, after all. He was just doing his duty for the Widows and Orphans Fund. So why did she keep having these ridiculous little fantasies and random tinglings of various body parts?

She took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled like clean leather, like the seats in his car. Mixed with some kind of light aftershave with a woodsy aroma. She breathed in again for another dose. It wasn’t enough—she wanted to push aside his white collar and bury her face in his chest. Maybe lick his skin to pin down that elusive essence of male.

What was wrong with her?

This was all her grandmother’s fault. Nelly was always going on about testosterone and red-blooded men. It was ridiculous. Melissa liked a completely different type, sensitive and artsy. One of her writer boyfriends had put her in a short story. A fireman couldn’t do that, could he? Of course, it had hardly been a flattering portrait. She’d come off as a money-grubbing sellout for working at a TV station. But still—it was art. Not bad for the daughter of an electrician.

She should be spending the evening with a goateed artist, not this iron-armed, enigma-eyed man twirling her around the dance floor. She should be at an art gallery or a poetry reading, or in a loft sharing a bottle of red wine and a deep philosophical discussion with someone who didn’t make her pulse skip so many beats. She had to get a grip.

She stiffened her arms to put more distance between them. “So . . .” She stuck her chin out. “Isn’t that a little archaic, the Widows and Orphans Fund? It sounds like something out of
Oliver Twist
.”

“Does it?”

“It more or less assumes that when a firefighter dies, he’ll be leaving a wife behind. What if the firefighter is a woman? Or gay?”

“I could check the bylaws, but I’m sure exceptions can be made.”

“Exceptions! That’s exactly the problem. It shouldn’t be an exception. It should be normal.” She glared up at him.

Brody, taken aback, played for time with a quick spinning move. What had set her off? She’d turned stiff as a board in his arms, and her eyes were throwing emerald sparks at him. She really was quite beautiful. He suddenly wanted to see more of those sparks.

“Speaking generally, your typical firefighter is a married man with kids.” The San Gabriel station was a glaring exception, but he saw no need to mention that.

“Then you’re not a typical firefighter. At least in that way.”

“But in other ways?” He arched an eyebrow. This should be interesting.

“Probably. Do you like football?”

“Yes.”

“Cars? Something tells me that blue time machine is not your only car.”

“I’ve also got a truck and a Toyota. And a motorcycle.”

“Of course you do. You listen to country music?”

“Something wrong with country music?”

Her agitation had quickened her steps, and he found himself traveling double-time around the dance floor to keep her from spinning off by herself. He twirled them toward a quiet corner. The other dancers, moving at one third their pace, kept a wise distance.

“You probably hang out in bars playing darts and waiting for the next wet T-shirt contest. You spend your weekends tinkering with your car, or watching the
Pimp My Ride
marathon. If you were married, you’d leave your wife home to do the dishes while you go hunting with your buddies. God forbid you should ever have to change a diaper or vacuum a floor. And the worst part is, you have willing young girls falling all over themselves, bidding hundreds of dollars to be the next Mrs. Fire Captain and have little fire babies.” She paused for a breath, then turned beet-red as her words echoed between them.

“At least they’d be taken care of if I died,” pointed out Brody. He ought to be offended. But he was too busy watching the way her hair tumbled around her head. He wondered if it felt as silky as it looked.

“I apologize if I was rude,” she said, nose in the air.

“Not at all.”

“So you don’t deny I’m right?”

“Why should I, when you seem so convinced that you are?”

Now those emerald sparks were firing again. “You could at least try to defend yourself.”

“Are we in a battle? I thought this was a date.”

“You . . .” She gave a squeak of pure frustration. “Don’t you ever get rattled?”

“It’s part of my job to not get rattled.”

“But you’re not on the job right now. Don’t you want to argue with me? Mix it up? Play a little racquetball?”

“Oh, later I’ll probably grab some of my buddies, hit the nearest bar, and beat someone up. You know how us firemen like a good throw down.”

“See that? You’ll fight with your buddies, but not with a mere woman. Typical male arrogance.”

Okay, now she was starting to get under his skin. “You really want me to fight with you?”

His men would have recognized the dangerous look in his eyes, but Melissa stuck out her chin in that stubborn way of hers.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Okay. Let’s see, the news.” His voice was quiet enough not to be overheard, but forceful enough to get his point across. “You stick microphones in people’s faces at their worst moments, but you make sure your lipstick is perfect first. If someone’s crying, you get that camera nice and close so you can catch every moment. The first thing you want to know about a man, after what he makes, is what car he drives. BMWs or Porsches are best, but you might condescend to date a man with an Audi, if you were really desperate. You get your nails done once a week, a facial every other week, you don’t mind spending five hundred dollars on a pair of shoes you wear twice. And once you have yourself a man, he’d better make sure to keep the cash flowing, because if it stops . . . you’re off to the next provider.”

He snapped his mouth shut. Where had that last part come from? But he knew the answer to that; he was describing his ex-wife.

Of course, Melissa had no way of knowing that. “That is completely unfair. You just repeated every cliché ever invented about the news business.”

“And you’re obviously completely objective when it comes to firemen.”

“I’m a newsperson, we’re paid to be objective.”

“Then you might want to think about giving the money back, because—”

“Excuse me, mister.”

“
What?
” He swung around and found himself staring down a willowy, gray-haired lady. She took a startled step back. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I didn’t mean to speak so forcefully. What is it?”

“The other dancers and I would . . . Well, you’re causing quite a commotion.”

Brody looked around and saw the dance floor had cleared in a wide circle around them. The music had trailed off. Melissa tugged at his arm, her face bright pink.

“We’ll leave immediately,” she said. “We’re extremely sorry.”

“Very, very sorry,” he repeated after her.

During the ride back to her house, Melissa stewed next to him.

“One thing’s for sure,” she said. “We are not compatible, not one bit.”

Brody didn’t argue, although he’d been having a good time despite Melissa’s absurd prejudices about firemen. He would have enjoyed showing her just how wrong she was. But then he’d lost control—he, Captain Brody, whose cool under pressure was legendary on the force.

He was embarrassed. Ashamed. This proved he had no business dating. He thought he’d put all thoughts of Rebecca behind him. But she’d popped up like a mocking jack-in-the-box determined to ruin his good time.

Out of sheer, dogged politeness, he followed Melissa to her door. She stuck out her hand to shake his.

“Thank you for the nice evening. And just so you know, my shoes cost thirty-two dollars at Payless—” But she didn’t get a chance to finish. Before he knew what he was doing, Brody yanked her into his arms and covered her mouth with his. She tasted so good she made his head spin. She was warm cream, vanilla velvet, wine, and fire.

What was he doing? He was insane. This girl despised him, she thought they weren’t compatible; but none of that mattered. He had to touch her, had to feel her soft lips against his. She’d probably knee him in the balls, spray him with Mace . . . but no. Her mouth opened on a sigh.

Her bare arms came around him, silky and maddening. Losing himself in the sweetness of her mouth, he let his tongue explore, feeling hers dance and twirl with his, as if they were still on the ballroom floor. This was a bad idea, a very bad idea. In another second he would lose the last ounce of his control. With a groan, he pulled away.

Her green eyes had gone all hazy, like mist over a quarry lake. She looked so beautiful he couldn’t stand it. He had to kiss her again, taste that smooth skin . . . He lowered his head to press kisses into her neck, onto her cheekbones, against her ear. “Even when you were yelling at me, I wanted to do this.”

She laughed. Such a rich sound, like deep wind chimes in a forest. He loved her laugh.

Was her skin this soft everywhere on her body? Just the question made him tighten with excitement. If he didn’t stop now, he was going to tear off her clothes and run his hands over every curve of her body. That tempting vanilla scent was driving him insane, and so was the way she’d gone loose in the limbs from his kisses. He would have to be made of mahogany to resist.

He felt alive, fiercely aroused. He hadn’t felt like this in so long he’d forgotten how to handle it. Giving in to the craziness of it, he pushed her against the front door, braced his arms on either side of her, and pressed his aching groin against her.

When she arched her body against his hips, it felt like a spark in a tinderbox. He ground himself into her. She answered with a moan and a thrust of her hips. Urgent need raced through him like a sheet of flame, obliterating every other thought.

His hungry hands flew to her neckline. She was wearing some kind of sleeveless top that had no visible way in. Too tight to pull up, no zipper that his fumbling fingers could find. How the hell did she get it on? He’d have to rip it off. But he couldn’t wait. He molded her full breasts through the thin material and felt their eager tips leap toward his hands. His hands shook with the need to feel her secret softness against his palms, their tender nipples hardening under his fingers.

He was about to rip her shirt in two, when suddenly the door swung open behind her. Melissa stumbled backward. He hauled her against him to keep her from hitting the floor.

Nelly, arms akimbo, glared at them in outrage. “What are you doing to my granddaughter?”

Brody felt Melissa shake against his chest. He tightened his arm around her. “It’s okay, Mrs. McGuire. Nothing happened.”

“Melissa?”

Melissa raised her head. Her face was flushed, lips swollen, glasses fogged up. “Nothing happened,” she echoed in a smothered voice. Brody hoped Nelly’s glasses were equally foggy. It was their only chance.

“I saw his hands around your neck! He’s no fire captain, he’s an axe murderer!”

“Grans, he doesn’t have an axe.”

“I’m not a murderer of any kind.” Brody felt compelled to clarify. “I was just . . .”

“He was just . . .” Melissa trailed off.

“Adjusting her collar,” Brody finally managed.

“What collar? She doesn’t have one.”

“I thought she did.”

“Well, you were wrong, weren’t you?” demanded Nelly.

“Very wrong.”

Nelly seemed to be satisfied. “Well, go on with you, then.”

Brody looked at Melissa, who was staring down at her feet, still trying to catch her breath. She must think he was some kind of animal. His arousal hadn’t gone down a bit, despite the rude shock of the interruption. Hoping it wasn’t too obvious, he backed away, then turned sideways to address Melissa.

“Thank you for a lovely evening.”

“Thank you,” she answered, equally polite. She gave him one quick glance, and the heat in her eyes shot directly to his groin.

Trying to think of the most unsexy things possible—the new sink he had to put in, the compost pile he’d started in the backyard—he walked quickly toward his car. When he looked back, the door had closed, and both women were gone.

He let out a long whistling breath. Holy Mother of God. What had just happened? He needed a cold shower. Or a bucket of ice. If that didn’t work, his favorite channel, C-SPAN. And wouldn’t Melissa gloat if she found out he was a secret news junkie.