Sex and the Single Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novel (24 page)

“Nothing for me,” he answered. “I just stopped by to see how you’re feeling.” He eyed the scripts covering her body with an uneasy expression.

“I’m fine.” Brazen it out. What choice did she have? “Catching up on some reading. Would you like to sit down?” She gestured toward an armchair.

He sank into it, then gave a deep sigh. “Nice place.”

“You think so? Everyone teases me about it. Vader says it looks like a call girl’s hotel room.”

“Well, he would probably know.”

She smiled. God, he looked good in that chair, like an emperor in a beige throne. His long legs, clad in black jeans, stretched before him, nearly reaching the coffee table. He wore a lightweight charcoal-gray sweater that barely contained his muscular chest. He brought the scent of wine and a winter’s night with him.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been staring at him when Annabelle came in with a tray of water glasses and a pitcher of water. More importantly, she had a heathery cotton throw draped over one arm.

“Here, honey,” she said as she passed the couch. “You must be chilly.” Sabina, with a wary look inspired by the word “honey,” something her mother never said, grabbed the throw and wrapped it around her shoulders. She sat up, feeling the scripts tumble inside the blanket. Roman looked more puzzled than ever. Distraction. She needed a distraction.

Annabelle unintentionally provided exactly that. She perched on the arm of the couch, crossed her legs gracefully, and addressed Roman. “I didn’t like you much at first, Chief Roman.”

“Excuse me?” Sabina looked from her mother to Roman, whose face held no expression other than a simmering amusement deep in his black eyes.

“I refused to suspend you on command,” he explained.

“
What?
”

Annabelle gave an apologetic little shrug. “I’d convinced myself you’d be better off away from that station.” She turned back to Roman. “If you’d suspended her, you wouldn’t have had to save her life later on.”

“No, because she probably would have strangled me with her bare hands before I had a chance to save her.”

Annabelle tossed her head, conceding the point.

“Not cool, Annabelle—” Sabina began hotly.

Annabelle interrupted, still focused on Roman. “But since you did save her life, I’m rethinking my opinion. Which is
not
something I normally do, let me tell you.”

Sabina considered the relative merits of beaning her mother with a pillow or a script, the only two weapons at hand.

But Roman seemed unfazed by her mother’s bluntness. “Very generous of you.”

“We’ll see. The jury’s still out.”

Roman gave a rumble of laughter. “Saving your daughter’s life only goes so far, does it? Do I have to unbury her from a pile of paper too?” He gestured to one of the scripts, which had fallen out from under the throw. “What are those, movie scripts?”

Annabelle widened her cat’s eyes in amazement. “You’ve never seen a screenplay before?”

“Can’t say that I have. I wouldn’t mind taking a look though.”

Roman picked up
Six Ways to Sunday
and read a line out loud. “
When’s the last time you got your pool cleaned, lady?
” He lowered the script. “What kind of movie is this?”

Sabina snorted.

Annabelle bounded to her feet and peered at the script. “It’s a comedy. I’m up for the part of Belinda. Comedy was always my specialty, right, Sabina?” Without waiting for an answer, she put one hand on her hip and lowered her head provocatively as she read the next line. “
Well, see, my last pool boy quit. He couldn’t handle my . . . deep end.
” The over-the-top purr in her voice made Sabina spew a mouthful of water onto the throw that covered her.

Roman raised one eyebrow, but forged ahead. “
That’s because he was a pool boy. See, what you need is a pool man.
”

Sabina laughed so hard her ribs ached, but she didn’t mind. Roman and Annabelle continued with the script, a broad comedy about an older woman’s affair with her handyman. Roman had no acting skills and looked like a smoldering hunk of testosterone no matter how much he aimed for goofy. Halfway through the scene they were all laughing so hard at his pathetic attempt at a Southern accent they had to skip to a different scene.

This time Roman played the envious best friend of Annabelle’s character. When he read the line, “
That’s not a pool boy, that’s a hot little ticket to cougar heaven
,” in a high-pitched voice, the three of them laughed until tears ran down their faces.

Finally, Annabelle collapsed into an armchair, blotting the tears from her cheeks. “I haven’t laughed this much in . . . well, Sabina must have been little. Before the show.”

“Yeah. That’s when all the fun and games ended.”

Annabelle sobered with a sigh. “Thanks for indulging me, Chief Roman. It’s been a while since I acted in anything.”

Roman got to his feet. “Thank
you
for putting up with my incompetence. It was fun, but I think I’ll be keeping my day job.”

“It might be best,” said Annabelle, giggling like a girl.

Roman said good-bye then. After he left, the house seemed suddenly tiny and tame.

“That,” said Annabelle, into the subsequent quiet, “is a very, very attractive man.”

Sabina nestled into her pillows. “He’s all right.” She let her eyes close, feigning exhaustion, and didn’t open them again until her mother had gone back into the guest bedroom. What was Roman doing, showing up like that, displaying a whole new side—a lighter side, that of a man who didn’t mind looking ridiculous? How dare he come and disturb her peace of mind, just when she’d accepted—almost accepted—that a safe distance was best?

Damn that very, very attractive man.

Chapter Twenty-Six

S
o the evening hadn’t gone the way Roman had fantasized. Sure, Sabina had been horizontal, but there’d been no tangled sheets, no cries of passion—unless you counted winces from Annabelle at the way he massacred his lines. But he’d had fun. Just being in the same room with Sabina made his blood fizz like a bottle of fine Asti Spumante. He loved seeing her eyes sparkle, her stubborn mouth curve in a mischievous smile. Her hair was reverting to its natural color, that autumn-brown color giving way to a burnished bronze with naughty glints of hell-raiser red.

He’d gotten his Sabina fix, but already he wanted more. The firehouse lost all its joy with Sabina out until further notice. The big talk revolved around the ski trip planned for the day after Christmas and a firehouse meeting that Roman had missed.

“D’you hear about the cookbook?” Psycho jogged backward down the corridor as Roman strode toward his office.

“Nope.”

“It’s going to be on the news later. Stud’s idea. We voted on it and Vader lost. He wanted a weight-lifting marathon or some testosterone-heavy shit like that.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He hadn’t even had coffee yet, and Psycho was bouncing around like a blue-eyed version of the Joker.

“Stud had stroke of genius and thought we ought to take advantage of all the media attention to raise some money. Go to Vegas.”

Roman stopped in his tracks.

Psycho jogged in place, laughing maniacally. “Too early for jokes?”

“By about an hour and two pots of coffee.”

“Sorry, Chief. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“Why?” They entered the kitchen, Psycho still backpedaling. He veered just before slamming into the couch.

“Can’t say. Sworn to secrecy.”

“Drills in one hour,” Roman barked. “Fucking circus,” he muttered, swinging into the kitchen, where the A shift had already started the coffee.

“By the way, Chief.” Psycho headed toward the backyard, where he liked to do speed push-ups before everyone else showed up. “I took Italian in college. See ya at lineup,
cara mia
.” And he was gone.

Roman slammed coffee into a cup and headed for his office to tackle a report for Renteria. Damn radios, damn his impulsive Italian nature, damn Princeton. He needed to crack the whip on these guys. They were too loosey-goosey, too fun-loving, too . . . fucking quirky.

He conducted the toughest drill yet, running them through their paces on rapid intervention with a downed firefighter, who was played by a dummy. In coat and breathing apparatus, each firefighter had to race against the stopwatch to locate the hidden dummy, with nothing to guide them other than the sound of the alarm. They had to pull hose, then stop and listen for the alarm, knowing that each passing second made the situation more dire. In a dark, smoky environment it would be even more difficult. But no matter how much he drilled them, making them run it again, and again, and again, still he caught sidelong glances and the occasional smug smile. But he had to hand it to them—they performed well despite their smirks.

“Nice work,” he said, grudgingly, when they’d finished the twelfth run-through flawlessly.

“Ella Joy’s on!” someone yelled. And that was it. The entire crew went running for the training room. Roman took his time ambling back inside, enjoying the balmy December air, the pleasant scent of sagebrush. Maybe he and Luke should go horseback riding. Camp out. Roast marshmallows.

By the time he got inside, Ella Joy, wearing a sprig of holly in her hair, was launching into her report. He almost decided to ignore it, but the dreaded words “Bachelor Firemen” caught his eye, plastered across the bottom of the screen.

“The Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel have a special treat for you this holiday season.” Ella Joy beamed like Santa Claus’s pretty younger sister. “Did you know that firefighters are not only heroes out on the fire lines, but in the kitchen too? That’s right, they take turns making their own meals. This year, San Gabriel’s Bachelor Firemen have put together a cookbook that contains some of their favorite recipes. If there’s anyone in your life who likes to cook, they might enjoy an inside look at what firefighters prepare for their meals. Here’s Firefighter Fred Breen with more about
Cooking with Heat: Favorite Recipes from the Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel
.”

Stud, all eager brown eyes and wide smile, blinked at the camera. “First of all, I’d like to say that every penny you spend on this cookbook goes to charity. You probably want to know which charity, right, Ella Joy?”

Ella, who was leafing through the cookbook, jerked her attention back to Fred. “I was just about to ask that. Which charity will the cookbook benefit, Firefighter Breen?”

“Well. We had a hard time deciding which charity because there’s so many good ones. Poor children, sick children, sick animals, the environment, refugees, really, it never ends. But as soon as we thought of this one, we knew it was the perfect choice. In honor of our new training officer, Chief Roman, all proceeds from this cookbook will go to the 9/11 Firefighters Fund.”

Roman gripped the edge of the counter that separated the kitchen from the training room. He felt the blood drain from his face.

Fred switched from buoyant to serious. “Three hundred and forty-three firefighters and paramedics died in 9/11, and a lot more have health issues from the aftermath. Chief Roman lost his wife. We want to stand behind him. Even though we weren’t there on September 11, in spirit we were, and we just want the chief and all the others to know, we’ll never forget.”

Ella was giving Fred her full attention now. “I’m sure our viewers will find that tribute very moving.”

With the solemn part out of the way, Fred perked up again. “And they’ll get some killer recipes. Ryan Blake’s Thai chicken curry is in here, and so is my personal specialty, meatball chili. We even included Chief Roman’s recipe for the blackest coffee you ever tasted. That’s on page five, in case you’re wondering. It ought to come with a warning.”

“What I’m really wondering is what these photos are.” Ella peered at the cookbook and flipped to a page, which she held up to the camera.

Fred turned a fiery pink. “We threw in some snapshots of us cooking. In case you ever wanted to see a fireman wearing oven mitts.”

“And nothing else, it seems.”

“Well, he has pants on.”

Roman squinted at the screen. The photo showed a bare-chested Vader checking a pot roast. He actually managed to flex his pectorals while sticking a thermometer into a hunk of meat.

“Looking good, Vader,” said Psycho.

Vader stood up and flexed his biceps instead of bowing. “Someone had to put some testosterone into this thing.”

Ella Joy continued. “If you’d like to give someone this festive and flirtatious holiday cookbook, you can order it online at the San Gabriel Fire Department’s Web site, and at our station’s Web site. If you order today, you might even receive it by Christmas. Speaking for myself, I don’t even cook and I wouldn’t mind a copy.” She winked at the camera.

Someone switched off the TV. Roman knew the sound had disappeared, knew Ella’s exquisite face had vanished, but his thoughts hadn’t really caught up. The crew had voted to donate all proceeds to a 9/11 fund as a tribute to him. To express their solidarity with
him
—the most hard-assed, coldhearted captain on the Eastern seaboard.

A cookbook, no less. They didn’t even know how appropriate it was. Not a single one of them, other than Sabina, knew of his secret kitchen skills. From day one, he’d refused to cook for the crew.

The other firefighters seemed just as tongue-tied as he was. Roman heard one of them clear his throat, another whisper something. Then Fred jumped to his feet like a big puppy. “How’d I do? Did I sound like a jerk? Being on TV is a lot harder than it looks, dude. I kind of went blank at first. Hey Chief, what’d you think? Did I do okay?”

Roman gazed down at those eager brown eyes. He felt like a glacier, slowly thawing under the sunshine of the kid’s enthusiasm, the unexpected affection of these guys. He cleared his throat. “You did good, Stud.” He glanced around the room, at the blur of faces watching him. “You all did good. It’s . . . uh . . . appreciated. Now get back to work. The rigs need cleaning.”

He wheeled around and strode into his office. That pile of paperwork needed to be off his desk by the end of the shift. It would happen a lot faster if he could get that goddamn speck of dust out of his eyes.

Dio
, this place was really getting to him. At this rate, they’d banish him from Brooklyn and stick him in a freaking Disney movie.

A few days
before Christmas, the Dane brothers held their baseball clinic for the Little League of San Gabriel. Luke had been chattering about it for days, as soon as he’d found out the twin minor leaguers were coming. To him, it was even more exciting than Christmas. What could be better than star pitcher Jake and home run king Todd Dane working with the team, one on one? The new laptop Roman had gotten him came in a distant second.

For Roman, it felt like early Christmas as well, since there was a good chance Sabina would be there with Carly. He hadn’t seen her since the impromptu acting lesson. One visit from her training officer was understandable. More than that and people would talk.

He’d heard enough whispered
cara mia
s at the firehouse to last a lifetime.

So he had to rely on stolen glimpses of Sabina, like pieces of sea glass washed up by the ocean. La Piaggia was one of his favorites. He’d seen her at the restaurant once. He’d been experimenting with a new veal and porcini mushroom dish and the sight of her had made him forget he’d already added pepper. She’d given him a polite smile as she thumped through the kitchen on her crutches. She’d cut her hair so it swung like a sheet of hammered gold against her bare shoulders.

Before he could offer her a taste of his veal, she’d gone. She hadn’t even said good-bye.

He’d turned back to the stove, cursing himself in two languages. He’d blown it, first by never visiting her in the hospital, then by never explaining himself. Maureen had always accused him of burying his feelings. He’d never told his wife this, but he suspected he did so because his feelings were so powerful. Practical Maureen would never have understood.

Maybe he should have given Maureen a chance to understand, something inside him whispered. Maybe he had a second chance now. A chance to let a woman really see inside him, see all the intense, unpredictable currents that swirled through his soul.

Just like that backdraft scenario he’d offered up to Vader. Open a vent hole. Let a bit of himself out.

On the day of the clinic, Luke bolted ahead of him, leaping across the park like a windup kangaroo. A sizable crowd had already gathered for the clinic. Roman, sunglasses safely in place, didn’t even need to scan their faces to spot Sabina. She sat on the lowest rung of the bleachers, legs stretched out, leaning her elbows on the bench behind her. Her head tilted back so the sun made a halo out her tawny hair. A slight smile curved her mouth as she savored the hazy sunshine.

At the mere sight of her, he got hard, embarrassingly so. It wouldn’t do to stroll up to a family event with a massive boner leading the way. He paused, collected himself, put his notorious iron will to work on his equally stubborn cock.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Too bad. He was greedy and selfish and not about to pass up a chance to be in Sabina’s presence just because his primitive side didn’t know how to behave itself.

For the first time since Luke started playing baseball, Roman didn’t sit on the upper left-hand bleacher seat. He joined Sabina on the lowest bench, his arm brushing against hers. With deep pleasure, he watched goose bumps rise on her skin, the dark teal of her irises turn black with surprise.

“Hey, Chief.”

“Jones.”

The sliver of air between their bodies vibrated. Roman leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees, brushing her skin again in the process. She felt soft and fresh as a daisy petal. She smelled like marigolds and sunshine. Everything in him, body and soul, wanted to claim her, take her into him, and brand her as his.

Crazy. He was a fireman, not a damn pirate. “How’s the ankle?”

“Healing, but it’s slow. I think it’s been about two years already.”

“Ribs?”

“Still sore, but half the time I forget about them. Not a problem. I could strap on a tank, easy.”

“Not happening,” he said flatly.

Her eyes flared at him. “No need to get all bossy.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Goes with the territory.”

“Chief territory?”

God, that little gleam in her eye made him want to roll her around on the grass right then and there. “Not exactly.”

Sabina couldn’t seem
to catch her breath. Ever since Roman had descended onto the bench next to her, she’d felt as if she’d been running wind sprints along with the Little Leaguers. She could swear he was flirting with her. He kept giving her those little sideways looks, with that suggestive light in his eyes. It took her right back to the hours she’d spent in bed with him. That night was scorched onto her brain in any case, never to be forgotten if she lived to a hundred.

“I saw the cookbook the guys did. Pretty nice gesture.”

He turned his head toward the field.

Jake and Todd were rounding up all the young players after their warm-up. Katie Dane, or maybe she was Katie Blake now that she’d married Ryan, handed out Tucson Breeze caps to the kids. The twins split the kids into two groups. Luke and Carly wound up on different teams.

Roman waited so long to answer that Sabina had almost forgotten about the cookbook and was about to tease him about his terrible acting.

“I still can’t get a handle on it,” he finally admitted. “I thought they all hated me. You all.”

“Yes, but only at first.”

That devastating groove dented his stubbled cheek. “Glad I managed to talk you out of it.”

“I’m not sure you did. I mean, you’re not a big talker, are you?”