Sparking the Fire (16 page)

She input the code without hesitation and the beeping stopped.

The door blew open behind them and Wyatt blocked Molly with his body, braced for confrontation. It was only one of the suits.

Good, because Wyatt's hands weren't done talking.

 CHAPTER NINE

M
olly was dimly aware of a door slamming, voices muted and raised, and the panicked utterances of
fuck, fuck, fuck
. It wasn't coming from her. Was it Wyatt?

His large palm gripped her elbow firmly and all she could do was stare at it, comparing it to the strange, clammy hand that had manacled her outside.

“Molly, you okay?”

She met his gaze, those crystal blue shards now on fire as he searched her face.

Her head felt too heavy for her neck, like it should roll off her shoulders and out onto the street so anyone could kick and stomp it. Behind Wyatt, Green Tea Crème Frappuccino Terrence was pacing the townhouse's foyer. The mutterer.

“Molly, you all right?” Wyatt asked.

She nodded once because anything more would detach her head. It would bounce down the steps like a beach ball and they would boot it all the way into the lake and—

“Words, babe. I need words.”

I'm fine. Absolutely fabulous. Never better.
“Okay. Just got a scare.”

Terrence stepped forward. “Miss Cade, we need to—” The words died in his throat, likely because Wyatt had choked them off with a huge paw around his neck.

“What the fuck was that?”

Wyatt eased up enough to let Terrence explain what the fuck that was. “Th—the guy came out of nowhere!”

“There's no such thing. Your job is to monitor every possible threat, not flirt with the first piece of ass who smiles at your fugly face. Molly's the mission and you just failed the fucking mission.”

She had seen Wyatt's muted fury the day she climbed the ladder at the academy, but this was a hundred times more intense. More personal. She thought it might also be hot, but that likely meant her brain was not firing on all cylinders, because who the hell thinks that in a moment like this?

“Wyatt, it's okay.” Feeling like she was moving in slow motion, she palmed his wrist, still cupping Terrence's bull-thick neck. “I'm safe now.”

“We'll see.” He released Terrence and said, “You be a good boy and check in with the fuckwits who hired you.”

Terrence scowled. “I don't take orders from you.”

“Seeing as how I just performed the job you were paid to do, I'd say you're probably the least qualified person to argue with me on this.” Gently, he gripped Molly's elbow. “With me. Now.”

In the living room, he sat her down—actually placed her on the sofa—and stood before her, hands on hips, jaw clenched so hard a single touch might shatter it.

“How many exits?”

“What?”

“How many exits does this house have?”

She looked around, not having given it much thought. The house had an alarm system and the studio-supplied security usually put her mind at ease. Hoping to spend her summer living a normal Chi-Town neighborhood existence in what she had thought was an urban sanctuary, only now was she starting to realize what an impossible dream that was for someone like her.

“There's the kitchen through there.” She pointed behind him.

“Any balconies in the bedrooms?”

“A terrace overlooking the back garden.”

He took off and was back a minute later. “This isn't gonna work.”

“What isn't?” The tech consult? The jogs along the lake? Them?

Hey, now, where the hell had that come from?

“Good alarm system, but you're too exposed. Two teens and a weirdo know where you live. Won't be long before word gets out. If you have to run a gauntlet every time you step outside your door, you're going to spend your summer on a misery yo-yo between the set and here.”

“I don't know how they found out. A friend of mine owns this place, but only a select few people know I'm staying here. That guy on the street . . .” She swallowed. “Is he hurt?”

“He'll live. Cops will want to interview you. Determine if charges should be made.”

“I—I don't want to bring charges. Guys get too close all the time.”
Ryan doesn't deserve you,
the man had said before he gripped her arm. Damn straight. “He was just an overzealous fan.”

“You want to face that every time you walk out the door?”

“I can use the back entrance. Hire more security.”

His expression was stoic, not buying her blasé assessment. To be honest, she didn't want to make a big deal of it, and if that meant adding more layers of cotton wool, then so be it. Wordlessly, he left the room and the sound of raised voices, or one raised voice belonging to Terrence, carried over the polished hardwood. In the foyer, she found Wyatt and her security detail in the process of pulling out tape measures for a thorough dick length assessment.

Terrence's eyes lit up in relief on seeing Molly. “Miss Cade, we need to discuss your security arrangements.”

“Discussion over,” Wyatt ground out. “You're fired.”

“You can't do that,” Molly and Terrence said in unison. Shaking her head in disbelief, Molly addressed Wyatt. “Stop bossing everybody around. We need to discuss this.” She winced at how that sounded.
We.
Like she had already given him a say in the decision.

She turned to Terrence and gave him a more sympathetic look than he deserved. “I think it would be best if you waited outside. I'll call you if I need you.”
If?
Jesus, she was already being brainwashed by Wyatt Fox.

Visibly affronted, Terrence opened his mouth and seemed to think better of it. He made a noisy departure that affirmed he had no stealth skills whatsoever.

Annoyed with pretty much everyone, she steeled her spine and faced Wyatt. “Listen. I make the decisions about my safety and who I employ. I do not need some know-it-all ex-marine firefighter waltzing in here barking orders at everyone.”

“Former.”

“What?”

“It's former marine. Ex is for servicemen who got the big chicken dinner.”

She could feel the frigid air of the townhouse's cooling system on her tongue, which could mean only one thing: her jaw had dropped open.

“In. English.”

“You only call a marine ex if he was ousted on a bad conduct discharge. Big chicken dinner. I'm a know-it-all
former
marine firefighter.”

They were locking horns over whether this caveman should be responsible for her personal safety on a level that was already feeling far too personal, and he was arguing over semantics?

He crossed his arms, and a lean expanse of delicious, tan skin filled her vision. Those arms had protected her ten minutes ago. Warded off evil and carried her to safety. The pleasure and pain he could deliver with those weapons thrilled and terrified her.

“This”—he waved around the townhouse foyer—“is not going to work for you. Unless you want to live in a fortress. And if you do, you'll need better security.”

“The studio hired them. Said they were the best.”

“They were distracted by a pretty face and didn't see the danger coming at you. They let me take you out of their sight after one conversation. Complete amateurs.” He stepped in close, huge and beautiful above her, and tipped her chin up to face him. Nothing would have given her greater comfort than to sink against that chest, clearly made for her frazzled head.

“If I could be here myself, Molly, I would—”

“But you can't.” She swallowed, and what emerged next sounded rusty. “And I'm not your responsibility.”

Truth was, she wanted him here, filling this gigantic space with his solidity. The altercation with that fan, if that's what he could be called, had unnerved her. But that wasn't even on the table. Wyatt had his own responsibilities, and his life would be compromised by a close association with her. Most guys—and why was it that lately all her sentences started that way when she thought of Wyatt Fox?—would jump at the chance to be seen with her. But not this one.

She remembered when she was nothing, a nobody, and Ryan Michaels, Superstar, had chosen her to be his arm candy.
You're going to love the attention, Molly. We're all little whores at heart.
She had never grown to love it in the way Ryan had claimed she would, and she completely understood that a man as private as Wyatt would hate to be thrust into the limelight. He had his niece and family to think of.

Ignoring the lurch in her chest, the one that signaled regret that her life was so at odds with his, she drew a fortifying breath.

“So that's that. Thanks for your concern, but I will manage this situation myself. That's why I have people.”

She knew it left her mouth sounding imperious, but sometimes that diva bitch was the only thing keeping her from falling into an abyss of woe-is-me.
Climb back onto your pedestal, Molly, where the air is clearer and your nostrils aren't filled with the intoxicating male spice of ex—no, former—marine firefighters.

He didn't say a word, just stared at her, into her, with those eyes that could force truths and drop panties.

Neither would be happening. She was an Oscar-nominated actor, after all.

 CHAPTER TEN

H
aving made his selections, Wyatt stepped back from the jukebox in Dempsey's on Damen, the family's bar and Sean's legacy outside the firehouse. The ethereal synth opening of the Who's “Won't Get Fooled Again” flooded the air, a welcome relief from the usual diet of U2, Thin Lizzy, and Hozier that the bar's patrons inevitably chose on a nightly basis.

A long-suffering groan was followed by a
thunk
behind him. Over his shoulder, he spied Alex playing drama queen, banging her head against the bar. SOP when Wyatt chose the music.

“Jesus, Wy, we know you
act
like a sixty-five-year-old, but do you have to inflict the tunes of your old-man generation on the rest of us at every opportunity?”

He stepped behind the bar, wiping down a counter spill as he went. “Sorry, can't hear you. My eardrums are shot from standing too close to the speakers at Woodstock in '69.”

Chuckling, she held up her phone, though Wyatt didn't need to look to know what filled the screen.

“So it seems not only do you need lessons in musical taste but you could do with a few pointers on how to handle the fame game.”

“Worried I'm trespassing on your territory as YouTube maven?”

“As if.” She shook her head in disgust. “The hoodie, the sunnies, the ninja-ghost reflexes to disable that dickhead—no one even knows it was you! Not a single smile for the camera or a flash of your Dempsey tats. I'm ashamed to call you my brother.”

He hid his smile in a draft of Coke. Mere hours since the incident outside Molly's house, and video taken by those teens of him flooring the assailant had gone viral. Slow news day, he guessed. So far no one outside of his family had identified him, which was just the way he liked it. More important, Jen hadn't called—yet—looking to use it as further leverage to pull Roni away from them.

But damn it, he'd hated leaving Molly behind. That went against every single instinct—marine, firefighter, and male.

Wyatt had wanted to wrap her in the embrace of his body, soothe away the fear beating in her eyes. Instead, he'd waited with her, impotent with rage, while she made a police report and insisted she was fine. She refused to bring charges, claiming “overzealousness” on the part of that fucker. The woman talked a good game, but more troubling was the fact that she was minimizing it. As if it was an acceptable by-product of being famous.

What kind of life did she lead where that was considered normal?

Luke emerged from the back carrying a crate of Newcastle Brown Ale. Wyatt moved to help but earned an Almeida grunt of “I've got it.”