Sparking the Fire (5 page)

“I'm here to play your worst nightmare if you try turning my family's life into a circus.”

She crossed her arms over those gorgeous breasts that were once so sensitive to his touch. “Sounds like they're doing a pretty good job of that themselves. Luke punching out a CPD detective in your family's bar, Alex cutting up a VIP's car in the guise of a rescue, Gage on every billboard—”

“They tend to think with their hearts.” In Gage's case, his dick. “Now, we're just trying to keep everything on an even keel. No drama, no shenanigans, and especially no headline-grabbing encounters.”

She narrowed her eyes, considering. “You took this job on to keep me out of your family's way.”

“You could say that.”

“What else could I say?”

“That maybe I was curious.”

“And now?”

Still curious. But no way was he getting involved with this woman and her crazy life. What had he been thinking? He had enough drama to cope with at home, and if he had any chance of making things right with Roni, Molly Cade needed to be deep-sixed to a locked recess of his brain.

Which shouldn't be a problem. There was a reason why he was the go-to guy when hands were shaky and the world was in flames: Wyatt Fox kept the coolest head in the CFD. In the marines. In the game of life.

“Curiosity satisfied.”

She smiled, and
hell-oh,
that smile made a big ole liar of him. The inability to be satisfied had been the hallmark of their affair. More often than not, one of them would wake the other with kisses and rubs and sucks, their need greedy. Grasping.

That he may have miscalculated gnawed at his gut. No matter, he refused to fall under her spell again.

“You might have thought you could work your charms on some starry-eyed tech consult or, failing that, the guy you spent six nights balling in a hotel room a few years ago, but I'm here to tell you, I'm the gatekeeper. And the gate isn't opening in this lifetime or the next.”

“Well, good thing we cleared that up,” she said in a way that hinted the waters between them were still murky. “I'm ready for that tour now.”

She grinned, a cheeky stretch of her wicked mouth. A conqueror's smile. God, he remembered that. But last time he'd seen it turned on expressly for him, he'd been inside her, quickly wiping the grin off her face and replacing it with ecstasy.

He joined her at the door. Save for the moment he'd leaned in to shake her hand earlier, this was the closest he'd been to her in five years.

Resignation assaulted him hard. “You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?”

“Oh, I heard. But you see, I've spent several years listening to people telling me what to do. Agents, publicists, directors, my ex-husband. I created my own production company so I could call the shots. Divorced Ryan so I wouldn't have to listen to his whining about how my career was overshadowing his. So while I appreciate that you have a job to do protecting what's yours, I also have a job to do, ensuring this is the best firefighter movie ever made.”

In her voice, he heard the frustration of a woman who had been to hell and back, and was ready for a change of scenery. However, in resolving to redirect her journey, she had placed herself on a collision course with his needs and the needs of his family.

That was going to be a problem.

“I'd like to spend a day with the CFD recruits doing what they'd normally do,” she announced imperiously. “Don't concern yourself with the insurance issues. I'm the producer, so I say who on the crew does what.”

Fine, he'd let her flex her diva muscles. It wouldn't take long to establish who was top dog here.

“You can join the class tomorrow,” he said, all accommodation.

She narrowed her gaze, clearly suspicious at the ease with which she'd achieved victory.
Enjoy it, babe, as it will very likely be your last.

After a lengthy pause, she nodded and stepped away from the door. “After you,” she said. “You know where you're going.”

That he did.

He left the office and walked ahead, then stopped and turned. Those violet-hazed eyes jerked up from a spot about two feet below his neck to meet his. More of the blatant ass ogling. Getting to be a habit, that. Another gorgeous blush suffused her cheeks.

“Enjoy the view while you can, Molly, 'cause from here on out, I'll be watching
your
ass.”

L
eaving her townhouse for the summer in the upscale Gold Coast neighborhood on Chicago's North Side, Molly nodded at Terrence, her bull-necked bodyguard. To be honest, security was unnecessary, but the studio was anxious to ensure nothing TMZ-worthy tainted the shoot. Thankfully, the press hadn't figured out where she was staying, and with her wraparound sunnies and blond hair tucked into a Cubbies baseball cap (blending in to the max, though she was a Cardinals girl to the bone), she looked like a typical Chi-Town dweller.

In LA, the studio would usually hire a town car to drive her to and from the set, but this summer, she was endeavoring to take back her independence, one car ride at a time. These solo rides in the rented Lexus—a hybrid in Nebula Gray Pearl—allowed a few moments' reflection before she had to call up her game face.

She'd need it for Wyatt Fox.

The man was going to present quite the challenge, to both her professional plans and her sanity. She felt a smile tug at her lips. Well, immovable object, meet willpower to rival any amount of gunfighter squinting and intimidating silences.

After a coffee pickup at the nearest Starbucks drive-through (Terrence had a weakness for Green Tea Crème Frappuccino), she arrived at the Quinn Firefighter Academy and parked around back. Checking her phone, she discovered that Cal had sent several text messages urging Molly to call her, stat.

She pressed one on her speed dial and her friend picked up on the first ring. “What's up, Cal?”

“Gideon the Idiot strikes again.”

Molly groaned. “What now?”

“Jimmy Kimmel broke his collarbone during one of the
Late Show
stunts and you know what brahs they are.”

“You mean he has to hold Le Kimmel's hand while he recuperates in LA?”

“Close. He's stepping in to host for the next two weeks. The studio said it was okay because he doesn't really need to be here for prep.”

This unwelcome news dragged a growl from Molly. Of course, the actors wouldn't be doing their own stunts but, eager to promote team building and full-scale immersion, Molly had wanted them all to attend the fire academy boot camp.

“Tell me the rest of them are here.”

“Yeah, they should be,” Cal soothed. “And Mol?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Give the sexy firefighter a big old smooch from me.” On a chuckle, she hung up.

Molly drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, considering. Analyzing. Scheming.

Maybe Cal was onto something.

Molly used to have wiles: a flirty smile for a casting director, an eyelash flutter for a maître d'. So she was a little rusty—with A-listers, the name is enough. But Wyatt Fox stood in her way. Starting up “something” with him was a terrible idea, but maybe a little Missouri farm girl charm would melt the ice in those flinty eyes and carve out a path to Alex Dempsey.

Once inside the training facility, she was relieved to see several of the film techs, stunt doubles, and the actors who would be playing her firefighter family on set. Standing head and shoulders above them was Wyatt, looking bearded, muscled, and capable.

Capable
. Better to assign him that rather benign description than all the other possible words that could enter her head. Grabbable. Kissable.

Fuckable.

He zeroed in on her, as if sensing exactly what was running through her sex-starved mind. Her memories were bad enough, but now he was adding that beard to the mix. Since when had she turned into such a facial hair ho? She had a career to salvage, a reputation to rebuild, and men—or one sexy bearded man—was the last thing she should be thinking about.

Except in the context of her mission, the Molly Cade Charm Offensive. A little flirting, a little smiling, a little banter (emphasis on
little;
the man seemed to be surrounded by a charm-repelling force field).

“Hey, guys,” she said to the crew, averting her gaze from those crystal blues she could drown in if she got too close. She chatted innocuously about today's plan. The actors were seeing it as a fun primer on the job of a firefighter; Molly intended to take it more seriously than that.

She was here to impress.

“Okay, I'm going to pair each of you with a firefighter trainee,” Wyatt said, and proceeded to do so with everyone but her.

“I hope you're not thinking of leaving me out,” she said, instantly peeved.

“Miss Johnson mentioned we need to be mindful of insurance issues for the A-list talent.”
Sarcasm noted, Marine.
“So you're with me, Hollywood.”

“Watching my ass?”

“Not letting it out of my sight.”

That was sort of bantery, wasn't it? In a gruff, Rick Grimes from
The Walking Dead
kind of way. He turned back to the crew and began to issue orders to the trainees, a squadron of buff guys—no women—with grave expressions. Wyatt's demeanor was all business, as well, and after his initial flirtatious rejoinder, she was glad of it. Work now, flirt later.

“First thing is to get you all suited up.” Each of the trainees helped their assigned partner with the heavy-duty bunker gear: pants, suspenders, fire-retardant jacket, and boots.

“Here, lean on me,” he said as Molly inserted one foot into the boot that wouldn't have looked out of place on a moon landing expedition. She could have used the wall, but it was five feet away and his arm was right there attached to a human wall, and what harm could it do?

Untold amounts, it seemed.

As her fingers curled around his right bicep for leverage, she immediately realized her error. That holy-crap arm had to be the thickest, warmest, most solid arm she had ever touched. Five years ago, he had just left the marines, and even then, his arm had not felt like this. Like the last defense between the United States and an invading army. She imagined him repelling terrorists with roundhouse punches and chokeholds during his deployment. And now? This arm pulled people out of burning buildings and mangled metal. It saved lives. And as much as it was a professional tool, it was also a mouthwatering thing of beauty.

Positively porn-worthy.

His tee sleeve hem had ridden up (she might have helped there) to reveal a red-inked tattoo of the intertwined letters of the CFD and
Logan
below it, set off by a Celtic ribbon. This was new. He'd not had it back then, yet Logan and Sean would have been gone four years. She'd seen identical emblems on Luke and Gage in those firefighter charity calendar pics that had busted the Internet last year.

They all carried the same ink, a branded memorial to their fallen. Wow.

“Logan was your foster brother,” she said, the need for more information a potent rise in her blood.

“Biological brother.”

Oh. She hadn't known that. She'd assumed they were a band of solo, motherless misfits saved by the Dempsey fostering machine. Stronger together than apart.

“You don't have the same last name.”

“Half brothers. Same mom, different fathers. Sean and Mary fostered us when I was ten and Logan was eleven.”

She whipped her eyes to his and found unexpected disquiet lurking there. The Dempseys' closeness was legendary, but that fraternal bond of blood would likely have been just as strong, if not stronger. To lose your brother and father figure in one fell swoop must have broken Wyatt's heart. It broke hers just thinking about it.

Unsure why, she squeezed his bicep on the pretext of needing an anchor. Maybe to give herself comfort as much as him. She didn't imagine that shiver of his beneath her fingertips.

“You're not gonna get far with one boot, Molly.”

“Oh—right,” she said, and quickly caught up with everyone else. She had visited a firehouse in Los Angeles and tried on the bunker gear there, but the CFD version felt like more of an encumbrance. Or perhaps
she
felt heavier in Wyatt's presence.

Stepping in close enough that he could have kissed her if he wanted, he snapped her bunker pants closed. The notion of him dressing her was unbearably erotic, especially as the previous times they'd been this close he'd been doing the opposite.

Sometimes with his teeth.

“How do you feel?”

Horny. “Heavy.”

He attached tools and filled her pockets: a flashlight, shears, two different types of knives, a crescent wrench, pliers, a wedge of wood, more pliers. By the time he'd finished, she was a walking Ace Hardware and she'd lost that loving feeling.

“Standard gear before you add on breathing apparatus and bigger tools weighs about thirty pounds.”

She took a breath and a couple of steps, feeling like she was wading through a waterlogged cornfield.

“Your sister must be crazy fit. And strong.”

“Never met a more capable firefighter, man or woman.”

Big boots to fill. A huge legacy to honor. A movie—and career—to screw up. At five four, Molly was about as far as it got from Alexandra Dempsey's physique.

Uncannily reading her mind, Wyatt said, “Firefighting is more than physicality. It's as much about stamina, instinct, and listening. You'll get a taste of all that today.”

With me,
he didn't have to say. They might be at odds regarding his family, but he was here to do a job, and he clearly planned to do it well. She would expect no less from this man.

After all, he had always approached every task with the utmost professionalism.

A
n hour later, Molly felt like she'd filmed every
Rocky
movie training montage, these firefighter drills making her rigorous six-mornings-a-week personal training sessions look like a lazy stroll down Melrose. The SCBA—self-contained breathing apparatus—hooked over her shoulders added another twenty-five pounds. She had hauled a forty-pound hose bundle from one end of the gym to the other and pounded mercilessly on a dummy simulation to bring it back to life. With every potentially rib-fracturing compression, she'd imagined Ryan, though in her fantasy he hadn't made it. So sad.