Trial by Fire (39 page)

Light My Fire

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Too late, he jammed his foot hard to the floorboard. Only a split second to realize he wasn’t going to be able to stop on the rain-slickened pavement, for his stomach to plunge to his toes. One heartbeat to curse his stupid mental lapse and recognize the very real irony of a firefighter/paramedic causing a traffic accident.

A brief, muffled squeal of tires sounded in his ears. His classic 1967 Mustang was low to the ground, built like a sleek silver bullet, and the car hydroplaned right into the tail of the SUV with only slightly less force than a shot from a gun.

A loud, sickening crunch of metal, and the bone-jarring impact was over before he could blink. Just like that. One millisecond of inattention. On the job, he’d seen the tragic results often enough.

Fortunately, he was alive and seemingly unhurt, if a little dazed and breathless.

Mortification cut through the shock. Good God, he’d just rear-ended someone! “Oh, Jesus.”

Unfastening his seat belt, he glanced behind him to check for oncoming traffic in the left-hand lane, then threw open his door and slid out. Taking a couple steps, he grimaced in pain. The impact had wrenched his back and neck. The pain wasn’t too bad right now, but by tomorrow he’d be damned sore. Putting aside his discomfort, he limped to the driver’s side. The sight that greeted him made his heart lurch. A woman sat behind the wheel, face buried in her hands, expression hidden by long honey brown hair.

“Ma’am?” She didn’t move, so he knocked on the window, his pulse jackhammering. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

Slowly, she lowered her hands, raised her head, turned to peer at him . . . and the world did a funny little flip.

Oh,
wow.
The lady had a lovely oval face that could make angels weep and cause J-Lo to sue her parents for faulty genes. Frigging supermodel drop-dead gorgeous. She opened her door and he stepped back to accommodate her, nervous and embarrassed. On top of everything, he’d never been good at relating to women on any level—pathetic, but true—and now he had to keep from staring like an idiot at the goddess standing in front of him.

A visibly upset, wide-eyed, long-legged goddess wearing black leather pants and high-heeled boots, a snazzy black leather coat, and a fuzzy red sweater underneath. Oh,
wow.

And, holy shit, those eyes! Golden, dark-edged irises, like a jungle cat’s. Exotic. For a brief second, he allowed himself to wonder what it might be like to just throw in the towel and let himself get eaten.

Shaking himself from his stupor, he held out a hand. “God, are you okay? I’m
so
sorry, I—”

“Don’t they
stop
at red lights where you’re from, Forrest Gump?”

Ouch. No doubt she wouldn’t believe the man who’d just plowed into her backside—now
there
was a double entendre he didn’t need—possessed a so-called gifted IQ of 150.

“Like I said, I’m sorry. I’m Zack Knight, and I’m a firefighter and paramedic. Would you sit in your truck and let me check your vitals?” Oh, Christ. He’d like to check a helluva lot more than the lady’s pulse, if the stirring in his poor, neglected groin was any indication.

She laughed—a bold, brassy sound, and plenty jaded. Like life was one big, unfunny joke after another, usually on her. Zack knew the feeling well.

Her smile was breathtaking, wide and full of straight, white teeth, dispelling the notion she was the frightened victim he’d first thought. No, this woman was capable of handling anything, and probably had. Twice.

“My vitals. Right. Like you haven’t done enough already? Thanks, sugarlump, but I’ll take my chances. Let’s see the damage.”

She walked to the rear of her SUV, a sporty red Explorer with the bumper and hatch door buckled inward at the bottom, the paint scratched. Wasn’t his insurance agent going to be ecstatic? This ought to do wonders for his premium, which he couldn’t afford in the first place.

Even the Mustang, built in an era when manufacturers didn’t use plastic soda bottles for bumpers, had sustained a mangled grill and buckled hood. Hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars down the drain. Zack swayed a little, feeling sick.

Heaving a deep breath, he tugged his wallet from his back pocket and removed one of his cards. He forced himself to meet her amber gaze squarely.

“This has my work and cell phone numbers on it. I’ll call the police so they can make a report, and write my insurance information on the back while we’re waiting. Sound okay?”

She nodded. “Fine.”

“Are you sure you’re all right? I really think you should go get examined.” He ought to do the same, but wouldn’t. He had to get his ass to the station, pronto, before the captain served it to him roasted on a platter.

Her mouth tightened. “Let’s just get on with it, hotshot. It’s colder than a well digger’s butt out here and the rain is getting harder.” Tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear, she started to turn.

“Wait. What’s your name?”

Arching a brow, she gave him a penetrating look, as though deciding whether or not to grace him with the information. For the first time, he realized how tall she was. In heels, she topped his six feet by an inch or so. Without them, she’d still almost match his height.

Sensual lips curving upward, she stuck out a slender hand tipped with bloodred nails. “Corrine Shannon, exotic dancer. Cori, if you like.”

Shit yeah, I like.

Her throaty voice flooded his mind with naughty images of her lips nibbling down his naked body in the dark—

Whoa. Down, boy.
He cleared his throat and clasped her hand. “That’s nice. Company or p-private?” Immediately, he wanted to slice off his tongue. What the hell had made him blurt such a stupid question?

“Private. I work birthdays, anniversaries, bachelor parties . . . whatever. Thursdays through Saturdays, six p.m. to two a.m.” The smile became knowing, feral. Her tawny eyes sparkled as she reached out, pushed his gold wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, then trailed a long nail down his cheek. “Don’t sweat it, fire boy. You can’t afford me.”

His eyes widened. “I—I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t—”

Cori turned on her elegant heel, strode back to her vehicle, and climbed in, leaving him with his mouth hanging open, the memory of her touch scorching his skin. Until he reminded himself the woman was a pro. Seduction came natural to her, probably meant nothing more than bigger tips. And his experience with women was sadly lacking.

Just as he turned to walk off, she leaned out her open door. “By the way, are
you
all right?”

The soft question, posed with genuine concern and without a trace of her earlier attitude, almost did him in.

He managed a weak smile. “Yeah, I’m good.”

She frowned. “You don’t look so good, Zack Knight.”

Which made today like any other.

A wave of sheer exhaustion swamped him anew. His chest felt heavy and his body ached as though he’d been beaten with hammers, and not just because of the wreck. Worse, he was now so late for A-shift that the captain would definitely chew his ass, spit it out, then devise some wicked method of punishment. And he still had to work a double shift because he desperately needed the extra money; he didn’t want any of his friends to find out why.

Zack’s beloved home was gone. His life savings, gone. The Mustang, his pride and joy, he’d held on to by his fingertips. All to save the hide of an unfeeling bastard who’d written off his only son as a failure.

He’d never recover from the financial blow, not to mention the physical one. God, he was so tired, most days he couldn’t remember his name, and the team had started to notice. This morning’s wreck had been a mere symptom of a much larger problem. They’d watch him like hawks now, ready to intervene if he started to sink.

They had no idea how easy giving up would be.

Twenty-six years old, flat broke, and at the mercy of dangerous criminals. How do you like those apples, genius
?

Cori Shannon squinted through the windshield at the sleet, fighting the steering wheel in the pissy weather. Dammit, she’d missed her morning class. And right before a big exam, too. All because that guy frickin’ fell asleep at the wheel. What was his name?

Zack. The firefighter.

The cutie with the blue peepers hiding behind those conservative wire-rimmed glasses. Tall, lean, and fit. He’d been young, twentysomething, with soft, coal black hair tumbling over his forehead and framing a kind face. Okay, a
gorgeous
face with a delicious body to match.

In truth, she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off the way his rain-splattered shirt clung to the hard muscles of his chest. Had feasted on the sight of his wet pants plastered to his long legs and tight, perfect rear end.

Oh, he was a very sexy man all right, but . . . there’d been something vulnerable in his gaze. Something deep and sad that drew her, made her want to take him in her arms and hold him.

Because, shit, she recognized herself in his lost expression. Crazy, but for one split second, she’d fought the impulse to grab his hand and say, “Hey, let’s blow this place. Jump in and we’ll get the hell gone.”

Funny thing was, the man looked like he might’ve taken her up on the offer.

Not that she would’ve made it, as much as the idea had merit. “You’re an upstanding citizen nowadays, Corrine, my girl,” she muttered to herself. “No more disastrous decisions for you.”

She shivered. Alexander Gunter was dead, and she’d come damned close to paying the ultimate price for giving up her dreams the first time around the block. For marrying a man wearing the guise of a savior, only to discover the ruthless jackal underneath.

Done and gone. She was so near the realization of her dream that she could taste success. In spite of the crappy start to her day, happiness curled through her belly. May graduation was a mere four months away. By God, she’d done it!

Once the last of her school bills were paid off and she started drawing a regular check from her new job, all of her debts would be history. Best of all, she’d say “So long” to exotic dancing for good.

Brows furrowed, she wondered why on earth she’d deliberately given Zack Knight a skewed impression of herself. Why hadn’t she just told him she was in nursing school? A bit of defiance rearing its ugly head, she supposed. Yeah, a secret, perverse part of her had wanted to see how Zack would react to news that would have most men panting in anticipation— however misguidedly—of an easy screw.

Not this one. The memory of his blue eyes widening innocently at the disclosure of her profession caused a weird ache in the region of her heart. No guy could possibly be so sweet and naive in this day and age.

What a refreshing change.

Rot in hell, Alex.

A crack of lightning and a drum roll of thunder made Cori jump, startling her attention back to the road. The sleet drove against the windshield in sheets, lowering visibility to almost nil. The Sugarland Bridge loomed ahead, a ghostly specter enshrouded in gray. The morning had grown so dark that she could hardly tell where the sky ended and the river burgeoning underneath the bridge began.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, she noticed a pair of headlights approaching from behind. The deluge might be distorting things, but it seemed the lights were approaching far too fast for the treacherous conditions.

Starting over the bridge, she tensed, attention divided between driving carefully and the idiot who was rapidly gaining on her. What fool needed to be in such a hurry in terrible weather like this?

The driver was closing the gap between them at an alarming clip, rushing up until the glare from the headlights was blinding. The jerk didn’t try to pass, but rode her tail, no more than a few feet behind her. Too dangerous and freaky for words. Cori held steady, determined to pull off to the shoulder on the other side and let the car go around her. Just a bit farther and—

A muffled pop sounded. The SUV skidded to the right, and, panicking, she jerked the wheel in the opposite direction, overcorrecting.