Page 15 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

Marsden seemed to choke a little on his coffee.

“Or a spa basket,” she added quickly. “Mineral salts and so forth. Enzyme masks.”

Marsden put his mug down carefully. He definitely seemed to be trying not to laugh. Her face heated. Was it her fault that she’d never met a firefighter before? She had no idea what sort of person became a fireman and what they might like. Signing up for a job that made you run toward danger instead of away from it made no sense to her.

“You could bake something,” he suggested.

She cast her eyes toward the intimidating six-burner Viking stove that dominated the kitchen. It scared her and, quite frankly, the last time she’d used it, it had seemed to be mocking her. “Like a cake?”

“Cookies. Brownies. Something they can pop in their mouth without dirtying a dish.”

She grinned, delighted. “That’s clever, Marsden. I wouldn’t have thought of that. Thank you.”

He stood up. “Better go check the perimeter.” That was code for toss the ball with Greta in the park around the corner. Rachel whistled for the dog, who came running, her leash already in her mouth.

“Take your time. I don’t have any clients until later. I’ll text you.”

Marsden nodded and headed out the door, Greta practically running circles around him as he went.

Rachel thought for a moment about his suggestion of baked goods, then carried her cup of coffee to her desk and turned on her computer. She was a Kessler, after all. Why not use the Internet to figure out what kind of gift to get for a kind, heroic fireman to whom you were sort of attracted?

More than “sort of,” she had to admit. “Extremely” would be closer to the mark. Was he really as good-looking as she remembered? She recalled a dimple in his cheek, or maybe not so much a dimple as a dent that appeared whenever he smiled. But maybe she’d imagined it. If she watched the links her father had sent, she could find out how much of Fred’s sexiness was real, how much she’d imagined.

She opened her e-mail and clicked the first link, gasping at the horrifying sight of the crane sprawled atop the limousine. How the hell had anyone survived? Let alone all of them?

And then there was Fred, addressing someone holding a microphone to his face. His hair was tousled with sweat. She hadn’t taken much note of its color before. It was a luxurious brown, the color of a sable coat. He spoke with a charming sort of humility, coming across as cheerfully down-to-earth and not at all accustomed to speaking to the media. “Sometimes you just get lucky, and this is one of those times. Not to say that it’s lucky to have a crane fall on top of you. That part was unlucky. But it could have been so much worse. Maybe God has a romantic streak and didn’t want to ruin the wedding.”

From off camera, the reporter laughed. “Don’t you think you had something to do with saving all those lives? They’re calling you the Bachelor Hero of San Gabriel.”

“Excuse me?”

“We know you’re a modest man, so maybe you don’t—”

“You don’t understand. I was just doing my job.”

The camera shifted to aim at the reporter, who turned out to be the glamorous anchorwoman, Ella Joy. “And so the legend grows. Don’t let Fred Breen’s humble manner fool you. He’s a hero, through and through. You might remember him from the Cooking with Heat project, a cookbook which he spearheaded, with all proceeds donated to the 9/11 fund.”

Here they showed a shot of a slightly younger Fred eagerly displaying a cookbook for the camera. Lord, he was adorable. Since Rachel’s father owned an animation studio, among many other things, she’d met her share of movie stars and celebrities over the years. But none of them had come close to Fred’s unselfconscious appeal.

“We’ll have a lot more on Firefighter Breen and the new Urban Search and Rescue Squad in our special hour-long report tonight, Heart of a Hero.”

Off screen, she heard Fred spluttering. “Heart of bullsh—” before the sound was cut off.

Rachel took a long swallow of her coffee. This was bad. Very bad. While she appreciated Fred’s reluctance to grab the spotlight, the truth was he didn’t have much choice in the matter. If the media decided to turn him into a story, he’d be a story. And if he was the story, she couldn’t go anywhere near him.

The thought made her unexpectedly sad, as if she were passing by a warmly lit house she’d never be able to enter. Instead of taking a present to the firehouse, she’d have to order something to be delivered.

She clicked on the next link, and this time she saw Fred heaving her into his arms and settling her against his chest. A shiver passed through her, a visceral memory of what it had felt like to be nestled so close to him. And then she saw it. The way she’d shaken the hair away from her face, so it didn’t get caught in the fasteners of his jacket, left her profile momentarily exposed. The camera didn’t zoom in on her or linger on her face in any way, but that didn’t matter. Anyone with any sort of technical knowledge at all would be able to zoom in on the shot and get a pretty good image of her.

---