Page 57 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

“Bradford,” Rachel hissed, balling her hands into fists. “You don’t speak for my father, and he doesn’t speak for me. How dare you? We’re leaving now. And don’t call me again, unless it’s on board business.”

The color came and went along his bladelike cheekbones, then he whirled around and stalked from the restaurant. Rachel, so furious she was shaking, clutched at Fred’s arm. Without a word, he guided her along a path through the linen-draped tables. The low clinking of champagne glasses rang in her ears with a bell-like din, adding to the drumbeat of furious thoughts. Why did everyone think they had a say in her love life? Did Bradford really think she was so obedient to her father that she couldn’t make her own choices?

Halfway home, she realized she was saying these things out loud. The restaurant sounds had been replaced by the rumble of Fred’s truck. He was driving, focused on the road ahead, listening with a frown.

“Well?” she demanded. “Don’t you think he was completely out of line?”

His hand tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t like the guy, but he probably has a point.”

“A point? A point? What point?”

“Rachel Kessler and Fred Breen. Does that make sense to you? Wealthy heiress and ordinary fireman. Come on.”

She turned on him in a passion. “Don’t do that. Just don’t, or I swear I’ll … I’ll … throw myself out of the truck.”

He took a turn so tightly the tires squealed. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Why should someone who saves people’s lives be less important than anyone else?”

“It’s not about importance …”

“What, then? Money? Sure, Bradford knows a lot about money. I thought he cared about animals too, but he doesn’t. All he cares about is his portfolio. I bet the Refuge is nothing more than a tax write-off to him!” That, to her, was the worst sin of all. “My father might be rich, but he cares about things besides money. He loves computers and he wants everyone else to love them too. He’d probably be designing new systems for free. I should have known Bradford wasn’t like that.”

Fred drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. “So Bradford isn’t your favorite person.”

“No. Or the fifty other men just like him who’ve asked me out.”

“Fifty?”

“Fifty, a hundred, what does it matter? I’m not interested in men from my dad’s world. And they’re not really interested in me. They have no idea what my life is really like. I know what they want from me. The Kessler billions.” That came out more bitter that she’d intended.

“Well, that’s not what I would want.”

For a moment, she lost her breath, desperate for Fred to continue that thought. He brought the truck to a jerking halt in front of her apartment building, then leaned toward her, his hand rising halfway between them. Her cheek tingled, waiting. She wanted, needed him to touch her. But then his gaze arrowed past her, and she swiveled to see Marsden waiting for them in the lobby.

His hand dropped away; she watched it with a sense of despair, as if it symbolized her entire life. Always separate, always apart.

“Go ahead upstairs,” he told her. “I’ll watch you until you’re inside, then park the truck. Tell Marsden to do the security check with you.”

She lingered on the sidewalk, seized by the feeling that as soon as she parted from Fred, he’d put her out of his mind forever. “You’re coming up right away?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “But Rachel …”

“I’ll see you upstairs.” She hurried away from the truck before he could say anything else. Whatever he was about to say, she could already imagine. It was a mistake. I’m not from your world. Your father would fire me. Who could blame Fred if he said any of those things? What sane man would want to take on her and her father, not to mention a possibly vengeful kidnapper still on the loose?

Upstairs, Greta squirmed happily against her legs. Rachel kicked off her stilettos and knelt on the floor to hug her. Her warm doggy enthusiasm made the tight, fearful knot in Rachel’s chest loosen. It was okay if she made a fool of herself in front of Greta. Dogs didn’t care about things like that.

A tear dropped onto Greta’s fur. “Oh Greta, I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything,” she whispered to her dog.

A hot tongue licking her hand assured her that she hadn’t. She swiped at her tears with the heel of her hand and padded into the kitchen, illuminated by nothing more than the light of the stove hood. She didn’t want to turn on any more lights; the semi-darkness suited her mood. In the pantry, she took out a can of dog food and found the can opener.

If she could do nothing else in her life, she knew how to make dogs happy. Maybe that would be enough. It used to be enough. Until she met Fred.

“Rachel,” came his voice from the other side of the kitchen.

She spun around, clutching the half-opened can, her stomach cratering with fear. Here it came. Rejection, withdrawal, abandonment. All of the things she’d been imagining. Instead, he opened his arms with an almost helpless gesture, as if to say, Here I am, if you want me.

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