Page 9 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

“Here we go,” he murmured, and slid her off the seat.

Chapter 3

The white glare of camera lights made Rachel burrow her head against Fred’s chest. She felt him adjust her hair so it covered her face. His glove brushed against her cheek in the process, an oddly gentle touch.

In the safe darkness, nestled against his chest, she took deep breaths of the night air, saturated with the comforting scent of Fred’s jacket. Thank God, thank God she was out of there. She couldn’t go through that again, couldn’t ever go through that again.

One of the firemen dropped a tool, and the sharp clang triggered one of the memories she’d been keeping at bay while trapped in the limo. Her kidnapper had brought her food in a dented tin dish. For the first few days of her captivity, she’d flung it against the bars. Headstrong even at eight years old. Later, she’d given in and eaten his food.

She began to tremble, and felt the fireman tighten his grip. The gentle up-and-down bounce of his stride was surprisingly soothing. Forget those horrible memories. It was history, long ago and far away. It had nothing to do with the bizarre freak event of a crane landing on their limo. Focus on the handsome firefighter.

Outside the safe circle of Fred the Fireman’s arms, reporters were shouting questions.

“How long were you trapped inside? What’s your name? Is it true you were on your way to a bachelorette party? Did you ever expect something like that to happen? It’s a miracle everyone survived the crash, do you have anything to say to the heroes who rescued you?”

“Keep back,” she heard Fred say in a commanding tone. “She doesn’t want to talk. If she changes her mind, she’ll contact you.”

“Can you at least tell us her name?”

“You know I don’t have clearance to talk to the media. We have a PIO for that. Contact him if you have any more questions.”

“Come on, Stud,” came a sultry female voice. “You gotta give us something here. This is the biggest story we’ve had in months. We’re calling it the Miracle on Main.”

“You’re a genius, Ella Joy. How do you do it? Year after year after year after—”

“Very cute, Stud. You’re going to pay for that one.” But from the way the reporter teased him, Rachel had the feeling she liked him. And why not? He’d just rescued four damsels in distress, practically single-handedly. Now he was going above and beyond the call of duty by shielding her from the cameras. And Lord, he was strong. He didn’t even seem to be breathing hard after everything he’d done.

She heard the sound of a car door open, then found herself peering inside another confined space, this one packed with medical equipment, IVs, a gurney, a paramedic. Suddenly the craving for freedom overwhelmed her. No. No. Absolutely no. I can’t go in there. Like a wild animal, barely aware of what she was doing, she pushed against Fred’s hard chest and wrenched herself out of his hold.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed, but her feet were already on the ground. One of her strappy sandals slipped under her foot, and she staggered. Fred reached for her, but she yanked her arm away so he couldn’t grab it. Her flying hand accidentally slammed against his nose, and he jerked back.

“What are you doing?” He sounded more shocked than angry about his nose.

He grabbed for her, but she backed away from him. Even in her runaway panic, she remembered to keep her face turned away from the cameras, and her hair loose across her features. The reporters might think she was a madwoman, but at least they wouldn’t get a shot of her face. She launched herself away from the cameras, away from Fred, dodging other firefighters who tried to stop her, scrambling past the orange cones that marked the perimeter of the accident.

She ran and ran, just as she had when she’d scrambled out of that warehouse prison. When she reached the next street, out of sight of the nosy media and the well-meaning firefighters, she slowed to a fast walk, taking big gulps of the night air. Her heart was still racing with the aftereffects of her terror. Her skin felt clammy with sweat, not exercise sweat but the fight-or-flight kind.

Fight or flight—or both, in her case. Looking down at herself, she heaved a giant sigh. Flecks of blood dotted her silver mesh party dress. One of her sandal straps had broken, making her drag her left foot. She probably looked like a runaway from a home for deranged debutantes.

She wondered what time it was. The occasional car rumbled past her, but the street was mostly deserted, the streetlamps granting pools of amber light to the sidewalk. Even though San Gabriel was generally safe, she had no business walking alone out here.

She should call Marsden for a pickup. The security guard was on call until the limo brought her home, which wasn’t going to happen now. Luckily, her little chain purse still dangled against her hip. She’d call in a minute, once she’d gotten hold of herself. Once she could face getting into another vehicle.

Tremors kept traveling through her body. Had she really punched Fred the Fireman in the nose before taking off as if the flying monkeys of Oz were after her? Now he probably thought she was bipolar and paranoid. She winced, remembering the shock on his face as her hand connected with his nose. It hadn’t been a hard strike, more of a glancing blow, surely not enough to actually break his nose. Sorry, Fred the Fireman. Sorry about the nose. Sorry I won’t ever see you again.

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