Page 3 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

Abandoning Mulligan, he dashed across the room and whirled the girl out of range of the flying darts.

“I … I was going to the bathroom,” she stammered, looking bewildered.

“Bathroom’s this way.” He spun her around so she faced the other direction. “Darts are the other way. Can you manage it or do you need an escort?”

She bristled. “I’m not going to the bathroom with some strange guy I don’t even—”

“Not me. One of your friends.”

“Oh.” Her face flamed. “You must think I’m a total ditz.”

“Not at all,” he said politely, which made her face turn even more crimson. She tore her arm from his grasp and headed for the bathroom, indignantly muttering something about overprotective men.

Well, if that was the thanks he was going to get …

Shrugging, he returned to Mulligan, who drained his mug and eyed him with amusement. “At least she didn’t whack you this time. So back to fight club. It’s not a bad way to prove up. Show the crew you’re more than a kitten lover. Let that pretty face of yours fool them, then bring down the hammer. If I hadn’t seen you in that ring, I wouldn’t have believed it, Fred.” His cell phone rang. As Mulligan muttered into his phone, Fred watched the dart players finish a game, then start another, then finish that one.

Mulligan ended his call. “I might have to hedge my bets, though, in case you decide to pull your punches. It’s that nice guy thing again. How do I know you aren’t going to wuss out and …”

“Hang on.”

Rachel had been gone too long. He just knew it. Leaving Mulligan in mid-sentence, he hurried to the dark hallway where the men’s and women’s bathrooms were located. Sure enough, there she was, a silvery sprite in the dim fluorescents, bending over a guy who knelt on the gritty, sawdust-covered floor. His chinos and stained crewneck sweater screamed vomiting frat boy.

“Are you all right?” Rachel was asking him in a concerned voice, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was alone in a dark hallway with a drunk.

“Awesome.” The guy swiped a hand across his face. “Hey, you’re pretty. Gimme a kiss.”

“Uh … no thanks.” She started to straighten up, but the guy latched on to her arm.

“Come on, baby.” He sang, “You can leave your veil on …” and tugged her so she lost her balance and started to fall on top of him.

Fred didn’t wait another second. He strode to her side, swooped her out of the drunk guy’s reach, and whisked her down the hallway. Her rosewater scent teased his nostrils; he resisted the urge to bend closer to sniff her hair, a move that might shift him from rescuer to stalker.

With her dark curls falling back over his arm, she tilted her head back to glare at him. “I had the situation handled.”

“You’re welcome,” he said grimly.

She seemed to puzzle over that for a second. “I guess I was supposed to thank you.”

“Some people would at least consider it.”

Her quick shimmer of a smile cast sparks of light into their grungy surroundings. “Who are you, anyway? Why do you keep”—she gestured wildly, bonking him on the chin—“popping up like this? Did my father hire you?”

“What?” The throb in his chin distracted Fred from her odd question.

“He insisted on hiring the limo driver, but he didn’t tell me about hiring anyone else.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but she seemed to forget about the subject anyway. He headed down the hall, toward the bar. Surprisingly, she didn’t ask to be put down, and he didn’t offer. She needed to be with her friends. And for some reason, he needed to make sure she was safe. Besides, it felt good, holding her in his arms, so good he sort of lost track of time. The hallway seemed to go on forever, and yet end too soon.

When they stepped back into the bar, the blonde, Cindy, spotted them and came hurtling over, shrieking bloody murder.

“What happened? Are you okay, Rachel?”

“I’m fine,” she grumbled, as Fred set her on her feet. “Someone threw up in the hallway and tried to come on to me. Apparently this guy”—she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, jabbing him in the chest, making him wince—“thought it was a federal crime.”

The spiky redhead appeared at Cindy’s shoulder. “The most important question is, how’s the veil? It’s my turn to wear it.”

Rachel whipped the veil off her head, dragging long strands of her hair along with it. “No, the important question is why this complete stranger thinks I can’t take care of myself.”

Now that was just too much. Fred threw up his hands. “Really? The important thing isn’t nearly walking into a game of darts? Or worse?”

Rachel, struggling to free her hair from the veil, turned to her friends. “Don’t I have enough people watching every little thing I do? Why him?”

Exasperated, Fred reached over and untangled her veil from her hair. “You are the strangest girl I’ve ever met.”

“What kind of thing is that to say—”

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