How to Tame a Wild Fireman (6 page)

He didn’t release her, not yet. She felt too good under him, firm and curvaceous and yielding. “But not you? I don’t scare you?”

For a long moment she stared up at him with eyes that looked like smoky gold in the late afternoon sun. He felt the beat of her heart, the flutter of her pulse. She smelled like roses and sweat, utterly lickable. “No,” she said. “I know you don’t want me. You’re just playing games, like you always do.”

He bit his tongue to keep from telling her just how wrong she was. He wanted her so badly he was afraid to move his lower body in case she felt the physical evidence.

“Get off me.” She wrenched her hands out of his grip and pushed against his chest. From the catch in her voice, he knew he’d thrown her off balance. Good. He liked having Lara’s complete attention. He rolled off her, then farther down the slope, toward the edge of the cliff. He vaguely heard Lara and Liam shouting behind him.

Good. They should be scared. Because inside he was a fireball about to detonate, and if no one understood that . . .

He stopped himself at the very edge, digging his hands into the scrubby grass. Liam stumbled to his knees and grabbed onto him. His brother’s terrified expression made Patrick curse himself. When Liam got overwhelmed, it took a while to calm him down.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got pinpoint control,” he signed as he sat up. He rhythmically squeezed his brother’s arms, starting near his shoulders and moving down to his wrists. The pressure usually helped calm him.

Lara, white with fury, burst out, “We ought to just push you over,” turned in a whirl of funereal skirts and stormed back up the slope.

Patrick tugged his
attention back to the rocky ridge he was currently climbing. No time for reminiscing out here. When he got to the top, he looked back. From that elevation he could see the leading edge of the flames. They looked like a towering, spitting orange demon in a cloak of black smoke.

“I see the road,” shouted Dan. He sprinted toward the narrow, overgrown trail on the far side of the ridge. Patrick didn’t move. The mighty presence of the wildfire fascinated him; he couldn’t look away.

“Come on,” Dan shouted, his voice retreating into the distance. “Move your ass!”

“Coming.” But still he stood rooted to the ground, riveted by the magnificent show, the Waller Canyon Fire’s dance of the veils, performed only for him. Flame met flame in a sinuous, glowing tornado of gas, like an erotic, fiery lover.

He scrambled down the hillside and caught up with Dan, who had reached the two-­track and was shading his eyes, looking for their ride. “Never seen anything like that,” Patrick panted. “Wish I had my camera.”

“You’re a crazy bastard.”

“That’s why they call me Psycho. Hear that sound?”

“What, that little old campfire back there?”

“No. Listen.”

A groaning
mwah
came from the other side of the road. “What is that?” asked Dan.

“Could be someone injured.”

“No way. That’s some kind of an animal. Probably a sheep or something. Wildfires are hell on animals. Back in Jamberoo, I volunteer for wildlife rescue. That’s why I signed up to help out there. I was on vacation before this fire broke out.”

Patrick looked at Dan with new respect. He was obviously much more than the fun-­loving Aussie he appeared to be. Then again, Patrick knew all about how misleading surface appearances could be. “I’m going to check it out. Keep an eye out for the vehicle?”

“Abso-­bloody-­lutely.”

Patrick took off and scrambled up the hillside. His leg muscles burned from the jog through the woods, but physical pain never bothered him much. At the top of the rock-­strewn hill, he lay on his stomach and peered over. He nearly jumped back in shock. A pair of terrified yellow eyes stared back at him in a white-­furred, fluffy-­bearded face.

“It’s a freaking llama,” he called down to Dan.

“Roast llama?”

“No. Lightly smoked.” Patches of soot smudged the llama’s face and trembling body. It lay on the hill, clearly exhausted by its attempt to climb to the top. The ranch next to the Callahan property had raised llamas; Patrick could tell that this creature was still a baby, and that she was female.

“Come on,” he told her in a soft voice, extending his hand. “We gotta get you out of here. That fire might decide to head this way at any moment. You want to come with me and my friend?”

The baby llama sniffed his glove, recoiling from the rough, fusee-­scented leather.

“Here, try this.” Patrick pulled his glove off and let the llama sniff his hand. When the animal seemed comfortable with him, he carefully grabbed a handful of fur at her shoulder and urged her to the crest of the hill. She protested with a low humming sound, trying to dig her hoofs into the hillside. She even tried to spit, but she was so dehydrated she lacked the saliva. But Patrick persisted, pulling her onward until she gave in and stumbled after him.

“Oh shit, you’re hurt,” he murmured, seeing the blood on her foreleg. “I didn’t realize. How’s this?” He kneeled down, put both arms under her belly, then slung her over his shoulders, her legs sticking out in front of him. The hot skin of her belly pressed against his neck as he gingerly clambered down the hill toward Dan.

“Crikey,” exclaimed Dan. “What if our ride doesn’t come? We’ve got five miles back to the command post. You’re going to do it wearing a llama?”

“Think of her as my fur stole,” he said, though he knew Dan had a point. He was already breathing fast. But not as fast as the llama. He felt the pitter-­patter of her heart and heard her panicked humming. He had to walk hunched over to keep her from sliding off. Blood dripped from the llama’s leg onto his pants. He felt his already sore muscles flex and strain.

Didn’t matter; no way was he going to leave the llama behind. Not once he’d looked into those scared, golden eyes. With any luck, their ride would show up at any minute. If not, he’d spend the five miles thinking up a good name for her.

“I’ll switch off with you,” Dan offered, confirming once and for all that he was Psycho’s kind of guy.

“Deal. Think of it like a triathlon, except you’re wearing your bike around your neck.”

“You’re a sandwich short of a picnic, mate.”

“So they say.”

Chapter Five

“G
ood Goddess. What is that?” Annabella shaded her eyes and squinted into the sun. Lara finished stashing the bandage roll in her medical kit and stood up. An SUV, one of the fire vehicles, had pulled up outside the med tent. A strange figure was staggering away from it, silhouetted against the setting sun. It looked like a man, but with a weird animal’s head, like some kind of creature from Greek mythology. Except the animal’s head didn’t seem to be correctly attached to its body. It was hanging to one side and making a panicky bleating sound. So maybe it was injured, and she’d have to treat its freakish, dislocated head, and how would that work? Family medicine didn’t prepare one for treating mutant mythological creatures.

Can you feel your toes?

Baaaaa.

Follow this light.

Baaaaa.

She shook off the silly train of thought. She was tired, that was all. She and Annabella had been out here most of the day.

The monstrous creature was closing in on them. Now she could see that of course it wasn’t one very bizarre being, but a firefighter carrying some sort of animal on his shoulders. Another firefighter strode next to him, carrying a gas can and some other gear. He pointed at the medical tent and the group veered toward Lara.

Now she could see blood all over the firefighter’s front. Although she couldn’t see his face, which was partially blocked by the animal, his body was breathtaking. His T-­shirt was so drenched with sweat it showed every ripple of muscle in his powerful torso. He was about six feet tall, intensely powerful, with broad shoulders strong enough to carry a . . . whatever that was.

“Where’s Donnell?” the second fireman asked her, in an Australian accent.

“He left me in charge. What is that?”

“Injured animal stranded by the wildfire.”

The fireman came to a stop, bent down and set the creature on the ground. It staggered, nearly collapsing. Its frightened golden eyes flicked from one face to another, as if looking for its mother. Lara knelt next to it and gently reached for its injured leg, but it kicked feebly at her.

“Cheeky, isn’t she?” said the Australian.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the fireman straighten up and put his hands to his lower back.

“She’s a llama,” he said in a smoke-­roughened voice. “I’m calling her Goldie Hawn. Anyone else notice the resemblance? It’s the fluffy hair.”

Lara sat back on her heels, nearly tumbling over backward. She stabilized herself and glanced sharply up at the fireman. Intense blue eyes, the color of the deepest part of a flame, met hers.

“
Patrick?
”

“Hi, Lara. So it is you.” He rolled his shoulders back to work out the kinks, while she tried mightily to ignore what that did to his rippling chest muscles. “I thought I spotted your goldfish.”

“It’s the guy I saw before, the one who was staring at you,” Annabella whispered in her ear. “He’s even sexier up close.”

Lara ignored her. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I’m surprised to see you too. Are you still living in Loveless?” Patrick looked almost completely relaxed, as if there weren’t a dangerous wildfire and an injured creature clamoring for his attention. But she knew him too well not to notice the wary look in his eyes. The last time she’d see him . . . well, she’d basically told him to rot in hell.

“As much as I would love to catch up over—­I don’t know, a glass of hemlock or something—­I need to tend to this . . .”

“Llama,” he said. “You can call her Goldie. She likes it. We practiced on the way here.”

Lara swallowed and wrenched her gaze from his. It wasn’t easy; Patrick had always been sort of . . . dazzling. Now, covered in grime and sweat, with new lines fanning from his eyes, a look of exhaustion creasing his face, he sent chills through her unprepared system.

She addressed the llama. “Hi Goldie. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to look at your leg.”

“She doesn’t actually speak English,” said Patrick, who seemed to be hiding a smile.

“What about Portuguese, German, or Thai?” Annabella widened her thickly lashed eyes and played with her ponytail. Patrick’s gaze flicked over to her, then stayed. No wonder; Annabella was incredibly beautiful.

“She’s a quick learner,” he said with a smile that would fell an entire herd of llamas. “With the right teacher.”

Lara rolled her eyes. No matter how much time passed, nothing ever changed. Of course Patrick still drew women like ants to spilled sugar. He was electricity in a bottle, adrenaline in a syringe.

Syringe . . . that gave her an idea.

Murmuring softly to the llama, she reached into her medical kit and found some Diazepam and a syringe. She’d used that sedative once on a cow; it should also cross over to camelids.

“How much would you estimate she weighs?” she asked, refusing to look up at Patrick and Annabella.

“It’s not polite to speculate on a lady’s weight. But I will say that she makes every ounce look good.”

Lara glanced up in time to catch Patrick’s wink at Annabella, who giggled. Yes, that worldly, sophisticated, sexually enlightened “Goddess” was responding to Patrick like a teenage girl.

“Not her,” gritted Lara. “The llama.”

“I’d say about ninety pounds,” he said promptly. “About what I carry into a fire.”

And he’d carried the animal how far? Lara shook her head. Patrick always did go for the fireworks, for the spectacular . . . even if it was a disaster.

Just being in his presence, feeling those familiar, unwelcome tingles, was a disaster.

“Maybe you should take a seat in that massage chair over there and let Annabella work on you while I deal with Goldie,” she suggested sweetly. “Your shoulders must be killing you by now.”

Patrick shot her a complicated look. Lara knew how much he’d always hated sitting still, even for something pleasurable. He liked fast cars, fast motorcycles, loud music, mile-­a-­minute action. He probably made love like a manic Energizer bunny—­not that she wanted to picture that.

But instead of turning down the massage as she’d predicted, he blasted a killer smile at Annabella. “That’d be awesome, Miss . . .”

“Call me Annabella.”

Annabella made it sound like some kind of sexual invitation, instead of simply her name.

“Annabella. I’m definitely feeling that hike. I could use a good rubdown, if you’re really offering.”

“Oh, I really am.”

“Dan, mind if I take five?”

Lara started. Even though the Aussie firefighter was good-­looking, with his hazel eyes and big cheeky grin, she’d forgotten he was even there.

“Take fifty. You earned it. I’m going to go grab a feed. Take it easy, Psycho.” With a salute, the other firefighter jogged away.

Lara flicked the syringe to make sure it was completely filled. A drop of fluid flew into the air. The llama bleated nervously. Patrick patted her on the side of the neck and she subsided, rubbing her head against his hip.

“Where to, Annabella? Shirt on or shirt off?”

“Shirt off, most definitely. Do you mind essential oils or would you prefer . . .” Annabella’s voice trailed away.

All set to plunge the syringe into the llama’s vein, Lara couldn’t help looking up to see why Annabella had stopped talking. Patrick was pulling off his sweat-­soaked shirt, revealing a sight so sensational, he ought to sell tickets. Muscle after taut muscle was revealed, one by one, ridge after ridge of sheer male power marching up his torso. On top of all those muscles glowed a layer of vivid color, wild shapes in turquoise, crimson, and sapphire blue that resolved into a gargoyle, a horned demon, a sea monster, and there, on the right side of his rib cage . . . a fireball.

He drew the T-­shirt over his head and balled it up. That motion made the sharply defined muscles on his upper arms flex. Biceps, she thought, half hysterically. And pecs and triceps and deltoids. That’s all they were, anatomical parts like any others. They each had a medical name.
Pectoralis major, pectoralis minor, biceps brachii
. His shoulders were so
broad
. Had they always been like that?

Her gaze slid back to the fireball. After he’d gotten that fireball tattoo, everything went wrong. It blasted into their lives and changed everything. None of it would have happened if he hadn’t insisted on that damn fireball.

Patrick was looking at her, she knew, even though she was still fumbling with the hypodermic and petting the llama. She felt the insistent weight of his gaze pulling hers like a magnet.

When she met his eyes, they held a stone-­cold sober look, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, and he agreed.
It was all his fault
.
Everything.
In that moment, he looked nothing like the wild boy she remembered.

He dropped his gaze and turned to follow Annabella to the massage chair. The llama gave a loud hum and tried to follow.

“No, Goldie,” said Lara firmly. “You stay here with me.” Since Goldie had turned her body in Patrick’s direction, Lara poised the hypo over the animal’s furry haunch. Panicked, the llama launched herself toward Patrick. Her soft back hoof struck the side of Lara’s head and everything went gray.

A moment later she found herself in the arms of a bare-­chested, magnificent Patrick, being transported through the air. She was staring into the cobalt eyes of a stern-­looking sea monster on the front of his shoulder. Her brain was still a little dazed; it must be, because she thought for a wild moment that maybe Patrick was going to make love to her right here and now. Annabella could give them some pointers.

She giggled helplessly, then winced at the ache in her head.

“If it’s that much fun,” he murmured, “maybe I should get Goldie to kick me in the head too.”

A sunbeam of sanity stole through her haze. “Goldie. Don’t forget,” she mumbled. Poor llama. After being rescued by broad-­shouldered, strong-­armed Patrick, she was probably in love with him. But since she was a llama, Patrick would never look at her in that way.

Lara knew just how she felt.

“I won’t forget,” said Patrick. “I never forget the important things.”

It was all too much. She closed her eyes until they reached the cot.

Patrick gently set
down this new, disturbingly compelling, woozily sexy version of Lara Nelson.

“Good thing I’m a trained paramedic.”

“She’s got you beat. She’s a doctor,” said the gorgeous Annabella. It was kind of strange. What were all these beautiful women doing in the med tent? Didn’t make sense. Nor did . . .

“Lara’s a doctor?”

“She’s extremely skilled and highly respected. She’ll have her pick of jobs when she finishes her residency.”

“Residency.”

“In San Diego. We’re extremely proud of her.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Lara mumbled.

“How does your head feel?” he asked. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”

“I know the symptoms of concussion. I don’t have one,” she said grumpily. “But yeah, my head hurts.”

She put her hand to her head, which made her grubby white tank top rise up, revealing pale gold flesh. So that’s what Lara’s skin looked like. He’d wondered often enough back in high school. Now that she wasn’t saturated in black, everything about her had a gold sheen. Even her eyelashes, which were mink-­brown with bronze tips. And there on her shoulder was the infamous goldfish, just as he remembered from that horrible night. Her eyes, gold as whiskey lit by a sunbeam, made his breath hitch. When the fuck had Lara gotten so gorgeous?

She sat bolt upright, wincing. “What exactly happened?”

“I took my shirt off and you fainted,” he told her, remembering how much fun it was to tease her. She gave him a look that was vintage, cut-­the-­crap Lara. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s totally understandable.”

She gave a loud sniff. “Yes, when you consider what you smell like right now.” She pushed her tumbling blond hair off her face. “Like a gas leak at a petting zoo. There are showers out back, you know.”

So she still gave as good as she got. And she still remembered things about him, like the fact that he didn’t enjoy touchy-­feely crap like massages. Make that, didn’t
used
to enjoy them. Working as a firefighter made you appreciate anything that took away the soreness. He’d even gotten interested in acupuncture.

But Lara didn’t need to know all that. If she wanted to despise him, he wasn’t going to stop her. He deserved it.

“Let me call Romaine to pick us up,” said Annabella.

“No. I’m fine,” Lara said. “Headache, that’s all. Get me some Tylenol and I’ll be good to go.” She put her hand to the side of her head. “Where’s the llama?”

“Out cold,” Patrick told her. “We’re not sure what to do with her next, but Donnell is back. He can handle it.”

“No! That llama is
my
patient.” Lara tried to get up, but Annabella stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t be compulsive now,
querida
. Goldie’s in good hands. You can stay and flirt with the handsome fireman.”

A slow wave of pink traveled up Lara’s face. Something about that endearing, telltale flush, which he knew she had always hated, gave him a funny, almost nostalgic feeling. It made him think of the times he’d ditched his own friends to goof around with Liam. They’d pick up Lara, grab Cokes, and hike out to the canyon, him acting the fool to make his brother laugh, while Lara rolled her eyes at the silly boys. He could practically smell the dust on the road, the wild daisies dotting the fields.

It made him remember everything he’d lost that long-­ago night.

“I should go,” he said abruptly. “Check in with the I.C. Let’s catch up later, Lara.” He needed to get back to work. He’d drink some water, fuel up, and get back to the fire lines, where he knew what he was doing.

“But you need to rest,” Annabella called after him. “And what about the massage? I can help you.”

He raised a hand in a gesture he hoped she’d interpret as “Thanks but later,” and kept going. Give him a new T-­shirt, maybe scrub off some of the stench, and he’d be good to go. The one thing he couldn’t possibly do was stay and chat with Lara and Annabella right now. Maybe later he could put on a good front and find out what she’d been up to since she left Loveless and turned into a knockout.