“Wait. What’s your name?”
Arching a brow, she gave him a penetrating look, as though deciding whether to grace him with the information. For the first time, he realized how very tall she was. In the heels, she topped his six feet by an inch or so. Without them, she’d still almost match his height.
Sensual lips curving upward, she stuck out a slender hand tipped with bloodred nails. “Corrine Shannon, exotic dancer. Cori, if you like.”
Shit, yeah, I like.
Her throaty voice flooded his mind with naughty images of her lips nibbling down his naked body in the dark—
Whoa. Down, boy. He cleared his throat and clasped her hand. “That’s nice. Company or p-private?” Immediately, he wanted to slice off his tongue. What the hell had made him blurt such a stupid question?
“Private. I work birthdays, anniversaries, bachelor parties . . . whatever. Thursdays through Saturdays, six p.m. to two a.m.” The smile became knowing, feral. Her tawny eyes sparkled as she reached out, pushed his gold wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, then trailed a long nail down his cheek. “Don’t sweat it, fireboy. You can’t afford me.”
His eyes widened. “I—I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t—”
Cori turned on her elegant heel, strode back to her vehicle, and climbed in, leaving him with his mouth hanging open, the memory of her touch scorching his skin. Until he reminded himself the woman was an admitted pro. Seduction came naturally to her, probably meant nothing more than bigger tips. And his experience with women was sadly lacking.
Just as he turned to walk off, she leaned out her open door. “Listen . . . are
you
all right?”
The soft question, posed with genuine concern and without a trace of her earlier attitude, almost did him in.
He managed a weak smile that felt lopsided on his face. “Yeah, I’m good.”
She frowned. “You don’t look so good, Zack Knight.”
Which made today like any other.
“I’ll be fine, but thanks.”
The extralong forty-eight-hour double shift ahead seemed an impossible feat. And when the looming bad weather finally hit, their emergency calls would more than triple. A wave of sheer exhaustion swamped him anew, with no relief on the horizon. Discouraged, he returned to the Mustang and used his cell phone to call the police. Next, he phoned the station and spoke to Eve Marshall, the station’s only female firefighter, and his closest friend.
“Zack, you’re almost an hour late! Sean’s in a shitty mood, my friend, and this doesn’t help. Where are you?”
“I was in an accident, Evie. The police—”
“Oh, shit! Are you hurt?”
“No, no. Just a fender bender.” To the tune of about a hundred wrenched muscles and a few thousand in damages to the vehicles, but he left that part out.
Eve sighed in relief. “Thank God.”
“Tell the captain I’ll be there as soon as I can, will you?”
“Huh. I’ll try, but he’s been holed up in his office since we came on shift, barking at everyone who sticks their nose in, including Six-Pack. We heard them yelling at each other earlier. It got real nasty.”
Zack closed his eyes. Lieutenant Howard “Six-Pack” Paxton and Captain Sean Tanner were tight, the best of friends. Over the years, they’d been through hell and back together, and more than anyone, Howard had been struggling to see his friend through a horrible personal down-slide. Six-Pack was as patient as they came, a solid rock of a guy. If those two were tearing strips off each other, Zack could only imagine the joyful reception he’d get later.
“Wonderful. If he asks, just let him know I’m coming. Tell Six-Pack, too.”
“Sure thing. Glad you’re okay, buddy,” she said warmly.
Her obvious concern helped, just a little, and he smiled in spite of the crappy morning. “Thanks.”
Settling in to wait for the police, he ran a hand through his short, wet hair.
Lightning flashed across the sky, stretched a bony white finger to the ground in the distance. A clap of thunder followed, promising that the steady freezing rain would gather in velocity for the fierce winter storm the forecasters had been predicting. The light and sound show was beyond strange for January.
He shivered; whether from the chill gripping his soaked body or from the eerie disquiet an approaching storm always evoked in him, he couldn’t say.
The cop, when he finally deigned to show, proved to be a bored, sarcastic prick. In Zack’s experience, working closely with the police at traffic accidents and various emergencies, most cops were cool, if somewhat rough around the edges. This one wasn’t. Zack’s lucky day, all around.
Jerk or not, he took down the pertinent information about the accident with efficiency, and handed Ms. Shannon the promised card Zack provided with his insurance information written on it. Of course, the cop couldn’t resist a parting jab or two as he returned to conclude business.
“Nice car. A classic. In a bit too much of a hurry in dangerous weather?”
Zack made an effort to sound respectful instead of annoyed. “I wasn’t speeding.”
The cop arched a brow. “In a ’sixty-seven Mustang? Right.”
“You don’t believe me.” Big surprise.
“People yank my weenie all day, Mr. Knight. I got no reason to think you’re any different, fire department or not.” He held out a small yellow card and tapped a beefy finger at eight digits he’d written on top.
“This is the number of my traffic report. Give that to your insurance rep when you call. Bada-bing, you’re set. Try not to pulverize anyone else, will ya?”
Biting back a retort, Zack tucked the card into a pocket inside his coat to protect it from the persistent rain, which had ramped up to a downpour. He was so cold and miserable, his face had gone numb. His chest felt heavy and his body ached as though he’d been beaten with hammers, and not just because of the wreck. Worse, he was now so late for A-shift that the captain would definitely chew his ass, spit it out, then devise some wicked method of punishment. Fantastic.
“Oh, by the way,” the cop said, rubbing his chin. “You got any business east of town, stay away from the Sugarland Bridge. I heard the Cumberland is swelling by the hour, and they’re sayin’ what with the runoff from the melting sleet we’ve had all week, the storm will have the river overflowin’ the banks by this afternoon. Hope you boys don’t get any calls out there.”
Zack nodded, somewhat revising his opinion of the man in light of his genuine concern. “Me, too. I appreciate the advice.”
The cop jogged to his cruiser and jumped in. After the man drove away, Zack contemplated the wisdom of apologizing to Cori Shannon one more time, making sure she’d be fine before he left.
She settled the matter by giving him a quick wave good-bye out her window, then rolling it up and pulling carefully into the morning traffic. So much for chivalry. With a weary sigh, he followed suit, dreading the imminent confrontation with Tanner.
Whatever he’d been expecting, the reality turned out to be much, much worse. Stiff, shivering, and saturated to the bone, he squished inside, leaving puddles in his wake through the station’s TV room. Where was everyone? He prayed he’d get the chance to grab his extra navy pants and Sugarland FD polo shirt from his bedside locker and change before facing the captain’s wrath.
Voices drifted from the kitchen, along with the rich aroma of fresh coffee. God bless Six-Pack for insisting they stock an excellent Starbucks blend. He couldn’t wait to get his hands wrapped around a hot mug. If only he could stop shaking enough to hold it steady. Nerves had set in, and the full import of how bad the wreck might’ve been left him rattled.
In the kitchen, he found Six-Pack leaning his rear against the counter, arms crossed over his massive chest, talking in a quiet, somber tone to Eve. With his short, spiky brown hair bleached blond at the tips, his towering height, and his buff physique, Zack always thought Howard resembled an action-movie star. He and Eve were dressed in the same navy pants and polo shirt that were required on duty, except his friends’ clothes were nice and dry.
“Hey, guys.” They turned to him and he attempted a smile, but it wouldn’t materialize.
Six-Pack pushed off the counter and crossed to him in three strides, Eve on his heels, worry etched on his rugged face. The lieutenant laid a big hand on Zack’s shoulder, pinning him with serious brown eyes.
“Eve said you were fine. You don’t look fine to me.”
“Nah, not even a scratch. Where’s Tanner?” He looked around warily.
Eve scowled. “Forget Sean for a minute. I’m not talking about bumps and bruises at the moment, my friend. You’ve been walking around here like a zombie for weeks. Next thing I know, you’ve bred that car you’re so meticulous about with someone else’s. What’s going on with you?”
He shrugged, going for nonchalant. “I’ve been working a lot of doubles. Somebody has to fill in for Val on B-shift while his leg is healing. Might as well be me.”
Because he desperately needed the extra money, and none of his friends knew why. After Darius Knight’s stroke landed him in a nursing home last year, discovery of the staggering gambling debt the old man owed to Joaquin Delacruz, a dangerous Atlantic City hotel and casino mogul, shocked Zack to the core. What followed ensured a succession of sleepless nights.
Delacruz’s cold promise of bodily harm if he didn’t recoup his money launched Zack into a sick, dizzying slide into hell. He’d gone to the police and the FBI, who ceased to give a shit upon learning the debt was legal. Delacruz knew how to play the game. Threats weren’t actions, so the authorities’ hands were tied. Fine. Zack could take care of himself and if his own safety were the only issue, he would’ve told Delacruz to shove it.
But his father was completely incapacitated, in a coma and helpless to defend himself. Zack just didn’t have it in him not to care what happened to his own father . . . even if the sentiment had never been returned.
Delacruz had ruined Zack in record time.
His beloved home, gone. The life savings he’d built for his own future, gone. The Mustang, his pride and joy, he’d held on to by his fingertips.
He’d never recover from the financial blow, not to mention the physical one. God, he was so tired, most days he couldn’t remember his name, and the team had started to notice. This morning’s wreck had been a mere symptom of a much larger problem. They’d watch him like hawks now, ready to intervene if he started to sink.
They had no idea how easy giving up would be.
Twenty-six years old, flat broke, and at the mercy of dangerous criminals. How do you like those apples, genius?
Eve took his hand, her bronzed, angular face scrunch ing into a frown. Striking pale blue eyes regarded her friend with affection. “Zack, you’re freezing! Are you sure you’re all right? You look ready to pass out.”
“I’m fine. I just want to get out of these cl—”
“Knight! Where the holy hell have you been?”
The captain stepped into the kitchen from the hallway leading to the office and sleeping quarters. Tanner’s hard face was thunderous, startling green eyes snapping with fury.
Ah, fuck.
Cori Shannon squinted through the windshield at the sleet, fighting the steering wheel in the pissy weather. The wipers slapped to the rhythm of an Aerosmith tune as Steven Tyler shagged somebody in the elevator, the old guy getting more action than a team of Navy SEALs on shore leave. Which normally would’ve lifted her spirits, the rockin’ beat and the mental image of someone going after what they wanted, and getting it.
Dammit, she’d missed her morning class. And right before a big exam, too. Now she’d have to make time she didn’t have in her already-insane schedule later today to get two estimates to have her truck fixed, get a rental, deal with insurance. All because that guy frickin’ fell asleep at the wheel. What was his name?
Zack. The firefighter.
The cutie with the laser blue peepers hiding behind those conservative wire-rimmed glasses. Tall, lean, and fit. He’d been young, twentysomething, with soft, coal black hair tumbling over his forehead and framing a kind face. Okay, a
gorgeous
face with a delicious body to match.
In truth, she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off the way his rain-splattered shirt clung to the hard muscles of his chest. Had feasted on the sight of his wet pants plastered to his long legs and tight, perfect rear end.
Oh, he was a very sexy man all right, but . . . there’d been something vulnerable in his gaze. Something deep and sad that drew her, made her want to take him in her arms and hold him.
Because, shit, she recognized herself in his lost expression. Crazy, but for one split second, she’d fought the impulse to grab his hand and say, “Hey, let’s blow this place. Jump in and we’ll get the hell gone.”
Funny thing was, the man looked like he might’ve taken her up on the offer.
Not that she would’ve made it, much as the idea had merit. “You’re an upstanding citizen nowadays, Corrine, my girl,” she muttered to herself. “No more disastrous decisions for you.”