Burning Up (8 page)

“You won’t have sewer hookup,” she heard her uncle say, and glanced out the window over the little round stainless sink to see him and Jack squatting down inspecting she didn’t know what. “But you can always clear the holding tank at a dumping station when needed.”

“Water’s not a problem,” he added, pointing to an outdoor faucet. “We can get you hooked up with that in no time.” He proceeded to do just that as she
snooped freely through the sleek, well-appointed trailer. “Electric’s a little trickier. With the fire chief living here, it’s probably not a good idea to just drag out an extension cord.”

“I heard that.”

Macy immediately lost interest in the sleekly compact interior and made a beeline for the door. But, embarrassed that she might have exposed more of herself to him than she should have before Jack showed up, she found herself acting like a twelve-year-old with her first crush when she stepped out into the cooling evening air and promptly pretended she didn’t notice Gabriel. Still, that was better than her first impulse, which was to jump down his throat for making more work for her uncle.

Because that wouldn’t do. Janna had already figured out her animosity toward him was partly hormone-driven. She’d just as soon her uncle didn’t cop to it, as well.

“Slick little trailer, Jack,” she said as she joined the men. “But why didn’t you just bring the tour bus?”

“The lads are off to Jackson Hole in it to do some fishing.” He gave the Airstream a fond look. “She’s a sweet little bird, isn’t she? Much smaller and easier to maneuver than the bus.”

Macy made a rude noise. “Like you’ve ever driven a bus.”

“I’ll have you know I drove the band’s first one all over the U.K.” He gave her a cheeky smile. “’Course
that was a VW camper van we picked up on the cheap in Dublin.”

“Hey,” Gabe interrupted without heat. “You want to jaw with Macy or get your rig hooked up sometime tonight?”

“Sorry, mate. I haven’t seen me little luv here in a bit, but I’m all yours. I appreciate your willingness to figure out the hows of this wiring stuff. If I had to come up with a plan, you can be sure I’d make a complete bag of it.”

She’d missed the part where they’d been introduced, but clearly it had happened somewhere along the line because the three men conversed with ease. The conversation, in fact, soon turned to posthole diggers and trenches and plastic tubing and electrical feeds. She felt her eyes start to glaze, but she perked right up when Gabe picked up a dual-handled device with two shovel-like blade thingies on the end.

“Ooh. Men with tools,” she murmured and suppressed her juvenile satisfaction when those intense gray eyes fastened on her for an electric moment.

Then he looked away and, keeping the handles together, drove the apparatus’s blades into the ground. Pulling the handles apart, he raised the digger out of the embryonic hole he’d made, emptied the dirt he’d excavated, then repeated the process.

She was fascinated by all the small muscles that bunched and lengthened and shifted beneath his skin and under his T-shirt. Well, so did Jack’s, she saw as he used a shovel to start a shallow trench, and
he
had
the added attraction of all those tattoos undulating with every movement. But he was
Jack,
so her appreciation for the view he provided was more in an ooh, buff-statue-in-the-museum sort of way.

Bud joined her. “This is the advantage of having young bucks around,” he said jovially. “Someone else to do the heavy lifting.”

She tore her gaze from the view and grinned at her uncle. “Want a chair to enjoy the show in comfort?” she asked. “I saw a couple in the little closet in the trailer. There’s also some Guinness in the cupboard. Jack’s got that Irish fondness for warm beer, but if you can tolerate it room temperature…”

“You’re pretty familiar with the boy’s habits—never mind not shy about making yourself at home in his Airstream,” Bud said in a low voice. “You two—?” Pink crept up his cheeks even as he wagged grizzled eyebrows.

“Nah,” she said. “I love him to pieces. But like a brother, you know?”

“Gotta confess I’m relieved. From the little I’ve talked to him, he seems pretty grounded for a famous sort. But I can’t say I’m wild about the idea of him dragging you from pillar to post any more than I was when it was your mother doing the dragging.”

“Yeah, touring’s definitely not for me. You know I’ve been in the same little condo in Redondo Beach for more than eight years. I guess I’m a nester like you and Auntie.” She flashed him an affectionate smile. “So, about that chair and beer?”

“I’ll take the first, but pass on the second.” He inspected the tube that ran parallel with the top of the trailer. “I’ll just get this awning set up while you fetch the chairs.”

But Macy had barely spun around to go into the trailer when a car pulled into the parking area, sounding a cheerful beep as it rocked to a stop. Turning back, she watched Grace climb from her little Ford Focus, then observed Gabriel’s happy-to-see-ya smile and the poleaxed expression that crossed Jack’s face before he quickly covered it with his public persona, that slightly cool, slightly aloof rock-star shell that was a world removed from his actual warm personality.

And she didn’t get it. She liked Grace, she genuinely did. But the girl dressed primly and was hardly loaded with man-eater do-me-daddy mannerisms.

“So, what the hell?” she murmured, then fought a blush and shook her head at Jack when he raised an eyebrow at her.

But, really. What was it about Grace that made her such a man magnet?

G
RACE HESITATED
next to her car before heading for the group by the silver trailer. Holy crapoly, was that who she thought it was?
Dear Lord.
She’d assumed Macy was the height of cool. And now
Jack Savage
was in the Watson’s backyard?

Don’t let me act like a stupid groupie.
Please
don’t let me do that!
Putting on her calmest teacher face, she slowed her walk to a stroll.

And still arrived before she was ready.

Heart beating a frantic tattoo, she sidled up to Gabe, smiled at Macy and snuck a look at Savage.

Only to find him staring back at her. When he caught her peeking, one side of his mouth curved up.

“Grace, this is my friend Jack,” Macy said. “Jack heads—”

“I know who he is,” she said and—yay—actually sounded fairly composed.

“Oh. Sure.” Macy laughed. “I guess you’d have to be raised in a cave not to, huh?” She dug an elbow in the rock star’s side. “Jack, this is Grace. She’s Gabe’s girl, my nephew Ty’s teacher and my new friend. So be nice.”

“I’m always nice.” He turned to her, flashing an easygoing smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Grace.” He thrust out his hand.

Hoping she wouldn’t swoon like a rabid fan-girl at her first concert, she reached out to shake it. Savage’s callus-tipped fingers wrapped around hers, and an electric shock streaked through her system, followed by a wave of lust.

She swallowed a snort. Because, please. As if
that
would ever be satisfied. She had a rich and varied love life, although unfortunately only in her head.

It was her curse that men rarely saw her as a sexual being. They seemed to like her well enough, but because she didn’t dress or talk or, okay, behave in
any
way remotely like the hottie she fantasized being, they apparently thought she wasn’t interested in sex.

Oh, she was interested. And not just in the plain old vanilla variety, either; she dreamed of out-of-control throw-caution-to-the-wind, Desire with a flaming capital
D
sex.

Instead, her way-too-few lovers had treated her with lowering care. And Gabe, whom she’d been dating fairly steadily for the past six weeks and had thought might be her guide into the world of strip-me-naked-and-hold-me-down screaming orgasms, hadn’t even slapped any real moves on her. When he’d first asked her out, she’d thought for sure that
finally
she had a shot at the fantasy sex she’d been dreaming of since her teens. There was just something beneath
his surface calm that made her know he’d be wild or—even better—dominant in that order-a-girl-to do-the-unspeakable-in-bed kind of way.

But although they got along famously and had fun together, he’d never done more than kiss her good-night at her door. And to her surprise, as fantastic as he was in the smooch department, maybe she didn’t feel that out-of-control chemistry she’d hoped for with him, either. But would it hurt him to at least
try?
Just once she’d like to be treated less like a lady and more like a tart.

She sure as heck didn’t fool herself that a famous rock star with densely tattooed arms and a lovely accent would be the one to suddenly sniff out her inner sex kitten and itch to release it. That didn’t stop her, however, from tingling right down to the bone when Savage looked at her with those heavy-lidded amber-brown eyes as if she had his full, absorbed attention.

Unfortunately, it also didn’t stop her from blushing to her hairline. Because that was Part Two of her curse: her outer good girl was aeons stronger than the self she wished to be. A self who was fearless like Macy.

Jack’s gaze drifted lazily to the front of her blouse. Oh, God. Could he tell her nipples were hard? Which bra had she put on this morning, anyway? Please let it be the slightly padded one.

But when he gave her that one-sided knowing
smile again and licked his lips, she knew. It was the skimpy, lace-trimmed number.

The heat in her face was so scalding she was surprised her features didn’t melt right down her neck onto her firmly buttoned ecru blouse. She hated the fact that, as a teensiest-bit-repressed schoolteacher, she was already a cliché. Did she really need to compound it by reacting like a thirteen-year-old? He was a rock-and-roll god, for goodness sake. Probably every woman he met had this response.

“You wanna get this done sometime tonight, Savage?”

Gabe’s sardonic demand made her start skittishly. But Jack flashed him a smile that was surprisingly boyish. “Yeah, sorry, mate,” he said. “I just got sucked in for a minute by your pretty little bird here.”

Fury shot up her spine and she forgot all about her schoolgirl blushes. “Listen,” she said in a low, stiff voice. “You might be a big hotshot rock star, but that doesn’t give you leave to mock me.”

He’d started to turn away, but pivoted back to look down at her. “Oh, I’m far from mocking you, luv. I’ve had a thing for shiny-haired girls in Peter Pan collars since Caitlin Doyle led me around by my—” he cleared his throat “—uh, nose at Kill o’the Grange in County Dublin.”

“What is that—Kill o’the Grange?” she demanded, her teacher’s interest piqued.

“School I was in my sixth class. What you’d call an elementary, I guess.” His gaze drifted over her
shirtfront again. “I had it bad for Caitlin when I was twelve.”

“Savage!” Gabe bellowed.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your cacks on, guv. I’m coming.” He ran a finger down her nose, then strolled back to pick up a shovel.

Macy came over. “A bit overwhelming on first meeting, our Jack.”

“I’ll say.” She shot the tall blonde a glance. “I had this overpowering urge to throw my panties at him.”

Macy laughed. “I like you, Grace. You’ve got depths I think a lot of people overlook.”

“Absolutely. Because shedding one’s underwear for a rock star is so profound. Not to mention original.”

“Oh. Well. He
is
Jack Savage.”

“He certainly is.” She studied Macy’s fond smile as the other woman watched Jack work. “So, are the two of you—?”

“No.” Macy’s attention returned to her. “But he is one of my best friends. Jack’s one of the good guys. For all the perks and attention his fame brings him, he’s generous and down-to-earth.” She flicked fingers toward where he was putting his back into digging the hole and spoke a little less softly than she’d been doing. “I don’t know many Hollywood types who would do their own work. Most of the ones I’ve met would be on their cell phones trying to hire someone—or better yet, getting their agents to do
it. And never mind that it’s closing on nine p.m. in a farming community that rolls up its streets at six.”

She waved her hand. “But enough about men. I was thinking we oughtta have a girls’ night out one of these evenings.”

From the corner of her eye Grace saw Gabe suddenly raise his head from where he was bent over the posthole digger to glance over at them.

“You, me, Shannon and Janna, if she’s up to it,” Macy continued, reclaiming her attention. “Maybe hit the Red Dog, throw back a shot or two and shoot the breeze. Or we could go to a coffee shop if you’d rather, although I’m not sure any are open in the evening.”

She gave Macy a shy smile, feeling as if she’d suddenly been singled out to sit at the cool kids’ table. “Either sounds fun. Count me in.”

“Good. Your schedule and Shannon’s are probably more complicated than mine or Janna’s, so why don’t you guys pick a night that works for you and we’ll go from there.”

She was about to agree when she heard the beep of a pager. Glancing at the two men working alongside the chicken coop, she saw Gabe on his phone.

A moment later, he snapped it shut. “Fire,” he said to no one in particular, already striding for his SUV. “Gotta go.”

“Dude definitely needs to work on his social skills,” Macy muttered, but Grace doubted he heard
her, since his long legs were eating up the distance to the parking area.

Bud shot his niece a wry smile as he passed the two women, fishing a pair of leather gloves from his back pocket and pulling them on as he walked over to the discarded posthole digger. “Guess I’m not going to escape the heavy lifting after all.”

Grace turned a questioning brow on Macy, feeling as if she’d come in on the middle of a conversation.

“He was pretty pumped at having two strong backs to do the hard work,” Macy explained. She was quiet for a minute, then said, slowly, “I guess I never really thought it through before, but Gabriel’s really on call 24/7, isn’t he?” She gave her a searching look. “That’s gotta complicate your dating life.”

Grace made a noncommittal noise, feeling it disloyal to admit that they’d had several dates cut short. In any case, she glanced from Gabe’s car reversing from its parking slot in a tight U to Jack wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and leaving behind a smear of dirt she had a ridiculous urge to wipe clean.

And thought to herself,
I have a feeling that’s the least of my problems.

T
HE HELL
I’
VE GOT
a problem with my social skills.
Gabe pulled onto the highway, hit the siren and sped east away from town. He might not be the life of the party or some big world-renowned rock star, but he got by just fine. And he sure as hell wasn’t some
middle schooler who had to have a girlfriend’s undivided attention.

But first Savage had made Grace blush like a schoolgirl saying God knows what to her, or, to be fair, merely paying attention to her, and now Macy was going to take her out for a girls’ night? The first was understandable: it wasn’t exactly every day your average citizen was introduced to a celebrity. But the Macy thing—that was just plain wrong. Grace was wonderfully calm and easy on the blood pressure. What if Macy went and turned her into someone more like herself?

But as he tried to imagine Grace all tarted up, strutting her stuff at the local honky-tonk and setting men on fire, it wouldn’t gel. Grace was her own woman, not one filled with flashy, edgy, in-your-face sexuality like Macy. Guys tended to respect her precisely because she wasn’t the kind of woman to flash cleavage. Although that probably didn’t mean she wouldn’t like to have a little fun. And he had to admit The Flirt could probably provide that in spades.

Still, he was tense over the strange-ass evening this had turned into, and wrestling a fire into submission sounded like just the antidote.

But not one he’d find tonight, he saw moments after turning off Highway 2. There was a spot ahead lit up like high noon with the truck’s halogen work lights, and when he pulled over to the side of the farm road running through Art Bailey’s spread he saw that Johnson and Solberg had the flames under
control. They must have caught the small storage barn before the building was fully engaged. It had sustained some damage and still smoldered, but he had no need of the turnout gear he kept in the back of his ride. Solberg was inside with the hose taking care of the last of it. Climbing from the SUV, he cast a curious glance at the old pickup truck full of split wood he’d parked behind even as he assured himself that the fire being out was a
good
thing.

And, hell, it was; his men had done their job. Too bad it didn’t stop him from feeling a little let down. For as he’d already noted, the evening had left him feeling strangely tense, and he would’ve welcomed the chance to blow off some steam. God knew his opportunities in that direction were limited these days.

He’d given up his old standbys—enonstop, in discriminate fighting and fucking—eat seventeen. That’s when a caseworker had helped him see past his rage long enough to realize he was headed down a one-way track to early death or incarceration if he didn’t get his shit together. So he’d climbed aboard the Straight and Narrow Express, set a course for himself and, except for a few backslides early on, had pretty much stuck to it from that point on. He thought before he spoke now. He never used his fists. He even expressed most of his obscenities internally.

Okay, he hadn’t given up sex—even if it felt that way sometimes. He was, however, a whole lot more
selective than he’d ever been at seventeen. But, hell, what grown man wasn’t?

Still, fighting fires was one of the few outlets he had when things got tense, and the only one that was guaranteed to relieve whatever ailed him. Yet the chances to pit himself against an inferno, to feel the muscular pulse of the fire hose in his hands, the spike of adrenaline rushing through his veins—not to mention outwitting that brutal bitch in full conflagration—were fewer and farther between since he’d traded in his job in Detroit for this county fire-chief gig. Being chief instead of crew meant more supervising and less getting to throw himself in the thick of things.

But he had a job to do here and no time to dwell on matters he’d already decided on. Going up to Johnson, who was guzzling a liter bottle of water, he said, “What’ve we got here?”

The blond volunteer capped his bottle and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good Samaritan driving by—” he nodded toward a middle-aged man standing a short distance away talking to the farmer who owned the property “—saw smoke rolling out of the shed and called 911. He found the water hookup and hose and did what he could until Solberg, who was nearest the station, got here with the truck. I showed up maybe two minutes later.”

Gabe was suspicious by nature, and his years on the Detroit arson squad predisposed him to look twice at the Good Samaritan. He didn’t have any real
reason to believe it was arson, but given the recent garbage-can fires he couldn’t rule it out. And if it was, it would leave him with three options. Either the garbage-can arsonist was escalating, Bailey was in financial trouble, or he was dealing with a vanity firebug. He’d seen his share of the latter in his career: arsonists who liked to set fires, then be a hero by “catching” them before they got out of control.

“First impressions?”

“Of the man—seems solid. The fire…? At this point there’s no obvious indication of arson,” Johnson said, and Solberg, who arrived stripping off his turnout coat, nodded his agreement. “None of the doors or windows appear to have been opened for more oxygen and there’s only a single point of origin that I’ve been able to establish so far.”