How to Tame a Wild Fireman (9 page)

“In this case, that thin line is the size of a super­highway,” she told him.

“Then I think it’s time for you to cross to the other side. In return for saving your life—­for which I have yet to receive a decent thank-­you—­you’re going to do something for me.”

“Dream on.”

“Can you deny that you owe me?”

“Don’t I get any thanks for risking my life in the first place? I’m not a firefighter. Someone owes me!”

He jerked his head toward the injured man. “On his behalf, thank you. He’ll be your love slave as soon as he wakes up.”

Lara ground her teeth.

“Come on, it’s not that hard. All you have to do is go to dinner with me.”

A weird dizziness made her head spin. Was Patrick asking her out? After all the long-­ago nights she’d spent alternating between dreams of kissing him and smashing his face in, was one of those idiotic fantasies about to come true? “You mean, like a . . . date?” She presented the word as if it were a piece of spinach stuck between her teeth.

“Sure. The kind where you meet the future in-­laws and realize the hell you’re about to suffer until you die or divorce, whichever comes first.”

Reality came crashing down. “You want me to have dinner with your family?”

“And me.”

“Right. You and the rest of the Callahans, who think of me as ‘that hippie chick.’ ”

“They hate me more, if it makes you feel any better.”

Something flickered in Patrick’s eyes. Something, dare it be said, serious and—­good Lord almighty—­genuine. For the first time, she looked at him, really looked at him, noticing the set of his jaw, the sober cast of his lips. She realized that he must have gone through a lot in the past ten years. And that coming back wasn’t easy on him.

“I get it,” she finally said, trying to keep it light. “The mighty ‘Psycho’ doesn’t mind jumping out of a helicopter, but he wants someone to hold his hand when he sees his family.”

He didn’t take offense, as she’d predicted, as he would have in the old days. Didn’t get defensive or mock her. Instead he gave her a slow smile, unsettling in its sweetness, and said, “Please, will you hold my hand, Lara Nelson? I’d be grateful.”

Chapter Eight

W
hen they got back to the command post, an ambulance was waiting for the injured firefighter. Patrick watched as Lara briefed the paramedics on his condition. Lara Nelson, a doctor. A
good
doctor. Not that he was surprised. She’d always been smart. But he supposed, now that he thought about it, that he’d never expected to see her again. After the accident, he’d put her into the mental black vault where he kept all thoughts of Loveless.

When she finished with the paramedics, he helped her take off her helmet. He wasn’t quite ready to let her go, he realized.

“I’ll take your gear back to the supply cache,” he offered.

“Thanks.” She unzipped her flight suit and peeled it off her body. His throat tightened as each inch of her pale gold skin was revealed, as if she were a Christmas present that had been hidden in a closet for ten years. Her damp T-­shirt hugged her full breasts; he could see the faint outline of her bra underneath. Even in grubby shorts, her long, bare legs had more effect on him than a stripper’s. He stood like an idiot as she added the suit to the pile of gear in his arms.
Say something, jerk
.

When he spoke, his voice sounded like a rusty hinge. “So . . .” He cleared his throat. “What are you doing back in Loveless?”

She shot him a suspicious look. “Why do you ask? Shouldn’t you get back to work? Don’t you have more reckless heroic deeds to perform?”

“Nah, I’ve already passed my daily limit.”

“So you admit you have limits. That’s new.”

“A lot of things are new.” He couldn’t help running a quick glance up and down her body. “Megan said your aunt died. Is that why you came back?”

“Sort of.” She headed toward the med tent, and he fell into step beside her. “She left me the Haven. I’m trying to figure out what to do with it. As quickly as possible, so I can go back to San Diego.”

“That’s where you live?” All this time, she’d been in California, just like him. San Diego was only a few hours from San Gabriel. What were the chances?

“Yes. I’m hoping to get a position at the hospital clinic there. I think my chances are pretty good.”

“I bet they are.”

Another suspicious look. “Is there supposed to be an insulting double entendre in there?”

“Of course not. Why would there be? I meant that you’re obviously a great doctor. You just got on a chopper and pulled a downed firefighter out of a wildfire. That makes you a hero in my book.”

Those whiskey-­and-­caramel eyes fixed on his face. “You’re being sincere.”

“It’s been known to happen. Just don’t tell the guys.”

“The guys?”

“My crew back at the firehouse. I have a reputation to maintain. I’m the resident troublemaker.”

She snorted. “That shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

Before he could point out that a lot of things could have changed in ten years and she shouldn’t jump to conclusions, something crashed against his leg. “What the—­” He looked down to find Goldie rubbing her fuzzy white head against his thigh. “Oh, it’s you.” He bent down so the baby llama could bump her head against his cheek, making the cutest little bleating sounds. “Talk about a troublemaker.”

“She really has a thing for you.” Laughter rippled through Lara’s husky voice. From this angle, he was uncomfortably close to her bare legs. How would the sweet knobby curve of her kneecap taste? What about her sleek inner thigh where it disappeared under her shorts?

“At least someone does.” He pulled a mock-­pitiful face. Still gazing down at him, she smiled, the first spontaneous, genuine, unguarded smile he’d seen from her yet. And
wham
. A spike of electric attraction nearly knocked him into the dirt. He saw it in her expression too—­along with shock and alarm. For a long, loaded moment raw awareness hovered between them.

She looked like she might run. No matter what, he couldn’t let that happen.

He rose to his feet, still holding his armload of gear. “I’d better take this to the supply cache and find Goldie some food. But when you come to dinner, I want to hear all about the Haven and what you’re trying to do. And your medical career. And everything else.” Was she seeing anyone? Maybe she was married. He glanced at her left hand but saw no wedding ring. But that didn’t mean much. Many firemen didn’t wear them either; rings and firefighting could be a bad combination.

“I don’t know . . .” Wariness was written all over her dirt-­streaked face.

“Come on. You want to let Goldie down?” As if on cue, Goldie tilted her head toward Lara and adorably blinked her yellow eyes. Patrick reminded himself to give her some extra alfalfa.

“I’ll try. I have to meet with some realtors, though. And I don’t intend to be here more than a few days.”

“Neither do I. See? We have so much in common.” And there it was again, that zap of electricity. This time it kept him rooted to the ground as she muttered a good-­bye and hurried to the med tent.

Damn
. His instincts were screaming the same way they did when he was about to jump out of a chopper or dive off a cliff. If he was smart, he’d rethink the dinner invitation. But screw “smart.” Life was all about the risks. Especially a risk as tempting as Lara Nelson, all grown up.

Loveless had five
realtors, only one of whom had time on his schedule to meet with the new owner of the infamous Haven for Sexual and Spiritual Healing. How quickly she had slipped back into the familiar feeling of being an outcast. As she sat in the waiting room of Horvath and Associates, she caught a few surreptitious glances from the young, fresh-­faced receptionist.

When the realtor appeared, tall, beer-­bellied, and familiar, her heart sank even further. “Dean,” she said, without enthusiasm. “How are you?”

“Fantastic. Couldn’t be better. Come in, come in.” The former quarterback of the Loveless High School football team ushered Lara into his office. She took a seat in the comfortable chair facing his desk.

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw your name on my schedule,” said Dean, kicking his boots up on his desk. “I thought you left town years ago.”

“I did. But my aunt died and, uh, left me some property. I’m looking into selling it.”

“Some property . . .” Dean tilted his head back and gazed up at the ceiling. “Now let me see. That would be . . .”

Lara clenched her jaw. Dean always had been a bully. “The Haven for Sexual and Spiritual Healing.”

“Right, right. I remember something about the place.”

Lara met his pale blue eyes. They contrasted very unfavorably with the electric blue of Patrick’s, which had been haunting her ever since the chopper rescue. “I’m sure you do.”

The friendly, utterly fake smile dropped from his face. “Not a happy memory for me, I gotta say.”

It hadn’t been her finest moment, she had to admit. “You were being cruel to Liam. I had to do something.”

“You did something, all right.”

She’d confronted him in the cafeteria and told him if he didn’t leave Liam alone, she’d reveal the fact that his parents had taken the Opening Your Energy Channels to Multiple Orgasm workshop at the Haven.

Unfortunately, one of his football team members overheard, and Dean had been the laughingstock of the school for a week. Granted, it was a nice break for her—­and no one dared mess with her or Liam after that—­but she hadn’t intended to humiliate him.

Her temples throbbed, and this time it wasn’t from constantly inhaling the smoky air at the command post. The fire had been mostly contained. The firefighters were heading home. If only she could do the same.

She cleared her throat. “Be that as it may, property is property. A sale is a sale. Commission is commission. And high school is ancient history, don’t you think?”

He gave her a nasty look. The gold wedding ring on his left hand caught her eye. She racked her brain for the name of the tennis-­playing country club type he used to date.

“Did you get married to Patty? You guys were such a cute ­couple.”

He ignored her feeble attempt at peacemaking. “I don’t know anyone around here who wants to buy that old eyesore.”

“Okay, well, the buyer doesn’t have to be local. Maybe someone wants to start a ranch, or a school or something. It has twenty acres of land attached.”

“A twenty-­acre ranch?” He snorted. “You’ve been away from Nevada too long.”

“Not long enough,” she muttered. “Fine. Tell me what I’d have to do to make the property more enticing to a buyer. Subdivide it? Tear down the building?” She hated the thought, but she had to consider all possibilities.

He looked at her stonily and played with a gold pen on his desk. Maybe she needed to do more damage control.

“Dean, look. I never meant anyone to hear what I said that day. I’m sorry it got out of control like that. I only wanted to protect Liam, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

If possible, his expression became even more unyielding. “You’re apologizing thirteen years after the fact?”

“Since you’ve apparently held a grudge for thirteen years, yes,” she snapped. “Didn’t I try to tell you how to handle it? Didn’t I tell you to ignore it and it would go away?”

Instead, he’d beaten up half the school and gotten suspended for a week.

He pulled his booted feet off the desk and planted them on the ground. She braced herself for an ignominious flight out the door. “Okay, Lara Nelson, apology accepted. In exchange, here’s my real estate tip. Only one family in this town might be interested in buying your property. Didn’t Callahan try to buy it once before? Didn’t he hate having a hippie free-­love commune in town?”

“It was never a hippie commune,” she protested, as if it mattered at this point.

“Whatever you call it, he wanted it shut down. Maybe he’ll buy it now, just to get rid of it once and for all.”

Lara gripped her leather tote bag, the one that had shocked poor Romaine by being made from actual cowhide. “I’m not interested in doing business with the Callahans.”

“Well, that’s all I got for you. Good luck.” He stood, his body language clearly screaming get-­the-­hell-­out. “Welcome back to Loveless. Too bad you can’t come over for dinner, but Patty never did like you much.”

She stood too. “Grow up, Dean. Honestly.” She searched her memory for a workshop catchphrase. “Holding onto anger is like swallowing rat poison. Focus on the positive, release the negative.”

When he looked like he’d toss her out the window if she stayed any longer, she lifted her chin and swept out of his office.

Out on the dusty sidewalk, she took a shallow breath of still murky air. The hint of smoke made her think of Patrick. Then again, most things had been making her think of him. Just like that long-­ago Christmas, when all of a sudden she’d felt that irritating, uncontrollable attraction to him. This new Patrick had an even more disturbing effect on her. Maybe it was his fireman’s physique, or the strength that radiated from him, or hell, maybe it was the llama. Whatever it was, she didn’t know what to do with it.

She could run. Back out of dinner at the Callahans and hide out at the Haven. That would make the most sense. Or she could spend more time with him. Surely she’d find some flaw to take the edge off his appeal. But what if that didn’t happen? What if he got even more attractive? Was that even possible? A little butterfly storm of anticipation fluttered in her belly.

Even as she picked up the phone, she had no idea what she was going to say to Patrick.

“I’m running late,”
Lara said on the phone. “The realtor kept me waiting half an hour. Then he told me he doesn’t like me. It was almost as fun as dangling from a helicopter.”

“You’re not getting out of this,” Patrick told her sternly. “You promised.” She’d done no such thing. He waited for her to protest, but she didn’t. He pressed his advantage. “I’ll see you at the ranch whenever you get there. I’ll have a nice cold drink waiting for you. A virgin daiquiri or something.” Lara had never been a drinker. She had been a virgin. But what about now? . . . Sternly, he ordered his unruly mind to stay away from that line of thought. “I’ll rub your feet.” That direction wasn’t any better. “We’ll stick pins in a realtor doll, how’s that?”

“Now you’re talking.” She laughed. Lara had the sexiest laugh, like magic fingers up and down his spine.

“I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He hung up before she could argue. The tight knot of anxiety in his chest loosened a bit. Yes, he was about to see his family. But Lara would be there; she wasn’t going to back out. For some reason, he thought everything would be okay if she showed up. Maybe it was because she was a link to Liam. Or maybe it was because when Lara looked at him, she didn’t see a walk on the wild side, the way most girls did. Granted, she saw someone who got under her skin and pissed her off. But he didn’t mind that. It even made him a little nostalgic.

Besides, she’d grown into one hellaciously sexy woman, and that fascinated him. At the very least, he’d get to see her one more time before he left.

His gear was already packed into the back of the Hulk. A long hot shower at a hotel had cleaned every last speck of soot and dirt off his body. The only loose end he hadn’t quite figured out was what to do with Goldie. The llama’s affection for him had only grown while he’d been in the field. She kept trotting after him, nudging him with her nose and making snuffling sounds.

How were you supposed to break up with a llama?

He asked a few of the local guys if they wanted a new pet, but everyone was too exhausted to give poor Goldie a thought. Loveless had a ­couple veterinarians, but no animal shelters. The nearest shelter was in Durgin, the next big town over.

In the end he made a makeshift box for Goldie in the back of the Hulk and decided he’d drop her off at the shelter on the way back to California.

The gates of the Callahan Ranch stood open, which would never happen at a still-­working ranch. His father, Patrick Callahan III, known as Big Dog Callahan to everyone except his wife, who called him Cal, had given up raising cattle when he’d become governor. When he was voted out of office after one excruciating term, he got into real estate investment. They’d kept a small herd of mustangs, which Big Dog Callahan considered his mascot. Patrick grew up riding mustangs; he’d been trying to recreate the wild joy of it ever since. Dirt bikes came close. So did helicopters.