Roman had made one of his problems a lot worse—Renteria had hung up on him after a few choice curses—but he’d solved another. The firemen of Station 1 had swung one hundred and eighty degrees in the other direction, from outright mutiny to something like adulation. He had to admit, it felt good. No one wanted to be a hard-ass all the time.
For the first time since his first night at Station 1, he joined the crew for dinner. Stud’s meatball stew could have used some oregano and a dash of burgundy, but otherwise, he couldn’t complain. He sat at the head of the table and listened to the guys talk about the Christmas ski trip to Big Bear.
“Captain, you like to ski?”
“Never tried it.”
Stud’s fork clattered to the ground. “You gotta come with, Romeo. You can start at the bunny slope, we swear we won’t laugh. They give us a discount cuz we’re firemen. It’s a blast and a half—”
Roman let him rattle on until he paused for a breath. “Back up, Stud. Romeo?”
Fred turned pink. “Well, you know, it’s close to Roman and kinda fits with the bachelor thing, and—”
“No.”
“Really? Because you don’t have a nickname yet and—”
“No.”
Fred gave in. “You’re right, you’re right.”
Roman let his grim expression relax. A line had to be drawn, but that didn’t mean he had to be a jerk. “You can keep working on the nickname, but back in New York they called me Rock.”
At the other end of the table, Sabina choked on a meatball. The fact that only she knew his former nickname made it seem like a secret bedroom name, or something he called his penis.
Fred tilted his head. “I don’t know. Rock’s sort of . . . one-dimensional.”
Psycho chimed in with a hoot. “Like most of our nicknames are layered and complex?”
“Rock,” said Vader enviously. “I like it. Rock-hard abs, rock-hard bod, rock-hard . . . whatever.”
Sabina seemed to be really struggling with her meatball.
“But he can’t have the same handle as he had back East,” said Fred plaintively.
“Why does it matter?” Roman kept an eye on Sabina. Should he vault down the table and administer the Heimlich maneuver?
“I can’t explain it. It just does. We’ll think of something. We need to get Hoagie back in here, he was always good with nicknames.”
They launched into a dissection of the etymology of the various nicknames, but he didn’t pay much mind. His attention was on Sabina, who finally got a grip on herself and managed to swallow her meatball. He smiled in relief, then nearly got knocked off his chair by what came next. A full-hearted, genuine, grateful smile encompassed her entire face, curved her lips into a perfect half moon, found a dimple in one cheek, made her eyes glow like crystals in a sunbeam, and generally transformed her elegant face into something that deserved an angelic choir singing along.
Good God Almighty.
His grip on his spoon loosened so it plopped into his stew. The tips of his ears tingled, then his scalp, the way it did when he was in the presence of something truly spectacular. It had happened only a few times, mostly in Italy when he’d heard a snatch of opera whistled by a man on a bicycle, or passed a glorious Florentine church.
Helpless, he gazed back like a fly trapped in a rapturous web. This was how Odysseus must have felt when his ship passed the island with the sirens. Weak and drugged, as though nothing mattered, nothing existed, except the sweet bliss beckoning him to his doom.
What had he done? By standing up for Sabina, what had he unleashed? If she kept smiling at him like this, instead of offering him that familiar wary, defiant expression, he was a dead man. If he had any chance of conducting himself like a proper training officer, he’d have to lash himself to the mast the way Odysseus had.
Maybe the aerial would do.
He wrenched his gaze away without returning her smile. Balling up his napkin, he piled it in his bowl and rose to his feet.
“I’ll get that,” said Ace, the rookie, scrambling to help him.
Roman stopped him with a gesture. “I’m not king here, I can clear my own plate.”
“That’s it!” Fred bounced in his chair. “Your nickname. King. Or King Roman.”
“No.”
“You’re right, you’re right.”
“I’m going to pass on the ski trip,” Roman said over his shoulder as he carried his plate to the kitchen. “No new tricks for this old dog.”
“Old Dog . . . that’s not bad . . .” Fred mused.
“No.”
“Right.”
Even though it caused him a near-physical pain, he managed to avoid the fading meteor of Sabina’s smile until he reached his office. No ski trips for him. No outings of any kind where Sabina might be present. No smiles, no friendliness, no more lectures in his office. No, no, no. Face it, he couldn’t handle it.
Then he remembered. Luke had a game tomorrow. Damn his luck.
For the first time, he gave serious consideration to the rumors of a “curse.”
Fine. She could take a hint. As Sabina drove Carly to the game, she ticked off the facts. Roman didn’t want her gratitude. He didn’t want her friendship. She knew the feeling all too well. Bianca, the makeup artist’s daughter, for instance. All she’d wanted was an invitation to the Kids’ Choice Awards. Sabina had wanted to invite her, since she was fun and liked to snowboard and together they had giggle fests like normal girls. But instead her mother had invited the leader of a hot new boy band—long gone now—and Bianca had dumped her.
Of course, Roman could probably pick up cute, pink-haired Bianca with one finger. The point being, Sabina knew better than to trust just anyone with her friendship. And even though he’d stood up for her, he clearly wanted nothing to do with her.
She could live with that. In fact, it made life a lot easier. After she wished Carly a good game and climbed into the bleachers, she could just ignore the smoldering hulk of masculine hotness seated on the top bleacher to the left. She didn’t have to wave or pretend she was glad to see him. She could ignore the fact that he didn’t look her way, that his gorgeous head didn’t move one micro-inch in her direction, that his neck was starting to tan. She could ignore the thin sliver of pale skin under the edge of his T-shirt and the way it contrasted with his strong, brown neck. His forearms looked darker too, under their light covering of black hair.
A flash of memory—the black hair covering his burly chest, swirling below his belt—weakened her knees and made her sink onto the bleachers a moment before she was ready.
“Sorry, lost my balance,” she muttered to the woman in whose lap she’d nearly landed.
Yes, she could ignore all those things. It was such a relief.
Diane, farther down the bleachers, quickly switched places with the woman. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up today,” she whispered.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“All those crazy news stories. Everyone keeps asking me about you. I have to tell them I don’t know a thing.” She gave a sniff of pique.
“I’m sorry, Diane. I didn’t tell anyone. I was trying to start a new life.”
“Whatever,” Diane grumbled, then obviously decided not to hold a grudge. “Did you hear about the Dane twins? They’re going to do a clinic for the league in a couple of weeks.”
“Really? Carly will be so excited.”
The Dane twins felt like family—they were Katie Dane’s brothers, and now that Ryan Blake had married Katie, that made them virtually brothers-in-law to the entire San Gabriel firehouse.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like they’re celebrities like some people.”
Sabina decided to ignore that.
“On the bright side, I’m getting lots of new clients because the word is out that we’re friends.”
“Glad I could help.”
“But you could have told me, you know,” Diane hissed as the players ran out onto the field.
Sabina directed her attention to the game, but her mind kept wandering. Her job was safe, thanks to Roman and the crew—unless things got even crazier. But what else could Max and Annabelle do? They’d done the media blitz. Pretty soon some other hot story would take over and no one would care about Taffy McGee. All she had to do was ride out the storm. With the guys behind her, she could do it.
What an incredible thought—she wasn’t alone. It was almost too much to take in.
The game went fast. The team was finally clicking. Carly started and pitched four great innings, then Luke was brought in to shut things down. Carly stood in the “dugout” cheering with everyone else. Sabina even spotted Carly and Luke with their heads together between innings, comparing batters, perhaps.
She couldn’t help it; she glanced over her shoulder to see if Roman noticed too. But his sunglasses made him as inscrutable as a Secret Service agent.
After the game, Carly dashed to Sabina’s side. “Can we go to Chili’s? Please, please, please?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sabina saw Luke mounting a similar assault on Roman. “I don’t know, Carly. I’ll just be a distraction.”
“Huh?” Her Little Sister gazed at her blankly. “Oh, that. Don’t worry, everyone’s over it. Most people never saw that show anyway.”
“Right.” Properly humbled, Sabina agreed to a short stop at Chili’s.
At the restaurant, Carly made a beeline for Luke. Bright-eyed and revved up from the win, he offered her some chips and guacamole and they immediately began dissecting the game. When had they become new best friends? Did she need to monitor this development? But she couldn’t, not when a small army of parents, led by Diane, was converging on her.
She looked around for Roman, who sat at a table in the corner, long legs stretched out, listening to the chatter of one of the single mothers. Catching his eye, she gestured to Luke and Sabina.
After quickly assessing the situation, he gave her a short nod—I’m on it. She relaxed. If Roman was on top of it, she didn’t need to worry. The crowd of parents surrounded her and began tossing curious questions at her, as if they were photographers at a red carpet premiere.
Like a good little former actress, she answered them all.
“My acting days are over . . . I didn’t want to be a distraction to the San Gabriel Fire Department . . . Reunion show? Really, my mother said that on FOX? No, there’s absolutely no truth to that rumor.” Through a fixed smile, she gritted her teeth. Oh, her mother was clever. She was probably hoping to stoke the public’s anticipation of a reunion show so high, Sabina would be hounded into participating.
Someone asked her about the firehouse. Before she could answer, someone else asked whether she was dating a fellow fireman. It was turning into a free-for-all, everyone tossing out questions without waiting his turn. Press junkets were a lot more organized. Maybe she should rent a hotel suite and hire a PR assistant.
She ignored the dating question and answered the first one. “Everyone’s being very supportive, but it’s definitely hard to do our jobs when people keep aiming cameras at us.” She smiled pointedly at the second baseman’s father, who’d been taking pictures of her with his iPhone the entire game.
He did not look apologetic. “Must be nice to be famous.”
“Well, I wouldn’t—”
“You must have made a fortune playing that girl.”
“Um . . .”
They closed in on her like buzzards over a fresh kill. “Why did you quit the show? Why don’t you get along with your mother? What was it like dating Greg Harrington? Have you heard from him?”
At press junkets, one glance at the coordinator would bring an uncomfortable interview to a close. But here she was on her own. “I’m trying to move on so I’d rather not talk about the show . . .”
“Is Annabelle staying here in town? Will you spend Christmas with her?”
“Uh . . .”
“Okay, that’s it.” A giant hand landed on her upper arm and plucked her away from the crowd. “Leave her alone,” growled Roman.
Everyone fell back, shocked. The man with the iPhone looked outraged. “We’re just talking to her.”
“Not anymore.”
Roman propelled her toward a small table sheltered behind a plastic cactus. He pressed his hand on her shoulder until she sat. From far, far above, his black eyes studied her. “You okay?”
“Yes. You didn’t have to do that. I was handling it.” He’d already rescued her from losing her job. This felt like overkill.
“Yeah well, I didn’t like it. It was damn rude.”
“You’re not my appointed guardian.”
“I am for now.” His tone left no room for more argument. Strangely, she didn’t mind. It felt too good to let him take charge like this. Too good to have someone on her side.
She gave up and sank back in the chair. “I’d forgotten how funny people can get around someone they’ve seen on TV. They ask such personal questions.”
“They were out of line.” He shot a scathing glance at the small knot of chattering parents. “You need anything from the bar? I’m getting some nachos.”
“Nachos sound good,” she said gratefully. “Extra sour cream. And Roman?”
Already halfway past the cactus, he paused and looked at her over his impossibly broad shoulder.
“Thanks. For this and the other.” Tentatively she started to smile, but he crammed his sunglasses onto his face.
“You can thank me by not doing that anymore,” he growled.
She gaped after him. That? What was that? A harmless smile? The man was deranged.
Her cell phone rang. Vader’s name popped up on her screen. “Yo,” she answered.
“Yo yourself. Are you busy later? It’s Saturday night.”
“No.” Not unless you counted eating Mexican comfort food and hiding from the public.
“I suppose you’re too big a celeb to hang out with me now.”
“We can hang, as long as I don’t have to buy my own drinks. We celebrities never do, you know.”
His laughter rumbled across the line. “Let’s do it. I want to see what it’s like going out with a famous chick.”
“Jesus, Vader, that might be the shallowest thing you’ve ever said. And that’s saying something. What about Cherie, how’s it going with her?”
“Hit a roadblock. Her brother came to visit and she uninvited me for dinner. Said she didn’t trust me not to say something stupid.”
“I’m starting to like this woman.”
“Nice, Two. Way to stick up for me. She says I better get used to other gay guys before she lets me meet her brother.”
“Hmm . . . Vader, I just had a brilliant idea. You still want to go out tonight?”
As he returned with a plate of nachos, Roman speared Luke and Carly with a laserlike inspection. Nothing inappropriate was going on, as far as he could tell. Hell, Luke was barely thirteen and still acted like a boy, despite his height. Carly was laughing at Luke’s attempts to eat a burrito without spilling beans everywhere. Then she showed him how to hold a tamale so the oil didn’t drip all over his lap. No need to panic. Luke had a level head on him. He wasn’t likely to get all crazy over a girl—unlike his father.
Behind the cactus, all he saw of Sabina was her long, shapely legs, one crossed over the other, the denim of her jeans kissing each curve. Since she couldn’t see him, he allowed his gaze to travel from her red cowboy boots up the length of her shin to her lovely kneecap. Knees weren’t normally a turn-on for him, but hers were so nicely shaped, such a perfect hinge between the long bones above and below. She bounced her foot lightly, up and down, the motion hypnotizing him.
He heard her laugh and realized she was talking on her cell phone. As he came closer, he made out her words.
“Hmm . . . Vader, I just had a brilliant idea. You still want to go out tonight?” The low, teasing sound of her voice, like a brook flowing through a forest, sent shivers up his spine.
His pace slowed. He didn’t want to interrupt her conversation, nor did he want to eavesdrop. But it might look odd if he suddenly turned on his heel and marched away with his nachos. And truth to tell, he did want to interrupt her call. He wanted to rip the phone out of her hand and dump it in a pitcher of margaritas. She could get it back when she promised never to call Vader again. He stood still, uncertain.
“We can go out tonight on one condition, hot stuff,” she said into the phone.
Hot stuff. Roman tilted his head one way, then the other, to ease the sudden tension in his neck. Dio, he was getting possessive over a woman he hadn’t even slept with. One who’d dumped him via a ticket.
“I get to pick the place.”
From the other end of the line, Roman caught a loud, grunting protest.
“Oh yes, big guy. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
Big guy. She was calling Vader “big guy”? Roman could bench-press two of him. And maybe he would, next time he saw him.
“I’ll be there to hold your hand, don’t worry. And ply you with drinks. You’ll survive, cupcake.”
Cupcake? Hold Vader’s hand? Roman had heard enough. In one long stride, he reached the cactus. Sabina looked up, and it felt like falling into the Caribbean at sunrise. Sparkling turquoise welcomed him with beams of dancing light. He felt riveted. Unmanned.
He plopped down the plate of nachos, scraped half of them onto a napkin, and gathered it up in one hand. The hot cheese burned through the paper, but he didn’t care. It was one thing to stand up for Sabina against Chief Renteria or rescue her from a throng of gossips. But standing around like a dick while she made a date with Vader—flirted with Vader—no fucking way.
“Roman!”
He ignored her and stalked to Luke’s table. “Time to go, buddy.”
“But Papa, I’m spending the night with Alex. You said I could, remember?”
Vaguely, the memory returned. It had nothing to do with Sabina, which was perhaps why it had faded so easily. Luke had pestered him mercilessly until he’d consented to an overnight at Alex’s—only after an extensive conversation with his parents, of course. “You have all your stuff?”
“I have extra clothes in my gym bag. And I have my backpack for school.”
“Fine. Have fun. Be safe. Make sure you call me later. Love you.”
“Bye, Papa. Love you too.”
Roman ignored his son’s perplexed look and strode to the parking lot, where he took deep gulps of dry, sage-scented air. So he’d be home alone tonight, while Sabina went out with Vader. He ground his teeth. Blame it on his Italian ancestors, but something about Sabina brought out his barely suppressed, primitive, possessive nature. Maybe he should crash their date and get started on that bench-pressing project. Show Mr. Vader Brown just who really deserved to be called “big guy.”