Roman drove his Jeep through a lovely wooded subdivision in a section of San Gabriel he hadn’t seen before. With its graceful eucalyptus and cypress trees lining the streets, it had the feel of being out in the country. Following the directions he’d been given, he pulled in at a newish-looking two-story home. Off to one side, a silver Airstream trailer glinted in the evening sun.
Captain Brody had invited him to dinner and he’d accepted. He wasn’t sure why, since the last time he’d seen the man, Brody had tried to challenge his authority. But his crew revered him, and that one brief encounter had certainly made an impression on Roman. Lord knew he could use allies. Something told him Chief Renteria’s good opinion could vanish as quickly as he’d gained it.
A lovely, green-eyed woman who looked to be about five months’ pregnant answered the door. She offered a quick smile and a surreptitious scrutiny that he pretended not to notice. “Hi, I’m Melissa, Captain Brody’s wife.”
“Rick Roman. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands, sizing each other up. He handed over the bottle of Brunello from Montepulciano that he’d brought. She accepted it graciously.
“No wine for me, though,” she said, patting her belly.
“I didn’t know. My congratulations.”
She gave him a stunning smile. “I guess the crew’s been slacking in the grapevine department.”
“I’ll straighten them out.”
She laughed. “I’ve been curious about you. You sure have shaken things up over at Station 1.”
“I just do my job. The rest is out of my hands.”
“I know what you mean.” She led him into the kitchen, where Captain Brody was stirring a pot of beef stew, judging by the delicious aroma of rosemary. “Things do tend to get out of hand over there. Sweetie, Chief Roman’s here and he brought us some wine.”
“Glad you could make it, Roman. Here, have at it.” Brody tossed him a corkscrew, which Roman deftly caught. He busied himself with opening the wine and filling the glasses Melissa retrieved from a cupboard.
He nearly choked on his first sip of wine when Melissa asked, “So what’s your take on the curse?”
“I have no take on it.”
Brody cast an affectionately scolding glance at his wife. “He’s not here to be interviewed. She’s a reporter,” he explained. “They’re always on the job. Watch what you say.”
Melissa, who was passing behind Brody on her way to the refrigerator, pinched his butt in revenge.
Roman made a mental note not to say anything incriminating. “Can’t say I’m a big fan of your profession at the moment. Can you get them to lay off the firehouse? And especially Sabina Jones?”
It felt good to say her name, as if doing so conjured her vivid, elegant face and supple body into the room with them.
“Sadly, I’m not Queen of the Media. And Sabina can handle herself.” A wailing cry came from another part of the house. “Dani’s awake. Be right back.” Melissa put the cheese and cracker plate she’d assembled on the table and hurried away. Brody gave the stew one last stir and then joined Roman at the table.
“That was a hell of a rescue,” he said, sitting down and resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “As Sabina’s former captain, I’m extremely grateful. She’s a fine firefighter and a pretty exceptional person.”
Roman couldn’t argue with that.
“She worked her ass off from day one,” Brody continued. “Never seen anyone so tough on herself. Stubborn as a wildfire in a windstorm. I just sat back and watched her take on the doubters, one by one. I have huge respect for that woman.”
Something in Brody’s tone made Roman go still. “Hold on. Did you know? Who she was?”
“I did. Don’t tell her, though. People are entitled to their secrets. She always kept a certain distance.”
Roman had thought the same thing at the Starlight in Reno. It seemed a million years ago now.
Brody put a slice of cheddar on a cracker. “At any rate, I wanted to thank you in person.”
“Just doing my job.”
Brody didn’t miss a trick, with that penetrating charcoal-gray gaze, but he let it slide. “Sounds like things are settling down at the station.”
“Is that what the guys say?”
Chuckling, Brody lifted a hand in mock-surrender. “I’m not checking up on you, I swear. You know how firehouses are. I hear things. And what I hear tells me you’re just what the place needs. I’m glad you’re there.”
Roman felt himself relax. Brody was a straight-up guy. Something about his level gray eyes and authoritative manner inspired trust. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Things haven’t exactly gone the way I expected.”
“They never do, especially over there. Curse or not, it’s not your ordinary firehouse.”
Roman couldn’t argue with that. How many firehouses had former child stars on the crew, or famous movie stars wandering through? “No, I suppose it isn’t. I’ll probably get used to it eventually.”
But would he get used to working alongside Sabina? Or without Sabina? The past few days without her had been deadly dull. He’d felt like someone out of her zombie movie sleepwalking through his shifts.
“Is it a big change from New York?” Brody was asking.
“Yes and no. Same structure and discipline, different personalities. In New York—” He broke off. It occurred to him that no one had asked him about New York since he’d been here. Maybe they were afraid to touch a sore spot or make him think about 9/11. He cleared his throat. “It was time for a new start.”
Taking a sip of wine, Brody nodded. His calm attentiveness drew something out of Roman, something completely unexpected.
“I’d been . . . in a rut since my wife died. On 9/11.”
Brody tilted his head.
“The Pile took her.” He shook his head, astonished at himself. Those four words were more than he’d uttered on the subject since just after it happened.
“She was in the North Tower?”
“Yeah. She never heard the evacuation order. Repeater was out.” Brody, like every other firefighter in America, probably knew what had happened in the North Tower. Maureen and the others had gone in to clear the building. They never got the order to get the hell out. “I was home with Luke. We took opposite shifts so someone was always with him. I was in fucking Brooklyn when it all went down. I left him with a neighbor, but by the time I got to the Towers . . .”
Roman tipped his wineglass to his mouth. It was practically empty, but he needed something to hide behind. Dio, he hated talking about this—exactly why he’d never gone to any touchy-feely counseling sessions. It was damn uncomfortable. The last thing he’d wanted was someone trying to make him feel better.
But Brody didn’t do that. He said nothing, just sat there as if reliving the memory right along with Roman.
“You did the right thing, coming to San Gabriel,” Brody said finally. “Gutsy move. If you shake things up, anything can happen, except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The same old, same old. I’m afraid you guaranteed yourself a roller-coaster ride, my friend.” Brody raised his glass in a toast. “And you’re definitely getting one.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Roman finished his wine, feeling oddly lighter than when he’d arrived here.
“I’ll tell you something funny,” said Brody, brushing cracker crumbs off his jeans. “If we’d been having this conversation two years ago, and you’d told me that I’d just met the love of my life at a bachelor auction and that she’d turn my life inside out and I’d wind up with a beautiful child and another on the way, and the life I’d written off as impossible, I would have booted you off the premises.”
Roman didn’t know what to say to that, other than, “Bachelor auction?”
“Long story.”
After that, Melissa came in, their little girl, Dani, trailing after her, and the conversation turned to the San Gabriel mayoral race and everyone’s plans for Christmas. Roman couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a comfortable, relaxed evening with people he’d just met.
Brody was all right, he decided. The kind of man who’d have your back no matter what.
After dinner, Roman walked, whistling, to his Jeep. They were good people, Brody and Melissa, clearly deeply in love with each other, excellent parents to their adopted daughter, Dani. For a while after he’d lost Maureen he hadn’t been able to spend time with other couples.
But tonight it hadn’t bothered him at all, except that he kept imagining Sabina with him. Pictured meeting her mischievous glance over a shared private joke, touching her knee under the table, listening to her passionate and entertaining account of a structure fire. Maybe it was the Italian in him, but he loved the way she told stories, putting her whole body into it.
Why not go see her? She could probably use some company, not to mention some help maneuvering around the kitchen with those crutches. Not that she would ever admit it, of course. Sabina was so damn independent.
Yes, he should go see her. As a concerned friend, not as someone who couldn’t get her out of his mind, of course. Luke was spending the night at Ralphie’s again. Not that he would expect an overnight invitation, of course.
On the other hand . . . his blood surged at the thought of Sabina’s bed, of Sabina in bed. With him. He’d stretch himself out while she prowled toward him on hands and knees, silky hair loose around her naked body, desire in her smoky turquoise eyes. At the image, he went rock-hard. God, he wanted her. Her hair would drift around them like an intimate curtain and she’d lower her temptress’s body over his, brushing the tips of her breasts against his chest, and his cock would rise up like an iron pike and . . .
Oops, he’d forgotten about her injuries. Quickly he revised his fantasy. He’d gently lay her down and surround her with soft pillows. He’d pet her and caress her—maybe restrain her so she couldn’t hurt herself when she abandoned herself to the pleasure he’d give her. Keep still, he’d whisper, let me give you everything you need. And she’d do what he ordered—for once—because he’d make her feel so good, he’d lick her until she shivered, he’d taste every secret morsel of flesh, wring every helpless moan from her lips.
Somehow his Jeep had found its way to Sabina’s house. He hadn’t been inside before, but once they’d passed it on a call and she’d pointed it out. That piece of information had apparently lodged irrevocably in his brain.
He pulled up to the curb a few houses away. Was he going to do this? Really? Shouldn’t he keep his distance? But talking with Brody had stirred something up inside him. He needed to see Sabina. Needed it. To hell with everything else.
Sabina lay on the couch with her ankle propped on a pillow and a pile of scripts next to her.
“You swear none of these is for the reunion show? I’ll throw it right in the fake fire.”
“All this suspicion is bad for your health,” Annabelle said imperiously. She presented Sabina with an armful of tinsel and pine boughs. “Which do you prefer?”
“For what purpose?” Sabina asked suspiciously. The fresh scent of pine filled the room.
“For my new burlesque routine, of course.”
“My my, Annabelle. You’re getting so sassy.”
“Christmas is in less than a week. In your house, it might as well be Saint Patrick’s Day.”
“I’ve always preferred to decorate for New Year’s.” She flipped the pages of a screenplay called Six Ways to Sunday. Despite the hokey title, the dialogue seemed sharp.
“Well, point me to the decorations, I’ll put them up for you.”
“They aren’t much to speak of. Bottle caps, Cheetos crumbs, and hungover firemen.”
Annabelle sniffed. “Hardly festive.”
“When did we ever celebrate Christmas, Annabelle? I mean, really celebrate, rather than try to impress some producer with our mother-daughter bond?”
“Well . . .” Annabelle pursed her lips, clearly searching for a comeback. “I’m sorry,” she finally said, in a dignified way that made Sabina feel like a jerk. “I can’t redo the past. But I can put up some pine boughs for you now.”
“Fine. Pine boughs it is.” She breathed deeply, wondering why she was being so hard on her mother. Annabelle was trying, wasn’t she? Or at least, trying to try? “They smell nice, actually.”
The doorbell rang. Sabina sat up eagerly; visitors were the highlight of her life lately. After her trip to the firehouse the doctor had lectured her on the necessity of rest, so she’d taken up residence on the couch. Maybe her mother should drape her with tinsel.
“Lie back down,” scolded Annabelle. “Honestly, Sabina.”
Sabina groaned and settled back on the couch. Maybe one of these scripts had a female Nazi prison guard role—it would be perfect for her mother. Not that she wasn’t grateful . . . mostly.
At the sound of a deep, black coffee voice, she bolted upright again. Roman. She looked down at her ratty tank top and pajama pants stained with coffee . . . or was it blackberry jam? And really, the word “ratty” didn’t quite describe the top. Originally pink, it was now a sickly grayish-salmon color. It drooped around her armpits, all its elasticity gone. The only reason she’d put it on was that her mother’s caretaking attempts didn’t extend to laundry, and at least this shirt was theoretically clean, though no one would ever guess it.
She looked around for a blanket or a throw to hide under, but couldn’t find one. Annabelle’s surprised murmur and Roman’s deep rumble were drawing closer. Damn it. Desperate, she grabbed the only thing she could think of and began piling her mother’s scripts on her chest and thighs.
When Roman entered the room, she saw the hitch in his stride as he spotted her buried under a pile of paper. Confusion flickered across his face. Annabelle, on the other hand, smirked from behind Roman’s big frame. Of course her appearance-conscious mother would immediately see the problem.
“I’ll get us some lemonade,” she said sweetly, apparently channeling Donna Reed, or maybe some demented mother from a Tennessee Williams play.
“Please don’t,” said Sabina. “Chief Roman’s a grown man. Maybe he’d like an adult beverage. Coffee or something.”
“Nothing for me,” he answered. “I just stopped by to see how you’re feeling.” He eyed the scripts covering her body with an uneasy expression.
“I’m fine.” Brazen it out. What choice did she have? “Catching up on some reading. Would you like to sit down?” She gestured toward an armchair.
He sank into it, then gave a deep sigh. “Nice place.”
“You think so? Everyone teases me about it. Vader says it looks like a call girl’s hotel room.”
“Well, he would probably know.”
She smiled. God, he looked good in that chair, like an emperor in a beige throne. His long legs, clad in black jeans, stretched before him, nearly reaching the coffee table. He wore a lightweight charcoal-gray sweater that barely contained his muscular chest. He brought the scent of wine and a winter’s night with him.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been staring at him when Annabelle came in with a tray of water glasses and a pitcher of water. More importantly, she had a heathery cotton throw draped over one arm.
“Here, honey,” she said as she passed the couch. “You must be chilly.” Sabina, with a wary look inspired by the word “honey,” something her mother never said, grabbed the throw and wrapped it around her shoulders. She sat up, feeling the scripts tumble inside the blanket. Roman looked more puzzled than ever. Distraction. She needed a distraction.
Annabelle unintentionally provided exactly that. She perched on the arm of the couch, crossed her legs gracefully, and addressed Roman. “I didn’t like you much at first, Chief Roman.”
“Excuse me?” Sabina looked from her mother to Roman, whose face held no expression other than a simmering amusement deep in his black eyes.
“I refused to suspend you on command,” he explained.
“What?”
Annabelle gave an apologetic little shrug. “I’d convinced myself you’d be better off away from that station.” She turned back to Roman. “If you’d suspended her, you wouldn’t have had to save her life later on.”
“No, because she probably would have strangled me with her bare hands before I had a chance to save her.”
Annabelle tossed her head, conceding the point.
“Not cool, Annabelle—” Sabina began hotly.
Annabelle interrupted, still focused on Roman. “But since you did save her life, I’m rethinking my opinion. Which is not something I normally do, let me tell you.”
Sabina considered the relative merits of beaning her mother with a pillow or a script, the only two weapons at hand.
But Roman seemed unfazed by her mother’s bluntness. “Very generous of you.”
“We’ll see. The jury’s still out.”
Roman gave a rumble of laughter. “Saving your daughter’s life only goes so far, does it? Do I have to unbury her from a pile of paper too?” He gestured to one of the scripts, which had fallen out from under the throw. “What are those, movie scripts?”
Annabelle widened her cat’s eyes in amazement. “You’ve never seen a screenplay before?”
“Can’t say that I have. I wouldn’t mind taking a look though.”
Roman picked up Six Ways to Sunday and read a line out loud. “When’s the last time you got your pool cleaned, lady?” He lowered the script. “What kind of movie is this?”
Sabina snorted.
Annabelle bounded to her feet and peered at the script. “It’s a comedy. I’m up for the part of Belinda. Comedy was always my specialty, right, Sabina?” Without waiting for an answer, she put one hand on her hip and lowered her head provocatively as she read the next line. “Well, see, my last pool boy quit. He couldn’t handle my . . . deep end.” The over-the-top purr in her voice made Sabina spew a mouthful of water onto the throw that covered her.
Roman raised one eyebrow, but forged ahead. “That’s because he was a pool boy. See, what you need is a pool man.”
Sabina laughed so hard her ribs ached, but she didn’t mind. Roman and Annabelle continued with the script, a broad comedy about an older woman’s affair with her handyman. Roman had no acting skills and looked like a smoldering hunk of testosterone no matter how much he aimed for goofy. Halfway through the scene they were all laughing so hard at his pathetic attempt at a Southern accent they had to skip to a different scene.
This time Roman played the envious best friend of Annabelle’s character. When he read the line, “That’s not a pool boy, that’s a hot little ticket to cougar heaven,” in a high-pitched voice, the three of them laughed until tears ran down their faces.
Finally, Annabelle collapsed into an armchair, blotting the tears from her cheeks. “I haven’t laughed this much in . . . well, Sabina must have been little. Before the show.”
“Yeah. That’s when all the fun and games ended.”
Annabelle sobered with a sigh. “Thanks for indulging me, Chief Roman. It’s been a while since I acted in anything.”
Roman got to his feet. “Thank you for putting up with my incompetence. It was fun, but I think I’ll be keeping my day job.”
“It might be best,” said Annabelle, giggling like a girl.
Roman said good-bye then. After he left, the house seemed suddenly tiny and tame.
“That,” said Annabelle, into the subsequent quiet, “is a very, very attractive man.”
Sabina nestled into her pillows. “He’s all right.” She let her eyes close, feigning exhaustion, and didn’t open them again until her mother had gone back into the guest bedroom. What was Roman doing, showing up like that, displaying a whole new side—a lighter side, that of a man who didn’t mind looking ridiculous? How dare he come and disturb her peace of mind, just when she’d accepted—almost accepted—that a safe distance was best?
Damn that very, very attractive man.