So the evening hadn’t gone the way Roman had fantasized. Sure, Sabina had been horizontal, but there’d been no tangled sheets, no cries of passion—unless you counted winces from Annabelle at the way he massacred his lines. But he’d had fun. Just being in the same room with Sabina made his blood fizz like a bottle of fine Asti Spumante. He loved seeing her eyes sparkle, her stubborn mouth curve in a mischievous smile. Her hair was reverting to its natural color, that autumn-brown color giving way to a burnished bronze with naughty glints of hell-raiser red.
He’d gotten his Sabina fix, but already he wanted more. The firehouse lost all its joy with Sabina out until further notice. The big talk revolved around the ski trip planned for the day after Christmas and a firehouse meeting that Roman had missed.
“D’you hear about the cookbook?” Psycho jogged backward down the corridor as Roman strode toward his office.
“Nope.”
“It’s going to be on the news later. Stud’s idea. We voted on it and Vader lost. He wanted a weight-lifting marathon or some testosterone-heavy shit like that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He hadn’t even had coffee yet, and Psycho was bouncing around like a blue-eyed version of the Joker.
“Stud had stroke of genius and thought we ought to take advantage of all the media attention to raise some money. Go to Vegas.”
Roman stopped in his tracks.
Psycho jogged in place, laughing maniacally. “Too early for jokes?”
“By about an hour and two pots of coffee.”
“Sorry, Chief. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Why?” They entered the kitchen, Psycho still backpedaling. He veered just before slamming into the couch.
“Can’t say. Sworn to secrecy.”
“Drills in one hour,” Roman barked. “Fucking circus,” he muttered, swinging into the kitchen, where the A shift had already started the coffee.
“By the way, Chief.” Psycho headed toward the backyard, where he liked to do speed push-ups before everyone else showed up. “I took Italian in college. See ya at lineup, cara mia.” And he was gone.
Roman slammed coffee into a cup and headed for his office to tackle a report for Renteria. Damn radios, damn his impulsive Italian nature, damn Princeton. He needed to crack the whip on these guys. They were too loosey-goosey, too fun-loving, too . . . fucking quirky.
He conducted the toughest drill yet, running them through their paces on rapid intervention with a downed firefighter, who was played by a dummy. In coat and breathing apparatus, each firefighter had to race against the stopwatch to locate the hidden dummy, with nothing to guide them other than the sound of the alarm. They had to pull hose, then stop and listen for the alarm, knowing that each passing second made the situation more dire. In a dark, smoky environment it would be even more difficult. But no matter how much he drilled them, making them run it again, and again, and again, still he caught sidelong glances and the occasional smug smile. But he had to hand it to them—they performed well despite their smirks.
“Nice work,” he said, grudgingly, when they’d finished the twelfth run-through flawlessly.
“Ella Joy’s on!” someone yelled. And that was it. The entire crew went running for the training room. Roman took his time ambling back inside, enjoying the balmy December air, the pleasant scent of sagebrush. Maybe he and Luke should go horseback riding. Camp out. Roast marshmallows.
By the time he got inside, Ella Joy, wearing a sprig of holly in her hair, was launching into her report. He almost decided to ignore it, but the dreaded words “Bachelor Firemen” caught his eye, plastered across the bottom of the screen.
“The Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel have a special treat for you this holiday season.” Ella Joy beamed like Santa Claus’s pretty younger sister. “Did you know that firefighters are not only heroes out on the fire lines, but in the kitchen too? That’s right, they take turns making their own meals. This year, San Gabriel’s Bachelor Firemen have put together a cookbook that contains some of their favorite recipes. If there’s anyone in your life who likes to cook, they might enjoy an inside look at what firefighters prepare for their meals. Here’s Firefighter Fred Breen with more about Cooking with Heat: Favorite Recipes from the Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel.”
Stud, all eager brown eyes and wide smile, blinked at the camera. “First of all, I’d like to say that every penny you spend on this cookbook goes to charity. You probably want to know which charity, right, Ella Joy?”
Ella, who was leafing through the cookbook, jerked her attention back to Fred. “I was just about to ask that. Which charity will the cookbook benefit, Firefighter Breen?”
“Well. We had a hard time deciding which charity because there’s so many good ones. Poor children, sick children, sick animals, the environment, refugees, really, it never ends. But as soon as we thought of this one, we knew it was the perfect choice. In honor of our new training officer, Chief Roman, all proceeds from this cookbook will go to the 9/11 Firefighters Fund.”
Roman gripped the edge of the counter that separated the kitchen from the training room. He felt the blood drain from his face.
Fred switched from buoyant to serious. “Three hundred and forty-three firefighters and paramedics died in 9/11, and a lot more have health issues from the aftermath. Chief Roman lost his wife. We want to stand behind him. Even though we weren’t there on September 11, in spirit we were, and we just want the chief and all the others to know, we’ll never forget.”
Ella was giving Fred her full attention now. “I’m sure our viewers will find that tribute very moving.”
With the solemn part out of the way, Fred perked up again. “And they’ll get some killer recipes. Ryan Blake’s Thai chicken curry is in here, and so is my personal specialty, meatball chili. We even included Chief Roman’s recipe for the blackest coffee you ever tasted. That’s on page five, in case you’re wondering. It ought to come with a warning.”
“What I’m really wondering is what these photos are.” Ella peered at the cookbook and flipped to a page, which she held up to the camera.
Fred turned a fiery pink. “We threw in some snapshots of us cooking. In case you ever wanted to see a fireman wearing oven mitts.”
“And nothing else, it seems.”
“Well, he has pants on.”
Roman squinted at the screen. The photo showed a bare-chested Vader checking a pot roast. He actually managed to flex his pectorals while sticking a thermometer into a hunk of meat.
“Looking good, Vader,” said Psycho.
Vader stood up and flexed his biceps instead of bowing. “Someone had to put some testosterone into this thing.”
Ella Joy continued. “If you’d like to give someone this festive and flirtatious holiday cookbook, you can order it online at the San Gabriel Fire Department’s Web site, and at our station’s Web site. If you order today, you might even receive it by Christmas. Speaking for myself, I don’t even cook and I wouldn’t mind a copy.” She winked at the camera.
Someone switched off the TV. Roman knew the sound had disappeared, knew Ella’s exquisite face had vanished, but his thoughts hadn’t really caught up. The crew had voted to donate all proceeds to a 9/11 fund as a tribute to him. To express their solidarity with him—the most hard-assed, coldhearted captain on the Eastern seaboard.
A cookbook, no less. They didn’t even know how appropriate it was. Not a single one of them, other than Sabina, knew of his secret kitchen skills. From day one, he’d refused to cook for the crew.
The other firefighters seemed just as tongue-tied as he was. Roman heard one of them clear his throat, another whisper something. Then Fred jumped to his feet like a big puppy. “How’d I do? Did I sound like a jerk? Being on TV is a lot harder than it looks, dude. I kind of went blank at first. Hey Chief, what’d you think? Did I do okay?”
Roman gazed down at those eager brown eyes. He felt like a glacier, slowly thawing under the sunshine of the kid’s enthusiasm, the unexpected affection of these guys. He cleared his throat. “You did good, Stud.” He glanced around the room, at the blur of faces watching him. “You all did good. It’s . . . uh . . . appreciated. Now get back to work. The rigs need cleaning.”
He wheeled around and strode into his office. That pile of paperwork needed to be off his desk by the end of the shift. It would happen a lot faster if he could get that goddamn speck of dust out of his eyes.
Dio, this place was really getting to him. At this rate, they’d banish him from Brooklyn and stick him in a freaking Disney movie.
A few days before Christmas, the Dane brothers held their baseball clinic for the Little League of San Gabriel. Luke had been chattering about it for days, as soon as he’d found out the twin minor leaguers were coming. To him, it was even more exciting than Christmas. What could be better than star pitcher Jake and home run king Todd Dane working with the team, one on one? The new laptop Roman had gotten him came in a distant second.
For Roman, it felt like early Christmas as well, since there was a good chance Sabina would be there with Carly. He hadn’t seen her since the impromptu acting lesson. One visit from her training officer was understandable. More than that and people would talk.
He’d heard enough whispered cara mias at the firehouse to last a lifetime.
So he had to rely on stolen glimpses of Sabina, like pieces of sea glass washed up by the ocean. La Piaggia was one of his favorites. He’d seen her at the restaurant once. He’d been experimenting with a new veal and porcini mushroom dish and the sight of her had made him forget he’d already added pepper. She’d given him a polite smile as she thumped through the kitchen on her crutches. She’d cut her hair so it swung like a sheet of hammered gold against her bare shoulders.
Before he could offer her a taste of his veal, she’d gone. She hadn’t even said good-bye.
He’d turned back to the stove, cursing himself in two languages. He’d blown it, first by never visiting her in the hospital, then by never explaining himself. Maureen had always accused him of burying his feelings. He’d never told his wife this, but he suspected he did so because his feelings were so powerful. Practical Maureen would never have understood.
Maybe he should have given Maureen a chance to understand, something inside him whispered. Maybe he had a second chance now. A chance to let a woman really see inside him, see all the intense, unpredictable currents that swirled through his soul.
Just like that backdraft scenario he’d offered up to Vader. Open a vent hole. Let a bit of himself out.
On the day of the clinic, Luke bolted ahead of him, leaping across the park like a windup kangaroo. A sizable crowd had already gathered for the clinic. Roman, sunglasses safely in place, didn’t even need to scan their faces to spot Sabina. She sat on the lowest rung of the bleachers, legs stretched out, leaning her elbows on the bench behind her. Her head tilted back so the sun made a halo out her tawny hair. A slight smile curved her mouth as she savored the hazy sunshine.
At the mere sight of her, he got hard, embarrassingly so. It wouldn’t do to stroll up to a family event with a massive boner leading the way. He paused, collected himself, put his notorious iron will to work on his equally stubborn cock.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
Too bad. He was greedy and selfish and not about to pass up a chance to be in Sabina’s presence just because his primitive side didn’t know how to behave itself.
For the first time since Luke started playing baseball, Roman didn’t sit on the upper left-hand bleacher seat. He joined Sabina on the lowest bench, his arm brushing against hers. With deep pleasure, he watched goose bumps rise on her skin, the dark teal of her irises turn black with surprise.
“Hey, Chief.”
“Jones.”
The sliver of air between their bodies vibrated. Roman leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees, brushing her skin again in the process. She felt soft and fresh as a daisy petal. She smelled like marigolds and sunshine. Everything in him, body and soul, wanted to claim her, take her into him, and brand her as his.
Crazy. He was a fireman, not a damn pirate. “How’s the ankle?”
“Healing, but it’s slow. I think it’s been about two years already.”
“Ribs?”
“Still sore, but half the time I forget about them. Not a problem. I could strap on a tank, easy.”
“Not happening,” he said flatly.
Her eyes flared at him. “No need to get all bossy.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Goes with the territory.”
“Chief territory?”
God, that little gleam in her eye made him want to roll her around on the grass right then and there. “Not exactly.”
Sabina couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Ever since Roman had descended onto the bench next to her, she’d felt as if she’d been running wind sprints along with the Little Leaguers. She could swear he was flirting with her. He kept giving her those little sideways looks, with that suggestive light in his eyes. It took her right back to the hours she’d spent in bed with him. That night was scorched onto her brain in any case, never to be forgotten if she lived to a hundred.
“I saw the cookbook the guys did. Pretty nice gesture.”
He turned his head toward the field.
Jake and Todd were rounding up all the young players after their warm-up. Katie Dane, or maybe she was Katie Blake now that she’d married Ryan, handed out Tucson Breeze caps to the kids. The twins split the kids into two groups. Luke and Carly wound up on different teams.
Roman waited so long to answer that Sabina had almost forgotten about the cookbook and was about to tease him about his terrible acting.
“I still can’t get a handle on it,” he finally admitted. “I thought they all hated me. You all.”
“Yes, but only at first.”
That devastating groove dented his stubbled cheek. “Glad I managed to talk you out of it.”
“I’m not sure you did. I mean, you’re not a big talker, are you?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Um . . . I think you just proved my point.”
His chest rose and fell with a deep chuckle that set her nerves to dancing. “Maybe I have other ways to get my point across.”
A full-body flush passed over her. Other ways . . . such as making love to her until her brain turned to Roman-obsessed mush? Or such as digging through rubble to save her life? “I see what you mean.”
“Do you?” He gave her an intense, sideways look and lowered his voice. “Sabina, I . . . this isn’t easy for me to say.”
She sat up straight as a shaft of electric fear passed through her. He was going to break up with her. She knew the drill. It was exactly what had happened with Greg Harrington when she was sixteen and he was seventeen. He’d taken her out for a few “dates”—more like photo ops. She’d helped him pick out a puppy at the shelter. They’d hit a Dodgers game and eaten gigantic hot dogs. She’d dreamed of him every night, until that last horrible one when she wouldn’t have sex with him in his swimming pool.
The next day his driver had picked her up and she’d joined him in the backseat as they drove around Beverly Hills and he dumped her. “Nothing personal,” he’d said, “but my fans think you’re a little young for me. You feel me?”
Oh yeah, she knew that look in Roman’s eyes. She could practically write the script for him. Nothing personal, we work together, neither of us wants to leave the station, we both knew it was a mistake . . . He was going to break her heart, right here and now in front of the San Gabriel Little League and most of the Dane family.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, hurrying to fend off the inevitable. “I feel the same way. We’re on the same page.”
He frowned behind his sunglasses. “We are?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper, even though everyone else’s attention was on the field. “We had one fun night, no need to make more of it than it was.”
He flinched, as if she’d jabbed him with a toothpick. “That’s it, huh? One fun night.”
“Exactly.” Now came the hardest part, the part she’d been wrestling with late at night when her ribs ached. “I figured out why you never came to visit me in the hospital.”
Roman, who had been listening with absolutely no expression, finally raised one eyebrow in question.
“Obviously you didn’t want to give me the wrong idea about us. You didn’t want me to be misled by the fact that you saved my life. And that’s fine. I get it. I agree with you. You were just doing your job.”
Roman leaned forward, elbows on knees. Sabina followed his gaze. On the field, Todd was working with Carly. He made an adjustment to her swing, lifting her elbows higher up. Carly nodded and gingerly swung the bat.
Was Roman even listening to her?
“The situation’s a little awkward, but I think if we’re both totally honest with each other, we can still work together just fine.”
Roman lowered his head so he was looking at the ground between his knees. His voice came in a low, ominous growl. “Honest?”
“Yes. Honest. That’s the key.”
“Honest?” The muscles in his forearms jumped as he flexed his fists. “You haven’t said one honest word in the past two minutes.”
“What?”
He swung his head toward her. “One fun night? Wrong idea? What kind of crap are you trying to dish out?”
She gaped at him as he rose to his full height, six and a half feet and two hundred plus pounds of virile, potent male. Eyes ablaze, he scorched her with one long, comprehensive glance.
“If you want honesty, Sabina Jones, you come find me. But be prepared for the real thing.” And he stalked away from the bleachers.
Sabina gripped the edge of the bench, feeling the chipped green paint come off in her hands. Oh my God.
Little shock waves ran through her, up and down, head to toe.
Breathe, Sabina, breathe.