Читать книгу Kansas City's Bravest - Julie Miller - Страница 11

“Yeah, yeah. Fifteen minutes of fame, my ass.” Meghan chucked John Murdock’s big shoulder to show the guys she worked with that she knew they were teasing and that she would give it right back. “You guys are just jealous that Saundra Ames didn’t give any of you her card.”

She endured their oohs and ahhs and manly remarks about prowess with women by rolling her eyes and clicking her tongue. It had taken her a long time to learn to take their flirty remarks in sisterly stride—to understand that their teasing was a means of inclusion, not criticism. Now that she was part of their team, the men usually curbed their locker room chatter around her. It also didn’t hurt that the biggest man in the unit, John Murdock, had been assigned as her partner—to compensate for her smaller size, no doubt. She knew him to be a big teddy bear who preferred books to football, despite his pro-wrestler stature. But, intimidating by looks alone, nobody messed with John.

So, normally, the nine men who shared duty with her were on their best behavior. Tolerable, at least.

But right after battling a multialarm blaze, they needed to blow off some steam. And if giving her grief about her instant stardom was the way to do it, she’d let them.

“I keep telling you boys that women like men with a sensitive side.” They paused in a circle around her, waiting for her insight into the secret ways of women. “Go get a puppy and the women will be knocking down your door to meet you.”

Another round of hoots and laughter followed her as the crowd of onlookers began to disperse.

One of the rookies thumped his chest. “I get to rescue the mutt next time.”

“My wife would shoot me if I brought home a dog.”

“Hey, I put up with my girlfriend’s cats. Isn’t that sensitive enough?”

“Let’s get back to work, guys.” Meghan pocketed the number from the animal rescue worker who would be taking the dog to the shelter for a thorough check from a vet. Since the dog had been spayed, they also wanted to run the collarless pup’s description through their database to see if she was someone’s missing pet.

But if no one claimed her, Meghan had a pretty good idea where the miniature, German shepherd-marked mutt could find a home. She knew four boys who would benefit from the unconditional love a pet could bring them.

When she’d spotted her team heading toward the trucks to pack up their gear, it had given her the perfect excuse to escape the glare of the Channel Ten spotlight. The whole idea of girls looking up to her as some kind of role model had turned her stomach into knots.

You freak. I’ll make you a real woman.

That degrading voice, slurred by booze and accusation, had suddenly bombarded Meghan’s psyche from the hidden recesses of her memory, robbing her of her temporary confidence. Her skin crawled with the memory of cruel hands and a whiskey-soaked mouth.

She hadn’t known whether to scream or to run or to faint—in front of a crowd, on television—as old wounds felt real again.

But then she’d seen Gideon.

Live. In the flesh. Not a memory.

Tall and perfectly proportioned.

Dark brown hair, trimmed short to control its tendency to curl, was half hidden beneath an omnipresent baseball-style cap. His sturdy shoulders tapered to a trim waist, and she knew his legs would be long and well-muscled. His eyes were as she remembered, rich and dark and as inviting as her strong morning coffee.

The strength of his quiet presence had calmed her like the soothing stroke of his hand or the gentler caress of his silky whisper in her ear. For one cherished moment she’d breathed easier. The remembered pain receded.

But then she’d noticed the changes in him.

His rugged features etched in unsmiling stone. New lines of strain marring the taut, tanned skin beside his eyes and mouth.

The cold shutters of distrust that suddenly dulled the warmth of his gaze.

And why should he smile at her?

She didn’t deserve that kind of support from him. She had no right to ask. Not anymore.

So she’d blinked and turned away like a coward before she did something foolish such as run to him or call out his name or beg his forgiveness.

By then, Saundra Ames had been talking again. The camera rolling. Meghan had dug deep into the reserves of her composure and come up with a cogent answer. By the time she’d felt brave enough to look again, Gideon had disappeared.

Thank God she had her work. The physical and mental challenges, the sense of duty and purpose, had given her something to concentrate on besides questions about her past and what advice she could give young, career-minded women.

Her co-workers had gathered at the edge of the impromptu audience to egg her on about getting out of cleanup work. Nine men in K.C.F.D. T-shirts, each eye-catching in his own way, attracted their own sort of attention from the crowd, providing the distraction she’d needed to slip away from center stage to gather her wits and hide her wounds.

Some of the men were still talking about puppies and outrageous ways to impress the ladies as they reached the Station 16 trucks and went to work. There were hoses to fold and stack, ladders to mount on the engine, gear to stow.

Meghan didn’t want to shirk her duties, or she’d never hear the end of it at the station house. She figured her TV interview would already earn her enough razzing to last a week. She picked up a wrench and two axes and opened a compartment door near the cab of Engine 31. Fitting together like a three-dimensional puzzle, each piece of equipment had its assigned place, making the most efficient use of the truck’s limited space.

She slipped the wrench in first, then pressed each ax into its mounting clips. After latching the compartment door shut, she climbed up onto the running board beside the open cab to gather the rigging equipment that had been tossed inside. She plunked down onto the passenger side seat to rest while she rolled a nylon rope between her fist and elbow. She had the length of it tied into a bale before she noticed the conspicuously unofficial item resting in the folds of her black turnout coat on the floorboards at her feet.

“What the hell…?” Meghan stowed the rope beneath the seat and frowned as she bent to pluck a long-stemmed yellow rose from her coat. With the stem caught lightly between the thumb and forefinger of one hand, she rested the silky soft bud in the palm of the other. “Where did you come from?”

An unbidden urge of feminine curiosity made her lift the petals to her nose. Its sweet, fragrant scent tickled her sinuses and nearly gave her a headache. But it was soft to the touch, as gentle as a caress as she stroked it against her cheek. What a sentimental gesture. What a generous gift. Except…

Meghan looked through the windshield and scanned the scattering crowd for any indication of someone watching her reaction to the discovery. Everyone seemed to have a purpose to keep him or her busy that had nothing to do with Meghan. She hopped out of the cab and turned to sift through her coat. Where had it come from? Thirty minutes ago, she’d deposited her gear and had tried to tuck her hair back into its braid before talking to those reporters. It hadn’t been here then. And there was no clue, no note of explanation, for its appearance now.

A giant shadow fell across her shoulders, diverting her attention. She looked over her shoulder into John Murdock’s curious expression. “What’s that?”

“I found it lying in the truck on my coat.”

“You been holding out on me?” he teased. “Who’s it from?”

“Do you really think it’s for me?” She glanced down. Wright stared up at her, the name label clearly visible on the front left placket of her coat. “I don’t want to assume.”

“Since I’m not the rose type, that’d be my guess.” She looked up to see his mouth curved in an indulgent smile. “You’re the only lady on the crew. I’d take it and enjoy it.”

“But it doesn’t say whom it’s from.” She found the idea of an anonymous admirer unsettling rather than charming. Someone had to know something about it. “You didn’t see anyone put it here? Anyone messing with the front of the truck in the last half hour or so?”

Those big shoulders shrugged and blocked out the sun. “I was watching you on TV with the rest of the guys. I suppose anybody could have put it in here. Don’t you like flowers?”

“Well, sure, but roses are a little fancy for—”

“Is Ms. Wright still on duty? I have a few follow-up items I’d like to clarify with her.” Meghan froze, hearing the succinct, curious female voice on the other side of the truck. That damned reporter again.

Her stomach cramped right on cue as the tension set in. She tightened her fingers into a fist, forgetting all about the flower until a thorn pricked her palm. “Ow. Damn.” She tossed the worrisome gift into the truck and pressed her lips against the tiny wound and muttered, “I’m not up for this again.”

“Here.” John pulled a blue bandanna from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. “Get out of here.” He nudged her elbow and nodded toward the abandoned building. “Hide out for a few minutes. I’ll cover for you.”

Meghan breathed a deep sigh of relief. John might be built like a grizzly, but he was definitely a teddy bear. She squeezed his hand and mouthed her thanks. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me a bunch. Now scoot.”

She gladly did as ordered and quietly slipped away from the truck. She moved quickly and within a minute was leaning back against an interior wall of scorched brick, breathing deeply and trying to even out both her pulse and her nerves.

At last. She was alone.

She needed the quiet to regroup and to get her dealing-with-people facade back into place.

That rose had been a kind gesture from someone too shy to reveal himself. But on top of everything she’d gone through today, it felt like an invasion of her privacy. Saundra Ames’s incisive reporting had already stripped her down to her most vulnerable fears. The rose was just the kicker that sent her over the edge into panic. There’d been a hundred or more onlookers in the parking lot watching her. It was probably a gift from one of those girls Ms. Ames had said she inspired.

Meghan breathed a little easier now that she was alone. She removed John’s bandanna and inspected the puncture wound on her hand. The bleeding had stopped. Maybe she shouldn’t read too much symbolism into the idea of being cut open to expose all her insecurities.

She’d always healed best when she was alone. For her, alone was the safest place to be. The only place where being imperfect didn’t matter.

Tucking the bandanna into her belt, she tipped her chin up to study the empty shell of what had once been a magnificent building bustling with people and commerce. Now it echoed like a cavern.

Though the outer walls and most of the ceiling structure were basically undamaged, the interior was riddled with piles of blackened debris, some of it still steaming from the force of the fire and the heat of the day. The distinctive imprint of acrid smoke tingled her nostrils. Meghan pressed her knuckles to the tip of her nose to conquer the urge to sneeze.

Curiosity as well as a sense of mourning prompted her to push away from her hiding place and to take a walk over to where she had rescued the dog. She picked her way carefully across the wooden floorboards, knowing that even this far from the central source of the blaze, the support structures could be weakened.

Water still grouped in puddles in the sunken places on the main floor, and she could hear the steady drip of it working its way down to the basement level. The corridor where she’d first entered and followed the sounds of the dog’s cries had been reduced to twin piles of ash and rubble.

She stopped near the edge of the last solid board and looked up at the back wall. The second-story platform was gone. The heavy beam and its iron rigging—with her rope still tied to it and hanging out the broken window—was the only structure left. She looked down into the exposed basement area. The rest of the support system had collapsed into a fiery pit.

She and the pooch had been damn lucky to survive.

“Revisiting the scene of the crime?”

Meghan sucked in a breath and clutched her hand at her waist, startled by the familiar voice. When she turned to face Gideon, the thudding of her heart still hadn’t stopped. “I thought I was the only one in here.”

His watchful eyes seemed to bore right through her. “I’m doing the preliminary walk-through on my investigation.”

“That’s right.” Without the courage to meet the questions in his expression, she settled for talking to the center of his broad, streamlined chest. “I heard you got promoted to Investigator.” Unexpectedly hungry to reacquaint herself with the strength and dimension of his body, she let her gaze drift up past the point of his chin to the classic male contours of his mouth. But she wasn’t quite ready for eye contact. Gideon had always been able to read her emotions like a book. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

A subtle movement at his waist dragged her gaze downward again. He’d tucked his hand into his pocket. He’d always had such wonderful hands. Nicked and calloused enough by life to give them character, with the strength and control that could soothe or arouse, by turn.

Sweet, tender memories flooded her, raising goose bumps of anticipation along her skin as she remembered his touch—so very different from the creepy sensations that had assaulted her earlier during the TV interview.

But then she realized he’d angled the left side of his body away from her. She’d been staring at his wrist above his pocket, wishing for things that could never be. Wanting something she had destroyed two years ago.

“Sorry.” She mustered a smile and shrugged, not sure what she was apologizing for. Staring? Or breaking this good man’s heart?

“So you’re the one who made the great escape.” Gideon was looking up at the rope and beam now. “You always were as agile as a monkey. Still, that must have been a close call.”

“For once it paid to be scrawny.” She wanted to thank him for changing the topic. Work was one thing she could talk about. It might be the only safe topic where Gideon was concerned. “I don’t think that platform could have held a full-size man.”

“Looks like it didn’t hold you, either. You took a big risk.”

For one brief instant Meghan’s insides went all drizzly with warmth. Was that concern she heard? The smooth texture of his deep-pitched voice melted her momentary resolve into a pile of goo.

Though Gideon had always been the strong one in their relationship—the whole one, the one with his head on straight—he almost sounded as if he was the one who needed reassurance now.

“I’m okay. I know how to handle myself on the job now.” Meghan looked around the angle of Gideon’s shoulder and forced herself to make eye contact with him. It was impossible for her to look away from the raw hurt and hunger she saw there. “Really. I learned from the best. I’m fine.”

“Scrawny, hmm?” A sudden blaze of heat shattered the lingering walls of doubt and distrust in his expression. His warm brown gaze caressed the lines of her face and hair, then explored the subtle jut of her breasts, triggering a pebbling response at the tips as if he’d touched her with his hands. “As I recall, there were plenty of curves in all the right places on that body of yours.”

Meghan crossed her arms and shivered at her body’s wanton response to his hungry look and suggestive words.

She tried to come up with some kind of joke, some excuse to deny the powerful effect he still had on her. But she was trapped by desire, caught up in the memories of how good it felt to be close to this man, how exciting and scary it had been to have him want her. The meaning of this flood of heat eluded her, but she couldn’t turn away.

When he reached up and traced the curve of her cheek with the tip of one finger, she closed her eyes and savored his touch. This was too good, too sweet, too wonderful to be real.

She tilted her face, urging him to repeat the caress along her jaw, her brow. He rested the weight of his finger against the arc of her lower lip.

A familiar coalescence, like warm, sweet syrup, gathered inside her and moved with nearly painful deliberation toward the juncture of her thighs. The pressure built with agonizing slowness. There. Deep in her belly.

Behind the scars.

Meghan flinched beneath the delicate stroke of his finger along the straight line of her nose, fighting the intrusion of memory. Fighting off the past that would rear its ugly head and destroy Gideon’s magic.

“Meg?”

He caught the tip of her nose between his thumb and forefinger in a playful gesture one might use with a child.

A child.

She lost the fight. The spell was broken.

Meghan’s eyes snapped open and she backed off a step, not sure whether to dredge up an apology or a thank-you.

“You had some soot on your nose.” Gideon splayed his fingers in front of her face, showing her the greasy black residue.

“Oh.” Embarrassment couldn’t begin to describe the emotions trying to break through. She pressed her lips tightly together and waited for control to kick in. Gideon wouldn’t want her to have any feelings for him—grateful or sexual or otherwise. She’d long ago killed any feelings he had for her. So she made a joke. “Well, you know me and makeup. I never get it quite right.”

Gideon didn’t laugh and neither did she. Instead he strode away from her and climbed down a ladder into the basement. It was an easy movement that betrayed no reaction to the heated moment they’d just shared. “I want you to have a look at something I found earlier.”

If she was smart, she’d turn around and walk the other way. But then, she’d never been able to resist one of Gideon’s challenges. And if it was work-related…

That was where their relationship had started in the first place. As a probationary recruit about to wash out of basic training, Gideon had taken her under his wing and turned her into a real firefighter. She’d learned her skills at the foot of a master. This was her career now. This was who she was and who she needed to be. She’d be foolish to turn down the opportunity to learn more.

Carefully watching her step and keeping her distance, she followed him down the ladder. “What is it?”

She stepped down into a half-inch slush of water and dirt and debris. While the muck oozed around the soles of her boots, Gideon directed his flashlight across the floor.

“There.” He lifted one of the charred planks piled in the middle of the floor and tossed it aside. “You can hardly see it through this slime, but it’s there.”

She moved to help him clear more boards to prop them up in a makeshift dam until they’d exposed a four-foot square of old stone tile. He used the beam of his flashlight to point out crisscrossed markings burned into the floor that were a darker shade of black than the surrounding charcoal and ash.

Meghan squatted for a closer look. She wiped her hand clean on her pant leg and reached down to touch one of the charred lines. Her finger came back sticky. “What is it?”

Gideon hunkered down beside her, testing the tacky residue as she had, but bringing a sample up to his nose to sniff it. “My guess is a petroleum distillate, like kerosene or gasoline.”

“A catalyst. Does that mean what I think it does?”

Gideon nodded. His serious expression left no room for doubt. “Arson. Someone set it deliberately.”

A cold, cold feeling of alarm stilled the skittering pulse in her veins. The shadowy figure darting across the corridor before the platform collapse suddenly made sense. It hadn’t been the dog at all.

“Gideon?” What she’d seen had been more hallucination than fact. Her description wouldn’t give Gideon or the police much to go on. But it might be important. “You didn’t find any trace of a body, did you?”

“No.”

The quirk of his eyebrow told her he was interested in what she had to say.

“Then I think I saw who set the fire.”