Читать книгу The Firefighter - Susan Lyons - Страница 7

Smoke? Do I smell smoke?

I’m only about a tenth awake and my body’s saying, no, let me sleep! My exhausted brain recalls travel, travel and more travel. Four airports, three flights and a long taxi ride, transporting me across a nineteen-hour time difference. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.

But still, there’s that smoky smell and it irritates the back of my travel-dried nose and throat so I have to cough.

Where am I, anyhow?

I remember. Australia. In the spare room of the house Nana inherited. The pretty cottage across from the ocean, where the air is warm and humid and scented with flowers as well as the sea.

But now the air reeks of smoke. I fumble for the switch on the bedside light but nothing happens. The power must be out.

The smoky odor’s getting stronger. Not cigarette smoke. Nor is it pleasant and woodsy like the old-fashioned fireplace at Nana’s house in Vancouver. It’s more like—

Jesus! I think the house is on fire.

I leap out of bed. From groggy I’ve gone to so awake my heart’s racing triple-time. The air’s hot and dense with that horrible smell. And in my ears there’s a strange crackling, rushing sound. Weird, and scary.

“Nana! Nana!”

“Tash!” Her call is faint, almost eaten up by that spooky sound.

I grab my cell from the bedside table, praying the battery hasn’t run down. I open it, dial 9-1-1. An operator voice says, “Your call could not be connected. Please check the number and try again.”

What the hell? Don’t they have 9-1-1 here?

Nana calls again and I toss down my useless phone and run across the room. The hallway’s dark and full of smoke and—oh my God, there are flames to my left! Not many, just a few licking out a door and across the ceiling. They’re the feelers; the animal is behind them, gathering itself to pounce.

Where’s Nana’s bedroom? I was so tired last night, I wasn’t paying attention. All I remember is, it’s a one-story house, with the living room at the front and the bedrooms at the back. Please, let her bedroom be to the right, away from the flames. “Nana? Where are you?”

The floor’s warm, making me aware I’m barefoot, wearing only a lace camisole and the skimpiest of bikini panties. I have a lot of skin exposed, and the hot air’s stinging every centimeter of it. I turn to my right, stumble down the dark hall, squinting against the smoke. “Nana!”

Behind me I hear a crash and a vigorous, “Shit! Damn. Tash?”

Oh, God, she’s behind me, where the fire’s burning.

I turn to face thicker smoke and that darting border of flames. Terrified, I walk toward the fire. “Where are you? What was that crash?”

“I fell!” She coughs. “Damn it, I’m trying to get up but—” Her voice breaks off and I hear a moan, then more coughing.

“I’m coming.” The smoke scratches at my throat and I have to cough too.

Those flames are mesmerizing. Beautiful, in a strange way, as they curl and dance across the ceiling. I move toward them, staring up into their red-gold depths, unable to look away even though my eyes burn from the smoke.

My feet meet an obstacle and I trip and fall. On top of my grandmother.

“Watch where you’re going!” she snaps between coughs.

She’s sprawled across the doorway, face down, and I’m crossways on top of her. She must’ve tripped, then I stumbled onto her.

I pull myself off, glancing past her into the room. And freeze.

Yes, it’s her bedroom. I remember it now. The old-fashioned four poster, the picture window with lacy curtains.

Except, the window and curtains aren’t there anymore. Instead, there’s a wall of flame. Not pretty curls of reddish-gold but a fierce conflagration eating the wall, moving across the ceiling and out the door. Over our heads.

I scramble to my knees. Thank God I’m here to save her. “We’ve got to get out of here! You have to get up!”

“You think I haven’t tried? I must’ve broken my leg.”

We’re both coughing, I can barely see her—it’s dark, smoky, my eyes are burning and watering.

“Oh, Jesus! Okay, then…” I try to think. I’m not tiny, but nor is she. Can I lift her?

Do I have a choice? Lift, drag, whatever it takes, I’ve got to get her out of here before the beast leaps on us.

“Can you roll onto your back? I’ll try to lift you and it’ll be easier that way.”

Through rasping coughs, she says, “You can’t lift me.”

“This is not the time to be negative.”

She gives a choked laugh. “Go for it, girl. Prove me wrong.” The laugh dies abruptly as she shifts position, struggles to roll onto her side and gives a couple of wrenching groans that make me shudder in sympathy.

I try to assist as she makes it onto her back, and all the time I’m wondering how I can lift her. Scoop her up in my arms, the way a parent carries a child? Or over my shoulder, in a fireman’s lift?

And speaking of which, where are the damned firefighters?

Is the whole neighborhood sleeping so soundly no one’s noticed this house is on fucking fire?

Anger gives me a needed surge of adrenaline. I squat beside Nana and get one arm around her shoulders and one under her legs, take a deep breath and lift with all my strength.

I get her up a few inches, gasp for air, choke on smoke, and it’s all I can do to put her down without dropping her. My body’s pouring sweat and my silk lingerie is plastered to my skin.

When I can speak again, I say, “I’ll drag you. Hands under your armpits. It’ll hurt, I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.”

“Do it,” she says grimly. Is her voice getting weaker, or is it just that the fire’s louder?

I squat again, hook my hands behind her shoulders and under her arms, take another deep breath—shit! I can’t breathe without coughing.

Giving up on the idea of deep breaths, I take shallow ones and begin to pull her. Yes, I can do this. In tugs and fits and starts, coughing as I gasp for air, but I can pull her.

The only thing is, I’m not moving her fast enough.

We’re inching backwards down the hall away from the fire, which means I’m facing it. The flames are doing a crazy dance, sometimes resting, sometimes leaping.

Through almost constant coughs and moans of pain, Nana says, “Sorry, Tash. My fault. Had a candle burning, fell asleep. The wind came up, must’ve blown it over.”

I don’t have any spare breath or I’d say it doesn’t matter how it happened, we just have to get out. I keep tugging her. Inch by inch. We’ve reached the living room, it can’t be more than twenty feet to the door. But as the fire strengthens, I grow weaker.

“Leave me,” she says. “Save yourself. I love you, Tash.”

“I am not leaving you!” I manage to rasp out, and give her a mighty jerk.

She groans and I try not to imagine what it must feel like to have a broken leg bumped along the floor like this.

Her coughing stops.

“Nana?” I pause one precious moment, heart pounding even faster, and lean close to her face. “Nana?” You will NOT die on me! I can’t say the words aloud, and she wouldn’t hear me if I did.

She’s breathing, I can feel puffs of air from her nostrils, but she’s passed out. It’s probably for the best. She can escape this nightmare.

But I can’t. My burning eyes are leaking hot tears, my skin feels like it’s frying and I’d give anything for one breath of fresh air. The noise has grown to be huge, immense. A monster’s eating up the house.

We’re in its path.

And no one’s coming to save us.

My nostrils and throat are scorched, the floor’s so hot it burns my knees. And I realize, we may not make it.

I’m panting, sobbing, struggling with every ounce of strength to shift Nana’s body. I won’t give up, I can’t leave her.

Can’t see a damn thing now, the smoke’s so thick, my eyes so swollen. There are crashing sounds too. Walls and ceiling falling, I guess.

Is this how I’m going to die?

Bryson said Australia was a death trap. I’d imagined crocodiles, slashing kangaroos. Not something so damned prosaic as fire.

My arms are so exhausted they drop feebly to my sides.

I’d feared an exotic death. Box jellyfish. Stonefish. Funnel-web spider.

My shoulders sag, my head’s drooping, I want to lie down and sleep. Don’t want to die here, so far from home.

Taipan—a snake with the most deadly venom in the world. Paralyzes you.

I am paralyzed. I’ve sunk down on my knees, my body curled over Nana. Coughing helplessly.

Something grabs me from behind.

Crocodile. It’s going to take me under the water, do a death roll.

Weakly I slap at it but it crams something over my face and yells, “Breathe!” in a male voice that cuts straight through the din of the fire.

I gulp in…air. Air that’s not full of smoke. It makes me cough again but I suck in more, greedily. An oxygen mask. Someone did come to rescue us.

I rip the mask off. “Nana!” My hoarse scream tears out of my aching throat.

He forces the mask back in place. Then I’m being lifted, as easily as if I were a baby, and I’m jiggling along in my rescuer’s arms as he runs through the living room and out. Out, out the door, outside into fresh night air that makes me cry with relief.

I jerk the mask off again. “My grandmother!”

As he puts me down on the grass, all my sore eyes can make out is a tall, broad shape in firefighter gear. “We’ve got her. Anyone else in there?”

I shake my head. Realize how good the night air smells. Yes, it’s smoky, but nothing like inside the house. Am I imagining it, or is there a scent of tropical flowers?

“Her leg’s broken,” I tell him. “Be careful with her.”

A blanket’s spread over me, then someone’s handing me a bottle of water. Nothing has ever looked so appealing. The top’s off and I gulp it down, and it’s fresh too, and cool, cutting through the sooty burn at the back of my throat. My skin’s on fire, the blanket’s too hot and I shrug it off, and drink greedily.

“Okay, that’s enough,” my rescuer says. “Put the mask back on. You need oxygen.”

In the background my aching ears still hear the roar, crackle, smash of the fire, and there’s a bunch of male voices barking back and forth, saying things I can’t quite catch. My guy’s voice cuts through it all, as fresh and crisp as the cold water.

My eyes struggle to bring his face into focus. Nice. Very nice. Strong bones, tanned skin, eyes that are maybe blue, maybe gray. Can’t tell in this light, with smoke-blurred vision. Can’t see his hair either. Fair or dark, under his helmet? Either would look good with that face.

And I’d thought the water looked appealing!

His mouth quirks up into a grin and then he’s reaching out, one hand on the back of my head, gently hooking the oxygen mask over my face again. Oh, right. He’d told me to do that.

Okay, I’m officially losing it. I guess that’s what smoke inhalation and a near-death experience can do to a girl.

“Your grandmother’s conscious,” he reassures me. “I can see that from here. She’s talking to the ambos.”

Conscious. I breathe a sigh of relief. But what are ambos?

He reads my puzzled frown. “Right, you’re a tourist. Should’ve known from the accent. Ambos are ambulance paramedics.”

I nod my understanding.

“You’ll both be going to the hospital in Cairns so they can assess your condition.” He glances down my body and something changes in his face. From looking concerned, he’s gone to looking…interested. Man-woman interested. Not that it’s a look I have much personal experience with.

I follow his gaze. Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have shrugged the blanket off. I forgot I was wearing skimpy lingerie—and it’s now plastered to me, leaving nothing to the imagination.

I’d say my body’s pretty average. Slim, toned, nothing special. Guys see me as the gal-pal, best-bud type of woman. Good company for a movie, game, chat or some sex, but nothing to inspire lust.

Soot must be flattering. The firefighter’s expression has gone hot and intense.

And I feel a whole different kind of heat flood through my body, in response to that hungry gaze. Life and death. Male and female. Can’t get any more basic—primitive—than that.

I want him.

Without knowing the color of his eyes or hair, his name, whether he’s married with a half dozen kids, I want him.

His head jerks and he shifts his gaze from my nearly nude body to my face.

And there’s a moment. One of those moments, but stronger than I’ve ever experienced before, where gazes lock and the tension zinging back and forth is almost tangible.

Want you, my eyes tell him.

Fuck, yeah, his say back.

Then he jerks his head again, pulls the blanket over me and lurches to his feet. “You’ll be okay now. I have a fire to fight.”

I pull the mask off and say, “But…”

He’s walking away, doesn’t hear me. So I don’t get a chance to embarrass myself by asking, “Will I ever see you again?”