How to Seduce a Fireman: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance (2 page)

Quinn’s eyes adjusted to the contrasting interior of Iguana Ike’s. Lights embedded in the edge of the teak bar, along with those strung around the shelves stocked with liquor bottles, twinkled in an annoying rhythm, while dimness hugged the tables and booths. Strobe lights, programmed to flash in time with the music, caused his headache to pound along with the song’s bass beat thumping in his chest. His gaze drifted beyond the wall of glass to the large deck with soft lighting and palms shifting in the evening breeze. Why couldn’t Cassie and her friends have chosen a table out there where it was quieter?

Getting last minute personal time off from the station had proven difficult but, hell, not as tough as prying Wolf’s hands from around his throat. Quinn rotated his neck and swallowed, the discomfort a reminder of performing the unpardonable sin—hurting Wolf’s baby sister.

Truth be told, Quinn wasn’t so fucking proud of his behavior either. Seeing the pain in Cassie’s almond-shaped eyes and watching the light go out of those green orbs had nearly done him in. But what choice did he have? She cared for him, that much was obvious and had been since shortly after she’d turned eighteen. He couldn’t allow her starry-eyed dreams to continue, not where he was concerned. Not when he had cast iron running through his veins. Loving was not in his emotional repertoire. Not anymore. Not since Renata.

If he were a different man, Cassie, the pretty brunette with the heart-shaped face and bright green cat eyes, would be his singular focus. But he wasn’t a different man. He was tainted goods with a damaged heart, a thorny background and a cold outlook on life and love.

Even so, here he sat, trying to work up the courage to approach Cassie and apologize. No doubt she’d refuse his request. Not that he could blame the entertaining blend of kitten and tiger. He’d been damn harsh. He twisted the lime over his bottle of Corona, popped the wedge of fruit into his mouth and chewed.

A blonde, with more cleavage showing than she had covered, shifted onto the empty bar stool next to him. Her overdose of perfume nearly closed his sinuses. “Hi, Quinn. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

He looked at her face, so artificially tanned it was almost leathery in appearance. Damn, he hadn’t been drunk enough to get close to that, had he? “Sorry, but I don’t recall the name. Have we met?”

Some of the brightness went out of her smile. “Brittany Cook. We dated a couple times last fall.”

“Right. Brittany. I’m sorry. Part of my memory’s gone. I don’t recall women’s names like I used to.” He pointed to his head. “Had a timber fall on me during a fire. Hell, I can’t even recall how to make love to a woman anymore. I’ve had to go on the ‘no sex’ wagon for a while. You know, until I get my game back.”

She gave him a scathing once-over, huffed an irritated you’re-an-asshole breath and sauntered off. No loss there.

Quinn spun the stool around and propped his elbows and back against the bar, his Corona in hand. One sip and his stomach returned a
hell-no
message. Last night he’d consumed an entire bottle of tequila—alone. There’d been no woman, just his worry about giving Cassie the obligatory birthday kiss and the concern that one touch of those plump pink lips wouldn’t be enough. Not that he led a celibate life, far from it. Lately, though, few women captured his attention the way vivacious Cassie did. He groaned and slapped the bottle onto the bar, his gaze zeroing in on the pretty brunette, with that go-to-hell streak of dyed red hair bisecting her dark tresses. By far, she outshone any other female on the dance floor.

When had Cassie matured into such a beautiful woman with curves in all the right places? The first time Quinn had set eyes on her was at her eighteenth birthday party. Wolf had conned him into manning the grill so he could visit with his guests, but Quinn’s gaze kept drifting toward little Cassie. She’d been like a bubbly cheerleader on steroids. Animated. A Pollyanna full of joy. Young with so much promise. Even then, he’d known he was a distant barren planet orbiting the sunny warmth of her personality. God, she was perfection, had always been so in his eyes and heart—pure magnetic perfection.

Now she was twenty-one, just as vibrant and as much fun to be around. Her friends, Sara and Misty, were laughing, trying to keep up. Cassie danced with her arms over her head, gyrating with the fast beat of the music, her red leather skirt hugging that fine ass of hers like he had in his last wet dream.

He brought the Corona to his lips to cool his parched throat.
God, she’s gorgeous.
To his annoyance, his cock twitched in agreement. The fact his cock paid more attention to Cassie of late was the driving force behind his earlier behavior. He could not use her for a brief fling, not his sweet angel. She deserved more, and he had less than more to give.

If he were honest with himself, which was a bad habit in his opinion, he’d admit how deeply his emotions ran for Cassie. They spent a lot of time together. Whenever anyone questioned or teased him if he was “tapping that”, he gave his typical response that he and the kid simply enjoyed doing the same things. His old “we’re just close friends” reply wasn’t going to work much longer, especially after watching her move that lithe body of hers and wanting to run his hands over every delectable inch.

He’d expected to find his jogging companion in tears, near desolation, not out on the dance floor having a helluva good time. His male ego was taking a bit of a beating. Was he so easily forgotten? Still, on closer observation, her cheeks were flushed. Even from across the dance floor, with that damn strobe light blinking on and off, her eyes held wildness. When the waitress taking care of Cassie’s table came to the bar with her next order, Quinn motioned her over. “What are the girls drinking tonight?” He jerked his chin toward Cassie and her friends.

“Two of them are drinking strawberry daiquiris. The other one, the one who’s been crying, is doing tequila shots.”

“Shots? Cassie doesn’t drink shots. A beer now and then.” He glanced toward the dance floor again. Cassie stumbled and Misty caught her. “Cut her off. Now.” Hell, with her dressed like that, tossing back shots and pissed at him, this could turn into a cluster-fuck in a hurry. Her sweetness was rarely marred by her temper, but when it was, she was a pistol to handle.

The waitress leaned back and studied him. “You the asshole who broke her heart?”

“Me?” He feigned innocence. If there was one thing he could do well, beyond fighting fires and saving lives, it was acting. In fact, his whole life had become a three-act play—both tragedy and comedy. “What makes you think that?”

“She’s been talking about some blue-eyed heartbreaker, and you fit the bill. Whoever tore her soul to hell and back ought to be hung up by the short hairs. She seems like a nice kid.” The chatty waitress filled her tray with the order the bartender set in front of her. “She’s thinking of leaving town.” Having dropped that effing bomb, she took off.

Christ
. Cassie leave Clearwater because of him? This was where her family lived. Where she grew up. Where her clientele resided. Loneliness crept in and wrapped its cold, gnarly hands around his gut and squeezed. She’d been part of his world for three years. The sunshine of his existence. What would his life be like without her in it?

A group of guys moved in, surrounding Cassie and her friends on the dance floor, their playful intent obvious.

Quinn took a long swig of beer. The horny bastards merited watching.

The blond guy with hair past his shoulders stepped behind Cassie and grabbed her hips, rubbing his groin against her ass. She flashed the sumbitch a smile over her shoulder, and Quinn’s gut clenched.

His fingers coiled tighter around the bottle. Hadn’t he so much as told her to move on? Still, he hadn’t expected her to get drunk and allow the first asshole that came down the pike to put his damn hands all over her.

The music stopped and Cassie sauntered toward a table with her friends. A slow tune started and blond guy grabbed her arm, pulling her into an embrace. His grimy hands slid down her back to cup her ass.

Someone turned off the strobe lights during the bump and grind music, which gave Quinn a clearer view of the dance floor and blond guy’s touchy-feeling dance style. Evidently, holding a conversation while dancing was out. Asshole was practically chewing on Cassie’s neck.

Possessiveness rolled and burned in Quinn’s gut. No one had the right to touch his angel like that, dammit. Not that she was exclusively his. She was the angel in her family and at the fire station, too, if his co-workers’ anger at him after he’d blown her off was any indication.

God, his feelings for her jumbled his emotions and created havoc with his mind more and more every damn day. Breaking things off with her before they started had been wise. It was his method that sucked raw eggs. That’s why he was here, to explain…what? Why? Hell, he could never explain why.

He expelled a curse and jammed his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. Spinning on the barstool toward the bartender, Quinn slapped a bill on the bar. “Shot of Jim Beam and a beer chaser.”

Goddammit, some motherfucker had his hands on Cassie’s ass! Wildness burned so hot in him it nearly seared all rational thought—except for murder. Hell, murder was rational, wasn’t it?

Shot glass in hand, his gaze ricocheted back to Cassie. She reached behind her to ply the man’s hands off her bottom and place them higher on her back.
Good girl.
Words were exchanged. Blond guy acquiesced. Evidently he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Quinn tossed back the shot, hissed a breath through his teeth and ignored his stomach’s protest.

If he didn’t soon make his move, blond guy would have her out the door and on the way to who knows where. He downed a few swallows of beer and stood. As Grandpa Hudson was prone to say, “Eating crow never comes easy.”

By the time Quinn shouldered his way through the crowd on the dance floor, blond guy had his hands on Cassie’s ass again. Quinn slowly circled the couple. Her dance partner was too busy getting his rocks off by rubbing up against her to take notice. Cassie, on the other hand, caught sight of him and her eyes widened. Her mouth silently formed his name. She knew his work schedule at the fire and rescue station. Seeing him here must have really shocked her.

So, what was it to be? Option A? Act like a gentleman and tap blond guy on his shoulder, asking to cut in? Or option B? Belt the bastard in the jaw?

Possessiveness could be a volatile bastard, uncontrollable as hell and prone to rear its head at the worst times. The thought of tossing Cassie over his shoulder and carrying her to his Wrangler appealed, which totally went against what he’d told her back at the station.

The band announced they were taking a break and the ensuing silence birthed another option. One Quinn liked even better. Option C for crazy. “There you are, Dominatrix Cassie.” He took her hand, bowed over it and kissed her knuckles with feigned reverence.

She jerked her hand to her chest and narrowed her cat eyes. “What are you doing here? Why are you speaking to me now?”

“Is this the submissive you’ve chosen for our
ménage à trois
tonight?”

Blond guy’s eyes lit up. “A ménage? Hell, yeah!” His head bobbed, teeth gleaming in the semi-darkness.

Oh, this was going to be fun. Quinn extended his hand to the man. “Hi, name’s Georgio, but most guys just call me Donkey, ʼcause of the size of my dong.” He grabbed his crotch. “Not to worry, though. I’ll lube you up good first. Your name is?”

The kid’s smile dimmed and he shuffled his feet. “Ah…Dustin.” His gaze flicked from Quinn to Cassie. “Look, I’m not sure what all’s going on here. Maybe you better fill me in.”

“Georgio?” Cassie’s eyebrows rose, folding her forehead, and her hands went to her hips. “
Georgio
? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about those release papers. Did you have Dustin sign them? We don’t want another lawsuit.” Quinn looked at the blond guy who shook his head and shrugged. “I’ll handle this, Dustin.” Once again, Quinn captured both of her hands in his and bowed over them. “Dominatrix, at the risk of angering you, need I remind you what you did to Pepe, the last guy you chose for our threesome?”

Her jaw was agape. “The
last
guy?”

Quinn shook his head once and tsked a couple times. He clasped a hand on Dustin’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. God this kid smelled like the make-up counter at Macy’s. “You see, Dominatrix Cassie is enamored of hot wax play. After Pepe got naked and stretched out on his stomach, she shoved the unlit end of a candle in big Pepe’s ass and lit the wick. While waiting for the wax to melt, she cranked the torture rack—”

Dustin’s eyeballs bulged. “Torture rack?”

He nodded. “After she clamps restraints on the man’s ankles and wrists, she cranks his legs and arms out until he screams. If they aren’t loud enough, she cranks a little more. Truthfully, she likes it when their shackled hands and feet meet.”

“Fuck.” Dustin wrapped his arms around his chest, pushed his knees together and scowled at Cassie.

“Liar! I would never hurt anyone like that.” She kicked Quinn’s shin. “Don’t piss me off, bucko. I’m running out of places to hide the bodies.”

He fought the urge to laugh. She could be damn comical when she was pissed. “Thank you, Mistress Cassie. I do love it when you discipline me.” He winked. “You know how it turns me on.” He faced Dustin again. “Back to my story about Pepe. She’d crawled beneath the torture rack so she could force the man’s cock and balls into a cage.”

“Cage?” Dustin squeaked, his head whipped toward her and he stepped back.

Quinn nodded. “A little one, wired for electrical shocks.” His open hands mimicked the size of a coffee mug. “Poor Pepe was screaming, first in English and then in Spanish. Or was it Portuguese? Mistress Cassie thought they were shrieks of ecstasy.” He shrugged and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “How was she to know Pepe had farted and shot the candle from his ass onto his back, setting his hair on fire.” He shook his head again. “Pepe was a hairy bastard. The poor sumbitch went up like a roman candle.”