Kiss of Fire (St. James Family) (3 page)

His chest was broad, straining the stained and ripped blue T-shirt he wore. He had some sort of tattoo peeking from edge of his shirt sleeve. She had the urge to run her bandaged hand up that tanned arm, and see what other secrets he had hidden beneath his clothes... What was wrong with her? She knew she was traumatized, but damn. She dragged her gaze up to his face again, wanting something, but not sure what. His eyes were vivid green and trimmed with dark lashes, she noticed, and they had a bit of a nervous energy about them. She felt an inexplicable pull to him. The coolness in her throat faded, leaving a deep burning within her. He ran his tongue over his chapped lips. She had to know.

"Who..." Toni tried to speak and coughed. But she was determined. In a whisper, she continued. "Who are you?”

"Don't worry yourself." He held out the cup to her again and she wrapped her lips around the straw, taking a sip.

"What's your name?" she whispered, her fingers brushing his as she closed her hand around the cup. “I want to thank you.” He blinked as her hand swept across his.

“
Seeing you up and talking is all the thanks I need.”

"I'm Antoinette," she rasped, after swallowing the last bit of water in the plastic cup. “Toni.” A wayward tear snaked its way down her cheek. Stepping closer, he wiped it away.

"What the hell are you crying for?" he said. "You're alive tonight, aren't you?"

"Because of you," she whispered. She slid a hand against his, pinning it to her cheek. She needed reassurance and comfort. She didn't care if she was being too forward. At that moment, she just wanted to touch him. And his warm skin felt good against hers. Another tear eased its way down her cheek. Smoke, she realized. He smelled like crisp smoke. Like a bonfire on a cool autumn night.

"Shit,” he said, low, under his breath. After a moment's hesitation, he ran his free hand through her hair, which she knew must look a hot mess. “Stop crying, lovely. Everything's going to be okay."

"But what if I never dance again?" she whispered, leaning into his touch. Her body's aches seemed to dull as she focused on the sensation of his fingers working through her hair.

"You're a dancer?" he said, his hand stilling against her scalp. She nodded, swallowing hard.

“
Ballet,” she said.

"You'll keep on living, whether you can dance or not." He pushed a lock of hair off of her forehead tenderly, the action dulling his harsh words. She snorted out a laugh. It was either laugh or cry. He was right, she would go on living. Thanks to him. But the life she had might be over. With effort, she pushed the thought from her mind.

“
Thank you for saving me,” she repeated.

“
I was just doing my job,” he said. She was suddenly keenly aware of his warmth seeping under her skin. Her heartbeat sped up. She wondered if he could feel the pounding of her pulse. This was the worse day of her life, thus far. But the presence of this man, this heroic stranger, was stirring foreign feelings inside of her. Maybe the events of the day had heightened her senses, or jumbled her brain. Whatever the reason, she didn’t want to let him go. She wanted him to crawl into the bed beside her and hold her. She wanted to feel his breath on her neck, and feel his heartbeat.

She slid her hand up his forearm, involuntarily. Her hand had a mind of its own.  Her fingers lightly danced over his bandages. She found the edge of his T-shirt sleeve and poked her fingertips beneath it. She traced the line of the visible part of his tattoo. “What’s this?” She murmured. He rolled up his sleeve. The tattoo, done in black ink, depicted the twin towers on 9/11, with a placard beneath, etched “Never Forget”.

“You’re a firefighter?” she whispered. Her eyes drank in his bicep, which rippled with muscle. She wondered what his chest looked like beneath that shirt. Then, vaguely, she wondered what was wrong with her. She didn’t know this man. But her hand still itched to touch him. Her fingers were exploring the fine dark hairs on his forearm. He cleared his throat.

“
163
rd
ladder,” he said hoarsely. Then he pulled away. Toni blinked. Her hand dropped to the bed. “I gotta get going.” He rolled his sleeve back down.

“
You're leaving?” she blurted out before she could stop herself. But he was already moving toward the door, leaving her there by herself. All alone with her thoughts. The cold dread was creeping back into her stomach. Desperation exploded inside of her. “Wait!”

Present Day

“That’ll be fourteen dollars, ma’am.”

The cheerful voice snapped her out of her memory. The clerk was looking at her, expectantly. Toni took in a sharp breath and told herself to get it together. Weird. She hadn't thought about the fireman in awhile, she realized. But today, she'd thought of him twice. Was it a sign? She wondered where he was. Was he safe? Toni slid the money across the counter with a shaking hand. Chewing her lip, she couldn’t help herself from reaching across and snapping up the newspaper.

“This, too.”

Back out in the sunshine, her lateness forgotten, Toni flipped through the newspaper, skimming through the cover story, looking for the names of the injured firefighters. Jimmy O’Halloran. Tommy Robertson. And then a name that she knew. Sgt. Sebastian O’Donovan, of the 163
rd
Ladder. Her heart dropped. She stopped in her tracks in the middle of the busy sidewalk. She quickly scanned the rest of the article for any other information. The firefighters had been taken to Elmhurst Hospital in Queens. Two of the men were in critical condition; three were in stable condition. After re-reading the article twice, she closed the paper and folded it under her arm.

Toni started walking again towards Lincoln Center, more by memory than by paying attention. She felt like her mind had fogged over. His name kept repeating over and over in her brain. He hadn't even told her his name, she remembered. Christophe had found it out for her later, after the fact. That night in the hospital, he'd been in such a rush to leave her that he'd left without telling her even that much. Logically, she knew that he probably saved people all the time. She was probably just another victim to him. He'd probably forgotten all about her. He probably didn't think about her like she thought about him.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. She wished she could continue on with her day and not think about Sgt. Sebastian O'Donovan. She wished she could send a little prayer his way and then forget him. But she couldn't. A plan was forming. Her rehearsal was important, true. She couldn’t miss it. But it wouldn’t hurt to leave a little early… just this once.

Chapter 3

This is bullshit
, he thought.
Total bullshit
.

O'Donovan jammed the buttons on the remote control, flipping through the channels on the tiny TV secured to the wall across from his hospital bed. He had been burned before, had had smoke inhalation before. Yeah, his back was a little banged up. Big deal. He was tired of sitting in a bed, rotting. Some of the other guys had been really injured. He knew Tommy had gotten it worse, had a broken leg and a punctured lung. When the building collapsed, Tommy had been close to the door, and had been hit by the heaviest debris. Tommy would be laid up for a month or more. But O'Donovan was fine. He needed to be back out on the streets, doing his job.

He knew that Tommy and O'Halloran had come into the building after him. It didn't make him feel good to know he'd been the reason that two of his friends were injured. He wasn't usually so reckless. But he had just run in, not thinking. He'd been on auto-pilot. He was sure he was going to hear it from Captain O'Reilly when he returned. So maybe being stuck in the hospital was a blessing in disguise, he thought, with a shrug. He remembered his injury too late, and gritted his teeth as the pain punched him in the gut.

Shit. That was a bitch.

He dropped his head back on the stiff pillow. He knew why he'd been acting like such a dumb-ass lately. Ever since Gwen had left him eight months, two weeks, and three days ago, his head hadn't been right. He ran around like an idiot, working overtime, drinking too much, and not sleeping because he didn’t want time to sit around and think about why his marriage had failed. Not that he didn’t know the reason. They never should have gotten married in the first place.

She was an uptown girl from Westchester; he was from working class Queens. She was never satisfied with their life. She always wanted more. Their complete lack of common interests had become blindingly obvious by the sixth month of their marriage. The only thing that bound them together was the sex. Their sexual chemistry was dynamic, and when that waned, they were lost.  But he'd been in it for the long haul. Gwen was his wife and he had sworn to make it work. And he tried. They'd been together so long and he felt like he'd put in so much mileage that he wanted to keep going. Besides, he hated to fail.

So he went to the ballet, and the opera, and the expensive restaurants. Shit, he'd even had a fancy suit tailored for him. Cost him two whole paychecks. He bought her new furniture, new curtains, and whatever-the-fuck-else she wanted for their overpriced piece-of-shit Manhattan apartment. He spent too much damn time with her social-climbing friends. His own friendships had suffered. He'd rarely seen his father before he moved back to Ireland, for Christ's sake.

But when it came to reciprocating, Gwen was less than willing. She didn’t have time for ball games or pubs or fishing, and she hated going to Queens for the Firemen’s Picnic. She refused to move out of the tiny two-bedroom on the Upper West Side and into something more spacious in an outer borough. Neither of them had wanted to compromise. And in the end, it cost them both.

O'Donovan gripped the remote control and then gritted his teeth as a pain shot through his injured back yet again. This time, pain set off a domino effect, as the burns on his thigh and abdomen starting aching as well. Gritting his teeth, he waited for the wave of pain to subside. A light knock on the door caused him to jump. He turned his head on the pillow, ready to remind Flo, his no-nonsense nurse, that he was more than ready to be discharged. But Flo wasn’t standing there.

A beautiful black girl hovered in the doorway. She seemed unsure as to whether she should enter. There was something about her big light-brown eyes that were familiar. But what? He dragged his gaze over her face. She was definitely familiar. She was young, somewhere in her twenties. She had an elegant air about her, and he found himself drawn to her despite his better judgment.

She wore her hair up, in a bun on top of her head. Diamond studs that probably cost more than his truck sparkled in her earlobes. He couldn't stop his eyes from traveling the length of her body. She had long, shapely legs, encased in gray tights. Expensive looking leather flats adorned her feet. She wore a hoody, unzipped, revealing a low cut pink leotard underneath. Her small breasts rose and fell with each breath. He felt his cock jump below the thin hospital blanket. He moved to sit up, his pain all but forgotten. Who was this girl?

“You lost?” he asked, his heart beating faster in his chest. The girl was not for him, but damn, he was enjoying looking at her.

“
Sgt. Sebastian O'Donovan?” she asked, her voice slightly low and husky.

“
In the flesh,” he said, feeling like an old pervert basking in the glow of youthful perfection. It always was the rich girls that got his dick hard, he mused.
Dumb-ass.

“
Do you remember me?” She stepped further into the room, and he caught a whiff of her scent. Her perfume was sharp and tangy and fresh. It took him by surprise. He would've assumed she would smell like some kind of fragile flower.

“
No,” he said simply, finding it suddenly hard to think. “Should I?”

“
Can I sit?” She motioned to the chair in the corner. He shrugged, and winced again.

“
Fuck!” he hissed at the pain. She paused, glancing at him.

“
You okay?” she asked, her big eyes wide as saucers.

“
Just peachy, lovely,” he said, squeezing his eyes closed, waiting for the pain to pass. Then it hit him. The West Side highway MVA, two years ago. His eyes flew open and she was staring at him with a slight smile on her lips.

Shit.

She was older, but damn if it wasn't her. His eyes raked over her face again, remembering those soulful starry-eyes staring up him. He hadn't forgotten her. Hell, no. He still sometimes thought of her in the middle of the night. He would remember how he held her on the cold ground, her body against his. And he definitely remembered what happened in the hospital later...

She grabbed the arm of the chair and pulled it closer to the bed, the leg scraping against the linoleum floor. His eyes drifted to her well-shaped ass, despite all of his efforts to keep them diverted.
She's
still
too fucking young for you
, he reminded himself. Then she plopped down and cocked her head, mere feet from him, a mischievous look passing over her features.

“
You do remember me,” she said. “Whew! I'm relieved. It would have been really awkward if you didn't.”

“
What the hell do you want?” he said, deciding that being an asshole was his only defense against her.