Flirting with Fire (Hot in Chicago #1) (5 page)

“So how are the entrées?” Gage asked, unashamedly eying the smorgasbord of meat. “I’ve been dying to try this place but we were limited to the bar menu.”

“We haven’t gotten very far. The mayor knows the
chef.” Kinsey gave an “of course he does” shrug and gestured to the protein platter. “Sausage?”

“I can never say no to sausage,” Gage said with a conspiratorial wink. Alex smiled at her brother’s joke, but Eli’s expression was stony—and lasered in on the striking woman.

“So, Miss Dempsey, or should I say Helen of Troy?” he threw out.

Alex’s smile faltered. “Excuse me?”

“Helen of Troy had a face that launched a thousand ships, and she’s best remembered for instigating decades of warfare. After what happened last week, perhaps we should refer to you as the face that launched a thousand fists. You
are
the reason we had an unofficial Battle of the Badges in your brother’s bar, are you not?”

Kinsey balled her hands under the table, itching to smack her boss, but it wouldn’t do to undermine him in public. She’d bring out the slap in her bitch later.

“I can handle myself,” Alex said, holding Eli’s gaze boldly with a pair of incredible green eyes, “but my brothers were brought up not to show disrespect to women. Or tolerate it in others.”

“All the same, I’d have thought a woman with your training would be more used to the roughhouse atmosphere of an all-male environment, and wouldn’t need your brother to intercede for you.” Eli considered Alex with interest. “Sometimes I wonder how appropriate it is.”

Alex bristled, as did Kinsey. Even Gage, who had radiated nothing but affability since the moment she met him, looked put out.

Hearts and minds, Mr. Mayor. Hearts and minds.

“How appropriate what is?” Alex asked, and though Kinsey had just met her for the first time this evening, she could tell her voice was pitched a few angry octaves higher than usual. Kinsey suspected it might go higher before her boss was through.

“Female firefighters.”

Yep, here we go.

“I know we lowered the physical requirements a few years ago to get more women into the profession,” Eli continued, “but I’m not sure it’s good for the service. Especially when it causes these types of disruptions and leads to headline-grabbing brawls.”

“Mr. Mayor,” Kinsey warned.

“Kinsey, I told you to call me Eli.” He swiveled his strong jaw back to Alex, who looked like a sewer had opened up beneath her feet and the scent had just struck her nostrils. “The same argument was made for women in combat, and now that it’s a reality, I suspect we’re going to see some backlash about it. Women are a distraction when lives are at stake.”

“Do you feel the same way about gays in the military or in the CFD, Mr. Mayor?” Gage cut in, strain underlining every word. “Are you worried a homosexual might get so distracted by the hot ass of one of his fellow firefighters that he’ll forget to pull your little old grandma from that burning building?”

Eli met Gage’s gaze head-on. “I’ve no problem with gays in the military or my fire department. To be honest, it’s also a strength issue, and if my ass is on the line, I want the person who can handle the physicality of the job at my side. A woman in that environment complicates the dynamic.”

Kinsey could see Alex running down a ten-second
count in her head. After a long beat, she framed a response through gritted teeth.

“Well, it’s a good thing the decision isn’t up to you, Mr. Mayor, though I’ll happily run against you next year if you decide to make ‘Patriarchal Woman-Hating Asshole’ part of your platform.”

Deathly silence fell over the group, the tension so thick the steak knives on the table would have a hard time slicing through it. Though by the glitter in Alex’s eyes, the blades might find other ready uses. A stiff moment later, Eli broke the heavy quiet with a smile that would usually have the female voters faint with lust.

“Well said, Miss Dempsey.” He turned his attention back to Gage. “Would you like to meet the chef? As Kinsey mentioned, he’s a friend of mine.”

Gage stared at Eli, perhaps trying to puzzle him out. Did he want to meet the chef badly enough to accept a favor from the man who had just dissed his sister’s career and ambitions? Sending a sidelong glance Alex’s way, he appeared to wait until she smiled her permission. The sharp pang in Kinsey’s chest reminded her all too well of how much she missed her own brothers.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Gage said easily.

Unfolding his long body from his seat, Eli stood, displaying his unabashed masculinity in all its glory. The man was a media wet dream. If only he wouldn’t use so much hair gel—or spout off every politically incorrect thought in his brain.

“What about you, Alexandra?” he asked. “Are you a chef groupie?”

A flame of heat lit high on her cheekbones, though whether it was because of Eli’s familiar use of her first
name or his apparent peace overture was impossible to tell.

“I’m no one’s groupie, Mr. Mayor,” she said in a low voice. Tension of a different sort now filled the space between them.

Flustered, Alex broke their eye contact first, and Eli and Gage strode off toward the kitchen.

“Would you like to take a seat?” Kinsey asked Alex. “It might help you get inside the mind of the dinosaur who just occupied it.”

With a husky laugh, she sat and picked up Eli’s steak knife, turning it over thoughtfully. Oh yeah, she had gone there during that exchange.

“He didn’t say anything I haven’t heard a million times already. In my profession, there are plenty of naysayers who hate the idea of a woman daring to think she can do what’s traditionally been a man’s job.”

“Even your brothers?”

Alex quirked a rueful smile. “They know how much it means to me to be treated the same as anyone else, but they can’t help feeling protective. It’s more their fraternal instinct than anything else”—she let loose the sigh of a billion women before her—“or at least that’s how I choose to see it.”

“I know what you mean. I have three brothers myself.”

Alex raised her chin, and a look that only a tortured sister could understand warmed those amazing green eyes. “So, what has having three brothers taught you about dealing with bullheaded men?”

“Enough to know I can handle both my boss and your brother with one hand tied behind my back.”

That pulled a surprised bark of laughter from Alex
that faded as quickly as it erupted. “Luke’s a good guy. I know you have a job to do, but maybe you and the mayor should cut him some slack.”

“Maybe you should tell me what’s going on between your brother and Detective McGinnis.”

Alex’s previously open expression shuttered to blank, and Kinsey realized there would be no prying any Dempsey family secrets out of her tonight. Knowing what fueled the bad blood between the two men shouldn’t be a priority anyway. Her only goal was to rehabilitate the reputation of Engine 6, and by proxy the entire CFD, which had taken a hit with Luke’s bad behavior. The underlying reasons for his lack of self-control were unimportant.

Then why was it all she could think about?

I
f, by some magical stretch of the imagination, Gage hadn’t followed his brothers and father into the family business, he would have become a professional chef. He loved to cook and he was excellent at it, so stepping into the kitchen at Smith & Jones was like walking into a fantasy world. Avidly, he drank in the bustle of the crew as they moved in perfect symmetry, their obvious expertise washing over him pleasurably. Add to that the smells, and he was tempted to sneak a peek in the gleaming chrome reflection of the countertops to see whether he was drooling.

Then his mouth went as dry as the unsuccessful angel food cake he had ventured last week, the one that tasted like reconstituted cardboard, because at the head of the line stood the hottest, scariest motherfucker Gage had ever seen. This guy was built like a
tank—broad shouldered, broad backed. Just broad. His forearms were as thick as ancient oak branches, their dark skin a comic book tapestry weaving a million stories in vibrantly colored ink. Above the collar of his immaculate chef’s jacket, a black ribbon curled around his neck like a wisp of smoke.

Hot diggity.

Gage wanted to lick that neck tattoo, then lave his tongue all the way over this guy’s close-shaved skull. Claim every inch of his rough-cast head for his own. Later he would take the time to explore the rest of his body, but for now, he would work with the pleasures of the neck up.

He hadn’t even seen the man’s face and he was as hard as granite.

“Brady,” Gage heard beside him, and he jumped at the mayor’s voice, having forgotten he was there.

Brady.
Please, baby Jesus, let it be him
.

The hulk turned around, and damn if he didn’t look like a mob enforcer, the kind who probably presided over an underground fight club after the restaurant shut up shop. On the right side of his face, he rocked a zigzag of scars. Dark eyes, hard and suspicious, stared above a strong Roman nose and a cruel-set mouth. This guy was so not his type. Gage liked men with smooth edges and well-formed features, and who weren’t likely to snap him in half.

He had never wanted anyone so much.

There was no smile of acknowledgment at Eli as Brady walked over, just a careful blankness.

“Brady, this is Gage Simpson. He’s a big fan. Mr. Simpson, meet Brady Smith, chef/owner of Smith & Jones.”

Gage thrust out his hand much too eagerly. He wanted to touch this man. He had to.

Brady considered Gage’s hand as if unsure what should be done in this tricky situation. Perhaps he was wondering if he should shake it, slap it, or lick it. Suck Gage’s fingers into that hot pocket of a mouth and make him beg for release.

All of it,
Gage thought desperately. He could do all of it.

Several seconds passed to the soundtrack of kitchen clanking, cooking sizzle, and Gage’s pounding heart. Brady finally clasped Gage’s outstretched hand, and his cock stirred in response. Christ on a crutch, what was this guy doing to him?

His body had never gotten the jump on his brain this quickly before. Gage had no problems with who he was and what he liked, and he had no problems acting on his healthy libido. There was always some hot guy—a couple of hot guys—ready to give him what he wanted, wherever and whenever he needed it. But this . . . it was like every hormone had decided today was the blessed day to revert to horny-as-all-get-out adolescence.

And with that came the brain freeze, the best jump-start for which was of course his trusty pal, verbal diarrhea. He’d always been a silence filler.

“I’m here with my sister and when we couldn’t get a table, we had an appetizer at the bar. The fried calamari with the bacon-herb aioli? It was genius. Fucking genius.” Too late, Gage realized he was still crushing Brady’s hand and that this one action was the only thing holding him up. All the blood in his brain had rushed to his crotch. There was an excellent
chance that if he let go, Gage would fall down face-first, his dick so hard he’d end up spinning like a top.

Brady Smith remained as silent as the grave Gage wished he could crawl into. But he couldn’t. Stop. Talking.

“One day, I’ll come back and have the full tasting menu. Your food is a touch expensive for someone on a firefighter’s salary and I’d need to save up for a few months, by which time I might be able to get a reservation.” Gage laughed at his own razor-sharp wit, the sound hollow and maniacal as it bounced off the polished chrome counters. Shit, where was he going with this? “From what I’ve had tonight, I know it would be worth it.”

Brady stared, cocoa eyes dark as sin, not a single muscle moving on his forbidding face. Not even an eyelash. His expression hadn’t changed one iota since he’d walked over from the line, and now Gage was beginning to wonder if the guy had heard any of the word vomit spewing from his mouth.

Finally, Gage extracted his hand, which had started to sweat from the heat of the kitchen. Sure, let’s go with that.

“As you can see, Brady just lives to talk about his work,” Eli said in a thoroughly amused tone, earning a filthy look from the silent chef.

God, that scowl was hotter than a shirtless Joe Manganiello.

Aaaand
 . . . crickets.

“Do you like to cook?” the mayor asked Gage, in his new role of interpreter-facilitator. Someone had to pick up the conversational slack, which was about the only thing in the immediate vicinity that was any
where close to loose. Everything else—Gage’s body, Brady’s mouth, the air between them—was tight and fraught.

Slowly, Gage nodded. “Love to.” It came out of his throat raspy, an undeniable invitation to the brooding cliff face of muscle before him. The things he would love to do to this man. The things he would love to have done to him by this man.

“Well, we’ll let you get back to it,” Eli said, seemingly satisfied that this introduction had gone swimmingly, “though I need to talk to you about the food for the fund-raiser. How’s Monday sound?”

Brady Smith only raised an eyebrow in response, because why waste precious energy on anything so ridiculous as an acknowledgment that the mayor—
the frickin’ mayor
—had spoken to him? Eli, clearly used to this manner of communication from Mr. Talkative, appeared unperturbed as he nodded and turned to leave the kitchen. Had Gage missed the Morse code blinks for yes and no?

With one last—possibly blistering, possibly just bored—look, Brady Smith twisted his broad shoulders and gave them his back, but not before Gage heard a gravelly “Call me” from deep in the bear’s throat.

Holy shit, was that for him or Mr. Mayor?

If Gage was expecting clarification, clearly he’d be a long time on the hook. Eli was already heading to the dining room, Brady was back to grunting orders at the end of the line, and Gage was left wondering what in the hell just happened here.

 CHAPTER FIVE

“O
oh, Almeida, are you ready for your close-up?”

Luke froze in the act of pulling on his bunker pants, counted off the five seconds in his head that kept Firefighter Jacob Scott safe from a pounding, and then continued getting ready.

For his fucking close-up.

“Jacob, you just wish someone thought you had a bod worth snapping,” Gage cut in. “But as your flabby muscles won’t even get you a date, never mind a photo shoot, you should probably keep your fat mouth zipped.”

Jacob, who did like to overindulge in Gage’s pasta puttanesca and could probably stand to put forth a touch more effort in the station’s gym, slammed his locker door shut with a scowl.

“This whole calendar thing is so gay,” he muttered as he slithered out of the locker room.

“Good one, Firefighter Scott,” Gage called after him archly. “Jon Stewart–worthy.”

Sucking in a ragged breath, Luke debated which T-shirt he should wear, not that it would make a blind bit of difference because he would be shirtless for the shoot.

Shirtless.

“You have to admit this
is
pretty gay,” he mumbled to Gage while he pulled a standard-issue navy CFD tee over his head.

“I know. It’s gonna be awesome. Reminds me of nights at the Manhole, dancing on the bar, throwing my sweaty shirt at the guys I liked.”

Luke groaned. Forehead, meet locker door. “Tell me it’s not going to be like that.”

Gage clapped a strong hand on his shoulder and grinned triumphantly. “Bro, it’s going to be the gayest thing you have ever experienced.”

Luke hadn’t quite known what to expect, but certainly not the shitball hurtling his way like that scene in
Raiders of the Lost Ark
. Engine 6 and the rest of the units had been taken out of dispatch rotation for the morning, meaning they had four hours where no calls would come in. All so they could ensure an interruption-free shoot for the calendar.

His crew would usually see that as a golden opportunity to run errands or sleep in or just stay the hell away from work, but oh no. The A shift had arrived on time, everyone coming off C had stayed, and the boys on B had strolled in on their day off. All three platoons were in the house, ready to bear witness to how low Luke could go.

No big deal, right? Just his homies raggin’ on him for taking his shirt off and shooting
Zoolander
stares at the camera. He’d take crap for it for months, but if it got the mayor off his back and kept the Dempseys together, it would be worth it. Then the impossible happened.

It got worse.

About an hour ago, the vehicle bay started filling with people. An assistant working with the photographer he could understand, even a couple of pencil pushers from city hall to wrap the whole event up in a pretty red bow. But no way in hell had Luke expected the seventy or so people—mostly women—who were now hanging out in a makeshift tailgate party.

He could hear the Doritos crunching from in here.

“I wonder if they’ll let me choose the music for my shoot,” Gage said distractedly, scanning his iPod playlists.

“Can’t believe you volunteered for this.” Luke knew why
he
was doing it, but his head almost exploded this morning when Gage told him he’d called Kinsey and asked to take part.

Lost in his own world, Gage fingered through assorted briefs, his expression deathly serious. “Black, gray, or white? I think the white shows my hip flexors better, but the black is a classic.”

“I don’t give a shit what color shorts you wrap your junk in.”

“You sound nervous, Mr. Almeida,” he heard behind him.

The sizzle between his shoulder blades almost hurt. Almost felt good.

“He is,” Gage said. “I’d watch your shoes, Kinsey, because he’s probably going to puke any minute now.”

“I need a word with you,” Luke spat out as he turned and got a load of the PR princess. She was wearing her standard dick-raising uniform of hip-hugging skirt and gauzy blouse, a little sheer but not sheer enough. Sleeveless, it showcased her tanned,
toned arms and nicely curved shoulders. This woman kept herself in shape. He liked that.

But right now, he didn’t like her.

Tucking his hand under her elbow, he steered her to the other end of the locker room. The clack of her heels reverberated like jeers in his skull.

“I’m not doing this,” Luke said in his best not-fuckin’-around tone.

A citrusy scent wafted off her skin, reminding him that he was still cupping her elbow. Elbows should feel coarse and bony, but not hers. She was so damn silky he never wanted to let go.

He dropped that elbow like it was a burning doorknob.

“You
are
nervous,” Kinsey said with something approximating glee in her voice.

“I. Am. Not. Nervous.” He just didn’t want to be the laughingstock of the whole department. There was a difference. “When did this turn into a billion-ring circus? There’s an awful lot of flesh tourists out there.”

She delivered a look of boundless patience. “Now, don’t be petty. The gray life of the city worker needs a splash of color every now and then.”

Petty? This was his reputation, his job, his life they were talking about. “You’ve got Gage, who actually wants to be your puppet. I mean, look at him. He’s the most colorful person I know.”

In unison, they turned to Gage, who was bobbing his head to a song on his iPod while rubbing something oily all over his chest. Christ Jesus. He caught their stares and held up his underwear choices. “Kinsey. White, gray, or black?”

“Black, babe. It’s classic.”

With a smile and a nod, Gage returned to his task of making his chest greasier than a slab of bacon.

“See?” Luke hissed.

Kinsey’s lips flattened, and she made a strangled “I’m not laughing at you” sound.

“What can I do to get you out of your shirt today, Luke?” Her voice held a husky, wheeler-dealer tone, the kind of voice for which he was likely to do anything. He imagined that voice whispering in his ear, issuing wicked orders, making him hard as steel.

Come to think of it, he didn’t have to imagine. The tug of desire in his groin turned painful as his dick climbed to half-mast.

She smiled sweetly. “The big stars usually make demands like a bowl of M&M’s with all the green ones removed, or fresh heirloom roses for their dressing room. I’m not sure the city’s budget can stretch to that, but we’ll do what we can. What do you need, Luke?”

Now she was making him sound like some preposterous prima donna. Feeling more foolish by the second, he racked his mind for leverage. A checklist of the things he wanted scrolled through his brain, half of them shockingly lurid and all of them involving Kinsey’s long, luscious legs wrapped around his hips. Asking for mind-blowing sex in exchange for his cooperation was probably not kosher, though.

What else?
What else?

“The proceeds of this calendar go to charity, right?”

She nodded.

“I get to pick the charity.” The kids at St. Carmen’s
could do with a new rec room and, while he was under no illusions that this skin-fest would actually raise much in the way of Benjamins, every little bit would help.

“As long as you don’t choose something controversial that could embarrass the city.”

“Such as the Committee to Elect Anyone but Eli Cooper?”

A smile lifted the corner of that lush, pink mouth. “I’m fairly certain that wouldn’t count as a charity, despite the great service you might think you’re performing.”

That pulled a laugh from deep in his gut. Cute
.
Kinsey Taylor had a sense of humor about her boss. “I’d like any proceeds to go to the foster home where I volunteer.”

“Oh. That sounds very . . . worthy.” It was the first time Luke had seen her flummoxed, but a few seconds later, she squared her shoulders and was all business again. “You ready to do this, Luke?”

He sighed heavily. “Make me a star, sweetheart.”

The boom-boom bass out in the truck bay wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out the whoops and hollers of the ladies—and a few guys—who had gathered for their splash of color. Thankfully, Luke wasn’t the only one who would be making a total assclown of himself. Like Gage, several firefighters from other houses had stepped up to be part of the “Man Titty Extravaganza,” as Alex had dubbed it. Gage’s enthusiasm, Luke could understand. The kid was a grade-A exhibitionist, and if it improved his chances of getting dick, he’d do it. But why anyone else
would willingly strip in front of seventy ravenous women and a
bunch of men feigning disinterest was beyond Luke’s understanding.

When he looked over to his crew gathered on the far side of the bay, he caught a glimpse of bills being shoved into McElroy’s hands, quickly followed by the lieutenant scratching a note on a piece of paper.

Shit on a stick. Big Mac was running a book.

Luke took a leisurely stroll over to the guys. “What’s up, ladies?”

Insolent stares greeted him, except for Wyatt, who looked like, well, Wyatt. From the expressions of the rest of them, though, respect for Luke was slowly circling the drain of the hose-drying tower. Even Derek Phelan, the new recruit who usually looked up to Luke in wide-eyed admiration, was now staring at him with a healthy dose of derision.

Captain Matt Ventimiglia, better known as Venti because of his name and the fact that there were twenty ways to piss him off (the list was posted in the kitchen), strode over to join them. Luke breathed a sigh of relief. Surely the presence of the senior officer at Engine 6 would add a much-needed influx of order to these shenanigans.

The Cap passed over a Jackson to Big Mac. “Twenty on Almeida to not make five.”

So much for the gravity injection.

“Gambling is illegal on city property,” Luke ground out, marveling at the irony of the hothead who was currently on admin leave for punching out a guy becoming the firehouse’s hall monitor.

Jacob crossed his arms. “Just a little fun, Almeida. We’re taking bets on how quickly you raise wood under all those lights.”

The crew practically fell off their folding chairs. Even Wyatt smiled. Traitor.

“You know something, Jacob? That sounds pretty gay.” Luke stalked off to the tune of Jacob’s sputtering denials and the guys’ noisy guffaws.

Not that Luke needed his crew’s mockery to clue him in. The sucking sound in his head told him exactly how this morning would go down.

In a crashing ball of flame.

T
wo hours later, eight guys including Gage had taken turns strutting their stuff. Popular poses included jaunty-angled helmets, hanging off the side of the pumper in a way that might prompt an OSHA audit, and competing to see how low their briefs could go without getting a triple-X rating.

“Almeida, you’re next,” the photographer’s assistant called out, a cute pixie type covered head to toe in black.

Luke felt the stares of the entire crew and city hall workers as he walked toward his harshly lit nightmare in the staging area. The photographer, a pretty, olive-skinned woman with
Jersey Shore
hair, shook his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Luke. I’m Lili. Is this your first time being professionally photographed?”

“Other than for my dress blues on CFD graduation.”

“YouTube doesn’t count, huh?” She winked. Everyone was a comedian today. “Okay. Take off your shirt and I’ll try to make it as painless as possible.”

Deep breaths.

He peeled off his tee from the back, and by the time he found light again, his ears were ringing with cheers. Someone took the shirt from his clammy hands.

“Good,” Lili said. “Now pull the suspenders of your bunker pants up and open the snaps to halfway down your crotch.”

“Get ’em off, sugar. Nice ’n’ slow,” a woman’s lewd voice called out, earning a chorus of lusty catcalls in response. And women were supposed to be the gentler sex.

He closed his eyes.
You can do this, Almeida.

When he wrenched his eyelids open, his gaze targeted and locked on Kinsey Taylor like a heat-seeking missile. She stood off to the side, leaning against the front of Bessie, their fire truck, giving it a brand-new shine by her association with it. Annoyance roared through his veins like rocket fuel. It was her fault he was standing here, half naked, at the mercy of this crowd of vultures.

She’d wanted this. Now he was going to give Miss Taylor exactly what she had asked for.

W
atching Luke as he traced one incendiary finger below the border of his bunker pants, Kinsey was struck for the first time by the true meaning of Not Safe for Work. And not just because of the location of his fingers. It was all in the eyes.

He was staring at her so voraciously her skin burned under his focus.

Pop.

His six-pack—
groan,
eight-pack—revealed itself inch by inch.

Pop.

A tight band of elastic bisected the lower half of his cut abdomen. Smooth beauty above. Untold pleasures below.

Pop.

She inclined her shoulders forward just a smidge because hell if she was missing—ah, yes. An intriguing bulge pushed against the snowy white fabric of his boxer briefs. Not classic black, but she couldn’t imagine him in anything else.