The Firefighter. Susan Lyons
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have to phone the hospital. What time is it?”
His gaze sharpens and he nods. “Yeah, course you do. But don’t worry, they’d have called if there was a problem.” He sits up, scans the messy table. “Where’s my mobile?”
“Mobile?”
“Mobile phone. Oh yeah, right. Jeans pocket.”
Then he’s out of bed, walking in a long-strided saunter to the bathroom.
Good God, he looks fantastic. I pinch my arm. Wince. Yes, it’s really me. I actually had sex—double orgasmic sex—with this beautiful man. And he woke up seeming happy I was there.
He leans out the bathroom door. “It’s one o’clock. Heads up.”
“What?”
“Catch?” He holds up his cell—mobile—phone. Then he tosses it straight to me. “Gotta take a piss.” He retreats into the bathroom.
Okay, he may be beautiful, but he’s definitely a guy.
I open the phone and realize I have no clue of the number or even the name of the hospital. From the bathroom I hear the toilet flush, water running, then he saunters out in all his glorious nakedness. This time I try hard not to notice. “Phone number?”
“Sorry, wasn’t thinking.” He takes the phone from me, calls directory assistance, then dials a number and hands the phone back.
As I take it, he stretches lazily, then sinks down and starts doing push-ups. Still naked.
When a woman answers I explain who I am and ask how Nana’s doing.
“I’ll check for you, dear,” she says with cozy informality. Waiting, I enjoy the scenery.
Then she comes back. “She had a nice lunch, we have her medicated for the pain in her leg and she’s having an afternoon nap. Everything’s looking beaut.”
I’m relieved but feel guilty. Poor Nana woke alone, hurting, in a foreign hospital. While I was sleeping off fantastic sex. First I almost get her killed, then I abandon her. Did I leave all sense of responsibility back home in Vancouver? “When she wakes, would you tell her I called? I’ll be in as soon as I take care of a few things.”
I hang up. God, there’s so much to do. I have to make a list. I have a terrible memory, and I’m paranoid about forgetting things, so I’m addicted to lists.
Besides, every time I look at Mick I lose my train of thought.
He stops with the push-ups and rises easily to his feet. “’Ow’s she goin?”
“Good. But I can’t believe I left her to wake up alone.”
“The nurses will’ve been good to her.” He sits on the bed and touches my arm. “’Sides, you needed rest.”
True, and I’d love nothing better than to go straight back to sleep. Except, maybe, to see if sex with Mick is as great out of the shower as in. But neither’s in the cards right now.
“I need to see Nana, but first I need clothes,” I tell him, a bit panicky. “And I have to deal with my credit cards, get some money, figure out where I’m going to stay tonight.”
“Can stay here,” he says.
Not being a girl who takes things for granted in relationships, I’m pleased he’s not tired of me yet. “That’s, uh, generous of you.”
“Selfish.” He strokes my arm so lightly his fingers just skim the surface, and all the fine hairs stand up to greet his caress. Amazing how erotic this can be, a simple touch on the arm.
For him, too. His cock’s rising and I want to touch, fondle, lick, explore every inch of it.
“Oh, Mick, I can’t relax until I see Nana and get my life under control.”
One corner of his mouth turns up. “Got a bit of a thing about control, do you?”
“I guess.” I’m not a control freak, but I do like being organized, having my list, feeling like I control my life rather than vice versa.
Since I first smelled smoke, life’s thrust me onto a rollercoaster and I need to slow down, assert myself. Not give in to the temptation of this naked man with the sexy blue eyes, the seductive smile, the swelling penis.
The stroking fingers. I groan and wrench my arm away. “Stop doing that.”
He laughs. “Okay, okay. No worries.” He walks over to a dresser. “We’ll get you organized, then to the hospital. But after that, I’m having my way with you.”
Good-natured. Especially for an alpha male. The lawyers I know would’ve turned this into a power struggle. Tried to manipulate me into bed, where they’d have had an orgasm and I’d have lain stressed out, making my list in my head. How did I have the great good luck to be rescued by a firie who’s gorgeous, a great lover and considerate?
He turns, his expression serious. “Something I need to say.”
Our gazes meet. “Okay,” I respond warily.
“Should’ve said earlier,” his voice is apologetic, “that I’m not into anything serious. But I like you, Tash. It’d be fun to spend some time together.”
I have to smile. “How can you like me? You barely know me.”
“Know you’re brave enough to risk your life to save your nana. Know you’re sexy and passionate.”
Three adjectives again, but different ones this time. Brave, sexy, passionate. No, the man doesn’t know me at all. But I like the way he views me. “I like you too,” I say. “I like how you make me feel. And no, Mick, I’m not into serious. I’m only here for two weeks, to help Nana.”
He studies my face carefully and I know he’ll see I mean it. Suddenly I remember my grandmother’s and my conversation on the plane, and laugh. “Nana’s going to be thrilled. Seems she’s a great believer in holiday flings.” And I’d thought the notion impractical and foolish, but the fire and Mick have made me a convert. My analytical brain can even rationalize that it’ll be good for me to have great sex, as well as the ego boost of having Mick find me attractive.
He chuckles. “Your nana sounds like a bonza lady.” He tosses me a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. “See how these go.”
“Thanks.” Men’s clothes. Better than PJs, but I’m still going to look like a clown.
For the first time since I woke up, I think about my appearance. Gingerly I touch my hair, then wrinkle up my nose. Bedhead. “You don’t have any hair gel, I suppose?”
“No way.”
Nah. Macho guys don’t use that stuff.
In the bathroom I study my reflection. Hmm. Not as bad as I’d expected. My hair’s kind of spiky, but it’s got body, for once. My eyelashes cry out for mascara, and I add to my mental list. Thank God Mick does have some heavy-duty, guy-type hand lotion, and it’s just what my parched body needs.
When I put on his clothes, the only good thing is the T-shirt’s so big it hangs down to cover the baggy shorts.
When I come out of the bathroom he’s wearing a similar outfit, but his T-shirt hugs lean muscles and the shorts reveal gorgeous legs. Not fair. He studies me, lips curving.
“Yeah, I know,” I say, trying to be a good sport. I’ve always done well at that; it’s part of the reason I’m good best-bud material. “Pretty funny, eh?”
“You wearin’ anything under that shirt?”
I pull it up to show him the shorts. “Of course.”
“Nothing like a sheila in a bloke’s shirt,” he says. “Makes a man think of sex.”
Well…okay then!
Before