“May I sit down?”
Francey stared at Alex Templeton. Though she’d been awakened from a nap and was still fuzzy-headed, she was conscious enough to notice he was a very attractive man. Big. Muscular. Classic nose. Cleft chin. His eyes were grass green, and they watched her with interest. Male interest. Francey recognized the look, although she was rarely tempted to return it.
“Sure. Pull up a seat.”
His shoulders were stiff and his gait uneven as he dragged a chair to the bed.
“You’re hurting, aren’t you?”
Sighing heavily, he sank onto the chair. “My lungs still burn some. And a headache’s got its claws in me.”
“That’s to be expected from smoke inhalation. But the rest of you—you’re sore from where I dropped you.”
He smiled, and Francey felt an unfamiliar sensation in her stomach. “I’m not complaining. You saved my life.”
“I wish I could have done it without wiping the staircase with your face.”
His brow furrowed. “How did you fall?”
“You jerked unexpectedly when we got out on the landing. You’re pretty heavy, and besides I had on forty pounds of gear and a pry tool stuck in my pocket. I lost my balance.”
“I caused your fall?” Spontaneously, it seemed, he reached out and brushed her cheek beside the bruise with his fingertips. She shivered involuntarily. He glanced at her cast. “And I did that?”
“No, of course not. Hazards of the profession.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, when the painkiller wears off.”
“I’m sorry.” He sat back, then glanced around the room. Sunny daisies, fragrant roses and two big green plants had arrived. “You have a lot of friends.”
“The fire department’s like family. When one of us gets hurt, news spreads like wildfire, no pun intended.”
He studied a big pink and silver balloon swaying gracefully in the draft from the heat vent. “Don’t tell me. Hell, it’s your birthday, too?”
“Uh-huh.”
He sighed. “How old?”
“Thirty.”
“Ah. A big one. Happy birthday.” He waved his hand toward the flowers and balloons. “I like the arrangements.”
She scowled at the plants, unimpressed. “I wish they’d sent food.”
“Food?”
“Yeah. I can’t cook, but I eat like a longshoreman. I’d sell my soul for some real, honest-to-goodness food instead of the grub from the hospital kitchen.”
His eyebrows shot up this time. “Really? What would you eat if you could have anything you wanted? On your birthday?”
“Something I don’t have to cut.” She held up her cast. “I know—seafood. Peter, the best cook in the fire department, makes this fancy shrimp and scallops dish when he subs at our station.” She licked her lips.
Alex stared at her. “I see. May I use your phone? I left my cell in my room.”
Francey shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
He picked up the receiver, punched in a number and asked for a listing for the Rio. He winked at her as he made a second call.
The gesture unnerved her.
“Hello, Lawrence, this is Alex Templeton. I’d like to order dinner. No, it’s not for business this time. Just for two.” His laugh rumbled deeply in his chest. “She is gorgeous. But she has a broken arm and I’d like to pamper her. So make it good. Shrimp scampi, coquilles Saint Jacques and stuffed snapper. Maybe some of that white asparagus if you have it. And dessert. Can your driver deliver to Rockford Memorial?” After a few more instructions, he hung up.
Francey stared at him, then shook her head. “You do this kind of thing often?”
“Mostly for business meetings.” He sat and smiled warmly. “Sound good?”
“Sounds wonderful. And expensive. I’ve been by the Rio.”
“Hey, nothing’s too good for the woman who saved my life.”
“Put that way, I graciously accept.”
He gave her a sideways glance; she got a good look at his square jaw. “There’s a catch. You have to invite me to share it.”
“Oh, I think I can endure your company.”
As they waited, he lounged in the chair, the soft cashmere of his bathrobe hugging his shoulders. She’d seen one like it on a patient when they went out for an emergency medical service call at the Hyatt Hotel. Dylan had told her how much the robe cost. Given that and the meal he’d cavalierly ordered, Alex Templeton must be well-off.
“Would you like to rest before dinner arrives?” he asked her.
“No! I’m going to die of boredom.” She lifted her arm weighted by the cast, which was a pain though not as bad as the old plaster ones from when she was a kid. “This is gonna kill me.”
“You won’t be able to work for a while.”
“No.”
“How long have you been a firefighter?”
“Eight years.”
“Mind if I ask how you got into the profession?”
“Typical story. My great-grandfather, my grandpa, my dad and a brother are firefighters. I’ve wanted to be one as long as I can remember.”
“What did your mother think of that?”
“My mother wasn’t in the picture.”
When he looked at her quizzically, she shook her head indicating she didn’t want to pursue the subject. Instead of prolonging that conversation, he asked, “Do you like the job?”
“It’s my life. I couldn’t do anything else.”
“Is it still hard to be a woman in a traditionally male role?”
“Things were tough at first. The men weren’t too happy when women joined the department. But once a woman—or for that matter a man—proves herself on the line, the veterans accept her.”
Picturing Francesca at her job, Alex asked, “And how did you prove yourself?”
He was beginning to make her nervous. Not his questions but his physical presence. She adjusted the sheet. “You sure you want to hear this?”
“Yes, of course.”
Deciding he meant what he said, she answered. “I was in my fifth fire. I’d never been on a roof before. I was up high with an officer to ventilate.” At his quizzical look, she explained. “Open the roof to let air out. The saw stuck, but I didn’t panic. I got the K-12 going, made a clean cut through the shingles, knocked out the hole just in time for the ground firefighters to go in. I didn’t lose it when the flames shot through the opening. I guess the guys realized I was good. I think any of them would feel comfortable with me at his back.”
“Well, you can save my life anytime, Francesca.”
“It also helps that I can fix their cars.”
“What?”
“I’m a mechanic, too. I was the top student in my auto mechanics class at East High School in the city.”
He roared with laughter. She liked the way his eyes crinkled with mirth. “You must have driven the boys crazy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Francesca, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
She hadn’t, but given his obvious appreciation, she was tempted to primp a bit. She stifled the urge. “Oh, well. My looks have always been a problem.”
“Tough luck,” he said dryly.
Trying not to show she liked his teasing, Francey rolled her eyes. Flirting with him probably wasn’t the best idea, so she changed the subject. “Do you have any idea how the fire started?”
Alex shook his head, and his mouth formed a grim line. “The fire marshal came to see me today.”
“What did he say?”
“That since they haven’t determined an exact cause, the blaze is suspicious.”
“He stopped in here, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Common practice to interview the firefighters on the scene. I imagine he’s talked to all of us by now.”
“Did you notice anything important?”
“Nah. I was too busy saving your hide.” He smiled. “They really want to talk to the guys who knocked the fire down.”
“Knocked it down?”
“Put it out.”
“Ah.” He appeared to study his hands, then said, “I can’t believe this might not be an accident.”
“Do you have any reason to believe it isn’t?”
“No.”
“Was anyone on the scene?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who reported the fire?”
“My brother. He was driving by and saw the smoke.”
“Oh.”
“Something wrong?”
“No, no.”
Alex leaned back and sighed. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Sorry, I get carried away about my work.”
“It’s not that. The possibility that the fire was set intentionally is disturbing.” He paused. “But firefighting sounds fascinating. Tell me about the job—what you do, how you spend your days.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.” When she hesitated, he glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about thirty more minutes before our food comes.”
So Francey agreed, and for half an hour, she regaled him with tales of the characters in her department and some humorous stories about her training at the fire academy. He listened attentively and asked questions. The best part was when he laughed.
She was just finishing an anecdote about one of the lieutenants when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called out.
The Rio’s deliveryman, in a waiter’s black tux, entered the room and deposited their meal on a table in the corner, set out the plates, spoke with Alex, then left. Her mouth watered at the smell of fresh-baked bread, the sweet scent of seafood and the aroma of hazelnut coffee.
Alex dished up their food and brought a plate to her. He set it in front of her. “Your wish is my command, mademoiselle.” There was no missing the sexy inflection of his tone. When he reached out to position her tray table, his tawny hair tumbled over his forehead. Was it soft and silky or springy and coarse?
Forcing herself to focus on the dish, she said, “This is amazing, Alex.”
“Enjoy.” When she glanced up, he was sitting and biting into a plump shrimp. Her eyes fixed on his perfectly straight teeth, his sculpted lips, with the lower one fuller than the top. Jeez, she thought, tearing her gaze away, she’d never been distracted by a man’s mouth before.
She gave herself a shake and dug into the seafood, the twice-baked potatoes, the perfectly done asparagus. “Tell me about yourself. I talked about me for half an hour.”
“My life story’s nowhere near as interesting as yours.”
She cocked her head. Most men she knew outside the firehouse couldn’t wait for the attention to focus on them. Some firemen, too, though as a group, they tended to be more reticent.
“What?” he asked at her quizzical gaze.
“Nothing. What does Templeton Industries make?”
“Electronic equipment for the utilities and process industries.” At her puzzled look, he added, “Circuit boards, monitoring devices to measure temperature, pressure gauges…” He shrugged. “Sounds boring, doesn’t it? Especially compared to your job.”
The door opened, precluding her response.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Francesca. I didn’t think you’d have company during the dinner hour.” Diana stood in the doorway carrying a silver-wrapped package. Dressed in a taupe pantsuit, her golden hair held back with a clip, she was elegance personified. And to boot she’d more than likely designed the outfit herself for her successful clothing business, Diana’s Designs.
Alex stood. “Diana?”
Her mother blinked, came a few steps closer. “Yes?”
“I’m Alex Templeton. Maureen’s son.”
“Of course—I recognize you now. Elise has spoken of you several times.”
What the hell? “You two know each other?”
“Diana plays bridge with my mother once a month, and we’ve run into each other occasionally at Bright Oaks Country Club.”
Francey struggled to keep a lid on her disappointment.
“And you’ve played tennis doubles with Elise,” Diana added.
Abruptly, the attraction Francey felt for Alex a few hours before Diana’s arrival was doused.
Diana turned to Francey. “How do you know Alex, Francesca?”
“I pulled him out of a fire,” she said tonelessly.
Alex was from her mother’s world. That told it all. She didn’t need his life story.
“How do you know Diana?” Alex asked her.
Francey didn’t answer. After an uncomfortable silence, Diana said, “I’m her mother.”
The air in the room seemed to grow heavy, and Francey felt the way she had the first time she’d taken a gulp of smoke into her lungs. No one spoke. Pushing away the remnants of her meal, Francey sank back into the pillow. I should have known. I did know. The Rio. The cashmere robe. CEO of Templeton Industries. What was I thinking, flirting with him that way?
He was from her mother’s world, and as far as Francey was concerned, nothing could put a man more off-limits.
oOo
In the hospital cafeteria, hot coffee sloshed over Diana’s hand, stinging her skin. She set down the cup and wiped the spill with a napkin. Get a grip, she told herself. She’d stopped in to calm herself after her encounter with Francesca. Still shaken, she was in no shape to drive home.
At eight o’clock at night, the cafeteria was deserted except for a nurse who sat staring off into space, a mug in front of her. The drab beige walls and empty vinyl seats accented the ache inside Diana. So she repeated her mantra silently.
You have a mission. You can do it. You’re older, stronger now.
But Francesca’s injury and the fact that today was her birthday had eroded Diana’s certainty that she would accomplish what she’d come back to Rockford to do—salvage her relationship with her sons and daughter.
Even though it’s too late for Ben.
Damn, she wasn’t quick enough to short-circuit the thought. Usually she stopped herself from thinking about him, from wishing she could fix what had happened to them as a couple. But seeing him this morning, hearing him call her Dee, had made her memories excruciatingly painful. Every time she looked at his wary eyes and stiff posture she was reminded of what a first-class coward she was.
Diana forced her thoughts to her daughter. As usual, Francesca had been distant when Diana had raced to the hospital to make sure she was all right. But tonight, after Alex Templeton had left, she’d been more curt and close-mouthed than ever. Sometimes Diana wondered if she’d ever be able to scale the walls her two youngest children had built around themselves since she’d left Rockford. She’d done all right with Tony, her older son, managing to stay close to him over the years. Bolstered by that success, Diana assured herself she could win back the other two if she was patient and tried hard enough. She took a sip of coffee. It tasted bitter, like a lot of things in life.
“Diana?”
Her pulse leaped at the deep baritone of her husband. Her ex-husband, she corrected herself. Carefully schooling her features into a mask of indifference, she looked up into the craggy face of the man she’d loved since she was seventeen. “Hello, Ben.”
“What are you doing here?” He’d always reminded her of Robert De Niro in the movie Backdraft, and tonight the similarities were even more marked. His dark hair was cut short and sprinkled with gray. But his chocolate brown eyes were as knowing and watchful as ever. He was dressed in his fire-department uniform—a crisp white shirt that set off his olive complexion, dark blue pants, which hugged his still flat stomach. The battalion chief insignia was proudly flaunted on his shoulder.
I’m gonna do it, honey. I’m gonna be a battalion chief someday.
The memory made her cringe, just as the words had when he’d spoken them more than three decades ago. Right from the beginning, his work in such a dangerous profession had filled her with fear.
“Can I sit?” he asked when she didn’t answer.
Say no. “All right.”
A big man—over six feet with linebacker shoulders—he grunted as he lowered his frame into the small chair across from her. “Why are you here?” he repeated.
“I came to see Francesca, of course. I didn’t get to visit with her this morning.”
“How is she tonight?”
“You haven’t seen her?”
“No, Ma and Pa went up first. I needed coffee, so I came in here.”
“You always need coffee.”
The memory came, unbidden, unwanted. First thing in the morning he’d nuzzle her breasts with his beard-roughened chin, run his callused hand down her body and promise her paradise if she’d get him a mug of high test.
He frowned at her remark. “You should wait and see Ma. She’d like that.”
Stalling for time, Diana took another sip from her cup. She’d had lunch with Ben’s mother yesterday, but she didn’t tell him that. Just as she hadn’t told him about the letters Grace Cordaro and she had exchanged, the pictures sent, the times they got together when Diana was in town to visit the kids. She wouldn’t tell him now, either. He’d get angry. And spout more of the mean remarks he’d made to her since her return to Rockford. “Maybe I will. She’d like talking about the store.”
Seeming to forget his animosity toward her, Ben leaned back, linked his hands behind his head and smiled. His shirt stretched across his wide chest. “Yeah, she’s proud as punch of your success. Remember how she taught you to sew?”
“On that old Singer.”
“Seems like a lifetime ago.”
Diana held his gaze. “It was.”
“Today’s Francey’s birthday,” he said huskily. “I remember when she was born.”
Oh, Dee, a girl! There hasn‘t been a girl in the Cordaro family for decades. I love you so much, sweetheart.
Diana swallowed, her stomach knotting at the recollection. They’d been so happy. “Hard to believe she’s thirty.”
Ben nodded and stared at the woman across from him. She looked terrific. And because her beauty had sucked him in from day one, he said unkindly, “You look good, Diana. For fifty. Have some cosmetic surgery?”
His ex-wife’s eyes clouded with pain. He felt like a heel. “No, just the right moisturizing cream.”
The comment reminded him vividly of the time she’d perched at the dressing table he’d made for her, in their cramped bedroom in his parents’ attic. He’d opened her lotion bottle and rubbed it on her body, and then they made love on the floor. Damn, he couldn’t afford this trip down memory lane!
“You shouldn’t have any trouble snagging another husband. Got any prospects?”
“I have no desire to remarry.”
“No? Not like the last time?”
She angled her head. “It was ten years after our divorce before I married Nathan.”
Nine years, three months and two days, to be exact, Ben thought. That was seventeen years ago. He’d gotten slobbering drunk the night he heard about her remarriage; his father had had to carry him to bed.
“Seemed quick to me.” Because the memory socked him in the gut, he swallowed the last of his coffee, plunked the empty cup on the table and stood. “I’m going up.” He couldn’t resist taking one last look at her. Her eyes were cool, her shoulders back, her chin lifted. Her debutante look. God, he’d always hated it. “Maybe you should rethink your strategy about remarrying. You don’t want to die a lonely woman.”
She didn’t respond, but her lower lip quivered and her hands were unsteady on the table top. He thought about her all the way to the elevator, though he tried to steel himself against the memories. But they wouldn’t go away, like scenes from a movie that kept replaying in his mind. Once inside the elevator, he reached into his pocket and dug out his wallet. From its deepest recess, he pulled out a photo. Crinkled with age, and yellow, it was Diana’s senior picture from high school. Blond hair so soft he wanted to bury his face in it. Violet eyes so huge and simmering he got lost in them. He’d met her when he was in the FDNY for a brief two years. The fire department had been called to Mercy High School. She’d been seventeen, he a cocky twenty-year-old rookie. A couple of coeds had been smoking in the john and had inadvertently started a fire in the waste container. Ben’s squad had marched in, all brave and hero-like, and put the thing out. The girls crowded around them afterward as if they were movie stars, though the nuns were beside themselves trying to shoo the students inside. Diana had slipped her phone number into his turnout coat. Like a fool, he’d called her. When he found out how old she was, he’d backed off. But she hadn’t. She’d pestered him with calls and letters until she turned legal, and once he’d agreed to take her out, it had been all over. Within two months, they were sleeping together.
The first time those violet eyes had sparkled with anticipation and a little bit of fear. Her reaction had made him say, “We shouldn’t be doing this. You’re too young.”
She’d given him a siren’s smile. “I want you to be my first.”
He couldn’t resist her. They’d gotten married a few months later. She was pregnant with Tony and deliriously happy. Given the circumstances, Ben had been right to marry her, but getting involved with her in the first place had been the worst mistake of his life.
Just as thinking about her now was a mistake. Why the hell had she come back to Rockford from New York City after her husband died? Why the hell couldn’t she just leave them alone?
oOo
The following afternoon, Francey fell back onto the pillow consumed by a fit of giggling. She laughed so hard she bumped her cast on the side of the bed. “Ouch.”
Chelsea Whitmore grinned. “Isn’t it great?”
Behind her, Beth Winters leaned against the wall, shaking her head in disgust. “What am I going to do with you two?”
“Come read the card, Beth. You’ll love it,” Francey told her friend.
Pushing away from the wall, Beth came in closer and sat on the side of the bed opposite Chelsea. “Hand over the smut.”
Francey did so. Chelsea’s choice of birthday greeting had been typical of her. On the front, a dark-haired guy wearing skin-tight jeans, a baseball cap and nothing else held a baseball bat, his muscular arms bulging. Below him it read, “Do you want to help me bake a cake for your birthday?” She watched Beth open the card. Inside, it said, “Or do you just want to lick the batter?”
Even Beth, whose smiles were as infrequent as eclipses, chuckled. Chelsea and Francey had come to accept their friend’s seriousness, but they worried about her.
“Oh, great,” Beth said dryly. “We’re reduced to adolescent cards.”
“And great presents.” Francey fingered the lavender silk tap pants and teddy in the box on her lap. “Thanks, Chels.”
Chelsea winked at her. “Wear it for a special occasion.”
Francey rolled her eyes. “I wish I had more opportunity.”
“Your own fault. The guys pant after you wherever you go. Then they’re devastated when you won’t give them the time of day.”
“Most men bore her,” Beth put in.
Her mind flashed to a man with tawny hair and laughing green eyes who didn’t bore Francey at all. Too bad he was off-limits.
“You should talk, Winters,” Chelsea chided.
“I date,” Beth said, haughtily lifting her chin. Beth’s delicate features and tall slender body belied the fact that she was one of the toughest women Francey knew.
She and Chelsea exchanged knowing looks but said nothing. Beth dated older men whom she dumped as soon as they got serious.
“Speaking of the male sex,” Francey said, “how’s Billy?”
“Okay, I guess.” She scowled. “He’s getting too serious, though.”
Francey worried about Chelsea, too. She was dating a firefighter, something Francey refused to do after her broken engagement to Joey Santori, a coworker in Group Three in her station house. He’d also grown up in her neighborhood.
“Open my present.” Beth purposefully changed the subject. Whenever the women launched into a powwow on their love lives, Beth got uncomfortable. They’d met when Francey and Chelsea had been in the academy and Beth had been their Emergency Medical Systems instructor. In the intervening eight years, they’d become good friends, but Francey felt she didn’t really know Beth Winters and the quiet sadness that shrouded her.
Francey tore open a big rectangular present wrapped in glittery gold paper. Inside she found a framed Mark Manwaring print entitled Silent Heroes. Dirt-tinged firefighter gear rested on a bench—a rumpled turnout coat, bunker boots with the pants and suspenders falling over them, an ax and a helmet, out of which peeked thick brown gloves. Bright yellows and reds provided colorful accents.
“Oh, wow, it’s beautiful. I’ve wanted one of these for a long time.” She reached out and squeezed Beth’s hand. “Dylan has a couple of Manwaring prints in his house.”
Beth scowled. “Boy Wonder would.”
Francey arched a brow. “Seen your nemesis lately?”
“Please,” Beth said. “We just ate lunch. Don’t make me ill.”
Though they occasionally joked about it, no one went overboard teasing Beth about Dylan O’Roarke, or vice versa. The two had a serious personality conflict that dated back to Dylan’s days in the academy. He was the one who had dubbed her Lizzie Borden, a name the recruits secretly bandied about when she was out of earshot. They’d clashed again when Dylan had gone to the academy to get more EMS training.
“I’ll hang this over the fireplace as soon as Dad and Grandpa finish my mantel. Thanks so much.”
“You’re welcome. Happy thirtieth, one day late.”
“Sorry we missed lunch yesterday,” Francey said. “You were a little incapacitated.”
She held up her arm. “Yeah. Think I’ll be off work more than two months?”
Beth shook her head. “I looked at the X rays. It’s a hairline fracture. You should have the cast removed in four weeks, then four weeks of physical therapy will give you back your strength.” She rubbed Francey’s hand. “I’ll bet it hurts.”
“The painkillers help but I don’t like taking so many.”
“Take them, anyway,” Beth told her with the maternal concern she sometimes exhibited. “Anyway, you’ll be good as new in a couple of months.”
“Especially after we put you to work lifting weights.” Chelsea referred to the training they did together at the gym she owned.
“I can’t fathom how I’m gonna stand…”
Francey’s words trailed off as she was distracted by a movement in the doorway. Alex Templeton leaned against the jamb. Today he was dressed in street clothes—an off-white collarless shirt made of some gauzy material, the long sleeves rolled up his forearms. Doe-colored pants and Docksides shoes finished the outfit. His hair was damp and brushed off his face, highlighting his classic features. A Greek god clothed in modern dress, she thought whimsically.
“Hello.” His voice was still hoarse from smoke inhalation. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m being discharged and I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Oh, sure.” Quickly she made introductions.
Chelsea’s appreciative gaze swept over Alex. Then she turned mischievous eyes on Francey. “We were about to go get ice cream for the patient here. Come on, Beth.”
“No, I’m fine, you guys, I’m not—”
“See you in a bit,” Chelsea sang as she exited, tugging Beth behind her.
Francey was seriously regretting her confession to her friends that she found the man whose life she’d saved attractive.
Alex approached the bed. “Having a party?”
She nodded.
He scanned the remains of the chicken Caesar salad, croissants and sparkling water the women had brought for her. “They fed you, too?”
“We were supposed to go out for lunch on my birthday.”
His eyes grew serious. “Oh.” He stared at her arm.
“Alex, it wasn’t your fault you were caught in a fire and I got hurt.”
“I still feel bad.”
Francey shifted on the bed, uncomfortable. Unfortunately the movement drew Alex’s attention to her birthday gifts. Without asking permission, he leaned over. His scent, male and musky, ambushed her. He picked up the teddy. When he rubbed the strap between his fingers, Francey’s stomach somersaulted. She could practically feel that slow, sensuous touch on her skin.
“Pretty.” He flashed her a grin. “And very feminine.” She could read the rest in his eyes. Just like you.
Stifling the urge to groan, Francey glanced away. After a moment, Alex dropped the silk and shifted his gaze to the firefighter print. “That’s beautiful.” Then he glanced behind him at the door. “Are they in the fire department?”
“Chelsea, the blonde, is. She works over at Engine Four.”
“Engine Four?”
“That’s a station house. They’re referred to by the type and number of their rig.”
“Oh.”
“And Beth is an EMS trainer at the Rockford Fire Academy.”
At his questioning look, Francey explained. “She trains EMTs—emergency medical technicians—and paramedics, as well as conducting certified first responder classes for recruits.” Francey smiled. “She was my teacher and Chelsea’s. Since there’s so few women at the academy, we got to be friends.”
“That’s nice. I haven’t had time to make many friends since I came back to Rockford to work.”
“From where?” Francey asked in spite of her decision to remain aloof.
“Boston. I had a job there for several years after I got out of business school.”
“Let me guess. Harvard.”
“Yes.”
He’d graduated from Harvard Business School, and she had an associate’s degree in firefighting from a community college, and that only because her father had insisted. The reminder of her and Alex’s differences brought back her resolve.
Trying to hurry his departure, she asked, “You’re being discharged?”
“Yes.” He seemed to search her face. “I came to say goodbye.”
Goodbye was good. “You should take it easy for a while.”
He shrugged. “My family will hover, I’m sure.”
Family. Oh, God, Francey hadn’t even thought there might be a wife in the picture. Now that she did, she could have kicked herself for not realizing a guy like him was most certainly married. She refused to check out his hand for a wedding band.
“I was wondering if I might call you,” Alex said.
With intentional frost in her voice, she asked, “Wouldn’t your family mind?”
“My parents and brother are grateful that you saved my life, Francesca. Why would they mind if I called to see you again?”
Without her consent, her eyes dropped to his left hand. He tracked her gaze. When she looked up, he was grinning.
“Do you think I’d ask to call you if I was married? For that matter, would I flirt with you so blatantly if I had a wife?”
Francey was enthralled by his seductive tone, his confession that he was flirting with her. “I, um…” Her breath caught when he raised his hand and brushed her hair off her forehead. She suppressed a shiver. “I-I don’t know you well enough to answer that.”
His eyes flickered with interest. He glanced at the lingerie, then at her face. “I’d like to do something about that.”
Steeling herself, she shook her head. “I don’t think so, Alex.”
He frowned, as if being refused was foreign to him. Francey was pretty sure it was. “May I ask why?”
“It’s just not a good idea.”
“Have I misread the signals?”
Inherently honest, she shook her head. “No. But I have reasons.”
“I’d like to know them.”
“Let’s just leave it alone, okay?”
With masculine grace—and arrogance—he stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I’m not sure I want to accept that.”
Francey stared him down. “I am.”
He angled his head.
“Sure. That I don’t want to see you again.”
A petite redheaded nurse appeared at the door. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ve got to record your vitals.” Francey watched the woman give a long perusal of Alex.
“That’s okay.” Francey was grateful for the distraction. Wondering if she would have given in to the sexual intensity in his eyes, she nodded to the nurse. “My visitor was just leaving.” She pasted a fake smile on her face. “Take it easy, Alex.”
His gaze narrowed on her. “You, too, Francesca. And thanks again. For saving my life.” He strode out of the room without looking back.
As the nurse took her blood pressure, Francey squelched the disappointment inside her. She’d done the right thing. The smart thing. She was very sure it was not a good idea to let Alex Templeton into her life.