Текст книги "Playing with Fire "

Автор книги: Kate Meader

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

 CHAPTER TWO

Damn, she was one hot, hungry bitch.

Ten o’clock on New Year’s Day, and the fire gave off enough heat to make Alex forget it was negative freeze-her-nipples on the thermometer. Perched on the balls of her feet, she bunched her calf muscles and tightened her fingers on the mask she had yet to don. Do it too early and you risk claustrophobia. Too late and you waste precious seconds, not to mention pissing off your platoon. All men who were looking for any excuse to label her as weak. Inadequate.

Female.

From the second-floor windows of the Drake Hotel on Walton, a few gilded steps from Michigan Avenue, greedy flames licked the glass-jagged edges. Nine engines and trucks from firehouses far and wide were already on site. Well-heeled guests and revelers stood around, most appearing dazed, several receiving attention for smoke inhalation from EMTs. Alex’s crew, Engine Company 6, ancestral seat of the Firefightin’ Dempseys, had been last to arrive, a supplementary measure, because hotel fires could get out of control quickly.

But probably not this one. Three of the engines were involved in fire suppression, putting wet stuff on the red stuff, which meant rescue was done and dusted. The water generally only came out after the grabs were complete. Disappointment chilled her gut. Coming up on her one-year anniversary as a candidate firefighter, a rookie, and still no rescues to call her own. Pulling Sam Cochrane from that car last summer didn’t count.

Not that a certain quota of rescues was a requirement to pass from candidate to full-fledged firefighter. No, Goal No. 1 on every shift was to do her job the best she could and bring herself and her platoon home safe. (Goal No. 2 was to not end up on YouTube.) But all her foster brothers were in the service, filling her dad’s giant work boots—Wyatt, Luke, and Beck older, Gage her baby bro by fourteen months—and each of them had numerous grabs from infernos and mangled car wrecks on their heroic résumés. As an adoptee instead of a foster kid, Alex was the only one of her sibs with “Dempsey” as her legal last name. A double-edged sword perhaps, as she acutely felt both a special sense of belonging and the burden of carrying on the Dempsey family legacy of service and heroism. To say she felt competitive might have been the under-freaking-statement of the century.

Her captain, Matt “Venti” Ventimiglia, strode back from Incident Command, a big truck parked in the middle of the street.

“Fox, Dempsey, they need another round of civilian checks on the first floor. Meet the lieutenant from fifty-nine at the southeast entrance.”

Alex squinted at the sight over Venti’s shoulder. Battalion chief Lonny Morgan was over at IC talking to CFD’s Commissioner Laurence Freeman, better known to the Dempseys as Uncle Larry, her dad’s best pal and godfather to them all. Big fire, sure, but what the hell was Larry doing here?

“Dempsey, you waitin’ on a special invitation from the Commish?” Venti barked, because her curiosity had frozen her to the spot.

“No, Cap. On it.”

She caught up with her eldest brother, Wyatt Fox, who was already moving to the hotel’s entrance.

“Hey, you see Larry over at IC?”

Wy nodded. “Cooper’s here.”

Her heart thudded at the mention of his name. Nothing new there. “But he’s out, right?”

Her brother grumbled his disdain for that ridiculous question. “There was some charity shindig hosted by Cooper for the Wounded Warrior Project. Fire started in the kitchen, but didn’t reach the grand ballroom. One percenters probably trampled the minimum wagers on their way out.”

Not so far off the mark, she imagined. She could see it as clearly as if she’d been there. He would have been seated at one of those five-zillion-dollar-a-plate tables, hand resting casually on the back of his date’s chair, showing just enough of his bespoke tailored shirt to reveal gold—no, platinum—cuff links. His other hand would have been midrake through his dark, wavy, overproduced hair that could do with some serious mussing. A member of his security detail would have leaned over and whispered in his ear. We have a situation, Mr. Mayor. Then full throttle to get the most powerful man in the city to safety.

Wy pushed through the main door of the hotel. The extravagantly furnished lobby was empty and unscarred except for muddied carpets and a few gabbing firemen. The smell of smoke scented the air. The smell of death to most people, but not to a firefighter. This was what they trained, lived, breathed for.

After checking in with the 59 LT, Wy and Alex headed to their assigned sweep area: staff offices on the first floor. Looking in, calling out, closing doors, assuring themselves that no one remained on site.

No doubt the mayor was chin wagging with Uncle Larry at Incident Command right about now, getting an update on the situation. The commissioner would assure him they had it under control, but Mr. Mayor would probably insist on staying so he could project his much-vaunted “leadership qualities” and preference for “the buck stops here.” Whatever looked good for the cameras with the election just six weeks off.

“So what’s goin’ on with you lately?” Wy asked.

“Whatcha mean?”

“You seem a bit less—” He stopped and did the Wy Fox patented sniff ’n’ squint. “Alex than usual.”

“Nothing’s going on.” In truth, she was still reeling from Michael Martinez’s unceremonious dumping three days ago in the middle of dinner at Smith & Jones, using of all things the work excuse. She knew all about the work excuse to slip out middate. She had invented it. But she’d thought it was going reasonably well until he practically ran from that restaurant like his nut sac was on fire.

“Just can’t find a decent date.”

Wy huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I heard Martinez was a blowout. What are we going to do with you?”

“You’d think having two brothers who are former Marines, another who’s the best boxer in the CFD, and one more who’s intimately familiar with all of the gay and most of the straight men in Chicago, I’d be covered. But, oh no, my own family of he-men are useless.”

“I introduced you to someone.” He pushed open a door, scanned the room, and pulled it shut again. She mirrored his actions on the opposite side of the corridor.

“You mean the former Navy SEAL who kept insisting there would always be secrets between us because”—she gave it air quotes, the effect somewhat lost in her thick CFD-issue gloves—“ ‘that’s the way I roll, babe’?”

“He was a solid guy.”

“Brother mine, I would like to meet someone who doesn’t sleep with a knife under his pillow in case his loose lips force him to make a choice between his duty and my need to know. I’d have to wear earplugs in case he blurts out old mission details in his sleep!”

“Damn, you’re fussy.”

Maybe she was. Maybe she gave off a vibe of “not worth the trouble” that condemned every date from the outset. But surely there was someone out there for her. After the Sam Cochrane “rescue” incident, she had spent months fending off weasels propositioning her on Facebook to come rescue them, or more particularly their dicks from the confines of their pants. And those were the A pile.

Then she’d made the classic mistake of falling for the smooth talk of a bona fide charmer, a customer at her family’s bar in Wicker Park, Dempsey’s on Damen. One of those Board of Trade suits who got his kicks slumming it with firefighters and cops on the weekends. Three—okay, five—shots of tequila later and she’d dropped her panties faster than a hooker’s on payday at the mine. She hadn’t even gotten dinner out of it (or an orgasm). The shame of what happened later . . . the hot flush that stole over her body was a heart-sickening reminder of just how hard it was on the dating battlefield.

Yet she persevered because she truly believed that in a city of millions there had to be a guy who could see all she had to offer. Putting herself out there would eventually reap its reward.

“We done here?”

“All good.” Wy closed the last door in the staff offices area just as his radio crackled to life. Venti’s voice echoed in the empty hallway.

“Fox, reports of a civilian trapped on level two, southeast corner. You and Dempsey are closest to the stairwell.”

“Copy that,” Wy said. “You hear that, sis? Time to earn your rescue merit badge.”

The heat hit them as soon as they exited the stairwell on the second level.

“I thought suppression was clear on this side of the building,” Alex said.

“Someone fucked up on comm. Mask on, Dempsey.”

Shit, this was serious. Wy only used her last name when he was in business mode. She was already tightening the strap and turning the air regulator up on her bottle.

Wy called in an update to the cap. “Remember everything you’ve learned,” he said to Alex, his voice calm and purposeful. Of all her brothers, he was the one she’d trust most to lead in any messed-up situation. “Don’t suck on it; even draws.”

Alex nodded, drew a deep breath. The self-contained breathing apparatus, aka SCBA, could last a half hour. No firefighter expected to run out, but with rookie status, adrenaline, and itchy panic, all bets were off. Thirty minutes of air could be depleted in ten.

They turned a corner into a smoke-filled corridor, past a sign pointing to meeting rooms with names like the Lincoln, the Jefferson, the Washington.

“Fire department, call out!” Wy yelled.

Nothing but the telltale crackle of burning paint. Distant, but too close for comfort. They moved toward the sound, with a purposeful awareness of every step. The smoke thickened to a muddy charcoal haze and then, for the briefest moment, cleared.

Alex could barely make out a shape coming toward them. A tall, dark streak carrying something.

Someone.

The shape lurched forward, stumbled, but remained upright. In three seconds, Alex and Wy had closed the gap.

“I’ve got her,” came a smoke-roughened voice. Not Wy.

Both firefighters’ gazes fell to the package, a woman in a cream cocktail dress that no dry cleaner would ever again make pristine. She was unconscious, limp in black-suited arms with snow-white cuffs. A glint of metal flashed through Alex’s mind before her attention was ripped back to the woman. That sharp black bob, that jutting jaw . . . Alex recognized her immediately. Madison Maitland, head honcho at the PR firm M Squared.

Who happened to be Kinsey’s boss.

And who also happened to be the mayor’s election campaign manager. Not to mention his ex-wife.

Alex’s eyes shot up and clashed with an ice-pick-blue gaze.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Etiquette on greeting victims in a working fire? Zero points, Alex.

“Lovely to see you, too, Firefighter Dempsey,” Eli Cooper replied smoothly.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Alex said, indignant at his offhand response, and herself for letting him provoke her. Of all the times. “We had a report that you were out.”

He blinked away a trickle of blood dripping from a cut over his eye.

Then he swayed. Damn, he was going to . . .

Wy grabbed Madison. The wall grabbed Cooper.

“She’s been out for about ninety seconds,” the mayor said to Wy, who had set Madison down and was trying to rouse her. “Got locked in a restroom during the commotion.”

Cooper hunkered, his hand outstretched on the wall to steady his crouch, his face a mask of concern. A drop of blood fell on the bodice of Madison’s dress. “Mads, can you hear me?”

Nothing. Wy pulled off his glove and fingered her neck.

“Pulse is thready. Time to go,” he said, one eye on the smoke soup from which Cooper had made his dramatic entrance.

Pushing her irritation with him down deep, Alex called on her professionalism. The cut over his eye still dribbled blood, some of which had fallen to the immaculate white collar above his tuxedo. He had come perilously close to passing out back there. “Mr. Mayor, can you walk?”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving Madison. “I can take her.”

“Let’s leave the CFD to do their jobs, Mr. Mayor,” Wy said, scooping up Madison and turning back toward the stairwell. “Dempsey, take the rear.” No hesitation, he moved forward with his charge. Looked like this grab would go in Wy’s column.

“After you, Mr. Mayor.”

“Ladies first, Alexandra.”

She growled, annoyed that her mask suppressed it. He smirked, guessing at her reaction anyway.

“Really? You’re going to pull the female-firefighter-can’t-do-the-job card now?”

Ahead, Wy had already turned the corner with Madison. Behind, the smoke was creeping outward like tentacles, blanketing death over the corridor.

Pulling his big body upright, Cooper coughed hard against the back of his hand. “As much as I’d love to debate the subtleties of the gender equality debate with you, Alexandra, I think we should probably use these lovely moments to haul our asses to safety.”

“That’s what I’m—”

“C’mon.” He dragged her by the arm toward where Wy had gone. She let him lead because he was going in the right direction and she was a big fan of choosing her battles.

They had just turned the corner, heading for the exit-signed stairwell, when it all turned to shit. Eli’s grip on her arm, previously firm and dominant, softened and slipped. No more than fifteen feet out, he slumped against the wall. His hand flew to his forehead, over the bloody wound.

“Come on,” she urged, “we’re almost there.”

He didn’t respond, just cradled his head.

“How did you come by that injury, Mr. Mayor?”

“Macho shit, trying to get a door open. Looks much easier in the movies.” He huffed out a smoky laugh. “And call me Eli.”

“You haven’t made me angry enough.”

At least he was lucid enough to speak. Granted, it was his usual BS and—fuck, the situation turned to double shit when his tuxedoed body slithered down the wall.

“C’mon, Cooper. No napping till we’re out.”

He said nothing. No smartass comeback, not even a grunt. Shit, he was losing consciousness before her eyes. The gases in the hallway were noxious and she had no idea how long he had been inhaling them. He needed clean air. Fast.

Her mind tripped through the options: drag, revive, wait.

Drag . . .

Eli Cooper was 220 pounds of rock-solid muscle. Limp, but upright would work for her because, despite the fact that she was trained in dragging bodies from her days back in the academy, hauling this man’s deadweight, even with a hasty webbing harness, was another story entirely. Getting him conscious was her first job, because if that didn’t work, this might be her last.

Revive . . .

As gratifying as a nice slap across one of those gorgeous cheekbones would be, it wouldn’t change his respiratory situation, which was up shit creek, paddle MIA. But here was the rub: sharing your air with a civilian was a no-no. As much as it was a firefighter’s job to save lives, her own life was paramount—and handing over her mask to someone else placed hers in jeopardy.

Wait . . .

If she waited for however long it took for the cavalry to arrive, Eli might suffer from lung damage or airway collapse. Next stop, cell death. Last stop, one dead mayor and bye-bye to her career in CFD.

Decided, she hauled a lungful of precious air, then ripped off her mask and placed it over his face, holding it tight and steady to form a makeshift seal around the edges.

One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three . . .

Life returned to his body, but as was always the case with this man, consciousness came with its own set of problems. With hands raised, he fought her, pushing the mask away. As if the guy wasn’t already difficult enough to deal with.

“Don’t need . . .”

“Cooper, let me do my job!”

And that outburst cost her the breath she’d been holding. Got to move.

Everything she had ever learned kicked into gear. She reaffixed the mask to his face. Turned up the air. Felt the pulse on his neck. Strong, but then she knew it would be. Eli Cooper was too much of an asshole to let a little hiccup like smoke inhalation keep him down.

While she waited for the SCBA to do its job, she hit the button on her radio.

“This is Dempsey,” she coughed out into the lethal air, using up more precious oxygen stored in her lungs. “I’m on level two near the southeast stairwell with an unconscious male civilian.”

Crackle, crackle, no response. She should say it was the mayor, but maybe they knew, because Wy had to have made it out with Madison by now. A threat to Chicago’s First Citizen would produce quicker results. Depressing, but reality.

She hit her radio button again. “This is Dempsey. I’ve got the—”

“Dempsey, hold your position,” Venti said. “Crews are on the way.”

“Copy that.”

Alex coughed, the effects of the smoke now a challenge to fully drawn breaths. Her lungs did not like the poisonous concoction. They were certainly not going to like any prolonged exposure to it.

Cooper roused as the air did its job, then tried to yank the mask off again.

“Eli, don’t! Just take a breath.”

His fingers fisted the jaw of the mask and pulled at it weakly. “Can’t . . . breathe.”

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. You just need to relax and breathe normally.” She ripped off her glove and curled her hand in his big, surprisingly coarse one. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

“Trapped,” he muttered, but more important, his shoulders had softened by degrees, and as his grip tightened on her hand, she could feel him taking steadier breaths. Getting stronger.

He coughed. “Did he call you?”

“What?”

“Did . . . did he call you?”

“Who, Eli?”

He husked out a short, bitter laugh. “I told him if he called you, I’d . . .” He trailed off, hauling another life-affirming lungful of air. “Knew I could get you to say my name.”

Yay, the douchebag returns! But now she had another pesky problem: at least a minute had passed with no sign of backup. Worse for Alex, mental hypoxia and nausea had started to set in. They needed to get out.

Now.

“Mr. Mayor, can you stand?” On legs like swaying reeds, she pulled herself up while still holding his hand, hoping that was enough. Needing his strength as much as her own. Using the wall as support, he righted himself.

“We need to get to the exit.” She hunched under his arm and took his weight. Her blood was filling with poison, her cells turning black, her life force shriveling.

Eight feet. Seven. Only six more feet.

Christ, he was so fucking heavy.

The smoke wrapped around them. Encased her heart and lungs. Death had come calling. She had expected that when the time arrived, she would be more afraid.

Her mind fogged over. Two steps. Two more. Two . . .

Everything went black.

 CHAPTER THREE

Darkness pressed in, a two-ton weight on his chest, forcing his eyes closed, his mouth sealed. They were moving around, the sound distant but close enough to set his heart racing.

Go away.

His lungs were unfillable, the air nonexistent. No space to move, no escape possible. Voices wavered in and out, then one clearer tone filtered through the noise.

“Eli, I’m here. You need to wake up now.”

A hand in his, unexpectedly supple. Surprisingly strong, too.

He didn’t want to wake. Better to stay in the in-between where there were no questions, only the answers he wanted to hear.

Only her.

“Eli . . .”

Even in his dreams, she was difficult. But he liked her that way because it would make the moment he tamed her all the sweeter.

“Wake up, Eli.”

“Dammit, woman.” He roused, opened his eyes, and met the concerned gaze of . . . his ex-wife.

Fuck.

Moments passed as he reckoned with his surroundings. White, sterile walls. A woman in scrubs futzing with equipment. His tuxedo jacket draped over a chair. Slow blinks gave him time to assess and rewind to what secrets he might have been divulging in his semiconscious state.

Finally, he met his ex’s gaze head on. “Mads, how are you?” The words croaked out, in the voice of someone else.

“I’m out one Marc Jacobs cocktail dress and some very expensive Laboutins. And before you ask, you heathen, those are shoes.” She sounded hoarse and pissy, but at least she was alive.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“My room, your room. What’s the difference? Someone has to keep you awake, Mr. Mayor.”

He sat up in the bed of a hospital exam room, memories resurfacing like a head breaking water. Dragging fingers through his hair tossed up a gritty grime. The spoils of war.

“Mr. Cooper,” the nurse said, seeming to appear out of nowhere. She was built like a tank and he was immediately suspicious of her bedside manner. “Can you tell me today’s date?”

He’d suffered enough brain-rattling concussions in his lifetime to already be bored with the questions. No harm in having a little fun. “July third, no, fourth, 1998.” He turned his attention back to his ex. “Seriously, Mads, how are you feeling?”

She shrugged her slender shoulders—she was dressed in scrubs like the nurse—and let him in for just a moment. “You saved my life, Eli. How do you think I feel?”

“Annoyed, because now I can hold this over you.”

Her smile crumbled around the edges. “Exactly, you rotten bastard.”

He dropped his gaze, because she was a tough girl who hated showing weakness. Divorced from her for twelve years, he still cared and would hate to see her hurt in any way.

Tank Nurse consulted her clipboard and started in on the dumb shit again. “Who’s the president of the United States, Mr. Cooper?”

“Is that a trick question, Nurse? Pretty sure I’m the commander-in-chief.”

Madison rolled her eyes indulgently. “Wishing it won’t make it so.”

His probably concussed head was pounding. And stinging. Feeling like they belonged to someone else, his fingers tentatively touched the stitches crisscrossed over his brow.

The night’s events came back to him in chunks. The evacuation once the fire alarm sounded. The realization that Madison had not made the exit with the group. Her frantic call to tell him she was locked in a restroom on the second floor. The CFD showing up . . .

Alexandra.

Alexandra saving his life.

“How’s Dempsey doing?”

“Oh, fine!” She made a face. “She’s part of the most famous firefighting family in Chicago. The country. No doubt she’s already lining up her interviews. Should she go with Katie or Diane? Will Oprah make herself available for America’s Favorite Firefighter?”

“Don’t be catty, Mads.”

On a weary sigh, she slumped in her chair. “Five months ago, she almost sank your mayoralty. In fact, that incident made it clear how much the unions hate you. But what happened tonight is a godsend. Not that I’d ever wish a building to be burned down with hundreds of lives placed in danger, but this . . . this is going to win you the election. We can—”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Eli didn’t have time for a strategy session. Talking to Alexandra was paramount. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he had a feeling she had her speech all worked out.

Still think females shouldn’t be in the fire department, Mr. Mayor?

Still think women are a distraction in life-threatening situations?

Still think my lady hormones are a liability?

Yes, yes, and hell, yes. Just because she happened to save his life did not change that.

“I need to see her.”

“Sure. Give me a few minutes to wake the news crews up. No doubt they’ll be cage matching it to film your visit—”

“No.” He rubbed his forehead. That bathroom door had been a worthy opponent. “No cameras. I need to see her without all that noise.”

Mads’s usually smooth-as-wax brow knitted. “We have a chance to reverse some of the losses over the last few months. It’s been dropped into our laps and we have to use it to get as much leverage as possible.”

The woman had a point: pension problems, resource allocation, rivalry with the CPD, which generally had it better come budget time—all were very valid reasons why the CFD would happily beat his ass with a hose if he made an impromptu visit to any of the ninety firehouses within the city limits. A public scene with him practically handing his balls to Alexandra in gratitude could go a long way toward securing that endorsement from the firefighters’ union.

But not now. As much as he admired Madison’s driven nature, right this minute, he needed her to turn off her campaign manager switch and shut the hell up.

“Me and Dempsey. Alone.”

Her eyebrow hitch was more resigned than annoyed. “That might be difficult.”

Outside his room, he encountered Obstacle No. 1: his chief of security and good friend, Tom Kincaid.

“Goin’ for a little walkabout, Mr. Mayor?”

Shit. When Tom called him that, it meant he was pissed. So he might have had good reason. After exiting the grand ballroom at the Drake with Tom’s pincer grip on his shoulder, Eli had slipped past him to go back inside. Rather stupid behavior, he knew now. But the CFD hadn’t made it on site yet and Mads was scared. Tom would have demanded he leave the heroics to the first responders, so he made an executive decision.

He was the fucking mayor, after all.

“Tom, I’m sorry. I acted on impulse and I probably should have run it by you.”

Incredulity strained the tough guy’s expression. “So I could demand you stay put? You knew exactly what my reaction would be, Eli, so let’s not pretend otherwise.”

“Okay. Glad we sorted that out. Now I need to see Dempsey—where is she?”

“Still gettin’ checked out in the ER as far as I know.” Tom looked past him to Mads. “Shouldn’t he be seeing a doctor about the fact he’s an ornery pain in the ass?”

“No cure for that,” Mads offered.

“I dunno,” Tom muttered mutinously. “I could think of a few things.”

Eli tamped down a nascent growl. “I’d love to chat, but I have places to be. Now.”

With a sneering lip curl of this-ain’t-over, Tom led him to the ER, where he encountered Obstacle No. 2: the Firefightin’ Fucking Dempseys.

The entire pride was out in force, a pack of feral beasts standing sentry outside one of the exam rooms. As far as Eli knew, none of Sean Dempsey’s foster sons were genetically Irish except for the second oldest, Luke Almeida, who was half. But they all bled green and acted as if they had a dispensation from Pope Bono to behave any damn way they pleased.

Luke straightened from his slump against the wall. De facto leader of the Dempseys, Almeida disliked Eli the most. Last summer, the mayor’s office had crashed down hard on the Cuban Irish hothead when he played fast and loose with his fists in a videotaped brawl in the Dempsey family’s bar. Eli’s firing of Luke’s girlfriend, Kinsey, the mayor’s press secretary at the time, hadn’t exactly contributed to the kiss and make up.

“How is she?” Eli asked.

On hearing his voice, Darcy Cochrane jumped up from a chair and hugged Eli. The Cochrane and Cooper families had been in each other’s pockets for years, and Darcy was like an annoying little sister to him. Lately, she was estranged from her father, Sam, Eli’s former mentor and campaign backer, due to her questionable life choices. Questionable life choice number one, Beck Rivera—another damn Dempsey—stood off to the side.

“Eli, are you okay?” Darcy asked.

He clung to her, accepting her affection more for her peace of mind than for his own. “I’m fine, monkey. How’s Alexandra?”

“She’ll live.” Luke was usually the spokesperson. “Smoke inhalation, but she’ll be okay.”

“I’d like to see her.”

“She needs to rest,” Luke said sternly.

Wyatt Fox, Madison’s savior and oldest of the clan, moved several inches to his left, close enough to the exam room’s door to make his point clear: None shall pass.

“I just need a minute.”

Luke stepped into Eli’s space, using every inch of his six-four frame to intimidate. A muscle in his jaw ticked dangerously in case Eli was slow on the uptake. He mentally sighed. Getting into a shoving match with the Dempseys wouldn’t have been his first choice, but damn if Eli didn’t want to lay down the law here and exercise mayoral privilege.

“Listen, Almeida—”

Eli felt his hand drawn to Luke’s grip. Warm, callused, and, surprisingly, not trying to crush him to within an inch of his life.

“We’ve had our differences, Cooper, but what you did tonight wipes the slate clean.”

“It does?”

Luke’s smile was wry. “Be a dick about it if you want, but anyone who saves my sister’s life is okay in my book.”

Anyone who—what now?

His head still pounded and Luke’s words were not helping. Short-term memory loss was typical of a concussion, but what the man was saying made no sense.

In that corridor, he had lost consciousness and Dempsey had . . . what had she done? His mind reached for the details. The mask. She had taken off her mask and put it on him to help him breathe. She had dragged him out of the smoke to a place where the air was clear and then . . .

“Details are kind of fuzzy,” he muttered.

“You pulled her out of that stairwell,” Beck said. “Sure gonna look good for your crappy approval ratings.”

“Beck!” Darcy snapped at her fiancé.

“Well, it will. Mayor saves firefighter. Can’t make that shit up.”

Luke held up a hand of STFU. “She’s safe, that’s all that matters.”

So this was what Madison had meant about it being a godsend for his election campaign. Not that Alexandra had saved him, but that apparently he had saved her?

“I have to see her,” Eli insisted. He needed to get to the bottom of this before he talked to anyone else.

Beck parted his lips to engage, but the exam room door opening behind him cut him short. Out came Gage Simpson, looking tired and worn, but on seeing Eli, his face lifted in a grin. The Dempseys were an Irish pain in Eli’s ass, but Gage was the least bothersome, mainly because he was doing a pretty fine job of healing his friend Brady.

Eli had chosen him for that very reason.

“Hey, Mr. Mayor,” Gage said. “Come to reap your reward?”

“My what?”

“Save a life, you’re owed a life debt.” His brow crinkled. “Or maybe it’s the other way around. Save a life, then you’re responsible for the life you saved. Shit, Wy, that means you’re responsible for a lot of freakin’ people.” Gage smiled easily and jerked a thumb in Wyatt’s direction. “He’s got the house record for saves.”

“I’d love to chat, but I really need to see your sister. Now.” How many more times could he say this and not actually have it happen?

“Later,” Luke said as he made a move to block.

“No, Luke, it’s okay.”

All eyes whipped to the source of the voice: Alexandra.