Текст книги "Playing with Fire "

Автор книги: Kate Meader

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

 CHAPTER SEVEN

Her blood stopped moving beneath her skin. A dizzy mess of thoughts pinwheeled through her brain, and all she could utter was a barely articulate “He—he can’t!”

“He can. The statute of limitations on civil suits is five years.”

“But . . .” This could not be happening.

“Now that you’re back in the news, Sam sees an opportunity to stick it to you. To make you sweat.”

Which she was doing. Profusely. It was supposed to be in the past, not rearing its ugly bigoted head to bite her on the ass. “Is he suing the city as well?” she asked after a few silent moments passed, each one of them like an hour.

“No. He and I discussed it when this all went down last August. It’s not in his interest to make an enemy of me, not while he has business deals that need city support.”

“I thought it was done. I thought you sorted it out.”

His expression turned even more brooding. “There was always a chance he would hold the threat of suit in abeyance to be brought out later. Without a written settlement, he can sue anytime within the statutory period.”

“I’ll be financially ruined.” She felt like an inveterate gambler whose life had been thrown away in a card game, except she had been dealt the losing hand and, knowing it was toxic, played it all the same. But she hadn’t weathered every insult, blow, or wave of opposition to come this far and fail.

“He’s your primary donor, an old friend of your family. And I saved your life.” She wasn’t feeling nearly as cocky as she had a moment ago when she reminded him of that salient fact.

A brief smile quirked the do-me mouth that had opened her up and tortured her with his consummate skill. The man was an excellent kisser—and she suspected an excellent poker player.

“Yes, you did,” he said coolly.

“You can make this go away, like before. He’ll listen to you. And if you come down on CFD’s side, it will benefit you on Election Day. Local 2 hasn’t endorsed a candidate yet.” The firefighters’ union was about to declare, but was waiting for more concessions on the pension crisis.

“But he’s not suing CFD, Alexandra. He’s after you personally.”

So that’s how it was. “This is blackmail.”

“It sounds to me like quid pro quo. I can keep Cochrane and his legal dogs off your back and you can win me this election.” He placed a hand on the window frame and moved his gaze to the parking lot outside. The action drew his shirtsleeve taut against his biceps, mesmerizing her to a sensual dizziness. Really, hormones?

“And what about when the election is over?” Her heart twanged, the stupid lump already mourning the moment they were no longer a fake couple.

“When I win—which you’ll help me to do—I’ll be in a position to prevent him from moving forward with any suit because you’ll still be under my protection. I’ll demand he agree to a no-fault settlement that’ll put you in the clear. You’ll probably have to apologize, make a token donation to his favorite charity.”

She paced the room, marveling that her jellied legs kept her upright. “Maybe I should talk to a lawyer.” She frowned, remembering who was standing before her. “Another lawyer.”

“Maybe.” He crossed his arms. “And your family. Get their advice.”

“No, I can’t involve them.” If her family knew about this threat they would move heaven and hell to help her, even Darcy, who was on the outs with her dad. And if Cochrane went through with the suit and she had to pay legal fees—or God forbid, damages—her brothers would give her the shirts off their backs. The house where they had grown up with Sean and Mary, where Alex and Gage still lived. Kinsey and Luke were about to buy their own place, plan a wedding, and now they would have to put everything on hold.

She refused to let it come to that.

He moved in closer, shrinking the room to the size of that city hall storeroom. “I’m a useful person to have on your side, Alexandra.”

His words waved over her, seductive, dangerous, licking between her legs like a warm, probing tongue. She wished he hadn’t kissed her, because it made her want things. Deep, secret things that involved him bending her over that desk and filling the wet, needy part of her.

“Can you take care of my parking tickets?” she joked, seeking relief from the blistering tension.

“Parking tickets, your legal issues.” His gaze raked her, drawing her nipples into pleasurably painful buds. “I can take care of any number of your problems, Alexandra.”

“What would I have to do?” And was he at the top of that to-do list?

“A few public appearances, photos in the paper. Nothing too compromising. We play up the connection, then amicably part ways after I’ve won.”

There was that annoying heart twinge again at the mention of the end of their fake relationship. When she didn’t even want the beginning.

It sounded so easy, a way to keep her family safe after all the hassles they’d endured these past six months. A way to be the one who contributed instead of the fuckup who needed constant bailing out of her unfortunate messes.

“It’s only six weeks,” he said, his voice with that husky tone that did wicked things to her insides. Six weeks of him talking like that to her? She wouldn’t last six hours in his presence, and then she’d have to kill herself for her betrayal of her tribe.

“What about our problem?”

“Our problem?”

The bastard was going to make her say it. Well, she was fine with meeting it head-on. “This thing between us.”

He sat on the windowsill and threaded his arms across his blockbuster chest. The fabric of his pinstripe pants molded his thigh muscles in a way that sent a flush on an all-stops tour of every erogenous zone in her body.

“It’s chemistry, Alexandra. Merely a physical reaction that’ll play well for the press and public.” He cocked an eyebrow in challenge. “Worried you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”

“I think it’s pretty clear who kissed who in that closet, Mr. Mayor.”

“Perhaps, but actions speak louder than words. Your lips were very active. As were your hands.” His gaze dropped to her traitorously active mouth. “We’re adults. I think we can get through a few appearances without mauling each other. Unless you think you can’t.”

“I’m not one of your usual Trixies, Cooper. I can resist you.”

“Excellent.” He thrust out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

She considered it. A handshake felt rather tame considering what was at stake: the financial future of her family, Eli’s election chances, her soul. Maybe she should whip out her Swiss army knife and suggest they seal this in blood.

Abandoning the mental dramatics, she took his hand. Warm and filled with life, it conjured up wicked images of how good it would feel in a rough rub against her throbbing sex.

Oh. God.

She crashed through the in-for-a-penny gate and uttered the word that sealed her fate with Darth Cooper.

“Deal.”

 CHAPTER EIGHT

The security guy at the VIP gate to the United Center executive suites was acting like Alex was a criminal. Or a Red Wings fan.

“Could you check again? My name is supposed to be on there.”

With a grimace of infinite patience, he consulted his list for the third time. “Nope.”

She was tempted to throw out a Hollywood-style Do you know who I am? but she refused to be one of those people. Feeling more anxious by the second, she checked her phone again.

Eli’s assistant, Whitney, had promised Alex’s name would be on the special list guaranteeing entry to where the beautiful ones hung out scarfing wings and pretending to watch the Chicago Blackhawks kill it on the ice. Executive suites were wasted on these people! Alex actually wanted to see the game—Hawks vs. Wings, who wouldn’t?—and was now realizing that she’d have better luck seeing it on her phone.

It was her own fault she was running forty-five minutes late. Blue, her crotchety old Chevy pickup, had chosen today to exact vengeance for not having been taken in for a winter tune-up. The old girl refused to start, every turnover of the engine sounding like “Fuck you, Alex. Good luck finding a cab.”

Then the cab she finally snagged after thirty minutes wasn’t allowed to enter the VIP parking lot, so she had to walk. Usually not a problem; bipedal locomotion was one of her many skills. But it had started to snow. Blizzard levels with wind gusts that had her questioning why she lived in a place where the air hurt her face. Oh, to be Snuggie-wrapped on her sofa with a burrito, a Goose Island IPA, and a binge watch of Homeland ahead of her.

The security guy stared her down. “You’re going to have to move aside, ma’am.”

Whitney wasn’t answering, which meant either Alex went home and looked like she’d blown it off or she’d have to call him. Except she no longer had his number because she had erased it before his eyes in protest. Nice goin’, dumbass.

While she was pondering her options, her phone rang. “Hello?”

“Thought you were raised not to speak to strangers.”

That lazy drawl coursed over her, shiver-shocking every cell. Since their “moment” in the closet, she had been far too aware of the sensual promise in that voice.

“You know me. I like to live dangerously.”

“Something you’re doing right now. Why the hell aren’t you here?”

“I am. I’m at the security gate and they can’t find my name—”

He swore in a manner that might lose the senior demographic.

“It’s not my fault,” she grated.

“It never is. Stay where you are.” He hung up.

She gave a “just my pal, the mayor” shrug at the security guy, but he was already talking on his phone, and three minutes later she was in the elevator to the penthouse suite level. The first thing she’d do would be hit the restroom to thaw out and check the madness known as her hair and—

The elevator doors split apart to reveal a harried, pixie-featured blonde. Slacking-on-the-job Whitney, Alex assumed.

“Where were you?”

“I’m sorry.” But Whitney was already manhandling her forward, and it took considerable muscle to manhandle Alex.

“The mayor’s been asking for you,” she said in a tone of disbelief.

Well, you probably should have made sure my name was on the list, chicky. Instead of griping, she cut the girl some slack. If she had to plan every minute of Dr. Evil’s day, she’d probably drop the ball on occasion, too. “I need to head to the restroom first.”

But her primping needs fell on deaf ears. This girl had a job to do: deliver lost firefighter to pissed-off mayor, and she was not stopping until the mission was accomplished.

The suite was The Tits: wall-to-wall flat screens, an amazing view of the ice, a full (open) bar, and . . . yes, food! Her stomach cheered. In an effort to lose a few pounds, she’d restricted today’s calorie intake to three Babybel cheese rounds and half a mint chocolate Clif bar.

Though it looked like she’d have competition for the nosh. There had to be at least fifty people here, a mix of Chicago celebrities and sports icons. She had walked into a Nike All-Stars commercial. Was that Billy Mendez, the pitcher for the Cubs, chatting with Bastian Durand, the Hawks’ injured right wing forward? And Jeremy Castiglione, the Bulls’ revered point guard? If these were the circles Eli moved in, then her dating options had just improved by a factor of ten thousand.

Except they would think she was already taken. Taken by the mayor.

Then all those dating options that were likely figments of her overoptimistic imagination vanished when she saw Eli.

Whoa. He wore black denim that hugged him in places she did not want to acknowledge but couldn’t help herself because hells yeah, the man looked amazing in jeans. Up top he rocked a well-cut sports jacket and a white shirt open at the neck, just like the night of the fire. But this was an intentional skin reveal. Intentional sexiness.

She wanted to lick the hollow at the base of his throat and work on down like a ravenous kitten. The thought made her nipples harden. Then it made her mad.

Dammit, nipples, stand down. It’s just a publicity stunt.

Beside him, inclining her head in a very intimate way, stood Madison Maitland, looking like she was fully recovered from her near brush with death a few days ago. As usual, she had it going on in a gorgeous emerald green wraparound dress that clung perfectly to her svelte body. Surprisingly the press had never made a big deal of her short-lived marriage to Eli, but then Alex supposed a PR guru like Madison Maitland was an expert at spinning a set of circumstances to her client’s advantage.

Only right this minute, they didn’t look like mere client-PR professional. Not one bit. Their cozy huddle set something dark and hungry clawing at Alex’s chest.

She raised her eyes to meet Eli’s penetrating gaze. He raked a thorough glance over Alex’s body, taking vicious inventory and making her question, oh, everything. Unlike Madison and practically every other woman in the suite, Alex looked like a schlub in her bulky parka and her Joan of Arctic snow boots. The fifteen minutes she had spent squeezing into her Gap jeans were today’s cardio.

Eli left his ex-wife/campaign manager/whatever and strode over. “You okay?” he asked, his voice intimate.

“Fine,” Alex muttered, suddenly shy. Probably for the best, because shy girls didn’t jump hot guys as if they stood between them and the buffet. Which, incidentally, he did.

“Give me your coat so Whitney can hang it.”

“Oh—oh, sure.” She made a move on the zipper of her parka, but her clumsy frozen fingers refused to cooperate.

He placed his hand over hers. Warmth zinged through her, snaking up her arm and radiating through her veins to the only destination that seemed to matter right now: the juncture of her thighs.

“Pretty chilly out there, huh?”

She nodded. Pretty warm in here, though. In her panties. Moving her hand aside, he pulled on the zipper. More puckering of the nipples. Nothing but heated silence from him. It was excruciating and unbearably arousing.

Say something , girl. Anything.

“Sorry I’m late. My dumb truck broke down and I had trouble finding a cab—fucking Uber—and then it wouldn’t drop me at the gate so I had to walk in the blizzard and . . . uh, I should shut up now.”

His intense expression broke into a smile that short-circuited her brain. How lucky a woman would be to be regularly pinned on the end of that smile. If only he’d smile and never speak, he would be perfect.

With the zipper finally down, he shrugged her parka off her shoulders. The action brought his hard, muscular self within extra-sinning distance. His warm breath glanced across her cheek.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You’d better,” she whispered, enjoying this intimacy before she recalled the true reason for her presence among the gods. “Have you talked to Sam Cochrane?”

“Not yet. But after tomorrow with a few pictures online, it won’t be necessary. It’ll be clear that you’re under my protection.”

My protection. Falling under a man’s shield was the one thing she had been fighting her whole life, but when Eli said it, she enjoyed an erotically forbidden thrill at the prospect.

“So how is this going to go down?”

“Go down?”

Did he have to repeat everything she said in a way that made it sound dirty? “The dating thing. Shouldn’t we discuss that?”

He leaned in close. Well, closer. “I was thinking we’d just do what came naturally.”

N to the O. If she did what “came naturally,” she’d be licking the stubble off that jaw in ten seconds. Ground rules needed, stat.

“I don’t think you should get too . . . handsy.”

“Define handsy. Two hands? One? How many fingers are considered beyond the pale?”

Two fingers would do nicely, thanks.

“Just n-no kissing, okay?” she hissed, irked with herself for letting every word he said filter through her imagination and emerge as an intoxicating brew of top-shelf filth. The fully stocked bar was starting to look very inviting.

“No kissing,” he murmured as he passed her parka off to Whitney, who had faded in like Ghost Assistant, doing her freakin’ job at last. “Where?”

“Anywhere!”

“Just checking.” He grinned, smug with getting a rise out of her. “You have to occasionally smile at what I say. That’s why you’re here, my sweet.”

“Try to be charming instead of your usual moronic self, and the pearly whites might make an appearance. So what’s happening tonight other than the game?”

“There’s press here to capture our burgeoning affair.” Said so casually that her pulse rate didn’t even spike. Maybe there was hope she could become immune to his masculine wiles. “We’ll take a few photos, visit with the players in the locker room after the game. Given where you work, I expect you can handle that.”

“Believe me, I’ve seen enough naked men on the job that I could sue the city and make out like a bandit for a hostile work environment.” At his look of concern, she clarified. “I can handle a little penis, Eli.”

He let loose a full-throated laugh that made her feel like she was wearing a sweater on the inside. So much for that masculine wiles immunity. If only he would smile and laugh, but never speak. Then he would be perfect.

“Hopefully you won’t have to handle a little penis, Alexandra.”

Their gazes locked for a long beat, too protracted for the risqué comments to be passed off as anything but flirting. And not the fake kind, either. At least twenty seconds went by, which was a really long time when a man this powerful and attractive and damn him, sexy, was keeping you in place under his commanding touch.

“Drink?” He pressed a large hand to the small of her back, and her body lit up again. This way, Alex, to a night of sensual torture.

Make hers a double.

Eli was having second thoughts. And third, fourth, and fifth ones. Pity he couldn’t say the same for Alexandra Dempsey, who seemed to be enjoying herself immensely with a man who was not him.

So he had temporarily abandoned her. He couldn’t stay joined at the hip with her, not when everyone was vying for his attention, and not when he wanted to join other parts of his body to hers and growl, “Mine.”

But she’d recovered from his absence with aplomb. She should have been bored stiff by Matt Cuddy, travel director for the Hawks. A former player, he liked to yammer on about how his knee blowout ruined his career five years ago. Not bad to look at, but otherwise the human equivalent of wet linguine. Like most hockey players.

Yet she was laughing at everything he said as though he were the funniest guy on the planet, in a way that she did not laugh with Eli. She had looked like a fiery vision when she’d exploded into the suite over an hour ago. Hair in a hullabaloo, gilded skin flushed like she’d fought a war to get here, her perfect breasts pulling fondly at the wool of her zipped sweater . . .

Those breasts were a menace. She was a menace.

This was what his life had devolved to: sneaking glances at a girl he liked from the back row of eighth-grade English while she flirted with the jock. Oh yeah, and he had lied to a woman to force her to spend time with him.

Two days ago at Engine Company 6, every argument he’d made to persuade her to cross over to the dark side had come up empty. He had not fired her brother. Nada. He had not fired her. Zilch. He had kept Cochrane off her back last summer. Who cares? Nothing made an impact, and as she waltzed out of that office, her body language singing an aria at having escaped his plans for her, he had panicked.

Eli never panicked. Not as a Marine. Not as an assistant state’s attorney. Not as the mayor. But the idea of her walking out that door and not being his had sent his brain into lockdown. And apparently, the only way to reboot it was to blurt out that lie.

Sam Cochrane is threatening to sue you, instead of the less adversarial and much more romantic Let me take you to dinner.

Asking Alexandra on a real date should have been his first option, but too much had passed between them. Basically, the woman despised him—well, not his body, if that blistering kiss in the city hall storeroom was anything to go by—but the top note in their relationship was loathing. So the date option was bumped for the “you’re about to be sued and made bankrupt” option. Because nothing spelled romance like the threat of legal proceedings.

Eli Cooper, you are one sick son of a bitch.

There was nothing for it now but to plow forward and make the best of it. All Alexandra needed to know was his imaginary protection from this imaginary lawsuit. And in the meantime, he would get to know her and watch the sparks between them ignite into a bonfire.

Time to get cracking on the kindling. Matt’s questionable charms appeared to be wearing off—Alexandra’s eyes kept wandering away from him to the buffet on the sideboard. Excellent. Eli had found his way in. After a moment loading up a plate for her, he approached just in time to overhear Matt bemoaning how hard it was to get 150 hotel rooms at short notice, especially in the postseason.

“No trouble this last year, though,” came Alexandra’s response.

Matt looked affronted.

“Because the Hawks sucked ass in the postseason,” she explained.

“Yeah, I got it,” Matt said.

Eli coughed to hide his laugh. No wonder she couldn’t keep a man. Now for the next move in Operation Date-a-Firefighter.

Honey, you must be starved. Have a bite to eat.

Oh, thanks, Mr. May—I mean, Eli. Cue shy grin. How thoughtful.

He circled his prey, bared his metaphorical fangs (in the form of a selection of tasty finger foods), and . . . discovered to his chagrin he had been outflanked by Bastian Fucking Durand. Damn puck chaser.

“You looked like you could do with a little something,” Durand was saying to Alexandra as he deposited a plateful of food into her hands.

Her mouth dropped open at the sight, either in surprise at his consideration or in full-on drool because she was hungry. “Probably should get my foot out of my mouth and fill it with something else, you mean?”

All three men stared at her.

“Uh, food, you guttersnipes.” She popped a meatball into her mouth and turned to Eli with an eyebrow arch at the plate in his hands. “Is that for me, Mr. Mayor?”

“No. It’s all mine and you can’t have any.”

She tried her best not to smile. Damn if he didn’t enjoy this woman a little too much.

“Think I’ll grab a beer.” Matt moved away, then seemed to remember his manners. “Can I get you something?”

“I’m fine.” Alexandra blew out a breath as Matt loped off. “Another one bites the dust,” she murmured to no one in particular.

“I’m Bastian,” Durand said, as if Eli wasn’t there and Durand’s identity wasn’t known by everyone in Chicago. “And you’re Sexy Lexi. I saw you on the news.”

“Yeah, well, it’s all been overblown,” she mumbled, then chowed down on another meatball.

“Nothing hotter than a woman with an ax,” Durand said with a lascivious wink.

Eli balled his fists, inched closer to his soon-to-be-fake date, and brushed his knuckles at the base of her spine. Her surprised intake of breath was immensely gratifying. “Why, do you have a car that needs refinishing?” he asked Durand.

Ignoring him, the Meathead from Montreal went on. “Always wanted to be a fireman. I even applied back in Canada but then I was drafted by the NHL.” He lifted one shoulder in that lazy French way. Saving lives or glory on the rink? So hard to decide, that shrug said.

“How’s your groin?” Alexandra asked.

“What?” Eli blurted at the same time Durand said, “Pardon?”

“Your groin pull. I heard that’s what put you on the bench. My brother Wy’s a big fan. He’s going to be stoked I met you.”

“My groin”—Durand paused for effect—“is getting strong-geh ev-very day.”

Alexandra laughed, a rather coquettish tinkle. Jesus H.

“Last summer,” Durand continued in that annoyingly French tone, “the team got a tour of the firehouse academy, the Quinn. They said it was built on the site of the Great Chicago Fire.”

“Where they think it originated.”

“Started by a woman.”

Both of them turned to Eli, who had felt a pressing need to interject at this point. Alexandra gifted him the stabby eyes of death. “Excuuuse me?”

“The legend goes that Mrs. O’Leary’s cow was to blame. So we have a woman and her female livestock . . .”

Ever seen a cat arch its back and bristle? That’s what his sexy firefighter did right then. “Are you blaming a fire that destroyed two-thirds of the city on a woman? Because she was a woman? Or her cow? Because it was female?”

“I’m probably being too hard on the dumb bovine,” Eli explained in his most patronizing voice. “If the woman had tied up her cow properly, the city wouldn’t have burnt to the ground.”

Passion widened those melted shamrock eyes and sent her voice into a spike. “Burning to the ground was the best thing to ever happen to this city. Architects swarmed in, looking to rebuild, culminating in the World’s Fair. This city is beautiful because of Mrs. O’Leary and her cow.” She glared at him. “So you need to apologize.”

“To Mrs. O’Leary or the cow?”

“To the entirety of womankind, you ass.”

He grinned.

She sighed. “Why do I let you do this?”

“I don’t know. But I should have waited until I had you alone so I could take advantage of all that passion of yours.”

Blushing, she lowered her dark lashes tinged with copper so they spread like decorative fans on her cheeks. He loved getting her flustered. After fantasizing about her stretched out beneath him, or on her knees before him, or in every single lurid sexual position his filthy mind could conjure, getting Alexandra Dempsey flustered was his next favorite thing in the world.

“Anyway, it’s been pretty much debunked,” she went on, plucking an egg roll off the plate he had brought over. His chest warmed at this small victory. “The reporter who broke the story said he invented Mrs. O’Leary’s involvement. Anti-Irish sentiment.”

“Irish,” he mused. “But, of course, it’s all clear now, Firefighter Dempsey.”

She broke into a husky, good-time-girl laugh that warmed other parts of his anatomy. “You’re such a dick.”

Bastian Durand was staring at them. In fact, they’d attracted quite an audience, including assorted members of the press. He’d have liked to say his intention in sparking Alexandra’s emerald eyes and saucy mouth to life was purely political, to get those hacks gossiping, but it would have been a lie. His intentions were far more depraved than anything a politician could claim.

They held each other’s gaze, the moment exquisite and strung on a wire. This time, she didn’t duck or hide. This time, she accepted his appraisal as well she should. She was a frighteningly beautiful woman and she deserved his utmost attention.

“Did you always want to be a politician?” she asked with a wry twist to her mouth. “Because you haven’t got a diplomatic bone in your body.”

He wanted to laugh, because she was being a good sport when he didn’t deserve it for teasing her and because no one harbors childhood fantasies of being a politician. “I wanted to be a lawyer.”

Durand regarded him with undisguised disdain. So lawyers and politicians were lower on the glamour scale than firefighters and hockey players, it seemed.

“Like your father,” Alexandra said, her big eyes watching him carefully. “You wanted to follow in his footsteps.”

He nodded, relief coursing through his veins that she understood. They both recognized the importance of legacies.

“That’s how it was for me, as well,” she said. “Before I even knew what firefighting was, I had the itch for it. Dad would come home, smelling of smoke, and he’d . . .” A watercolor pink bloomed on her cheeks as she trailed off. “Well, I knew.”

Evidently embarrassed at her admission, she slid her gaze to the rink. The Hawks were on the wrong end of a 4—1 score line with a minute left on the clock.

“Kane, get your stick out of your ass and hit the puck!” She shook her head. “If they keep playing like that, Matt’s not going to have much to do come playoff season.”

Eli heard a cough behind him.

With an oh-well shrug, Alexandra turned her head. “Sorry, Matty. Even with your gimpy knee and Durand’s dodgy crotch, you could do better than that lot out there.”