Where There's Smoke. Kristin Hardy

cool of the garage. A compact, dark-haired man with a boyish face stacked air canisters against the wall. A young firefighter in a Red Sox cap swept the floor around the trucks. The sweeping came to an abrupt halt as he glanced up, hastily setting the broom aside and wiping off his hands as Sloane approached. “Can I help you?”

      The click of her heels rang in the cavernous garage. “Hello.” She smiled, wondering if he could have been a day past nineteen. “I’m looking for Nick Trask.”

      The boy was blushing, trying to act cool. “The captain? I think he’s up in his office. I’ll go get him.”

      The dark-haired firefighter turned before they took two steps. “Yo, Red! She looking for Trask?”

      Sloane froze, her chest suddenly constricted.

      “He’s not up in his office. He’s with O’Hanlan.” The man pointed toward the ladder truck at the far side of the garage. “Over there.”

      “Thanks, Beaulieu.” The boy smiled shyly. “My mistake.” He looked at Sloane more closely. “Are you okay?”

      Sloane forced herself to breathe. “I’m fine, thanks.” She saw it now, bright auburn hair curling around the edges of his ball cap. “I knew someone else called Red once.”

      “My name’s Jim Sorensen,” he said ruefully, taking his hat off and scrubbing it through his wavy brush. “But you know how it goes. They took one look at my hair and that was that.”

      “I know how it goes,” she agreed.

      “Okay, I’ve got hold of the nut if you can get the bolt through,” Nick muttered, jaw set in concentration. “Let’s give it a push and get the holes lined up.” They leaned on the ladder together and the metal creaked as it moved.

      “Let me get my hand in there. It’s just about…ah!” O’Hanlan cursed to the ceiling as he barked his knuckles on unforgiving metal. “I signed up to be a firefighter, not a damn mechanic.”

      “You were the one who was dead against calling in the motor squad,” Nick reminded him. “Come on, action guy, repeat power steering to yourself three times and let’s try it again.”

      “Power steering, power steering, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” O’Hanlan’s voice rose an octave. “There’s no place—” Abruptly he gave a low whistle. “Well, well, well. Looks like I should have volunteered for clean-up detail.”

      Without turning, Nick knew it was a woman. Her voice floated over to them, low, slightly rough, a smoky contralto that belonged in the bedroom and made him tighten before he ever looked at her. When he did, the first thing he saw was her hair. She had it pulled back and looped up in a clip, but not bound into submission. It was thick, nearly down to her waist, he’d guess, and flamed a deep, splendid red. The face…the face went with the voice, decidedly, recklessly sensual. Slavic cheekbones, challenging eyes, a mouth that made him wonder how it would feel on his skin. Her narrow, forest-green suit played up the sleek curves of her body enough to make his imagination temporarily run rampant. There was more, something about the lift to her shoulders, the cool self-assurance in her stance that intrigued and enticed him.

      “Look at Red.” O’Hanlan chuckled. “He’s falling all over himself, poor kid.” He turned back around. “Hey, Nick?”

      He’d been staring, Nick realized, shaking himself loose. “And you, of course, are a master of self-control.” He gave O’Hanlan a derisive look before bending back to the ladder. “C’mon, let’s finish this.”

      “I’m a happily married man,” O’Hanlan reminded him, grunting as he leaned on the ladder and threaded the bolt in place. “And Leanne would skin me alive if she caught me looking at another woman.” O’Hanlan peeked over his shoulder at the approaching redhead. “Which is why I do it here.”

      Nick squeezed his hand in between ladder struts to work a nut onto the bolt. “Stick to fighting fires,” he advised, manipulating the wrench expertly. “It’s safer.”

      “Hello? Excuse me?” The words echoed up from beside the truck. “I’m looking for Nick Trask.”

      At close range her voice whispered over his skin and into his bones, mesmerizing, arousing. He leaned across the top of the ladder until their eyes locked. Up close, she was all the glimpse had promised and more. “I’m Nick Trask. Give me a minute, I’ll be right with you.”

      “A minute?” O’Hanlan grinned. “Take over for me here and I’ll be down there in thirty seconds.”

      “Easy, big fella.” Nick passed the wrench to O’Hanlan and patted him on the shoulder. “Skinned alive, remember? Save your strength for Leanne.”

      She’d always been a sucker for men in uniform, Sloane thought, watching the lean, stripped-down lines of his body as he swung down from the ladder truck. That was all it was. Of course, he filled the uniform as though it had been designed for him. Off limits, she reminded herself. She didn’t do firefighters. He neared and Sloane’s pulse skittered unevenly, then steadied.

      “Nick Trask,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

      Dark, Sloane thought, and dangerous. His looks hit her with the slamming impact of a hundred-mile-an-hour collision. Black hair, tanned, almost swarthy skin and eyes darker than jet combined on a face that simultaneously compelled and alarmed. It was a face that was not so much conventionally handsome as it was filled with the essential character of the man.

      Her guard was up in a heartbeat.

      “Sloane Hillyard, Exler Corporation.” She reached out her hand when he drew near. “Councilman Ayre’s office asked me to stop by.” She wasn’t sure what she found more disconcerting, the almost imperceptible chill that swept over his face as she spoke, or the flush of heat that assaulted her at the touch of his hand. Nerves, she told herself. She was just on edge over being in a firehouse again. “Nice to meet you, Captain Trask.”

      “And you.” There was a cursory politeness in his voice but no warmth. This close to him Sloane could see that his eyes weren’t black. They were deep gray, the color of darkest smoke, the color of a stormy sky at dusk. “What can I do for you and the councilman?”

      Focus, Sloane reminded herself. “I’m here for our meeting.”

      “Our meeting?”

      “I called to confirm yesterday.”

      “I didn’t get any…” He checked himself and pulled a pink slip of paper covered in illegible script from his pocket. “Ah. This must be you. Sorry, but I didn’t get this until about five minutes ago and it’s been a really hectic day, so if—”

      “That’s all right,” she cut in smoothly. “I’ll only need a few minutes of your time. We need to talk about the gear.”

      “The gear?” He put his hands on his hips and gave a nod. “Ayre doesn’t waste time, I’ll give him that.”

      Sloane didn’t need to know the reason for the sarcasm to understand that she was at least a partial target. Irritation pricked at her. “We need to talk about scheduling, plan the testing,” she continued, not about to be derailed. “Councilman Ayre’s office—”

      “Yeah, I know, Councilman Ayre’s office.” Nick cut her off, glancing at the number of men with sudden, pressing business in the immediate vicinity. “Look, let’s go to my office and you can tell me what Ayre’s up to this time.”

      He didn’t offer it as a choice, but in the clipped tone of command. “Yes sir,” Sloane muttered, following him up the stairs. Perhaps the man could put out fires, but graciousness was clearly not his strong suit.

      Nor, she thought a moment later, was neatness.

      “Right through there. Have a seat.”

      Sloane stood in the doorway of his tiny office and threw a glance of disbelief at the