Hot to Touch. Kimberly Kaye Terry

aware that she’d heard at least part of the discussion. Despite that, along with the accompanying tension so thick in the room she could cut it with a knife, Emma nodded and stepped inside the office, closing the door behind her.

      The office was small, but everything was neat and orderly. An oversize, scratched, oak desk took up most of the room, upon which two monitors sat. One was a computer, and the other seemed like some type of weather-monitoring system.

      “Have a seat, Emma. We can go over the particulars of the article. Your expectations and ours.”

      “What did you have to do to get this job?” Before Emma could take the offered seat, Shane spoke, surprising her, turning to face her.

      “So you can speak. I thought you were just here for my viewing pleasure.” Before she knew it, her mouth started in, before her head could rule it out, the retort tripping off her tongue.

      Shane’s expression darkened, his brows nearly meeting in the middle as he took two steps toward her and stopped. “What is that supposed to mean?”

      “Whatever you want it to mean.” Emma shrugged. “Probably the same thing you meant when—”

      “Shane,” Roebuck broke in. “Emma, before this goes any further, let’s all sit down, discuss this like we have some sense.”

      Emma fully faced Shane, her anger rising. She crossed her arms over her chest, keeping her expression light. “Well, you were asking me how I got the job?” she baited Shane. “Just what did you mean by that?”

      “You call yourself Gene Raw, right?”

      “Yes. And your point would be?”

      “My point is you seem to be…billing yourself as one thing when you’re selling something else entirely.”

      “I’m not selling myself as anything other than what I am. A damn good photojournalist.” Emma brushed off his not so subtle innuendo and focused on the latter part of his sentence.

      “I don’t get how having a pen name makes me seem as though I’m billing myself—or as you like to say, ‘selling’ myself—in any way different than who I am.” Emma stopped and drew in a deep breath. “And I do that purely because of men like you. Men who think that just because I’m a woman, I’m not as capable in doing my job as any other journalist. I don’t have to—”

      “Look,” he interrupted. “I don’t pretend to know how it works in your world. I don’t give a damn one way or another. What I do know is that lives are on the line here. There is no time for play, this is real—”

      “And how will my presence here alter that?” Emma bit out angrily, her chest heaving, brushing against the hard wall of his abdomen.

      She took a step back.

      It was then that she noticed how close they stood to each other. One or both of them had moved so that they were so close they were touching. Emma caught the subtle hint of his cologne, mixed with his natural scent, wafting across her nose.

      After backing up, she continued. “I didn’t get any special favors to get this job. I worked hard for it, just like I have for everything I’ve ever gotten. Every accomplishment I’ve ever had was because I worked hard for it.” She emphasized each word, unwanted emotion burning the back of her throat.

      “No one gave me any special consideration.” She made one more attempt at civility, desperately trying to bring her anger and threatening tears under control.

      “I’m sure you did nothing to get any favors, Ms. Raw,” he said, emphasizing her pen name. He just wouldn’t let it go.

      “Like I said, I got this job fair and square, Mr. Westwood. And unless you want a sexual-harassment claim slapped on you and the rest of this camp, I suggest you put on your big-boy panties and deal with it.”

      The back of her teeth hurt so badly from clenching them that she knew that as soon as she reached her room she’d have to pull out her industrial-sized, extrastrength Motrin to rid herself of the pain.

      Turning on her heels, she strode toward the door. If the door slammed back against the hinges with more force than necessary, she didn’t really give a damn.

      To hell with not allowing her anger to show. If only he wasn’t so fine.

      Chapter Four

      Shane threw his workout gear on the floor, and then grabbed his duffel bag from the chair in the corner and tossed it onto his bed. He yanked open the zipper and began to unpack, separating his clothes, his thoughts on the woman foisted on him by the general manager.

      He still hadn’t unpacked since his return. Although he had a place in town, he’d decided to stay at the station to keep an eye on the reporter.

      He’d been so tired after coming home that the only thing he’d wanted to do was lie down for a week straight and not think about the fire that claimed the lives of three civilians or the havoc it had wreaked on the small Alaskan community. He certainly didn’t want to think about the helplessness he’d felt watching families lose their homes, all their possessions, with nothing left but the clothes on their backs.

      He didn’t want to think of any of it.

      No, he’d wanted to chill and put all thoughts of the fire and the destruction out of his mind, decompress after the physically and mentally draining ordeal and indulge in a little mindless rest and relaxation.

      Well, that was shot to hell, he thought, dumping the rest of his clothes in the hamper in disgust.

      From the moment he laid eyes on Emogene Rawlings, his gut told him she was nothing but trouble wrapped up in a little package, big brown doe eyes staring at him. She might have fooled the others with her demure smile, dimples flashing, but he caught the speculating look in her eyes when she didn’t think he was looking at her. Sizing him up, no doubt, figuring out which angle to take to win him over. Even as he had the thought, he remembered the hurt look she tried to hide when he’d all but accused her of her sleeping her way to get what she wanted.

      He felt a momentary stab of remorse, remembering the sheen of tears she’d tried like hell to hide. But he hardened himself against the look, and the way he’d wanted to apologize for the unnecessary remark.

      It wasn’t going to work, not on him. He was on to her game. Their heated exchange echoed in his mind, reinforcing his belief that the kitty definitely had claws.

      As he unpacked the remaining items from his duffel bag, the image of her legs as she rappelled flashed in his mind’s eye, her strong, lean muscles flexing as she pushed off the wall.

      She had the kind of legs a man dreamed about, the kind he could imagine wrapped around his waist as he drove into her perfect little body.

      “Damn!” he mumbled, shaking his head as though to purge the image of her long legs, along with what he wanted to do with them, from his mind.

      He angrily dumped the few clean items he had into one of his drawers.

      Before he turned from the dresser, he glanced down at the small, 3 x 5 framed picture, the only picture he had in his room. A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth, replacing his frown. He looked at the image staring back at him, of the two men grinning ear to ear, faces covered in soot, as though they’d just conquered the world. He ran a finger over the edges of the frame before lifting the photo from the dresser.

      It had been taken not long after completing his training. He and Kyle had just returned from fighting a forest fire in Idaho, a grueling job that had taken three weeks just to get the fire under control. His glance slid to the woman directly behind them, the smile slipping from his face.

      Ciara Summers. The woman responsible for the death of his best friend.

      The memories hit him hard, replaying in his mind, reel by reel, as though from some old movie.

      Shane hit the ground, removed