who was making it in the big city.
“If I didn’t offend you,” she asked, “what is bothering you?”
She turned toward him now, so that her breast rubbed against his arm. And her knee pushed against the side of his thigh. Every muscle tightened in his body.
“I said you hadn’t offended me,” he replied, “I didn’t say that you weren’t bothering me.” She was bothering the hell out of him right now. She was so damn hot that he felt as if his skin was sizzling despite the fabric between them.
Her mouth—wide and sexy, with full, shiny lips—curved into a smile. She leaned a little closer—maybe because it was loud in the bar, maybe just to tease him. In a husky, seductive whisper, she asked, “How am I bothering you?”
By breathing...
Every breath she drew pushed her breast against his arm. It was full and soft and warm. He struggled to hold his gaze up, to stop it from slipping down to her chest. But focusing on her face was just as dangerous. She was movie-star beautiful. Her golden skin highlighted her unusual turquoise eyes even more, making them shine brighter.
He’d seen eyes like that before—actually, two sets of eyes that had looked exactly like hers. So maybe they weren’t that unusual. Hell, hers could have been colored contacts, but he was close enough—staring intently enough into them—that he would have noticed the telltale rims of the lenses.
She was really that naturally beautiful. His uneasiness grew, and he drew in a deep breath. Big mistake. She smelled of sunshine and wildflowers. Was it her or some expensive perfume made to smell like nature?
She leaned even closer, but thankfully she was much smaller than he was, so her lips were nowhere near his mouth. Just his throat...
He swallowed hard when her warm breath slid over his neck, as she asked again, “How am I bothering you?”
He eased back as far as he could in the booth. And reminding himself, he said, “You’re a reporter.”
The media had made the biggest tragedy of his childhood—hell, his life—even worse. They had exploited his mother’s pain and his.
She laughed. “You make it sound like I’m a serial killer.” But he hadn’t offended her; amusement sparkled in her eyes.
“You might be as dangerous.”
“Why?” she asked. “I only report the news.”
He snorted. “Or you make news out of nothing.”
“Nothing? That fire wasn’t nothing,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “But it was several weeks ago. It’s time to let it die now.” Like the fire had died—except for the hot spots that sprang up every once in a while. That was why, except for the occasional trip out West to relieve crews there, his team was sticking close to Northern Lakes—to protect the town.
“There’s more to the story,” she said.
He wasn’t supposed to comment. But he hadn’t been told not to question. And since he wanted to know what she knew—or suspected—he asked, “What?”
“You.”
And he laughed, even as nerves clutched his stomach.
“I know,” she said. “I know that Wyatt Andrews wasn’t the real hero that day—you were.”
He tensed. He hated that word—hated even more how easily it was used to describe someone who was just doing his job. He shook his head.
“I know,” she said. “I have sources.
He laughed again. “Your sources are wrong.”
“My sources were there,” she said. “In a shelter that you brought when you and another firefighter found the campers and Wyatt Andrews. My sources were with you—in one of those shelters.”
“Kade and Ian,” he said. That was where he’d seen her eye color before—when those terrified twins had stared up at him as they’d asked him if they were going to die. No, he’d told them, and had hoped like hell he wasn’t lying. “Your younger brothers?”
“Nephews,” she said, and pride and affection warmed those beautiful eyes. “They are alive today because of you.”
“Wyatt—”
“Wyatt Andrews didn’t have enough shelters for all of the campers. If you hadn’t brought the extra ones...” She shuddered.
He lifted his arm to the back of the booth, tempted to slide it around her—to offer her comfort. But the boys were fine. He hadn’t had to lie to them.
“Everybody survived,” he said.
“Because of you!”
He shook his head. “Because of the team.”
“But you deserve to be personally acknowledged like Wyatt Andrews was,” she insisted. “Let me do a special feature—about you.”
At the thought of all those reporters focused on him, shoving mics in his face, asking him questions, he shuddered. He’d endured too much of that as a kid. “Hell, no!”
She flinched, making him regret the harshness of his refusal.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be hounded by the media again—couldn’t have his life laid bare for all the world to see. Because they wouldn’t be happy reporting just the current event. They would drag up his past and his pain...
“Why not?” she asked.
He forced a grin and told her, “There’s nothing special about me. I’m just a man doing my job.”
“A dangerous, heroic job,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s not the only dangerous profession. You have plenty of other subjects for your special features.”
“But I want you.” She reached out and brushed her fingertips over his chest.
Beneath her touch, his heart slammed against his ribs; it began to pound fast and hard. If only...
But she was playing him, just working him over so he’d agree to her interview. He shook his head.
“Let me do the feature on you,” she said, “as a thank-you for saving my nephews.”
He chuckled. “That’s the last way I’d want to be thanked.”
Her eyes narrowed for a moment, and she studied his face as if trying to figure out why he wanted no publicity. Then her eyes brightened as they sparkled again with amusement. “Well, I did have another idea of how to thank you...”
He knew he was going to hate himself for asking, but he couldn’t resist. “How’s that?”
She pitched her voice to that low, husky whisper again and leaned closer—so
