Jill Shalvis
Flashpoint
The first book in the American Heroes: The Firefighters series
Prologue
“Now’s your shot with me, Zach. I say we get naked.”
Exhausted, filthy, Zach Thomas still managed to lift his head and stare at Cristina. “What?”
Just as filthy, she arched a come-hither brow streaked with soot, which made it difficult to take her seriously. So did the mustache of grime. “You and me,” she said. “Naked. What do you think?”
He couldn’t help it; he laughed. He thought that she was crazy. They both wore their fire gear and were dragging their asses after several hours of intense firefighting. All around them, the stench of smoke and devastation still swirled in thick gray clouds, penetrating their outfits, their skin. Nothing about it felt sexy.
“Hey, nobody laughs at my offer of sex and lives,” she told him. “Not even you, Officer Hottie.”
When he grimaced at the nickname, she laughed. “You doing me tonight or not?”
Sex as a relaxant worked-generally speaking, sex as anything worked-but Zach was so close to comatose he couldn’t have summoned the energy to pull her close, much less do anything about it once he got her that way. “I can’t.”
“Now we both know that’s a lie.”
Firefighting left some people exhilarated and pumped with adrenaline. Cristina was one of them. Normally he was, too, but they’d just lost a civilian-an innocent young kid-and he couldn’t get that out of his head. “I can’t,” he repeated.
Cristina sighed. She was in her midtwenties, blond, and so pretty she could have passed for an actress playing a firefighter, but she was the real deal, as good as any guy on the squad. She was also tough-skinned, cynical and possessed a tongue that could lash a person dead without trying.
He should know; he’d been on the wrong end of it plenty of times. So he braced himself, but she just sighed again. As sardonic and caustic as she could be, they really were friends. Twice they’d been friends with benefits, but it had been a while. She let it go, rolling her eyes at him, but moving off, leaving him alone.
He stood there a moment more, surrounded by chaos, his gear weighing seventy-five pounds but feeling like three hundred as the radio on his hip squawked. Allan Stone, their new chief, was ordering everyone off the scene except the mop-up crew, who would stay through what was left of the night to make sure there were no flare-ups. Tommy Ramirez, the fire inspector, was already on scene, his job just beginning.
Zach’s crew was slowly making their way to their respective rigs. He needed to move, as well, but his gut was screaming on this one-someone had set this blaze intentionally. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time he’d suspected arson when no one else had. Even more unfortunately, the last two times he’d thought so, he’d been reprimanded by Tommy for having an “authority” issue.
He didn’t.
Okay, maybe he had a slight authority issue, sometimes, but not tonight.
He could ask Aidan what he thought but Zach knew what his firefighting partn and best friend would say. Grab a beer, a woman and a bed, in any order. And if Zach called Cristina back, he could knock out two of the three. Yeah, that was what he should do.
So why he headed toward the burned-out shell of a house instead, he had no idea, except that he trusted himself enough to know something was off here.
Something big.
And he couldn’t just walk away from it.
He never could.
Chapter 1
Brooke was a virgin. Not in the classic sense of the word-that status had changed on her seventeenth Halloween night when she’d dressed as an evil, slutty witch and given in to a very naughty knight in shining armor- but that was another story.
She was a California virgin, but as she drove up the coast for the first time and into the small town of Santa Rey, she lost that cherry, as well.
Santa Rey was a classic West Coast beach town, mixing the best elements of Mexico and Mediterranean architecture, all within steps of the beach shimmering brilliantly on her left. There were outdoor cafes, shops and art galleries, skateboarders and old ladies vying for the sidewalks with surfers and snotty tourists, and if she hadn’t been so nervous, she might have taken the time to enjoy it all more.
She took a last glance at her quickly scrawled directions, following them to Firehouse 34. Parking, she peered through her windshield at the place, nerves wriggling like pole dancers in her belly.
A new job as a temp EMT-emergency medical technician.
One would think that after all the moves and all the fresh starts she’d made in her lifetime that new would be old hat to her by now, but truthfully she’d never quite gotten the hang of it.
The Pacific Ocean pounded the surf behind her as she got out of her car. The hot, salty June air brushed across her face as her nerves continued to dance. What was it her mother had said every time she’d uprooted them to follow yet another get-rich-quick scheme or new boyfriend or some other ridiculous notion?
It will be okay. You’ll see. And though her mother had been wrong about so many things, somehow it really had always been okay. Today would be no different. The azure sky held a single white puffy cloud hanging high over a dreamy sea dotted with whitecaps and a handful of sailboats. Three-foot waves hit the sand, splashing the pelicans fishing for their morning meal. Nice…if she had to make yet another new start, this didn’t seem like such a bad way to go.
Hitching her bag up on her shoulder, Brooke started toward the station, a two-story brick-red structure with white trim and a yard filled with grass and wildflowers swaying in the breeze.
In the huge opened garage sat three fire trucks and an ambulance. One wall was lined with equipment such as hoses and ladders.
Surfboards leaned against the outside of the building. Oak trees dotted the edge of the property, and between the two largest, near the path to the front door, a man swung on a large hammock.
A man with broad shoulders, long legs and the unmistakable build of an athlete. His boots lay on the grass beneath him, as well as a discarded button-down shirt, leaving him in blue uniform pants slid just low enough on his hips to reveal a strip of black BVDs. His white T-shirt invited the general public to bite him. He had his hands clasped behind his head, and a large straw hat covered his face. His stillness suggested he was deeply asleep.
She slowed to a tiptoe, trying not to stare but failing. She was petite, and therefore constantly had to prove to people how strong she could be, but she’d bet he’d never had to prove anything; even from his prone position, he radiated strength and confidence. Of course that long, tough body didn’t hurt, with all that aesthetically pleasing sinew defined even as he snoozed.
She envied the nap. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken one. Or the last time she’d taken a moment to just lie on a hammock and soak up the sun.
Or even just to breathe, for that matter.
