Hot Nights with the Fireman (21 page)

A dash upstairs and a quick search of her loft-apartment uncovered a king-size emerald bed sheet, a stepladder, and a staple gun. When she returned to the main gallery floor, the reporters called to her through the hole in her front window.

“Ms. Rose, any comment on your father's disappearance?”

“Ms. Rose, what do you say to the hundreds of families out in the cold tonight thanks to your father's theft?”

From the vantage point of the stepladder, Ari sagged under the day's emotional toll, leaving her completely unable to sift through the recommended lawyer-type answers, and she muttered the first thing that came to mind, “Let them eat cake.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she blanched, knowing she'd regret them sorely.

With a deep breath, in a louder voice, she found her standard answer, “All questions regarding the Stanley Rose investigation should be directed to the law firm of Arnault and Skaten. I am happy, however, to field any questions about the upcoming Rose Gallery new artist show.” There, that would show them. Way to keep her cool in the face of adversity, she thought, conveniently ignoring her Marie Antoinette gaffe. A year ago no one had thought she'd be able to purchase and open an art gallery, but she'd done it, even under the scrutiny of her father's scandal.

Silence fell from the press, and then the roar of questions started up again. Of course, all about her dad. With a huff of annoyance, Ari swept up the sheet and stapled it to the top wall corner then made her way to the other side to repeat. The hard press of the staple gun felt good. She slammed a few more staples into the wall, fixing the sheet to block out the camera crews, fantasizing each staple pounding into her father's traitorous, blackened heart.

With a snort of disgust, Lance clicked off the six o'clock news on what may have been the last non-flat-screen television left in northern Virginia. “‘Let them eat cake'? What a heartless bitch.” Albeit a smoking hot one, if you went for that curvy, let's-have-sex-all-night redheaded look, which he did. But a woman had to have a heart to score his attention for more than a minute. She reminded Lance of all the girls he'd grown up with—status conscious and only worried about their next ski vacation. Thank God he'd escaped that world.

“Arianna's not at all bitchy once you get to know her,” Jason said. “In fact, she's hilarious.”

He eyed his good friend. “You're biased. She's Valerie's best friend, Valerie's your wife, ergo…”

“‘Ergo' what?” Jason asked with an amused smile and leaned back into the nondescript beige corduroy recliner.

Lance took a long pull of his Sam Adams before answering. “Ergo, you don't insult the best friend if you want to get laid. Even I know that, and I've never been married.” Jason could defend her all he wanted, but a woman like Stanley Rose's daughter ought to have known better than to mutter something like that with a camera crew nearby.

Jason released a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “And you're never getting married if you hole up in here moping.”

“I'm not moping,” Lance protested, even though Jason was right. Ever since the shooting, he'd stayed close to home, venturing out only for physical therapy and supplies in the form of beer and frozen pizza. He ignored his buddy's raised brow and took another swig of his beer. He'd better stop at this bottle if he wanted to make a good showing at physical therapy tomorrow and prove to the powers-that-be he was ready to return to work.

The damn physical therapy was torture, but it was necessary if he wanted to be back guarding POTUS in six weeks, which he most certainly did.

Jason laughed. “You have been hiding, but hell, I'd hide, too, if the whole world wanted to shake my hand or…”

“Not everyone wants to shake my hand,” Lance said, hearing the darkness in his voice. “Obviously, there are enough people in the world who want the president dead. That's why I have a job and a shiny new scar on my thigh.”

“Maybe the attention's blowing over.” Jason gestured to the television. “One good thing about Stanley Rose doing a runner is that the footage of you taking the bullet is relegated to YouTube or the late night news.”

Lance smiled, grateful for some things. “Yep, lucky for me America has ADD when it comes to world events.” His fifteen seconds of unwanted fame played on monitors across the country. Hell, he'd even made the
Tonight Show
, but now thanks to America's most wanted investment advisor, he could go back to anonymity.

“Is your sister still calling every day?” Jason asked.

He nodded. His sister wanted him to join her in Manhattan to have her personal physician take a look at his thigh, but he was a Secret Service agent, for the president for crying out loud. NIH docs knew a thing or two, but tell that to his sister. She was convinced the only orthopedist worth his salt was Dr. Peter Weiss on Seventy-eighth and Lexington.

Jason's cell phone rang and a private smile formed as he answered it. Probably Valerie. Maybe not, judging by the frown that appeared. A low murmur and Jason's grunts of reply revealed nothing about the conversation.

Jason finally looked up from his phone. “Listen, change of plans. Val's picking me up to run an errand and then we're heading to Georgetown.” He murmured one last thing into the phone then hung up.

“What's going on?” he asked. “Do you need my help?” Lance made the offer although any change in plans that brought him to a bar or any active social scene rubbed him raw. “But I don't want to go to a bar tonight.” He wanted to grab another beer, lie back on his couch, and, in the privacy of his own apartment, watch the Nationals play again.

“We're not going to a bar, but yeah, I could use your help.”

“I'll do it, but you owe me. I hate Georgetown and fighting the crowds of tourists and drunken college students,” he muttered.

“Stop grumbling. I need you to go to Val's friend's house in Georgetown and wait there for me and Val. Can you drive my truck?” Jason knew he couldn't ride his Harley for a few weeks, another bennie of getting shot.

“Fine. But where are you and Valerie going?” He was starting to regret his offer to help.

“We're going to swing by Home Depot then head to G-Town.” Jason stood to leave, and Lance followed, trying to be a good host.

“Home Depot?”

“Yeah. Val's friend's having some trouble, and I'm not letting Val head over there alone.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind you're trained for,” Jason said.

He groaned. “I'm a gimp, Jason. How am I going to defend anyone?”

Jason slapped him on the back, sending him stumbling forward a few inches. The damn firefighter didn't realize his strength, and Lance's balance was wacked. “Your trigger finger's not gimpy, right?”

“True.” He grabbed his wallet, Glock, cell phone, and keys, shoving them all in the pockets of his jeans, except for the gun. “Let's go.” Both men stepped out the door and Jason waited while Lance locked up. “So who am I going to help?”

Jason grinned. “Arianna Rose. No, don't groan. You finally get to meet the heartless bitch.”

 

 

Caroline Frost had it all—until her boyfriend banged the superskank intern, and
poof!
Caroline's happy little bubble disappeared. Now it's been six weeks of weeping, a mountain of ice cream, and a permanent buttprint on the couch. Enough is enough. She and her ladybits need an intervention—now.

Enter Operation One Night Stand: Find a man who is hotness personified and have some much-needed sexy time. The only problem is that Caroline is torn between a flirtatious, well-built guy and the ridiculously hot bartender serving her shots. This was supposed to be all fun and no games, but like the perfect scotch on the rocks, no good fling finishes without a twist…

 

Allegra Orsini's dreams are all coming true. She's making her debut at the Metropolitan Opera—and marrying Davison Cabot Berkeley, the brilliant billionaire and masterful lover who's unlocked her most secret desires. From the glittering lights of the opera hall to the sultry shadows of a honeymoon suite, Allegra has all she's ever wanted…until one moment changes everything.

As despair darkens their once perfect world, Allegra pulls away from everything and everyone she's ever loved, including Davison. But Davison refuses to give up on her—or the pure, raw passion that still burns between them. Allegra may have lost herself, but Davison knows right where she belongs, and he's determined to prove it to her…

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