How to Tame a Wild Fireman (17 page)

“Never mind,” she said. “Selling’s not an option anyway. Dean was pretty confident no one would want it, except Big Dog Callahan, and I’d never let him get his hands on it.”

All the Goddesses seemed to relax. Dynah tapped a finger against her cheek. “Then again, if that fireman son of his wanted to take over, I could think of a few things he could do around here.”

Lara felt her face heat in slow but sure degrees. She pressed her hands against her cheeks. Annabella stood and pointed a dramatic finger at her. “You’re blushing. You did it. You had sex with the fireman.”

“Shhh,” Lara said in a strangled voice.

Romaine crawled across the cushions, her purple eyes now wide with curiosity. “He’s so wild and fierce. How did you handle so much masculine energy?”

“Errmm . . .” was all Lara could manage.

“I’m proud of you, Lulu,” said Dynah, “not to mention just a teensy bit jealous.”

Janey tapped her pencil on a nearby crystal lamp base. “Attention, everyone. Remember how Tam was always lecturing us about letting Lara have her ­privacy? And how one day she’d grow into her ­sexuality?”

Lara pulled a pillow over her flaming face. “Go away, everyone,” she mumbled into it. When the questions kept coming, even through the muffling effect of cotton batting and silk, she pulled it away. “One more question and I’ll sell this place,” she told them with a scowl.

That shut everyone up. Into the ensuing stillness, she said, “Let’s apply logic and common sense to the problem.”

Right. Logic and common sense. The Haven had made her forget all about such concepts.

“The workshops aren’t working because Aunt Tam isn’t here to do them. You’ve just started the massage so it may take a while to catch on. Let’s continue with the massage, maybe put some flyers around town to bring in more clients, and in the meantime we’ll use the reserve fund to do some basic repairs.”

The reserve fund lived in the hollow elephant statue in the corner. Janey strode to the statue and shook it, producing a pathetically tinny rattling sound. “I was afraid of that. The reserve fund is mostly gone. We’ve been running on empty for a while.”

Of course it was gone.

“So we’ll do the work ourselves,” Lara said. “We’re strong, enlightened women. Do we still have an account at Olson’s Hardware?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe he’ll do a trade. He has a bad back, right? Massage in exchange for lumber.”

Janey cocked her head. “Not a bad idea, Lara. Look at you, figurin’ everything out. Maybe all that education was worth it.”

She snorted. Not exactly what she’d had in mind during “Introduction to Anatomy,” but it would have to do. If only she’d taken a class in carpentry, she’d be all set. “Make a list of what we need to do. I’ll talk to Ben Olson.”

Patrick’s cell phone
vibrated while he was breaking in the new weed-­whacker he’d bought in town. Sure it was Lara, he unearthed it from deep in his pocket. They had lots to talk about. He wanted to tell her what Farris had said, and ask her exactly what she’d meant by that “stud” comment. Normally he wouldn’t mind being called a stud, but in this case it bothered him. He didn’t even check the readout before he answered.

The throaty purr of her voice was like a cool drink of water on a hot day. “Hey there, Callahan.”

Somehow it made all his worries scatter to the wind. “Dr. Nelson. How are my test results? Will I ever play the piano again?”

“Sure, if by play the piano you mean the kind of thing we did last night.”

His cock went hard. Damn, this woman did something to him. “I’m in the mood for a little ivory-­tickling right now.”

“Hold that thought, hot stuff. I’m calling on Haven business.”

“Trouble in Goddessland?”

“
Opportunity
in Goddessland. We need a man.”

“Oh, really?” he drawled. “You came to the right cell phone.”

“Not you, Callahan. You’re busy. We need someone—­actually, it doesn’t have to be a man, but someone who’s good at carpentry and stuff. We need to whip this place into shape. Do you know any carpenters in town?”

He didn’t know anyone in town anymore. But he did know a guy who was a whiz with a chop saw, loved power tools, and was probably on the outs with his girlfriend. If he remembered the shift schedule correctly, he probably had four days off coming up.

“I’ll make a call.”

Chapter Sixteen

P
atrick figured Vader needed some liquoring up before meeting the Goddesses, so they stopped in at the Love ’Em and Leave ’Em on their way back from the airport. They ordered beers and shots and tossed them back in quick order.

“How’s the station?”

Vader shrugged his huge shoulders. “Same old. Cap’s about to lose his mind. Melissa’s working on some story, but he wants her to stay home. The guys put together a petition to finish that swimming pool you started and he nearly threw us across the room.”

Patrick chuckled, a little embarrassed. It seemed about a million years ago that he’d commandeered the excavator.

“Sabina and Roman sent out their invites. Oh, here.”

He dug a crumpled piece of formerly nice paper out of his pocket. Patrick peered at it. It had a few random-­looking ink smears on it and a red lifesaver stuck to the back.

“What did you do to it?”

“Nothing. Told her I’d hand-­deliver it. It’s your invitation.”

So Sabina had decided he was worthy of attending her wedding. Or maybe Roman had made the final call. Whatever the truth, Patrick was ridiculously pleased. Not that he cared about weddings, but he’d been left out of a few Callahan extended family gatherings, and it hadn’t felt good. He examined the invitation, unable to find anything legible except the word “joined.”

Which, for some reason, made him think of Lara. They’d joined. Hell, they’d joined up a storm. He’d never known joining could be so earth-­shattering. But he had a feeling it had been a one-­way street in that respect. Lara hadn’t been earth-­shattered. He’d satisfied her, but he hadn’t blown her mind. Instead she’d made that crack about what other girls said about him. It had left a bad taste.

Maybe he needed to try harder. He liked that idea. He’d take her from moaning to screaming. Satisfied to ecstatic.

“Earth to Psycho.” Vader was waving a hand in front of his face.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “A lot on my mind.”

“Chick shit?”

Patrick snorted.
“Chick shit?”
Where did Vader come up with this stuff?

“I know that look. Like you’re trying to figure out where you left your balls. I’ve been there. There right now, in fact.”

“Did Cherie dump you again?”

“Maybe. In girl code.”

“Girl code?”

“She needs space. There’s plenty of space between Cali and Nevada. You called at the right time, brother.”

A smooth, slightly accented voice slipped between them. “Are you two manly men actually brothers, or is that simply a bonding term?”

Annabella and Romaine stood behind them, both loaded down with bags from Olson’s Hardware. Vader’s jaw dropped at the sight of a sultry brunette and an ethereal blonde who might have stepped from the pages of
Hippie Hustler.

“Hey there, fine ladies,” he said with a gallant bow of his head. He slid from his stool and gestured to it. “What’s mine is yours. Please seat your lovelinesses down.”

Patrick nearly burst out laughing. Vader loved women, all sorts of women, genuinely and sincerely, and you never knew what line he’d take.

“If what’s yours is mine, I wouldn’t mind a sip of that tequila.” Annabella peered at Vader from under her eyelashes. Patrick wasn’t sure why she was wasting her wiles on a sure bet like Vader.

But, as often happened, Vader surprised him. He signaled the bartender for another shot, then faced the two women. “I better make it clear from the get-­go that my heart belongs to another. She doesn’t know what to do with it yet, but that’s okay. I’m in it for the long haul.”

Patrick felt his eyebrows climb.

Romaine gazed at Vader with huge, misty eyes. Or maybe silver eye shadow always made her look misty. “That is so romantic,” she breathed.

“And completely unnecessary,” said Annabelle briskly. “We’re not after your heart. Or your body.” She ran her eyes over Vader’s impressively bulging physique. “Except in the most practical way.”

“If you’re after the swimmers, they’re saving themselves for my special someone.”

Patrick hid his snort of laughter behind a cough. Annabella looked absolutely fascinated, as if she’d never encountered a specimen like Vader.

“Your reproductive faculties are safe as well. We have another sort of proposition.”

“Oh hell no,” said Vader. “Two chicks is one thing. Two dudes . . .”

Annabella wagged a scolding finger at him. “I never thought I’d say this, but this isn’t about sex.”

Patrick cleared his throat. “Annabella and Romaine, this is Vader. He came here from San Gabriel to help you ladies out at the Haven.”

“The what?” Vader looked confused. Patrick hadn’t given him any details other than that a friend needed a favor, he’d pay his airfare, and to bring his tool belt.

“Oh, you’re our savior!” Annabella beamed at him, with a smile that would knock the space shuttle off orbit. “See, Lara had the crazy idea that we can take care of the repairs at the Haven by ourselves. We know nothing about that sort of thing. We can fix broken relationships, we can free up women’s sexual energy and teach ­couples how to express their needs, but when it comes to hanging doors and fixing siding, we’re a little lost.”

Vader was hanging on her every word. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I like that accent you say it with.”

“Where’s Lara?” Patrick asked, because it seemed to be the thing he wanted to know at all times.

“She’s loading the wood into the Cadillac.”

“So this is the friend I’m helping out?” Vader asked. “Friends?” He included Romaine, who smiled tentatively.

“Yes, I thought it would be a great opportunity for you. Did you hear what she said about broken relationships? These ladies are experts. That’s what they do.”

“It’s our specialty.” Romaine piped up. Patrick thought she must be the shyest Goddess in history. “Along with healing massage. We just want everyone to be happy and get along.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Vader tossed down his shot, then stuck out his hand. “I’m your guy. You help me figure out Cherie, and I’ll be your slave for the next four days. Now lead me to that lumber.”

“Você ê um amor.”
Annabella leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, then turned to Patrick. “And Patrick, you’re more than welcome as well.” She raised one eyebrow meaningfully.

What was she getting at? He certainly didn’t need relationship help. He didn’t even have a relationship. What he had was . . . an old friend. A friend with whom he’d had the best sex of his life. A friend who kept popping into his thoughts at the most random moments. None of that added up to a relationship. Not that he was an expert. His expertise lay more in avoidance of relationships.

He should probably sort this out with Lara before they went any further.

“Sorting” turned out
to be even better than “joining.” That night, after Patrick got Vader set up on the couch of the guesthouse, he went for a drive that just happened to take him past the Haven. His cell phone just happened to call Lara’s—­butt calls could be so inconvenient—­and Lara, glowy and wild-­eyed, just happened to skip out the Haven’s front door and hop into the Hulk.

He drove a short distance to an empty moonlit field where he and Liam used to practice grass hump slalom with their dirt bikes. He’d barely spread a soft cotton blanket between two sheltering grass clumps when Lara jumped into his arms. Taken by surprise, he toppled over, still holding her tight, and she climbed on top of him. He buried his face in her warm neck and breathed deep. God, the smell of her, clean and spicy at the same time. The feel of her, tender-­skinned but firm, each curve beckoning him on to the next. The neck led to the shoulder, which led to the upper curve of her breast, which—­

She sat up and stripped off her top. It landed on top of the nearest grass tussock. He reached up to snag it.

“No need to let the cops know what’s going on.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. I’m not worried.” She unhooked her bra, and he stopped caring about anything but filling his hands with those glorious globes of flesh. The air was still warm from the brutal heat of the day, but there was just enough air current to make her nipples peak. Moonlight flooded the field, turning her skin to molten, living titanium.

“You’re so freaking gorgeous like this,” he murmured, catching her dark nipples between his fingers. She arched her back to push closer to his touch and tilted her head back, as if howling at the moon. The line of her throat was like a lark’s song, clear and haunting and irresistible.

“I want you, stud,” she said in a voice he almost didn’t recognize, it was so thick with desire. Her hands went to the swelling front of his jeans. She undid the zipper, working it over the straining ridge of his erection. “Looks like it’s mutual.”

He answered with something incoherent. Of course it was mutual—­wasn’t it? Was there something he wanted to work out with her? He’d wanted to talk about something, hadn’t he?

Then her cool, clever hand was on his cock and the rush of pleasure blotted out everything else. “Holy mother of God,” he muttered.

Breathing hard, she worked his jeans down his hips just enough to free his erection. “Did you bring anything?”

“What?” For a blank moment he had no idea what she was talking about. “In the truck.”

“Fuck that.”

God, he loved it when she talked dirty. “I’m safe. Never go unprotected.” Well, until now.

“Me neither. Well, I never really go at all. Until now. I guess I’m making up for lost time.”

“No complaints here.” Well, maybe he did have a complaint. But he couldn’t quite remember what it was, since she was now running her hand up and down his shaft.

She lifted her skirt.
Damn.
She was naked underneath, all her feminine parts bare and moonstruck, her pale curls glinting silver. He touched her with a sense of awe, feeling the soft, damp flesh give beneath his fingers.

“Has anyone ever told you your hands are like magic?” She gave a soft gasp. “You probably hear that a lot.”

“Stop talking, Lara.”

“You mean, stop talking and get busy?” Teasingly, she lifted herself up on her knees and, still holding up her skirt, positioned herself over his cock.

“Shhht. Just shhht.” If she kept going on like that, he’d have to start listening seriously. And he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what he heard. He found the little nub begging for his attention and brushed his thumb back and forth across it.

She let out a loud moan. There, at least she wasn’t talking anymore, saying things that upset him. He ate up the sight of her, erotically poised over him, skirt raised for his pleasure.

“Touch yourself,” he said.

“What?”

“I want to see you touch yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s hot! What do you want, a workshop?”

She burst out laughing. He did too, through his turned-­on haze. Patrick realized he’d never laughed so much during sex as with Lara. Maybe it was odd, but he liked it. It felt . . . real.

“Fine. As long as you promise to fuck me silly afterward.”

There was that attitude again. To shut her up, he took her hand and pressed it against her sex, into her damp heat. Blood surged through his cock at the picture she made, her white hand working through her shining thatch of curls, a gleam of moisture peeking out.

When he heard her breath come fast, he grabbed the sides of her hips and thrust upward, into the hot welcome of her body. He groaned at the slick, clinging bliss of being inside her. She gasped and shuddered, then lifted herself up until he nearly slipped from her. Resting her hands next to his shoulders for leverage, she lowered herself back down, while he helped with shaking hands.

“Not too fast,” he muttered. He wanted to draw this out as long as possible. Together they found a steady, toe-­curling rhythm, corkscrewing their bodies together. He had to use every ounce of self-­control to keep from simply exploding into the orgasm his body craved. But he wanted this to be good for her—­more than good, he wanted to stroke her into a frenzy, change her world, blow her mind.

So he gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on her hips, and thrust, up and out, again and again, like a tidal surge or some other force of nature. With the warm, grass-­scented air pressing around them, and the moon gracing them with its glow, that’s how it felt, as if they were bound together in some fantastic natural phenomenon.

He felt her fight to go faster as she tightened around him.
Not yet, not yet
. He slipped his hand between their bodies, rubbing the spot he knew would make her crazy. She writhed and gasped, her long, moon-­silvered hair falling in a curtain around them.

“Come on, Psycho,” she gritted. “Show me how crazy you can get.”

Everything in him sang with glee.
Time to let the wild dog off the leash
. He took command of those hips that were driving him nuts. One fierce thrust . . .
grunt
. . . and her body shook with tremors. Surrounded by her heat and softness, he lost his mind and all sense of where he was. Again and again he hammered into her until he felt the sharp pull of her release. Then he let himself go, soaring into fierce, primal sensation, holding tight to her body, an anchor in a wild storm.

When his mind stopped spinning, she was huddled on top of him, boneless and panting. He stroked her back, tangled his fingers in her hair. The sweat was already cooling on her body. He tried to say something but had to clear his throat first. “You okay?”

She shifted on top of his body.

Oh hell. Had he gone too far? Gotten too rough? For a moment he’d been in a different world. “Did I hurt you?”

She muttered something into his neck. He pulled her hair away from her face. “What’d you say? Something about a map?”

“Postcoital nap,” she mumbled again. “Give me a second.”

He smiled, a sense of contentment stealing over him. Sure, he’d had a great time, but it was almost more satisfying to see how she’d been affected. No, it
was
more satisfying. He could rest like this for a good long time, untangling the silky strands of her hair, feeling the gentle pulsing of her body, listening to the night sounds of the field, the occasional passing of a car on the faraway highway.