Sparking the Fire (Hot in Chicago) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Originally from Ireland, Kate Meader cut her romance reader teeth on Maeve Binchy and Jilly Cooper novels, with some Harlequins thrown in for variety. Give her tales about brooding mill owners, oversexed equestrians, and men who can rock an apron, a fire hose, or a hockey stick, and she's there. Now based in Chicago, she writes sexy contemporary romance with alpha heroes and strong heroines (and heroes) who can match their men quip for quip. Visit her at KateMeader.com.

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Sparking the Fire

CHAPTER ONE

Five years later . . .

“You can go right in, Lieutenant Fox. He’s waiting for you.”

Wyatt Fox nodded curtly at Kathy, the firehouse’s perky admin, as he stood outside the cap’s office contemplating his next move. The going-in part was a foregone conclusion—he had been summoned, after all—but how he would handle what lay behind that door was still up in the air. Normally he would have knocked. Raised his right hand, curled his fingers into a fist, and rapped his knuckles on the door. But he had a pass to just waltz in, so mercifully he didn’t have to complete even that simplest of motions. He didn’t have to be reminded that the tendons in his shoulder were shredded like Mini-Wheats after he’d wrenched it during a tricky rescue two weeks back. It was either that or let that shithead—sorry, citizen—take a header off the LaSalle Street Bridge.

Suicide attempt averted. Three months off squad his reward.

Unless he could persuade the cap that it wasn’t as bad as all that.

He gripped the doorknob with purpose, ignored the wince even that small action produced, and strode in like a man without a care in the world.

“Fox.”

Captain Matt “Venti” Ventimiglia lifted his gaze from a file on his desk. A pretty cool cat, he wasn’t one for small talk, which Wyatt appreciated, especially as his own family could talk the hind legs off a herd of mules. Sitting at the dinner table with the Dempseys—his cobbled-together foster family—was like an episode of The Brady Bunch on steroids. And now that the rest of them had hearts-and-shamrocks happy-ever-afters to call their own, it approached Disney to the nth degree at every gathering.

Wyatt took a seat.

“At least three months, according to the doc,” the cap said.

Good, straight to it. “Docs can be wrong.”

“If you push it and make it worse, then you could be looking at six months or more.”

“I’m not good at sitting around.” As if that was a valid enough reason to put him back on active duty. It was a family trait, both Dempsey and the original. His biological father, Billy Fox, was never one for letting the grass grow under his itchy feet, always keeping Wyatt and his half brother Logan on the move. Needs must, when you’re trying to stay one step ahead of the law.

The cap sniffed. “You hear about Dave Kowalski?”

The subject change gave Wyatt pause, but as he wasn’t having any luck going against the tide, he figured he’d swim with it for a while.

“Hollywood Dave? Word’s out that he’s looking at ten weeks in traction.” Kowalski was the Chicago Fire Department’s designated consult for that TV show about firefighters, the one where the station bunk room looked like the Ritz (nope), fires broke out every ten seconds (hardly), and everyone was screwing their coworkers (if only). Years with his nose permanently wedged in the asses of his actor pals had apparently dulled Dave’s reflexes to mush because he’d neglected to step out of the way when a roof had caved in on him last week. If Venti was trying to compare their situations . . .

The cap smiled a crooked grin, knowing that Wyatt’s mind had crashed that particular gate and was hurtling down the track.

“They need someone to fill in for him.”

Wyatt scrubbed a hand across the two-week growth on his jaw. Usually he’d have to stay clean-shaven to ensure his mask retained the proper seal, so he was enjoying the only perk of rehab—the pleasure of ignoring his razor. Add a hunting rifle, a haunch of hog meat, and a cabin in the woods, and you had the makings of a profile worthy of the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

“Before you shut it down,” Venti continued when Wyatt remained silent, “let me tell you it’s not for the TV show. It’s an eight-week movie shoot, starts in less than a month, July through August. You know how the city is always looking for revenue and to up its appeal for production companies. Cade Productions asked for someone from Engine 6 to be the consult.”

Something pinged in his chest. As a firefighter—a rescue squad firefighter—Wyatt had learned long ago that his instincts were that guardian angel on his shoulder, keeping his ass in one piece. But the reason behind this hitch in his lungs was escaping him this second.

“Why Engine 6?”

Venti grinned and waited a beat until Wyatt got it.

“Because of Alex. They think they’ll get more play if they have an in with America’s Favorite Firefighter.”

Last year, his sister, Alexandra Dempsey, had made a name for herself slicing up the Lamborghini of some rich D-bag who’d insulted the family during a traffic accident run. And as if that wasn’t enough, she’d gotten herself involved with Eli Cooper, Chicago’s mayor, who proceeded to tank his campaign and subsequently lose his reelection bid to prove he loved her. The whole mess had Hollywood written all over it, but his sister had turned down offers to have her romantic shenanigans immortalized on-screen. Looked like the vultures were looking for another way to skin that kitty cat.

“Might be better to keep these movie people on a short leash, don’t you think?” Venti offered with a cocked eyebrow, reading Wyatt’s mind. Or at the very least recognizing that “Don’t mess with the Dempseys” was as ingrained in Wyatt as it was in the rest of his crazy motherfucking family.

Wyatt sighed. There was logic here, but hanging with Hollywood types and artistes was not how he wanted to spend his rehab. It was the kind of thing his brother Gage would enjoy, he of the billboards and firefighter calendars and all-around exhibitionist tendencies. Kid had never met a camera he didn’t want to bang.

He was just about to offer Gage’s services instead when something Venti had said poked his brain matter like a Halligan through termite-ridden drywall.

“Back up a sec. What’s that about production companies?”

“The city wants to encourage more production companies to come here—”

“No, the other thing. The name of the production company that asked for the consult from six.”

Venti squinted. “Cade Productions. Headed up by that actress who had all that trouble last year. The public divorce from Ryan Michaels, the hacked photos, the ‘I’m so exhausted’ rehab.” The captain was well known for spending more time reading People than Fire Engineering magazine. Anyone who dared touch the latest issue before Venti laid his eyeballs on it had better find latrine duty enjoyable. “This is supposed to be her big comeback.”

The ping now ratcheted up to a full-on four-alarm. “And is she in the movie? Molly Cade?”

That garnered more than a squint from Venti; it earned a skin-penetrating stare because Wyatt had sounded . . . animated. He didn’t do animated for anything or anyone.

Except for Sean and Logan, his foster father and biological brother, both long gone. For Roni, very much alive and vexing.

And once, for Molly Cade.

A smile spread slowly across Venti’s face. Asshole. “I believe she is in the movie. Fan of Ms. Cade’s work, are you?”

Big fan. Of how hard her tongue had worked when wrapped around his cock. How...