After her world had been rocked--two more times--Beck still held her close, protectively and possessively, wedged deep inside her.
"We just had hot shower sex outside the shower," she said with a giggle.
"Find 'em hot, leave 'em wet," he murmured. "Well-known firefighter maxim."
A stray thought cut through her mind fog. "What's CPF? Gage said it before he left."
His grin was wry and about the sexiest thing she had ever seen. "City Property Fuckable. It's against the rules, so if you're going to do it, you need to make sure it's worth losing your job over."
"And I'm CPF?"
"You know it, querida. You're my first."
His first, just like he had been hers all those years ago.
There was that rare smile on his lips but, also, in his lake-blue eyes she saw his determination: the inner strength that helped him survive those early, dangerous years in a life he hadn't chosen. The same strength that powered him in the ring and on every call in this life he had made his own.
Maybe it was delayed shock, or the power of the O, or the fact she was standing in a firehouse shower room with her hot Latin lover impaling her to the tile, but it suddenly hit her like a two-by-four.
He could have died.
And she would never have known.
She would have popped into Dempsey's bar with Mel and assumed it was his night off. Might even have silently cheered the bullet she had dodged by not running into him. Only two days later, the idea of a world without him--her world without him--turned her blood to ice.
Tears sprang into her eyes. Goddamn him.
"Darcy, what's wrong? Am I hurting you?" He made to withdraw, and she clasped his perfect, tight ass to preserve the physical connection as if it could minimize the emotional.
"You're a good man, Beck Rivera."
He looked unconvinced. "I'm not. I'm selfish and greedy."
"No, no." She kissed the knotted bridge of his nose. "Look at what you do, at what you've become. I'm so proud of you."
He drew back with the expression of a stern angel, and when he spoke it was like he gouged each word from a deep, dark place.
"This won't be enough for me."
Thoughts toppled like dominoes, and her heart seized in her chest, not unpleasantly. But her walls had walls, so she said the first thing that popped into her scrambled brain.
"Let's not complicate it."
"No, Darcy. Let's."
His kiss cut off all argument, making her blood pound, her heart soar, and consuming her utterly and completely whole.
chapter 7
Have I told you lately how sexy you are?" Darcy tiptoed up to kiss him, then moved her lips along the edge of his ear, eliciting a shiver.
"You're just sayin' that 'cause it's true, querida."
Damn, she looked fine in a long coat and cream scarf, like a pristine present he wanted to unwrap slowly. And the backdrop could not be more perfect. All around them, the twinkling trees and festive atmosphere at Zoo Lights in Lincoln Park painted the scene in the brushstrokes of a fairy tale. Each year, the zoo--and ComEd--draped the trees in colored lights, blasted tunes from the sound system, and scared the shit out of the animals. A most excellent Chicago holiday tradition.
Darcy had said she didn't want to complicate what was happening between them, but Beck had quickly kiboshed that idea. Knowing that shock-and-awe tactics were needed to break down her barriers, he had planned a romantic date with holiday lights and hot chocolate and frickin' polar bears, followed by a horse-drawn carriage ride down Michigan Avenue where he'd hoped to cop a feel under a warm tartan blanket. The fact that this magical space was home to their first kiss years ago made it just that much sweeter.
It had all gone terribly wrong.
"I want to see the gorillas next," an imperious voice rang out from below. The third wheel, on wheels. Darcy's grandmother had invited herself along when Darcy let slip their plans during a visit to the nursing home.
"Probably looking for a new husband," Darcy muttered, not unkindly. She pushed her grandmother's wheelchair along the tarmac path toward the monkey house with ease. The old lady couldn't have weighed more than eighty pounds soaking wet.
"I heard that," Mrs. Cochrane snapped back. "Two of my three husbands had more hair than any of the brutes in the cages here. I like them well covered."
Darcy shot Beck a sidelong glance, barely suppressing her laughter. The cold brought color to her pale cheeks, making her appear fresh-faced and younger than her twenty-five years. She looked happy, and that brought out his happy.
"How about some hot chocolate, Mrs. C?" Beck asked. "Warm those crabby old bones of yours."
"Let's hope you're hung, young man, because you're certainly not charming."
Darcy broke into shocked laughter. "Grams, be nice. Beck didn't have to bring you," she said, adding a sly smile for Beck that sent his lungs on hiatus.
"Extra whipped cream," the old bag muttered.
Beck winked at his girl and hustled off to get the hot drinks, but as he stood in line at the kiosk, his smile melted away. In less than two weeks, she'd be outta here, winging her way to the Lone Star State and this new job she seemed excited about. He could make sacrifices to the gods of Chicago--the Bulls, the Bears, whoever people prayed to on the I-90--but it would be useless. It was like wishing he could hold back the sunrise.
Feeling glum, he delivered the hot chocolates and took over pushing duties so Darcy could have her hands free to drink. After a spin around the monkey house and a pop in to see the giraffes, they watched the light displays choreographed to holiday tunes, followed by the ice sculpting. Or Darcy and her grandmother watched.
Beck watched Darcy.
The lights danced over her delicate features and picked up flecks of gold in her big, expressive eyes. She had traveled all over the world, lived a cosmopolitan life most people could only dream of, and here she was with him, impressed by a crappy light show and a kid with a chain saw. In that instant, all her passion and beauty overwhelmed him.
It was time to lace up the gloves and step into the ring.
"Stop staring," she murmured out of the side of her gorgeously mobile mouth.
"Never."
Blushing, she snagged her plump lower lip with her teeth. So damn pretty. He noticed with approval her breathing had picked up, so he leaned in and buried his cold nose in the warm, fragrant skin of neck.
"Problem catching a breath, miss? I can help. Qualified EMT."
"You're evil, Beck Rivera. And freezing."
"I want you to stay in Chicago."
She lowered her eyelids, and the twinkling lights on her dark lashes made them sparkle like decorative fans. "What are you doing to me?" she breathed, and when she opened her eyes again, they shone glossy with emotion.
"I refuse to believe you entered my life again only to walk right out a few weeks later. The gods couldn't be that cruel." His lips brushed hers, gentle, teasing, then a stronger press that made his intent clear. She was his.
Then. Now. Forever.
She sniffed and pulled a tissue from her pocket, then scowled at his inevitable smile. "Shut it, Rivera. I always get sniffly in winter."
Her father had done a number on her, made it so she had a hard time letting anyone in. Now Beck was insinuating his way into the emotional nooks and crannies, finding those hard-to-reach places, shining a light. And just like he practiced out on the battleground of fire, no one would get left behind.
Over the sound system, a holiday classic filled the air with its smooth, velvet croon.
"I really can't stay . . . But baby, it's cold outside."
"Gotta stop running sometime, Darcy."
Darcy held Beck's stark blue gaze and let the words sink in. Soured by her near-miss marriage and her father's formerly tyrannical grip on her life, funereal bells tolled in her brain as soon as any guy started dictating the terms. "Always be moving" had served her well so far. Free agency suited her.
Beck might
be different, but was it enough? He had dumped her once with no explanation, no apology, nothing. Of course, she refused to delve deeper. Asking implied caring.
So she did what terrified, fragile, in-denial girls everywhere did--she fronted with her stock answer. "Chicago's not big enough for me and Dad."
"Oh, I dunno. Third largest city in the United States. And you have other reasons for sticking around."
"Such as?"
"Meddling friends. Terrifying, tatted guys who care about you. Evil grandmothers." That one he mimed, unnecessarily as it happened, because Grams had nodded off. "A business you can do anywhere because you rock at it." Pause. "Burn-the-sheets sex."
Considering they'd never made it to a bed, that particular claim was not entirely legit. She turned into his chest to keep her voice from carrying in the clear night air--and oh hell, because she fit perfectly under his strong jaw--and sucked in a heady lungful of him. "Hmm, you might have something there. The pickings for burn-the-sheets sex are bound to be better in the third largest city in the United States."
He gentled the back of her neck and kissed her, sweet and slow. His sexy jaw scruff conjured up a wash of sensation and sensual memories of how it had rasped her thighs during their steamy not-shower.
Gettin' so warm inside . . .
"Let's keep it PG, handsome," she said, when he let her up for air.
"Pretty good? Think I can manage that."
Another press of his lips, and the addition of his wickedly effective tongue, lifted her to a higher plane. This man of hers could kiss away every doubt, make her believe anything was possible. Even that she could live in the same metropolitan area as her father.
She was a much-sought-after body artist who loved her job and the freedom it gave her. She had built a good life, yet the idea of letting someone in--someone who might seem perfect on the surface, but could end up as manipulating and controlling as Sam Cochrane--seized her heart in a fist.
"Tell me why bustin' out of Dodge is so important," he whispered. "Because the way I see it, you have more reasons to stay than go."
"I didn't turn out how he wanted. The pliable daughter, the budding trophy wife. If I stick around in Chicago, he'll find a way back into my life, and before I know it I'll feel small again, just another cog in his machine. Look at how he tried to marry me off."
"You should be thanking him."
She gulped, unsure she'd heard that right. "Excuse me?"
He cupped his ear. "Do you hear what I hear?"
"You mean Mariah Carey warbling her way through one of my favorite holiday songs?"
"No, I mean the sound of your brass balls clanging, Darcy Cochrane. You've grown from a dependent girl into a self-reliant woman. And you have your father to thank because his dick moves set this great life of yours in motion." He curled his hand around her neck and tunneled those rough-cast fingers through her hair, his tactile strength unbelievably sensual against her scalp. "Look at what he unleashed on the world. Look at you takin' names, querida."
God, this man's support just slayed her. But as encouraging as that sounded, Beck was taking the product-of-her-environment argument a little too far. She owed nothing to her father. He had no say in how she turned out, yet . . . they were alike in so many ways. Stubborn, unyielding, hardheaded. She wanted to heal the rift between them, not go through life with this ball of negativity like a dead weight in her chest.
They were silent for a few moments, the air heavy with their thoughts and the chain saw's whine as it cut through the ice.
"You're pretty good at this," she finally murmured.
"Uh-huh. PG."
Her scarf was moved aside to reveal skin for a sensual nip of her neck. So not PG.
"I meant that you're good at seeing the silver lining, making the best of any situation."
"It's the foster kid code. We live in the now, take the scraps, and hope to God some miracle can turn it into a five-course meal. Shifting your perception, choosing to take a situation that makes you afraid or hurt or angry, and see it differently--that's the best way to move forward."
Her Beck had become quite chatty over the years. Insightful, too. "Look at you being all wise and shit," she said.
He grinned. "I know, right?"
"You own a suit, Mexican Dempsey?" Grams piped up, having just woken from her power nap.
"Does a birthday suit count?"
"Get one. Darcy needs a date to the fund-raiser."
Darcy mimicked strangling her grandmother. "Grams, I can get my own dates, thanks very much! Also, his name is Beck Javier Rivera and he's Puerto Rican, not Mexican, which you well know." With an embarrassed head shake, she turned to find him beaming a sexy grin. Yum. "Friday at the Drake. You in?"
Surprise lit up his eyes like stones in a stream. "As my hearing has yet to be scheduled and I've already finished Grand Theft Auto--twice--I'm all yours."
Waiting around for the call on his hearing was driving the poor guy screwy, but Darcy was reaping the benefit while he spent his free time with her. As for the fund-raiser, it would be a fitting punctuation to what had been an unexpectedly wonderful couple of weeks.
Something lurched in her chest at that.
He nuzzled her cold nose. "I'm all yours, not just on Friday night, but every night you want me."
"Beck . . ."
Another kiss swallowed her protest, an invasive sweep of his tongue as he breathed his promise into her lungs.
And she let him, because it was just easier to give him his way in this. For now.
chapter 8
The next afternoon, Darcy shifted her weight back on the tattoo parlor's stool and snapped a few mental candids for her memories. No one filled out the chair quite like Beck. Those beefy arms, strapping thighs, and well-built shoulders--he was every inch the powerful fighting machine.
"Can't believe that fur ball of piss 'n' vinegar is still around," he said, jerking a chin in the direction of her cat, Mr. Miggins, who was curled up in a sated ball near the hissing radiator. The two had never been fans of each other.
"He's like Grams. He continues out of spite."
Smiling, Beck returned his gaze to his arm and scrutinized Darcy's work. The green shamrock, like a pulsing Irish heart, bloomed on his bicep above the name of his foster father, Sean. Relatively simple in design, it might not impress her usual clientele, but pride swelled her chest at the thought of helping this amazing man commemorate his fallen heroes.
"You like?"
"I love." He raised his eyes to snag hers as he said that. Intense, blue, romantic--and a hundred times steadier than her heartbeat.
I love.
And she did. Completely, utterly, and . . . she was not happy about it. Not at all. Every day with Beck dragged her deeper and tore her under a powerful current until she could barely breathe for wanting him.
Happy Frickin' Holidays, Darcy!
Occupying her hands would be her best play here, and though they itched to meander south and stroke the perma-boner Beck always seemed to sport around her, she reined in her inner minx and reached for a bandage.
Beck was staring again. "How are you fixed for Christmas Day?"
One more week to the holiday, and then a few days later, bye-bye, Chicago.
Bye-bye, Beck.
"I'll drive Grams over to Dad's, we'll scarf turkey while Tori tries to chitchat through the awkward silences, and then I'll drop Grams back off at prison--I mean rehab."
He cocked his head. "You want to come hang at the firehouse after? Gage is gonna Martha Stewart the hell out of the dinner. He's already making paper plate angels for all the place settings. An inordinate amount of glitter is involved."
She stood and tidied up her station, extracting ink needles and lobbing soiled tissues into the trash.
"I'll be so busy with getting Grams settled and tying up loose ends." Such as loading up her piece-of-shit car. Steeling herself for the journey ahead to the job she wasn't sure she cared about anymore. Holding her ribs while her
heart broke into icy shards.
Her body stilled as his masculine heat blanketed her from behind. "Querida, it doesn't have to end."
"We'll have the fund-raiser on Christmas Eve, Beck. It'll be a nice way to say good-bye."
With a strong hand on her shoulder he turned her to face him. Those eyes blazed hard and furious, shining like bullets.
"Is that why you invited me? So you could say adios in a room full of blinged-out strangers. We'd eat some rubbery chicken and dance a sad old waltz, though God knows I'll be crap at that. Maybe you'd get a final fuck-you in at your dad because you brought that guy he hated, then you'd wave to me as you wheeled Eleanor out the door."
Burning emotion snarled beneath her breastbone. Damn him for making it so hard. "I was never going to stay, Beck. You knew that. I just can't make a life for myself in the same place as my father."
Storm clouds brewed in his eyes, myriad emotions battling beneath his usually calm surface. Kinetic energy seemed to bounce off the walls, in her chest, between their bodies.
"That's just an excuse. So he screwed you over and you're still pissed. Time to grow up, princesa, and figure out where you're going instead of dwelling on where you've been." He scrubbed a hand over his close-cropped skull. "You can't deny what's happening here with us."
"Of course not. But it's just chemistry, lust, nostalgia, whatever you want to call it--" She carved the air with her hand, seeking the right words to minimize the outrageous potency of what existed between them. "I've come too far in my career and my life to throw it all up for the special feelings caused by a return to the good old days. Besides, you had no problem letting me go before."
"That was different."
"How? How was it different?" She had never pried about his reasons--he hadn't given her any insight at the time, and she had always ascribed it to the bad space he was in after Sean and Logan made the greatest sacrifice. Preferring not to know, if she was being honest.
"We were kids," he murmured. "Now we're all grown up."
"You got over me, Beck." A lot more easily than she recovered from the onslaught of him, she might add. "You threw me away seven years ago. It hurt. It really fucking hurt."
Empathy laced with pain shone back in those terrible blue eyes.