“Are you hurt?” he asked, now treating her to a full proton blast of the Beck Rivera gaze. More navy than blue, the shade used to shift often with his variable moods. But now those eyes registered distant, polite. Was she hurt? Not physically. Just incredibly pissed that the boy she had adored for two years in a previous lifetime had blocked her from his mind.
For God’s sake, the shit head didn’t recognize her!
“I don’t think so,” she said in a clipped tone.
“Can you stand?” He was already dragging her up with those arms as thick as her calves.
Agh! Sharp pain lanced through her ankle. He caught her as she crumpled, sweeping her into his arms and moving toward the pub in one sinuous, catlike movement. She had no choice but to loop her hands around his neck, his body heat the perfect counterbalance to her freezing butt cheeks.
“Should we call an ambulance?” Mel asked, concern coloring her voice.
“No,” he said sternly. “Get the door.”
Mel jumped forward and pulled the handle. A gush of warmth, spiced with memories, escaped the bar, and Darcy realized that she really needed to speak up.
“Beck, it’s Darcy.” She mentally cringed at having to reintroduce herself after all they had meant to each other, or as was now becoming painfully obvious, all she had not meant to him. Her face heated despite her best efforts to stay chill. “Darcy Cochrane.”
Staring straight ahead, Beck’s lips twitched.
“I know, princesa.”
chapter 2
With alarming ease, Beck plowed through the candy cane–colored haze to the far end of the bar, where he pointedly glared at the expansive backs of two men sitting on stools.
“McElroy,” Beck said impatiently.
The men turned, took one look at Beck, another at Darcy, and immediately stood.
“Here you go, miss,” one of them said deferentially, while the other made way for Mel.
“Oh, I’m quite all right. You don’t need to do that.”
Beck set her down on one of the vacated seats and popped the last hold-out button on her coat. It parted, almost indecently, and ta da! was whipped from her body like a magician’s tablecloth trick. He hung it on a convenient coat hook.
Whoa, that was hot. Flushing at this potent demonstration of his sharp movements and impressive reflexes, along with all the erotic memories they conjured, she caught Mel’s eye. Or her jaw, really, which was grazing the floor.
“Shut it,” Darcy muttered to her friend, who promptly closed her mouth and eyed the rather gorgeous African American hunk who had surrendered his seat. The logo of the Chicago Fire Department popped above a pec that rivaled The Rock’s.
“So, are you a firefighter?” Mel asked, eyelashes batting vehemently, all blond innocence.
CFD Beefcake opened his mouth, but Beck spoke first. “Lieutenant McElroy’s got fourteen years on the job, twelve of them blissfully married.”
A sheepish McElroy shrugged his broad shoulders. “Guilty.”
Mel sighed good-naturedly and climbed onto the next stool. “No worries, my hormones are invested elsewhere.” Once settled comfortably, she turned to Darcy. “Good seats, girl. How we doing?”
“Not bad. Think I just turned my ankle.”
“Do you mind if I look?” Beck asked in a low voice that made her uncomfortably warm.
“I’m sure it’s fine.” Beck’s version of “looking” would invariably involve touching, and she readily admitted that she had enjoyed the previews a little too much out on the street. Determined to prove her well-being, she placed her right foot on the floor with purpose.
Bad move. There was no hiding the grimace that screwed up her face.
“Stop being so brave and let him take a look,” Mel said, giving Beck an appreciative twice-over. “Qualified EMT along with those firefighter chops, I assume?”
“Uh-huh.”
Darcy chewed on her lower lip while Beck waited. He was good at waiting, always had been.
“If you don’t mind,” she said primly, channeling her grandmother.
He hunkered down and held her booted foot with astonishing reverence, as if trying to determine the best access point for a tricky rescue. Almost leisurely, he unzipped the soft suede and slipped it from her foot. Zing! Another sizzle of sensation snaked through her insides.
Opaque tights covered her legs and the evidence of how she had been spending her time all these years. He moved his hands knowledgeably over her ankle, testing with his thumbs, rolling the joint.
“Anything?” he asked, looking up with those serious blue eyes.
Could she plead the Fifth? The truth would be so damn incriminating. An acutely pleasurable ache settled between her thighs, accompanied by an acutely pleasurable dampness.
“It’s just a twinge.” Darcy’s gaze dropped to the top of Beck’s head, her heart throbbing as much as her ankle. That scar . . . what had he done?
“No swelling, from what I can see,” he murmured.
In the ankle area, no. Other areas, however, swelled like a tidal surge. Her breasts, the sensitive area between her legs as she tried not to squirm against the bar stool.
He stood, leaving her foot bootless and her chest strangely empty.
“Hands.”
“Excuse me?”