"I can help!" he yelled over the sound of the rushing water and the roaring and hissing of flame fighting to break free.
She shook her head. "Trust me!" she yelled back. "This is what I do!"
She turned, forging through the dark, creaking opening. She had to crouch, then had to duck further until the way closed. A narrow shaft remained. She felt a tug on her ankle and was offered a piece of cloth.
In the dim glimmer she recognized the face of the man behind her. He does not give up, she thought. She accepted the bandana, though, and waited for him to move beside her.
"Have you heard anybody?" he asked her.
She shook her head. The crunched subway car groaned again. She'd called out several times. "You need to go back. I called in my progress. The team's on the way. But civilians have been cleared out."
"I have emergency training."
"Uh-huh."
"I'm a rescue swimmer," he told her. "Jack Skinner." He offered his hand.
"You're a lifeguard? Man. There's no water here. I think I've got it."
He shook his head.
"Coast Guard. I jump out of helicopters when things go bad on the water, administer immediate aid, and stabilize patients for transfer."
"Well, that's very nice, Jack Skinner. And if someone should happen to slip and fall in the mud we'll let you pull them out. But this is going to take a little bit more than CPR class." She was dismissive. Normally that might piss him off. Now it only amused him.
"You're wasting time," he told her with a disarming smile. "Keep moving."
She turned, fastened the cloth over her face bandit-style to keep out the dust, dirt, and God only knew what. Smoke wasn't an issue. Thus far.
Three cars later she found what she'd been looking for. Together they dragged the body of the conductor back through the wreckage.
Out in the open they both pulled down the white cotton. Grenna gaped openly when her erstwhile partner slung the dead weight of the man over his shoulder and hauled him to the stretchers waiting a safe distance away. He explained the man's condition as they knew it in lingo that bespoke familiarity.
Then he turned back to her. He thought it apropos that a section of wiring exploded in a million glowing lights, haloing her dark good looks.
"Hi. I don't think we've been properly introduced. Let me buy you dinner tomorrow and we'll clear up all misconceptions."
"No can do, cowboy. No fraternizing with patients."
Jack narrowed his eyes and frowned. "You didn't rescue me. I'm not a patient."
She pointed to the next ambulance. "You went in there. You were exposed to smoke, dust, probably three hundred kinds of mold spores, asbestos, and maybe even some leftover mad cow disease. You're going to the hospital, where you will be a patient." She gestured for the EMTs to come toward them.
"But not your patient."
She lifted an eyebrow.
"Think of me as a partner. A brother operator."
Now she snorted. "Get on the bus," she told him. Two guys in full turnout gear approached and the EMT tugged at his elbow. He was asking Jack something, but Jack wasn't paying attention. He watched her walk away, accepting the proffered helmet and jacket the firefighter handed over. How many women like that could possibly be on the city's fire department? It wouldn't take much to find her again. He let himself be led to the ambulance where his blood pressure, [], and [] were checked before he signed a waver releasing the city from responsibility for his welfare when he denied them the trip down to the hospital.
The next day he spent damn near two hours on the phone figuring out which branch she worked for. He knew he had the right one when the gruff guy on the other end of the line asked him "And who wants to know?"
So that's where he sent the two dozen pale pink flowers-a dozen roses plus a miscellaneous mix just in case she wasn't a rose girl. The card read "To Smoke Eyes. Just in case you ever slip in a mud puddle," and ended with his number.
He was explaining his strategy to his friends David and Paul the next night at a local bar when she walked in.
Surrounded by a group of men, of course.
Jack, four beers brave by that point and sporting his favorite pool cue, walked right up to her where she'd settled on the carved stool.
"This is fate, you know that, don't you?"
Since she'd seen his face a thousand times the night before, had thought of him twice as often since his flowers arrived, and had taken a good bit of ribbing because of it, she sneered.
"This is called stalking, big boy." She ruined it when she couldn't maintain. Her typically sweet, happy smile showed through. "Your flowers were beautiful. Unnecessary, but nice still."
"It took forever to find out where to send them. They're serious about not mixing company. It was worth it, though."
His pale blue eyes played over her tired face. The eyes had a tilt to them that made the finely chiseled features extraordinary. There were muscles beneath the glitter and low-slung jeans. Grit. There had to be to shoulder what she did for a living.
Grenna's housemates vied for her attention, indicating how lame this guy was.
As if.
This guy was pure muscle. She'd watched him pick up and carry a fully grown, robust man the night before and walk thirty feet with him. No sign of flagging. The white-blonde crew cut wasn't her normal tall-dark-handsome thing. But the tingles were there. When he reached out with his free hand to cover hers where it rested on the bar she felt calluses. The hand was strong, and world-worn, but the backs were pale and the nails were clean. This was no beach-bum lifeguard. Nor was it some weekend warrior or board room jockey.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he offered.
She wrinkled her nose. "I hate to say 'no' to you..."
His brow creased. "You don't have to."
She turned her hand over and squeezed. "I'm not in the market for anything interesting right now. Go back to your game. I'll be over here with my boys."
Her boys hooted and hollered as he winked, squeezed her hand back, and left in the direction he'd come. There was equally raucous yelling when he hit his own group.
The next day when he nearly ran her over with a grocery cart their fates were sealed.
"Jesus Christ!" she spluttered.
"Whoops." This from the youngest member of the party, an eighteen or nineteen-year-old.
"Sorry," Jack told her, coming around from behind his cart. "We thought we had the place to ourselves."
"Are you on duty?" she asked, agape.
He shrugged. "We're on call. On calls buy groceries. So here we are." He and the younger man each pushed carts loaded with goods. Two more guys came chugging around the corner, screeching to a halt.
"Who won?" one of them asked.
"Nobody yet," the little guy told them. "We's nearly ran over this lady. We's still apologizing."
"Wanna come to lunch?" Jack asked her.
She shook her head. "I eat enough feed-the-masses food. But thanks."
She turned her own cart to reverse direction.
Jack abandoned his. "Hey! Wait!" He caught up with her and made a grab for the edge of the basket. "You can't go."
"Why not?"
"Because this is the third time in three days that I've seen you. You girls read books. I know you do. I'm not desperate. Or dense. But I'm not immune, either. And I think you're interested. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't want to see me again and I'm gone. Smoke. Otherwise give me a chance. Let me take you out. Buy you dinner. Make you dinner. Whatever."
She pursed her lips.
"Please," he whispered.
That was the sinker. She sighed, rocked the basket, and shifted her feet.
"I'll call you," she promised.
"Really?'
She considered. Then nodded.
"Okay. O-kay." He sighed. "Okay, then. I'll see you 'round."
