Mr. November Excerpt
With great interest, Amanda Barker peeked into the locker room. She'd been at the fire station - hounding him - many times , but she'd never ventured into this private area.
There was a partitioned off shower area adjacent to the room, and steam from recent use still crept around the ceiling, leaving the air damp and thick. A few of the lockers stood open and empty. Discarded white towels littered the floor, the benches and an array of varnished wooden chairs. Amanda wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of men and smoke, soap and sweat.
Except for the smoke, it wasn't an unpleasant odor.
On the far wall, opposite the door she'd entered, a framed copy of the Firefighter's Prayer hung slightly askew, droplets of water beading on the glass cover. Next to that, a plaque reading Always Loved, Never Forgotten, listed local firefighters who had died in community service.
Amanda drew a shaky breath and crept inside. The prayer drew her and she found herself standing in front of it, reading words she already knew by heart.
Enable me to be alert, and hear the weakest shout, and quickly and efficiently to put the fire out. She touched the glass covering those incredible words, wiping away the moisture. She dropped her hand and turned away, troubled as always whenever she remembered.
With self-taught discipline, she shook off the familiar feelings and surveyed her surroundings.
The locker room and connecting showers appeared empty, but she knew he was in there. The watchman had told her so - had even given her permission to go in, smiling all the while, ready to conspire with her to get their most infamous lieutenant to finally cooperate.
Behind her in the main rooms, she heard firefighters talking, laughing as the new shift arrived and the others headed home. They were a flirtatious lot, sometimes crude, always macho and fun loving to counteract the heavy responsibilities of their jobs. They were also in prime condition, lean and hard, thanks to rigorous physical training.
They all looked good, and they all knew it. With only one exception, they were willing - even eager - to help her out with the charity calendar by posing for various months. The money they made selling the calendar would benefit the local burn institute.
Amanda hoped none of the men came in behind her; it was past time she and Josh Marshall got things settled. Since the start of the project he'd refused to take part and avoided her whenever she tired to convince him. He even failed to return her calls.
The man was bullheaded and selfish and she intended to tell him so, but she didn't want an audience. Confrontations were not her thing. In fact, she avoided them whenever possible.
He wouldn't let her avoid this one.
Much as she hated to admit it, she needed Josh Marshall. She needed him to understand the importance of what she hoped to do, and then she needed his agreement to take part in her newest charity effort. While it was true all the men looked good, Josh Marshall looked better than good. He looked great. Sexy. Hot. He'd make the perfect Mr. November and the perfect model for the cover. They'd use him in advertising in local papers, bookstores and on the Web.
One way or another, Amanda intended to get his agreement today.
A muted sound, like the padding of bare feet on wet concrete, reached her ears. She turned and there he stood, all six-feet-plus of him. Casual as you please, a man without a care, he leaned in the doorframe. His blond hair was wet, his muscles were wet and the skimpy towel barely hooked around his lean hips was wet.
Slow rivulets of water dripped over his chest and through his body hair, slinking down his ridged abdomen and into the towel. He had his arms and ankles crossed. The towel parted, and one bare hairy thigh was exposed all the way to the lighter skin of his hip, up to the insubstantial knot in the towel. It wouldn't take much more than a very tiny tug to remove the towel.
She'd seen him in his lieutenant's uniform, she'd seen him hot and sweaty fresh from a fire, and she'd seen him relaxed, sitting around the station, on duty but not occupied.
She'd never seen him mostly naked and it was definitely.an eye-opener.
Amanda stood a little straighter and met his gaze. She had to tip her head back because he stood so much taller than she did. At only five feet four inches, she was used to that and refused to let it bother her now, just because the man was mostly naked and trying to bother her. She said, "Lieutenant Marshall."
His dark green eyes, so often remote in her presence, now looked her over, starting at her dress pumps and advancing to her soft pink suit and up to the small pearl studs in her ears. He gave a crooked smile and sauntered three steps to a locker. "Ms. Barker." He opened the locker and pulled out a bottle of cologne, splashing a bit in his hands, then patting his face and throat.
His scent overrode that of the smoke, and Amanda breathed him in, all warm damp skin, clean soap and that dark, earthy scent he'd just added. She recognized it from previous contact, but now was different. Now his body was mostly bare.
Her nostrils quivered and she took an involuntary step back, bumping into the wall.
Of course, he noticed; his smile told her so. She held her breath, waiting to see what he'd say, how he'd mock her, and instead he reached for a comb. He turned to face her fully while tidying his hair. "How'd you get in here, anyway?"
Never in her life had she watched a man groom himself. Josh Marshall.well, it was unexpected. The heavy muscles in his raised arms flexed and bulged as he dragged the black comb straight back through his wet hair. She could see his underarms and the soft, darker hair there. Her heart bumped into her ribs with startling force. Somehow, that part of Josh seemed more intimate than his exposed thighs and abdomen.
"Cat got your tongue?" He reached for a T-shirt, which he pulled on over his head with casual disregard for the hair he'd just combed. The front of the shirt read: Firefighters Find 'Em Hot-and Leave 'Em Wet.
Her pulse raced and she had to clear her throat before she could speak coherently. "The watchman let me in so we could talk."
"You're a persistent little thing, aren't you?"
She ignored the sexist comment even as she acknowledged if for truth; she was persistent, and she was most certainly little. "You haven't returned any of my calls."
"No, I haven't, have I?" His deep voice held only mild interest in her visit. "Ever wonder why?"
As he asked that, he lifted out a pair of cotton boxers and she barely had time to avert her face before he pulled the towel away.
Cheeks scalding, Amanda gave him her back. "You're being stubborn."
"Actually, I was trying to be direct. I don't want to do the calendar, so there's no point in wasting my time or yours."
"But I need you."
Amanda felt the pause, his utter stillness in response to her words, and wanted to bite off her own tongue. Instead, she asked patiently, "Are you decent?"
He gave a short laugh. "Never."
"I meant." She wanted to groan, she wanted to ask him why he had to taunt her and be so impossible. But that wouldn't win him over so she drew a breath and asked instead, "Have you got your pants on?"
"Yeah."
She turned and saw he'd only been half-truthful. He wore his boxers and the T-shirt, but that was all. Even sitting on the bench, his jeans next to him, he looked more manly than any man she knew. His large hands were braced on the bleached wood of the bench at either side of his hips, his powerful thighs casually sprawled, his gaze direct.
Amanda could see the bulge of his sex in his underwear and found herself staring. It was a contrast, the sight of that soft, cuddled weight when the rest of him was so hard and lean.
"Should I take them back off?"
She jerked her gaze to his face and asked stupidly, "What?"
"The underwear." His voice was silky, the words and meaning hot. "I can skin them off if you wanna get a better look."
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