It was the anguish in her hazel eyes as she stumbled to a finish that stole his breath. The sight of her beautiful face, creased with devastation and flushed with exertion. Her pinched lips and trembling chin. All sure signs that she neared her tipping point.
But he knew she wouldn’t cry. Especially not when it would make her appear weak in front of the others. He remembered her grumbled curses at the machismo and sexism common in the two cultures that were so much a part of her familia’s life—Cuban and firefighting. Though much less evident in their actual home.
This couldn’t be hazing either. He’d bet his favorite lens she was too good at her job to warrant any kind of punishment. Something else had to be driving her to push herself to this extreme.
Stumbling to the end of the sidewalk, Anamaría dropped the buckets with a resounding thunk.
“Whyyyy?!” The word burst from her on a guttural groan as she staggered toward Enrique’s SUV. She tore off her yellow helmet, dropping it carelessly to the ground before collapsing onto the hood.
Arms crossed to cushion her forehead, she lay there, the air tank strapped to her back rising and falling with each fatigued breath she heaved. Her head shook in denial of whatever hounded her.
All the while, he remained stuck in the back seat. Unable to go to her and offer comfort. As if he had the right to anyway.
Hating the impotence of his situation, Alejandro hunched down to look through the front windshield at the red door on the second-floor landing. Where the hell was Enrique? Why hadn’t her brother stuck around long enough to dig out what was bothering her?
Any fool could see that something was obviously wrong.
Screw it! He jabbed the button to lower his back passenger window. “Hey!” he called out.
Anamaría didn’t move.
“¿Oye, Princesa, estás bien?”
Her head shot up at the dreaded nickname. Bingo! She scanned the area, her rosy-cheeked face scrunched with fatigue and irritation.
“In here!” he called, waving his arm in between the front bucket seats to get her attention.
Her frown deepened, and she peered intently through the windshield. Surprised recognition widened her eyes when she spotted him.
Alejandro tipped his head toward his side of the SUV, beckoning her over.
Skepticism narrowed her eyes as she glared at him.
He motioned a more insistent come here with a hand and shot her an encouraging smile, hoping she’d give in. Also calling himself all kinds of stupid for wanting to be someone she counted on like he used to be.
With an audible huff, she pushed herself off the hood. Biting the fingertip of one protective glove, she tugged it off with her teeth, then spat it to the ground. The other glove got the same feral treatment. And damn if that wasn’t hot.
Alejandro’s blood pulsed, his gaze never wavering from hers. Unwilling to break their tenuous connection as she unbuckled her belt with deft fingers. She made short work of sliding the air tank and her heavy jacket off her shoulders, dropping the jacket at her feet to cushion the metal tank when she lowered it to the ground. Then she straightened, shoulders thrown back, chin high.
Hands on her hips, her baggy uniform pants pooling over her dusty boots, she faced him. All confident and proud . . . and shadowy pain.
Deep, gulping breaths made her chest rise and fall under her faded gray KWFD tee, the sweat-stained cotton material clinging to her sexy curves. Her lips trembled and she rolled them in, as if struggling to keep whatever she fought inside herself.
More than fatigue or over-exhaustion consumed her. He knew it as well as he knew the proper settings for a low-light photo session. Something was wrong.
He didn’t beckon her again, though. He waited. Prayed she wouldn’t shut him out. Hated the knowledge that, in her mind, he might deserve it. In spite of their tentative truce.
She took a step toward him . . . then another . . . her long braid no longer tucked under her jacket, swinging gently behind her. The breath he’d been holding released on a gush of air as she strode toward his open window. And him.
Chapter 9
“What are you doing here?” The question burst from Anamaría before she’d even reached Alejandro’s side of her brother’s vehicle.
Angling his torso toward the lowered SUV window, Alejandro dragged his gaze down her body, to the tips of her well-worn boots, and back up again. The lazy perusal might as well have been a physical brush of his fingertips the way her body reacted, awareness tingling in secret spots that had missed his touch.
“I’m watching you kick your own ass in this unbearable heat,” he answered. “The smart ones escaped inside to the AC. What gives?”
What gives?
A two-word question with a million-word answer. Most of them too personal to share, even with him. Or, more like, especially with him.
“They’ll be the ones sucking wind, bitchin’ after running up a few flights of stairs when the time comes. Wimps.”
Forget the fact she’d been the one to put them through four rounds of the stations, fifty push-ups between each, sticking around for two more on her own. The muscle-straining, stamina-testing exercises hadn’t been enough to dilute the bitter mix of sadness and disappointment gurgling up her throat and knotting her gut.
Losing a victim on a call tended to bring the general mood down for everyone in the station.
Losing an otherwise healthy, middle-aged man to a massive cardiac infarction brought old ghosts swooping over her. The stark reminder of her papi’s heart attack and the resulting aftermath raised goose bumps down her arms. Set her thoughts spinning with what-ifs and second guesses that had her rethinking decisions and dreams. The fear of losing a loved one always made her want to cling tighter to them, almost convincing herself that there was no need for change when she already lived a charmed life.
Why rock the boat by wanting more? By changing things unnecessarily?
Because settling was for suckers, damn it! And she’d been one of those long enough.
“Wimps, huh?” Alejandro asked. “You sure that’s all?”
She hitched a noncommittal shoulder.
One of his dark brows quirked, pressing her for more. She ignored it. He’d lost the role of confidant ages ago.
“How’s your PT going?” she asked, a not-so-subtle deflection.
“Hurts like hell.”
A light breeze kicked up, cooling her skin and ruffling the dark waves of his hair. He combed his fingers through it, leaving a wavier piece sticking out at an odd angle. Her fingers twitched with the urge to smooth the piece into place. She ignored it.
One demon from her past was enough to wrestle with at the moment.
“The physical therapist’s bubbly cheerleader routine annoys the crap out of me,” he complained.
Anamaría nearly smiled at his grouchy petulance. “Suck it up, buttercup. You’ll be thankful later.”
“Spoken like someone who’s not laid up with a cyborg-looking contraption holding together pieces of her leg.”
“Also, someone who isn’t dumb enough to scale the side of a waterfall and nose-dive onto the rocks,” she countered.
“But who willingly runs into burning buildings like a superhero answering the call for help.”
She shook her head, still grappling with her and Jones’s inability to revive the poor man earlier. The sounds of the defibrillator’s charge as it pulsed his body, his teenaged daughter’s sobbing pleas for them to do something, reverberated in Anamaría’s head.