Breathe for Me (Be for Me 1_ Xander) -Natalie Anderson,
Chapter One
Chelsea Greene stood at the side of the pool. Despite the sultry air, goose bumps peppered her skin. Cushion covered deckchairs and fairy-light festooned railings evoked a fun, party atmosphere. People from neighboring buildings could probably see her, no doubt wondering why she wasn’t wet already. On a hot night like this, she was surprised she was the only resident breaking the rules to swim after hours.
It ought to be easy.
A sparkling, azure pool on a Manhattan apartment block’s roof was a rare luxury. Kidney-shaped, it wasn’t built for endless laps and fitness, but for fun. And it was time to quit dawdling and dive right in. But her leg ached. Almost two years on from the accident it wasn’t fully fixed.
One foot at a time, one step at a time, inch by inch and all that…
Her pulse skittered. She concentrated, trying to remember the simple sensual delight of warm water washing over skin and the free feeling of floating. But other memories were stronger, creeping and curling like a vine that all too soon overtakes and suffocates the original host plant.
Dark, cold, deep. Drowning.
Her breathing hitched. She froze on the edge. Alarm bells clanged in her head, endlessly ringing out panic. She closed her eyes, tried counting her way to calm.
One, two, three, four, five…
She got to nineteen before it dawned that the alarm wasn’t stopping. It was real. Snapping her eyes open, she turned towards the stairwell. Distantly, beneath the ear-splitting siren, she could hear the slamming of several doors.
Fire alarm. Her building. Wouldn’t that be her luck? Chelsea grinned ruefully. At least it wasn’t all in her head.
She snatched up her towel and walked as fast as her damaged leg would allow. She wasn’t going to panic. Alarms like this were almost always false—a warning, a drill, an electronic hiccup. It wouldn’t be a real emergency. Opening the door to the stairwell, she heard voices. Below, people were filing out fast, calling out to each other. Some laughed. If people were laughing it must be okay.
She clutched the towel around her and steeled herself for however many million stairs. No elevators worked in an alarm, everyone knew they were programmed to return to the ground floor and stay there. She’d have to walk all twenty flights. Her heart thundered rapidly, skipping essential beats, making her breathless before she’d hardly started.
Just a drill. Just a drill.
One floor. Two. Into the melee. A ton of people were ahead of her, moving fast. On the landing of the third floor down a flood of people emerged from one doorway. Apparently Thursday night was party night in that apartment. They didn’t seem to notice her leaning against the banister as they rushed—a gaggle of merriment and energy that streamed by in a hazy push of people. Her towel snagged on something, loosened, then slipped between the railings, falling into that tiny gap in the center of the stairwell. It floated down all the floors in a few seconds. She gripped the banister. The crowd was well below her now too. It didn’t matter, right?
This was only a drill. They’d only be on the street a couple of minutes while the apartment managers reset the alarm. Then she caught it. The unmistakable smell of smoke.
Not a drill?
Her stupid leg weakened as panic resurged along her veins. She grabbed the banister with both hands. From above she heard a door bang. Frozen, she listened to the rapid clip of sure, fit, heavy feet almost skipping down the stairs.
Pull it together Chelsea. Slow and steady.
She glared at the floor, focusing on each space a pace ahead, resuming her regular counting. She carefully went down more steps, but in seconds the fast, heavy feet caught up to her. Passed her. Stopped.
“You okay?”
There was no ignoring that deep-voiced, drawling query. No ignoring the boots planted wide apart on the floor where she’d been staring that one step ahead.
Above the scuffed brown boots, long legs and narrow hips were encased in loose, well-worn jeans. His baby-blue tee skimmed close enough to hint at rock hard ridges of abs and pecs and stretched out to hug huge shoulders. Brute strength and breadth. Chelsea didn’t go weak over size and muscles. But then, these were muscles and her legs were weak already. That was her excuse and she clutched it tight. Along with the banister.
No way would his face match his body. That wouldn’t be fair. But then life wasn’t fair. And, not for the first time, Chelsea was wrong.
The color of his tee emphasized his eyes. His tan highlighted the blue too, intense, bright and piercing.
Damn, that’s right. She was barely wearing anything and given she was shivering like it was mid-winter, her nipples had gone icicle stiff. All but screaming ‘look at me’. But his attention didn’t go to her boobs. Instead he zoned in on her weakness. Her leg.
“I’m fine.” She shifted her weight forward onto her strong leg, tucking the weaker one behind.
“Take much longer and you might not be.” Another easy drawl, this time accompanied by a smile. Oh hell, a winning smile that went slightly crooked. Perfect.
She tensed as heat surged. Her nipples pointed even harder. Not lust. It was embarrassment. And anger. She was sick of being weak. “I’m going as fast as I can.”
His eyes locked on hers. Despite their lightness, the blue was underpinned with power as if he was utterly used to assuming control of any given situation. “Not fast enough.” His smile widened, softening the authoritative way he spoke.
It didn’t soften it enough for Chelsea. “Says who?”
“Me.”
Yeah. He was implacable, arrogant and so much the picture of perfect health and unchallenged masculinity, Chelsea’s hackles rose.
“And who are you? Fire services?” Master and Commander? She tilted her chin and dared him to answer. She didn’t need some random stranger to help her out. She’d get to the ground herself.
“You mean you don’t recognize me?” His baby-blues lit up, and a chuckle rumbled. “Sweetheart, I’m Superman, didn’t you know?”
Before she could snap her jaw shut and think up a sarcastic reply, he reached forward and scooped her into his arms. He pulled her tighter to him with a little tug, prising her hands from the banister. In less than a second he’d turned and resumed his fast pace, taking her with him as if she were lighter than a two-buck book.
“What’re you doing?” She demanded, shocked at being so easily lifted. So totally within his hold.
“Saving your ass.” He tossed her lightly to adjust his grip. One arm curled right around her legs, the other wrapped low around her waist. He clamped her tighter against his torso. Her arm was trapped uncomfortably between them and her face was far too close to his neck.
“I can save my own, thanks.”
“Sure,” he snorted, not slowing. “Next decade.”
Her heart thundered but while she might be resentful, she wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t about to struggle. She settled for glaring at him, but quickly got distracted by the zoomed-in view.
His close-cut hair was dark brown, but this near she could see the individual strands of sun-burnished gold. He’d have been blond as a boy, and with those pale blue eyes and that white smile he’d have looked angelic. No doubt he’d been completely indulged. Given he was confident enough to come close and pick up a random woman in a heartbeat—as in literally scoop her up—then yeah, the guy had gotten his way, way too many times.
She couldn’t just lie back and enjoy being held and helped by a gorgeous guy. In the last two years she’d been helped too much. The whole point of her time in New York was to be independent again. She was more than able to look after herself.
“Shouldn’t you have me over your shoulder in a fireman’s carry?” She didn’t want to be this close to his face and lips. She didn’t want the hint of citrus-and-soap to tantalize her nostrils, or his warm strength to heat parts that hadn’t been heated in a very long time. “Isn’t that the easiest way to lift someone and move in a hurry?”
She’d easily fit over his shoulder. Hell, they were so broad he’d probably manage two women over each. She closed her eyes, refusing to imagine a harem hanging off him. She wasn’t going to hang off him. But with her eyes closed she acutely felt his hot steely body pressing against her. Solid packed muscle. Sensations uncurled deep in her belly, sending out flickering tendrils of heat—not least to her cheeks.
Hell. She snapped her eyes open. Was her libido trying to stage a come-back during a damn fire alarm? It was a building evacuation. A possible emergency. Not the time to get turned on.
“If you want it ‘easier’, put your arms around my neck.” He glanced down at her, his eyes danced wickedly.
He was teasing?
“Why? You like a woman to cling?” Somehow she doubted it.
“Only at the right time,” he said softly. “This is definitely the right time.”
The horrible thing was that he was right. Her arm was awkwardly squashed between them, and given he’d increased his pace, she felt bad for being a burden. The decent thing would be to make it as easy as possible for him. She really had no choice but to wriggle her arm free and curl it round his neck. It brought her even closer. And there was nothing like gratuitous amounts of skin to amplify a sense of intimacy. Her breast was crushed against his chest, trapped in the curve of his arm her thighs were pushed close together, his hand splayed wide too close to her butt. She could feel each finger pressing against her. The tightness made her more aware of the sensations, the muscles at the apex of her thighs. Now really wasn’t the time for Kegel exercises.