Kimberly Terry - Hot to Touch

Timing it just right, he pulled on the cord, threw back his head and watched his bright orange-and-white-striped parachute balloon open with a smooth-sounding pop.

Shane yanked the toggles and faced into the wind for landing.

Steering his chute away from one of the flaming trees, he felt every muscle straining, sweat pouring down his face behind the mask as he fought against the pull of the wind, his chute violently swaying back and forth.

In less than a minute he’d be on the ground. And once he was, he’d have to hit it running. His concentration was fully on making a safe landing, but soon all other thoughts would have to be shoved to the side.

His best friend’s life depended on it.

Push off. Legs spread. Release. Push off. Legs spread. Release…

Shane leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest and studied the woman, his brow creased in concentration.

He ignored the activity going on around him and throughout the gym, his attention focused solely on the small figure several feet away, making her way down the faux-stone-covered wall.

One small, black-gloved hand was wrapped securely around the rope just above her at chest level; the other was loosely wrapped around the part of the rope near her backside as she made her way down the wall.

And what a backside it was.

Shane found himself staring at her curvaceous little body in fascination as she rappelled the wall. His gaze shifted away from her round, firm buttocks—that even the shapeless khaki shorts she wore didn’t disguise—to trail down her bare, dark brown legs.

Shane shook his head, berating himself for noticing her legs, sexy or not.

Although it had been too damn long since he’d been with a woman, this one was definitely off-limits.

This was the woman who’d managed to wrap his base manager around her finger and somehow convince him to allow her to do an “in-depth” story on him and his fellow smoke jumpers.

He tore his gaze away from the petite woman and glanced around at the crowded gym.

Although it was P.T., the time of morning when his men, if not on mission, performed physical training, apparently the base manager wasn’t the only one taken with the reporter, Shane noticed, his scowl deepening. Several of his men were hanging around the rappelling wall, watching the reporter, nudging each other and pointing at her like schoolboys checking out a cute girl.

He pointedly stared and made eye contact with several of them, but his scowl didn’t seem to scare them off. If anything, it seemed to encourage them. One of his men gave him a thumbs-up, jerking his head toward the woman, grinning his fool head off, as if Shane had something to do with her being there. Not even close, Shane thought, his irritation growing. And if he had his way she’d be packing up as soon as her curvy little body hit the ground.

He’d recently returned from a mission where he’d volunteered to help the short-staffed Alaska unit with a kicker that had blazed for twelve days before they’d gotten the fire under control. Afterward, he’d stayed on and helped with the massive cleanup.

Pleased with how it had gone, but beyond exhausted, a month later he was just looking forward to a little R and R. Preferably in the form of staying in bed for forty-eight hours with one of the always-ready, always-willing, long-legged blondes from the local town of Landers.

When Roebuck, his base manager, had first informed him on his way back home that he was allowing a reporter to come into the jumpers’ camp to research an in-depth article on their lives, one that would possibly hit the national papers, Shane had been less than enthusiastic.

After the series of fires taking place over the last eighteen months across the coast, their small, sleepy community had been a hive of activity, gaining national exposure and bringing in a lot of media attention.

In particular there was the fire that had occurred near the start of the spree that resulted in two jumpers dying and the only female jumper on staff leaving. There’d been plenty of speculation as to why she’d left, but no one besides Roebuck, Shane and a few of the senior jumpers knew the real reason.

When Roebuck had explained his reasoning for allowing the reporter access, eager for a chance to show what he and the men did on a daily basis, a reluctant part of Shane had understood. The attention the article would bring, would give good press to their small base, and with it, much-needed donations to keep the satellite office up and running.

That was until he’d found out that Gene Raw was in fact Emogene Rawlings; that the reporter used the shortened version of her name on her byline.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her—”Emma” in person—carefully, but swiftly make her way down the wall, pushing away the spark of admiration he felt for her ability.

From his vantage point, he had an optimal view of her. He found his attention riveted on her small nuances—the way her brow furrowed as she scaled the wall, the way the full bottom rim of her lip was pulled between her top teeth, the small bead of sweat that rolled down past her temple, over her cheekbone and down the curve her of her cheek.

She quickly maneuvered her way down the rest of the wall. Once she made it to the floor, she spun around jubilantly and gave several of the nearby men high-fives.

“She’s amazing, huh, Shane? I’ve never seen a first-timer go down the wall so fast!”

Shane turned to one of the jumpers who’d come to stand next to him. He nodded his head curtly and glanced around. He’d unconsciously moved closer as he watched her and was now standing a few short feet away from the rappelling wall.

“Yeah, she’s a regular marvel.” As soon as he made the snide remark, Shane wished he could retract it. The younger jumper frowned, a puzzled look on his face.

“Do you know her, Shane?”

Shane shook his head and turned to watch the reporter with narrowed eyes.

“I guess you gotta wonder about a woman like that,” the man went on, oblivious to Shane’s irritation.

“What do you mean?” Shane asked.

The jumper shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t know. She’s so small, looks kinda fragile to me. Wouldn’t think a woman like that would be in her line of work. I guess I figured when they told us a reporter was gonna be following us around, living at the camp, I didn’t figure it’d be a woman. Damn sure not one as fine as Ms. Rawlings.”

When Shane raised a brow, the younger man blushed. “Well, you know what I mean,” he murmured.

When the woman in question turned toward them, as though she knew they were talking about her, she and Shane locked glances. From his short distance away he saw her large brown eyes widen as he deliberately allowed his gaze to leisurely slide over her, from the top of her head down to her small, boot-covered feet.

When his eyes met hers again, he noticed the subtle once-over she gave him as well before her eyes darted away. But not before he saw the flush of red on her deep brown skin.

He was the sexiest jumper she’d ever seen.

Although, truth be told, Emma had only been at the hub station for a short time and had never actually met a smoke jumper in person before her arrival. But, no doubt about it, this one was at the top of the food chain.

The jumpers gave new meaning to the term “alpha male,” from the base manager all the way down to the new recruits. It was a prerequisite for the men in their line of work to be in top physical and mental condition, always ready to go into action when the call came.

For all that, there was still something more about this one; something indefinable. A hint of danger and a sharper edge surrounded him, clung to him, made him that much more…prime.