He did enjoy getting her riled, though. But that did not mean he approved of her in any way. Eli’s passion was always tempered by reason, unlike Alexandra, who had allowed a few drunken insults from that bigot Sam Cochrane to tip her from professionalism to certifiable insanity. But the citizenry had rallied to her, and Eli risked jeopardizing the upcoming election if he fired a woman for defending her gender, her family, and her fellow firefighters. So he’d let her stay.

Number-one lesson learned in his time as mayor: listen to the fucking voters.

But how he had longed to punish her and rein in that dangerous impulsivity of hers. A firm hand, splaying her across his knee, might teach her a thing or two about humility. He suppressed a groan. Keeping her in line would be a pleasure, but Christ Almighty, what a dangerous path for his mind to travel. Control was his watchword, and it was constantly tested in her presence. She was a singular woman who continually exhibited poor judgment.

Nowhere was it more obvious than with that form-fitting dress, her perfect olive-skinned breasts barely contained, the cleavage an announcement that she was on the market. Next, that pert mouth, just as saucy at rest as when she spoke. And don’t get him started on those shamrock-green eyes, flashing her quick temper. The only domesticated part of her tonight was that long, sleek hair. Not her usual unkempt chestnut with those flame-red streaks like Christmas gift ribbons—this evening it looked like hair that took work. She had clearly primped and preened for this date with Michael Martinez, a man who was not worthy of her efforts.

Last year, the detective had applied to be on the mayor’s security detail and, unsure as to why, Eli had taken an instant dislike to him. Eli’s instincts were usually spot-on. Of course, it didn’t hurt that his gut was currently being vindicated by Detective Martinez’s exceptionally big mouth.

This was at least the third time the detective had left his date alone at the table. Very bad manners. Now he was on the phone in the hallway outside the restroom, loudly advising a colleague to follow up on a suspect interview before the night was through. The former lawyer in Eli winced as the name of the person of interest was bandied about with no care for privacy. Good Christ. Looked like Eli would be chatting with the police commissioner tomorrow.

With a shake of his head, Eli reached for the door, then pulled up short at the detective’s next topic of conversation.

Alexandra Dempsey.

“Yeah, I thought she was a dyke, too.” A pause as Martinez listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. “She was on TV last summer for cuttin’ up that big shot’s car. Got a temper on her for sure. You know what that means?”

Martinez’s buddy must have answered correctly, because he laughed, the sound grating on Eli’s last nerve.

“Aw, yeah. Probably scratches, as well. And, Jesus, her tits. She’s poured into this dress. Great fucking body.”

Eli watched as his knuckles popped chalk-white on the handle of the door. He had been right about that dress. He was invariably right about a lot of things.

“Dyke or not, she’s up for it tonight. Keeps leaning in to give me a good view, y’know. She’s a bit chunky, but they’re usually the most grateful ones.”

More laughter. More volcanic heat making Eli dizzy with fury.

And still the man would not shut up. “Yeah, I’m already fantasizing about Alex Dempsey on her knees.”

Eli threw open the door and stepped outside. Martinez looked up, colored, and ended the call with a muffled “Later.”

“Mr. Mayor,” he said with a nod as he edged with tentative steps back toward the dining room.

At the far end of the hallway, Tom Kincaid, the head of Eli’s security detail, made eye contact, ready to intervene if necessary. Eli shook his head almost imperceptibly and turned his attention to Martinez once more.

“Detective Martinez, it’s been far too long. Step into my office.” He gave the restroom door a gentle push.

“I’m kind of busy,” the detective said, rather churlishly.

Eli had a smile for every occasion and every little prick who got his goat. Now he dialed up his I-know-you-don’t-want-to-fuck-with-me one. “Won’t take more than a few minutes.”

It took less. Moments later, Eli watched from a shaded position near the kitchen as Martinez trudged back to the table where the entrées he would be paying for—but not eating—had just been set down by a server. Typically contrary, Alexandra Dempsey had gone with the steak instead of Eli’s recommendation of the quail.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a multimuscled thug with ink-saturated skin settle in for the show. His snowy chef’s jacket gleamed in sharp contrast to all those tattoos, fitting companions to the angry scar tissue on the right side of his face.

Brady Smith, chef/owner of Smith & Jones, a Marine brother, and Eli’s sometime conscience, asked, “Whatcha doin’?”

“Just taking out the trash.”

As much as Eli enjoyed being right, he didn’t always enjoy the fruits of his accuracy. Even from his distant vantage point, he could intuit that Alexandra’s melted moss green eyes had grown wide at whatever the detective was saying. Her shoulders drooped in disappointment. She fidgeted with her napkin. Quickly she stood, five feet ten inches of total irresponsibility, and holy shit, she had killer legs to complement those gorgeous breasts. Well shaped, golden brown, a mile past eternity.

She placed her hand on Martinez’s arm, clearly expecting a signal that the date had gone well but its premature termination couldn’t be helped. So when he practically recoiled in horror at the slight incline of her head, her shock was palpable. It rippled through the room, hitting Eli like a toxic wave.

Brady grunted his disapproval beside him.

“Trust me when I say this was for the best,” Eli muttered. “And not a word to your boyfriend.”

“Ain’t mah bo-friend.” When Brady got agitated, or uttered anything close to an untruth, his accent tended to revert to its Bayou origins. He would make a terrible politician.

“Whatever gets you through the night. Oh, wait, that would be your boyfriend.”

“Fuck you,” was Eli’s reward, but he had already checked out of the conversation because Martinez was hightailing it to the exit like he really did have an urgent crime to solve. Bravo, Detective.

Eli stilled, his heart poised on a cliff, wondering what would come next. A trip to the restroom to compose herself? A sixty-second wait for her dud date to be on his way before she made a similar move? Maybe she would seek Eli out, ask if she could join him.

Not. Of all the possibilities, that was the least likely, but strangely the most pleasurable result that could occur here. She was entertaining, he’d give her that.

The impossible-to-predict Alexandra Dempsey did none of those things. Instead, she shook her head ruefully and . . . laughed. A joyous, passionate, inappropriate laugh that drew all eyes in the vicinity and a look of concern from her server.

Then she sat, filled her glass of Cabernet to the rim, and chugged.

All the way down.

Just as he thought. This maddening woman couldn’t help but attract the attention of every person in her magnetic orbit. If it wasn’t her second-skin dress or her troublesome breasts, it was her terrible taste in men. She was a woman of incredibly poor judgment.

And she needed saving from herself.

 CHAPTER TWO

Damn, she was one hot, hungry bitch.

Ten o’clock on New Year’s Day, and the fire gave off enough heat to make Alex forget it was negative freeze-her-nipples on the thermometer. Perched on the balls of her feet, she bunched her calf muscles and tightened her fingers on the mask she had yet to don. Do it too early and you risk claustrophobia. Too late and you waste precious seconds, not to mention pissing off your platoon. All men who were looking for any excuse to label her as weak. Inadequate.