The heat hit them as soon as they exited the stairwell on the second level.

“I thought suppression was clear on this side of the building,” Alex said.

“Someone fucked up on comm. Mask on, Dempsey.”

Shit, this was serious. Wy only used her last name when he was in business mode. She was already tightening the strap and turning the air regulator up on her bottle.

Wy called in an update to the cap. “Remember everything you’ve learned,” he said to Alex, his voice calm and purposeful. Of all her brothers, he was the one she’d trust most to lead in any messed-up situation. “Don’t suck on it; even draws.”

Alex nodded, drew a deep breath. The self-contained breathing apparatus, aka SCBA, could last a half hour. No firefighter expected to run out, but with rookie status, adrenaline, and itchy panic, all bets were off. Thirty minutes of air could be depleted in ten.

They turned a corner into a smoke-filled corridor, past a sign pointing to meeting rooms with names like the Lincoln, the Jefferson, the Washington.

“Fire department, call out!” Wy yelled.

Nothing but the telltale crackle of burning paint. Distant, but too close for comfort. They moved toward the sound, with a purposeful awareness of every step. The smoke thickened to a muddy charcoal haze and then, for the briefest moment, cleared.

Alex could barely make out a shape coming toward them. A tall, dark streak carrying something.

Someone.

The shape lurched forward, stumbled, but remained upright. In three seconds, Alex and Wy had closed the gap.

“I’ve got her,” came a smoke-roughened voice. Not Wy.

Both firefighters’ gazes fell to the package, a woman in a cream cocktail dress that no dry cleaner would ever again make pristine. She was unconscious, limp in black-suited arms with snow-white cuffs. A glint of metal flashed through Alex’s mind before her attention was ripped back to the woman. That sharp black bob, that jutting jaw . . . Alex recognized her immediately. Madison Maitland, head honcho at the PR firm M Squared.

Who happened to be Kinsey’s boss.

And who also happened to be the mayor’s election campaign manager. Not to mention his ex-wife.

Alex’s eyes shot up and clashed with an ice-pick-blue gaze.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Etiquette on greeting victims in a working fire? Zero points, Alex.

“Lovely to see you, too, Firefighter Dempsey,” Eli Cooper replied smoothly.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Alex said, indignant at his offhand response, and herself for letting him provoke her. Of all the times. “We had a report that you were out.”

He blinked away a trickle of blood dripping from a cut over his eye.

Then he swayed. Damn, he was going to . . .

Wy grabbed Madison. The wall grabbed Cooper.

“She’s been out for about ninety seconds,” the mayor said to Wy, who had set Madison down and was trying to rouse her. “Got locked in a restroom during the commotion.”

Cooper hunkered, his hand outstretched on the wall to steady his crouch, his face a mask of concern. A drop of blood fell on the bodice of Madison’s dress. “Mads, can you hear me?”

Nothing. Wy pulled off his glove and fingered her neck.

“Pulse is thready. Time to go,” he said, one eye on the smoke soup from which Cooper had made his dramatic entrance.

Pushing her irritation with him down deep, Alex called on her professionalism. The cut over his eye still dribbled blood, some of which had fallen to the immaculate white collar above his tuxedo. He had come perilously close to passing out back there. “Mr. Mayor, can you walk?”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving Madison. “I can take her.”

“Let’s leave the CFD to do their jobs, Mr. Mayor,” Wy said, scooping up Madison and turning back toward the stairwell. “Dempsey, take the rear.” No hesitation, he moved forward with his charge. Looked like this grab would go in Wy’s column.

“After you, Mr. Mayor.”

“Ladies first, Alexandra.”

She growled, annoyed that her mask suppressed it. He smirked, guessing at her reaction anyway.

“Really? You’re going to pull the female-firefighter-can’t-do-the-job card now?”

Ahead, Wy had already turned the corner with Madison. Behind, the smoke was creeping outward like tentacles, blanketing death over the corridor.

Pulling his big body upright, Cooper coughed hard against the back of his hand. “As much as I’d love to debate the subtleties of the gender equality debate with you, Alexandra, I think we should probably use these lovely moments to haul our asses to safety.”

“That’s what I’m—”

“C’mon.” He dragged her by the arm toward where Wy had gone. She let him lead because he was going in the right direction and she was a big fan of choosing her battles.

They had just turned the corner, heading for the exit-signed stairwell, when it all turned to shit. Eli’s grip on her arm, previously firm and dominant, softened and slipped. No more than fifteen feet out, he slumped against the wall. His hand flew to his forehead, over the bloody wound.

“Come on,” she urged, “we’re almost there.”

He didn’t respond, just cradled his head.

“How did you come by that injury, Mr. Mayor?”

“Macho shit, trying to get a door open. Looks much easier in the movies.” He huffed out a smoky laugh. “And call me Eli.”

“You haven’t made me angry enough.”

At least he was lucid enough to speak. Granted, it was his usual BS and—fuck, the situation turned to double shit when his tuxedoed body slithered down the wall.

“C’mon, Cooper. No napping till we’re out.”

He said nothing. No smartass comeback, not even a grunt. Shit, he was losing consciousness before her eyes. The gases in the hallway were noxious and she had no idea how long he had been inhaling them. He needed clean air. Fast.

Her mind tripped through the options: drag, revive, wait.

Drag . . .

Eli Cooper was 220 pounds of rock-solid muscle. Limp, but upright would work for her because, despite the fact that she was trained in dragging bodies from her days back in the academy, hauling this man’s deadweight, even with a hasty webbing harness, was another story entirely. Getting him conscious was her first job, because if that didn’t work, this might be her last.

Revive . . .

As gratifying as a nice slap across one of those gorgeous cheekbones would be, it wouldn’t change his respiratory situation, which was up shit creek, paddle MIA. But here was the rub: sharing your air with a civilian was a no-no. As much as it was a firefighter’s job to save lives, her own life was paramount—and handing over her mask to someone else placed hers in jeopardy.

Wait . . .

If she waited for however long it took for the cavalry to arrive, Eli might suffer from lung damage or airway collapse. Next stop, cell death. Last stop, one dead mayor and bye-bye to her career in CFD.

Decided, she hauled a lungful of precious air, then ripped off her mask and placed it over his face, holding it tight and steady to form a makeshift seal around the edges.

One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three . . .

Life returned to his body, but as was always the case with this man, consciousness came with its own set of problems. With hands raised, he fought her, pushing the mask away. As if the guy wasn’t already difficult enough to deal with.

“Don’t need . . .”

“Cooper, let me do my job!”

And that outburst cost her the breath she’d been holding. Got to move.

Everything she had ever learned kicked into gear. She reaffixed the mask to his face. Turned up the air. Felt the pulse on his neck. Strong, but then she knew it would be. Eli Cooper was too much of an asshole to let a little hiccup like smoke inhalation keep him down.

While she waited for the SCBA to do its job, she hit the button on her radio.