Alex Dempsey 2.0 could retreat back to her hidey-hole. Kick-ass Alexandra was here to stay.

“Go on. Show me this ring, then.”

He flipped up the lid to reveal a pink—of course—diamond ring set in a bed of clear jewels. She knew nothing about cuts or carats, but she knew enough to recognize the box as Tiffany and the size as planetary. Those investments must be doing very well indeed.

He plucked the ring from its velvet bed and slipped in onto her finger so fast her head spun.

“I haven’t said yes.”

“Just see how it looks,” he murmured.

The master manipulator struck again. And it did look wonderful on her hand, just as the man felt wonderful wrapped around her body, heart, and soul.

Dragging her blurred gaze away from the ring, she looked into those ice-blue eyes, softer now with his love for her, and came to two inevitable conclusions.

This man was incredibly blessed to have met her, and . . .

“Yes, Eli Cooper, I’ll marry you.” She kissed his smiling and oh-so-wicked mouth. “Consider yourself saved.”

Keep reading for a sneak peek of

The third sizzling installment in the Hot in Chicago series

Available in 2016 from Pocket Books!

 CHAPTER ONE

“You can go right in, Firefighter Fox. He’s waiting for you.”

Wyatt Fox nodded at Kathy, the firehouse’s perky admin as he stood outside the cap’s office, contemplating his next move. The going in part was a foregone conclusion—he had been summoned after all—but how he would handle what lay behind that door was still up in the air. Normally, Wyatt would have knocked. Raised his right hand, curled his fingers into a fist, and rapped the door. But he had a pass to just waltz in, so mercifully he didn’t have to complete even that simplest of motions. He didn’t have to be reminded that the tendons in his shoulder were shredded like Mini-Wheats after he’d wrenched it during a tricky rescue two weeks back. Either that or let that shithead—sorry, citizen—take a header off the LaSalle Street Bridge.

Suicide attempt averted. Three months off squad his reward.

Unless he could somehow persuade the cap that it wasn’t as bad as all that.

He gripped the doorknob with purpose, ignored the wince even that small action produced, and strode in like a man without a care in the world.

Captain Matt “Venti” Ventimiglia lifted his gaze from a file on his desk.

“Fox.”

Venti was a pretty cool cat, not one for small talk, which Wyatt appreciated, especially as his own family could talk the hind legs off a herd of mules. Sitting at the dinner table with the Dempseys—his cobbled together foster family—was like an episode of the Brady Bunch on steroids. And now that they all had hearts-and-flowers happy-ever-afters to call their own, it approached Disney to the nth degree at every gathering.

Wyatt took the seat Venti gestured at.

“At least three months, according to the doc,” the cap said.

Good, straight to it. “Docs can be wrong.”

“If you push it and make it worse”—he knifed a look with that—“then you could be looking at six months or more.”

“I’m not good at sitting around,” Wyatt said, as if that was a valid enough reason to put him back on active duty. It was a family trait, both Dempsey and the original. His biological dad was never one for letting the grass grow under his feet, always keeping Wyatt and his brother, Logan, on the move. Needs must, when you’re trying to stay one step ahead of the law.

The cap sniffed. “You hear about Dave Kowalski?”

The change-up gave Wyatt pause, but as he wasn’t having any luck going against the tide, he figured he’d swim with it for a while.

“Hollywood Dave? Word’s out that he’s looking at six weeks in traction.” Kowalski was the CFD’s designated consult for that TV show about Chicago firefighters, the one where fires broke out every ten seconds (nope) and everyone was screwing their coworkers (if only). Years with his nose permanently wedged in the asses of his actor pals had apparently dulled Dave’s reflexes to mush. The idiot had neglected to step out of the way when a roof caved in on him. If Venti was trying to compare their situations . . .

The cap smiled that crooked grin of his to put him at ease, knowing that Wyatt’s mind had crashed the gate and was hurtling down that track.

“They need someone to take his place.”

Wyatt shifted in his seat, thinking on that.

“Before you shut it down,” Venti continued when Wyatt remained silent, “let me tell you it’s not for the TV show. It’s a ten-week movie shoot from now through August. You know how the city is always looking for revenue, and to up its appeal for production companies. Cade Productions asked for someone from Engine 6 to be the consult.”

Something pinged in his chest. As a firefighter—a rescue squad firefighter—Wyatt had learned long ago that his instincts were, if not exactly a friend, that guardian angel on his shoulder keeping his ass in one piece. But the reason for this hitch in his lungs was escaping him right this second.

“Why Engine 6?”

Venti grinned and waited a beat until Wyatt got it.

“Because of Alex. They think they’ll get more play if they have an in with America’s Favorite Firefighter.”

Last year, his baby sister, Alexandra Dempsey, had made a name for herself slicing up the Lamborghini of some rich douchebag who insulted the family during a road traffic accident run. And if that wasn’t enough, she got herself involved with Eli Cooper, Chicago’s mayor, who proceeded to tank his campaign, and subsequently lost his reelection bid to prove he loved her. The whole mess had Hollywood written all over it. But he knew his sister had turned down offers to have her romantic shenanigans immortalized on-screen. Looked like the vultures were looking for another way to skin that kitty cat.

“Might be better to keep these movie people on a short leash, don’t you think?” Venti asked with a cocked eyebrow, reading Wyatt’s mind. Or at the very least recognizing that “don’t mess with the Dempseys” was as ingrained in Wyatt as it was in the rest of his crazy motherfuckin’ family.

Wyatt sighed. There was logic there, but hanging with Hollywood types and artistes was not how he wanted to spend his rehab. It was the kind of thing his brother Gage would be better at, he of the billboards and firefighter calendars and all-around exhibitionist tendencies. Kid had never met a camera he didn’t want to bang.

He was just about to offer Gage’s services when something Venti had said poked his brain matter like a Halligan through termite-ridden drywall.

“Back up a sec. What’s that about production companies?”

“The city wants to encourage more production companies to come here—”

“No, the other thing. The name of the production company that asked for the consult from 6.”

Venti squinted. “Cade Productions. Headed up by that actress who had all that trouble last year. The big-ass divorce from Ryan Michaels, the ‘I’m so exhausted’ rehab, the hacked photos.” The cap was well known for spending more time reading People than Fire Engineering magazine. Anyone who dared touch the latest issue before Venti laid his eyeballs on it better find latrine duty enjoyable. “This is supposed to be her big comeback—”