Mads’s usually smooth-as-wax brow knitted. “We have a chance to reverse some of the losses over the last few months. It’s been dropped into our laps and we have to use it to get as much leverage as possible.”

The woman had a point: pension problems, resource allocation, rivalry with the CPD, which generally had it better come budget time—all were very valid reasons why the CFD would happily beat his ass with a hose if he made an impromptu visit to any of the ninety firehouses within the city limits. A public scene with him practically handing his balls to Alexandra in gratitude could go a long way toward securing that endorsement from the firefighters’ union.

But not now. As much as he admired Madison’s driven nature, right this minute, he needed her to turn off her campaign manager switch and shut the hell up.

“Me and Dempsey. Alone.”

Her eyebrow hitch was more resigned than annoyed. “That might be difficult.”

Outside his room, he encountered Obstacle No. 1: his chief of security and good friend, Tom Kincaid.

“Goin’ for a little walkabout, Mr. Mayor?”

Shit. When Tom called him that, it meant he was pissed. So he might have had good reason. After exiting the grand ballroom at the Drake with Tom’s pincer grip on his shoulder, Eli had slipped past him to go back inside. Rather stupid behavior, he knew now. But the CFD hadn’t made it on site yet and Mads was scared. Tom would have demanded he leave the heroics to the first responders, so he made an executive decision.

He was the fucking mayor, after all.

“Tom, I’m sorry. I acted on impulse and I probably should have run it by you.”

Incredulity strained the tough guy’s expression. “So I could demand you stay put? You knew exactly what my reaction would be, Eli, so let’s not pretend otherwise.”

“Okay. Glad we sorted that out. Now I need to see Dempsey—where is she?”

“Still gettin’ checked out in the ER as far as I know.” Tom looked past him to Mads. “Shouldn’t he be seeing a doctor about the fact he’s an ornery pain in the ass?”

“No cure for that,” Mads offered.

“I dunno,” Tom muttered mutinously. “I could think of a few things.”

Eli tamped down a nascent growl. “I’d love to chat, but I have places to be. Now.”

With a sneering lip curl of this-ain’t-over, Tom led him to the ER, where he encountered Obstacle No. 2: the Firefightin’ Fucking Dempseys.

The entire pride was out in force, a pack of feral beasts standing sentry outside one of the exam rooms. As far as Eli knew, none of Sean Dempsey’s foster sons were genetically Irish except for the second oldest, Luke Almeida, who was half. But they all bled green and acted as if they had a dispensation from Pope Bono to behave any damn way they pleased.

Luke straightened from his slump against the wall. De facto leader of the Dempseys, Almeida disliked Eli the most. Last summer, the mayor’s office had crashed down hard on the Cuban Irish hothead when he played fast and loose with his fists in a videotaped brawl in the Dempsey family’s bar. Eli’s firing of Luke’s girlfriend, Kinsey, the mayor’s press secretary at the time, hadn’t exactly contributed to the kiss and make up.

“How is she?” Eli asked.

On hearing his voice, Darcy Cochrane jumped up from a chair and hugged Eli. The Cochrane and Cooper families had been in each other’s pockets for years, and Darcy was like an annoying little sister to him. Lately, she was estranged from her father, Sam, Eli’s former mentor and campaign backer, due to her questionable life choices. Questionable life choice number one, Beck Rivera—another damn Dempsey—stood off to the side.

“Eli, are you okay?” Darcy asked.

He clung to her, accepting her affection more for her peace of mind than for his own. “I’m fine, monkey. How’s Alexandra?”

“She’ll live.” Luke was usually the spokesperson. “Smoke inhalation, but she’ll be okay.”

“I’d like to see her.”

“She needs to rest,” Luke said sternly.

Wyatt Fox, Madison’s savior and oldest of the clan, moved several inches to his left, close enough to the exam room’s door to make his point clear: None shall pass.

“I just need a minute.”

Luke stepped into Eli’s space, using every inch of his six-four frame to intimidate. A muscle in his jaw ticked dangerously in case Eli was slow on the uptake. He mentally sighed. Getting into a shoving match with the Dempseys wouldn’t have been his first choice, but damn if Eli didn’t want to lay down the law here and exercise mayoral privilege.

“Listen, Almeida—”

Eli felt his hand drawn to Luke’s grip. Warm, callused, and, surprisingly, not trying to crush him to within an inch of his life.

“We’ve had our differences, Cooper, but what you did tonight wipes the slate clean.”

“It does?”

Luke’s smile was wry. “Be a dick about it if you want, but anyone who saves my sister’s life is okay in my book.”

Anyone who—what now?

His head still pounded and Luke’s words were not helping. Short-term memory loss was typical of a concussion, but what the man was saying made no sense.

In that corridor, he had lost consciousness and Dempsey had . . . what had she done? His mind reached for the details. The mask. She had taken off her mask and put it on him to help him breathe. She had dragged him out of the smoke to a place where the air was clear and then . . .

“Details are kind of fuzzy,” he muttered.

“You pulled her out of that stairwell,” Beck said. “Sure gonna look good for your crappy approval ratings.”

“Beck!” Darcy snapped at her fiancé.

“Well, it will. Mayor saves firefighter. Can’t make that shit up.”

Luke held up a hand of STFU. “She’s safe, that’s all that matters.”

So this was what Madison had meant about it being a godsend for his election campaign. Not that Alexandra had saved him, but that apparently he had saved her?

“I have to see her,” Eli insisted. He needed to get to the bottom of this before he talked to anyone else.

Beck parted his lips to engage, but the exam room door opening behind him cut him short. Out came Gage Simpson, looking tired and worn, but on seeing Eli, his face lifted in a grin. The Dempseys were an Irish pain in Eli’s ass, but Gage was the least bothersome, mainly because he was doing a pretty fine job of healing his friend Brady.

Eli had chosen him for that very reason.

“Hey, Mr. Mayor,” Gage said. “Come to reap your reward?”

“My what?”

“Save a life, you’re owed a life debt.” His brow crinkled. “Or maybe it’s the other way around. Save a life, then you’re responsible for the life you saved. Shit, Wy, that means you’re responsible for a lot of freakin’ people.” Gage smiled easily and jerked a thumb in Wyatt’s direction. “He’s got the house record for saves.”

“I’d love to chat, but I really need to see your sister. Now.” How many more times could he say this and not actually have it happen?

“Later,” Luke said as he made a move to block.

“No, Luke, it’s okay.”

All eyes whipped to the source of the voice: Alexandra.

She stood at the exam room door, holding on to the frame like she needed it for support. With her hair in an unruly mess, that fantasy body draped in a hospital gown, and a hint of a pink bra strap, she projected a bewildering combination of fragility, strength, and womanhood.

Bold and resolute, she held his gaze.

“I’d like to talk to the mayor.”

The door shut with a soft snick. Eli stood back on his heels, staring at her, a pillar of stock-still energy. His gaze traveled over her face, seeming to scan for injuries, blemishes, God knew what. Her own gaze matched his in intensity.

She couldn’t not look at him.

Tiredness should have ruled his handsome face, but he wore the brute demeanor of a man who could haul rocks from a quarry or throw boulders over bridges and still have energy to spare. Streaks of dirt on his face and dots of blood on his shirt collar only added to the impression of undiluted virility. He was a former Marine who had been captured in Afghanistan, and she’d often wondered how someone so adamantly metrosexual could have survived in that Taliban dungeon. Now she knew. Tonight she had seen a different side to him, and her life was forever changed.