March Heat: A Firefighter Enemies to Lovers Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  March Heat

  Sinful Daddy

  Baby For The Mountain Man

  Defending The Mafia Princess

  Fighting Desire

  Copyright Page

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  Table of Contents

  March Heat

  Sinful Daddy

  Baby For The Mountain Man

  Defending The Mafia Princess

  Fighting Desire

  Copyright Page

  March Heat

  A Firefighter Enemies to Lovers Romance

  Chase Jackson

  PROLOGUE

  HONNNNNK! HONNNNNNNNNNK!

  The deafening blare of a car horn honked angrily behind me.

  “What the--” I glanced up at the rear-view mirror and immediately locked eyes with the pissed off driver who had been tailgating me for the last mile and a half. He was driving so close to the bumper of my car that I couldn’t even see his headlights.

  Any closer, and he’ll be riding in the backseat…

  My eyes flicked from the rear-view mirror to the speedometer on the dash. I was driving 40 mph in the 35 mph zone.

  Just how fast is this speed demon behind me trying to drive, anyways?!

  Before I could ponder that question, Mr. Impatient put his fist down on the horn again. Then he poked his head out of the driver side window and shouted:

  “LEARN HOW TO DRIVE, YOU TORTOISE-ASS BITCH!”

  That’s a new one. I couldn’t help but grin as I rolled my eyes and lifted my hand, offering him the middle finger salute through the rear windshield of my car. He returned the gesture by punching his horn three more times.

  “So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” I muttered under my breath as a sly smirk turned up the corners of my lips. “That’s fine. I can play this game…”

  As I prepared to drive through an intersection, I saw the traffic lights over the road flick from green to yellow.

  Perfect timing!

  I had plenty of time to tap the gas and make it through the lights before they flicked to red, but I wasn’t in any hurry. Instead, I tapped my foot down on the brake pedal and let the car coast to a stop. I inched up to the white line and watched the light flick from yellow to red.

  “Rhode Island, huh?” the driver shouted, reading off the license plate on the back of my car. “Well you’re in Connecticut now. Learn how to drive or stay off our roads!”

  I pushed out a deep exhale and watched the lights flick from red to green. Before I could step down on the gas, Mr. Impatient gunned his engine and squealed forward. His shitty Nissan careened around me, rocketing forward and leaving me behind in a cloud of burnt rubber.

  Well he was right about one thing, I scowled. I’m definitely not in Rhode Island anymore…

  I was visiting the constitution state to scope out a new job offer. The opportunity to work for the Hartford Fire Department had landed on my desk a few days earlier. Now, according to the GPS app on my cell phone, that opportunity was less than a block away...

  “Prepare to turn right onto Bishop Street,” the automated voice chirped from my cell phone. I steered towards the right side of the road and flicked on my turn signal obediently, then I rolled around the turn onto Bishop Street.

  “Your destination will be on the right in 500 feet.”

  I set my eyes on the right side of the road, and then I saw it: a tall building, all red brick, dropped in the center of a grassy field. Since I had already lost Mr. Impatient, I slowed to a crawl as I drove towards the building.

  When I got closer, I hit the button on my door panel to roll down the automatic windows. Then I gazed out to read the big white sign that was posted in front of the building:

  HARTFORD FIRE DEPARTMENT: FIREHOUSE 56

  “Impressive,” I observed out loud.

  The station looked very impressive. Besides the power-washed brick building, the grounds were manicured and neat. As a summer breeze fluttered through the open car window, I sniffed in the sweet smell of freshly clipped grass. Then I smelled something else: the moist scent of hose water.

  Still chugging forward at a snail’s pace, I flicked my eyes towards the station and saw a member of the crew hoisting a thick length of hose towards a bright red fire truck glinting rays of silver white sunlight.

  There were two things that immediately stood out: one, the fireman was shirtless. And two, the fireman was shirtless.

  He had the kind of abs that I thought only existed in boy band music videos from the 1990s, and his skin was sun kissed and glistening with sweat.

  “I’m definitely not in Rhode Island anymore,” I gulped, sliding my aviator sunglasses down the ridge of my nose to get a better look.

  The fireman gripped the hose under his arm, then he flicked a valve. White water immediately rushed out of the hose, blasting the candy red truck. I watched as he gripped the hose and pointed it at the truck, moving it side to side like it was his own personal Super-Soaker.

  Once he had soaked the side of the truck, he flicked off the hose and dropped it onto the concrete driveway in front of the firehouse. Then he reached into a bucket and pulled out a soapy sponge. He squeezed the sponge between his hands, wringing out all the milky white suds.

  Then he gripped the sponge in one hand and started making swipes over the exterior of the truck. I gulped again and pushed down harder on the brakes, bringing my speed down to approximately .00000000001 miles per hour. Approximately.

  I couldn’t look away. I sucked in my bottom lip and tried to ignore hot and bothered the fiery-hot fireman was making me as he covered the exterior of the truck in white foamy bubbles.

  The car inched forward so that I was directly in front of the station, and then the GPS chirped loudly.

  “You have arrived!”

  The car windows were down, and the GPS must have been just loud enough… because the fireman immediately froze and started to glance my way.

  Shit!

  I immediately jerked my foot from the brake pedal to the gas and prepared to speed the hell out of there, but then I heard a voice call out from the firehouse.

  “Hey, Mr. March!”

  The fireman’s head flicked away from me and back towards the firehouse, just as another fireman sauntered out.

  I used the distraction to make my escape. I mashed my foot down on the gas, then I took one last parting glance at Firehouse 56 before I sped away...

  CHAPTER ONE | DUKE

  Buzzzzzzzzz.

  The soft hum of a cell phone vibrating from somewhere in the distance pulled me out of my coma-like sleep.

  I tried to ignore it. I pinched my eyes shut and rolled onto my side, feeling around for a pillow that I could bury my head in to drown out the noise. But instead of a pillow, I felt my forehead strike something cold and hard.

  “Fuck,” I grunted under my breath. I flicked my eyes open and found myself staring at my own distorted face reflected in the chrome bath faucet that I had just head-butted.

  This isn’t my bed… I realized slowly. I’m in a… bathtub?

  My bare shoulders slumped backwards against the smooth acrylic walls of the oversized Jacuzzi and I blinked a few more times as my groggy eyes adjusted to my surroundings: a modern, ornately decorated marble bathroom that I had never seen before in my life.

  Where the hell am I?

  Then I glanced down and noticed something that hit me like a double shot of espresso, a pair of long, bronzed legs dangling over the rim of the tub. I followed the legs up to the nude torso of a hot blonde, slumped across from me at the opposite end of the empty jacuzzi.

 
My dick instantly perked up. I had no idea who that woman was, and I had no idea what I had spent the night doing to her in that bathtub… but I sure as hell wished that I could remember.

  Buzzzzzzzzz.

  I heard the cell phone vibrate again, and I reluctantly pushed myself up and climbed out of the oversized acrylic Jacuzzi tub.

  Evidence from our night of debauchery was scattered like debris across the bathroom floor: wet bikini tops and bottoms, empty Champagne bottles, condom wrappers…

  And that’s when I noticed the second hot blonde stranger passed out on a makeshift bed of pillows and bath towels on the white marble tile.

  Looks like one hell of a party, I couldn’t help but grin. Too bad I can’t remember any of it…

  Buzzzzzzzzz.

  I followed the sound of the vibrations to a pair of swim trunks that I vaguely recognized as my own, discarded in a heap by the bathroom door. My iPhone was buried in one of the mesh pockets. The battery was at two percent, and the screen was filled with notifications: missed calls and texts.

  I couldn’t bother reading through them all, so I clicked off the screen and reached for one of the white terry bathrobes that was hanging on the bathroom door.

  As I slipped on the robe, I noticed the letter ‘B’ embroidered on the front pocket.

  ‘B’ for Bellagio, I realized. I’m in Vegas…

  Once I had figured out that piece of the puzzle, everything else from the last twenty-four hours immediately clicked into place.

  I remembered making the flight into McCarran International on a private jet with my best friend and partner in crime, Hayden Henry. I remembered checking into the presidential suite at the Bellagio and throwing back shots of Grey Goose, then walking across the sweltering hot Vegas Strip to scope out a pool party at Wet Republic.

  I remembered a couple of hot blondes wandering into our private poolside cabana, and I remembered ordering bottle service while they challenged me to guess whether their tits were real or fake. And then I remembered inviting them back to my penthouse hotel room so that I could conduct a thorough, hands-on assessment for myself…

  I tied the robe closed around my waist, then I glanced down at Blonde Number Two on the bathroom floor. An oversized bath sheet was draped over her body like a blanket, and I lifted the corner to steal a glance at her rack.

  Definitely fake, I confirmed. Those things could double as personal flotation devices…

  The dull throbbing pain of a hangover was starting to pound through my forehead, so I reached for the travel-size aspirin bottle that had been conveniently provided next to the sink on the marble vanity. Next to the pills was a half-empty bottle of Dom Perignon.

  I threw back two aspirin tablets and chased them down with a swig of warm, flat Champagne, then I slipped quietly through the bathroom door and shut it softly behind me.

  The penthouse suite was filled with dim, fuzzy daylight, filtering in through the gauzy brown curtains that hung over the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the Strip. More empty booze bottles and discarded articles of swimwear littered the room, and there was another naked bottle-blonde passed out on the tufted velvet sofa.

  Looks like I’m not the only one who had a little fun last night… I grinned to myself. Speaking of which…

  My eyes scanned across the disheveled room, looking for my partner in crime. The last time I had seen Hayden was at Wet Republic; he had been splashing around in the pool with some smoking hot brunette who definitely wasn’t the same woman who was passed out on our sofa now.

  I found him sprawled out on the black felt top of the billiards table. His legs dangled over the edge and his swim trunks were still twisted around his ankles. He was completely naked, other than an open copy of Las Vegas Magazine that had been draped, face-down, over his junk.

  “What a rookie,” I smirked, rolling my eyes.

  Hayden Henry and I had two things in common: we were both born filthy rich, and we were both filthy bastards who liked to revel in the splendors of said riches. And that was putting it nicely…

  I was the heir to the Williams real estate empire, which had holdings across New England and an estimated net worth in the billions; Hayden was the heir to Henry Manufacturing, a steelworks operation that was responsible for employing millions of blue-collar workers across the rust belt.

  We had met as kids when we both attended the same snobby, elitist New England boarding school. Our paths crossed one fateful day when our respective antics landed us both in the headmaster’s office at the same time. The rest was history.

  Hayden and I remained thick as thieves throughout our prep school career. We spent summers in the Hamptons, went on winter ski trips in the Alps, and partied so hard over spring break in the Caribbean that by the time we left the Virgin Islands, they were henceforth known only as ‘the Islands.’

  We had even enrolled in (and subsequently flunked out of) the same Ivy League university. Hayden was more than just my partner in crime; he was like the brother I never had.

  I took another swig of Champagne then I jerked the curtains open. The penthouse was immediately flooded with the full force of the midday Las Vegas sun.

  “What the fuck!” Hayden flinched away from the bright sunlight like an ant under a magnifying glass, curling into the fetal position.

  “Rise and shine!” I grinned.

  Hayden winced up at me, and I saw a confused expression settle over his face as his eyes moved around the room, slowly piecing together the events of last night. Once he had figured it out, his face twisted into a smile.

  “Dude,” he said with a dry chuckle. “What the hell happened?”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” I grinned back. “Last night was just the warm up.”

  I was about to suggest that we get dressed and walk back down to the Strip so that we could do it all over again, but before I got the chance, I was cut off by the shrill, high-pitched sound of the hotel room’s hardwired telephone ringing.

  I spotted the phone on an end table next to the sofa, and I plucked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m calling to speak to Mr. Duke Williams?” a stern voice asked through the phone.

  “You’re talking to him.”

  “Mr. Williams, I’m calling on behalf of hotel guest services. We’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

  I thought about all of the missed calls on my iPhone.

  “What’s this about?” I asked, switching the receiver to my other ear as I reached into the robe pocket and grabbed my cell phone. The screen was still filled with notifications, and the battery had gone down to one percent.

  “This is in regards to your payment, sir. Unfortunately, the credit card that you provided during check-in was declined—”

  “That’s impossible,” I snapped. “It’s an AMEX, there’s no spending limit.”

  “I understand, sir, but the error message that we received indicated that the card has been cancelled. Perhaps there’s another method of payment that you could provide?”

  “I know that card is good. I just used it last night,” I insisted. My head was still throbbing, and I was starting to feel annoyed. “Just… I don’t know, try running it again or something?”

  “Mr. Williams—”

  “And while you’re at it,” I added, glancing down at the warm bottle of Dom Perignon, “Could you send up a couple of bottles of Champagne? Oh, and a breakfast menu too?”

  “Sir, it’s two o'clock in the afternoon—”

  “Ok, so a lunch menu then.”

  “Mr. Williams, if you cannot provide a valid method of payment, then I’m afraid—”

  Click. I dropped the receiver back down onto the phone base.

  “What was all that about?” Hayden wanted to know as he slid off the billiards table and rolled his swim trunks up.

  “Some bullshit about my credit card not going through,” I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure they’ll figure it out…”

  “Hey
you,” a soft voice purred from behind me. I turned around and saw Sleeping Beauties One and Two both emerge from the bathroom, and they were both completely naked. Hayden whistled at them from across the room, and they both giggled.

  “We were looking for you,” one of them said to me, pouting her juicy pink lips.

  “Yeah,” the other chimed in. “We were wondering why you left us all alone…”

  “I was just ordering us some more Champagne,” I said, holding up the half-empty bottle of Dom. “Why don’t you go get us a bath started, and the three of us can pick up where we left off last night?”

  They both giggled again and then turned back to the bathroom.

  “Looks like the legendary Duke Williams still has his magic touch,” Hayden smirked with a mixed expression of awe and amusement.

  “Was there ever any doubt?” I winked back. “I told you: women love a man in uniform.”

  “Not this again,” Hayden groaned, rolling his eyes.

  The uniform that I was referring to was my all-black, flame-resistant Nomex turnout gear; standard issue for the whole crew back at Firehouse 56. Despite being the sole heir to the massive Williams family fortune, I still kept my day job as a fireman back home in Hartford.

  And before you make any assumptions, let me tell you this about that: there was no calling in favors or taking shortcuts when it comes to fighting fires and saving lives. “Daddy’s money” doesn’t matter when you were facing a five-alarm inferno. Being a billion-heir might get me special treatment at the Bellagio, but when I was on duty at Firehouse 56, I was just another member of the crew. I had to earn my spot, just like everyone else.

  When I started working at the station a few years ago, that was exactly the sort of lesson in humility and hard work that I needed. Now, my job at Firehouse 56 was one of the few accomplishments that I could feel genuinely proud of. I earned my spot on the crew, and that was why I had no qualms about using my uniform to score brownie points with—

  DING!

  My thoughts were cut short by the chime of the front doorbell.

  “That must be the Champagne,” I said, tightening the belt on my robe as I made my way to the front of the penthouse. Under my breath, I added, “I knew there wasn’t anything wrong with my AMEX…”