Slow Hands

domestic abuse calls. To riots and hostage standoffs. He’d treated heart attacks, drowning victims and people two steps past death who’d miraculously taken three steps back into existence.
    He’d once talked a whacked-out druggie into letting him take his injured girlfriend—whom said druggie had stabbed—out of their house for emergency treatment. And he’d then gotten chewed out by his lieutenant for not following protocol by waiting for the Chicago P.D. to handle it. Right—as if he was going to let her die.
    None of those situations had intimidated him.
    But this? This scared the hell out of him.
    “Why did I ever agree to get involved with this?” he muttered.
    One reason. Because he owed his lieutenant big and his lieutenant owed the chief big and the chief’s wife loved this particular pet charity. End of story. Which was why two of his buddies from the battalion had already taken their turns under the spotlight.
    “I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” a stranger’s voice replied.
    Jake tugged helplessly at the bow tie that was choking him and glanced at Bachelor Number Eighteen, the one right before him . The other man looked just about as happy to be here as Jake, which was saying a lot. Because Jake would just as soon give CPR to a toothless octogenarian with halitosis than stand up on stage and be bid on by a bunch of rich, horny women with way too much time on their hands and too little self-respect. Or self-control.
    “I should feel better about it,” he said, trying to convince himself more than the other final few “bachelors” waiting for their turn on the block. “It is for a good cause, right? So I suffer a few minutes’ embarrassment and a bad date. It’s worth it.”
    Number Twenty offered a jaded smile as he leaned indolently against a column in the backstage area that had been set up for this evening’s event. The guy looked almost bored, and Jake envied him his calm. “What, you don’t enjoy having women ‘paying’ for your services?” The voice held amusement, and a hint of a foreign accent, possibly Irish.
    Maybe European dudes were more at ease playing meat-on-parade. But this all-American rescue worker most definitely was not. “You do ?”
    Number twenty smiled as he checked his sleeves, the gold sheen of expensive cuff links flashing beneath the obviously pricey, tailored tux. Jake would lay money it was not rented.
    “It can be…entertaining.” This guy’s suit and demeanor said he had money enough to donate to worthy causes on his own. But the longish hair scooped back into a black ponytail said he also liked to live dangerously.
    So did Jake. But he got quite enough thrills out of putting his ass on the line at emergency scenes, thank you very much. He didn’t particularly want to put it out there to be appraised, pinched, ogled or catcalled over by a bunch of strange women.
    The other man continued. “Besides, as you said, it’s for a good cause.”
    Right. Good cause. Kids. I like kids. Don’t have any, don’t really want any for a few more years, but they’re cute in a long-distance way. As long as they’re not sticking raisins up their noses or falling down into sewer drains or following the family cat up a tree.
    Okay, so maybe he didn’t like kids so much. Not enough to go through this humiliation.
    Then he thought about his own baby niece and twin nephews. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to make sure they remained the safe, healthy munchkins they were.
    Damn. He was going to have to go through with it.
    Tugging again at the too-tight collar of his own rent-a-tux, Jake peered through a crease in the black cloth curtains, eyeing the audience. The elegant ballroom was packed with round, white-draped tables, around which sat dozens of women in gowns and shimmery cocktail dresses. Laughter and gossip reigned supreme as they tossed back fruity Cosmos or sparkling champagne. They all watched hungrily, calling out bawdy suggestions as the raucous bidding continued for Bachelor Seventeen, who was currently center stage.
    Well, all except one. A brunette who stood about ten feet away from the curtain he was peeking through. She drew his eye as he scanned the crowd…then drew it again. And this time, he let his gaze linger.
    She was almost shadowed by one of the giant standing spotlights, which cast gaudy, unforgiving pools of light on the spectacle occurring on the stage. But what he saw of her was definitely enough to pique his