Fire Dancer (Spellbound in Sedona #2)

Chapter One

PIPPA

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My back ached as I bent over the workbench, rolling my latest creation back and forth. It was shaping up to be a real beauty — a pitcher of clear glass splashed with sunrise colors. There was ruby red, blood orange, and sunflower yellow. Blue like the dazzlingly clear sky in Sedona, and vibrant green like fresh shoots of juniper.

I had my hair done back in a braid, but a few long blond strands had worked their way loose. I puffed upward, getting them out of my eyes. A bead of sweat dripped from my forehead, sizzling faintly as it hit glass heated to the temperature of planet Mercury or thereabouts. Unlike a painter, I didn’t sign my artwork, but a little bit of me marked every one of my creations.

The bell over the hot shop door chimed, and I called out without looking up. “Welcome to Sedona Glass. I’ll be right with you.”

In addition to the new arrival, there was already a family browsing through the shop, but I couldn’t put down my project at this crucial stage. Luckily, folks were rarely in a rush in Sedona, and most enjoyed watching the creation process the same way they enjoyed taking in the spectacular scenery — slowly and with a hint of awe.

“Hi, Pippa. No rush,” a familiar voice replied.

I glanced up and smiled at one of our best customers, a friendly redhead.

“Thanks, Stacy. I just need a minute,” I said, focused on the finishing touches.

With a pair of pincers, I widened the mouth of the pitcher, then stopped spinning it long enough to notch a spout into the lip.

“Wow. Look at that,” the mother whispered to her daughter.

“Amazing,” the girl breathed. “Like magic.”

I grinned. No magic on this particular piece. The vase I’d made earlier, on the other hand…

Reaching out, I dipped my pinchers into a vat of molten glass, then hooked a thick vein onto the side of the pitcher to make a handle. I tapped the joints a few times, then rolled out the imperfections with a steel cylinder. Finally, I heated the base with a blowtorch and tapped it on my workbench to make it even. Then, voilà! Into the annealer it went to cool down.

I brushed off my hands, pleased with my work. Art wouldn’t save the messy world we lived in, but it sure could make life cheerier.

Wiping my brow, I finally turned to my customers. The original trio seemed happy browsing, so I brought out the box containing Stacy’s latest order.

“Here you go. Another fifty.” I counted the pinkie-sized vials nestled in recyclable packaging. “Two, four, six, eight…”

Stacy raised one to the light, checking it briefly. “Perfect, as always.”

That caught the interest of the first customers, a mother with two teenaged kids. The twelve-ish daughter looked fascinated; the slightly older son, bored.

“What are those for?” the girl asked, intrigued.

“They’re love vials, like this.” Stacy tapped the vial hanging on her own necklace, making the small pegasus pendant beside it jingle.

The girl leaned closer. “What’s in there?”

“Blood. Just a tiny bit,” Stacy hastened to add. “Couples exchange them as a symbol of their love and connection.”

“Cool,” the girl breathed.

“Gross,” her brother muttered.

I was firmly in the boy’s camp when it came to those vials. But they were surprisingly popular, and, well…when money talked, I listened.

Stacy shut the box and pointed to a foot-tall glass pegasus in a tactful change of subject. “Now, isn’t that a beauty? Pippa made that.”

The mom looked relieved, the daughter impressed. “That’s amazing. It’s so lifelike…”

“Except pegasuses aren’t real,” the killjoy brother added.

“Pegasi,” Stacy murmured as she signed the invoice. Like most of our regular customers, her company handled the billing separately. She started scooping the box into her arms, then stopped and pulled something out of her pocket.

“Oh — I almost forgot.” She handed me a flyer. “My boss is sponsoring a design contest. I thought you might want to enter. You’re the best glassblower I know.”

I chuckled. “The only one you know?”

She grinned. “Still the best. And the prize is pretty impressive.”

That sure piqued my interest. “How impressive?”

Stacy was about to answer, but I yelped when I spotted it on the flyer.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars?”

She lit up with a proud glow. “Yep. Business is good, and my boss is very generous.”

Clearly, Stacy had a thing for her boss. From what I’d gathered, she hadn’t found Mr. Right to swap vials with — yet — but it was obvious she was keeping that option open for the day her boss finally took notice of her. Then he would sweep her off her feet, share his vast wealth in a marriage of true love that had no need for a prenuptial agreement, and they would live happily ever after.

How likely that was, I didn’t know. But, heck. We all had our secret fantasies.

Meanwhile, visions of greenbacks filled my mind. Make that, visions of me strolling along the canals of Venice, then hopping a ferry to Murano, a mecca of glassmaking since the Middle Ages. Twenty-five thousand dollars could not only get me there, but also allow me to enroll in a course taught by one of the famous masters — and still have plenty left over.

Now, that would be a dream, and a win wouldn’t hurt my résumé either.

I tucked the flyer away in my pocket. I would definitely be poring over that later.

“Thanks so much for thinking of me.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you next week!” With that, the bubbly redhead picked up the box and headed for the door.

The teenage boy scurried over to open it for her. Either he had good manners, or pretty redheads were his type.

“Aw, thank you.” Stacy flashed him a smile.

His dopey grin confirmed my second theory.

Stacy’s elbow bumped the door frame as she departed, and the vials in the box clinked softly.

The storefront windows afforded a view of a big SUV idling at the curb. The hatch popped open, and Stacy loaded the box, then walked around the vehicle to slide into the back seat. The driver — barely a silhouette through those dark, tinted windows — eased away, heading down the road.

“Blood vials, huh?” the girl murmured, gazing after Stacy.

I was tempted to point out the sets we sold retail, but the mother shot me a hard look that said, Don’t you dare give her any ideas .

I pointed in the opposite direction. “These dream catchers are really popular.”

“Wow! I bet none of your friends has one of those.” The mom towed her daughter over.

Outside, a Jeep rolled into the spot vacated by Stacy’s ride. The driver hesitated, then parked and hurried toward the shop entrance. The door burst open and—

Joyful butterflies fluttered in my belly, and an angels’ chorus filled the cathedral of my mind. The doorway was too packed with hot-blooded man for me to see much sky, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a rainbow there.

Ingo, my heart sighed, as it always did whenever he made an entrance. Because Ingo didn’t simply enter a room. He owned it the moment he stepped over the threshold.

A moment later, my Hallmark-card moment shattered. He was just another guy now. Nothing special about him. No siree. Not even with those midnight eyes that lit up when he saw me or that raven hair I used to run my fingers through.

He paused at the door, eyes bright, cheeks pink, stuck in a time warp a moment longer than I. Clearly, he remembered what we used to have too.

Then his expression hardened, and he bustled in, six-foot-two inches of broody man muscle fit for the cover of a calendar of Hot Firefighters or Ripped Ranchers .

Or, more fittingly, Sexy Secret Agents . Not that that was public knowledge.

The teenaged daughter gaped. So did her mother. Even the son did a double take at the way Ingo’s biceps stretched the sleeves of his dark T-shirt.

“Welcome to Sedona Glass,” I said, as if we hadn’t once dreamed of a happily-ever-after.

He shot me one of those looks that ignited my girl parts, and I swear, the space between us sizzled.

“Uh, we’ll come back later.” The mother hustled her kids out of the shop.

Smart lady. Ingo exuded a something’s about to go down intensity that made folks scan the street for drug dealers and mafia hit men.

“But, Mom—” her daughter protested.

The door slammed behind them, and the bell rang merrily.

Long after the sound died, Ingo and I gazed at each other in silence.

Finally, I pointed at the fleeing family. “That was a sure sale you just chased away.”

Either Ingo didn’t hear me, or he ignored my words. Both were equally possible. The guy was that focused. So focused, his gaze didn’t so much as dart to the beautiful glass art all around him. The glass art I had poured heart and soul into.

Reason number one we were no longer together.

He stomped over to the front window and peered out at an angle. “What did she come for?”

I rolled my eyes. This again?

This was reason number two. An unhealthy obsession with work — his, not mine.

He gazed in Stacy’s direction, but I refused to indulge him.

I pointed to the mother. “She wanted a dream catcher. You know, a dream catcher? Because some people have happy dreams, not just obsessions.”

“I have happy dreams,” he grumbled in that gritty, dragging steel over gravel voice that used to make my toes curl.

Operative term: used to . I was older and wiser now. This man no longer affected me.

Well, barely.

“Happy dreams aren’t about catching bad guys. They’re about good times with nice people,” I lectured. “They’re about success in goals you didn’t even know you had.” I narrowed my eyes and leaned in. “Some happy dreams are about sex. Like the best sex you ever had, only better.”

His nostrils flared, and his eyes dropped to my lips, then lower.

My throat bobbed, but I held my ground. Yes, all my best sex dreams featured Ingo. And they weren’t just dreams. They were memories.

His lips twitched, and several silent seconds ticked by as we stared at each other.

Then Ingo gave himself a shake and jerked a thumb toward the street. “I meant her.”

“Stacy?” I asked, though I already knew.

The question was, why? Stacy was sweet, friendly, and genuine. There was no way she was involved in anything iffy.

Ingo, on the other hand, was broody and mistrustful. Borderline paranoid, at least when it came to the safety of others. Even his buddy Nash worried about him.

And, yikes. That was saying something. Nash was great, but he’d been one to worry about until he’d met my sister. For him to point the finger at Ingo…

The tragic thing was, Ingo used to laugh, dance, and joke around like any other person. Now, he wore the weary look of a World War II hero — a guy who’d just crawled over a beach, scaled a cliff, and seized an impenetrable fortification, all under intense enemy fire. A guy who no longer had time for fun, games, or laughter. Not enough time for me either, because there was always one more foe to vanquish, one more battle, one more front in the never-ending war of good versus evil.

“Stacy, huh? Last name?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He tapped the window, still fixated on Stacy. “I need to know what she came for. Who she came for — the company’s name and address.”

I crossed my arms. “Get me a warrant, and I’ll give you the address.”

He stuck his hand in his back pocket, wiggling his wallet free.

I anchored my hands in my own pockets, ordering myself not to help him with that, no matter how tempting the prospect.

With a look of triumph, he flashed his ID.

I leaned in to scrutinize it. “Department of Agriculture?”

He snapped it shut. “That’s my cover story.”

“Still doesn’t make it a warrant.”

His black-on-black eyes flashed twin bolts of lightning. “It’s important, Pippa.”

I snorted. “My dad does that too.”

Ingo frowned. “Does what?”

“Using my name when he really, really wants something.”

And, oops. Somehow, my voice had gone all sultry and suggestive. So I had only myself to blame that Ingo’s gaze raked over my body.

I crossed my arms before my nipples peaked, but I couldn’t stop heat from coloring my cheeks.

Not what I meant, I wanted to growl, though it was only half true.

Ingo jerked his eyes back to chin level. “Like I said, it’s important.”

“So is business, and I don’t need you to jeopardize our relationship with an important client.”

A good thing pride held me back from detailing how I wished for another kind of relationship — or how badly we needed the business. Not just Sedona Glass, but me personally, along with my family.

He leaned closer and, dang. There it was, that heady scent of wild rivers and thick forests, underpinned by a teensy-tiny whiff of canine.

“She could be in danger,” he rumbled.

I worked in a glass shop — a warm, cheery place full of possibilities. Ingo worked in a top-secret branch of law enforcement. His world was one of danger and intrigue.

“She is in trouble if she’s got a wolf shifter prowling around after her,” I pointed out.

His eyes flashed, and he glanced around the shop. The empty shop, because I wasn’t dumb enough to reveal his big secret in public.

Make that, one of his secrets.

“Dammit, Pippa…” He clenched his fists.

I clenched mine back. “Yes?”

He stepped closer, telegraphing something like, This is important.

Yeah, well. Everything was important to Ingo.

Everything but me.

I crossed my arms, staring him down.

We got so mired in our little standoff that we forgot what happened when our bodies passed an unmarked border into the danger zone. Gradually, the heat and proximity took me to a different time and place, and my anger ebbed, giving way to something much more pleasant.

Ingo’s eyelids drooped, and his lips parted. I found my arms drifting to his waist. Time and place drifted too, until we were no longer in the hot shop. We were beside a mountain stream, years ago, sliding into our first kiss. The space around our bodies tingled as our lips brushed, then pressed together in a bolder, needier motion. Again and again until we were barely breathing, barely thinking. Just doing .

My mind filled in all the sensual details, and my nipples hardened. When my eyes fluttered open, Ingo was cupping my cheek, and his eyes were soft and loving, just as they had been in the split second before our first kiss.

My heart thumped in happy anticipation. But good sense used bad timing to throw up a red flag at exactly that moment.

“You’re doing it to me again,” I murmured, catching his arms to keep us an inch apart.

“Doing what?” he whispered, equally dazed.

“This.” I waved between us. “Making it impossible not to touch you.”

His eyes stayed at half-mast. “Maybe it’s you doing it to me.”

In truth, we both knew destiny was to blame. But we’d agreed not to be its puppets a long time ago.

I pushed him gently away. “Go, before I kiss you.”

Ingo flashed a tiny, sentimental smile, but there was sorrow in his eyes too. “Would it be that bad?”

I shook my head. “It would be great. That’s the problem.”

We’d broken up for good reason, and we had to keep it that way.

He took a deep breath, then nodded. God, I hated it when he agreed with me.

I could practically read his mind. Kissing me was nice — great, even — but somewhere out there, someone or something needed saving, and he was the only one who heard their cries for justice.

With a deep, steadying breath, he stepped back and turned slowly away. Then he stopped, glancing down at the shop counter.

“Um…”

I stuck my hands on my hips. Did he really think I was going to give him the address he wanted?

A terrible idea, but I had to get rid of him before the love bug called in reinforcements and swarmed us with renewed energy. I could already hear the approaching buzz as its force field nudged us closer…closer…

I could see it now: him flipping the Open sign to Closed , then rushing back to me. We would end up half naked and doing it on the counter…and he would still get that address in the end.

At least if I gave it to him quickly — the address, not my aching, overheated body — and got him out of there, my heart wouldn’t end up broken.

“Here. One look,” I grumbled, holding up the invoice.

His throat bobbed, and he tore his eyes away from mine. I watched his lips move as he memorized the address. Bad idea, because my libido grabbed that little motion and inserted it into an entirely new, R-rated context.

“Go. And be careful.” I crossed my arms so I couldn’t reach out to stop him.

He nodded, then paused with one hand on the knob.

“Pippa…” he whispered, begging me to understand.

I did, but I didn’t. Saving the world was a worthy cause, but it tended to be a job you did solo. Yet the sacrifices made were shared by everyone — the hero and anyone who loved him.

And sadly, my goals were nowhere near as lofty.

“Nice seeing you,” I sighed.

His eyes filled with hope and longing. But a moment later, he went all hard again.

“Be careful, Pippa.”

Out the door he went, a man on a mission.

“You too,” I started, but the door slammed before I finished.

The bell chimed, but the sound failed to cheer me.