Fire Dancer (Spellbound in Sedona #2)

Chapter Three

PIPPA

It had been a hell of a day at the glass shop — and that was before reports of a death zipped through the grapevine. A young woman, apparently killed in a hiking accident not far north of town.

Terrible, my friend Amy had written, followed by a crying emoji.

Her next message, sent seconds later, was an abrupt change of gears. Want to meet for dancing tonight?

I winced. Tact, anyone?

On the other hand…that would cheer me up, and I’d been promising myself a night out for a week now.

Wrapping up work, I held a solitary vigil for the dead woman, lighting one of the shop’s candles and closing my eyes to think of who she might have been and who she had left behind. Then, with a sad sigh, I blew out the candle and headed for a quick shower in the shared facilities behind Sedona Glass.

Afterward, I drove to Buffalo Bill’s — the place my sisters and I preferred, thanks to its mostly local, low-key crowd. The evening was crisp, cool, and revitalizing after all those hunched, sweaty hours in the hot shop.

The death was a hot topic in the bar, but life went on, especially since the woman was an out-of-towner nobody knew. Plus, Wednesday was Oldies Night — though half the regulars objected to the label — making it impossible to be morose.

I danced my way inside to the tune of Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” In no time, I’d downed half a non-alcoholic beer — I would be driving home later — and was rocking my moves on what passed for a dance floor. At Buffalo Bill’s, it didn’t matter whether you danced alone, with someone else, or everyone. I was perfectly happy with alone , but that rarely worked out, because the guys inevitably found their way over to me.

The first of the night was Hank, a sweet, fun trucker twice my age, which was fine, because sweet and fun were my top two criteria. Also, he kept his hands away from the danger zones, which was good. I would hate to ruin a guy’s night by kneeing him in the balls.

By the next song — Journey’s “Any Way You Want It” — Hank had been edged out by Ryder, an all-American, ex-football hunk/construction worker/wannabee rodeo ace. His looks were a ten. As far as brains went, he was also a ten — on the IQ scale, give or take.

Either way, Ryder met my criteria on points one, two, three, and four, with fun, sweet, handsome and well-built on his résumé. That was about the extent of his résumé, but heck. He kept his hands away from the danger zones too.

Yes, I liked to dance, preferably with a platonic partner. A placeholder, almost, that my imagination could fill in with Ingo — er, with Mr. Right, whom I would someday find and live happily ever after with.

Dancing was as far as I took things, however. A placeholder was just a placeholder, and no one had ever come along who felt right.

No one like Ingo.

I danced on, not paying much attention to who came or went, but maybe I should have. Because a few notes into the third song — Boston’s “More Than a Feeling,” appropriately — an itchy sensation registered on my back. I swiped at the spot a couple of times before losing the beat and turning slowly.

“Dammit, Ingo…” I muttered.

There he was, taking up way too much of a dim corner booth all by himself.

I cursed the day Ingo had been introduced to Buffalo Bill’s by Nash, my sister Erin’s flame. Literally. Nash was a dragon shifter. And, yikes. My sister now was too.

My sisters Erin and Abby went out a lot less often than I, but when they did, they came here.

“You know that guy?” Ryder growled.

I went back to dancing. “Yes.”

“What is he — a hit man or something?”

I laughed out loud. “Guess again.”

A nervous tic set in at the corner of Ryder’s eye. “FBI agent with a license to kill?”

I laughed again. So much for Ingo keeping a low profile.

“You got something to hide?” I teased.

When he winced, I stuck up a hand. “Forget I asked.”

It was all too easy to imagine Ryder carrying a friend’s bag over the Mexican border after a weekend trip with the boys or some such thing. He was perfectly capable of committing a crime by mistake, ignorance, or sheer stupidity, though he wouldn’t consciously do something that could hurt anyone. His mom — treasurer of the local Rotary club — would kill him if he did.

I nudged him to dance on. I was here for a good time, dammit.

But Ryder backed away by the end of the song, mumbling something about a knee injury. All the other guys did too, leaving me dancing with Amy, who’d finally shown up, and Lauren, another friend. But even they were more focused on Ingo than the song.

“God, he’s hot,” Amy murmured as we bopped to “Sultans of Swing” by Dire Straits.

Yeah, maybe, but so were most wolf shifters. It came with the territory.

“Hot but unapproachable,” Lauren added.

Ha. That summed up Ingo perfectly.

And this was him in off-duty mode. Or as close as he got.

On-duty Ingo had blazing eyes and a stiff jaw that put deep creases in his cheeks. Creases I wanted to lick my way through en route to other places. Off-duty Ingo was slightly more approachable than the on-duty version — on a good day. Both were a feast for the senses.

A crying shame that there was more on-duty Ingo than off these days.

“He’s staring at us,” Amy observed.

Lauren shook her head. “He’s staring at Pippa.”

I grimaced. “Just ignore him, all right?”

I could practically see their antennas perk and rotate.

“You know him?” both asked at the same time.

I sighed. Yes. Intimately. Or did knowing someone have an expiration date? Enough time had passed — and Ingo had veered so far over to one side of his personality — that I wondered if I could still claim to know him.

“Sort of. He’s a friend of Nash’s,” I admitted. “New subject, okay?”

Amy and Lauren exchanged looks and went on dancing.

A third friend joined us — Lucille, from the yoga studio — but not to dance.

“Hey, Pippa. Is it true? Are you really selling the ranch?”

I stopped in my tracks. Huh?

“No!” I barked. “Never!”

Lucille stuck her hands up. “I didn’t think so. It’s just what I heard.”

“From?”

She shrugged. “A friend of a friend said Bob was getting ready to list it.” She pointed to a pudgy man in a booth near the front.

I glared at the guy. Bob Hardy of Red Rock Vistas Real Estate. The guy had pestered my aunt to sell for years, and after she’d sold the property to us for a song, he’d hounded us just as persistently.

Normally, we ignored the jerk. But I didn’t like the smug I know something she doesn’t know way he chuckled at the guy beside him.

“Yeah, well. It’s not for sale — and never will be.”

“I guess I heard wrong.” Lucille flipped her hair, then tilted her head the other way. “Also, there’s a completely hot guy checking you out.”

I followed her eyes to Ingo and sighed. Checking out came in welcome and unwelcome versions. Ingo’s was both, somehow.

“I Want You to Want Me” came over the speakers next, but there was no way I was dancing to that now. Instead, I blew out my cheeks, excused myself, and stomped over to Ingo.

“Oh, he’s busted,” Amy whisper-hissed.

“Twenty bucks says Pippa whips his ass,” Lauren threw in before the lyrics drowned her out.

Sensing dozens of eyes on me, I glanced around. Everyone jerked away, suddenly intent on the candles on their tables. Candles which flared suddenly.

Oops.

I marched over to Ingo, then stopped and jammed my hands on my hips.

He pointed around. “Better watch yourself. You don’t want to burn the place down.”

God, I hated men who knew me better than I knew myself.

“It would help if you weren’t staring,” I said.

“I wasn’t staring.”

His words came in a low, rumbly growl that suggested all kinds of wonderful things he could do to me if I gave him free rein.

I did my best to loom over him, which only worked when he was seated. As kids, I’d always been the taller one. Then he’d hit a growth spurt and put on a full foot of height between turning sixteen and seventeen. Not fair, but such was life.

“You were staring, and it’s ruining my night.”

He snorted. “As if those guys are worth your time.”

“Like I’m such a catch.”

His firm gaze said he disagreed, and the little smile that ghosted over his lips when the next song started — “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” — implied he agreed with Sting.

I shook my head, exasperated. We both knew we were perfect — er, no good — for each other. But that was easy to forget when we got close.

I stood there a minute longer, then slid into his booth before I caused a scene.

Ingo wrapped his lips around the beer bottle and gulped a few times. And damn, was the rippling motion of his throat mesmerizing.

I dragged my eyes away before he noticed, and neither of us spoke.

Ever since Ingo had come to town a few weeks ago, I’d been mentally composing a lecture for him. One about how this was different from the other times destiny had brought us together over the years, when we could defy that meddlesome force by heading in opposite directions as quickly as possible. Sedona was home, so I couldn’t pick up and leave. That was up to Ingo to do, and it was time to tell him that in no uncertain terms.

But now that we were face-to-face, all those clever lines vanished from my mind, and I couldn’t get out a word.

Besides, Hank was coming up just then. He’d rustled up three other men, and they approached in a nervous huddle.

“Is this guy bothering you, Pippa?”

Yes. No. Maybe?

Their concern touched my heart, though. How sweet.

“It’s fine. Thanks, guys. Ingo and I go way back.”

Still, they did their best to hold their ground under Ingo’s withering glare.

“It really is fine. Thank you so much,” I repeated. “We just need a few minutes to catch up.”

Hank shot Ingo a doubtful look. “Well, holler if you need help.”

The posse shuffled back to their table and sat stiffly, keeping their eyes on us.

I sighed. “You attract a hell of a lot of attention for an uncover agent. What are you doing here anyway?”

He swished his beer bottle. Non-alcoholic, of course. “I’m here to unwind.”

Ha. Only Ingo could make a night off look like a stakeout.

“Unwind. Right.” I shook my head in exasperation. “How long are you planning to stay in town again?”

“Driving you crazy already?”

“Yes. And not in a good way.”

His lips quirked, and while he didn’t answer, he held up his beer in a question. Against my better judgment, I nodded, because we really did need to talk — if only so we could figure out how to foil destiny and go our separate ways.

He signaled to the waitress for another beer, and she hurried over with it seconds later, practically undressing him with her eyes.

“Anything else I can get you?”

“Bacon cheeseburger, please.” Ingo turned to me, waiting, and a moment later, I caved, echoing his order.

“Sure thing, honey,” the waitress said — to Ingo, not me. Then she wandered away, strutting her considerable assets.

To his credit, Ingo didn’t follow her swaying hips. Instead, he went back to glaring at Hank and the others.

I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Stop that. They’ll file for a restraining order if you keep that up.”

His jaw clicked, and his expression went grim.

I froze, studying him. “Wait. Those guys actually have a restraining order against you?”

“Of course not.”

But someone else did, I realized.

“Who?” I pressed on. “Stacy?”

He looked hurt. “I’m not after Stacy. I want to protect her.”

That Ingo had a protective streak a mile wide wasn’t news to me. But that someone had filed a restraining order against him… Wow.

“Who, then?” I demanded.

Ingo kept his lips sealed.

“Someone you once investigated?”

Ingo’s lips tightened, and a second storm joined the one that permanently brewed in his eyes.

Aha. So, it was a former suspect.

“A mafia boss?”

A tic set in next to his eye.

Okay, I was getting closer. But, jeez. How long was I supposed to keep up this game of charades?

I stirred the air with my hand. “Who, Ingo?”

He glared at the table, then grunted. “A guy tangentially involved in an arson case I investigated a while back.”

I kept stirring, and oops. The candle on the table echoed the motion, swirling into a tiny whirlwind.

I laid my hand flat on the table. A good thing Ingo was too distracted to notice.

“Victor Jananovich,” he finally said. “Ring a bell?”

I let out a dry laugh. Ingo was the one who read FBI reports. I skimmed through back issues of Arizona Highways .

“The rodeo pro?” I said, just to get under his skin.

Ingo bought it for a moment, then made a face when he realized I’d made that up. “Victor Jananovich, the vampire ,” he hissed.

I leaned back. Wow. A vampire with a restraining order against a wolf shifter?

“Since when do vampires go to the police to file for restraining orders?”

“They don’t. But Jananovich went to the agency for a restraining order.”

My eyes went wide. “Wow. What did you do?”

Ingo gripped his glass so hard, it was a wonder it didn’t shatter.

Tempered or laminated? my professional side wondered, and I tapped mine. Tempered.

“He’s the criminal, not me,” Ingo insisted.

“And yet, you’re the one with the restraining order.”

“Yeah, well. The world can be a fucked-up place.”

“I guess so,” I murmured, chewing that over for a while.

Our legs touched, but I didn’t have the brain space to move away.

“Did you have evidence?” I finally asked.

Ingo made a face. “He’s slippery as hell, but everything pointed to Jananovich.”

“Pointed to or actually proved?”

“I was in the process of collecting that proof when I was called off the case.”

“Did you ever consider that you were wrong? That he isn’t a criminal?”

“And risk another innocent person dying?”

Another? I stared. What had gone wrong? And, shoot. Did Ingo blame himself for that particular tragedy — whatever it was?

“Two bacon cheeseburgers.” The waitress plunked a plate in front of each of us while batting giant, furry caterpillars — er, fake eyelashes — at Ingo. “Can I get you anything else? Another drink? Extra ketchup?”

Me, naked? her dancing eyes added.

Ingo stuck up his hands. “We’re fine, thank you.”

She moved away, disappointed.

I pressed down on my burger, bringing it closer to mouth-size.

“Where were we?” Ingo asked.

“Vampires,” I murmured, chomping down.

And, yum, was it good. Juicy and cheesy — so much that a little escaped the corner of my mouth and dripped down my arm.

Ingo reached over to dab it with a napkin before it reached my sleeve.

“Yes, vampires,” he grumbled, as if the burger proved my point.

I chewed, swallowed, and wiped my mouth. “So, this Victor Jananowhiz—”

“Jananovich.”

“Where is he? California?” That was Ingo’s last posting, I knew.

Ingo looked at me, his expression perfectly flat and devoid of emotion — except that little vein that pulsed by his eye.

Then it hit me. “He’s here?”

Ingo looked at the door as if a Transylvanian with fangs and a cape might come through at any moment. “He might be.”

Might be, my ass. Either the vampire was already here, or Ingo had reason to believe the guy was on his way.

Wherever he is, I’ll find out, his eyes swore.

I shook my head, tempted to take his hand and talk some sense into him. Yes, there were a lot of bad guys — and gals — in the world. That didn’t mean Ingo had to personally hunt down every one.

But I’d have more luck explaining that to my burger, so I didn’t try.

I did have a question, though. “Hang on. If this Jananovich guy has a restraining order against you, why did the agency assign you to his case?”

Ingo stared at the candle, not meeting my eyes.

Uh-oh. I leaned closer. “They didn’t assign you?”

“Not exactly.”

I thought it over a moment longer. “Is there even a case?”

“Not officially, no.”

Oh boy. Ingo was way out in the middle of a thinly iced-over lake, and he knew it.

“And yet the agency gave you the Sedona job.”

He nodded. “They didn’t know Jananovich had his eyes on Sedona. No one knew.”

As I stared into his eyes, the last puzzle piece fell into place. “No one except you.”

Ingo’s nostrils flared on a deep inhale, and he nodded faintly.

Wow. It really was personal, wasn’t it?

And a little disappointing, because part of me wanted to believe Ingo had come to Sedona for… Well, for me.

Kind of an ego-killer, I had to say.

“So, you’re here to put the bad guy away? And that’s why you’ve been following Stacy — to keep her safe?”

Ingo waited, as if willing me to figure out something I’d missed. But for the life of me, I couldn’t.

“I want to keep everyone safe from Jananovich.” He stared deep into my eyes.

I stared back. What was I not getting?

A long minute later, he looked away, disappointed.

All in all, the conversation summarized our fundamental problem. Ingo wanted to save the world. I wanted to make beautiful glass objects. Two objectives with nothing in common except they were both awfully fragile.

I looked at him, struck with sorrow. My sweet, loyal childhood buddy. My gentle, generous ex-lover. My dear, sorely missed friend.

We hadn’t broken up over one big thing. It had been all the little things that had slowly done us in. His work hours. The nights I stayed up worrying about him. Him missing small but important occasions, like one of my art shows. All my art shows, actually. Little, forgivable things that were nothing if you took them one at a time, but they added up to a lot. Too much — at least for me.

Part of me must have been holding out hope for a happily-ever-after, but at that moment, I accepted the truth. We weren’t ever going to make this work. Never. Our love was a train that had long since chugged into a dead-end station, and it would never make a comeback. Wisps of steam from the engine were all that remained, but soon, those would fade away with the rest of my sweet memories.

I put my burger down. It would never make it past the lump in my throat anyway.

By then, the candle on our table was close to drowning in its own pool of wax, but I couldn’t find it in me to pep it up a bit.

Then the next song came over the speakers, and I couldn’t help humming the opening notes. Ingo’s eyes met mine, and we both flashed thin smiles.

I took a deep breath, then stood and stuck out a hand.

Ingo cocked his head at my abrupt change in gears. “You’re asking me to dance?”

Yes, I was. Because as Kenny Rogers put it, Ingo did something to me that I couldn’t explain.

I nodded slowly. “Against my better judgment…”

Ingo’s grin was a thing of beauty. He stood, took my hand, and followed me to the dance floor.

One last time, I told myself. One last time.