Kiss of Fire (4 page)

Sara smiled despite herself. Anyone should be able to see that this man was a fighter, not a whimsical, possibly harmless, artist in a giddy shirt.

As if he had heard her thoughts, he looked directly at her. She was shocked that he had no doubt of her presence, much less of her exact location.

Her mouth went dry as they stared at each other; then she saw him begin to smile.

It was that slow smile. It made her think of chocolate melting, oh so slowly. That must have been why she salivated.

Her knees went weak and that made her feel stupid. It wasn't as if she'd never been attracted to a man before. Sara wasn't about to pretend she hadn't seen him and she wasn't going to be rude. She owed him a thank-you, and this was the time to deliver it.

In the sunshine.

In the middle of a crowd.

Sara took a deep breath, sipped her latte as if she had all the time in the world, and crossed the street.

That slow smile broadened, making her pulse leap; then he retreated into the shadows of his booth. He returned to his chair, watching her all the while. He seemed to understand that she was uncertain of him, and she liked that he gave her a bit of space. She could see in the daylight that he was tanned, and the tan made his eyes look more vibrantly blue. She wasn't imagining the very real male appreciation in her gaze, nor was she imagining how feminine his glances made her feel.

Sara had never felt so aware of her body in her life. She was glad that she had chosen the red sundress this morning. It was a good color for her, and the way the hem fluttered around her ankles always made her feel elegant.

To think she'd chosen it just to hide the nasty scab on her knee. She'd knotted a scarf around her neck to hide the massive bruise that had appeared there, and hoped she didn't look like a victim of domestic abuse. Her hair was neatly pulled up into a ponytail, bouncing the way she liked it. She wore only her mother's amber pendant and her watch, and had a different purse on her shoulder. She felt neat and clean, exactly as she had not felt in meeting him the night before, and that fed her confidence.

His eyes gleamed with humor as she paused to read the sign over the booth. Her heart stopped, then skipped.

“Here Be Dragons?”
she said, certain it had to be a coincidence.

Didn't it?

“Who else should guard the treasure?” he asked. He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles, as if to reassure her that he meant to stay put in his chair, and thus offered her no threat.

Sara chose to be reassured. She stepped farther into the booth, knowing she was holding her cup of coffee a little too tightly. “I wanted to thank you.”

He inclined his head slightly. “It was nothing.”

“Not to me.”

He smiled then and nodded agreement. “Fair enough.”

Sara didn't know what she expected of him, but it wasn't indifference. “No, really, thank you. I don't know what he would have done….”

He interrupted her crisply. “You must have more imagination than that.”

Sara swallowed and it hurt, as much of a reminder as she needed of her attacker's intent. “All right. I do know what he would have done, and that's why I'm thanking you.”

“I was in the right place at the right time.” He didn't seem to realize that he had even made a decision to help her, or that many people would have chosen not to get involved. Sara decided not to enlighten him. It might help another woman on another day.

She smiled. “Well, thank you. I really appreciated it.”

“You're welcome.” His eyes were so blue. He didn't blink; he didn't stare; he just held her gaze captive. It was as if time slowed in his booth. Sara felt her mouth go dry. Goose bumps rose on her flesh and her skin tingled.

“Did you sleep well?”

“With the help of a Scotch,” she admitted, then blushed. “My father's solution for stress. It's not usually one for me.”

“It's not a bad one.” He shrugged. “Maybe that was my problem. I should have had a drink.”

“You didn't sleep well?”

“No. Not at all.” He spoke firmly, his gaze clinging to hers. The heat grew between them, and Sara told herself not to read anything into his emphatic answer.

He couldn't care about what happened to her. After all, she didn't know him. She didn't even know his name.

She turned away from him abruptly and found business cards displayed on the table before her. The holder was iron, and wound around the stack of cards like a grapevine.

“Quinn Tyrrell?” Sara read, hearing the question in her voice.

He inclined his head slightly. “That's me.”

Quinn. What an unusual name. Sara wanted to say it out loud one more time.
Quinn
. Instead, she considered the work displayed for sale. “Is this your work, then?”

“Yes.”

“You're a blacksmith?” She felt stupid when she asked the question, as the answer was obvious.

Quinn didn't mock her, though. “Yes, I am.”

It wasn't a very common profession and Sara couldn't help but look his way again. She noted the muscles in his shoulders and guessed how he had developed them. She had a sense of his strength, even when he was still. She thought that he was in his midthirties, maybe just a bit older than she was.

He was watching her intently and she felt herself blush, so she turned back to his wares.

“You?” he asked, the word a low rumble that gave Sara shivers.

“I'm an accountant.” It sounded boring, so she kept talking. “I used to call myself an ace accountant, but now that I gave up the glory work, I'm just a plain old CPA.”

“I doubt you could ever be a plain or old anything.”

Sara found herself blushing furiously and looked away from his appreciative gaze to his work. “I didn't think there were any blacksmiths anymore.”

“There are a few.”

“Is it a hobby or a livelihood?”

“It's what I do,” he said and she liked how direct he was. “I also do some sculpture, but historical reproduction work is the bulk of my work.” He shrugged. “My shop is filled with custom railings, fences, and gates.”

“And iron.”

Quinn smiled. “Wrought iron when I can salvage it.”

“I thought all of this was wrought iron.”

He shook his head. “No. Wrought iron is an alloy that was popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It's not in large-scale production anymore.”

“So you salvage it?” Sara liked the idea of that.

Quinn nodded. “Sometimes I can buy it from buildings that are being demolished or renovated.” He smiled, as if amused by himself, and Sara was enchanted. “I have a bit of a stash.”

“A bit?”

“A barnful,” he admitted.

“But why? Is there something special about it?”

“Just the way it works.” Quinn unfolded himself then and came to stand beside her, moving with athletic ease that did crazy things to her pulse. Sara sizzled with him so close. He was so tall and broad: although she wasn't tall, she felt even more feminine and petite than she usually did. She could smell the sunblock lotion he'd used, and the scent of coconut milk was oddly reassuring.

Maybe that was what was making her dizzy.

Or maybe it was the heat, which seemed to have suddenly intensified.

“See this?” He handed her a door handle from the table. The handle was substantial, and the two ends—where the handle would be fastened to the door—were shaped as leaves. “This is made from mild steel.” He picked up another one that wasn't much different—beyond the leaves having more detail and there being a vinelike quality to the handle itself—and offered it to Sara. She put down her coffee to take it in her other hand. “And this is wrought iron.”

They were both heavy and made with a skill she appreciated. “They feel the same.”

“But they didn't work the same.” He tapped the wrought-iron one. “I made this one first, then worked to replicate it in the mild steel. See how much more I could add to the leaves?”

Sara nodded, then turned the two in her hands. “They aren't priced the same.”

Quinn shook his head. “Mild steel is cheaper. The wrought iron is more of a boutique item.”

Sara watched him, liking that he was less taciturn when he talked about his work. She wanted to hear his voice and she wanted to know what he cared about, so she prompted him to say more. “What's the difference then, after you've made them? They look so similar.”

“They won't age the same. The wrought iron has a grain, like wood, and that will become more evident if it corrodes.”

“Is that what I see in the handle?”

“Yes. A lot of people who are doing historic reproduction work prefer it, if they can get it.”

Sara could see that he was passionate about his work and she liked that. There was something appealing about people who were good at what they did and proud of their skill.

She put down the two door knockers and took another sip of her coffee. Quinn had door knockers and drawer pulls, as well as birdbaths with gleaming bowls of hammered steel supported by black twining vines. All of his designs were drawn from nature, based on keen observation. She liked the birdbaths in particular, as well as the scaled fish that leapt from a copper bowl with a small fountain, the pump hidden behind a stone. There was a binder on one table, filled with photographs of larger work.

“I never would have thought being a blacksmith would be a good way to make a living,” she mused, before realizing that he might find her question too bold. She smiled in apology. “Sorry. I've been accused before of thinking too much about the money.”

Quinn's smile was warm, evidence that he wasn't offended. “There's nothing wrong with being practical. It's not a way to get rich, but I have simple needs.”

Sara was feeling one very basic need, one that should be simple but had been complicated in her own life.
Quinn.
His name seemed to whisper in her thoughts. She wanted to ask him a thousand nosy questions but didn't dare.

He gestured to the scarf knotted around her neck and anger flashed in his eyes. “Is that from last night?” he asked, and she knew he could see the edges of the bruise. It must be getting darker—just her luck.

“You're not supposed to see the bruise with the scarf.”

Quinn's lips set and even after he averted his gaze, Sara could still feel his anger. It had been a long time since anyone had been enraged on her behalf.

Quinn took a breath, then glanced back at her, his gaze simmering. “Just pull it up a bit on this side,” he counseled softly, then tugged the silk for her before she could do it. His fingertips brushed against her throat, his skin so warm where it brushed hers that she felt something inside her melt.

But it was his deep voice that made her sizzle.

Or maybe it was the heat. Sara looked away from him, feeling a lot more innocent than she was. She took a nervous gulp of her coffee and her hand fell on a door knocker.

It was shaped like a mermaid, one whose tail knocked against the back of the knocker. The tail struck on a small scallop shell that seemed to float on the waves that shaped the back of the knocker. Sara picked it up and examined the work, liking the mermaid's sinuous tail. The mermaid's hair flowed around her like a cloud and the pose seemed both happy and provocative. There was something about the mermaid's shape that tempted Sara to curl her fingers around it.

Or stroke it.

“She's wrought iron,” Quinn said. “I could never have gotten that detail in her tail otherwise.”

“She's beautiful.”

“Thank you.” He was watching her closely, as if she fascinated him. Sara felt her color rise, but tried to act as if she was unaware of him.

In reality, she was more aware of Quinn than she'd ever been of any man.

Maybe she needed to get out more.

Maybe she should go out with Quinn.

It was a ridiculously appealing idea, considering that she knew just about nothing about him.

What better way to find out more?

Sara checked the price on the knocker, then found herself turning to Quinn. “I'd like to take this. For my shop.”

“You have a shop?” He seemed surprised.

“A bookstore. In the arcade there. I was just locking up last night when, when…”

He glanced down at the door knocker with a slight frown. “You don't need to buy something from me. It's enough that you're safe.” He gave her a piercing glance.

“But I like it and I need a door knocker.” She half suspected that those weren't the only reasons she was doing this. She knew that every day, when she unlocked the door of the shop, she would see that iron mermaid and think of Quinn.