All Fired Up (Stardust)

by Riser, Mimi

  “So we’ve discussed,” Sam said carefully. “But you have other gifts.”

  Gift? It was a curse. But they’d discussed that, too, and talking about it didn’t help.

  Sam reached for a palette knife and rag to begin the work of scraping and wiping his palette, then cleaning his brushes.

  “Time to land, fire angel. The light’s shifted. I can’t paint anymore today. Need a hand getting down?”

  “No, thanks, I can manage.” Slowly, so as not to jar herself, Roxanne lowered her arms and relaxed her arched spine. She’d been holding the pose for twenty-minute stretches with ten-minute breaks in between, but after three hours of this regime felt stiffer than the plywood she stood on. Modeling was hard physical labor, harder than ditch digging, she mused. She’d never be able to look at a figure painting or sculpture again without wondering what the model had suffered while posing for it.

  Sinking to a sitting position, she rested a moment before climbing off the platform and reaching for her clothes, navy blue sweatpants and a drab gray T-shirt – loose fit and nice cool colors, the kind she always wore. The only kind she could wear. With tawny hair and a fair complexion, Roxanne might have looked better in something brighter, but bright warm colors were dangerous. Anything warm was dangerous. Her life was devoted to keeping cool, and baggy, plain garments seemed to help.

  Only not now. Having tied the drawstring of her sweatpants, she was pulling the T-shirt over her head when a hot flash hit. A red alert. She stiffened to attention, like a buck private caught goldbricking by the company commander. Sam stiffened, too. As fast as Roxanne had tried to block the heat, he had sensed it. It would have been impossible not to. The air of the studio had literally crackled for an instant, as though the electrical system had short-circuited.

  “Roxy? Are you all right?”

  No. She was trembling and suddenly sweating.

  “A…a man. I felt his thoughts,” she stammered. “He’s coming down the street to Jileana’s shop…coming here.”

  Sam leapt back in overblown horror, his expression aghast, his hands flying to his head. “A man? God, no! Not a man! Not here!”

  Roxanne glowered.

  Sam sobered. “Anyway, hon, you are the one who’s minding Jil’s shop while she and Jack are away, so don’t you think you’d better unlock the door? I know her regular customers usually call for appointments first, but there’s always room for new business. Never pass up the chance for a sale.”

  Before she could balk, he took hold of her shoulders and steered her toward the closed door in the partition that separated his studio from the antiquities dealership housed in the front of the building.

  “I…I don’t think he’s looking to do business,” she choked out, her heels skidding against the floor as Sam shoved her forward.

  “Then consider it an opportunity to make a new friend.”

  “I don’t think he’s looking for friendship exactly either.”

  Sam halted and turned her around to face him, his eyes beaming down on her like searchlights. “Not a customer and not a friend, huh? Then what does he want?”

  “Me,” she said weakly. “Only…only he’s never seen me before. All he knows is my name. He kept thinking” – she gulped – “Foxy Roxy, Foxy Roxy…”

  “A Foxy Roxy who is acting like Chicken Little,” Sam muttered. “Well, whatever you are, mystery woman, you have to learn how to handle these situations. You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding.”

  “I’m not worried about the rest of my life, just the next five minutes – you have too many combustibles in here!” With a frightened squeal, she pulled loose and fled to the opposite end of the studio.

  Sam heaved a small sigh and followed at a more sedate pace. “What now?”

  “He’s here!” She glanced in panic at the partition.

  “Well, we were expecting him.” Sam took hold of her shoulders once more.

  Roxanne’s breath hitched as a new flood of images swamped her. “He…he’s hoping for a beautiful blonde, like Delilah. Or…or a sassy redhead, like Muffy.”

  In the process of skidding her back across the floor, Sam couldn’t help chuckling. Whoever the guy was, he had good taste and was evidently familiar with the Jones family. But Delilah and Muffy were only two of Sam’s four sisters – the two tall ones.

  “What about Jil and Buffy?” he asked. “Do you see any diminutive damsels in his head?” He stopped shoving, to give her a moment to concentrate.

  “No,” Roxanne finally answered. “But there are a couple of leggy brunettes in there. They look kind of oriental.”

  “Really?” Sam’s interest perked up. He had a bit of a penchant for exotic brunettes himself – purely artistic, of course. Maybe he should sneak a mental peek… Nah. He focused his attention back on Roxanne.

  “Then it sounds to me like you are perfectly safe,” he informed her.

  “How do you figure that?” she ground out as he resumed the shove to the door.

  “Because you’re not his type. The guy apparently likes Earth Goddesses and Dragon Ladies, while you” – he paused for emphasis – “are a sparkling little Fire Fairy.”

  “Angel,” she corrected glumly.

  “That, too,” Sam said. “At any rate, you’ll be okay. And just to make sure, I will stay close by with a fire extinguisher.”

  “It better be a big extinguisher,” Roxanne grumbled. Sharp hot prickles stung her. A throbbing pressure filled her skull, like something hammering to be let out – no, wait, the hammering was someone asking to be let in. But that was worse.

  A lot worse, because now she was getting visions of the hammerer. Not the inside of his head, but the outside – along with everything it was attached to. And it was attached to quite a handful, all of it hard muscled and radiating raw sexual force. Tall, dark, painted-on jeans, black leather vest and biker boots. The image crashed over her, like a tidal wave, almost sweeping her off her feet.

  Sam peeked through a hole in the partition to see the tidal wave in the flesh. “Relax, it’s only Slo Larkin. Slo never stays in town for long. Star gives him hives – something in the water maybe.”

  He opened the inner door and nudged Roxanne into the shop.

  “You mean Winslow Larkin?” she whispered, struggling to process this news. “Mrs. Dixon’s grandson?” He knees almost buckled as the man’s gaze met hers through the plate glass of the shop’s street door. “That cute little boy she was showing me pictures of last week?”

  “Yeah, well, he’s grown up a bit since those pictures were taken,” Sam whispered back. “But don’t call him Winslow – he hates it. People only call him Winslow when they want to tick him off.” Leaving Roxanne, dizzy and dazed, by the long wooden counter at the rear of the shop, he strode to the street door, swung it open, and greeted their visitor with a blinding solar flare of a smile.

  “Hey, Winslow! Good to see you, man. How’s the paintin’ business?” Ignoring a dark-eyed dagger glare, he pulled the glare’s owner into the shop and slapped him on the back. “This guy’s the Michelangelo of the airbrush, turns cars into artwork,” he told Roxanne while slinging a friendly arm over Slo’s shoulders. “He’s got a great hand for portraiture, too, but doesn’t use it much.”

  “No time to. But thanks anyway for the vote of confidence.”

  Slo shrugged off Sam’s arm. After spending several impatient minutes on the sidewalk, waiting to be let into the shop, he was now wondering how fast he could get out. Foxy Roxy wasn’t so foxy after all. She looked more like a scared rabbit. A pretty little thing, he supposed – even if she did dress like a sack of groceries – but the emphasis there was on the “little.”

  Little as in young.

  Little as in innocent.

  Slo had never had much interest in the young and innocent even when he’d been young and innocent himself. He liked women who could hold their own with him, women who knew the ropes, who appreciated a good time and wouldn’t get all bent out of shape when th
e good time was over…

  “Have you met my cousin?” he heard Sam asking, and from the tone of the question realized this wasn’t the first time Sam had asked it. Slo also realized he’d been staring openly at Little Miss Innocent, who’d reacted to the appraisal as any self-respecting, wary virgin would – waxing wide-eyed, backing away and blushing hot pink.

  Wow, was that cute, or what?

  Slo’s breath snagged on the intake. He felt a suspicious warm flutter deep down inside – deep and low – very unexpected, but not exactly unwelcome. Maybe some wolfish devil had possessed him, the hungry spirit of a Don Juan or Casanova – or maybe it was just the surprisingly enticing sight of her standing there all sweet and quivery like a freshly steamed plum pudding waiting for the hard sauce – but he had an incorrigible urge to move closer and touch her. Young and innocent suddenly seemed kind of…well, interesting.

  “Um, no, I haven’t had that pleasure yet,” he answered Sam. With a provocative, predatory stride, he advanced on the quarry.

  “Slo Larkin, this is Roxanne Sinclair. Roxy, meet Slo,” Sam said with a merciless grin at them both.

  Slo never saw the grin. He was too busy giving one of his own to Roxanne – one of his best, the grin that curled toes, melted underwear, and flattened feminine resistance like a steamroller.

  “Always nice to see a new face in town. Especially a face as nice as yours.” He offered her his hand.

  She refused to take it.

  Undaunted, Slo took her hand instead.

  Then dropped it. Quickly.

  Whoa, she was trembling. And hot – you could fry eggs on her. Either the poor kid had a bad case of malaria, or he had carried his little tease a little too far. She wasn’t just nervous, she was terrified. Of him. Great, just great. Boy, was he ever proud of himself. This was why he didn’t mess with virgins.

  “Roxy’s minding the shop while Jil’s away. Did you hear Jil got married?… Yeah, and Evangeline Allen, too. That was something, wasn’t it?… Husband’s name is Harper Rourke…” Sam’s voice droned on and on, making small talk, filling the air of the shop – air that pulsed with undercurrents of electrical tension.

  Slo listened no closer than politeness required, answered the questions with as few words as possible. He was far more aware of the one who was not speaking – the blue-eyed baby doll who stood backed against the old-fashioned counter. Her gaze kept darting to his, then away, as though the mere sight of him scorched her. She was quivering and sizzling like a lit fuse.

  What a waste, all that energy squandered on stress.

  There was dynamite in that baby doll. Someone someday was going to have one hell of a hot time lighting it. Some lucky guy was going to get himself an armful of fiery delight.

  Too bad that guy couldn’t be him.

  Enough, Larkin! You’ve come, you’ve seen, you’ve conquered. Now quit playing Big Bad Wolf. Leave Little Red Riding Hood alone and go bother Grandma.

  “Well, um, I guess I’d better be gettin’ back to the house.” Slo turned toward the exit.

  Sam stopped him. “So soon? You just got here, man.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I wasn’t planning on staying. Gran’s got dinner waiting.” Smashed green tomatoes, with cantaloupe pulp for dessert – Slo could hardly wait. “I just thought I’d drop by for a minute to say hi and, um, meet your cousin.” He gave Roxanne an apologetic nod. “Newcomers are kind of an attraction in this town, in case you hadn’t noticed yet.”

  But then you’d be an attraction anywhere, wouldn’t you, baby?

  Slo knew he hadn’t spoken the thought aloud – but to see Roxanne, you might almost have guessed he had. Flushed and flustered, she turned her back on him, snatched up a rag, and began frantically dusting the counter, working her way down its length, wiping and polishing with a vengeance.

  Damn, but it was cute how easily she blushed. There was something irresistible about this kid, something naive and seductive in the same breath. Sweet heat. A dangerous temptation. He was starting to imagine other things he could do to make her blush. Sultry, steamy, intimate things…

  With effort, Slo shoved the lewd images out of his head. Roxanne had just reached the counter’s end, which sat opposite the door to the studio, and would probably be bolting through that open door any moment now. And he had better take himself and his evil mind out the other door before he disgraced himself. This little girl was getting to him – and she was too damn young. Too shy, too sensitive, too—

  He stiffened and stared as his gaze fell through the doorway behind her and landed on a large canvas propped against two easels in the center of the studio. An incredible painting of an incredible figure.

  Help me, Lord…

  She was gut-gripping glorious, that’s what she was!

  His pulse pounded, his stomach did a back flip, his jeans suddenly shrank. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Roxanne snap upright and drop her dust cloth, but he had more immediate concerns. Blood was morphing into molten lava. Something volcanic was about to erupt. Him. He could swear he smelled smoke. Mumbling a hasty, haphazard goodbye, he turned and beat a rocky retreat out the street door and down the sidewalk.

  A flurry of wild stamping sounded from the shop behind him, but he didn’t dare turn around to investigate. Maybe Sam had taken up flamenco dancing. Why not? It seemed like something Sam might do.

  -------

  Sam was dancing, in fact. But more along the lines of an energetic soft-shoe, or perhaps some Irish clogging. Sam was doing it to extinguish the genuine fire that erupted seconds before Slo made his escape. Roxanne’s dust cloth had burst into flames the instant it hit the floor.

  Singing “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” Sam crossed the shop, maneuvered Roxanne aside, and executed a neat shuffle-step as he stomped out the blaze in rhythm to the old tune.

  He flashed his shaky cousin an upbeat grin. “All things considered, I think that little meet-and-greet went pretty well. How about you?”

  “I think that man better stay far away from me,” she said on a ragged breath. “He’d better keep his distance or this whole town could go up in smoke!”

  Sam heaved a longsuffering sigh and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Roxy, that is the wrong attitude. Slo lives in Houston, and he likes it there. He hates Star and never sticks around for long, but while he’s here, he’s your neighbor. You need to view this as a learning experience, because you’re not going to be able to avoid him.”

  “Yes, I can. I’ll go out to the ranch until he’s gone. I’ll stay with Harper and Evangeline.”

  “I’m sure they’d love to have you, but it won’t solve anything. Slo always visits Evangeline when he’s home. She’s one of the few people in the area he actually enjoys talking to.”

  “Then I…I’ll…”

  “You will stay here and face this.” Sam gave her shoulders a squeeze. “There’s nothing wrong with you, hon. You’re an attractive, intelligent woman with a powerful ability. If you’ll stop being so frightened of that power, I think you can conquer it.”

  “I can’t.” Her voice came out like the scratch of sandpaper. “I’ve never been able to control it. I’m a human flamethrower! That’s why my father locked me away in a nuthouse – because I am too dangerous to be allowed loose.”

  Chapter 3

  Bong, bong, bong…

  Twelve times the church chimes struck, sounding hollow and reproachful, like a warning from heaven. But Slo ignored it.

  Was he spying?

  Nah, it couldn’t be spying if he just happened to be sitting in his grandmother’s recliner by the side window, and that window just happened to offer a panoramic view of the Jones’s place next door.

  His grandmother herself had long since turned in. She hadn’t kept chickens in years, but still went to bed with them, figuratively speaking – rose and set with the sun, along with the rest of the town. Chalk up another black mark against Star, another annoying conflict of interest. Slo Larkin was
a night owl.

  So was Roxanne Sinclair apparently. Not too many people watered their garden at midnight – while soaking wet. Roxanne was wet because she was periodically turning the hose around and watering herself as well. Not that Slo was complaining. If she liked her clothes plastered against her like a second skin, who was he to argue? He just thought it was kind of curious is all. A definite attention grabber, but—

  Aw shit, it was friggin’ weird.

  Unless… Maybe she knew she had an audience – him – and was putting on a deliberate show? Maybe Miss Innocent wasn’t as innocent as he’d thought?

  Slo angled the recliner back a notch and closed his eyes. He’d have to consider this very carefully for a minute – without any visual distractions. Like the winner of the wet T-shirt contest across the way. That was distraction with a capital D. Or a double D perhaps? Could you describe a female by her bra size if she wasn’t wearing one?

  The recliner snapped upright with a jolt. This wasn’t working. He couldn’t make a clear decision just sitting here and thinking. Hell, he couldn’t think clearly anyway – hadn’t been able to think, period, since he’d left the shop. There was only one way to get to the bottom of this.

  Her bottom, Slo was seriously hoping as he stood up and headed for the door. It was an indecent, animalistic hope, and he knew it. Pure lust and nothing to be proud of. But nothing he could avoid either. Maybe it was this town that brought out the worst in him. He’d been a near juvenile delinquent when he’d lived here – a wild, angry kid on a motorcycle – Star’s bad boy, Slo Larkin. He’d carried the title “rebel without a cause” to new heights. Or lows, depending on your perspective.

  But whatever the reason, the Bad Boy had it big and bad now. He had it hot and heavy. He was burning alive. He had to know if the one who’d started the blaze felt its heat, too.

  He mapped out a game plan en route through the door. He’d make plenty of noise on his way over, give her plenty of warning. If she bolted at his approach – if she truly was just a flustered kid – he’d have to leave her alone. He wasn’t that bad. But if she didn’t…