Born Into Fire (2 page)

Kenna shrugged off the anxiety, changed into faded jeans and a T-shirt, then started down the stairs of the two-story Colonial that had once been her grandmother’s home. The third step creaked. Kenna smiled. The seventh step would grumble next, then the eighth, and lastly, the twelfth. Many found the groans of an old house creepy, but she knew the sounds began and ended with the wind.

Ten minutes later, a hot cup of coffee in hand, Kenna walked the few feet from the house to her garage turned workshop. She slipped the key in the lock and opened the door. A breeze wafted past as she entered.

Her heart always jump-started at the sight of the three glassblowing furnaces that dominated the workshop. A massive five-by-six freestanding crucible furnace to melt the glass sat near the farthest right-hand corner. To its right, along the garage doors, a six-by-four front-loading annealing oven used to slowly cool the glass sat on steel legs, while a pipe-shaped insulated firebrick glory hole furnace used to reheat the glass lay beside it. Five years of eating alphabet soup, bread, and skim milk had been worth it.

Nearer the middle of the room sat the marver, the steel table where she worked the glass. Two parallel rails held the pipe while she worked with the glass to form the skin. Blown glass filled the shelves lining all four walls.

Kenna closed and locked the door, then crossed to the workbench and set her coffee and keys on the tabletop. After lighting the glory hole furnace, she stood, her gaze on the far shelf where she’d tucked away the piece she’d named
Twilight Glide
: a solid fire-colored base with a translucent yellow half-moon in the middle. A swirling crimson stem rose from the moon, and a sleek dragon, its dark green wings spread, soared above. Not quite Drakaura, but nothing like Gudentrath. This new piece was to follow the others already shipped to the Michael Laird Gallery for the
Emergence of the Dragon
exhibit.

The yet uncreated centerpiece rose in memory as if stepping from the furnace fully formed. A tremor of familiar excitement fluttered her heart. Dreams as a child had conjured feathered dragons that guarded her in the deepest part of the night. Their memory outlived even Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and metamorphosed into the
Drakaura
, sensual creatures that flowed in harmony with the glass. A soft breeze skimmed across her arms. Kenna smiled.

Today was the day.

****

At the sound of a hard rap on the door, Kenna sloshed coffee onto her fingers. “Shit.”

She set the cup on the table and shook her hand. Another knock, this one louder. She stood, wiping her hand on her jeans. Who in their right mind would be at her house at three-thirty in the morning? She hurried to the door, reached for the lock, then paused. A psychopath probably wouldn’t knock, but sane people didn’t pay social calls at this hour either. She rose up on tiptoes and peered out the peephole.

Aiden Stiles
. Kenna ducked. What did
he
want? Aiden was a collector—a very handsome, rich collector—she’d met him two weeks ago at a small but prestigious local gallery that had included a few pieces of her work in a show.

Aiden knocked again. “Kenna?”

Aiden’s interest in her work had thrilled her. His interest in
her
was startling. With platinum blond hair, broad shoulders, and striking blue eyes, the guy was drop-dead gorgeous.

He knocked harder. “Kenna.”

Shit
. She twisted the lock and opened the door.

He grinned. “What’s up?”

She stepped aside as he entered. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

“I saw the fire and thought you might like company.”

“Nice try. I just fired the furnace. It couldn’t possibly be hot enough to be seen from the street yet.” Not to mention, the fire would be damn hard to see from the exclusive new townhomes on the hills ten miles out of town.

He smiled. “No?”

The nonchalant answer, along with the fact he prowled like a panther, irritated her. “What are you doing here so early?”

Aiden stopped at her bench and picked up an amber rod. “What are you making this morning? Another dragon?”

Kenna hurried to him, snatched the rod from his hand, and set it back down. “Yes, more dragons.”

He fingered the emerald green rod that sat alongside the burnt orange. “Even more unique color choices.”

Kenna thought of the personal collection shelved in her house. Unlike those here, her private dragons deviated from the typical earth tones but still weren’t the real Drakaura of her dreams. Suddenly, Kenna was glad she hadn’t shared them with Aiden.

She maneuvered between him and the table. “You still haven’t said why you’re here.”

A gust of wind howled through the rafters. Shivers raced over her flesh. “Is another storm rolling in?” She rubbed her upper arms.

“Are you alone, Kenna?”

She stilled. “Of course.” Kenna narrowed her eyes. “Until you showed up. Do you usually make social calls in the middle of the night?”

“You’re special.” Aiden sauntered to a shelf and trailed his finger over a blue and orange fairy in repose. “You have a unique gift.”

Unique
? Some critics claimed she showed potential, but was no Chihuly. One reviewer said her work lacked the fire and movement of the master blower. She told herself the fact they compared her to a master like Chihuly was what counted, but she was blowing smoke up her own ass and knew it.

Aiden looked at her. “I’m curious where you get the inspiration for your dragons.”

Kenna hesitated.
Strange that he waited two weeks to ask that
. “I suppose where all artists get their inspiration. We find beauty and magic in the glass.”

“Magic? Yes. Your dragons are magical.” He faced her. “Together, we could create so much more.”

Her heart sank. As flattering as his attention was, she’d hoped his interest in her art was sincere. “Magic as in…”
Please don’t let him spout poetic verse about making love or burning passion.

“I just meant we could heat it up in here.”

The sudden urge to bludgeon him with the thickest of her glass pieces forced her to clasp her hands behind her back. She couldn’t halt the mental picture of her melting the glass so that the cops never found the murder weapon.

It didn’t matter. She didn’t need Aiden Stiles. Despite the fact that she was no Chihuly, she was doing well. The Michael Laird Gallery had international contacts. International interest could push her career to the next level—if she could get Aiden out of her shop. Any sexual energy she wanted to tap into fizzled into annoyance.

“I want to get some work done. If you would—”

A blast of wind whipped open the door, slamming the wood into the wall with a bang. Dust swirled in a vortex of churning air that swept through the garage.

“The door!” She rushed to the table in the rear of the garage and steadied a fragile fourteen-inch vase.

A howl echoed through the rafters. Flames arced from the furnace, then snuffed out.

Kenna blinked. “What the—” Another gust of wind whipped through the garage. “Close the damn door,” she ordered an instant before Aiden slammed it shut.

She hurried to the open face of the furnace to find only a red glow. What had happened? Furnaces didn’t blow out. She checked the damper. Open. She straightened and caught sight of Aiden standing near the door. Rage glinted in his eyes. Kenna stilled. How much did she actually know about this man? Until now, he’d always seemed eager to please. Too eager, maybe?

Wind whipped past her. She turned, caught sight of the open window at the back of the garage, and hurried to close it. The room went silent. Warm air settled on her skin like a protective blanket. A tingle started in her nipples and spread through her. Just like when she’d awoken earlier, the earthy scent of rain and woods hung in the air. Kenna inhaled, and her anxiety morphed into a calm yet arousing tranquility like…a gentle tropical breeze against her naked flesh.

Damn, she needed to blow. She swore she heard a man chuckle and faced Aiden. His lips were set in a tight line. At least the anger was gone. Maybe she’d misread him. This day, short as it had been, was one long string of weird. Whatever Aiden’s problem, his attitude would spoil her flow. Her fingers twitched with renewed desire to channel this creative energy.
Hallelujah.

“Thanks for stopping by, Aiden, but I need to get to work. You understand.”

He nodded toward the furnace. “Your furnace isn’t working.”

“I’ve dealt with finicky furnaces before. No need to worry.”

He took a purposeful step toward her. Air blasted between them. “I do worry about you, Kenna.”

She strode to the door. “I’ve taken care of myself for twenty-seven years. I don’t mean to be rude, but really, I want to be alone.”

He stepped to her side. “If you need anything, call.”

She couldn’t deny a measure of relief. This was the sweet man she’d known the past few weeks. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Kenna opened the door. A soft breeze kissed her cheek, but the force of a few minutes before had passed. A twinge of regret tugged at her. The wind was exhilarating—when it wasn’t threatening to knock her on her ass.

Aiden paused in the doorway as if to say more, then left. She closed and locked the door. Turning her attention to the crucible, she crossed the room, dropped to her hands and knees, and checked the valves. Well, hell, a broken valve. A trip into downtown Denver for the part would do the trick.

She shut off the gas and glanced at the clock. Three fifty-one. The art store opened at eight. Kenna grabbed the coffee cup, crossed to the door, and peered through the peephole. The walkway was empty.
Thank God
. The last thing she needed was Aiden’s enthusiastic offer to accompany her to the art store. She opened the door and stepped outside. Another gust of wind blasted from within the shop. The door sucked from her fingers and slammed shut. She jumped back, her gaze glued to the handle. Had she left a window open?

Leaves from the giant maple behind the garage rustled and drew her attention skyward. Clouds edged with moonlight moved as shadow against light and slowly morphed into a distorted version of Drakaura’s image, wings spread, thin tail whipping behind. She stared, her mind slipping back to that first childhood dream of Drakaura, colors so deep and rich, they filled the room as the dragon watched her in silence. The clouds overhead darkened, and the vision vanished.

Kenna shivered, then hurried inside. She set the mug on the kitchen counter and climbed the stairs to the old attic pull-down in the hallway. The familiar creak of wood as she pulled the string that unfolded the stairs brought a rush of emotion. She hadn’t been in the attic since Grandmother died six years ago, when she had stored her keepsakes alongside the older woman’s trunks.

She climbed up, crossed to the trunk, knelt, and ran a palm across the lid. Dust roiled up among the murky shadows in a turbulent dance. She chuckled. Grandma would give a scolding if she saw such a mess. Kenna opened the lid and lifted the linen-wrapped frame from on top of the other mementos, then settled back and unwrapped her first drawing of Drakaura. Despite chips in the Indonesian teakwood frame and the fading of the dragon’s red and yellow head feathers, the intensity in his eyes remained.

Kenna envisioned herself astride his back as they soared high above the earth. He dipped, and she hugged his smooth neck, her legs tightening around his belly, wind whipping her auburn hair into tiny lightning bolts. A gust of wind rattled the rafters, startling her from the dream. The breeze gentled, yet the hairs at her nape tingled. Despite knowing the thought was foolish, she quieted her breathing and listened for footsteps on the stairs.

The scent of wood and rain unexpectedly floated on the air. Desire coursed through her, and last night’s dream returned of the tall, broad-shouldered man who had thrust his cock deep inside her. Her pussy tightened. She released a slow breath, then refocused on Drakaura and flipped over the picture. Taped to the back were the two yellowed newspaper clippings about her fifth grade win that her grandmother had saved. Aiden asked about her inspiration. This secret belonged to her alone. It wasn’t the oddity she cared about concealing, but how the dragon called to her. She turned the frame back over and stared at the drawing. The image radiated off the page with the intensity of a desert mirage.

Discomfort brought a flush to her skin. In those final months before her mother died, Kenna’s stories of Drakaura standing over her bed had come with the admonition, “
There are no such things as imaginary friends
.”

Kenna exhaled an unsteady breath. Her mother’s dogged belief in only the things she could see had widened the rapidly growing gulf between them. Of course, Mother had been right. Dragons weren’t real. But Kenna didn’t understand that until it was too late, and her parents died in a car crash when she was fourteen. Thank God, Jared had understood.

Sisterly affection brought a smile. Though they were twins, Jared became the parents they lost when their grandmother was awarded custody. He took care of them. Six years later, he joined the Navy.

She missed him. But that’s how it was for the family of a Navy SEAL. Still, he made sure she got a good education and spent every moment off duty with her. Nearly two years had passed since their last visit, and ten months since his last letter. Some of the joy went out of her. He wouldn’t be there for her first major showing.

What would he think about the way she’d brought her childhood dreams to life inside the glass?

Chapter Three

Erion paced the kitchen. Tension knotted his shoulders. Pressure tightened his chest. He’d fucked up. He shouldn’t have been there, shouldn’t have stayed, and most certainly, shouldn’t want to return. Yet he did.