Gift of Fire

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Mercy had been well aware of the distinctive quali­ties of Ignatius Cove from the moment she had discov­ered it. When she had begun searching for a place to open a bookstore two years before she had known ex­actly what she wanted: a community of the affluent and educated, potential book buyers who had the cash to in­dulge their interests. Ignatius Cove fit the bill perfectly.

  Mercy didn’t attempt to compete head on with the one other bookstore in town which specialized in newly released hardcover bestsellers and art books. Instead, she had gone for the thriving secondhand market, sup­plementing her large, well organized stock with popular, new paperback releases.

  The mix had proven satisfyingly profitable. By the end of the first year Pennington’s Second Chance had earned enough to ensure its survival. By the end of the second year of business, the shop was well established with a solid customer base. Mercy measured her success by the fact that she was now removing the corks instead of unscrewing the caps of the wine bottles she opened at home.

  “Dorrie says you’re finally going to take a vacation next week,” Christina observed as Mercy rang up her purchases. “It’s about time.”

  Mercy smiled and her slightly tilted green eyes lit with pleasure. Automatically she lifted a hand to push an errant tendril of golden brown hair back behind her ear. “Part business and part vacation. I’m very excited about it. I came across an interesting old book in a box of junk I bought at the flea market last month. Turned out it had some value. I advertised it in a little antiquar­ian booksellers’ catalog and within a few days a man in Colorado phoned to say he wanted to buy it. I’m going to deliver it to him next week while I’m on vacation.”

  “You’re going to take it to Colorado yourself? Isn’t that service above and beyond the call of duty? Why can’t you just mail it to the man?”

  “He wants it hand delivered. He told me he doesn’t trust the mail and this book is very important to his col­lection. He’s been looking for it for some time, Ι gather. At any rate, he considers my trip expenses to Denver part of the purchase price of the book. He says he prefers not to travel.”

  “He’s paying your way?”

  Mercy nodded as she finished totaling the sale. “He said I was to fly first class, but of course I won’t. He’s being generous enough as it is. I’ll fly to Denver and rent a car to drive to his place in the mountains. I get the feeling it’s quite a remote location. He’s invited me to stay at his place for a couple of days. After that I’ll take a leisurely trip through the Rockies and end up back in Denver. I’ll fly home from there.”

  “Hmm. This sounds interesting. Young or old?”

  “Who?”

  “Your customer,” Christina said impatiently. “Is he young or old?”

  “Oh.” Mercy wrinkled her nose slightly, thinking. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. He sounds very charming on the phone. Has a great voice. Cultured, if you know what I mean, but I can’t tell how old he is for certain. Maybe somewhere in his forties.”

  “A little old for you, but not too far beyond the realm of possibility. A woman has to be flexible these days.”

  Mercy smiled. “Whatever his age, he’s definitely not too old to spend a fortune on a book. He had the money wired into my account yesterday.”

  Christina burst out laughing. “You’re too young to let money replace romance in your life.”

  “Don’t you believe it. Running a small business ages a person in a hurry. The money he paid for Valley is going to pay the rent on this shop for several months. What’s more, he hinted he might be talked into throw­ing in a couple of books from his private collection as part of the purchase price. I could turn around and ad­vertise them the same way I did the first one. I’d actu­ally be dealing for real in antiquarian books. That’s the classy end of the used book business.”

  “I can see it now:” Christina narrowed her eyes as if seeing a glowing sign in the distance. “Mercy Penning­ton, dealer in rare books.”

  “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Mercy acknowledged happily. “First editions, private printings, beautiful eighteenth-century bindings, copper plate illustrations. Definitely high class.”

  “Does that mean I’ll have to start shopping some­where else for my romances and mysteries?”

  Mercy laughed. “Not for quite a while. It takes a great deal of money and a lot of time to get into the rare book business in a big way: Even if everything goes well with the sale of this book I found I’m going to be selling paperbacks for a long time to come. The rare book business will be a sideline. For a lot of dealers it never gets beyond that point.”

  “Well, good luck to you. And enjoy the trip to Col­orado. Is Dorrie going to handle the shop for you while you’re gone?”

  Mercy nodded. “I think she’s looking forward to being in charge for a full week. I’ve never left her alone here for longer than a couple of hours.” Actually, that was an understatement. Dorrie Jeffers was positively elated at the prospect of running Pennington’s Second Chance by herself. After several months of part-time work, she was eager for the opportunity.

  “That’s exactly why you need this vacation. You treat this place as if it were your firstborn. You’re much too devoted to it. You need to get away from it for a while.” Christina took the paper sack full of books from the counter and turned to leave. “Have a great trip and drive carefully. Those roads in the Rockies are some­thing else.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  And take a good look at your customer. Do yourself a favor. Try to see him as something more than a means of launching your new career in the rare book business. You never know. He might be a sexy recluse just waiting for the right woman to come along and take him out of the mountains.”

  “Somehow I doubt that. Why are you always so eager to see me married, Christina? Haven’t you been reading those studies that show that single women are happier than married women?”

  Christina grinned. “Us married types can’t stand to see you single types so happy and prosperous and inde­pendent. Ruins the image of marriage. Besides, misery loves company. Take care, Mercy. I’ll see you when you get back.” When she opened the door the little bell overhead tinkled merrily.

  Mercy waited until the bell was silent and then walked around the counter to finish straightening some shelves at the back of the shop. The place was empty and it was almost time to close for the day. She started thinking about dinner.

  There was a package of buckwheat pasta in the cup­board at home. And she was almost certain there was still some pesto sauce in the freezer. There was also a bottle of zinfandel resting in the wire wine rack in the corner of her kitchen. The long summer evening stretched out before her and it was, after all, Friday. Fri­day was always deserving of some sort of celebration, even though she would be opening the shop again the next morning. Six-day work weeks were normal for small business entrepreneurs. After two years of work­ing them, Mercy was accustomed to the hours.

  When she left for Colorado on Monday morning she would be taking her first real vacation in two years.

  Not everyone would count the trip as a vacation, Mercy reflected wryly. After all, it was definitely a business venture. But she was as excited as if she were about to embark on a cruise. The sale of Valley of Secret Jewels was a milestone in her new career as a bookseller. A whole new world was opening up to her. If she played her cards right, she would actually be entering the rari­fied atmosphere of antiquarian book dealership. Ig­natius Cove had been good to her.

  Life had changed a lot in the past two years, Mercy thought with satisfaction. Exactly two years earlier she had been learning how appalling her judgment in men was. She’d been busy canceling wedding plans and quit­ting her job in a public library. Now she was far more cautious with men, happily single and successfully es­tablished in a new career.

  Mercy’s thoughts returned again to dinner as
she stretched on tiptoe to reach a book high on the shelf. Her fingers closed around the volume when she sud­denly had the strange feeling that she was being watched. The sensation was unnerving, especially since the bell over the door had not rung as it was designed to when anyone entered the shop. She knew with a sud­den, sure instinct that she was no longer alone. Mercy went very still.

  “I’m looking for Mercy Pennington.”

  Mercy yelped and spun around. A man stood at the end of the long aisle of books. Her first impression was of darkness…unsettling, overwhelming darkness. Her shop had been invaded by a midnight phantom, a lean, somber ghost with hair the color of a raven’s wing. He wore black chino trousers, low-cut black boots and a black twill shirt that was open at the throat. Even the sound of his voice invoked the night and all its mysteries. The echo of her own name was as deep and dark as the bottom of the sea.

  Only his eyes offered a sense of light. They were a strange shade of hazel set in a bronzed face. The intel­ligence in his gaze was coupled with a strangely de­tached quality that was disturbing. Mercy looked into his eyes and wondered how any man could achieve such a degree of deep, remote calm.

  She wondered what it would take to put ripples into the quiet seas of such eyes. Some primitive, feminine part of her longed to discover the secret. For a tempting instant Mercy found herself wanting to slap the man or kiss him to see if she could jar that remote expression.

  Mercy was shocked when she realized that her reaction was a direct response to her attraction to this stranger, which had sprung into life without any warn­ing. Never in her life had she met a man who had in­stantly awakened such a violent sense of awareness within her. The feeling was so strong and unsettling she clutched the nearest shelf for support.

  She imagined he must be in his mid-thirties, perhaps older. His face was fierce angles and planes; high cheek­bones, a rock hard jaw, an arrogant nose. No softness anywhere. But he stood in front of her with a poised, al­most erotic grace that seemed to assault her senses.

  His mouth was a firm, unyielding line. That mouth should have promised a total lack of emotion, but for some reason Mercy got just the opposite impression. She saw the potential for emotion there, saw too that it was under a rigid self-control. The problem was she couldn’t begin to tell if it was passion or violence that lurked beneath the surface of his coolly set mouth.

  Any emotion this man chose to focus on a woman would be overwhelming, Mercy thought. She shook off the paralyzing awareness.

  “I’m Mercy Pennington. You startled me. I didn’t hear you come in.” She took a firm grip on her shaken nerves. “The bell over the door must be broken.”

  The man glanced back toward the door. “It’s not broken.”

  “But it always rings when the door opens.”

  He shrugged. “It didn’t this time.” He dismissed the matter completely. The mystery of the non-ringing bell was obviously not a mystery to him. “If you’re Mercy Pennington, then you have a book for sale. I would like to examine it, and if it’s the one I want I’ll meet your price, whatever you’re asking.”

  “A book?” Her mind went blank. Something about this man was totally disorienting. He was asking her about a book, but she had the oddest sensation they should be talking about far more personal, more impor­tant matters. Α flickering feeling of communication went through her. It was as if she already knew him on some level, though she didn’t even know his name. “I’ve got hundreds of books for sale.”

  “Burleigh’s Valley of Secret Jewels. I’ve come a long way for it.”

  He made it sound as though he’d come from the outer reaches of Hades. “Oh, that book.” Relieved that this whole thing was going to be over very quickly, Mercy rushed on with the news. “I’m sorry, I’ve already sold it.” She smiled brightly. “It’s unfortunate that you had to drive out of your way for nothing.”

  His hazel eyes narrowed. “When did you sell it?”

  “A couple of days ago. Α man in Colorado phoned and said he’d take it sight unseen.”

  “Has he picked it up yet?”

  “Well, no, as a matter of fact, but—”

  “I’ll top his offer.”

  Mercy was nonplussed. “I couldn’t sell it out from under him. That would be unethical. He’s already paid me for Valley and I’ve promised to deliver it to him.”

  “You would find it…unethical to sell to a higher bidder?”

  “That’s right,” Mercy said quickly, not liking the new, even more intense interest he was displaying. She sought for a way to break the strange spell that seemed to be engulfing her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more things to do before I close this evening. It’s already after five.” She deliberately moved down the aisle to­ward him, hoping he would take the hint and get out of her way and leave the shop. The fact that she was alone with him was making her nervous.

  This was not the sort of man one wanted to en­counter in a dark bookshop aisle or a dark alley, Mercy decided firmly. But she had no sooner finished phrasing the silent warning to herself than her mind leaped to the image of a dark bedroom. Impatiently she brushed aside the evocative mental picture of meeting this man in such dangerous surroundings.

  He didn’t move as she moved bravely down the aisle. He stood at the end of the narrow corridor watching her. His stance was both relaxed and balanced. Some­how his very stillness was as alarming as anything else about him. Less than two paces away Mercy was forced to halt. Her hands tightened around a couple of books she had picked up to reshelve as she began to seriously wonder just how dangerous he was. Ignatius Cove had very little crime, but an isolated shopkeeper at the end of a working day was always a vulnerable target.

  “I said, will you please excuse me?” She put as much force as possible into the superficially polite query. Somewhere she had read one had to be confident and controlled when dealing with situations such as this. There was always the hope that one could bluff one’s way out of danger. She mustn’t lose her nerve. “You’re in my way”

  “I would like to see the book.”

  “It’s not here.”

  “Where is it?” he asked with a patience that was un­nerving because there was absolutely no indication of how long it would last.

  Mercy swallowed. “I’ve got it at home. I didn’t want to take a chance on anything happening to it here. It’s rather valuable.”

  He stared at her for a minute, his hazel eyes pinning her. Then he nodded once, apparently coming to a de­cision. “All right. I’ll go to your place. How far is it?”

  Mercy hesitated, trying to figure out the safest course of action. “Not far. Walking distance.” Once they were out on the street she would have a chance of calling at­tention to her situation, if she indeed was in a situation. Outside there were cars and pedestrians and other shopkeepers closing up for the night. She would feel much safer. “If you care to wait outside, I’ll just be a minute.”

  He nodded again, that single, economical movement of his head, and then turned, walked to the end of the aisle and disappeared.

  Mercy stared after him, holding her breath as she waited for the bell to sound, indicating he had actually left the shop. She couldn’t believe it was going to be this easy after all. The part of her that was convinced she was in jeopardy was still sending bursts of fight or flight signals through her nerves. But another part of her was perversely disappointed to see the stranger leave. She had never met a man who had such an instantaneous ef­fect on her senses. It was a strangely beguiling, if per­ilous experience.

  The bell didn’t tinkle and she didn’t hear the door open or close, but Mercy knew she was alone in the shop. Cautiously she walked to the end of the aisle and glanced out the window

  The dark stranger was out on the sidewalk, lounging easily against the fender of a black Porsche. His gaze was centered on the shop door as he waited for Mercy to emer
ge. His brand of patience was that of a hunter waiting for its quarry.

  Mercy sucked in her breath and set down the books she’d been holding. She darted toward the door, reach­ing for the dead bolt. Once she had him locked out she could either slip out the back way or call the police.

  As if he had read her mind, the man moved, reach­ing the door before she did. The knob turned, the door slid open just far enough to admit the toe of his boot, and Mercy knew she had lost the short race. The bell overhead tinkled this time, which was absurdly reassur­ing for some reason. That shot of confidence united with the adrenaline in her blood to make Mercy abruptly angry.

  “If you don’t mind,” she snapped, shoving the door against his foot, “this is my shop and I would like to lock up for the night. Get out of here.”

  He stared down at her assessingly. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”

  “Let’s just say you aren’t the sort of customer I like to encourage.”

  “It’s all right, Mercy Pennington, you have nothing to fear from me. I just want to see the book. Ι won’t hurt you.”

  Mercy opened her mouth to tell him that under the circumstances he could hardly expect her to believe that, but when she met his eyes the protest died in her throat.

  For some groundless, totally illogical reason she did believe him. Somehow, she realized, she would know if she were truly in danger from him. The information would be there in his gleaming hazel eyes. At the mo­ment she was safe. Mercy didn’t know how she could be so certain of that, but she was. The strange sensation of having communicated with this man on a subliminal level went through her again, providing reassurance even as it raised odd questions.

  Tense seconds ticked past as her gaze locked with his. Neither of them moved. There would be no harm in simply showing him her precious copy of Valley, Mercy thought suddenly. Her hand fell away from the door.