Ilona Andrews - Wildfire

Matilda opened her mouth, her eyes wide.

“Oh my God,” Diana said.

Bunny froze in place, clearly unsure what to do.

Matilda held out her hand. Zeus nudged it with his nose. She backed up, and the huge beast squeezed all of himself out. He was a foot taller than Matilda. She gasped.

The blue beast lowered his head, and Matilda hugged his furry neck. “He’s so soft.”

My sisters snapped simultaneous pictures.

“He is beautiful . . .” Diana crouched and scratched under Zeus’ chin. “The eyes, Cornell. Like jewels. How did you even manage this? This isn’t possible.”

“Feel him,” Cornelius said.

“I do. That’s remarkable.”

The door chimed again. I checked my laptop.

Rogan stood at our front door. Behind him a gunmetal-grey Mercedes-Benz E200 waited, its lights on. Rogan wore a black suit. He was perfectly proportioned, and unless I stood next to him, it was easy to forget how large he was. The suit emphasized everything, from his height and long legs to his narrow flat waist and broad shoulders. He’d shaved. His short hair was brushed. He looked every inch a billionaire.

He was definitely up to something.

“He’s here!” Grandma Frida announced.

My family forgot about the tiger-hound and crowded all around me.

“Hot!” Arabella declared.

“He’s going to propose.” Grandma Frida rubbed her hands together.

“Mother!” my mom growled.

“He isn’t going to propose. We’re going to dinner. Let me up!”

I managed to escape the table.

“A date?” Diana asked, smiling.

“A dinner,” I said.

“You look like a princess,” Matilda told me.

“Thank you!” I hugged her, but she had already forgotten about me. Zeus was much more fascinating.

I marched through the office to the front door and walked out into the Texas winter, where Rogan was waiting for me. He tilted his head, and I saw the exact moment heat sparked in his eyes.

“You look fantastic,” he said.

I wore a black dress, an Adriana Red original, from an up-and-coming Houston designer. I bought it for three hundred dollars last year, when her boutique store had just opened. Two months later a young star wore her green gown to the Emmys, and suddenly Adriana became a fashion name. I couldn’t afford her anymore—her prices had tripled overnight—but as far as I was concerned, I was wearing her best work. The dress was simple, but it glided down my body in a controlled cascade, emphasizing all the right curves while still making me look elegant. Its hemline fell a couple of inches above the knee, the perfect length to show off my legs while still remaining professional. The V-neck plunged a little lower than was strictly appropriate for a business dinner, but I wasn’t having a business dinner. My hair fell on my back in soft waves. My shoes gave me four inches of extra height. My outfit wouldn’t take any fashion prisoners, but nobody could find fault with it.

Rogan’s eyes had turned hot and dark.

“You look great too,” I told him.

“The dress needs a little sparkle.” He pulled a rectangular black box out of his pocket and opened it. A beautiful emerald lay inside. A little larger than my thumbnail, the stone caught the light from the lamp above the door and shone with breathtaking green tinted with a hint of blue. It dangled on the pale gold chain like a tear.

“Yes?” Rogan asked. There was a slight wariness in him, as if he expected things to go terribly wrong any second.

“It’s gorgeous,” I told him honestly.

He took it from the box. I held up my hair and he slipped the chain over my neck. The stone settled on my skin, a radiant drop of light.

“Just for dinner though,” I told him. “I can’t keep it.”

“I bought it for you,” he said. “I meant to give it to you for Christmas.”

His face told me that rejecting the necklace would be rejecting him. Yes, it was an expensive emerald. I was probably wearing fifty thousand dollars on my neck, which was more than all of the jewelry I’ve owned in my lifetime put together. But then he had more money than he could count in a lifetime, and if he wanted me to wear the necklace, I would.

“Thank you.”

He smiled, a satisfied dragon.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it to dinner,” I told him quietly.

“Then you better get in the car.”

He held the door out for me and I slid into the heated interior of the Mercedes.

Flanders’ Steakhouse sat at the top of a twenty-story building on Louisiana Street, just southwest of the theater district, and it took full advantage of the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows presented the spectacular expanse of the night sky, below which Houston spread, glowing with warm yellow and orange against the darkness. Freeways curved among the towers, channeling the current of cars seemingly through mid-air. The floor, ceiling, and walls offered soothing browns, and the delicate chandeliers, wrought iron spirals supporting upturned triangles of pale glass, softened the décor even further. I’d gone out on a few business dinners, and most Houston steakhouses catered to executives with business accounts. They ran either straight into rustic Texas, with longhorn skulls and cow pelts on the walls, or they resembled gentlemen’s clubs, where one had to be a card-carrying member. This was nice.

It finally hit me. We were on a date. Our first real date.

An impeccably dressed host led us through the restaurant, past well-dressed patrons. Some of them had to be House members, because as we moved past them, they saw Rogan’s face and stopped what they were doing. I got a few stares as well, some surprised and puzzled, some openly curious, especially from women. Women watched Rogan wherever he went, and I was getting the once-overs as they tried to figure out what was so special. That was fine. They wouldn’t ruin the date for me.

We arrived at a secluded table covered in chocolate-colored cloth. Rogan held my chair out. He didn’t make it slide out for me with his power. No telekinetic fireworks. Tonight it would be just me and Connor.

I sat. He took his place across from me, with his back against the wall, a spot that would conveniently let him watch the entire restaurant for incoming danger.

A waitress appeared at our table as if by magic. Menus were placed in front of us.

“Wine?” Rogan asked me.

Why not. “Yes.”

“What do you like?”

I liked Asti Spumante. It was sweet and bubbly and it cost five dollars per bottle. “Red. Not too dry.” Here’s hoping I didn’t make a fool of myself.

Rogan ordered a wine from the list. The waitress bowed her head as if she was granted knighthood by some royalty and glided away.

I grinned at Rogan from above my menu.

He grinned back. The set of his shoulders relaxed slightly.

I stared at the menu. Oh my.

“I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since I stole a bear claw from your kitchen this morning.”

“You didn’t steal it. All my bear claws are yours.”

I studied the appetizers. Roasted Portobello mushroom ravioli. Tenderloin carpaccio. Chilled seafood cocktail.

“Is something wrong?” he asked me. There it was, that weary caution in his eyes.

“I’m trying to decide what I can order that has the smallest chances of me spilling it on myself.”

He laughed quietly under his breath. “I’ve never seen you spill anything on yourself.”

“That’s not true. When we were climbing through the Dumpsters into the high-rise on Sam Houston, I spilled rancid spaghetti all over myself.”

And why did I just mention rancid spaghetti. I sighed.

“That doesn’t count. You stepped on it.”

More like rolled in it, but now wasn’t the best time to point out that distinction.