Page 10 of Fire Dancer

“You got something to hide?” I teased.

When he winced, I stuck up a hand. “Forget I asked.”

It was all too easy to imagine Ryder carrying a friend’s bag over the Mexican border after a weekend trip with the boys or some such thing. He was perfectly capable of committing a crime by mistake, ignorance, or sheer stupidity, though he wouldn’t consciously do something that could hurt anyone. His mom — treasurer of the local Rotary club — would kill him if he did.

I nudged him to dance on. I was here for a good time, dammit.

But Ryder backed away by the end of the song, mumbling something about a knee injury. All the other guys did too, leaving me dancing with Amy, who’d finally shown up, andLauren, another friend. But even they were more focused on Ingo than the song.

“God, he’s hot,” Amy murmured as we bopped to “Sultans of Swing” by Dire Straits.

Yeah, maybe, but so were most wolf shifters. It came with the territory.

“Hot but unapproachable,” Lauren added.

Ha. That summed up Ingo perfectly.

And this was him in off-duty mode. Or as close as he got.

On-duty Ingo had blazing eyes and a stiff jaw that put deep creases in his cheeks. Creases I wanted to lick my way through en route to other places. Off-duty Ingo was slightly more approachable than the on-duty version — on a good day. Both were a feast for the senses.

A crying shame that there was more on-duty Ingo thanoffthese days.

“He’s staring at us,” Amy observed.

Lauren shook her head. “He’s staring at Pippa.”

I grimaced. “Just ignore him, all right?”

I could practically see their antennas perk and rotate.

“You know him?” both asked at the same time.

I sighed. Yes. Intimately. Or did knowing someone have an expiration date? Enough time had passed — and Ingo had veered so far over to one side of his personality — that I wondered if I could still claim to know him.

“Sort of. He’s a friend of Nash’s,” I admitted. “New subject, okay?”

Amy and Lauren exchanged looks and went on dancing.

A third friend joined us — Lucille, from the yoga studio — but not to dance.

“Hey, Pippa. Is it true? Are you really selling the ranch?”

I stopped in my tracks. Huh?

“No!” I barked. “Never!”

Lucille stuck her hands up. “I didn’t think so. It’s just what I heard.”

“From?”

She shrugged. “A friend of a friend said Bob was getting ready to list it.” She pointed to a pudgy man in a booth near the front.

I glared at the guy. Bob Hardy of Red Rock Vistas Real Estate. The guy had pestered my aunt to sell for years, and after she’d sold the property to us for a song, he’d hounded us just as persistently.

Normally, we ignored the jerk. But I didn’t like the smugI know something she doesn’t knowway he chuckled at the guy beside him.

“Yeah, well. It’s not for sale — and never will be.”

---