Page 6 of Illusionist
“Your solution to everything is fire.”
“Because it works.” The lighter clicks again. Open. Shut. Open. “When has fire not solved a problem?”
Rowe's fingers find the scars on his forearms, tracing them absently. “When we were five and you tried to cook eggs over a candle.”
“I was hungry. We all fucking were,” Logan replies.
“That was arson.”
He shrugs. “Practice arson.”
I'm about to tell Logan exactly where he can shove his practice arson when movement catches my eye. A figure cutting through the crowd near the ring toss booth. Deep auburn hair, wild and loose, catching the string lights.
The words die in my throat.
She moves like she's being chased. Not running—that would draw attention—but there's something in the set of her shoulders, the way she weaves between the early arrivals. A black leather duster despite the heat.
“Si?” Logan's voice sounds distant. “You having a stroke?”
But I'm already moving, leaving the chains pooled on the ground behind me.
“Where the hell are you—” Logan's question fades as I push into the crowd, following that flash of red through the maze of carnival-goers.
She's ten feet ahead now, close enough that I can see the way her hips sway beneath that burgundy skirt. The fabric clings to curves that make my blood run hot, tights stretching over thighs I want wrapped around my waist. One glimpse of a stranger and I'm thinking with my cock like some teenager at his first peep show.
The leather duster shifts as she navigates past a family with cotton candy, revealing more of that skirt. Short enough to be criminal. Short enough that if she bent over?—
Focus, you idiot.
But focusing becomes impossible when she glances back over her shoulder, scanning the crowd. Those eyes floor me. Green. Not hazel pretending to be green, not muddy or muted—pure, vivid green that cuts through the carnival lights and noise and finds me staring like a slack-jawed fool.
Our eyes meet for half a heartbeat. Less than that. A fraction of a second where the world narrows to just her face—high cheekbones, full lips, something fierce and hunted in her expression that makes me want to follow her into whatever trouble she's running from.
Then she's turning away, quickening her pace toward the far end of the midway where the crowds thin out. My feet move without permission, drawn after her like she's got me on invisible strings. The irony isn't lost on me—the illusionist being pulled by someone else's magic.
She ducks behind the funnel cake stand, and I lose sight of her for a moment. When I round the corner, she's pressed against the back of the booth, chest rising and falling like she's been running miles instead of yards. The string lights don't reach back here. Just shadows and the distant screams from the Tilt-a-Whirl.
“You following me?” Her voice is husky, breathless, but there's steel underneath.
“I—” Words. I'm supposed to have words. I perform in front of hundreds every night, but this woman in her too-short skirt has stolen every syllable from my tongue.
Up close, I can see what I missed from a distance. The leather duster hangs open, revealing a black corset that should be illegal. The boning pushes her breasts up and together, creatingcleavage that makes my mouth go dry. Burgundy and black—carnival colors on a body that belongs in my bed. She looks like a performer.
“I saw you.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Thought you might be looking for someone in charge around here.”
One perfectly arched brow rises. Red lips curve into something that might be amusement if not for the tension still coiled in her shoulders.
“Is that so?” She shifts against the booth wall, and the movement does things to that corset that threaten my sanity. “And are you that someone?”
The question hangs between us. I should say yes. I run security, help Elias coordinate everything, have my finger on the pulse of every inch of this operation. But standing here with her green eyes challenging me, with her tits practically spilling out of that corset, I can't think straight enough to form a proper lie.
“Depends what you need.”
“That's not an answer.”
I take a step closer, drawn by some magnetic pull I don't understand. She smells like leather with a floral undertone. “You're dressed for the show.”
Her laugh is short, brittle. “Astute observation from an illusionist.”
