Gift of Fire

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 inde ­ pendent. 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 cup ­ board 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. Fri ­ day 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 work ­ ing 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 rari ­ fied atmosphere of antiquarian book dealership. Ig ­ natius 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 quit ­ ting her job in a public library. Now she was far more cautious with men, happily single and successfully es ­ tablished 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 sud ­ denly 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 sud ­ den, 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 intel ­ ligence in his gaze was coupled with a strangely de ­ tached 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 warn ­ ing. Never in her life had she met a man who had in ­ stantly 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 cheek ­ bones, a rock hard jaw, an arrogant nose. No softness anywhere. But he stood in front of her with a poised, al ­ most erotic grace that seemed to assault her senses.
    His mouth was a firm, unyielding