Master of Smoke

spun.
    Amnesia victim or not, the man knew how to use his mouth. And his tongue. And his hands.
    And his truly incredible dick, added Fluffy, sounding sated and smug.
    For once, Eva agreed with her.
    Tristan trailed Belle to her house on the outskirts of Avalon, bitching all the way. It was a modest place by the standards of the magical city: three stories of gray fieldstone with a slate roof, arched windows and doorways, and a courtyard planted with orchids.
    The master bedroom sprawled across most of the second floor. The furniture was dark cherry, intricately carved in a whimsical tangle of ivy and honeysuckle. Fairies, dragons, and unicorns lurked among the leaves—here a sinuous tail, there a tiny face framed by gossamer wings, over there a proudly lifted horned head. She’d spent more raw magic on the canopied bed alone than most social-climbing witches blew on entire mansions.
    Tristan stopped complaining for ten whole minutes while he contemplated the furniture. His brows flew up. “Creating all this must have knocked you on your ass for a week.”
    “Pretty much,” she admitted cheerfully.
    “You magic these, too?” He toed one of the colorful rag rugs scattered on the gleaming pine floor.
    “Nope. Made ’em by hand.” Unable to resist displaying her handiwork, Belle pointed at the thickly embroidered bedspread with its dragons and fairies in countless shades of silken thread. “The quilt, too. Took me four months.” And she’d relished every stitch.
    Some tasks are too important to the soul for shortcuts.
    Tristan grunted as Belle started for her dresser to begin packing.
    “It’s not going to work.” With narrow green eyes he watched her pull out a drawer. His seductive mouth drew into a tight frown. “You don’t like me.”
    “I’m a professional. I don’t have to like you.” She found the huge .45 pistol, pulled it out of its holster, and checked to make sure it was unloaded. Satisfied, she slid it back into the holster and tucked it into her Louis Vuitton pilot case. Then under Tristan’s glower she added a box of bullets and a couple of spare clips.
    “You’re a witch. What do you need a gun for?” He braced his hands on his hips. His shoulders looked ridiculously wide beneath the blue knit shirt he wore.
    She gave him the look that comment deserved. “Magic doesn’t work on Dire Wolves. As you damned well know.”
    “Which is why I’ll have a gun.”
    Belle stopped in the act of picking out a selection of shirts to take. “So, what? I’m supposed to stand there with my thumb up my butt while you fight giant vampire-eating werewolves?”
    “Why not? You spend most of your time with something stuffed in some part of your anatomy. I’m told you do your best work that way.”
    Belle imagined how he’d look after she hit him with a fireball: singed and blinking. It was such a satisfying fantasy she mentally added a curl of smoke from his nose. “You’re deliberately being a jackass.”
    “I do that. It’s why nobody wants to work with me.” He glowered and folded his arms. His biceps appeared as round and firm as cantaloupes beneath his tanned skin. If he would only shut up, he’d make good scenery.
    She considered conjuring a ball gag and stuffing it into that tempting mouth. “You do realize that if I bow out, no witch will work with you. Which will seriously crimp your werewolf hunt.”
    “I’ll manage.”
    She smiled at him sweetly. “Then go to Morgana and ask her to rescind my assignment.”
    A muscle flexed in his angular jaw. “Morgana doesn’t change her mind. She’s worse than Arthur.”
    “Then it would appear you’re stuck with me.” Belle strolled into the walk-in closet and considered the selection of pants. She didn’t find anything that looked suitable, so she conjured a few pairs in various shades and walked back into the bedroom with them.
    “Leather?” Tristan looked like a man sucking on a lemon. “You’re packing leather pants?”
    “They hold up better in a fight.” She bared her teeth at him. “And they make my ass look fabulous.” Just to piss him off, she conjured a pair of black boots with stiletto heels. No way could she fight in them, but he didn’t need to know that.
    When his nostrils flared, she added tight leather tops to match, each with a neckline plunging halfway to the navel. Then she threw in a corset, just to watch him turn purple.
    “Look, I’m going to be going up against Dire Wolves.” He stalked over