Playing with Fire by Tamara Morgan Page B

jaw tightened. Fiona could probably hear every word from the living room couch, where she was resting—and he wasn’t about to subject her to Neil’s viciousness again. But the man was his friend and assistant, and he couldn’t punch him every time they butted heads. Ian’s hands would break.
    “I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you to understand, but I refuse to believe she’s a killer or a thief. And it makes perfect sense. Who would want to harm her more than the country’s biggest anti-conversion advocate?”
    “Everyone else in the whole fucking world.” Neil gulped down an entire can of root beer and pointed it at him. “She’s dangerous.”
    “And you have to remember, this isn’t some random stranger. We know this woman. We grew up with her.”
    Neil crushed the can with his bare hand and tossed it into the sink. “You’re wrong.” He spoke more to the sink than Ian, his words so low they were barely discernible. “When it comes to you and that girl, you’ve always refused to see straight.”
    A feminine voice interrupted. “You forgot to mention that I haven’t burned down the lab yet.”
    Ian and Neil both turned to find Fiona leaning on the doorjamb to the kitchen, watching them with a frown.
    “What?” Ian asked, flushing guiltily. He didn’t think she’d heard Neil’s last remarks, but it was hard to tell.
    “If you’re going to convince your friend here that I don’t have any evil intentions, you may want to remind him that I could reduce this place to ashes, taking the pair of you along with it. But I haven’t.”
    Neil slammed his hands on the counter. “Dammit, Ian—if you can’t see how she’s manipulating you, then I’m out of here. Fiona is good for one thing, and you know it. The faster you fuck her and get it out of your system, the better for all of us. Then we can get back to work. You know, catching the Fireball? Saving the world?”
    Ian bristled.
    “I thought I was the Fireball?” Fiona asked. Her lips were spread in a grimace that didn’t bode well for the state of Neil’s nose.
    “Exactly.” Neil grabbed his hooded sweatshirt, an Ed Hardy monstrosity. “And why the fuck is it like ten thousand degrees in here? Doesn’t that chick come with temperature controls?”
    He didn’t wait for an answer before storming out the door, slamming it so hard the pictures rattled.
    “He’s still an asshole.” Fiona tucked her hands into her sides and offered a wobbly smile. “But I’m sorry for causing so much trouble between the two of you. Do you want to open a few windows?”
    Ian looked around. “What for? Does it feel hot to you, too?”
    “Um…no. I rarely feel it.” She came toward him, her eyes narrowed. “Are you seriously telling me there is no shift in the temperature right now?”
    A brief moment of panic flitted through his mind as her look intensified, but it was quickly replaced by an emotion much less ominous in purpose. Lord help him, but Neil was right. He couldn’t look at this woman and see science, chemical mutations, or anything even approaching danger. All he saw was soft expanses of sun-kissed skin and the red-hot pounding of his own blood.
    “Give me your hand.” Fiona extended hers toward him.
    Ian was instantly wary. “What? Why?”
    She didn’t move. “I said, give me your hand.”
    “Look, a lot has happened today. I’m not sure—”
    “For crying out loud, Ian. I’m not going to hurt you. Just give me the damn hand.”
    He placed his palm against hers. She let their hands rest tentatively at first, staring hard at their light grasp, and then gripped harder, as if it was the first time she’d ever made human contact. He didn’t question it. It felt so good to be touching her, even if it was just a handshake…or whatever it was they were doing.
    “Will you dance with me?” Her voice tumbled out as a rushed breath. “I haven’t danced in so long.”
    He heard so much longing, so much need in her voice. There was