All Fired Up

Desire can heal the coldest heart—or burn it to ashes.

Alrik Gunn knows from bitter experience that change isn’t always for the better. From the woman who annihilated his Viking clan to the goddess who tricked him into centuries of slavery, betrayal has dogged his existence. The Goddess of Love is going to let him avenge his family, but for a price. As a Phoenix—a merchant of change—he must grant a human woman three chances to change her life.

When former Irish dancer Calleigh McCarthy tosses a carved-bird statue that belonged to her ex into a roaring bonfire, she unwittingly summons an honest-to-god Phoenix. A sexy, irresistible Viking who offers her an unbelievable bonus—three get-out-of-her-crappy-life-free cards. She’ll take it, even if it means guarding her cautious heart against the dark pain behind Alrik’s eyes.

Alrik has vowed never to let love sway him again, but Calleigh’s innocence and kindness throw him off balance. Yet even as his need for revenge fades and his love for her grows, he is bound to let her make her choices without interfering.

One wrongly chosen word, and any chance for happiness—for either of them—will go up in flames.

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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

Macon GA 31201

All Fired Up

Copyright © 2009 by Kristen Painter

ISBN: 978-1-60504-657-0

Edited by Angela James

Cover by Natalie Winters

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: September 2009

www.samhainpublishing.com

All Fired Up

Kristen Painter

Dedication

To Jax, for all the brainstorming, conversation and friendship. Not to mention that little website called Romance Divas…

Prologue

Eire, 876 AD

Blood spattered the fair cheeks and wheat-colored braids of Chieftain Alrik Gunn’s new bride, but Dagny remained the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

And the most deceitful.

If not for her clansmen restraining him, he would have slipped his hands around her pale throat and squeezed the last breath from her conniving, false-hearted body.

The acrid smoke billowing from the longhouses stung his eyes. His ears rang with the cries of his clansman as they fell to Dagny’s men. But it was the sight of his mother and little sister huddled under sword point near the lifeless bodies of his da and brother that shredded his soul. Chieftain or not, there was only so much a man could take.

“Do not do this, Dagny.” He addressed his bride with a steady voice, hiding his struggle to shut out the chaotic raid around him. He labored to hold the composure expected of a clan chieftain. She would not get the satisfaction of weakening him.

She trailed her icy fingers across his chest. “’Twas said the Gunn Chieftain was unbendable. Unbreakable. Unreachable.”

She grabbed the neck of his kirtle and tore it down the middle to expose his torso. Her fingers skimmed his belly and went lower. The samite-trimmed sleeve of her wedding gown bunched against his stomach as she slid her hand beneath his wool braes.

Staring into his eyes while her frigid fingers wrapped around him, she squeezed hard. He inhaled at the pain, but held his tongue, unwilling to give her the pleasure of his discomfort. The touch he once craved now sickened him.

She smiled with blatant, false sweetness. “Well, Alrik the Iron, I found you easy to reach.”

Her men laughed.

She fluttered her lashes. “Easy to bend to my desires.”

Then her voice went as cold as her grip on his manhood. “The warm promise of my bed and you were mine to command.”

The roof of one of the burning longhouses collapsed with a loud crash. The sound reverberated above the cries of his dying men.

She leaned closer. He turned his head away but not before catching a whiff of the garland in her hair. Her lips grazed his ear, her hot breath chafing his skin. “So easily led, like a lamb to the slaughter.”

He growled low in his throat and strained against the hands holding him. Dagny’s men tightened their grips. “Spare my mother and sister, I—” The words stuck in his throat. “I beg you.”

“The great Gunn Chieftain begs?” She laughed bitterly and withdrew her hand. “You waste your breath. Just as I am sure my father wasted his before your man slew him.”

Alrik scowled. “You know that to be an accident. My man meant to slay the stag, not your father. And one life for one life is law.” He glanced at the blood-soaked earth. “What you do is murder. I swear you will pay for this day, woman.”

She shook her head. Wisps of blonde hair fluttered around her unsmiling face. “You are the only one who has yet to pay,
dear
husband.”

He lunged forward again, but her men held fast, fingers digging into his skin. He spat at her feet. “Spawn of Loki.”

Her mouth tightened to a harsh line. “Pin him,” she commanded. “We shall see what it takes to break the unbreakable.”

Two of the men raised their spears. In one quick motion, they rammed the blades through his shoulders, nailing him to the wall of the longhouse.

The pain snapped Alrik’s head back and ground his teeth together. The sheer agony of being run through sucked the breath from his lungs, leaving him mercifully silent. Warm fluid trickled down his chest and back. The bitter smell of his own blood filled his nose.

She nodded to one of her men, and he handed her a broad ax carved with the runes of her father.

A chill harsher than the Nordic winter pierced Alrik’s belly. He summoned the breath to speak. “If it is the last thing I do, I will avenge these deaths.”

Dagny hefted the weapon to her shoulder. The blade, twice the breadth of a man’s palm, glinted dull and oily in the watery light of the clouded day.

“The last thing you will do is die.” Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip and raised the ax off her shoulder. “And dead men avenge nothing.

Chapter One

Calleigh McCarthy perused the wine bottles lining the shelves of the gourmet food store. With a soft sigh, she trailed her finger across the slick, curved surfaces. What kind of wine went best with a bonfire of your ex-fiancé’s possessions?

Slimy, cheating crapweasel.

The pretty labels weren’t much help. Red or white, red or white. What was that Billy Joel song?
Whatever mood you’re in tonight?

She smiled at the stocky clerk behind the counter. “What goes good with barbeque?”

He pushed his wire-rims up. “What kind of meat?”

“Pig.” She paused. “And a little chicken.”

“I’d go with that chardonnay to your left there.”

“Thanks, white it is.” Fitting, since that was the one color she wouldn’t be wearing any time soon.

With a heavy whoosh, the drizzle outside turned into a downpour. She paid, stuck the bottle into her briefcase then fished out her compact umbrella. She popped it open and stepped out into the deluge.

A gust of wind flipped her umbrella inside out.
Crap.
She struggled to fix the tines while cold rain soaked her.

Umbrella righted, she pinched her briefcase beneath her arm and wiped water out of her eyes. What a day to test-drive her new suede boots. Stupid weatherman. Weren’t there any men who told the truth?

As she headed for the subway, a bus screeched by, throwing a wall of cold, dirty slush. She choked on a bitter mouthful of the grey water, gasping as the icy blast soaked through her wool suit and into the delicate fabric of her silk blouse. What a fittingly sucky end to a freakingly sucky week.

Several stops later and desperate for a hot bath, she trudged up the stairs to the leaded glass door of her converted brownstone. At least tomorrow was Saturday. Staying in bed all day jumped to number one on her to-do list.

A sodden, brown box sat on her welcome mat. Probably the small eagle sculpture she’d won on eBay for Brad.

Two-faced, big-boob-loving lowlife.

Just more fuel for the fire now. She shook her head and scooped up the package. Water squished out of the cardboard and rain had turned the sender’s address into an inky black splotch.

Tension drained from her shoulders as she went inside. A sigh of contentment slipped from her lips. It was good to be home. She wiped her feet on the mat before yanking off her ruined boots.

A fluffy ball of fur scampered toward her, tail big and bushy, whiskers twitching. Snickers dropped the rear end of a half-eaten rodent at her feet and sat, waiting to be praised.

“Eww! Snickers, that’s gross. What makes you think Mama wants your leftovers?” She exhaled. “Maybe it’s time to call the exterminator, huh? Of course that’s not going to be cheap. What a day to quit my job.”

Snickers leaned back, thrust his hind leg over his head with bizarre cat flexibility and licked the back of his knee.

“Your concern is greatly appreciated.” She tossed her briefcase onto the sofa, sending water droplets flying everywhere, then crouched to scratch the Maine Coon’s head. “I’m sure if you understood English, you’d care.” Snickers arched against her hand. “Thanks for de-mousing the house.”

She glanced down at the mouse butt on the mat. Gag. Pulling some damp tissues from her pocket, she pinched up the remains and tossed the rodent rump outside. Once in the kitchen, she plopped the soggy box on the counter and hit play on her answering machine.

“Hi, kitten—”

Delete. Next.

“Baby, it’s me—”

Delete. Next.

“Sweetheart, please—”

Delete. When was Brad going to figure out over meant over? Two more messages.

“Hiya, Cal—”

Delete. Next.

“Hiya, girlfriend—”

Delete. Her ex-best friend, Jeana, didn’t get it either. Too bad you couldn’t un-relate someone or Jeana would lose her cousin status, too. Family wasn’t supposed to screw family over that way, even if they were twice removed. Calleigh sighed. She never should have let Jeana set her up with Brad in the first place.

Brad and Jeana deserved each other. Cheater one and cheater two. They made a great couple. A great couple of cheaters.

Calleigh flipped the ringer switch off. She wanted no disruptions during the hot bath she was about to indulge in. She grabbed a diet Pepsi and headed for the bathroom.

After a long, well-deserved soak, she
flipped the lever to drain the tub. The sucking sound of water swirling down the drain reiterated the theme of the day. Make that the week. Maybe even the last few years of her life.

She shook the bad memories away, wrapped up in her robe and went to the kitchen to uncork the chardonnay. She filled a glass with the sunlight-colored liquid and grimaced at the first sip.

“Ick.” White wine didn’t taste so hot after diet Pepsi.

Calleigh turned on the CD player and took another swallow as her favorite song blared from the speakers. She belted the tune out, setting her glass on the coffee table so she could dance around the living room. Brad despised her singing. She despised Brad. Must be karma. She flopped onto the couch, giggling.

Laughter melted into crying. She didn’t really despise Brad. It had only been a week since she’d dumped him, and in her heart of hearts, she loved him, wanted to be with him. She’d imagined their wedding day every day for the last six months since he’d proposed. She’d even named their kids.

He was a great catch. Too bad she’d caught him beneath her best friend.

Beautiful, blonde Jeana had no problem getting men. She had scores of them. So many, she made
Sex In The City
’s Samantha look like a nun. Why on earth did she have to have Brad too?

Calleigh punched one of the scatter pillows. To think she’d been about to give herself to that fool instead of waiting for their wedding night. She’d even bought a sexy little slip of black lace and lilac silk.

Hah! The chance of him seeing that nightie now was about as good as finding out what Victoria’s Secret really was.

The answering machine kicked on. Calleigh jumped. She’d forgotten the ringer was off. Her annoyingly happy voice asked callers to leave their info at the beep. The caller obliged.

“Hi kitten, it’s Brad. Are you there?”

She scowled at the phone. “Not for you. And don’t call me kitten. Pet names are for pets.”

“Please pick up. I need to talk to you. This is killing me. I’m a fool and I’m sorry.
So
sorry. Please talk to me. Please. It’s no excuse, but Jeana’s a hard girl to resist when she comes on strong. It was one time, I swear, and it won’t happen again. Ever. I need you, baby. I love you.”

Calleigh hissed at the phone, and Snickers flattened his ears against his head. She launched off the couch and grabbed the receiver.

“You bet your Gucci loafers it won’t happen again because—“

The dial tone hummed in her ear. She slammed the phone down, then sloshed more wine into her glass. Figures, the first time she got the nerve to tell him off, he wasn’t there.

Enough. She needed to relax, to forget, to unwind. She turned off the CD then lit the vanilla candle on the coffee table. Snickers tucked his tail over his nose and stared at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. Just because I haven’t started the fire for you yet doesn’t make me a bad mother.” The rain hadn’t let up. Wind whistled past the windows in a lonely whine.

She turned the fireplace key. With a soft whoosh and the subtle smell of sulfur, flames leapt around the fake logs. She shook her head. Those logs were more real than Brad’s love. Leaning back on her heels, she scratched Snickers. He turned his belly toward the radiating warmth and closed his eyes.

Aside from the occasional mouse, the remodeled brownstone was a phenomenal place to live. Her childhood home was the one constant good thing in her life. She hated that sometimes the utilities only got paid thanks to her inheritance, but things had been tight since she closed the studio. Secretarial work sucked, but she couldn’t teach dance anymore. The downstairs studio held too many memories.

Maybe a roommate was the answer. Four bedrooms was more than enough space for two people.

With an empty wine glass in need of refilling, she floated into the kitchen, a little lighter.

Tomorrow she’d buy a paper and start looking for a new job, maybe see if anyone needed a place to share. Enough thinking about her messy life. Time to focus on destroying the evidence with a good, cleansing trashcan bonfire. She tipped the wine bottle into her glass.

“Here’s to my right to play with matches.” She giggled softly and hoisted her glass a little higher. “Fire, the scorned woman’s best friend.” She drank to her own toast then started for the living room. The soggy box on the countertop caught her eye. Water seeped from one corner, puddling on the granite.

At least she hadn’t spent much on the gift. In fact, no one else had even bid on the thing, probably due to the blurry pictures and lack of description. If Brad didn’t like eagles so much, she wouldn’t have bought it.

Maybe she could find an actual bird of prey to peck his hands off. Or peck off his pecker.

Laughing out loud, she set her glass down and ripped the box open, spilling foam peanuts all over the kitchen floor. Snickers began killing them with frantic enthusiasm.

The object, wrapped in newspaper, broke through the mushy bottom of the box and landed squarely on her big toe.

“Ouch!” Calleigh yelped and hopped around as she rubbed her foot. Snickers scrambled out of her way. “I must be cursed.”

She grabbed the bottle of wine, her glass and the eBay goodie and hobbled back to the couch. After a good toe rub, she pulled off the newspaper. If she squinted, the carving could pass for a pterodactyl maybe. But an eagle? Not hardly.

“Only I could get duped into buying some prehistoric bird figurine instead of our nation’s symbol. Look at this thing, Snickers. Does this look like an eagle to you?” She held the bird out toward the cat before taking a better look herself.

Carved from a rich, dark wood smelling faintly of gingersnaps, the bird had a hooked beak and long, trailing feathers. Probably someone’s failed arts-and-crafts project. Heavy for its size, the figurine felt more like metal than wood, and was warm to the touch.

Sighing, she set it on the coffee table and topped off her glass before checking her watch. Too early for the bonfire. Nosy Mrs. Crouper stayed up much later than an old woman should and rarely minded her own business.

“Go to bed, Mrs. Crouper,” Calleigh whispered toward the wall that adjoined their brownstones. If she didn’t want the entire Brooklyn fire department banging on her front door, she’d have to wait until the old biddy was definitely asleep.

Maybe there was a good chick flick on, something mindless she could lose herself in for a few hours.

She channel surfed, settling on an old Brat Pack movie. The crinkle of Rob Lowe’s eyes reminded her of Brad’s handsome, cheating face. Not good. Her thumb tapped the power button off. Maybe she should just call Brad and have it out.

Sitting up made her head swim. She emptied the wine bottle into her glass. Had she drunk that much already? Empty bottle in hand, she staggered into the kitchen to throw it away. Maybe it was the alcohol, but the phone was the only thing she could focus on.

She set the bottle down and picked up the receiver, staring at the little buttons. Did he have any idea how crushed she was? How much she hurt? How much she still loved his sorry cheating butt? She punched in the first few digits of his number, then hung up.

If her mother were still alive she would call. Her mother would tell Brad what a great girl he’d lost, what a blamed fool he was.

Calleigh rested her head against the wall. “If I don’t take care of myself, no one else is going to.” She picked up the phone and dialed every digit.

No answer. He had just called, and now he wasn’t home? Calleigh slammed the phone down just as his voicemail picked up. She snatched the empty wine bottle off the counter and tossed it in the recycling bin.

The bottle clinked against the other glass containers, the hollow sound ringing in her ears. Anger wormed up Calleigh’s spine.

Her parents should still be alive, her fiancé should have been faithful and her boss should be able to keep his hands to himself.

The bird carving taunted her from the coffee table, another reminder of the bad choices roosting in the chicken coop of her life. She stormed into the living room, plucked the carving off the table and heaved it into the fireplace. Blue flames shot up as the bird crashed into the fake logs. She belly-flopped onto the couch, dry sobs racking her body.