A Hunter Under The Mistletoe: All Is Bright / Heat of a Helios. Karen WhiddonЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Prologue

      Evangeline Kennedy was superstitious enough not to tempt fate and practical enough not to care when she did. So after firing two team members who’d taken it upon themselves to give some friends restricted access to the employee entrance of the Archangel Casino where she worked, she’d estimated it was safe to assume her day couldn’t get worse.

      Until that night when she saw a man consumed in a ball of orange flame.

      She wasn’t even supposed to be working, but the holiday installations needed to be finalized and there was simply no way she could go home and leave them unfinished. Which was how she found herself on her knees in the dirt, on the grounds beside the infinity pool that served as the property’s lone—and wildly popular—topless destination.

      The sun worshippers had long vanished for the day, trading their golden glow for an evening among the restaurants, bars and gaming tables the Archangel prided itself on. Evangeline sat back on her heels and took in the mix of ivy, poinsettia and lights she’d spent the better part of eight hours planting, irrigating and arranging. She’d been cultivating the poinsettia on her own in the property’s large greenhouse, unwilling to miss out on the color palate she wanted by the possibility of someone else’s carelessness. Poinsettia color was a tricky thing, after all.

      And oh, wow, did it pop.

      Even in the nighttime lighting that flooded the grounds, she could see the reds, creams and marbled pinks she’d been aiming for, with a well-placed burst of orange mixed in. The wash of vibrant hues would catch the eye, just as she planned. Even better, the installation—a layered structure guests would pass from their rooms near the pool and on into the casino—would match the look, feel and tone she’d built across the property.

      As the Archangel’s horticultural architect, Evangeline had full range of the grounds, the only mandate that she continue to use wild explosions of color and unexpected installations of flowers to resemble a walk through an artist’s canvas more so than a Las Vegas casino. And damn it, she thought with no small measure of pride, she did it well.

      She wiped a bead of sweat that worked its way down her temple toward her cheek and admired her handiwork. Those two slackers, Troy and Victor, could bite her. Even if it was three in the morning, she hadn’t eaten since noon and she was due in for a presentation with the casino brass in another five hours, she could sit for a minute and admire her handiwork.

      The poinsettias had been a gamble. The plant was fairly hardy in the subtropical climates that had been its origin, but the Nevada soil was tricky, the desert climate something that required continued overcompensation.

       Sort of like you.

      Evangeline shook off the strange thought and stood. While she didn’t regret her earlier choice in firing two members of her team, the harsh words she’d had with Troy and Victor had left an unpleasant aftertaste that had tinged the edges of her thoughts while she worked.

       Loosen up. What’s the big deal? No one cheated or anything after we let them in.

       The big boss is so busy earning money and overcharging people for food and liquor he’s not going to notice a few guys in the back door.

       You’re a bitch of a boss, anyway. Who wants to spend all day with some compulsive, anal need to plant some stupid flowers?

      It had been the last that had struck with surprisingly sharp claws. She’d believed herself in tune with her employees, enjoying a relatively easy camaraderie and kinship over their work. From Troy and Victor’s abrupt exit interview, it sounded like she needed to rethink that perspective.

      Perhaps she needed to rethink a lot of things.

      With one final look at her handiwork, Evangeline resolved to shake off the malaise and the unpleasant memory. Careless employees didn’t matter. Her work spoke for itself. And if she needed to think about getting a hobby or find a way to spend more of her personal time off the Archangel’s grounds, then she would think about that in the New Year.

      She wrapped her tools in the oversize canvas bag she carried everywhere, the heavy, jangling weight a comfort and reassurance as she walked down a small, nearly hidden curved pathway toward the greenhouse. She’d stow her things, grab her purse and would be home and asleep in less than half an hour.

      The late November air wafted over her skin, a cool breeze that refreshed more than it chilled. Although the season was limited, Las Vegas did experience winter. The sunny days usually compensated for any cold, but the desert lost its warmth at night, here on the floor of the Mojave. Evangeline slipped into the button-down shirt she’d tied haphazardly at her waist, juggling the thick canvas holding her tools.

      It was only when she came around the last corner, the hothouse in sight, that she came to a sudden halt. A wall of heat washed over her, the blaze searing in its intensity as it reflected off the floor-to-ceiling windows of the greenhouse.

       Fire!

      She instinctively stepped back, the heat blanketing her in another wave as she searched for the source of the blaze. Bright orange flames rose toward the sky, the heat immense even as she tried to focus on the source. The fire seemed…contained. Oddly still, even.

      Was it possible?

      The lawn appeared untouched, as did the building. Standing her ground and forcing herself to take stock of the blaze in order to understand how to fight it, Evangeline’s gaze swept the wide-open lawn, the two-story greenhouse, the rolling flower beds that edged toward the rim of the property.

      It was only when she turned her attention once more toward the fire that a scream rose up in her throat.

      As the orange and red snapped their fangs, forming and reforming in that strange, isolated blaze, she finally understood its shape.

      And saw a man trapped in the flames.

      Shit, hell and damn.

      Those and several other, more inventive curses floated through Rafael Stavros’s mind in the few seconds before he lost consciousness, an image of the lovely Evangeline Kennedy imprinted in his thoughts.

      He’d pushed it tonight, allowing a meeting to run long. Which meant he hadn’t made it to his rooms before the fire came upon him.

      Before that lone moment in his pristinely ordered world when he lost control.