Page 50 of New Orleans Rush

Beatrice lay rigid. His lungs worked double-time.

Then she clapped wildly, showering him with a genuine smile. “You breathe fire. You’re practically a dragon.”

“It’s just an act.”

“A stupendous one.”

He lowered the machete to his side. “Were you afraid?”

She pressed her hand over her chest. “My heart’s trying to make a break for it.”

“Because you thought I’d burn or cut you?”

“Of course not. It was just new. I got lost in the performance and didn’t know what you’d do next. I was nervous. Excited, but nervous. But…what about you?” Her attention drifted to his burned eyebrow. “I’d think fire would make you uncomfortable.”

He inhaled the smoky smell, unbidden memories making his fibrous scars itch. “Not when I’m in control. Manipulating fire helped me work through some fears.”

Exactly what he was doing for her tonight.

They stared at each other until a thunk sounded from above. They glanced up. Likely another chunk of plaster coming loose upstairs. A reminder that fixing the façade was just a drop in the bucket. The real issues were the electrical and plumbing code violations. He still worried another enforcer would stop by to check those infractions and shut him down. But these issues were hidden in the walls, not plastered on the exterior. Oliphant wouldn’t know about them, and Huxley would get to it when he could.

His only concern right now was easing Beatrice’s mind, proving he was a man of his word. “I’m going to walk you through the routine. Explain everything I’ll do before I do it, so you’ll know what to expect. No surprises. No unknowns.”

He helped her to her feet and described the fuel he’d used on the blade, how the alcohol he poured into his mouth would ignite the flame. They staged the number next, an extravagant lightshow of blades and candles.

Afterward, she lay back on the table. He hovered over her. “For our finale, I’ll be lighting fire across your stomach. I’ll spread a line of fluid over the area, then slice the enflamed machete toward it. The fire will jump to you, but your midsection will be the only place that catches fire.”

She swallowed hard. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ve done it before, and I’d never put you at risk.”

She seemed to relax.

He grabbed a brush and the pyrofluid from the pedestal, then painted a line from the left of her waist to her right. “The bodysuit is made of Aramid fibers. It’s a fire-resistant material that’ll protect you from the flames. Once I light you up, I’ll let the fire dance for ten seconds or so, then I’ll fan my cape and bring it down on your body. It’s a different cape treated with a flame-extinguishing chemical. You’ll sit up afterward and prove you’re unharmed.”

She glanced at the line he’d painted. “It won’t melt the fabric?”

“The bodysuit is designed to withstand fire.”

“Will it get hot?”

“It’ll be uncomfortable, but not unbearable.”

She dragged her teeth over her bottom lip. “If I don’t like it, is it okay if we leave this part out of the number?”

He wanted to stroke her cheek and erase the worry from her face, but he couldn’t touch her after handling the pyrofluid. He also wasn’t sure she wanted his touch. “You never have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Her eyes went soft. “Then light me on fire.”

Huxley wanted to light her on fire, from the inside out. Set her body ablaze and turn her world into sparks. For now he had a point to prove.

Stepping back, he painted a fresh layer of fuel on his blade and poured a measure of alcohol into his mouth. He breathed fire, lit his blade anew. “I’ll swing the blade now, toward you. I’ll stop just above your waist.”

“Ready.” The determined press of her lips and upward tilt of her chin confirmed she was. Her eyes weren’t flitting, either. She wasn’t gripping the table or sneezing. She lay beneath Huxley, a fiery sword in his hands, and she wasn’t afraid.

He sliced downward, stopping abruptly before nicking her. Fire hopped from his blade to her suit, and a flare lit across her belly, wild yet contained. Exactly how his emotions felt around Beatrice. He wanted to be a raging wildfire with her, not measured and precise. Loose. Untamed. He longed to forget the surly man who spent his time tallying bills and keeping the theater from caving in. But untamed would have to wait. For now, he was responsible for his assistant’s safety.

Eight seconds passed, and she twitched her nose.