Pyro was kissing her.

Her. Ordinary, unexciting Amy.

A smokin’ hot dragon shifter dressed her up like a queen, drew her to his hard, masculine body, and carried her senses away with a sizzling passionate kiss.

His lips nibbled hers and his tongue brushed her seam.

Her body turned to his seductive heat with uncontrollable hunger. Sensation after sensation washed over her. She soaked Pyro up, hungering for more. The very air crackled around him with dangerous heat. Radioactive electricity.

She wanted everything he gave. He was her addiction. Distilled liquor, sweet male. She needed him. All of him.

He stilled and drew back.

She let out her held breath with a heartfelt sigh.

Nothing would ever top this night. Getting caught, going on a date, the wild ride across the city, and sneaking into his company to this kiss was completely out of character for her. She’d finally lived a little. It felt amazing. If this was a dream, she never wanted to wake up.

Why had she waited so long?

Someone shouted.

Pyro jumped back.

Across the warehouse floor, two men in suits raced toward them. Oh, how odd. They looked angry.

Pyro grabbed her hand. A dangerous grin curved his lips. “Time to go.”

One of them shouted. “Stop!”

She ran after him through the racks of outfits. Her ankles wobbled in the unfamiliar boots. “Don’t they recognize you?”

“Pyrochlore, stop!” one of the men shouted.

They definitely recognized him.

Pyro pulled her forward, dove behind one rack, and threw another into the men’s path. The men both leaped over it, flying effortlessly. Pyro grabbed her hand and ran.

One of them raised a … wait. Was that a gun?

“Isn’t this your company?” she gasped.

His grin sharpened. “Not exactly.”

“What?!”

Pyro grabbed her and dove low, screaming for the side of the building. The backs of her heels dragged on the floor. He cupped an arm under her legs, lifting her to safety.

Her heart leaped to her throat.

They were angry. This wasn’t Pyro’s building. He’d tricked her. This was their building. She was wearing their clothes! No wonder they were upset.

And instead of facing them responsibly, Pyro was running.

Well, flying.

She squeezed her eyes shut as racks collapsed and exploded fabric around her. The sheer mess was incredible. And she was partially the cause of it.

He barreled toward a window.

An angry high schooler had once put his fist through a classroom window. The glass had shattered — and cut his forearm in long, jagged streaks that had required stitches.

She shrieked. “Stop!”

“We can make it.”

“The window’s closed. Someone could get hurt!”

He slowed.

Thank goodness.

With a twitch of irritation, he dumped her on the floor and threw the window open. Then he wheeled to face their attackers. From the corner of his mouth, he snarled, “Jump.”

“What?”

“Jump!”

“But—”

“I’ll bail out and catch you. Go! Now.”

She stared down at the hard concrete. Five floors. Every survival instinct screamed.

“I can’t,” she sobbed.

“Trust me,” said the male who’d led her into this trap.

That snapped her out of survival mode and forced her to think.

She pushed away from the window and turned. The two males flew at them with furious growls. Pyro rotated a shoulder and lowered his center of gravity, baring his teeth in anticipation of a fight.

She felt sick.

Her back thumped against the solid wall and she held up her hands in surrender. “We give up!”

The male in the lead checked. The second male thumped into him, funny-looking gun still drawn.

The lead male spoke softly. “Put away your weapon.”

The second male obeyed.

Pyro snapped his teeth. “Aw, come on. I can take you.”

“There’s a human present.”

“Nobody I care about.”

Shock slapped her. She was nobody he cared about?

Outside the window, shouts said the whole building was coming alive.

The first male wore sunglasses and a dead expression. The Terminator about to annihilate them both. “Pyrochlore. You will answer to Sard.”

“Make me.”

The second male shuddered. Dark blue scales erupted over his head like he’d been showered with a bucket.

Pyro erupted in the same way.

His jeans split and his jacket shredded as his torso broadened and spiked with fiery red scales. His arms and legs elongated, and the joints folded backward. A tail burst from his buttocks and his face morphed into the peaked ridges of a dragon.

He filled the small space. A dark growl resonated in his scaly chest. His eyes gleamed red and his long fangs snapped in challenge.

The dark blue dragon bugled.

Between the two dragons, the expressionless male held up his hand in a warning. “Remember the treaty. We must not harm a human even by accident.”

The two dragons snapped at each other.

The leader held a finger to his black earpiece. “Pyrochlore. You are surrounded. Your only choice is to answer Sard’s summons. There is nowhere for you to go.”

Pyro turned and smashed through the wall of the building.

Tiny glass shards slivered past her bare arms like deadly confetti. The floor shuddered. Drywall gaped where there had once been a window. Cold night air gushed in.

The other dragon pushed toward the gaping wall and gnashed his teeth.

“Leave him. Return to your human form.”

The dragon shivered. Blue scales sucked up into his skin, morphing him back to a naked human form. “How dare he insult Sard? Syenite. We can’t let him get away.”

“He will face Sard soon enough.” The leader known as Syenite turned his opaque sunglasses on her. “Come.”

She took an unsteady step. Her hands shook. So did her knees.

Through the gaping hole in the building, a flock of dragons chased the fiery red leader. Wheeling and darting, Pyro evaded his pursuers. He flew off.

It looked like he would get away.

Leaving her behind.

Nobody I care about. That’s what Pyro had said when the others mentioned her. She was a human he’d teased, smiled at, kissed. But it had been a lie. A joke. He’d tricked her into coming here.

She was nobody he cared about.

Syenite’s icy voice penetrated her dark thoughts. “Sard will speak with you now.”

Amy turned.

He gestured for her to precede him like a cop summoning her to face the judge.

She knew that name. Knew it from her magazine. Of the dragon families on Earth, only two companies exported clothing. One was the Onyx family. The other was a company led by Sard Carnelian.

Oh. God.

She was going to be sick.

They traversed the wrecked floor. The other employees — dragons wearing men’s business suits — cleaned up her mess. Syenite led her to an elevator.

“What is your name?” Syenite’s impersonal voice demanded an immediate answer. Staring into his sunglasses revealed only her terrified face.

“Amy. Amy Adamson.” She twisted her fingers together. Cold air crossed the plunging — stolen — Victorian neckline and made her shiver. “Am I in trouble?”

He didn’t answer.

The elevator opened on another floor. Beige and gray like the ones below, it was well-lit and filled with impassive dragons. So many suits and no smiles reminded her of a police station. Or a secret service.

Syenite stopped her outside a giant, thick office door. He entered first. “Sard?”

Despite the cold, her hands sweated. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach crossed hunger and fever. She needed to use the bathroom. Possibly to throw up.

The other guards stared at her without speaking. She swallowed. The noise was loud in the silent hall.

The last time she’d been in trouble, real trouble, had been junior high. She’d scratched a girl who’d stolen her pink panda eraser and called her a fat-bottomed redhead with no soul. And even though she’d gotten off with a warning — and a phone call to her parents — sitting outside the office, waiting her turn, had been so terrifying she’d sworn to never, ever put herself in this position again.

And then there had been the principal’s words. You’re a bright girl. But if you don’t make smart choices, you’re going to ruin your life. It could happen in a single instant.

Her hands trembled.

She clenched the Victorian dress.

The doors opened again. Syenite stepped outside and faced her. “Sard will see you, Amy Adamson.”

Oh, god.

She crept into the office. It was just like facing the principal. She stood stiffly in front of the desk. Please don’t call my parents.

But the towering CEO on the other side of a mammoth desk didn’t look like the kind to call anyone’s parents. With his barrel chest encased in a button-up red dress shirt and matching demonic red eyes, he looked more like the kind to drop a concrete-weighted body off a pier. Silver piercings lined his brows and metal gleamed in his bared teeth. He did not invite her to sit and so she remained standing.

“You broke into my building and vandalized our next product launch.” Sard Carnelian’s dominating voice boomed with menace. “Explain.”

“I didn’t realize it was yours. I’m so sorry. I never would have ever…” Her chin folded and her voice abruptly cut out. Tears burned the back of her eyes.

Would crying make him angrier or soften his fury?

He didn’t look softened. “What is the meaning of tonight’s invasion?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never vandalized in my whole life. I swear.” She sniffed hard and forced her trembling voice to continue. “Pyro told me it was his building. He said I should try on whatever I wanted.” She squeezed her fingers together. “Please don’t call the police.”

His gaze narrowed. “We’ll see.”

Oh, god.

“Now, you tell me the truth. Isn’t this Pyro’s answer to my proposal?”

Proposal?

Sard stared at her hard.

She shook her head. “I don’t know about a proposal.”

“Perhaps you will know when you talk to the police.” He picked up a phone.

Worry stabbed her. “No! I’m telling you everything. I don’t know anything about any proposal.”

“Then what is the meaning of his invasion tonight?”

“A prank?”

Sard’s jaw clenched. “Is this some human joke?”

“I don’t know! It just seemed like…”

It seemed like the kind of cruel prank an uncaring boy would pull. Talk a chubby good girl into breaking into his rival’s building, play dress up, and abandon her there to deal with the fallout.

The cruelty cut deep. Another wave of tears swept over her.

Sard remained silent.

She sucked in a deep breath and got a hold of herself. “I don’t know Pyro. We spoke for the first time tonight. He picked me up. This was supposed to be a date.”

His chin dropped. “Date?”

The shock in his voice striped her with fresh shame.

Of course any outside observer would realize Pyro had never been interested in her. He’d pranked her just like he’d pranked these other dragons. The knowing look in the bartender’s eyes? Probably pity because she could see what Amy had missed — that he was leading her on a torment.

During the hours she’d stalked, observed, and dreamed about him, she’d never seen this cruel streak. He projected sinful, wicked smiles and sweet, casual flirtations. Tonight, she’d thought it was her turn.

Sard was still gaping. “You’re not his employee? Associate?”

“I met him in a bar.”

Sard let out a huge sigh, rubbed his bald head, and leaned back in his giant office chair. His chunky silver eyebrow piercings gleamed in the light. “Have a seat.”

“The bustle of your dress—”

“Sit.”

She folded herself neatly into one of the small, hard chairs and clasped her hands in her lap.

“You met Pyro tonight,” he muttered, dropped his hand, and leaned forward again. “You don’t know who I am?”

“You’re Sard Carnelian, dragon shifter aristocrat and owner of Carnelian Clothiers.”

He blinked.

“I read about you in a magazine.” She sat as straight as possible, as if good posture and correct answers would get her out of this mess. “You’re engaged to be married to a female dragon on your home planet, and the marriage will take place in a few weeks.”

His mouth twisted to the side. “You’re well-informed.”

“The magazine said so.”

“Hm.” He rolled his knuckles on his desk as if he wasn’t sure what to do with her. “And you have no connection to the Onyx Corporation, Mal Onyx, or Pyro?”

“I’ve seen pictures.”

“Of course it wouldn’t be so easy.” He scratched the back of his head. “You really had nothing to do with tonight’s events?”

“He told me it was a date.”

Sard growled a string of syllables that might be curses in his alien language; he didn’t bother to translate them into English.

His desk console beeped and lit up. He pressed the lit button. “Speak.”

“We found her clothing, sir. No identification.”

He glanced at her.

“I left my ID at the bar,” she explained swiftly. “In my book bag. You can come with me. I’ll show you whatever you want.”

He returned his attention to the console. “Bring her clothes here.”

They sat in absolute silence. Her, petrified. Him, staring at the ceiling and holding what appeared to be imaginary debates with himself.

Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t call the police.

The police wouldn’t call her school. Her mentor wouldn’t call her parents.

She’d escape back to her real life and never, ever get in trouble ever, ever again.

Another suit brought in her clothes. Sard permitted her to change in an adjacent office in privacy. She wiggled out of the incriminating dress and boots and back into her safe, rumpled, everyday clothes.

The Victorian dress was too nice to fold. It wasn’t even too badly wrinkled. She returned it to his office and rested it on a chair. “I’m so sorry about this dress.”

Sard still seemed to be debating what to do. He was distracted. “It’s historical.”

“It’s beautifully constructed.”

He glanced over her. “How are you leaving here?”

Then … maybe he wasn’t calling the police. This ordeal was almost over.

Her knees trembled. Relief. She sank into the chair again. “I have no idea. I don’t even know where I am.”

“No.” He hit a button on his desk. “You’ll drop Ms. Adamson off at the nearest bus stop. Prepare.”

“Sir.” The impassive voice replied in the affirmative.

Oh. Thank goodness.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

“Thank you,” she gushed.

Sard released the button. His gaze narrowed on her bracelet. “What is that?”

“This?” She untied the plastic friendship bracelet from her wrist and handed it over. “The midwinter break craft for sixth grade. I wore it to show my art certification classmates. It doesn’t go with my outfit but I was afraid to take it off and lose one of the charms.”

He fingered the attached plastic charms. “These lines … these patterns… How do you know them?”

“They’re modified Zentangles.”

He looked up.

“A Zentangle is a doodle with a purpose. It started as a method and a kit.”

In fact, the classroom kit came with no eraser — the message was to let go of mistakes and think of errors as alternate paths to creativity. It was a philosophy Amy still struggled to practice.

She tapped the plastic. “These charms were our capstone ‘friendship’ project drawn on Shrinky-Dink paper and baked. I incorporated an introduction to meditation practices as part of the lesson. It’s a great craft for kids.”

“This is a human craft?”

“Doodles are ancient. Everyone can doodle. Making patterns using the Zentangle Method is newer, but it’s still been around.”

He picked up the phone and barked orders. “Cancel the Victorian. I don’t care how close we are to launch. I have a new product. ‘Zentangles.’ It’s exactly what we were looking for.” He hung up.

She worried the plastic. This was getting out of hand.

“May I?” He lifted the charms as though inspecting fine jewelry. “This human craft is fascinating. Can I have this?”

A mafia king — er, dragon shifter CEO — wanted her friendship charm bracelet? Um … okay. “Sure.”

“Can I have it to sell?”

“Sell?”

He closed his fingers around the bracelet, hiding it away, and leaned forward again. All business. “I’m going to duplicate it and sell it to the rest of the universe. Will you sign a contract stating that is an acceptable use of your art?”

“Does this mean you’re not going to call the police?”

“Police?” His teeth gleamed with metal. “Ms. Adamson, we’re negotiating business. I see no need for police. Would you like a sandwich?”

“No, um, thank you. Can I go?”

“Just as soon as I secure your agreement…” He carefully thumbed through a file of paperwork. “…must have the correct copyright for mass producing these ‘Zentangles’…”

“Copyright is outside of my expertise,” she said. “And anyway, every Zentangle is unique.”

He paused and looked up from beneath his brows. “Every one is unique?”

“Grab a pen and let your imagination flow.”

The door of his office opened and Syenite stepped inside. He must be her guide to the bus stop. The wonderful, pitch dark, middle-of-nowhere night bus stop.

Sard stopped her from rising. “How would you feel about creating a large number of unique charms? Say, ten million?”

Uh…

“I’m happy with my current job. Teaching rocks. I get summers off.” She edged forward on the seat. “I mean, I will once I’m permanent and not just a substitute.”

“I will make you happier.”

She sincerely doubted that. “Ten million charms are more than a single person could ever produce.”

“No.”

“Actually, yes. One drawing takes about fifteen minutes, so that’s two and a half million hours, which is a little over a hundred thousand days … let’s simplify and divide … so we estimate producing ten million charms would take one person, working without breaks or sleep, over two hundred … two hundred eight-odd years.”

He frowned. “You reached that conclusion too quickly.”

“Basic math is an elementary teacher superpower,” she assured him. “If your heart is set on getting ten million finished Zentangles, you should approach the creators of the method. They could divide up the work. There are hundreds of certified teachers and way more students.”

“So many copyrights to secure,” he grumbled, rubbing what appeared to be a burn mark on his large desk. “I would rather pay only you.”

“Why not pay for me to become a Certified Zentangle Teacher? I could teach the method to all of you.”

“You cannot teach dragons how to produce these ‘doodle’ patterns.”

“Teaching is what I do.”

“Dragons do not have human creativity.”

“Well, actually, the whole philosophy behind Zentangles is to empower ‘uncreative’ people to discover and nurture their own inner—”

“What is your current salary?”

Argh. Freedom was so close. She could taste it. “Uh … it’s a little late…”

“Are you hungry? I can offer…” He picked up a dish of candy. “You’re not pregnant?”

“No.”

“Brimstone candy.” His business-like smile sharpened. “Let’s discuss your summers off.”

“I’m a little tired.”

“This won’t take any time at all.”

Empty promises were how Pyro had started this so-called evening.

She clenched her fists in her lap.

Pushy, arrogant dragon shifters. Just because they were hot alien billionaires who could transform into dragons and fly, they thought they could do anything.

Then again, she was still inside Sard’s warehouse. Which she had broken into. By accident. And vandalized his company’s clothes.

Ugh. If only she hadn’t given in to temptation…

At the end of the day, this trouble rested on her shoulders. Her bad decisions. She’d stepped off the straight-and-narrow to see the sights. Well, now she’d seen them. They resembled the inside of a principal’s office presided over by a mafia king suddenly so nice now that he wanted something from her.

Was it possible to decline without offending Sard? Perhaps she should just agree. Promise him she’d think about it. She wanted this nightmare to be over.

But Amy didn’t make false promises. It wasn’t honest.

“Can we please talk about it another time?” she asked finally. “I’d really, really like to go home.”

Sard’s eyes gleamed and his mouth began to form what was certainly some form of “No.”

From the doorway, Syenite cleared his throat.

Sard’s smile froze for an instant, as though being forced to remember something unpleasant. But his tone conveyed nothing but solicitude. “Of course! You’re tired. We’ll reschedule. Syenite, see Ms. Adamson to her residence. Borrow that parka she was wearing. We don’t want our future artist getting cold.” He rose. “Would you like to keep the dress?”

She shook her head violently, standing as well — dismissed! — and nearly falling over with gratitude. “Thank you so much for your understanding. I’m so sorry about tonight. I’ll never come here again.”

“Of course you’ll come here again.” He enveloped her hand in his fist and shook firmly. “Syenite will return you to produce these unique Zentangles. Ten million.”

“Ten million,” she repeated, still shaking his hand.

“Sometime soon, when you feel less ‘under duress.’ You don’t feel under duress, do you?”

“Oh, no.”

“I can keep this bracelet, right?”

“Please. I want you to have it.”

“Wonderful.” He finally released her.

She stumbled backward, out of his office. “Thanks. You’re too kind.”

He sat at his desk. “Until we meet again, Ms. Adamson.”

But when in his deep, ominous voice, the simple farewell sounded like a threat.