Gift of Fire

the Sequence Springs Spa Resort. A stack of travel brochures was tucked under her arm.
    The European-style spa room was almost empty. Gleaming white and blue tile shone under the bright lights, and the spa pools bubbled invitingly. Verity undressed and slid naked into her favorite pool, a hot bath that smelled strongly of therapeutic minerals. Stacking the brochures on the tile rim beside her, she leaned back in the soothing water and began to study pictures of sun-kissed shores and tropical seas.
    Earlier that evening she had made a promise to herself that she would not spend another night sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring. Jonas was not likely to call tonight. He certainly hadn’t bothered to call during the past four days, and they had been the longest four days of Verity’s life.
    Furthermore, she was sick of reading and rereading the poem she had found pinned to her pillow the morning Jonas had left.
     
    Wait for me, my lady, though the wind blows chill and cold, wait while all is locked in winter
’
s icy fist.
    I
will dream of you, my lady, hot dreams of fire and gold,
D
reams of gemlike passion too wondrous to resist.
    And if you
’
re on vacation when
I
return, my lady,
I
swear
I
will be most extremely pissed.
     
    Extremely pissed.
Verity wrinkled her nose. If Jonas expected her to believe that little ditty was another of the Renaissance love poems he claimed to have loosely translated, he was wrong. And it certainly didn’t make up for his failure to phone her.
    “Verity! Just the person I’m looking for. I rang the cafe and the cabin but there was no answer. I figured you might be here.”
    Verity looked up from the enticing photo of a gleaming white resort on a private bay. “Hi, Laura. What’s up?”
    Laura Griswald grinned cheerfully. “I’m not positive, but I get the feeling that a job for Jonas may be available.”
    Verity set aside the brochure. “A job?”
    “I knew that would get your attention.” Laura shook her head, her shoulder-length brown hair shining. Everything about Laura sparkled with radiant good health. She and her husband, Rick, owned the Sequence Springs Spa Resort, and they were walking advertisements for the place. She crouched at the edge of the pool. “A young couple—brother and sister, I gather—checked in early this evening. They mentioned they’re looking for Jonas Quarrel. They came to Sequence Springs to find him.”
    Verity straightened quickly. The last time someone had come looking for Jonas he had nearly been killed. “They asked for Jonas by name?”
    “That’s right. Said they wanted to see him in a professional capacity. But they wouldn’t come all this way to hire a dishwasher, so I figured they must mean in his professional
academic
capacity. I knew you’d be interested, even if Jonas isn’t. You’ve been trying to get that man back into a respectable job since the day he started washing dishes for you.”
    “I’ll have you know that he did an article for a history journal that appeared two weeks ago,” Verity announced proudly. “You can have one, if you like. I ordered twenty copies.”
    “Is that right?” Laura appeared genuinely impressed. “I remember you mentioned something about it. An article in his field? Something on Renaissance history?”
    “That’s right. A comparison of modem-day fencing techniques with the style used during the late Renaissance.” No need to mention that Jonas had learned the differences in techniques the hard way. He had a nasty scar on one shoulder to prove it.
    Verity had nagged, cajoled, and otherwise made a nuisance of herself before Jonas had finally surrendered and written the article. She hated to see a well-educated mind going to waste while its owner washed dishes, although it didn’t seem to bother Jonas in the least.
    When notice of the article’s acceptance had arrived in the mail, she’d strongly suspected that she was much more elated than Jonas was. Then she’d remembered that as an instructor at Vincent College, he’d probably been published in far more prestigious journals. Still, she planned to have one of her twenty copies of the
Journal
of Renaissance Studies
framed. She had made Jonas autograph the rest.
    “Who are these people and what do they want with Jonas?” Verity asked.
    “As I said, they’re brother and sister. The name is Warwick. Doug and Elyssa. Doug’s a stockbroker, twenty-nine or thirty, I’d say. Likable. Probably drives a BMW and wears