Page 23 of Morel Dilemma

“Not with you.”

“With others?”

“I… occasionally.”

“I see.” Zilek was smiling faintly when Zalani returned.

She offered a bottle of “unoaked” dry white wine to Rylana. Jildarin used it in his cream sauces, and it wouldn’t impress Zilek’s oenophile associates, especially given the price she’d paid for it, but she accepted it with a nod.

“Will you be all right finishing the dinner service without the chef?” Rylana asked her.

“He had everything started, from what I saw, or already complete. We’ll get by. Have a good time.” Zalani grinned as she peered into the carriage, then also looked at Zilek, who was giving the dwarf instructions on the route to take. Judging by the dwarf’s face, he knew the route perfectly well and didn’t need advice. “I’m a little envious of you,” Zalani added. “Going off in a carriage with two sexy dragons.”

“Do you want to take my place?” Rylana asked before remembering she had a mission tonight, one that she couldn’t foist off on someone else.

“I think they want you.” Zalani winked. “But I may allow myself a fantasy later.”

“You’re a much more adventurous soul than I am.”

“I’m not afraid to enjoy myself.” Zalani guided a couple of patrons, who’d stopped to look curiously at their group, into the diner.

Trusting the business was in good hands for the evening, Rylana climbed into the carriage.

Inside, two velvet-upholstered benches faced each other.

“You will sit beside me,” Jildarin informed her, having made room.

“Are you going to be pushy and order me around all night?” Though a surge of recalcitrance almost made Rylana choose the other bench, she didn’t want to sit next to Zilek. She shouldn’t encourage Jildarin’s bossy behavior, but her hips slid onto the bench next to him of their own accord.

“I must protect you from the presumptuous probing hands of my promiscuous brother,” Jildarin said.

“So, you’re going to be very pushy.”

“Only if he is.” Jildarin watched through narrowed eyes as Zilek settled onto the opposite bench.

Still wearing a smile, Zilek said, “It depends on what our female companion wants.”

He looked at Rylana and surprised her by winking.

A growl emanated from Jildarin’s chest. It sounded more like the growl of a dangerous predator—of a dragon—than a human. Zilek only winked at Rylana again before chuckling and gazing out the window.

Only then, as the carriage rolled into motion, did it occur to her that he might be offering to guide—or manipulate—Jildarin into realizing that he might want Rylana to be… more than a business partner. Was there any way Jildarin could come to want that? She didn’t know. He’d come to appreciate her—she had no doubt—and he was being protective of her, at least around his brother, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wanted her for himself. Even if he did on some subconscious level desire that, she didn’t want to manipulate Jildarin. And she didn’t want Zilek manipulating him either.

Still, as the carriage rounded a corner, jostling them, she found her shoulder pressed against Jildarin’s. He didn’t shift away. If anything, he leaned closer, and she appreciated his warmth and the feel of the hard muscles under his chef’s coat. She caught herself looking forward to attending the elven ballet with him the next night.

But first, she reminded herself, she had to get to the bottom of the landlord’s threat of eviction. That would be foremost on her mind tonight, not mating.

8

When Zilek’s fancy gilded carriage came to a stop a couple of miles up the hill from the lake, Rylana grabbed the bottle of wine and hopped out before either of her escorts could offer her a hand down—if dragons thought to do such things. They were on a fastidiously cleaned cobblestone street, not a single horse dropping permitted to linger, in front of a large but surprisingly unassuming brick building. Above the main entrance, a sign made from gearwheels, springs, and whirligigs artfully formed the words: The Tinkerer’s Laboratory.

To one side, wide flagstone stairs led below street level to a basement door without a sign. Looking around in the dwindling daylight, Rylana almost bumped into a hulking ogre female guarding the entrance to those stairs.

Maybe she’d been wrong; maybe there was a bouncer. Since ogre females were as muscled as their male counterparts, this one could doubtless fill the role.

“Guests only,” she rumbled, towering over Rylana. She then looked at Jildarin, taking in his white chef’s coat, and added, “Staff may use the side entrance in the alley.”

“Staff.” Jildarin rose to his full height—more than two feet below that of the ogre—and stared defiantly at the bouncer. “I am Jildarin-grozanarav of Clan Killcrusher, winner of the Golden Whisk.”