The round hit the wall at the floor, a deliberate shot. “Next one draws blood,” she said over the ear-blasted dead air left behind.
“Give us the woman,” Khaki Man shouted. His eyes were wide. He hadn’t expected armed resistance. Or getting shot at.
“No,” Andromeda said.
The men spread out in a small semicircle, blocking the front exit, two hoodies on the left, Khaki Man on the right. Andromeda shifted the nine-mil to the man on the far left. “I got the navy jackets. You take out the other one,” she said.
I let Beast flood into me. My heart rate sped. My breathing deepened. I took a breath, smelling testosterone, aggression, and chemicals in their blood. And I caught an unexpected scent.
Of wolf.
The guy in the center fired. Time slowed, that battlefield awareness that showed me the angle of the shot. The blast stole the last of the silence. He missed us both.
Andromeda fired the shotgun. It deafened. Stole the air. Replaced it with a roiling cloud of gunfire residue. The guy in the middle stumbled and fell.
The other hoodie fired.
I firmed my aim. Fired twice. Andromeda dropped the shotgun and fired the nine-mil. All three men were on the floor, one with a large, circular shot pattern on his chest. Messy.
Fun, Beast said. More!
I raced around the counter and disarmed the three guys—even the dead ones—by gently shoving the weapons to the side with my foot. Carefully. People had died by kicking guns and getting shot. Out front, the gang car took off.
“What the hell?” Andromeda shouted, barely heard over the deafness of the gunfight, furious.
I tracked the unexpected scent I had caught just before the firing started, to the khaki-clad guy. Over the damage to my ears, I heard sirens and Andromeda cursing as she spotted the bullet hole damage to the walls and the jewelry cases. Scowling, she took in the damage to one cabinet: the wood that had once been beautifully carved, swans with long necks intertwined, and the antique glass, which was now all over the floor. She cursed long and hard at the damage. I took her weapon from her and set it with mine on the counter. Texted a fast 911 to Bruiser. Then, Shots fired. Am OK. Cops on way. Call lawyer. I added the address.
I got back, There in 22.
Twenty seconds later, Bruiser sprinted to the front of the shop and stopped. He was breathing hard, eyes wide and determined. He had been ten minutes away when this all started. He got here a lot faster, on foot, running. He opened the door, needing to see me, his scent washing into the room, over the smell of weapons fire, full of fear. I smiled at him and said, “I’m not hit.”
He let a harsh breath go, gave me a nod, and let the door close. George Dumas, elegant and urbane, no longer out of breath or terrified, was standing there with his cell phone to his ear, talking, when the cops pulled up. There was something disarming about the appearance of the local celebrity, casually talking on the phone, and I could see the cops instantly decompress, though they came at him with weapons drawn. Bruiser held his arms in the air, and though my ears weren’t healed, I could make out the soothing timbre of his voice. It was pacifying. Calming. In control of himself and everything around him.
The cops nodded, entered. Andromeda and I were standing with our hands up. The cops took in the three guys, looked at us, and looked back at the three guys. The one on the right was still breathing. “Jane Yellowrock?” the older cop asked.
“Yep.” I pointed with one finger to the breathing guy. “Be careful. That one is werewolf. They can bite when they’re in pain.”
The cops shuffled back through the opening, though to give them credit, they did keep the door open.
“Werewolf?” Andromeda squeaked. And then she laughed, sounding half-hysterical, saying, “There wolf.” When I didn’t respond she added, “Movie quote.”
I grunted. The guy on the floor was making strange puppy sounds and hair was starting to sprout on his hands and face. Reddish hair. And he was the only one of the attackers not wearing a navy gang jacket. Interestinger and interestinger.
“What are we supposed to do?” the cop holding the door asked.
“Get us out, seal the place up, and . . . Well, crap.” I huffed in annoyance. “And call PsyLED. They have agents in town. I can give you the numbers of two of them.”
The cops didn’t ask for the numbers. They were still freaked at the idea of a were.
Bruiser reentered. His nostrils widened at the stench of werewolf blood; Onorios have better-than-human sense of smell, but he hadn’t caught it the first time. His eyes searched me for signs of bite marks or torn flesh. I gave him a thumb up to let him know I hadn’t been bitten. To the cops he said, “Medic is caught in traffic. If you can clear the street they can get in to help that one.”
“We need a werewolf cage,” I said again.
Bruiser frowned and punched in a number. “PsyLED has portable cages.”
“If you have silver ammo,” I said to the cop, “now’s the time for it. If he gets shifted and is still in pain”—I glanced at Andromeda and half-joked—“things’ll get messy.”
Andromeda laughed, the sound only slightly panicked now that the shooting was over. “Call me Andy.”
“Jane.”
“I can’t shoot a suspect on the ground,” the cop said.
“You can if he’s a menace to the public.”
The cop looked at the wolf, at his partner, at me. “You shoot him.”
“Not my job once the cops are here. I’d stake him if he was a vamp and a menace to the public, but not a furball. He’s all yours.”
The guy on the ground started growling. He must have had strong feelings about the direction of the conversation. More hair sprouted. The cop cursed under his breath and changed out mags while calling his supervisor.
After that it was disorganized organization, with the cops putting a round in the were’s knee to keep him in a partial shift and out of action. The wolfman was seriously ticked off about being shot again. The local LEOs took our weapons. All of them. Even the stakes.
And my adrenaline dissipated enough for me to realize two humans had attacked me and now they were dead. Twenty-somethings, not children. Violent and ready to kidnap or kill me, or some violent combo of the two. But still. Humans. There was a time when killing humans would have broken my heart, sent me into depression. But there are just so many times one’s heart can be broken before it hardens in some sad, fragmented, disarranged formation, where it doesn’t work right anymore. I felt almost nothing and I was more sad about that than I was about killing the gangbangers.
Unconcerned, Beast thought, Jane is war woman. I/we are Beast. Killed enemy.
All the last of the battle energy drained out of me. I sat on a stool perched in the corner, sick to my stomach.
Rick walked in the door, his cat scent sending the doggy on the floor into spasms of fury. He flashed his badge and ID, then glared and pointed a finger at me. “We need to talk about my new housecat.” I nodded once. To the cops he continued, “This is a PsyLED investigation. I’ll take over as OIC until my superior arrives.”
OIC was “officer in charge.” I started to relax when the cop who had reshot the furball said, “Sorry. Gang Task Force is here. They have jurisdiction.”
Rick frowned. The cop grinned. He clearly found it amusing that the meddlesome bureaucrat-cop in street clothes was not going to get his way. And then Ayatas walked in with a portly man in a suit, and the cop’s amusement faded away. “LaFleur,” Ayatas said, “this is Gomez, GTF. He’s been tracking the local gangs for two years.” Rick and Gomez shook hands. Ayatas glanced at me and Andromeda but didn’t acknowledge us. His hair was braided back and hung down the center of his spine. “GTF’s had reports of strangers running with the Zips.”
“Werewolf strangers?” Rick asked.
Gomez dropped to one knee and studied the downed were, comparing him to photos of men on his phone, one thumb flicking from pic to pic. He stopped on one and held the cell up to Andy and me. “He’s a little too furry right now to be sure, but this him?”
“No,” we said.
“This?” Gomez brought up another pic.
“No.” I realized we were getting a quickie photo lineup, like in the basement of a cop shop.
“This?” Gomez asked.
“Yes,” Andy and I said.
Gomez marked his screen, grunted, and stood. To Andy, Gomez said, “He’s been seen with the Zips and with a guy who goes by the name Marco Agrios, white, just under six feet, brown and brown, sharp dresser. You or your brother know anything about Marco?”
Andy looked as if she would rather not answer, but she finally said, “I can ask around some. Gimme your card.” Gomez held out a business card and Andy tucked it behind the register.
Gomez nodded, looked me over, and spoke to Ayatas. “You got a safe place to store him until he heals? We don’t want his kind in with the lockup pop, making furbabies outta the locals.”
“Yes,” Rick said, when Ayatas glanced at him. “We’ll take care of it.”
Gomez gave another grunt and left the jewelry shop. Ayatas studied me. I watched him back, wary. “Why would he target you?” he asked.
“No idea.”
“If you need protection, I can arrange it.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Really? For little ol’ me? You want I should curtsy and clasp my hands to my chest? Maybe flutter my eyes and sigh some?”
“What about me?” Beside me, Andy dropped into a clumsy curtsy and fluttered her eyes at him. “I’ll do a lot more than that to get you for my protection.”
Ayatas laughed kindly, flashing pearly whites, clearly accustomed to people trying to pick him up. “A war woman can die too. Be careful out there.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“War woman?” She pointed at her right arm above her wrist. “I might have that tattooed right here.” I just smiled.
Rick pointed a finger at me and said, “We are not done with cat business.”
Moments later, Andy and I were hauled off to the Eighth Precinct and separated. My last words to her were, “I owe you a lawyer.”
Her last words to me were, “Make him pretty.”
We spent time in holding cells until lawyers could arrive and we could be interviewed. Leo had several lawyers on retainer, but Brandon Robere was my lawyer of choice, a graduate of Tulane Law, LLM, back in 1946. I hadn’t seen him in a couple weeks. The Onorio looked good, though his suit hung on his leaner frame, he moved less fluidly, and his eyes were still a little hollow. It took time to get over being tied to a beam, tortured, and drained of blood. Sometimes life just sucked. “Jane,” he said. “I’ve requested an interview room. Are you hurt?”
“No. I just hate cages.”
“Yes. I know what you mean.” He followed, silent, as the cops moved me to an interrogation room, stood as they locked the door on us, and leaned with his back against the wall. He asked, “Is it true they targeted you specifically? Not the store owner?”
“Yes. There’s security video. And one wasn’t a gangbanger. He’s werewolf.”
“So I hear. Is it true you wish me to offer legal services to Andromeda Preaux?”
“Yeah. She tried to get me out the back door before the shooting started. Would you check on her?”
“In a moment. You do seem to attract heroes. How do you know they were targeting you?”
“Andy said the car had been patrolling the streets in the area for days. They hit on me and rolled past.”
“Hit on you?”
“Offered me their services?” When he looked confused I said, “Offered to take me to bed, and not to snooze.”
Brandon shook his head. “Horrors. Go on.”
“Yeah. Then they came back. They followed me into the shop. They said, ‘Get the woman,’ or something like that. It wasn’t hard to tell I was their target.”
“They left and they came back,” he clarified. “And they had been patrolling the area around St. Peter Street?”
Something was wrong here. More carefully, I said, “I hadn’t seen them before. But that’s what Andromeda said.”
“When they came back, was their demeanor the same or different?”
“I’m not following you,” I said.
He spoke slowly, as he might to a small child. Or someone he didn’t want to upset. “I had Alex do a search of traffic cams. This car has been patrolling the area between St. Philip Street and your home. That area also encloses St. Peter Street and the streets between. However, no one knew you would be walking toward St. Peter Street.”
“Okay.” And then it hit me. Bruiser lived on St. Philip Street. Maybe they hadn’t been searching for me. Maybe they had been after Bruiser. They had said something like, “Give me the woman.” Had I been nothing but a lever to get to Bruiser? “They weren’t after me, exactly?”
“It’s possible that you were the means to an end, not the end itself.”
I sat down on the hard chair, going back over everything that had happened. They wanted Bruiser? Not me? Bruiser. Rage flared up in me like a torch. Why Bruiser? And then it occurred to me that Bruiser had been Leo’s flunky for decades. Together they had hunted and killed werewolves; I’d once seen a photo of them standing over a dead werewolf. There had been werewolves in sub-five when the cats tried to steal the SOD. Those wolves had wanted to steal Brute, who had been biting the SOD and who had timewalking abilities. I hadn’t been able to explore that aspect of this puzzle, thanks to Brute’s inability to shift to human and talk to me. Bruiser might have been involved in “questioning” the werewolves who hurt Rick. This could have been a snatch-and-grab attempt. Or it might be a more complicated situation than a simple kidnapping.
“Right,” Brandon said, seeing my reaction. “I’ll let you think for a bit and see if Andromeda wants my services.” He left and came back moments later. “Are you absolutely certain that you want me to represent her?”
“Yeah. Why do you ask? Again.”
“She told me I was pretty. And that she likes to sleep with lawyers. She suggested a list of positions and toys and games we could play.” I tried to hold in a grin. It must not have been successful because Brandon frowned. “I like sex as much as the next guy, but some of the things she said are downright scary.” His eyes narrowed at me when I laughed. “And her tattoos are Razor tats.”
“Her brother runs with the Raz. Didn’t know about her. Don’t care. This is vamp business. Leo pays her legal fees.”
Brandon gave me an abbreviated shrug and sat, placing a briefcase on the table between us. He pulled out a pad and pencil. The Roberes were old-school. “Tell me what happened again. Leave nothing out, no matter how seemingly insignificant.” Which was when I remembered the open window and the barrel pointing down at me. I talked through the sequence of events and when I reached the part about the possibility of a shooter, Brandon left the room again and said something to the guard. Moments later, a detective appeared and Brandon invited him into the room. He was dour, tired, and supposed to be off shift two hours before. I think he blamed me for keeping him on the clock, but really, he should be blaming the dead guys and the furry guy.
“Tell Detective Kerlegan what you told me. Be specific about directions, locations, everything.”
I did as I was told. Kerlegan took notes, had me draw out the building across the street, and pinpoint the window where I had seen activity. I was specific and detailed, if not artistic. I couldn’t draw a stick figure, but I could count windows. I circled the window where the gun barrel, if it was a gun barrel, had tracked me.
Kerlegan left and I told Brandon everything else. “What happened to the wolf?” I asked.
“LaFleur called some people and hauled him off.”
“And?”
“PsyLED and weres are not my concern,” he said.
“They should be. There were three werewolves in sub-five basement less than twenty-four hours ago, and they seemed to be having an argument.”
“What kind of argument? Bighorn Wolf Pack or the new Montana Red Pack?”
“I got no idea,” I said. “One wolf drew a gun on two others, but I can’t tell one pack from the other. They came in with Dominique and a witch under an obfuscation spell, a good one. The lasers detected it, but not in time to catch the witch.”
“Leo parleyed an agreement with the Bighorns but Montana recently split off from them. It’s possible that Montana came here with the intent of helping the Europeans.”
“I overheard the wolves say they were there to rescue Brute, who wasn’t pleased at the statement, by the way.”
Brandon frowned, his brow crinkling, confused.
“They were on sub-five,” I said, “with the werecat delegation from PAW and the IAW, who were there because of the SOD. You didn’t know? About an attack by the werecats?”
He cursed succinctly. “No. I’ve been working on legal briefs for two days. Debrief me.”
I did, and ended with, “Asad may have wanted to start a cat-wolf war, or a vamp-were war, or the kitties and pups might have joined forces temporarily to steal the SOD and Brute. Or something open-ended or more twisted. I don’t know and I have no idea how we can find out.” Brandon used his cell phone to call vamp HQ and knocked on the door as if alerting someone on the outside, like a prearranged signal. Detective Kerlegan reentered about the time that Brandon finished his conversation with HQ, and we three sat at the table. Upon advice from counsel I answered all the detective’s questions, at length. Three times.
After the third time through the events, I said, “I’m done.” I stood up and looked down at my lawyer. “Get me out of here.”
“Charge my client with a crime or let her go.”
Kerlegan sounded tired and jaded when he said, “She’s both a person of interest and a possible suspect in the deaths of two humans and the injury of a werewolf.”
“You have video of the shooting,” Brandon said. “You have police corroboration of the threat of the gang members. She has been totally cooperative. Jane Yellowrock is not a flight risk and she hasn’t eaten in hours. You have a mountain of evidence saying that the deaths were self-defense. And she told the senior officer on scene that there was a werewolf on-site, one who was shifting and could have posed a danger to the officers and to the public. She was helpful in keeping local law enforcement safe.”
The detective placed his open hands on the table. “We can keep her for seventy-two hours.”
I shot him a look that said, No you can’t!
“All that will get you is her clamming up and refusing to help NOPD ever again.” Brandon leaned in, over the table. “That would create a danger to the city and you know that. She’s helped officers in the past. She saved the life of the chief of police. She helped those officers today. Don’t screw up a system that works.”
Kerlegan stood and knocked on the door, which opened immediately. “Make sure she doesn’t leave town,” he said as he left the room.
“I have to go see Andromeda,” Brandon said. “God help me.”
I just smiled and let him lead me out of the interrogation room. I accepted my weapons and put them into the tote bag that Kerlegan magically produced for me. Checked my cell to discover Alex had sent a dozen texts while I didn’t have access to my phone. The only one that mattered was the one that said T. Antifreeze and the guards who had been injured when the weres went to sub-five were okay, healed by vamp blood and downtime. That put me in a better mood.
I left the Eighth, exited into the chill and the early dusk, and told Shemmy to take me back to Andromeda Preaux’s jewelry shop. Traffic was horrid and after I texted Bruiser to meet me there, I took a speed nap in the backseat.
Bruiser and I went into the building across the street from Andromeda’s and up to the unoccupied second floor to inspect the hide used by the possible shooter. The building had been cleared by the cops, and as we searched I told him my concerns about the gangbangers and the wolf with the gun, and the were-creatures in sub-five, also one with a gun. And how the wolves seemed to be at odds. We talked over other possibilities, some far-fetched, some downright scary. Together we concluded that there was nothing we could do and no way to discern the truth for now.
Bruiser ended the discussion by calling Leo. I wandered around alone for a while.
There was no electricity in the untenanted building. The room where the round thing had appeared in the open window was empty except for a metal folding chair. The chair and the window sash had been dusted for fingerprints, the powder easy to spot in the olive green room, dusty in Beast’s sharp vision.
The place had been filled with too many cops and crime scene techs for me to get a specific scent, but I caught a whiff of lemon on the chair when I bent over it. The scent seemed familiar, but the memory wouldn’t come. Other than that, there was nothing.
From the doorway, Bruiser said, “NOPD thinks the person who was in this room had been here for days. A squatter, most likely. Kerlegan said that CSI hauled off several dozen sealed pee bottles and one sealed five-gallon container of feces.” He sounded aggrieved at having to say the words and I let my mouth curl up at the tone. “This entire building is empty and there are signs the person or persons have been in every room.”
I wondered how many other buildings had squatters in them and how many of the squatters were actually shooters. How widespread was the search for Bruiser or me and why? We wandered the second floor and I caught the fading scent in several places. “I know it’s stupid, but I smell lemons. Real lemons, not synthetic like in dish soap.”
Bruiser stopped, thinking, head tilted, his skin and eyes silvered in Beast’s vision. Mate, Beast thought happily.
He said, “There is a Mithran clan that scents of lemons, but there are no indications that Clan Des Citrons has left France to join with Titus in the Sangre Duello. If this shooter is one of their humans, then that opens up a number of possibilities, none of them good.”
“Vamps are ready to jump into the fray at any point where they can benefit,” I said. “Or at the end of the blood duel when they could declare war against the winner and take over.” And then I remembered. “I smelled this scent before.”
Bruiser’s eyes moved to me, waiting.
“This person has either been in my house or was standing on thin air outside Eli’s bathroom.” The window had been open. The entire house had been breezy. “Or maybe they followed me home and were standing on the brick wall outside the house, listening. Watching. Also I caught a faint whiff of lemons in HQ. On sub-five.”
Bruiser shook his head. “Someone is watching all of us?”
“And that someone had access to HQ. I’ll put Alex on it,” I said. “We’ll find them.”
“Derek can dedicate a few security personnel to your neighborhood.” He shrugged, looking relaxed, but I had a feeling he was a lot more concerned than he pretended. Casually, he added, “Dinner, then. And we’ll keep an eye out for trolling gangbangers and errant shooters.”
The Creole platter at the Gumbo Shop consisted of a large platter of shrimp Creole, jambalaya, and crawfish étouffée. I had two platters, inhaling the first one so fast I only noted it as a blistered sensation on the back of my throat. Bruiser had the red beans and rice with a lovely smoked sausage and the chicken espagnole with extra sides and a half bottle of wine. That was a total of four entrées between us and a mountain of dirty dishes when we were done. The waitress stared accusingly at my skinny frame. I had spent the last few weeks shifting too many times and not eating enough calories to replace the energy usage. I often wondered what might happen if I had to shift many times with no food in between. Would I shrink to nothing? Find myself stuck in one form until I found food? Was that what had happened when I first stole Beast’s body and shifted to human only now and then to heal? Beast called it the hunger times.
When we were done with the food, I accepted a half glass of wine and sniffed and tasted. It was okay. Bruiser was trying to educate me about the finer things in life and he described it as I sipped, saying, “This Cabernet blend has a healthy level of tannins, is full-bodied, with a medium level of acidity.” He twirled the wine and it ran down the glass in skinny trails. “It has good legs. It’s good with food. The oak has brought out the flavor of”—he paused and sipped noisily—“currants, a little black pepper, and tobacco.”
I sipped, watching him over the rim of the glass, holding it in front of me as I spoke. “Still. Nothing can beat the Boone’s Farm Fuzzy Navel, served in your best crystal. In your bed.”
Bruiser’s glass halted halfway to the table. The pulse in his throat sped; his breathing deepened; his face took on color. His brown eyes lost focus for a moment before they snapped to mine, his pupils expanding. His Onorio scent reached my nose, warmer than only a moment past.
I smiled, letting my lips widen slowly. Took another sip. “Not bad. But not as . . . good.”
“Well. There is that.” Bruiser returned my smile and took my hand in his, running his fingers along my knuckles. The pad of his thumb was heated, slightly rough on the inner side where some weapon had calloused his skin. He held my gaze as he stroked, telling me things he’d rather be doing, very wonderful things. So very, very slowly. The rough area scraped gently across my flesh. Heat spread up my arm and into my body like a slow-moving flood of need. Goose bumps quivered over me. My breasts tightened. My belly warmed and grew heavy. My lips parted and swelled as if Bruiser had kissed me. My breath deepened. My bones liquefied.
Magic . . . I couldn’t see it. No sparkles. No Gray Between mist of energies. But the scent was all Onorio: spicy, a little citrus, more blood orange and lime than lemon. This time maybe a little smoke, the scent of sweetgrass charred into the glowing embers of a long-burning fire. He kissed me, his lips and tongue heated.
Mate, Beast thought. My mate . . .
The scent of smoke rose, aromatic with sweetgrass. Bruiser chuckled low, the way men do when they know the effect they’re having on you. At the sound, my body thrummed, a boneless, trembling, shuddering need. I couldn’t have stood without assistance, let alone fight. “Oh, woman. What you do to me.”
“Ditto,” I managed.
“We should perhaps save this,” he said softly, “for the limo ride.”
I blinked. Blinked again. “Limo?”
“Lee postponed our appointments. I thought you might like a ride”—his lips tilted up again, his voice dropping on the last word—“around the city tonight. There is a blanket, a spare pillow or two, and a bottle of chilled Champagne in the limo out front. I’d like to be doing this to other parts of you.”
“Oh,” I tried to say. It came out as a sigh.
“And I’d like my mouth on you.” His eyes dropped to my breasts and they tightened painfully. “I’d like to taste you. Everywhere.”
Magic caressed me, velvet and the feathers of hawk wings, the prickle of nettles and dried leaves. Soft and stinging all at once. Icy and heated together. I was breathing too fast. Holy crap. If Eli had been here he would have told us to get a room. “Only if I can taste you back.”
“I’m counting on that. It might be a very . . . very . . . long night.”
“I’m counting on that,” I repeated to him.
Not taking his eyes from mine, Bruiser held up his hand. The waitress approached from behind me. Bruiser gave her two crisp bills. “Keep the change.” He stood and pulled me up with him, against him. It was a dance step, and my left thigh pressed between both of his. Torso to torso, hip to hip. Bruiser was more than a little happy to see me. I might have moaned. He chuckled again and everything in my body quavered.
He stepped back. Taking me with him, half holding me up. His arm around me. And then we were outside, sweeping past the driver and quickly inside the limo. The limo. The one he’d first kissed me in. I slid along the seat, my eyes on him. Only him. The door closed. The privacy shield was up. The driver, whoever it was, was closed away, unable to see, unable to hear. Bruiser slid his hands along my body, his palms hot and raking. Closing on my cell, taking it and tucking it into the small refrigerator. Adding his. Closing the small door.
“Brilliant,” I murmured.
“I had the limo swept.”
I took his shoulders and pulled him back on the long seat. Yanked off his jacket and then his shirt, over his head, sending collar and sleeve buttons popping.
“No listening devices,” he said. “And the driver’s intercom is disabled. No one can listen in.” He shoved up my tunic and his mouth fell onto my breast, hot and wet, through my silk tee. My nails pressed into his shoulders in shock. He sucked hard.
Magic shot between us, scorching and frigid. Everything inside me clenched. I gasped.
Mate, Beast thought. Want mate. Want more.
“Yes,” I said. “Oh God yes.”
Bruiser bit harder. Just beyond the instant when pleasure turned to pain. Scalded and frozen, pleasure and pain whipped through me. “Come,” he whispered.
I came. Throwing back my head. Growling his name, gasping. Shudders raced through me. Electric and fiery and throbbing.
Mate . . .
I screamed. It was the beginning of a long, very long, night.
Dawn was lighting the eastern sky when Bruiser half carried me into my house and into my room. I fell into my bed, where I rolled, facefirst on the pillow, unable to move. He tucked the covers over me. “I love you, Jane.”
“I uv ou oo,” I managed.
“I’ll pick you up at ten for the visit with the broadcasters.”
I grunted. And fell deeply asleep.
I was still boneless but full of energy and feeling pretty spiffy when Bruiser pulled up in front of the house at ten. The workers were banging and hammering and shouting in Spanish on the third floor. I was dressed in slim pants and a fresh silk T-shirt with a black cowl-neck tunic sweater over it, constructed for access to my tactical holster sports bra/T-shirt for easy access to the weapons harness and holsters near the outsides of my boobs. Jacket. Scarlet lipstick. I wore my hair straight, long, down to my butt. I never wore it like this, but at some point in the long night, Bruiser had told me I had the most beautiful hair he had ever seen. So . . . Down. Long. A straight fall of shimmering black hair.
It wouldn’t be practical if I was fighting. But a business meeting was a different kettle of fish.
Hunt fishes? Beast asked.
Not today. Today we hunt businessmen across a conference table.
Eat businessmen?
Only if they attack us.
Without looking at Bruiser, I slid into the passenger seat. I could feel the heat on my face as I closed the door. He didn’t pull away. I knew he was staring at me. Waiting for me to say something. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, hoping something intelligent would fall out. Instead I said, almost casually, “Last night was fun.”
I could hear the laughter in his voice when he said, “The best part was when you shoved me to the floor. And climbed on top.”
“Ummm.”
“Or maybe when you screamed yourself hoarse. That was good too.”
“Ummm. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Finally he took mercy on me and pulled the SUV into the traffic. “Although the part where you took me in your mouth . . . I was quite keen on that part as well.”
My breath hitched, remembering that part. “You are an evil, evil man.”
“I am. You seemed to like it.”
“Oh, I liked it.” I let a small smile play across my mouth. “Can we do all that again soon?”
“God in heaven, I hope so.”
I laughed.