by Lynn Lorenz
“This month, running wild is in designated areas only. No one leaves the pack territory. That’s all. Dismissed.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk, and the group stood and shuffled out.
Mike Hawkins, one of Scott’s high school buddies, his best friend and beta, hung back. “Good job putting Wyatt in his place, Scott.” He slapped him on the back. “He just isn’t alpha material.”
“Glad you feel that way.” Scott shook Mike’s hand.
“He’s a good man, a good firefighter; don’t get me wrong, but the thought of Wyatt running this pack puts my hackles up. But really, how the hell do you keep away from the ladies?” Mike leaned in.. He’d found his mate and married three years ago.
“Clean living, Mike.” Scott winked.
“Your mama still on you to settle down?” Mike landed one hip on the desk and grinned at Scott.
“If you mean is she casting spells and trying her hardest to find me a mate, yeah.”
“Not spells?” Mike gasped and paled. “She ain’t seeing the Virgin Mother again is she, ’cause parish funds can’t afford another one of those, you know.”
Scott held out his hands to calm his friend down. “No. Don’t worry. Whatever she’s got up her sleeve, it’s just about me.”
“Mon Dieu.” Mike sighed, then glanced over to Clancy, waiting off to the side. “Looks like you got business.”
“Yeah.” Scott nodded, and Mike headed out, leaving Scott and Clancy alone.
“Sit down, Clancy.”
Clancy took a seat and cast his eyes down in submission.
This was the part of being alpha Scott hated—vetting their mates. He alone gave permission for the pack members to marry. If he did, the wedding was on; if not, the member could either leave the pack, fight the alpha for his mate, or find another mate.
Leaving the pack meant leaving the territory, and without a safe place to change and run, that was incredibly dangerous. Fighting the alpha rarely worked, due to the alpha’s size and strength, and in the past, there had been some “to the death” fights. Scott had no intention of ever forcing one of those, not if he could help it. Killing someone for being in love just wasn’t in his makeup. No way could he live with himself.
But separating mates could be just as dangerous, leaving the wolf without a way to vent his need to protect and to procreate. If a mate couldn’t be found, the wolf’s irrational behavior could put the entire pack at risk, and eventually, the wolf would sicken and die. There was no such thing as an old bachelor wolf.
It was mate or die. But he’d cross that bridge when he absolutely had to.
Scott’s only comfort was that in all his time as alpha, he’d never had to refuse a chosen mate.
“I understand your fiancée is not from around here.”
“She’s from Lafayette, sir. We met at college.”
“She know about you? About the wolf?”
Clancy nodded. “Yeah. I told her before I asked her to marry me.”
“Kind of dangerous, that.”
“I know, but she’s the one. My mate. It’s just like they say, sir. You know it. You can’t think of anyone else, don’t want to fuck anyone else, or even look at another woman.” He shook his head and leaned closer to Scott. “I can’t even watch porn anymore.” He blushed at his confession.
Scott wasn’t sure what to say about that. “The longing of a werewolf for his mate is supposed to be overpowering.”
“It is. I can feel it in my bones, smell it all over her. She’s mine. Deep, deep inside me I know she’s the one, you know?” The young man, probably just thirty, looked up into Scott’s eyes in expectation.
No, Scott didn’t know. He’d never felt that with anyone, ever. That surety. That unshakable knowledge that some person was the one he’d been meant to be with for the rest of his life.
“Sure, Clancy, I know. But as alpha, I need to know if she’ll sign the papers.”
The papers. Nothing more than a prenup stating that if children were born during their marriage, the sons would stay with their father should the couple divorce. An absolute necessity for any males born, since they’d need to be raised in a pack, taught their ways and laws, and what they needed to survive the change. Divorces were nonexistent in the pack, and Scott thought it wasn’t a bad idea at all.
“Yessir!” He nodded. “She understands completely.”
“Good.” Scott slapped his hands together. “She’s the one, right?”
“She’s the one.” Clancy seemed so sure in his heart. For a second, Scott wanted to feel the same way, ached with the loneliness of his life. He shook his regret off, like raindrops from his fur.
“I’ll have to meet her first, of course. Once that’s done, I’ll schedule the ceremony for two weeks before the wedding.” She’d have to sign the papers prior to the marriage and be brought before the rest of the pack to be introduced to the members and the other wives. She’d need all the support she could get to deal with being mated to a werewolf.
“She’s ready. Any time is fine with us. Thank you, sir.” Clancy stuck out his hand, and they shook. “And sir, for what it’s worth, I’d stand by you, no matter what.” His sharp, clear gaze met Scott’s for a second, then dropped, but it was just enough for Scott to read the sincerity in it.
“It’s worth a lot, Clancy.” Scott let his hand drop and motioned for Clancy to be on his way. After locking up, Scott headed for his truck and climbed in.
Between the moon and his mother, maybe there was someone out there just for him. But he wasn’t sure he really believed it.
Or really wanted it.
Chapter Four
Ted entered his destination into the onboard nav system. The route was easy, just follow the I-10 to the turnoff, then head south. The group would meet at the Bayou End Bed and Breakfast, check in, and then spend the first afternoon getting to know each other and understand what the week would be about.
He’d driven from the French Quarter to the Garden District home of Judge Charbonnet. Thanks to the judge, Ted knew the exact time Kirsten would leave. He waited until Kirsten had pulled out of the drive and then followed her. Blending into the ebb and flow of St. Charles Avenue, he realized it wouldn’t be hard to keep tabs on her, not in the bright red Escalade she drove.
She got on the highway, heading west. Ted plugged his iPod into the car’s stereo system, and music filled the cabin. He’d created a special playlist to drive with filled with great old classics and some new stuff, all of it upbeat, to keep him alert.
An hour later, they passed through Baton Rouge. He glanced at the display on his console, calculated the time, and figured they’d get to the B and B in about two hours. If she didn’t make any stops, that is.
While the car ate up the miles, Ted thought about the dream again. He’d skipped the fortune teller at the voodoo shop, deciding that was just too touristy. And it went in direct opposition of his stand that such things were nothing more than hocus-pocus made up for the benefit of the paying customer.
But something niggled at the corner of his brain. Cops were a superstitious breed, and in New Orleans, everything took on an air of the mysterious. He knew lots of cops that believed in voodoo, magic, and their powers.
Ahead, Kirsten motored along at just the exact speed limit, and he’d had to set his cruise control to keep from passing her. Bad enough all the other cars passed them, but he didn’t want to look like he was following her, even if he was.
However, with nearly a dozen people in the painting course, he figured most of them would be coming from nearby. It wouldn’t draw attention even if she noticed. He had his cover. He was just another artist, like her, taking a class.
But the vision of a faceless lover, covered in curling blond hair, just wouldn’t leave him alone, and before too long, he had to shift in his seat to arrange the hard-on making his jeans far too tight.
He’d packed a box of condoms and a tube of lube, just on principle. You never knew who you might meet, and there might b
e other artists, like him, interested in exploring the beauty and pleasures of the male body.
Still, hooking up with someone taking the course had its risks. Would he be expected to spend every night with whoever he fucked? Or worse, would he expect Ted to be there in the morning too? Or that everyone would know about their liaison?
Oh hell, no. He didn’t do mornings, didn’t do anyone more than once unless it was strictly understood there was no relationship.
Ted groaned and rubbed his cock. “Looks like no action for you, buddy. Sorry.”
Ted didn’t do the big R. Relationships. He shuddered at the thought of it. His last one, with his patrol partner, Douglas, if you could call unrequited love a relationship, had nearly killed him.
How could he have been so stupid to fall in love with a straight man? A straight man with a wife he adored. And kids. A man firmly entrenched in the heterosexual life, a man who never once gave Ted the idea that there could be any chance for them.
What a fucking disaster.
Never again. He’d taken the cure, and it had been hard and cold and painful. Hell, it’d taken nearly a year and a half of therapy just to get the image of Douglas lying in his arms, bleeding to death, out of his mind every time he closed his eyes. The complete sense of helplessness, the overpowering knowledge that he’d failed the man he loved, that he should have been first through the doors of that store, not Douglas.
Now he only saw it in his nightmares. Red blood covering everything—his hands, Douglas’s shirt, the floor of the store. Douglas gasping for air, groaning in pain, struggling to stay alive, then the goddamn utter stillness that had destroyed Ted’s heart.
If he had to spend the rest of his life never caring for another person, then so be it. Anything would be better than going through that pain again.
The B and B came into view, sited between two massive oaks, thick arms undulating down to brush the ground and then bending upward to the sky. They were similar to the ones in his dream, but not quite the same ones.
Ted pulled in, right behind Kirsten, and parked in the small lot. He kept his sunglasses on and took a deep breath. Showtime.
He got out of the car and waved to some of the others standing around on the wide porch. “Hi! Is this the place for the artists’ retreat?”
“Sure is!” One gray-haired lady sang out, as the others motioned him up to them. “You must be”—she scanned a clipboard—“Ted?”
“That’s right. Ted Canedo.” He shook hands, then turned to watch as Kirsten came up the steps, pulling a wheeled suitcase behind her.
“Hi, I’m Kirsten.” She gave them all a million-dollar smile, displaying gleaming white teeth, baby blue eyes, and an adorably crinkled turned-up nose. Oh, she was a trophy; just dip her in gold, put her on a pedestal, and call her done.
There was just something so wholesome about her, he couldn’t imagine her cheating, but then again, he couldn’t imagine her marrying Charbonnet.
“Hi, Kirsten.” Ted greeted her, along with the others. He turned to the lady who seemed to be in charge. “What’s the plan? Check-in, then bags?”
The older woman nodded and motioned him inside. “Most of the others are here, and we’re still waiting for the artist himself to arrive.” She went behind the counter. “I’m Marie, one of the owners of Bayou End. My husband, Maurice, is getting the appetizers ready out in the kitchen.”
She pushed some papers across the desk at him, and he took them, signed, and gave them back. She handed him an honest-to-God old-fashioned key to his room. “You’re in the Pelican room. Upstairs, on the right, third door. The men will share a bath, hope you don’t mind. With only three of you, it shouldn’t be too hard, should it?”
“No, I’ll manage.” Ted had thought there would be more men, but if she counted the “artist himself,” that left only one more man, and the likelihood either of them was gay dwindled. The prospects for hooking up didn’t look good.
Kirsten rolled her bag up to the counter and checked in. As Ted left to go back to his car and get his bags, he heard her say, “I hope all the women don’t have to share one bathroom?”
Marie’s reassuring answer followed him out the door, but he never heard Kirsten’s reply. From what he remembered of the Web site for the B and B, it had several full baths upstairs and even one or two down.
Ted grabbed his bags, left his art supplies in the car, locked it, and headed back to the lobby, which had been a large living and dining space converted into several seating areas filled with overstuffed chairs and sofas.
He went upstairs, counted the rooms, and came to his. After fumbling with the lock, Ted opened the door and stepped inside.
It was lovely, much better than he’d thought when Marie had said “Pelican Room.” Done in browns and rustic reds, picking up the colors of the brown pelican prints on the wall, the room felt warm and cozy. The large queen bed, covered in a lovely old quilt, screamed comfort.
He ran his hand over it and pushed, sinking into what had to be a feather bed.
“Good Lord.” He sighed in appreciation and turned to put his things away. He took his kit out of the bag and placed it on his nightstand, then hung up his clothes in a tall French armoire against the wall. Through the window, he could see out over the parking lot on the side of the house.
Excellent vantage point to watch everyone who came and went. He was a lucky duck. Or pelican, as it were.
He chuckled.
Best to get back down and scope out the others. Maybe the “artist himself” had shown. If not, Ted didn’t want to miss the fanfare, confetti, or whatever accompanied the maestro’s arrival.
He trotted down the stairs and strolled over to a gathering of people in the living room. Everyone smiled at him. Most of them were ladies in their late forties and fifties, with a few younger women sprinkled in.
If he’d been straight, and fifty, this would have been a happy hunting ground. But he wasn’t, so it was neither happy nor a hunting ground.
“Is Darcy here yet?” Kirsten joined the group. She’d freshened up, put on a coat of lipstick, and pulled her hair into a loose ponytail of cascading blonde curls. She looked even younger than before.
“Do you know him?” Ted cocked an eyebrow upward, curious to see what she’d say.
“No, we’ve never met, but I just love his work.” As she talked, she moved her hands , and her huge diamond wedding set flashed like a revolving lighthouse beam. “How about you?”
So she wasn’t hiding the fact she was married.
“I didn’t really know who he was; I just wanted to get away somewhere and paint. When I found the course online, then checked him out, I liked what I saw.” Ted shrugged.
“We all come to Darcy in our own way,” intoned an older woman with short dark hair who sprawled in a high-backed green velvet chair.
The room of women twittered and giggled, and if he hadn’t been standing right there looking at them, he’d have sworn they were a group of thirteen-year-olds sighing over the latest teen heartthrob.
“So do most of you know him?” Ted sat on one of the couches.
“I’ve studied with him twice before. He’s brilliant but temperamental,” a short, plump redhead with close-cropped hair and glasses warned him. “He’s British.” As if that told him all he needed to know.
“Well, shouldn’t hold that against him.” Ted smiled. He’d done a thorough search on the Internet about their instructor. Wentworth had studied art in England and France and had made a name for himself with his impressionist landscapes. Now at almost fifty, he was doing the North American tour, teaching classes all over the country. And for what Ted had paid for the one-week course, Wentworth was making a bundle.
If the man was as charming as the ladies made him out to be, then perhaps he was the one Kirsten was hooking up with, despite her claim never to have met him.
If she was cheating with anyone. He was beginning to have his doubts about it. There were only three possibilities here at the ho
tel, and it certainly wasn’t Ted. That only left the missing guy, and Maurice, the owner of the place. As since Marie looked to be in her early sixties, Ted figured Maurice was not his man.
A woman rushed into the house and skidded to a stop.
“He’s here! He’s here!”
Everyone, except the woman in the chair and Ted, bolted for the door. Ted glanced at her, she shrugged and jerked her head toward the doorway.
“I suppose we should attend the official arrival.” She stood, and Ted rose too.
“As long as I don’t have to curtsey.” Ted offered her his arm. She took it as he led her out the door and onto the porch. “It seems he’s made quite an impression on everyone.”
“Darcy tends to do that.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “His appearance is striking, and he has this way about him.” She winked at him. “Sort of a cross between Fabio and Andy Warhol.”
Andy Warhol with a long flowing mane of white-blond hair and Fabio’s muscle-bound body?
Now, this Ted had to see.
Chapter Five
Darcy Wentworth was indeed a sight to see. He drove up in a huge black SUV and took his time getting out, probably for maximum effect.
The women of the group certainly hung on his every movement. Ted, not so much, although he’d hate to admit his curiosity was piqued.
But the door opened. A tall man with a Fabio-worthy blond mane falling to just below his shoulders and piercing blue eyes stepped out. He wore faded jeans, not too tight, but not hanging off, and a cream silk shirt open at the throat. Blond hair curled over his muscular, tanned chest.
For a moment, Ted’s heart thudded. Could this be the man in his dreams? Blond, tanned.
No way. No fucking way. An artist? Named Darcy? And with all that hair? He didn’t like guys with long hair. He preferred his men more butch, short-haired, well-built.
But despite his denial, he couldn’t deny his interest, whether this was the man or not.
