by Jade White
“Hello?”
“Nicholas Trocaire.”
“This is he,” Nick had said, frowning at the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line.
“You have something that belongs to me.”
“Do I?” Nick’s instincts had begun to rise to the surface, his animal nature beginning to tingle in his veins, his bones crackling with the energy of the transformation at the threat he could hear in the stranger’s voice.
“You do. And I’m warning you: I take what’s mine.” With that, the stranger had ended the call.
Nick shook off the threat as he unlocked the door to the townhouse and stepped through it. One of the conditions he had made for leasing the property was that he would have his own access to the home. Since he had paid for not only the full year of rent, but also the costs to move and furnish the townhouse, Cynthia hadn’t argued against that provision very much. The bigger hurdle had been convincing her to allow him to pay for all of it himself. Nick smiled privately as he remembered her almost sulky frown at the proposition, the way she had said that since he’d already paid for her services for the month, she could afford to manage her own relocation. He had worn her down—but it had required every ounce of charm he possessed and multiple orgasms to convince her that the letter of the contract stipulated that he would pay for everything.
“Cynthia? Are you ready for dinner?” Nick didn’t bother to kick off his shoes as he stepped through the entry hall, peering around. Cynthia had insisted on keeping as much of her own furniture as possible, and had rejected anything that seemed too expensive for the things that she’d allowed Nick to buy for the new home. He had to admit that in spite of the relative cheapness, everything looked comfortable and cozy: the sofa in the living room was the same big, ancient edifice that he had seen in her apartment their second meeting together, and the bouquet of fresh flowers on the side table looked cheery.
“Just about! Hold on.” Cynthia’s voice came to him from the upstairs bedroom, and Nick tried—and failed—not to picture her up there, not quite dressed.
He closed his eyes. A vivid flash of memory gave him the image of Cynthia walking through her room a week before, dressed only in a tiny, thin-strapped nightie with nothing underneath. The hem of the dress had barely covered the curve of her ass, while the neckline showed more of her breasts than it concealed. He remembered wanting to rip the fine, silky fabric off of her right then and there, and pull her back onto the bed with him.
You have to be careful, he told himself firmly. She isn’t your mate, and she isn’t even your girlfriend. She doesn’t know what you really are. Nick took slow, steady breaths, suppressing the urges that coursed through his veins: the urge to protect Cynthia from the veiled threat he’d received earlier in the evening, the urge to run up the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him and take her over and over again, claiming her as his own, and the urge to rip the throat out of anyone who came near her. You have to keep it at least a little bit professional. She isn’t ready for a relationship—and if she ever is, you’re going to have to handle her with kid gloves.
The sound of footsteps, muffled but more than a little audible to Nick’s preternaturally acute ears, jarred him out of his thoughts. He looked up and watched as Cynthia came down the stairs, looking almost coy in a dark green satin cocktail dress that made her bright eyes glow.
“You’ve been shopping,” Nick said with an approving smile, his gaze trailing over the curves of her body slowly and appreciatively. The material hugged every like of Cynthia’s lush shape, and it was only too easy for Nick to remember what lie beneath it.
“What else do I have to do with my time?” Cynthia raised a dark eyebrow, a challenging smile twitching at the corners of her lips. “I don’t have a job anymore, and after a while even I need a change of scenery.”
Nick laughed, though in part of his mind, his apprehension deepened. Cynthia had put in her two weeks’ notice at her job after she’d received the first payment from Nick—a decision he had approved of, since after all, he was paying her more than enough to compensate for missing her salary. When the first hint of a threat to him had become apparent, he’d been even more grateful for her choice; but the thought that Cynthia was regularly leaving the house—and the risk that she might be exposed to as a result—weighed on him. He couldn’t imprison her. He was not a barbarian, even for all of his animal impulses. But he also couldn’t stand to risk the woman who his instincts told him was the perfect mother for his child: someone to be protected.
“I couldn’t be happier with the result,” Nick told her, swallowing down his instinct. “Also, I am reliably informed that your second payment will post by tomorrow morning at the opening of the business day.”
“Oh good!” Cynthia laughed, shaking her head. “I was starting to think I might not be able to live as luxuriously as usual for about a week.” Nick grinned as she took the last steps down the stairs, and resisted the urge to coil his arms around her inviting, slim waist.
“Dinner tonight is a real treat,” he told her, offering his arm.
Cynthia picked up a black purse he hadn’t noticed and accepted his courtesy, her hand light over his sleeve.
“Is that so?” Cynthia’s cheeks lit up with the bright red-pink that Nick had come to know so well. “If I didn’t know better, I would suspect that you were trying to get me to develop feelings for you, you know.”
“Why is that?” Nick raised an eyebrow. Cynthia gestured to the townhouse, to her dress.
“You pretty much spoil me. I can’t really imagine that being a ‘kept’ woman is very different from this.” Nick shrugged, leading Cynthia towards the front door.
She stopped him there, flipping down the cover on the security system and keying in her personal code, it was another condition that Nick had insisted on when he’d given her the townhome—even though the neighborhood was in a low crime area, he had wanted to take as many precautions as he could without alarming her. The control panel chirped its acceptance of the code and then began the steady beep-beep-beep tone that indicated that they had thirty seconds before it armed.
Nick closed and locked the door behind them before turning to Cynthia. “How can you blame me for wanting the mother of my child to have the best of everything?” He took her arm once more and steered her towards his car.
“I’m just saying, if I was your mistress this is about the same treatment I would be getting,” Cynthia countered.
“If you were my mistress, you’d have a penthouse apartment next to my office, and we’d be having sex much more often than three times a week,” Nick told her with a grin. “You’d also be getting all kinds of lingerie and jewelry from me, along with days at the spa and every little treasure I could shower on you.” He unlocked the passenger side door and Cynthia slid in, her lips twitching with an amused, wry smile.
When Nick got in on the driver’s side, Cynthia spoke again. “Maybe I should have held out to be your mistress,” she said tartly. “Would you have a baby with your mistress?”
Nick shrugged. “That would depend on how good a mistress you were.”
Cynthia smacked his arm before crossing her own over her chest, looking at him sharply. “If I’ve failed to conceive it definitely hasn’t been because you haven’t been climaxing when we have sex,” she told him. “Our standing record is what—five times in one night?”
“It was six times for you,” Nick pointed out.
He felt a flutter in his chest: adrenaline. Even if he was trying not to think about the potential threat to his future child and the woman who would bear it, it lingered in the back of his mind. He couldn’t deny either that he was more attracted to Cynthia than he had been to any of the women he had actually dated. She was intelligent, clever, beautiful—and she smelled like heaven. There wasn’t a time when they were together that he didn’t want to rub himself all over her. Once—while she had been sleeping the contented, satisfied slumber of multiple orgasms—he had given into the imp
ulse, nuzzling her neck, the valley between her breasts, her hips, and inner thighs, until she had begun to stir.
“So the sex is great, and you’re already paying for my entire life.”
“Are you asking me to date you?” Nick pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, flashing a quick grin at Cynthia. He barely caught her deepening blush as he maneuvered into traffic, heading for downtown.
“No,” she said, her voice rising in pitch slightly. Nick caught the whiff of uncertainty, of almost-fear that cut through her sweet, warm pheromones. “It’s just—I—I might have forgotten the point I was trying to make.” Nick laughed, taking one hand off of the wheel and reaching out to take Cynthia’s hand.
“I like spending time with you,” he said slowly. “I really—really—like having sex with you.” Nick paused for a moment. He knew that it was like walking in a minefield to attempt to start a serious relationship with a non-shifter. “But wouldn’t you feel more like I was paying you for sex if you were my mistress?”
He glanced at Cynthia and knew that while he’d said the right thing to steer her away from the bent of her thoughts, their night would be a thousand times more awkward than it would have been if the subject had never come up. Cynthia’s cheeks were bright with a blush, and her lips were pressed firmly together. She took her hand from him and looked out through the window, and Nick knew she was gathering her composure.
“So what was the treat I was in for tonight?” Cynthia’s voice showed signs of the strain that Nick knew she was feeling. For a moment he felt guilty for pushing her away. But there were more important issues than preserving her regard. She might be in danger right now. I’m in danger. I need to keep her safe; and anyway, the risks are too high if she finds out what I really am.
“It’s a little bit cheesy,” Nick admitted. “But I remembered you mentioning that you love theater. One of my chef friends is doing a cooperative project with a touring theatre company, and they’re putting on an old fashioned dinner theatre in the restaurant.”
“That actually sounds really cool,” Cynthia said begrudgingly.
Nick glanced at her. Some of the chill had left her face, but he knew it would take the rest of the night for her to truly warm up to him again. If he couldn’t get Cynthia to come around, as far as sex was concerned the night was already over. Her pheromones would belie any sense of obligation she might have, and Nick couldn’t get turned on when the woman he was with was so obviously not interested in sex. He took a deep breath and let the silence sit between them for a few moments longer, telling himself he’d find a way to recover the evening. He’d start with a couple of drinks at the restaurant, and with any luck, the play would be good enough, and his attentions to her would be powerful enough, to overcome the distance between them.
Chapter Four
Cynthia relaxed in her chair as the lights came up in the restaurant, signaling the end of the play. “Have you seen this play before?” she glanced at Nick.
“I haven’t, actually,” she said, turning her attention onto her plate.
She had tried to bury herself in the drama unfolding in front of them, but in the back of her mind what Nick had said in the car on the way to the restaurant continued to fester. Cynthia tried to tell herself that her point had been a joke anyway—she hadn’t really meant to suggest that she and Nick should be more than business partners. You know that’s a flat-out lie, woman, her mind countered. You caught feelings for him. At least be honest enough with yourself to admit it. It wasn’t entirely surprising as Nick himself had pointed out, the sex between them was amazing.
From their first night together, he had seemed to know exactly how to touch her—and he had done things to Cynthia that she had never considered particularly erotic, but which had set every nerve in her body on fire with the need for more. The way he had of kissing her inner wrist, or of delicately and carefully nibbling along her inner thighs, or nuzzling her hip while she squirmed and writhed, almost on the point of begging him to finish her off already—he was, without a doubt, the most masterful partner she had ever been with.
“I hope you don’t think that what I said earlier tonight had anything to do with some kind of—issue I have with you as a person,” Nick said quietly.
“I mostly just figured you wanted a mistress without calling me a mistress,” Cynthia said tartly, keeping her voice low to avoid the other diners hearing her.
“That’s not it at all,” Nick said. She dared to glance up from her plate and saw him watching her intently, his hazel gaze devouring her. “The issue is that my life is very complicated.”
“Right,” Cynthia said quickly. “I get it. Billionaire, lots of responsibility, lots of traveling to different companies. No—I understand. I just wonder how you’re going to raise a kid if that’s the life you’re choosing to lead, all on your own.”
“I have my mother,” Nick pointed out. “I have other family, and friends—and there are lots of nannies and au pairs.”
“I get it,” Cynthia said, her stomach twisting and turning over on itself inside of her. She picked at the poached pears in brandy on the plate in front of her, refusing to give into the impulse to make a scene. “You’re right, we should keep our relationship strictly professional. I was only joking around, anyway.”
“Cynthia.” She looked up, feeling the lump growing in her throat. It was less grief because of her disappointed affection, and more embarrassment and humiliation at being rejected. “I like you a lot. In fact, if we’d met any other way—and if I had a different life—I would be asking you to move in with me already, so I could have as much sex with you as possible, and see you every day.”
Cynthia felt her cheeks warming up. The comment kindled something in her that had started to grow cold, even as it relaxed the knot that had formed somewhere in the pit of her stomach.
“But…” she prompted him, raising an eyebrow as she resolutely took a bite of her dessert.
“But my life is complicated,” Nick said. He leaned in slightly. “You remember me telling you about my father being murdered, don’t you?” Cynthia nodded slowly. She did remember it—though it wasn’t something that was at the very top of her mind. “They’re after me—whoever they are. And I don’t even know who it is yet.” Nick patted at his lips with his napkin before taking a sip of his wine. “That was part of the reason I insisted on security at your place. I don’t know whether or not they’ll come after you, too.”
It was as though someone had dripped ice water down Cynthia’s spine. The realization that Nick was in serious enough danger—that he thought his life was enough at risk to think that hers was by association—had never occurred to her before. She had gone along with his demands for security at the townhouse he had rented for her mostly because she had thought that his ownership of the property entitled him to determine something like that. She had thought that he was being cautious, since she didn’t know the neighborhood and wasn’t established with her neighbors.
“Did you know that I’d be in danger when you asked me to be your surrogate?” The question bloomed in her mind in a sudden shift.
“No,” Nick said, shaking his head to emphasize the point. “I knew that there was some suspicion that my father was murdered, and that if he was—I would, of course, be a possible target, depending on who it was that had killed him. But more recently…” Nick shrugged. “It’s become more and more obvious to me that there’s real danger. Not just something theoretical.” Nick took the final bite of his pear and set his plate aside. “I got a phone call this afternoon, right before I left to meet you at the townhouse.”
“What about?” Nick’s jaw tightened and Cynthia felt a low stirring of dread.
“It was someone threatening me,” he said. “I don’t know how they got my direct number—it’s not published anywhere, and it’s not the sort of thing someone could figure out easily. But the person—I think it was a he—told me that I had something that belonged to him, and that he was going to tak
e it back.”
“Yeah, I’ll agree that that sounds ominous,” Cynthia said. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay, so yeah. Your life is pretty complicated right now.”
“I’m going to talk to the detective tomorrow,” Nick told her. “If this guy was able to get my direct line, he’s got access to more information than I feel comfortable with. If I have any luck at all, the phone system captured some kind of details about him.” Cynthia shivered.
“Do you think—should I be like, staying in or something?” Cynthia picked at imaginary lint on her napkin. She felt cold all over, her heart pounded in her chest.
“I will probably find a bodyguard for you,” Nick said. “If it won’t offend you, I mean. He’ll be on-call; if you need to leave the house, he’ll accompany you from door to door.”
“I think I would like that, actually.” Cynthia licked her suddenly dry lips.
She took another sip of her wine nervously as possibilities flooded her mind. Never in a million years would she have thought that her connection to Nicholas Trocaire would put her in anything like real danger. Imagine how much worse it would be if you actually were his mistress. Whoever wants to kill him would know to come after you for sure; he’d see you with Nick constantly. Remember: small favors.
“So I guess it’s a good thing we’re strictly professional,” Cynthia said aloud, smiling weakly.
“For right this moment, yeah,” Nick agreed.
He reached across the table and took her hand in his; he was so warm—almost hot to the touch—every time he touched her. When she had fallen asleep in bed with Nick, Cynthia had awakened once or twice sweating, he was so hot. It was comforting now though, and Cynthia let his heat seep into her, pushing away the cold chill of fear that had lit up her nervous system.
