The Werewolf's Wife

by Michele Hauf

  The door slammed again, obliterating all images of that crazy night. For the better.

  This time he leaned against the door, but as he thought to twist the fancy glass knob and walk right in, his manners—and his sense of self-preservation—reminded him he’d probably be safer on this side of the door. With a wince, he pondered how well the thin slab of wood would protect him against magic.

  There wasn’t much he feared. Vampires gave him no challenge. Faeries were amiable toward him. Demons just plain creeped him out. But a smart wolf never returned to a place—or person—of danger.

  “Just a few minutes, please, Abigail?”

  It was cold today, and no matter how many layers he wore, he still felt the wind tickle down his neck and ice over his shoulders. But he had to be here. Jason had said an actual signature was required. Email wouldn’t cut it for a divorce.

  “No, we don’t need to talk,” she called, opening the door a crack and gifting him with a flash of heat from inside. “It never happened. I’ve moved on. You’ve moved on. We’re all good. Life goes on. Goodbye.”

  Ridge blocked the door with a fist. He pressed against the weight of the tiny witch trying her best to defeat his strength. “I happen to have a piece of paper that says it did happen.”

  “You what?”

  “Signed by Elvis, even. It’s a little wrinkled, but it’s legal. Elvis was his middle name. The guy who married us was an actual ordained minister, can you believe that?”

  “Well, tear it up!”

  That would be the obvious action. But Jason had checked online and their nuptials had been recorded in the Clark County Marriage Bureau of Las Vegas. The receptionist, appropriately named Priscilla LisaMarie Jones, had signed as a witness. Richard Addison’s marriage to Abigail Rowan was legal, whether or not he had the paper to prove it.

  “Maybe I don’t want to tear it up,” he said, trying a new angle. It wouldn’t serve his purpose to barge in and demand. And he didn’t want to walk away with another scar. Kindness never hurt a man’s position. “I did save your life.”

  “And I am very thankful for that,” she said through the slightly opened door. He couldn’t see her, but could feel her determination; she was putting all her weight against the door. Did she hate him so much she couldn’t give him a few minutes? “Really, I am thankful for the rescue. I don’t think I ever said it to you while sober.”

  “I don’t need your thanks.”

  “But you need to keep me your wife? What’s that about?”

  “That is not what I want from you.”

  “Then tear the damn thing up and leave me alone.”

  “What if I want to convince you I’m worth a shot?” He winced. It was a means to get him inside, to talk rationally with her. He wasn’t seriously considering keeping her as his wife. But he had to play the witch carefully.

  And protect his balls against sudden blasts of magic.

  “Please, Ridge, we don’t even know one another. You know nothing about me.”

  “I know you like vodka.”

  “Used to like vodka. I haven’t gone near a drop of that devil’s brew since that night.”

  “That bad of a memory, eh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I had no idea I was responsible for such a horrible memory.” Then again, wolfing out on an unsuspecting woman was enough to scare anyone for life.

  “It wasn’t you, Ridge. Well, it was, but there was also the part where I was strapped to a stake and flames were whipping about my ankles. I’d say that was the worst memory.”

  “Thank God for that. I mean, that it was your worst memory. I’d hate it to be me that was your worst.” Because memories never went away, and their haunting ability could fell a grown man to his knees. “I scared you. I’m sorry.”

  “I wasn’t scared, I was…startled. I’m sorry, Ridge. This is not a good time to talk.”

  He maintained his position, keeping her from closing the door. “You scarred me, Abigail. To my core. And that scar has kept you in my mind.”

  “Then why didn’t you come to me sooner? It’s been thirteen years, and all of a sudden you want to start things with me again?”

  “I didn’t suggest that—”

  “Does this have something to do with you taking over as principal of the Northern pack? Don’t tell me you need a wifey to—”

  “You already are my wife, Abigail. And it’s not because of the pack.”

  He stopped, not wanting to lie to her. Of course it was for the pack. His life revolved around trying to rescue the pitiful remnants of a pack he held in his charge.

  “Could we please talk face-to-face? It’s below zero out here.”

  “I understand wolves handle the cold well.”

  They did, but that didn’t mean he didn’t prefer a warm living room. Did the woman not have a compassionate bone in her body?

  “Did you bring along divorce papers?”

  He tapped his coat pocket. “If I came at a bad time—”

  Silence crackled like the ice lining the rain gutters overhead, crisp and foreboding.

  “Doesn’t take more than a minute to sign some silly papers, does it?” She swung the door open. “Hurry. Get inside.”

  Sensing an odd urgency about her, Ridge crossed the threshold and stomped his boots on the rug to shake off the snow from the treads, but he kept his senses dialed on high alert. The house was indeed cozy and warm.

  The black cat sitting on the back of a blatantly pink sofa took one look at him, hissed and darted out of the room.

  “Didn’t much care for you, either,” he commented, and followed Abigail through to the kitchen, where she grabbed a black leather purse to mine for a pen. “That your familiar?”

  “What? Swell Cat? I don’t do familiars, nor do I summon demons. He’s just a regular, unshifting mutt of a cat—who doesn’t like dogs.”

  At the unsavory remark, his jaw tightened. Wolves did not like to be called dogs, or even hear finely veiled references. But he’d shackle his anger because he respected Abigail’s power and knew it took but a gesture from her to put out some kind of magic he didn’t know how to fight.

  He scented a metallic, smoky flavor on the air and his eyes went straight to a blackened outlet that had soot streaks crawling out in all directions along the wall.

  “Electrical problem?”

  “Yes.”

  She wasn’t in the mood to talk, rooting around in her purse to keep her eyes off him. Fine. He knew this wasn’t easy for either of them.

  She was as gorgeous as he remembered her. But behind the alluringly cool beauty and sexy figure lurked a wicked maelstrom of magic.

  He remained by the wall, not about to step too close to the witch, who paced back and forth before the counter as if she were looking for something, or had forgotten to pack something. Electrical problem? Yeah, right. There was something about Abigail and electricity—but he wasn’t sure how it worked.

  “What is it?” he asked, sure her nervousness wasn’t simply from him being here. “You look like the devil Himself is arriving for a visit.”

  “Don’t invoke that bastard.”

  “Sorry.” Say the devil’s name three times, and—look out. “Something’s wrong, Abigail, and I’m getting the feeling it has nothing to do with your long-forgotten husband showing up on your doorstep.”

  She flashed him a gaze that told him she would have never put such a label to him. Nor would he. Why had he said that? He shouldn’t claim a title he’d never earned.

  Something about standing in her presence was loosening his resolve to get the divorce papers signed and get out of Dodge. Something that he saw reflected as sadness in her gorgeous eyes. He’d forgotten her beauty. Her compelling presence. Those sexy bow lips. He was a real pushover for women in distress, and had the scars to prove it.

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “Something is wrong.” She pushed shaky fingers through the thick spill of hair that beamed blue wi
thin the black as the cruel winter sun shone through it. He’d not remembered its brilliance or that it looked so liquid, as if he could swim in it. “The worst wrong of all wrongs, that’s all.”

  “Then this can wait.” He tapped his coat where he’d tucked the divorce papers.

  “No, I…” She stopped before him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes unwilling to meet his. Everything about her was tense and wrapped up and not the normal Abigail that he barely knew.

  Every instinctual alert inside him screamed that the woman was in trouble.

  Then suddenly she locked onto his gaze. Her eyes twinkled, and an eyebrow lifted, as if a devious plot had just hatched. “You’re about the most honorable werewolf in the area. You’re strong and smart.”

  “That remains to be seen. My pack is dwindling faster than you can howl at the moon. I wouldn’t say that makes me the smartest pack leader around.”

  “You defended the vampires by taking out your own pack principal.”

  He looked down and aside, his eyes tracking the water puddles from his boots. He didn’t need to be reminded of what he’d done to win his position, but no wolf in the area would let him forget it. Opinions on his honor and smartness varied wildly, from doing the right thing, to being a traitor to his breed.

  He’d only done what was necessary.

  “You’re like some kind of chivalrous knight or something,” she continued with the weird praise. “I’ve seen warriors like you in the sixteenth century. You ooze nobility and valor, Ridge. And damn, you are looking fine lately. You work out?”

  The comments felt so wrong coming from a known sneaky witch who had taken joy in the painful act of shackling the magic of a vampire tribe leader not months ago. “What are you getting at?”

  She pressed her fingers over his jacket. The papers beneath crinkled. Her pale pink lips parted. Sexy, thick lips that glinted with gloss. Had those delicious lips ever kissed him? His memory was a little fuzzy on all the details from Vegas.

  Ridge hoped she couldn’t hear the pound of his heart over the crinkling of the paper, because right now it beat a thunderous pace at her closeness. He was two parts fearful of her power and two parts ready to shove her against the wall and kiss her in a way he’d never gotten to kiss her in Vegas.

  Why were the details so lacking?

  “You want me to sign the divorce papers?” she asked with a forced tone of sweetness. Ridge’s red alert prickled the hairs at the base of his neck. What was she playing at?

  “That was my objective in setting foot on your property and risking further damage to my delicates.”

  “Your delicates?”

  “You put a damned spell on me that night in Vegas, Abigail. Because of it, I am now unable to have kids.”

  She cast a wondering gaze over his face, not meeting his eyes. He wanted that connection, to look into her and read her sincerity, if it existed.

  “I did no such thing. Not on purpose.” She looked aside, then as if an afterthought added, “Hell, I’m sorry. But you deserved it for freaking me like that.”

  “I deserved emasculation?”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “Close. So freaking close. I always knew you were a bad bit of witch, but that was just mean, Abigail.”

  “You think I’m bad?”

  He rubbed his abdomen and nodded. “Yes.”

  A tiny smirk of satisfaction curled her kissable lips. She was pleased with his assessment of her, obviously.

  Creased pink slacks sat low on her hips and her short sweater revealed a slice of taut belly. The slender rim of fur at her wrists taunted him with a tease of softness, promising passion-laden kisses and all the naughty things he’d imagined doing with her over the years.

  Yes, he’d had a few dreams.

  Ridge averted his gaze. He did not find the witch attractive. Though he felt sure the sex had been great, it was only a hopeful memory. He was a fool to believe it had been anything more than a stupid night of drunken folly. Damn that vodka!

  He tugged out the papers from his coat and waved them before her.

  “Okay, okay!” She paced before the counter, twirling a finger about the end of a luscious twist of black hair. “You want something from me? First you have to give something to me.”

  He had not expected this visit to be easy.

  “What’s your price, witch?”

  Pressing her hands to the counter and tensing her jaw, she seemed to struggle for a moment with what she would next say, and then, “Your help. I need the help of a noble warrior.”

  He shook his head, chuckling at the ridiculous request. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

  “I rarely watch television. I don’t need to. I’ve seen the real thing. And you are the real thing, Ridge. I don’t have time to explain, because the clock is ticking and forty-eight hours is now closer to forty-seven.”

  “Abigail, you’re beginning to sound a little crazy.”

  “Am I?” Her vibrant blue eyes finally met his, and he noticed they were bloodshot, as if she’d been crying. That wasn’t the truth he’d been hoping to see there.

  “What’s wrong, Abigail? Talk to me.”

  “I am talking to you. I’ll sign the papers as soon as you help me locate a vampire who has been kidnapped for blood sport by a local pack.”

  He whistled and stepped back a few paces. Mention of the blood sport always brought up his defenses. “You are not serious.”

  “Deadly.”

  “That’s right, you’re the grand high poobah on the Council for werewolf and vampire relations. Since when does the Council take an active role in rescuing vampires from the blood sport? They normally observe and suggest. I can’t imagine they’d step in to personally act on the behalf of one missing vampire.”

  “They won’t, and wouldn’t conceive of taking an active role. The Council can’t know about this. Please, Ridge, I need your expertise. You’re familiar with all the packs in the state. Which ones are involved in blood sport?”

  None of them. He hoped.

  “I…can’t do this.”

  Were some still involved? He was no fool. And he wasn’t stupid enough to believe all the packs had taken the Saint-Pierre wedding as a means to step back from their vicious sport. But he didn’t want to—could not—dredge the Northern pack through that bit of bad press again.

  “I didn’t come here to stick my nose into other packs’ business. I just wanted to unload a wife.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, this wife is going to start nagging in about ten seconds if you don’t help her. And trust me, I don’t have to open my mouth to nag. I’ll let my spells do the talking.”

  She waggled a finger before her, and that night in the Las Vegas motel returned in horrid detail to Ridge. The pain of the infliction had felt like hundreds of thousands of volts of electricity shocking his entire nervous system.

  He glanced at the burned outlet and felt the urge to protectively cover his crotch, but he remained staunch.

  “No magic, please. Is there anything else you’d rather have from me? I stand firm on not associating the Northern pack with the foul blood sport again.”

  She shook her head, lifting a trembling chin. The baddest of the bad was desperate for his help, and she was trying to keep a stiff upper lip about it. Interesting. But he couldn’t resist that soft, quivering lip. Would a kiss be inappropriate right now?

  Probably so.

  Why was it always the damsels who managed to pierce his steel armor and touch his heart? A pouty lip, a few tears. That’s all it took. He was a pushover, and nothing but.

  “Fine, I’ll see what I can do to help, but you swear you’ll sign these papers after we’ve located the vamp?”

  “Yes, but let’s hurry. I want to go to the closest pack, and then on to the next until we find the vampire.”

  He grabbed her by the arm before she could head out the side door. “Why the urgency? You said you had forty-eight hours.”

  Bowing h
er head, she nodded. “A man, who I suspect is a witch, contacted me about an hour ago.”

  “You suspect he’s a witch, but don’t know for sure?”

  “He said he was allied with the Light. But he could be anyone, really. I’m not normally frightened by anyone, you must understand. Hell, I’ve stood against the meanest of the mean, the sickest of the sick, the vilest of the vile. And I’m no angel myself.”

  He was about to agree, but held his tongue.

  “But I could read the seriousness in his threat. He means business, Ridge. I have to find this missing vampire and bring him to a designated meeting spot in forty-eight hours.”

  “Or what? What are they holding against you that would make you go against the Council, when I know such an act could be grounds for dismissal?”

  Abigail lifted her chin and bravely met Ridge’s eyes. “They have my son.”

  Chapter 3

  When Abigail wanted to leave immediately, Ridge suggested they take his truck. She didn’t give him any more information about her son. He had no idea the witch had a kid. But it wasn’t as if he’d kept tabs on her over the years.

  Only in your dreams.

  “I want to drive,” she said, and veered toward the garage, exhibiting the no-nonsense, listen-to-me-or-I’ll-zap-you attitude he knew all too well. “You agreed to help me, so get on board with the plan, Addison.”

  “Plan? When did we come up with a plan?” When she dangled her keys and stepped into the garage, curiosity led him to follow. “Is there a plan?”

  “The plan is to get moving. Fast.”

  The garage was no warmer than the inside of an icebox, he noted before the door rolled up to reveal the gray evening sky and the security light outside blinked on. Ridge nearly tripped over a toy.

  He backed away from the horrendous red-and-black thing some joker in an R&D department had decided to call a vehicle. It was one of those foreign jobs that would get eaten alive by a semitruck on an icy freeway. Not designed for Minnesota winters, that was for sure.

  “Oh no. I’m not getting into that death trap. I’m sure you have to be a clown to ride in one of these.”

  “Ridge.” She fixed him with an exasperated stare, and he almost looked away for fear her eyes might beam another blast of magic that had very likely left the kitchen wall scarred and bruised near the outlet.