Captured by Moonlight

by Nancy Gideon

  She’d taken it for granted. She’d assumed she was the priority in his life, because he’d told her so, again and again. And she’d liked it, liked knowing that someone held her in such tremendous esteem and devotion.

  She’d never been considered first by anyone before. Not by her mother, who’d chosen the bottle; not by her father, who’d chosen his badge; not by her best friend, who’d valued her revenge.

  But Max—Max had made her the focal point of his existence for twelve years. He’d placed her above his loyalty to Jimmy Legere, ahead of his newly discovered clan; he gave more importance to her than to his own life. He made her feel special, adored…loved.

  And now, he’d suddenly pushed her off that pedestal with his silence, with his lack of reassurance. The startling abruptness of her fall slapped the breath from her.

  She let him go gradually, relaxing her grip, forcing her anguished heartbeat to slow, determined not to make the same mistake that Jimmy had. Jimmy hadn’t known when to let go.

  She kissed his brow, stroked his hair, making both gestures light, surface comforts. Then she gently pushed him away.

  He rocked back on his heels, his hands still resting at her waist, his gaze worriedly searching hers. She couldn’t let him know he’d just torn the heart and soul from her.

  “No more of this nonsense,” she scolded firmly. “I’m not going to let you go through this alone. I’m going to be here for you, right here—not out there, like some animal in a cage. No arguments.”

  He seized her face in his palms, his mouth over hers. She gave herself up to the sweet drugging pleasure of his kiss for a poignant moment, then pushed him back again. When he told her fiercely, “You are everything to me,” she just smiled. Because she knew that was no longer true. And because that was far too hurtful to deal with, she focused on the professional.

  “I was just talking to Alain. He had more information about Tina’s parents.”

  Max settled cross-legged on the floor beside her chair. “Her adoptive parents,” he corrected. “What do they claim happened?”

  “A home invasion. Quite brutal. They believe her father put up a struggle before they were both shot.”

  “Shot,” he mused.

  “So the story goes.”

  He glanced up. “But you don’t believe that, either?”

  “There were no defensive wounds on his hands. I think they were both bound and beaten. The shooting, the robbery—that was just smoke.” She was remembering the tortured body of Tito’s girlfriend on his bed, and she guessed the scenario. The couple bound, he tortured, but neither talking. She threatened; he refusing to give in. A military man, he wouldn’t take to threats easily. Then they shot his wife, and he’d give them nothing after that, so he no longer had value. How long would it take them to link Christina, the daughter her parents had protected, to Tina Babineau?

  Max was remembering the battered face of Tito Tibideaux and said, “I thought they were looking for me, but I’m not so sure now. I think it’s Oscar.”

  “Why? What’s so important about him?”

  Max shook his head. “I can’t explain it. Charlotte, he’s my—” He broke off and glanced over his shoulder toward the door. A moment later, Oscar appeared.

  “Hey, Ozzy. I was just talking to your dad. They’re going to be home tomorrow. Your mom’s going to call you just before suppertime to see how you’re doing.” She had until then to decide what she should tell her partner.

  Oscar stood silent, then dampness welled up in his eyes. Before Cee Cee could think of what to do, Max crossed to him. He crouched down so they were eye to eye, and said something quiet to him that brought the boy’s arms in a quick hug about his neck. Cee Cee expected Max to recoil, but he pulled Oscar into an easy embrace and just held him, his eyes closed, his expression intense.

  When Cee Cee recognized the look on his face, she thought with greater sympathy of Jimmy Legere, and how he must have felt as she intruded on the loyalty and love Max had for him.

  Max stood to let Oscar dash upstairs, watching the boy with a complexity of emotions flitting across his usually impassive features. Then he turned to Cee Cee and his expression became guarded, shutting her out. “I’ve got to take care of some business this afternoon.”

  “Fine. You don’t have to entertain me. I’ve got to speak to Father Furness about arrangements anyway.”

  Then Oscar was clattering down the steps. He had a ball and glove in one hand and grabbed Max’s with the other. Smiling slightly, Max let himself be drawn outside to the yard.

  “That’s something I never thought I’d see,” Helen said.

  Cee Cee glanced up at the housekeeper, who regarded the man and boy with bemusement. “What’s that?”

  Helen only smiled, but Cee Cee understood. Max enjoying an ordinary moment, just having fun.

  Then the older woman, who’d cared for Max as much as he’d allow while he was growing up, looked more closely. “Must be déjà vu.”

  “What?”

  “For a moment there, I thought I was looking at Max as a child.”

  Cee Cee didn’t answer. For just then, Oscar caught a bouncing ground ball and his face lit with a rare, wide grin.

  And she saw Max Savoie in that smile.

  MAX WAS BEHIND closed doors for most of the afternoon. Jacques LaRoche arrived with four men she recognized from the encounter when Rollo was killed. Dangerous and dedicated individuals, they served one deadly purpose.

  From the distant parlor sofa, she watched Max’s gathering of professionals. The hard-eyed foursome from LaRoche, Giles, Teddy, and a half dozen of Legere’s most trusted muscle men. She wondered about the wisdom of combining the two forces, and worried over the circumstance that would cause him to unite the so very different groups. And her heart ached from the exclusion. An hour later, Giles led the lot of them down the hall to the nerve center of the estate’s security, leaving Max and LaRoche to private council.

  The two of them emerged from Jimmy’s study, still in intense conversation. When LaRoche glanced up and saw her foot propped up on pillows invalid style, he grinned knowingly.

  “I’ll bet infirmity is hard for a warrior like you to take.”

  She scowled. “I can still take you. You’d have to come over here within reach, though.”

  He chuckled. “I’m borrowing Max for a while.”

  “You don’t have to clear it through me.” Her cool gaze slipped to where Max stood silently in his shadow. “Max is a big boy. He does pretty much whatever he wants, with or without my permission.”

  “I’ll bring him back no worse for wear.”

  Just bring him back, she thought as she waved them away.

  Max started off with LaRoche, then suddenly wheeled about into the parlor to drop down on one knee beside the sofa where they’d once lounged naked and replete after mind-blowing sex. Where he’d let down his defenses to share secrets from his past. Where he’d told her the sofa could be hers if she wanted it to be, and she’d been frantic wondering if he was proposing more than cohabitation. Making her wonder what she really wanted from him, and for how long.

  Max surprised her with an open-mouthed kiss that stole her breath. And her heart.

  “I won’t be long.” Then he was gone.

  And she knew what she wanted from him.

  Forever.

  TRYING TO FIND a way for them to survive the coming hours, Max stared up at the dented roof of LaRoche’s Caddy and breathed in the scent of Charlotte. Anger bubbled beneath his surface calm as he turned to La Roche and asked, “Isn’t it about time you told me the truth?”

  And just like that, Jacques spilled everything. When he was done, a long silence settled.

  Then Max’s low growl. “You took her there into danger?”

  “No one takes her anywhere. She was going, with or without me. I figured she might be safer if I was watching her back.”

  “Tell her that to her face.”

  “Tell that to the Trackers she
emptied her gun into.” He shook his head in admiration. “They never expected such fight in a female, Shifter or Upright. You should have seen her, Max. Damned shame she’s not one of us.”

  Max scrubbed his hands over his face. “Why can’t she stay out of things?” he said to himself as his fear and frustration swamped over. “I don’t want her in the middle where she could be hurt or killed. This doesn’t involve her. We aren’t her people; this isn’t some case she’s on. Why can’t she just let it alone?”

  LaRoche glanced at him. “You don’t know?”

  “No!” he shouted. “I don’t know! Why don’t I ever know anything that’s important? My head’s full of useless stuff. I can rebuild the engine of this car and I don’t know how to drive it. I can speak seven languages and I’ve never been out of these parishes. I run a multimillion-dollar enterprise, but I don’t know how to write a check. I can have all the females I want without saying a word, yet I can’t manage a simple conversation with the only one I want.

  “How am I going to keep her safe, Jacques, when I’m a bigger danger to her than anything she faces on these streets? What am I supposed to do when she won’t listen to me, when she throws herself in harm’s way without even thinking about how I’d go on even a day without her? She’s alone on the streets because of me. How can I protect her when she won’t let me, when she won’t stay away?”

  “Stop trying to keep her away. Invite her in and keep her close. Let us help you take care of her, the same way your Upright people do.”

  “How? She can never be one of us.”

  “But that doesn’t mean she can’t be part of you.”

  Jacques’s words knocked him back in the seat like a punch. Dread and uncertainty held him there.

  Mate with her. Bond with her. Join with her. Forever.

  Simple yet potentially deadly solutions that brought a whole new level of torment to his mind.

  And set the animal within him on fire.

  MAX HAD FINALLY fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  Volunteering to see him through his self-induced agony had been easy to commit to, but so very hard to endure. Yet Charlotte could see Giles was right. The effects of the silver were hideously painful, but not as severe as when she’d nursed him through it before. Weary, she slipped out onto the balcony for some fresh air. As she leaned on the rail, suppressed weeping struggled for escape. But that wouldn’t help him or her.

  What was she going to do? How was she going to keep him safe? How was she going to keep his and Oscar’s secret when it kept getting more dangerous and out of control? And what could she tell Alain without telling him all? He was already suspicious of the circumstances around the two deaths. He was on guard and alert, but he had no idea what he was up against. And he’d stand no chance against those preternatural killers.

  What the hell did they want from Oscar? From Max?

  The night was thick and there was no breeze bringing comfort, so she turned to go back inside. A shift in the shadows had her reaching for her nonexistent gun.

  A figure stood just outside Oscar’s door, its eyes glowing hot and gold. One of the men LaRoche had brought in that afternoon. He made no move toward her, no sound to acknowledge her, but seeing him there made the terror lessen a bit. With a curt nod, she stepped across the threshold into her bedroom. And right into Max.

  Technically, it was Max.

  He caught her by the upper arms, not with his fingers but within the curl of his massive claws. She didn’t move, fearing he might inadvertently harm her. Moonlight glinted off his eyes, reflecting rubylike flashes. His features were concealed by darkness, but she knew she wouldn’t be looking into his familiar face.

  “Max, I thought you were sleeping.”

  He leaned in close and she heard him take in her scent in quick snuffles. A low, throaty vibration rattled through him, and she knew a sudden spike of fear. What if he didn’t recognize her?

  “Max, it’s Charlotte. Are you okay?”

  She held very still, eyes closed, as his breath stroked light and fast against the side of her throat. Then the slow, wet rasp of his tongue. Over her ear, up her cheek, across her mouth. Tasting.

  He crowded against her, big, strong, dominant; pushing her backward, making her stumble until her injured ankle refused to hold. With a soft gasp, she fell back against the wall, pinned there by the press of his bulk.

  “Max?”

  His breathing grew harsh, blending with the rumbling growls that increasingly alarmed her. She didn’t react as he continued to sniff and lick her, his manner more and more aggressive. Bumping her back against the wall, rubbing his coarse cheek into hers.

  This was what she’d wanted—this part of him, the beast that Rollo had warned would tear into her mercilessly and make them one. Then she’d never have to worry about losing him again.

  If she survived.

  His teeth scraped along her jaw and she shuddered helplessly, crushed between two equally unyielding planes. She levered her hands up, palms flat upon his hot, brutally hard furred chest. His heart hammered beneath her resisting push, the fierce, savage beat of a conquering army rushing a weaker foe.

  And she panicked.

  Because this wasn’t Max. There was no sign of him in the creature trapping her with its overwhelming size and strength. The hot pant of his breath on her face, faster and faster; the threatening snarls. The feel of him, so foreign. Not Max’s powerful sleekness, but something altogether different in texture, in tone, in scent, in behavior.

  He still wore the sweatpants he’d been sleeping in, but the fabric was stretched to the limit to contain the sudden bulk of his thighs, the thickening of his waist, and the frightening increase in his sex to something he could hit a home run with. That part of him pounded with a life of its own against her belly, hard, insistent, like the weapon used in the slaying of the two women Rollo had attacked and murdered.

  She could see their faces on Dovion’s table, could feel the fear and agony they’d endured, because that same terror lived inside her. The memory of it screamed through her and she fell into it, floundering wildly. Because Max wasn’t there to pull her safely out.

  She hit him, striking his altered face with mindless desperation, thinking only of escape now, of escape from the nightmare of her past.

  The instant she went from passive to offensive, he responded with primitive instinct to hold on to what was his. He grabbed for her just as she shoved and dropped. She managed to duck under his arm but her ankle buckled, sending her to the floor with a cry of pain. Before she could scramble forward, he was on her, his weight smashing her against the hardwood.

  Then light from the hallway swept into the room, and Oscar Babineau stood staring at them in silent distress.

  Seeing his fright snapped Cee Cee back to her senses. Wincing, she got her knees under her so she could rise in front of Max, blocking him from the boy’s view.

  “I’m sorry, Ozzy. Did we wake you up?” She smiled. “I shouldn’t be so stubborn, trying to get around on my own. I took a fall and Max was helping me up. I guess I’m going to have to get some crutches tomorrow. Give me a hand, will you?”

  Oscar cautiously came into the room, letting Cee Cee grip his shoulder while she struggled to wobble up on one leg. There was no question she was hurting, and he began to relax.

  And then Max was there, solicitously cupping her elbows, his head bent close to hers as he murmured, “Let me help you.”

  She was lifted up with one arm tucked under her knees and deposited atop the bed covers. Then he was gone, slipping out onto the balcony to mingle with the shadows.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Oscar asked with surprising maturity, still pale but determined not to leave her without making certain.

  “I’m fine now. I’ll stay put for the night. Thanks for checking on me.”

  “I thought…I thought you were fighting.” She could see his confusion at the signals he must have picked up from Max.

  “No. We
disagree sometimes, but we don’t fight.” Smiling, Cee Cee didn’t think she could feel lower as the boy nodded and returned to his room. She spent the rest of the night alone and awake, afraid to close her eyes lest the nightmare return. The dream, she told herself shakily. It was the dream she feared, not the man she loved—who was also a monster.

  FRANCIS PETITJOHN LEANED over the desktop to snap on the small light.

  “Holy Mother!”

  As Petitjohn leapt back in shock, Max lifted his head off the blotter where he’d been sleeping fitfully. He rubbed his gritty eyes and blinked up at Jimmy’s cousin. “T-John, what are you doing here at this hour?”

  Petitjohn took a rough breath and pressed a hand over his galloping heart. “I could ask you the same thing. You about scared me out of clean shorts. I’ve got a meeting with Cummings in a couple of hours and forgot one of the spec sheets. I didn’t know anyone was even in the building.”

  “I wasn’t planning to doze off. I was just going over some things.”

  Francis glanced at the empty desktop. “I’ll just get those figures and get out of your way.”

  Max rolled back in his chair to give Petitjohn access to his file drawer. A twist of guilt got hold of him; he’d been paying little attention lately to the legacy Jimmy had placed in his care.

  “How are things going with that?”

  T-John glanced up at him. “Fine. We—you should make a small fortune off it.”

  “Just what I need, another fortune.”

  T-John gave him an odd look. “Yeah, right, Max. Anyway, I need to get some copies made.”

  “Is this something I should sit in on?”

  Francis’s smile was easy and slick. “Naw, just follow-up stuff. Same materials you went over on those estimates.”

  Estimates? He vaguely recalled the paperwork, but not whether he’d actually reviewed it. He sighed wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose as if that could stop the cannon firing off through his brain. “I appreciate you handling this, Johnny.”

  T-John’s smooth smile thinned like ice over treacherous waters. Only Jimmy had called him that when he was in a rare fond mood, and he clearly didn’t like hearing it from Max. “Nothing I like better than making a killing, Max.”