by MJ Compton
Finally, she was strapped in. He put the truck in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. Lucy leaned forward and turned on the radio, fiddling with the buttons until she found the local country station.
That was one way to avoid conversation.
Stoker tried not to scowl. Hank had once said he could scare a ghost with his grimace, so its appearance while he was trying to woo his mate didn’t bode well.
Ancient Ones! He was never going to get this right.
He thought about some of the movies he’d seen on late night television. He was a sucker for human love stories. Happily ever after was his idea of perfection and what he sought with Lucy. Well, he didn’t have time to pick flowers for her right now, chocolate and champagne were poisons, and gestures didn’t get much grander than his offer to liberate her sister. There had to be something else he could do, something immediate.
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he drove the unfamiliar streets, he reached for Lucy’s hand. Holding hands was supposed to be romantic.
She didn’t struggle, but neither did she return the gentle squeeze he gave her fingers. At least, he hoped it was gentle. Sometimes a werewolf misjudged his strength.
He glanced at her, forcing his gaze not to linger. Her profile filled him with a warm calm. He’d never seen anything as beautiful as Lucy Callahan.
A faint tremor just below her surface stillness betrayed her calm demeanor. A faintly rank odor lingered beneath the sweet, green aroma he’d come to associate with her.
Trepidation.
A bride-to-be should be excited, not terrified.
Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her palm. She flinched when his tongue touched the sensitive flesh in the center. “Relax. You look like you’re headed for your own execution. It isn’t very flattering to me, you know.”
Lucy’s eyebrows twisted. Her eyes shimmered as if tears lingered on their surfaces. “Watch the road,” she said, her voice husky and strained.
He wasn’t a monster, but she was making him feel like one.
“I’m not Bill Danby.”
She jerked again. “I know. It’s just that I have a lot on my mind.”
“Business?” He was unable to keep the sarcastic inflection from his tone.
“Yes.”
“You should let Restin handle your business and concentrate on . . ..”
He broke off. He couldn’t very well say “me,” although that’s what he meant. If she hadn’t figured out that part by now, he doubted she ever would.
“On what? Or who? My sister?”
“On being happy.”
Oh, that sounded so lame, and he regretted the words even as they left his mouth. He clutched her hand, his thumb massaging her fingers.
Her bare fingers.
A frustrated howl lodged in his throat, but a city street wasn’t exactly the place for venting.
“Where’s your ring?” he asked between clenched teeth.
Lucy started. “Oh. I forgot to put it back on.”
He pinched her ring finger between his thumb and forefinger. “Why did you take it off?”
She seemed surprised at the venom in his voice. “To make my phone calls,” she said, as if that answer made any sense whatsoever, which it didn’t, unless she had some fetish about wearing rings while on the telephone. “You’re hurting me.”
He immediately eased his grip. She was making him crazy, making him do perverted things. “I’m sorry. The last thing in the world I’d ever do is intentionally hurt you.” He once again brought her fingers to his lips and gently kissed them.
“I know,” she said.
When you won’t wear my ring, you hurt me, he wanted to say, but what kind of male–a werewolf at that–got upset about something as ridiculous as a piece of jewelry. The symbolism wasn’t even part of his culture, but rather hers. Maybe that’s why its absence bothered him. By rejecting her own token, she rejected him.
“What did you do with it?” The question came out more sharply than he’d intended.
“I wrapped it in a towel in the bathroom.”
At least she hadn’t lost it.
“Housekeeping already came through, so it will be okay. I mean, they won’t accidentally toss it.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to wearing a ring.” She held out her right hand. Those fingers, too, were bare.
He felt a little better.
“I promise not to leave it off again. It was a careless mistake on my part.”
Okay, he felt a whole lot better.
“You what?” Restin’s blue eyes blazed as he paced the length of Stoker’s room.
“We got married by a town judge about half an hour ago,” Stoker repeated, his hand resting on the small of Lucy’s back.
Why couldn’t Restin leave them alone?
“Butler showed up this afternoon and threatened Lucy. I couldn’t risk her safety.” Stoker resented the need to explain.
Besides, he didn’t want to remember the sad little ritual in front of strangers. Lucy had called them ‘witnesses’, and for a moment, he’d panicked. Then he’d remembered that this was a human rite, not his own, and the so-called witnesses wouldn’t be rating his performance.
Restin’s nostrils flared as he checked the air. “You haven’t marked her yet.”
Stoker shook his head. “What is so important that you interrupted my honeymoon?”
“You said you were going to have a long engagement.”
“I thought we had time, but after Butler showed up, I changed my mind.” He glanced at his pale, wide-eyed bride. “We changed our minds.”
“Hold off on the honeymoon.” Restin sneered the last word, as if mocking the next step in human mating. “Jasper sent her dossier.”
Damn. Stoker hated Mitchell Jasper, their government contact, with an intensity that only grew stronger the longer Stoker knew him.
“I don’t need to know what’s in your precious dossier,” he told Restin.
“Of course you don’t,” Restin agreed. “But don’t you want to know a little bit about your human mate’s past?”
Something about the tone of Restin’s voice set Stoker’s teeth on edge. There was no way to avoid what was coming, so he might as well make himself comfortable. Sometimes being a delta wasn’t so great, not when someone like Restin was around.
He perched next to Lucy on the end of the bed. Hank leaned against the door, arms crossed as he listened for potential eavesdroppers. Everyone except Tokarz was present.
Restin consulted his laptop. “Lucy’s sister has been living with Butler for about a year. There’s no record of a marriage.”
Lucy cleared her throat. “Michelle is impulsive. She got into a snit about something the government did and was spouting off on a radio talk show when Randy heard her.” Her voice was rusty from disuse. “He tracked her down, and the next thing I knew, she’d moved to his new nation.”
Something tickled between Stoker’s shoulder blades, and it wasn’t his fur. Lucy wasn’t telling them everything. He might have ignored the sensation, but this wasn’t the first time his instincts signaled him that while Lucy wasn’t lying, she wasn’t being completely honest.
Restin tapped on the keyboard, his gaze intent on the screen. “Your parents died in an auto accident five years ago. You and your sister inherited their estate.”
Lucy flexed her left hand, and tiny rainbows from the engagement ring danced on her knuckles. She’d retrieved the ring as soon as they’d returned, which made Stoker feel a little better.
“You were engaged to a Charles Finkler a year later, but broke it off,” Restin continued.
“So?” she asked, watching the play of light on her fingers. She sounded sullen. Defensive.
Her react
ion hit him. Hard. Had she given her heart to this Finkler guy only to have him stomp on it?
“Why did you break off the engagement?” Restin asked.
The color in her cheeks deepened, but she didn’t look at Restin. “I caught him with his secretary.”
Businessmen had secretaries. What was the problem? Then it struck him. The secretary hadn’t been taking dictation. The man had broken Lucy’s heart. No wonder she was hesitant about loving again. He’d have to prove to her that he was worthy.
She continued to stare at the rainbows on her hand.
He glanced at his pack mates. He hated the pity clouding Hank’s expression.
“So you suspected he had a motive for marrying you other than mating?” Restin probed.
Couldn’t he leave it alone?
Stoker opened his mouth to say as much when Lucy responded.
“Obviously.” The single word conveyed a world of emotion.
Stoker made a mental note to kill Charles Finkler after he dealt with Bill Danby. Finkler’s death would be as drawn-out and painful as he could make it. He looked forward to the kill.
“Perhaps your inheritance?” Restin asked.
Lucy nodded.
Stoker was confused. Why would anyone want heirlooms not belonging to one’s own family? He treasured his great-grandmother’s diamond ring, but its value was not in the worth of the stone, but rather in its history, which would now pass down through his and Lucy’s offspring.
“Butler latched on to your sister to get her money, and now he wants to get yours through Danby,” Restin concluded.
Lucy flinched and raised her eyes. “That’s my guess.”
“He needs to fund his army.” Restin sounded satisfied.
His statement clicked.
“That’s why you called a lawyer this morning,” Hank softly said from his post at the door.
Lucy swung her head to glare at Hank. “How do you know I called a lawyer?”
Hank shrugged.
“Oh, that’s right.” Her sweet tone dripped with sarcasm. “You’re the ears.” Then she muttered something that sounded like transmitter and towel as her scowl shifted from Hank back to her hand.
“Why did you call a lawyer?” Stoker asked.
“I wanted a prenuptial agreement before we got married,” she admitted. “Idaho is a community property state. But my lawyer said he couldn’t draw one up without a list of your assets. He offered to do a background search on you, but I didn’t think that was a good idea, with the ATF connection and . . . stuff.” She sighed. “Then I realized I can probably buy Michelle’s freedom by turning my inheritance over to Randy. I needed to make sure getting married in a community property state without a prenuptial doesn’t require your agreement when I dispose of my assets.” Her green eyes hardened as she studied his expression. “After all, isn’t the money the attraction?”
“Huh?” If she’d kneed him in the privates, he couldn’t have been more surprised. Or inarticulate. Once more, he wished for Tokarz’s way with words.
“You want to retire from the road, settle down, and raise a family,” she quoted. “Isn’t that why I smell green?”
“You do,” he replied. “You smell like the first sunny spring day. Like an April morning. Like the color of your eyes–fresh and new.”
A bevy of emotions assailed him. He was bewildered that his favorite color and his favorite season offended her, and stunned that wanting to start their family upset her so much.
She gave him a look that relayed her disbelief.
“You think so?” Luke asked. He stepped toward Lucy as if to sniff her, but Stoker’s warning growl halted him.
“Explain to Stoker what about you isn’t green,” Restin suggested, eyes gleaming.
“What do you mean?” Lucy asked.
Restin settled back, satisfaction curving his lips. “Green means many things, like money. Cash. Lucy probably thought you meant she smelled rich when you told her she smelled green.”
She returned to studying the way the diamond fractured the light, as if she realized how insulting her interpretation had been to him.
“But green means something else. Maybe Lucy feels guilty about her engagement to Finkler. Do you, Lucy?”
Her head jerked, as she stared wide-eyed at Restin. Her lips parted, as if stunned by his words.
Even if he hadn’t known what Restin was blathering about, Stoker wouldn’t have liked his smug tone. He certainly didn’t like the mixture of confusion and apprehension on Lucy’s elfin face, which was now the same deep pink as the peonies that grew next to his grandmother’s porch.
Restin had no business humiliating Lucy like that.
“Getting your kicks for the day, Restin?” she asked, climbing off the bed.
“Lucy.” Stoker stood and reached for her.
“This is the twenty-first century, guys” she said, her voice shaking with fury or maybe embarrassment. “Maybe you should get with the millennium.” She hunched her shoulders, as if to make herself a smaller target. “I’ve never killed anyone. I don’t step on ants or swat mosquitoes. I’m a vegetarian, for crying out loud. How dare you judge me when you know nothing about me except what some detail goon in New York e-mailed you?”
Tears spilled from her eyes like shards of glass, each drop cutting into Stoker’s soul. “You make it sound as if I whored around. If I’m that easy, why would the thought of Bill Danby make me want to puke? I wouldn’t sell myself for anything, not even to save my sister.”
“But isn’t that what you did when you married Stoker this afternoon?” Restin asked, his tone too cool, too polite.
She lifted her chin. “My choice was between Bill and Stoker,” she said. “When life hands you a lemon, make lemonade.”
She pushed past Hank, who stepped away from the door. It snicked quietly shut behind her.
Stoker started to follow her. He didn’t want her being alone, even if they all were right next door.
“How do you feel about being lemonade?” Restin asked after a heartbeat or two of silence.
He barely had the sentence out before Stoker leapt. Hank and Ethan grabbed Stoker before Restin lost his throat.
By the time the red rage cleared from Stoker’s vision, Tokarz was in the room.
“What is going on?” Tokarz’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Luke said you attacked your beta.”
“My beta,” Stoker snarled, “insulted my mate.”
Tokarz turned to the pack’s second-in-command. “Restin?”
Restin’s lips curled. “He married Lucy this afternoon without knowing anything about her.”
“She’s his mate. What else does he need to know?”
“Tell him what you learned,” Restin said.
“I didn’t learn anything, except that you’re a vampire, and we all know what that means.” Stoker then suggested what Restin could do to himself.
He half-expected someone to attack his back as he stomped from the room.
By habit, he scanned the parking lot, looking for anything out of place. He didn’t see the bullet-riddled blue pick-up truck at first, not until he heard Lucy scream.
Chapter 5
The arm against Lucy’s throat tightened, choking her. She couldn’t see a thing, because whoever lurked in her room had thrown something over her head. The damp, musty-smelling fabric couldn’t disguise the stench of wood smoke, perspiration, and unwashed clothing of New Sinai.
Randy had returned for her.
“I told you to be quiet,” her assailant whispered.
Lucy kicked backward as she was lifted from the floor, but her heel flailed in vain.
Colored patterns swam before her eyes, maroon and green paisley op art, like a bad movie from the sixties.
A loud crash barely penetrated her darkening world. Hitting the floor jarred her, but she was too weak to pull the rough terry cloth from her face. Throat burning, she gulped in desperately needed oxygen.
“You can’t kill him,” someone said in a sharp tone.
