by Anne Marsh
Up.
Down.
My nylons shred further with each downward step. Holy. Jesus. I reach the end of the block. Cross. Then I go all Lot’s wife, unable to resist a backward glance. No cops in sight. Nada. Just the shadowy form of her savior up to his elbows in the dog pack. Growls follow snaps… and then silence. Shit. I face forward and run. Silence isn’t my friend either.
Has the 9-1-1 operator dismissed my call as a prank? Straining my ears, I hear no footsteps. No growls.
A strong male arm snakes around my waist, yanking me back against a hard chest. Don’t panic. I suck in a fresh breath. Go with the backup plan.
“Gianna.” The rough male voice in my ear is just possibly familiar. Too late. I slam my foot down as I drive my head back and scream. Unfortunately the man wrapped around me is wearing motorcycle boots. My bare feet don’t make a dent.
“Gianna.” There’s my name again, but this time the voice holds laughter too. He has a beautiful voice, my captor does.
The first siren lights up the night with welcome noise. Rescue’s on its way. All I have to do is fight and hold out, two things I’ve had a lifetime of experience in doing. The nausea churning my stomach is my first clue that I’m out of time, and then a bone-deep chill follows the sick. Shoot. Without permission, my legs go rubbery, demanding I sit down. Suck it up. Ride it out.
“Hey, shug.” Big hands ease me down, positioning my back against a handy tree.
I blink. Jesus. Cool pavement soaks through my skirt. My legs stuck out in front of me, the nylons laddered. Yep. I’m ass planted on the ground, and my clothes are headed for the trash. My guy sets my tote bag down beside me. Not a robbery. That’s a good sign, right?
“You breathe for me now,” he says, the demand pure Cajun drawl.
Something in me reacts to the unfamiliar note of authority in his voice. I don’t take orders unless it’s from a judge in my courtroom—or from a senior lawyer. I definitely don’t take orders from too sexy, overly familiar Cajuns.
Especially if I want to.
Focus. The advantage of parking it on the sidewalk is that my position puts me on eye level with his chest. A broad, powerful chest unfortunately concealed beneath a black T-shirt. He crouches casually beside me, forearms resting loosely on powerful denim-clad thighs. He leans in some—probably checking on that breathing order he’s laid on me—but the move puts him too close. He’s also too large, too sure of himself. If I had him in a courtroom, I’d take him down a peg.
Since I’m not in court, I’ll have to work with what I have. Dragging my gaze up—and up—I grab my bag and shove my hand inside. Like a sign from above, my pepper spray rolls into my palm and I flip the canister out. I’m pretty sure I’m close to out in the burn-your-eyes department, but he can’t know that.
“Back off.” He might not be a mugger, but he’s still an unknown quantity.
The cop cars get closer and louder, but so does he. “I thought we were old friends, shug.”
Not touching me, but definitely in my space. This time as my heartbeat slows from its mad rush toward a heart attack, I look at his face, really look, and a different kind of cold shock spreads through my veins, followed by rage. I know this guy. I’ve spent the past ten years looking for him without finding him. Since he’s here and I don’t believe in coincidences, I’d also bet he knew where I was all along.
“Oui. I’m the man you asked to marry you.” He doesn’t move, keeping those powerful hands loose on his thighs. He touched me with those hands, coaxed me, held me down as he taught me all the different ways a woman can come apart for a man like him. If I’m honest, I didn’t make him work all that hard either. I let go and seized the pleasure he offered, trying to cram a lifetime of pleasure into one Vegas weekend. Sin City needs a new marketing slogan, because what happens in Vegas clearly has not stayed in Vegas.
Like me, he’s ten years older. Unlike me, however, his face doesn’t show it. No, damn it. He’s still a dark-haired, dark-eyed Cajun, but that description is as uselessly bland as noting he’s male. Power rolls off him and not just the kind his muscles give him. Luc wears a different kind of authority the way the lawyers I work with wear their nine-hundred-dollar bespoke suits. My fiancé is damned used to giving orders—and having them followed.
A second cop car joins the first down the street. Luc crouches beside me, unconcerned. Raised voices float up the street as the cops get out, do some door slamming, and start walking the scene.
“I need to go,” I say, slipping my shoes back on and pressing my palms against the sidewalk. It’s only October, but the concrete is already cold, any residual heat from the day long gone. I trace the cracks with my fingertips, pushing the dirt beneath my nails.
“You spend ten years lookin’ for me, and you don’ wan’ to talk some now that we’ve been reunited?”
Nope. Not really. And I guess that’s not a shock, when I think about it.
I have no idea what he’ll say, and the embarrassment is unexpectedly excruciating. I remember the magic of his touch. I definitely remember the orgasms—and the too-much-champagne part of the night. Hell, I even remember asking him to marry me. It’s the remaining hours of the night that are a haze, and the kicker is: I don’t actually know if we’re married or not. It’s a possibility, especially given my distressing memory of an Elvis impersonator with a cleric’s collar. I asked… but did he say I do?
I let the silence build up between us, a trick I learned in the courtroom. He doesn’t crack, which shouldn’t surprise me. After all, I was the one out of control. Lost in the pleasure. He was… I have no idea how he felt, although he’d had his dick in me. On me. Other places. Being married to someone I’d known for one night would be insane—but part of me hurts thinking that he turned me down.
“I’ve got nothing,” I say, and that’s the truth.
“I doubt that.” He places a hand on my knee, curling his fingers around my skin. I hold my ground, but the shocking heat of his naked palm touching me has me thinking retreat. Just like that, baring myself for his touch seems like the best of ideas. Please demands the part of me that’s been alone for the past ten years. That traitorous part doesn’t want to be armored in my suit and my nylons, wearing three-hundred-dollar Manolo Blahnik pumps.
His fingers are simply there. Not pressing or compelling or threatening, but my entire universe still contracts to those few inches of skin and Luc. Shit. He can’t do this to me. Not again.
I hate him.
Right. Time to fall back and regroup. I shove to my feet. The move isn’t particularly graceful, and I might possibly flash him my panties, but I ignore his outstretched hand. Touching him is every bit as dangerous as the wild dog pack.
“I’ve got a hot date with those good old boys down the street.”
He drops his hand and flows to his feet, still too close. “You don’t wan’ to talk to them.”
For twenty-four hours, ten years ago, he was equally certain he knew what I wanted. What was best for me. The worst part of it was, when we’d been in bed—or on the floor or in the shower of my Vegas suite—he’d been right. I hadn’t known what my body needed or wanted, but he had. Orgasms really weren’t everything though, so I’d walk away now.
Right now.
My Manolo Blahniks stay planted right there on the sidewalk. “I called for police assistance.”
Luc makes a rough sound, but I don’t turn my head. Instead, I force my misbehaving feet into motion and limp toward the cops gathered around two still dogs on the ground.
Luc falls into step with me. “I’ll walk you back to your place.”
Of course he knows where I live. Funny how anger makes me forget about the October chill in the area and being cold. He ignored me, gave me space for ten years, but I always knew I was living on borrowed time. The monthly deposits in my checking account were a reminder and something I need to cut off. And yet… something else has always held me back, something I don’t plan on inspecting too closely
. Part of me likes belonging with this man. Not to, because I can’t go that far, but with. At his side. As his partner.
Clearly he’s driven me crazy.
Imagining marriage with him has been my midnight fantasy. Being older and wiser—not to mention closer than ever to being made a full partner—dotting my i's and crossing my t’s is prudent. Once I make partner, I’ll finally have time in my life for a new guy. Never mind I haven’t met him yet. I can’t possibly want this man.
Luc doesn’t come with me. He drops down onto a bench, loose and relaxed. Waiting. I don’t know anything about him except his name. His accent says he’s been raised in the bayou, or his parents were, but that’s all I know about him. Except… I also know his body. Know what he likes, the rough sound he makes in the back of his throat before he comes and how he likes to rub his thumb against my throat when he holds me after.
My conversation with the cops is straightforward. Yes, I was followed and attacked. No, I wasn’t bitten. No, I’ve never seen these animals before and have no idea where they came from. I pepper sprayed at least two. I counted ten. Facts, facts, facts. I’m walking the officers through what happened for the second time when the animal control van pulls up.
A boxy woman gets out, her khaki uniform and shiny shoes announcing her role. The vehicle’s black gloss reflects back my own messed-up, too-tousled face. The newcomer examines the dogs on the ground, pursing her lips.
“Wolves,” she pronounces.
“We don’t have wolves in Baton Rouge.” The officer who took my statement sounds certain, all evidence to the contrary.
The animal control officer shrugs. “These are wolves. Maybe somebody’s keeping them as pets, or maybe they got out of the zoo. I can’t tell you why they’re here, but those aren’t dogs.”
Wolves.
Ten minutes later, I’m still no closer to an answer, but I’ve finished my statement and am cleared to leave.
“Let me to give you a ride, ma’am.” Polite concern fills the face of the younger officer, like he’s worried a second unexplained wolf pack will intercept me on my way home.
“I—” should say yes. Should slide into the patrol car and let the officer drive me to my front door. That’s his job and I appreciate it.
“She’s with me. I’ve got her.” I know that caramel drawl. Luc. He’s come back for me.
Officer Helpful blinks like he has no idea where this new civvie has come from. “You were with her when she was attacked?”
“Non, unfortunately not, or it wouldn’t have happened.”
The look of dazed feminine appreciation on the animal control officer’s face fades abruptly and she gives a bark of disbelief. “You ever see a wolf hunt? There wouldn’t be much you could do without a weapon or a truckload of tranquilizers.”
Luc’s lazy shrug says he doesn’t care if others dismiss him as crazy. “If you say so.”
Wolves…
The last time I saw a wolf was in Las Vegas. Maybe. Although it’s possible I was crazy or had had too much to drink, because honestly the Vegas Strip isn’t exactly a recognized wolf habitat.
He cups my elbow, and heat flares through me from the simple contact. “I will take Gianna home.”
“And you are?” The officer looks at me, but addresses his question to Luc.
“Her fiancé. Luc Breaux.”
I should say something—except I’m too busy hoping that’s all he is. Relief is a powerful drumbeat, making my ears ring and my hands shake. He isn’t my husband. I’m free, free to move on and find the right someone rather than someone I kissed because I drank too much champagne. Still, the way he says his name, the soft, melting vowels and French twist to the word… yeah. I’m weak. I let him draw me away from the cluster of police cars.
“You look after her, Mr. Breaux.” The officer steps back, waving us on as Luc pulls me into his side with old world courtesy.
Luc waits until we’ve covered most of the few blocks remaining before he says anything more. Soft, dark shadows wrap around the familiar landscape, but it’s safe. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I shake off his hand.
“That was no accident.” He lets me shrug free, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the dark surrounding us, steering me around the pools of light from the streetlights. Does he think there’s more than one pack in Baton Rouge tonight?
“Those were wolves.” I roll my eyes. “Animals. They weren’t plotting world domination or strategizing.”
Wolves pick out their prey—I remember that much from the National Geographic Channel—but they don’t have the same strategic thinking skills as people. It wasn’t personal.
Luc shakes his head. “Those weren’t just wolves.”
I don’t say anything more until we’re approaching my house. I bought the place a year ago after falling in love with the white two-story plantation-style house. It’s too big for one person, but I can afford it, and I’ve always loved coming home to the neatly clipped hedges and the brick semicircle driveway. The house’s exterior blazes with lights, waiting for me. I unlatch the gate, aware of him at my back. He needs to leave. Bringing him inside my place is crazy except… ten years is a long time.
And we should talk, if only so I can give him a piece of my mind.
“If those animals weren’t just wolves, what were they?”
“Shug, you know what I am.”
“A pain in my ass,” I grumble. My key misses the lock. Not because my hands are shaking, but because he makes me hyperaware of my body. His scent fills the air around me, sage and smoky, smelling a thousand times better than the expensive men’s colognes that surround me at work. I’d bet Luc uses nothing but soap, which means the scent is one hundred percent him. Heat from his body radiates outward, crowding me. Something else he does on purpose, because Luc is always, always aware of where he is. He wants me to feel him in my space.
“Back off,” I snap. I stab at the keyhole again, finally getting the key in the little ornamental lock, and twist.
“We already established you don’ get to give the orders in this relationship.”
His thighs slam up against the back of mine, leaving me with six foot-plus of hot, aroused male literally riding my ass. Because damn it, I can feel his erection pressing into my butt. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he still gets underneath my skin, still gets me wet ten years later.
“You still don’ believe in werewolves?”
Las Vegas, ten years ago…
Real life doesn’t come with movie moments. Still, Vegas at night is damned exciting and I have a good imagination. Almost good enough to create the perfect Tinseltown movie-come-to-life scenario from my girls’ night out on the Strip. I’d stayed in touch with my four companions after graduating from law school, although we haven’t seen each other much in the past two years. We have careers to jumpstart, judges to clerk for, senior partners to appease. But when Mary Ellen announced her surprise engagement, we went all out, booking a penthouse suite in Vegas and planning two nights of bachelorette fun to commemorate the occasion. If our lives were a movie, this would be the moment where things took a funny turn or we uncovered a terrorist plot that required our efforts to foil or… something.
Instead, we’re tying one on and vying to see who has the worst senior-law-partner horror story.
We’d arranged to meet at one of the Strip’s hottest new it spots, an ice bar. I’m honestly not sure what the appeal is of sitting around on blocks of ice, but I agreed because it’s not my weekend. If Mary Ellen wants to celebrate in an igloo, then that’s what we’ll do.
When I roll through the entrance of the bar, Trish has already copped a prime spot at the bar itself, saving me the barstool on the end closest to the door. Wrapped up in a borrowed synthetic fur, I nurse my vodka in an ice-cold flute while my girls compare notes about runs on the slot machines and club plans for what remains of the night. My drink is the good shit, making the alcohol both tasteless and dangerous. Each swallow goes down easy,
hits my stomach, and fires up my blood.
My girlfriends giggle beside me, banging back their shots. Trish’s bridesmaid tiara is askew. Drinking and dancing is a fine way to celebrate Mary Ellen’s last week of bachelorette-dom (is that even a word?) and I’m glad I let them talk me into coming. Never mind that I’ve just finished an eighty-hour workweek before hopping the midnight flight to Vegas. I’m here. My black cocktail dress is Macy’s finest, from the designer department, and I have a pair of Manolos to kill for. Eighty hours of lawyering for an LA firm is finally paying off.
I bang my empty glass back onto the bar that appears to be an enormous block of ice. Each breath I take puffs out a little cloud of white, making the fur coat loaner a nice touch. I run my fingers through the fur, letting the silky strands trickle over my palm. Imagine lying on that coat, naked…
Yeah. I’m also in danger of fucking drifting off at the bar, but that could be the vodka and tonics. Or not enough sleep. Three years of law school followed by a year of clerking and then full-time employment means I haven’t slept more than six hours a night in years.
Vegas is full of people. Although my phone claims we’ve reached the wee hours of the morning, the party is just getting started. Thousands of people crisscross the casino floor, lining up for the nightclubs and bars, plugging their paychecks into the slot machines. The scene is cheerful and sad at the same time. I may be sitting next to my girlfriends, but they’re already moving on. Getting married, settling down, and me… I’m working. I want the career, the security of a regular paycheck, and knowing I’m making a contribution. I’ve heard the lawyer jokes, but the law is what keeps everything—including this Vegas ice bar—working. People need to know what they can and can’t do. What’s off-limits and what doesn’t cross the line.
