by Tina Donahue
When all hell breaks loose, playing fair isn’t an option.
Taming the Beast, Book 4
Removing memories from mortals who stumble into From Crud to Stud, a makeover service for supernatural beings, is a cinch for Constance, a voodoo priestess. Finding her own Mr. Right is another matter.
However, the latest intruder into their business stops Constance dead in her tracks. He’s tall, dark, and deliciously hot. He’s also a New Orleans police detective with questions. And answering them will bring down a plague of exposure, purges, and exorcisms.
Gage Legrand has come to check out reports of strange activities. But the strangest thing is how Constance’s sexy curves and silky skin have him uncharacteristically panting like a rutting beast. Trouble is, every time his questions probe too deep, his memories go poof, sending him back to square one with his luscious guide.
There’s no denying their aching need crackles like an electrical storm. But Constance has a business to protect, which means keeping Gabe at arm’s length—even as all hell breaks loose.
Warning: Epic whoppers (and we’re not just talking about lies), smokin’ hot sex, frequent brain farts, and two star-crossed lovers willing to do it all again. And again. And again. Yeah, baby!
Muzzling the Beast
Tina Donahue
Dedication
To my amazing street team leader, Pamela Leonhardt, and to all my team members. Ladies, you have been awesome!
Chapter One
“Wait,” the were cried. He covered his head with his arms, his face contorted with concern.
Suppressing a sigh, Constance dropped her hands, not touching him. This was the sixth time she’d backed off this evening, with the poor slob unable to decide which memories he wanted her to remove and which he simply had to keep. “What’s wrong now?”
He curled into a fetal position. “Everything. Give me a sec.”
He’d already eaten up forty-five minutes with his indecision about a mortal babe who’d dumped him. Once she’d found out he was a were, she was history, no matter how much he’d tried to suppress his beastly urges.
Given his animal lust for her, he’d wanted to reminisce about every moment they’d been together, until he’d decided he hated her for the ultimate insult—unfriending him on Facebook—and needed all memories of her vaporized from his brain. Back and forth he’d gone these last minutes, worse than a tween deciding what to wear to middle school.
Damn. Constance was a voodoo priestess, not his mom. “Sweetie, I have other clients. You need to make up your mind.”
He tightened his arms, protecting himself even more. “I. Am. Trying.”
“Not hard enough.” Constance was about to smack him upside his head when her intercom buzzed.
Heather’s breathy voice followed. “Ah, can you come up here? Now? Right now? This very second, in fact? Sorry I have to ask, really I am, but please, can you come up here? Please?”
Uh-oh. As a good fairy, Heather was always super polite and apologetic as hell, yet this sounded beyond serious. A mortal must have stumbled unwittingly into this place—technically known as From Crud to Stud, a makeover service for supernatural beings. If the dude or dudine left with memories of weres howling and vamps hissing, everyone who worked here was toast.
Constance spoke into the intercom. “Be right there.”
“Thank you,” Heather said. “I mean, really, I’m so grateful—”
“You bet.” Constance hurried to her office door.
“Hey.” The were pushed to a sitting position on the padded table. “What about me?”
Right. “Hold still.”
“What—no—wait.”
Constance couldn’t. Gripping his head in her palms, she did the only thing she could and removed his memories of her.
When she lowered her hands a moment later, he blinked and then frowned. “Who are you?”
“The site medic. You fainted during treatment.” She patted his knee.
He regarded Constance’s shadowed, sensuous office. Wisps of smoke rose from incense sticks on her desk, while candlelight glinted off beaded curtains, creating rainbows of colors on the ceiling and walls. “How’d I get in here?”
“Couple of the enforcers carried you in from the other room.” She wagged her bejeweled finger at him. “Don’t you dare leave until I get back to make sure you’re totally okay.”
He spied her laptop. “While you’re gone, do you mind if I use your computer to get on Facebook? There’s something I have to check out.”
Of course, he did. Poor thing was hoping his ladylove had friended him again, and if she hadn’t, he could leave a nasty message with somebody else’s ISP address. “Be my guest.”
The intercom buzzed once more.
“Hang tight,” Constance ordered him. “Coming,” she said to Heather.
With her gown hiked up, Constance raced down the hall, only to stop short of the reception area, a space with coral walls, gas wall fixtures, a faux brick floor, numerous potted plants, and feathery ferns. Decidedly earthy, romantic, and mortal in appearance to fool the unwary who happened inside.
This one must be pure awful. Heather stood behind her chair as if she needed it for protection, her face drained of what little color she had, its tint matching her pale blonde hair and signature white clothing.
Leery, Constance peeked around the corner and gaped at the guy who’d scared the crap out of Heather.
Despite the steamy summer night, he was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and gray tie, the clothes draping him beautifully. He was tall—deliciously so, six three or more—broad in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, his build muscular without a trace of fat.
Constance released her gown, a shiver of delight coursing through her as she studied his profile.
He wore his black hair cropped short, his cinnamon-colored skin a stunning contrast to his light blue eyes. Gorgeous didn’t begin to describe his masculine features.
Her pulse quickened.
She guessed him to be Creole, early thirties, an executive and obviously mortal given Heather’s reaction. Most women would have been drooling by now, not just hyperventilating. In a few more seconds, Heather was going to be out cold.
“Well, hey there,” Constance said, breaking the proverbial ice.
He turned and took her in from stem to stern, his attention snagging ever so slightly on her turban, then her mouth and boobs, as though he couldn’t help himself. Call her crazy, but the lovely bulge behind his fly seemed to thicken in interest.
Constance’s pussy creamed in response.
Heather clearly wasn’t as taken. With him turned away from her, she waved her arms frantically in apparent warning.
About what? To Constance, the thought of cupping his good-looking head in her hands would be more play than work as she removed his memories of this place.
“Evening,” he said.
His rumbling baritone registered through every part of Constance’s body, including her tongue and tonsils. She smiled.
He seemed ready to give her a grin in return but grew ultra serious instead. “I’m Detective Gabe Legrand.”
Detective? As in a freaking cop?
Constance’s smile went kaput over what could have possibly brought him here. Not to mention what would happen if others in his department suspected something weird was going on within these walls. “You’re with the police?”
He lifted his hand in answer. In his palm was a small leather wallet displaying a silver shiel
d, its crescent engraved with a word, possibly detective. It was too far away for her to read accurately. Beneath the crescent was a star with another word and a number—his, no doubt.
She wouldn’t have been surprised if it was 007 considering his awesome looks.
He advanced gracefully, like an animal in the wild stalking its prey. God help her, Constance was still more aroused than alarmed, moving toward him in what seemed like slow motion until another step would have them touching.
Was it so wrong?
Apparently he thought so, as he finally stopped. “You’re the owner?”
“Constance is a good person,” Heather blurted.
Not that good. His scent, a combination of something woodsy mingled with musk, warmed her as the sun never had, making her legs watery.
He turned from Heather back to her. “Constance?”
“Absolutely,” she said before Heather blurted something else or fainted. “Nice to meet you, Detective. Or can I call you Gabe?” She offered her hand.
It was a moment before he took it, his own so large it easily swallowed hers, his palm dry and slightly callused, grip firm yet not intimidating.
Mmm. Heaven in a handshake. Constance liked a man who took charge, especially when it came to bedroom play.
Unfortunately, a roll between the sheets seemed to be the furthest thing from his mind, given his slight frown. “I thought Becca Salt owned this place.” He spoke to Heather. “Didn’t I ask you to call the owner up here?”
Heather gripped the back of her chair so hard her knuckles turned even whiter. “Uh-huh.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
As a good fairy, Heather was unable to lie, so she clenched her jaw, clearly not wanting to answer him.
Before Heather broke her molars, Constance murmured, “She did. I’m the owner. Constance Salt.”
Gabe regarded her suspiciously, though his attention did wander to her mouth, boobs, and hand—as she released his—before he got authoritarian again. “Then who’s Becca Salt? The name listed on all the permits and other papers as the owner.”
“Still me.” Constance leaned toward him and spoke as if she were sharing a big, bad secret. “My first name’s Becca, but I hate it, so I go by my middle name with coworkers and friends.” She gave him a sweet smile and gestured to the hall. “Why don’t we go to my office to talk.”
Rather than follow her, he turned to another hall.
Oh, crap. Becca strolled toward them, her silky blue halter-top and harem pants shimmering beneath the lights, the same as all the jewelry she wore. Silver stars dangled from her navel, dainty chains decorated each ankle, rings glittered on her toes. Coupled with her flame-red hair, alabaster skin, and the heavy Goth makeup she wore around her eyes, she was one of a kind. Not to mention a witch, in the literal and not figurative sense.
“Lorraine,” Constance barked at Becca. “What are you doing roaming around here again? Have you finished the accounts? Those payables need to be done tonight.”
Becca had already stopped and taken in the scene, especially Gabe. Given how she went paler than Heather, Becca must have figured something was hugely wrong.
“Uh, sorry,” she said. “Won’t happen again.” After a quick pivot, she hurried away.
“Not my office,” Constance called out and pointed to her own. “Yours.” With the were still inside her space, Constance couldn’t bring Gabe in there.
“Right.” Becca offered a sheepish smile and headed for Constance’s office.
“She’s your accountant?” Gabe asked.
“Good help is so hard to find these days. Follow me.”
They’d made it halfway down the hall when a were, possibly hers, let out an ear-piercing howl. The vamps must have felt deprived by their silence, because they suddenly offered a chorus of hisses. Demons joined in with a few growls and grunts.
Gabe had already stopped, eyes wide, hand inside his jacket. Constance would’ve bet he was reaching for his gun, not his badge.
He turned from side to side, no doubt looking for the source of the sounds. “What in the hell’s going on here?”
“Therapy.” When he turned to her, she arched one eyebrow. “It’s all I can say. It’s all I will say even if you have a warrant. There is such a thing as shrink-client confidentiality, you know.”
The were bellowed.
Gabe kept his hand inside his jacket. “Shrink? That’s what you call your so-called therapists?”
So-called? Talk about hurtful. “I’m as laidback as they come.” Constance ran a tapered nail over her jawline while she studied his, liking his beginning stubble. “No need to use big words, now is there?”
“Exactly what kind of therapy do you do here?”
“The usual.”
“Meaning?”
“Let’s talk about it in my office.”
“Why not here?”
“Confidentiality,” she said again, getting tough. Well, as tough as she could with a hottie like him. “Only staff and clients are allowed past the reception area. Since you’re neither and the clients aren’t expecting a stranger, you’ll have to follow me.”
She led the way, body humming with pleasure at the thought of being alone with him, mind racing over what she had to do in order to get him out of here.
The reality pained her, but she had the business and her coworker friends to protect. Besides Heather and her, the place also employed several demons, a genie, and a former satyr.
Stuff mortals would never understand.
Once inside Becca’s office, Constance realized her error in bringing him here. In addition to scores of plants and antique furniture decorating the space, there were also numerous pictures of Becca and Eric—the love of her life—on the cabinet behind the desk.
Shit, how could she have forgotten about it?
The moment Gabe stepped inside, Constance closed the door and approached him so he wouldn’t sit on the sofa and notice the photographs, wondering or demanding why she had shots of Becca and Eric in her office.
With Constance’s first step, he backed up. On the next, he stopped, not giving any ground.
She enjoyed his style. “So why are you here, Gabe, or should I call you Detective?”
He seemed torn on how to answer, and a hint of arousal darted across his chiseled features along with too much wariness, which remained. “Your driver’s license doesn’t do you justice. In fact, it shows a white woman with red hair and blue eyes. Exactly like your accountant, Lorraine.”
Constance broke out in a cold sweat and decided to play it dumb and cool. “You’re here to talk about my license? The Office of Motor Vehicles mixed me up with Lorraine?”
He stepped toward her. She didn’t give an inch either. They were so close, Constance saw laugh lines at the corners of his beautiful eyes, along with flecks of light brown in his irises. His fragrance surrounded her, making Constance weak, causing her to yearn.
It had been months since she’d been involved with a man, and even then they’d been mainly supernaturals she’d met here. Like mortal guys, most of them were jerks or users, taking what they wanted, leaving her heartbroken and lonely.
Gabe’s heat and big body called to everything female within Constance, especially as his expression grew distracted and then intense, revealing the same carnal hunger she felt. A minute ticked by, followed by another and another.
His breathing picked up. So did hers.
Someone slammed into the wall behind them, grunted loudly, and let out a string of curses, killing the magic.
Gabe looked past her and frowned. “What is going on here? And don’t you dare tell me regular therapy. The business license is for a behavior adjustment and grooming service, whatever that’s supposed to be.”
“We like to think of it as a finishing school for guys.” She smiled indulgently. �
��So many of you are rough around the edges. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He gave her a cop’s hard stare.
Her cunt got even wetter. Constance wondered if he liked using his cuffs during bed play. If there was a God and She was female, Gabe did. “We’re simply trying to help guys suppress their uncivilized urges, just like women have always been taught to do.”
He regarded her hand resting on his forearm, her fingers stroking him. His Adam’s apple bobbed with his hard swallow. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
She went hot, cold, and hot again, wondering what he was getting at. Surely, none of the clients had lodged a complaint with the cops, telling the authorities they were vamps, weres, reapers, or any number of other beings trying to suppress their beasts. Why would any of them expose their true natures to a mortal?
Oh hell. Constance wondered if the police department had a supernatural working undercover, egged on by the Religious Right, who saw conspiracies everywhere, even in Barbie dolls and McDonald’s Happy Meals.
Afraid to know but curious too, she murmured, “What have you heard?”
Gabe wasn’t talking. He took in the sofa and the plants and then finally turned to the cabinet.
Before he could get a good look at the photos, Constance cupped his head and turned his face to hers.
He lifted his eyebrows in obvious surprise but didn’t move away. “What are you doing?”
What she shouldn’t…wanting him. The feel of his tight curls was a major distraction, the same as his rich mouth. She sighed. “Nothing.”
Gabe didn’t argue. He blinked as she zapped his memories of why he’d come here and then looked at her questioningly.
What could she say, sorry? She really was for having played with his mind, but not for touching him.
Thankfully, he wasn’t complaining about her stroking his scalp. After a moment, he grew distracted, as he had earlier, studying her features, becoming lost in them.
She drank his in too, liking his looks, feeling oddly comfortable with him even though they didn’t know each other and never would. A pang of sorrow hit Constance hard, with longing beneath it for a good man, someone she could count on who’d make each day a pleasure.
