by Nancy Gideon
But on this night, when passion steamed as hot and thick as the Louisiana woods, when lust and love and urgency overrode any practical reservations, she was ready to pay that price. For him. To have him.
“Show me your other face, Max. Your other beautiful face.”
His surprise was quickly replaced by a flare of something bright, raw, and dangerous. She held his stare as she felt his skin and bone shift beneath her hands. Angles lengthening, growing hard and bold and bestial. Slipping her fingers into his soft dark hair, she kissed him and was rewarded by a shudder of need.
Eyes closed, she let her head fall back. She tensed slightly at the warm brush of his breath, then shivered deliciously at the light stroke of his tongue. Her fingers tightened. Her body arched as he licked and nibbled an erotically charged path down her throat, along the smooth slope of one shoulder. Hesitating there. She held her breath, waiting for his bite, for the pain that would forever bind them.
But she was rushing the ritual. Mating first, then bonding.
The difference in him was immediately and amazingly apparent. Scaldingly hot and huge, burning against her belly, probing between her legs, ready to tear into her. Images flashed in her mind before she could keep them out: Sarah Cummings, Vivian Goodman. Ripped, violated, savaged. Tumbling about with her own brutal memories were Rollo’s taunting words: “If you survive it.” Tension snapped through her as his foreign heat breeched her. Even wet and more than ready, the shock had her clutching his shoulders, biting her lip. Determined as she was to see it through, a soft sound still escaped her.
He stopped. For a moment, there was only their hurried breathing.
Then he withdrew.
His soft kiss upon the side of her neck stilled her trembling. Her palms clasped to the familiar contours of his face. His human face. A slightly more aggressive kiss behind her ear had her shifting against him, relaxing, warming, seeking his mouth, feasting on his lips. Lifting, sinking, settling carefully over him. Taking in that well-loved part of him that promised never to hurt her. Riding him until the exquisite friction built into an unstoppable force that left them gasping, then clinging to one another in sated relief.
Satisfied and ashamed, she burrowed against the slick heat of his throat, soothed by the steady throb of his heartbeat. “I’m sorry.”
“Look at me, sha. Open your eyes.”
She did so with reluctance, to find him regarding her with concern. And love. So much love, it broke her. She buried her face against his shoulder again, her palms moving anxiously over his smooth, familiar body. “I’m sorry. I wanted you. I wanted to be with you. I wanted to please you.”
“It doesn’t please me to hurt you or frighten you.” His tone was gruff. Then it gentled. “You always please me, Charlotte. In more ways than you’ll ever know. It doesn’t matter, cher.”
Of course it did. She knew that the instant she’d seen the amazement in his eyes at the acceptance he yearned for. Then she’d snatched it away.
Coward.
And if what Rollo had said was true, soon it would begin to matter a whole helluva lot.
She leaned back, trying to ease the tension with a tease of a smile. “You waited twelve years for that first time. I won’t make you wait much longer.”
She saw the doubt flicker through his eyes, almost immediately followed by a cautious glimmer of hope. And there was damned little she wouldn’t do to keep his fragile dream alive.
Her fingertips charted the unyielding line of his shoulders. Everything about his life had been that way: hard, ungiving, brutal. She’d change that if she could.
“I was thinking of taking a trip,” she said.
“Oh?” His expression didn’t alter, but she felt the objecting brace of his body. “Where to?”
She soothed her palm along his firm jaw until he leaned into it, butting like a faithful hound seeking a master’s attention. A strangely submissive gesture for one who controlled a huge empire and a preternatural world. Yet here he was, nudging for affection from her as his eyes closed.
I’m not going to leave you, baby. I could never leave you.
“I’m thinking someplace hot and breathtaking.” She paused until his gaze lifted. “Someplace like the Grand Canyon. You still interested in taking that tour?”
“You mean right now?” His voice rumbled like the takeoff of a 747.
“If you’re up for it.”
More than his interest began to rise, and his smile spread slow and sure. “It won’t be a dry heat, sha.”
Her smile was a naughty little curve of promise. “Hot, wet, and all night was what I had in mind. How’s that sound, Savoie?”
“I love you, Charlotte.”
She hugged him, kissing him gently behind the ear, where his short black hair curled slightly in the way she found sexier than hell. “I love you, Max Savoie. I need you and I want you. And I will have you. All of you. Every part of you.”
His reply was soft and absolute. “I’m yours.”
And for the next few hours, he was able to forget the world that existed outside their intimate oasis. To forget that something dark and dangerous had been put into motion by his father’s careless greed, and was even now readying to sweep down upon them.
Down from the north.
Turn the page
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CAPTURED BY MOONLIGHT,
the next mesmerizing novel in
Nancy Gideon’s
Shape-shifter series
Coming soon from Pocket Books
MAX WAS STANDING on the side porch, leaning against one of the faded pillars while he looked toward the river. Cee Cee just watched for a moment, letting her love for him sweep her away like the current of that powerful water, not struggling against the fear of drowning the way she used to.
Soft rain blew against him, dampening his gorgeous gray linen shirt so that it clung to the long, hard line of him, almost transparent. Moisture dotted his short black hair, which was bristled from restless finger combing.
He didn’t notice the dampness. Nor did he appear to notice her, which made her frown slightly as she approached him in his lonely vigil. Then he reached back for her hand without looking around, and she smiled as she slipped her fingers across his palm. He drew her into the curve of his side.
“You’re all wet, Savoie.”
“So you tell me, detective—more often than I enjoy hearing.” He brought her hand up to his lips for a light kiss, and then held her palm over his heart. She wasn’t fooled by his mood. Beneath the calm surface, his waters were troubled.
“I like it when it rains at night.” His voice was low, wistful. “You want to think that when you wake up in the morning, all the grime will be washed away and the world starts over clean.”
“If only it worked that way.”
“With the world. And with people.”
Because she sensed he needed to be calmed more than he needed to be questioned, she teased, “Any particularly dirty thoughts you need to have rinsed clean?”
A small smile. “A few.”
“Care to share them with me?”
He nuzzled her hair and she felt him inhale deeply, breathing her in. “One involves rose petals, those new shoes you just bought, and your handcuffs.”
“You leave my flowers alone.”
A chuckle vibrated beneath her cheek.
“How about a long shower and a soft bed?” she suggested.
“Hmmm, that could work. And you wearing nothing but those shoes.” A pause. “And the handcuffs.”
“Deal.”
He glanced over her head before she was aware of movement behind them.
“Is there anything else you need this evening, Mr. Savoie? Detective?”
“No, thank you, Helen,” he told his housekeeper softly. “We’ve got everything right here.”
MAX COULDN’T REST, so after Cee Cee had fallen asleep, he slipped outside to run the night. A low, dark shape skimming through shadows, the taste of freedom filled hi
s nose, a bouquet still so exquisitely new, it intoxicated him. The sense of his own tremendous power, now unchecked, exhilarated him. Wild things that usually roamed the darkness gave him a wide berth, sensing a superior predator and afraid to draw his notice.
Max was out on a hunt, but not for prey. His was a different mission: a search of the far corners of the city, seeking a sign that someone or something had breeched his territory. He found no clues, nothing unusual, until he ended up where Tito Tibideaux died.
He trotted along the docks, nostrils flaring wide at the scent of blood and death, picking up vague impressions of other beings like him. The traces had been nearly washed away by rain, but enough remained to disturb him. Intruders. A dangerous rumble sounded low in his chest as he recognized the faint markings on the ground. Paw prints elongating, abruptly changing to bare human feet. Shifters. Trackers. Deadly hunters trained from birth in cunning and savagery.
At a disadvantage, because he’d had no one to teach him how to channel his unique talents, he had no more time to lament his shortcomings. It was time to prepare.
They might have greater numbers and more developed skills, but they were underestimating one thing. This was his city, filled with those he would protect to the death.
And in New Orleans, Max Savoie was king.
IT WAS VERY late or very early. A ripple of the sheet, and he was back beside her. She wouldn’t have known he was gone except for the chill of his bare toes and the ragged sound of his breathing.
He lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, denying himself her warmth and comfort. Why?
His silence stirred up a hive of insecurities. Where could he have gone in the middle of the night without waking her, with his stealth suggesting secrets? Illegal secrets? Dangerous secrets?
What was he involved in? And was it something she should be worried about professionally or personally? There were so many worrisome areas in his life that could get inflamed without warning. Dark, deadly niches in his past and present, concerning who he was, what he’d been . . . and what he was.
Threatening situations didn’t frighten her; she was a cop. Give her a tough spot and she’d go up against it without hesitation. But give her a sticky emotional circumstance, and her back was against the wall.
For almost twenty-nine years she had let only a fisted handful of people close to her, and the other two she’d loved were already gone. She’d zealously guarded the part of her that could be hurt, that could distract her from doing the job she revered. She’d been so careful, so wary. Until Max. The most inappropriate man she could imagine.
He’d cleverly stalked her affections with his lazy smile and red tennis shoes, pushing himself into her thoughts, into her life, into her heart until her resistance crumbled. Until she couldn’t imagine a moment without him. She accepted his criminal background, his unnatural heritage, his strange mix of violence and naïveté for one unshakable reason: he’d sacrificed everything he loved for her. Everything. He’d become rescuer, lover, and protector. Against all odds and logic, he loved her, unflinchingly, unfailingly. How could she do less?
He gave a slight start when her fingertips curved about his jaw. She could feel his tension, yet he didn’t resist when she turned his face toward her, when she fit her lips softly to his.
“Come here, baby. Let me hold you.”
He rolled up against her, over her, around her, curling into her as he began to shiver. A protective anxiety rose as she clutched his dark head and kissed his brow.
“It’s all right. I’ve got you. Let go, Max. You’re safe. Let go.”
All the stress and torments of the day poured from him like life’s blood. Afterward, he lay trustingly limp and weary, and finally closed his eyes. Just before he drifted off, she felt his slight smile as he murmured, “Thank you, sha.”
“You are very welcome.”
CHARLOTTE DIDN’T EXPECT him to be up before her, but his shoes were gone and the bathroom smelled deliciously of his shaving soap and shampoo. She dressed quickly, hoping he hadn’t already left for the city. As she came down the sweep of the stairs she saw Giles St. Clair, Max’s Mack truck of a bodyguard, flirting determinedly with Helen’s daughter, Jasmine. She relaxed, knowing Giles wouldn’t let Max go anywhere without him. Though Max was more than capable of taking care of himself, Giles insisted, saying someone of Max’s position needed someone at his back. And because Max had been at Jimmy Legere’s back almost since he could tie his shoes, he allowed Giles to proudly assume that role.
Giles greeted her with a grin and a cup of coffee. “He’s out on the side porch, detective. Good to have you home.”
Who would have thought the plantation house hideout of one of the city’s most nefarious mobsters would ever welcome her, or that she’d feel a sudden twist about her heart to hear it called her home?
Or that she’d want to settle into it with the dark-souled man who’d taken his predecessor’s place. Reading the Wall Street Journal at the wicker patio set off his office, he wore his sleek, black Armani suit and an open-collared white shirt, looking both elegant and ruthless.
She tunneled her fingers into his hair and pulled his head back. Her tongue was in his mouth before he could say hello. He gave a rumbling purr, and when she straightened he was smiling.
“’Morning, baby. You looked far too fine for me not to grab a quick taste of you to get the day started.” She dropped into the chair across from him. “Want some coffee?”
He licked his lips, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Just had some, thanks.”
“If I’m not careful, I could get as addicted to you as I am to caffeine.”
“And that would be a bad thing?”
“Can’t think of a downside at the moment.” She sipped her coffee and let her eyes close contentedly. She loved the deep silence of Legere’s rambling estate. No hurry-up-and-get-going traffic and city sounds.
“Charlotte.”
His sober tone alerting her to a serious shift in topic, Cee Cee opened her eyes. “What?”
“I should have told you this yesterday, but it threw me so hard, I just couldn’t get on top of it. I’ve been sitting here trying to work up the right words.”
Her heart hopscotched in alarm. “What is it?”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “The John Doe at Dovion’s—did you get a look at him?”
“Only the eight-by-tens. Why? Oh, Max—is it someone you know?” Her hand slipped over the top of his. Her voice softened. “Someone I know?”
“Philo—”
“Oh, Max. No.”
“No, not Philo. His little brother, Tito. I had to take him the news just after the club opened. Put a bit of a damper on the evening, as you might imagine.”
She automatically went into cop mode. “Does anyone know what happened to him? Was he working for you?”
“No, and no. Philo said he was doing small stuff to stay off the docks, looking for a place to fit in without trading on his connections. He was just a kid who must have stepped on some powerful toes.”
“You know how he was killed, don’t you? Dovion is totally in the dark.”
“And he needs to stay that way.” Max’s tone toughened as his instinct for self-preservation slowly overcame the grief. He hesitated, debating on what to share with her. “It’s called a pulse,” he said at last.
“A pulse. Like an EMP weapon of some sort?” Great. High-tech weapons loose on her streets. Like they didn’t have enough to do trying to control the regular stuff?
“No. It’s a mental weapon, one my father showed me. It’s a concentration of psychic energy. Only a very controlled pure blood could direct it with that kind of killing force. It’s like heating an egg in the microwave without poking holes first.”
She shuddered, and then studied Max carefully. “Is this something you can do?”
“I don’t know. It’s not exactly something you can practice until you get it right.”
She sat back, musing out loud
. “What was he involved in that would bring out a big gun of that caliber without you being aware of it?”
“I don’t know. A pure blood doesn’t give off signs unless he wants to, and whoever killed Tito didn’t want to.”
“A warning? Who and why?”
“Again, I don’t know. He, or they, must have been trying to find out something, the way the boy was worked over. But what he said and about what, I just don’t know.”
And that was worrying him.
Charlotte could tell there was more. Something else was building behind the shut-down expression; something she wasn’t going to like or he wouldn’t have let it drag out so long. She squeezed his hand and gently coaxed, “Just say it, Max.”
“Tito’s like most of us. He doesn’t have any official paperwork behind him. Your boys might come up with his name if they’re lucky, but not much else. And since we don’t want to stir up questions to get folks curious, no one will step forward to identify him—not even Philo.”
She couldn’t imagine that. Knowing his brother lay unclaimed and unnamed under plastic, just out of reach.
“But Philo wants his brother buried, Charlotte. Not in a pauper’s grave on the city’s dime, with no one around to mourn him.”
“What can I do?”
His gaze lifted, dark and intense. “Get Dovion to release the body to Father Furness, before he does any more testing. Before he finds something that’ll make him more suspicious than he already is. No one can know who claimed the body or where to find it. I’ll have it brought here for burial. There’s a plot of consecrated ground that hasn’t been used for generations. Tito should rest easy there.”
“So you want me to do what, exactly? Sneak a body out for a hush-hush burial behind high walls? Am I allowed to ask why?”
He never blinked. “You can ask.” But he wasn’t going to tell her.
She pushed out of her chair and walked to the porch rail. In the back of her mind, she could hear a taunting sneer. Now that he’s got a cop in his pocket. “Dammit, Max, we weren’t going to do this. We weren’t going to ask for on-the-job favors.”
