Possessed by a Warrior

by Sharon Ashwood

  A quiver passed over Sam’s lips, not humor but another more intense emotion she couldn’t read. He brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek, letting them linger there, as if testing the heat of her blush. The touch was cool, yet so light it was no more than the kiss of a wing. The stroke continued, curling around her ear, brushing under her jaw to hover over the pulse beneath her ear. She shivered, nipples suddenly aching. She wanted his cool hands on them. She wanted his wet mouth on them. She wanted him inside her.

  In a blink, her whole body was aching and slick with need. This was crazy. She barely knew the man. She scrabbled to pick up the threads of their conversation, to make these insane thoughts disappear beneath the surface of adult conversation. What had he been talking about? Oh, yes.

  “Well, did your investigation go anywhere?” Her voice was rough and breathy. She cleared her throat.

  He gave her a careful look. “Yes.”

  “What did you find out?”

  Sam did his best impression of a blank wall. Chloe sighed.

  “I’m protecting you,” he said, voice dropping almost to the range of a growl. “Everything I do is to keep you safe.”

  “If the dress thief is any indication, ignorance is a lot more dangerous.” She pulled the robe tighter around her throat.

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  She shrugged, aching, frustrated and tired of playing games. “Oh, forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

  She threw the statement down like a dare.

  * * *

  Sam watched the shrug do lovely things to the sliver of skin showing at the neck of the white robe. She was trying to hide it, but it still showed like an arrow pointing toward more intimate beauties. Her golden hair hung in glistening waves down her back, much longer than it looked pinned up. All that gold and white softness gave her an angelic air, spiced by the strong scent of her desire. Sam’s body tightened, transfixed for a moment by her loveliness, by the promise of pleasure. It was so different from his world of missions and weapons and blood.

  He ached with wanting her, a sweet, slow pain filled with yearning and regret. Only part of it was a need of the body. His spirit reached for her, too, somehow knowing that she was a woman who would offer solace and strength. Things War shouldn’t need.

  She was a good person, and that was exactly why he had to walk away. They had no business being in each other’s lives.

  Then his brain caught up with what she was saying: “It doesn’t matter.” The look in her eyes said clearly it did.

  But what could he say? That he’d found a dead body? Chloe didn’t need one more thing to keep her awake tonight, and knowing the security guards had been compromised wouldn’t help one bit. That kind of news could wait until morning.

  The moment dragged by like a physical ache. Sam struggled, his instinct to take her then and there warring with the knowledge that whatever might pass between them would end badly. Human women were so sadly vulnerable. He could protect, but he could never have.

  Then the moment faded, falling in on itself when the moment of burgeoning desire was ignored. Chloe’s face grew set, the corners of her mouth pulling down. Sam felt his neck prickle, instincts responding to her darkening mood.

  “Where did your pet go?” she asked, a little too crisply. “What’s his name, anyway?”

  Pet? Scrambling for a reply, Sam looked over to where Kenyon had been sitting. There was nothing left but a few dog hairs.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Fido’s shy of people. Some wolf blood, you know.”

  Her expression said she didn’t believe any of that. “He’s a marshmallow. I can’t believe you didn’t mention him before this. Why keep him a secret?”

  Sam grunted, knowing he was going to lose if he kept talking. He was the guy who hit things, not the one who provided plausible deniability for werewolves. And something about that fluffy robe was shredding his thought processes. “I’ve got to go catch him.”

  “Yeah, there are too many gun-happy guards around.” She blinked, her eyes shadowed with fatigue.

  “Are you going to get any sleep tonight?”

  “I keep trying.”

  Sam would have liked to personally tuck her in. Maybe she’d stay put this time. Maybe he’d stay there to make sure she stayed put. Yeah, what was that saying about foxes and henhouses?

  He had a wolf to catch. “Good night, Chloe.”

  Her lips curved in a tired smile. “Good night, Sam.”

  He opened his mouth to keep talking, but she turned away before he could think of anything else to say. Just as well. He wanted a few seconds more, but then it would be a few seconds after that, and so on until sunrise.

  She turned back, her expression oddly naked. “Are you going to guard my door?”

  “Absolutely. Personally.”

  Her head drooped, not quite a nod. “Thank you.”

  To his regret and relief, she closed the bedroom door, and the moment passed.

  Sam slowly turned to see Kenyon’s human shape lurking in the shadows. He’d pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie.

  Sam stalked over to him. “What happened?”

  Kenyon snorted with disgust. “I heard Chloe moving around and tried to get out of sight before she opened the door. But she saw me. Then she chased me.”

  Despite himself, Sam chuckled. “She chased you?”

  Kenyon gave a lopsided smile. “What’s the point of being a monster unless you can have fun with it?”

  Good question. He wouldn’t have minded a show of feminine gratitude. After all, the vampires on TV got the beautiful blondes. Not that Sam watched, of course. He yanked his mind back to business. “We’ve got to call Winspear.”

  Kenyon ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers caught in clumps of hairspray. “He won’t have done the autopsy yet.”

  Sam recoiled from the image of Jack lying on a cold metal table. That was just so wrong. “Then the doctor had better get busy because I have another customer. I found the thief’s getaway car, plus the driver. He was one of the security guards, shot in the head.”

  Kenyon’s eyes widened. “Where? I lost the trail at the edge of the garden.”

  “A mile up the east road, just around the bend.”

  “Huh.” Kenyon leaned against the wall, his chin sunk on his chest. “I wonder where they were headed?”

  “Somewhere to regroup. They didn’t get what they wanted, so they’ll be back.”

  “Oh, goody. I can’t wait,” Kenyon said dryly.

  “We’ll do some recon. They’ve got to be hiding out somewhere nearby.” The words had no sooner left his mouth than he remembered Chloe. He’d promised to guard her door.

  Kenyon caught his look. “You’re needed here.”

  “But nothing will change until we catch the thieves.”

  For once, the werewolf grew serious. “We have to find them first, and it’s getting close to dawn. I’m your daylight operative, and you know I’m the best when it comes to this kind of detail work. Let me do my job.”

  It was true. When he put his mind to it, Kenyon could be relentless and methodical. It was one of the things that had made him an excellent jewel thief. “Fine. Report back the moment you find something.”

  “And when I hit pay dirt?”

  Sam gave a grim smile. “Then we’ll unleash Armageddon.”

  “Now we’re talking. I’ll bring the beer.” Kenyon turned as if to go, but then paused. “She likes you, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Chloe. The way she looks at you. The way she smells around you.”

  “She doesn’t know me. I’m just a hired gun.”

  “Uh-huh.” Kenyon folded his arms, smirking in that irritating way he had. “Just one thing.”

  “Wha
t?”

  “I don’t remember her writing you a check, so you’re not a hired gun. You’re here for other reasons. That changes the game.”

  With that, Kenyon strode down the hall, giving a cheeky backward wave.

  Chapter 8

  By noon the next day, coffee had moved from beverage to plasma status. Chloe set the delicately fluted china cup on its saucer and rested her head in her hand. She’d drawn the curtains in Uncle Jack’s study so that it was still bright but not obscenely sunny. Green-tinted light filtered through the clematis vines circling the window, the shadows of the leaves fluttering on the pale carpet. Like all the rooms in Jack’s house, the study was beautifully decorated, the ceiling high, the furnishings classic and tasteful. The orderly atmosphere was soothing as a balm.

  She sat at the fruitwood desk, her laptop open in front of her. Across the room, a portrait of a young man in eighteenth-century military uniform stared back at her with a wistful expression, as if he wanted some of the coffee, too.

  She’d arisen two more times last night, peeking outside the door to see if Sam was guarding her door as promised. Although she wanted to believe his word—one couldn’t be a wedding planner without an essentially optimistic view of human nature—experience had taught her to be cautious.

  Both times he’d been there and patiently sent her back to bed. Nevertheless, it had been growing light when her stomach had uncoiled enough for her to relax and fall asleep. She worked in a pressure-filled industry where a lot could go sideways at any moment, but on top of Jack’s mysterious death, the past twenty-four hours had blown her limit for excitement.

  It might have also blown her grip on reality. The gardeners had given her blank stares when she’d asked about the wolf Sam Ralston had kept tied up on the grounds. None of the staff had seen so much as a stray Pekinese. She had been sure Sam was lying about his pet, but now she didn’t know where truth ended and fantasy began. Did I make the whole thing up?

  It wasn’t a good feeling. In fact, she was feeling very insecure about a long list of things, from the unlikely crash of the Porsche to the wolf to that blasted dress and a bunch of stuff in between—including Sam Ralston.

  She opened the desk drawer at the top of the right-hand pedestal of the desk. She felt around, past a stamp box, a squiggly pile of rubber bands and a stapler. At the very back of the drawer was Jack’s SIG Sauer. Chloe pulled it forward and lifted it out of the drawer, the cold metal heavy in her hand. Besides sending her to a dojo, Jack had made her learn to shoot. Despite her protests—she was interested in the drama club, not target practice—he was fanatical about making sure she could defend herself. He’d never really say why, any more than he’d say why he kept a gun in his desk drawer when he had full-time security in the house.

  She’d assumed he kept the gun around because he was afraid of robbery. Now that he was murdered, she wondered if that were true. After all, no one had tried to take anything but the dress. Something else had caught up with him.

  That thought turned her stomach into a cold, hard knot. Carefully, she determined the gun was clean. She hated violence, hated guns, and hated the fact she knew how to use them. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t defend herself.

  There was a box of ammunition, too. She set the gun at the front of the drawer, but left it unloaded and pushed the drawer shut. She wasn’t prepared to go full-on paranoid just yet, but she felt better knowing the gun was there and ready for action.

  Turning to her computer, she clicked on her calendar to see what the next few days held—thieves, murderers and midnight wolves notwithstanding.

  With a sense of surreal horror, she saw an appointment for one o’clock that afternoon. The Fallon-Venuto wedding. She was supposed to meet her clients in the nearby town of Thurston. Chloe squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that would make the bright yellow square of responsibility disappear.

  Blast it. She’d booked the appointment before Jack’s tragedy and must have missed it when she was clearing her calendar to attend the funeral. She hadn’t been able to focus right then.

  If she had, she’d have remembered that the bride’s beastly mother moved in the same elite social circle as Jack. If Momzilla had had her way, young Elaine Fallon would have been walking down the aisle to become Mrs. Jack and, more important, the new mistress of Oakwood Manor and all of Jack’s lovely bank accounts.

  Quiet Elaine had dug in her heels and become engaged to her childhood sweetheart, Leo Venuto. Always on the lookout for a good business deal, Jack had charmed Mrs. Fallon into hiring Chloe to design the Fallon-Venuto wedding. It was happy endings galore until the woman had suggested gilding the hooves of the white palfrey Elaine would ride down the aisle.

  Elaine had hated the idea. Her mother hadn’t cared. Chloe had been caught in the middle—and this had set the pattern for everything that followed.

  Mrs. Fallon was the last thing Chloe needed in the aftermath of Jack’s death. True, the show had to go on, but it could go on later, like when no one was trying to kill her.

  The only reasonable thing to do was to put the appointment off. After checking her notes, Chloe picked up the handset of the massive old rotary telephone on Jack’s desk and dialed Elaine’s office number. The woman was a mathematics professor at the university and spent a lot of time in the classroom. Luckily, this time she answered on the third ring.

  “Hello, Elaine, this is Chloe Anderson. How are you?”

  “Chloe!” The woman’s soft voice filled with concern. “I was so sorry to hear about your uncle. How are you doing?”

  “One day at a time,” Chloe answered, concentrating on keeping her voice even. “It was quite a shock.”

  “I’m sure it was.” Elaine fell silent for a long moment. “Um. Listen. I was going to leave this alone, but now that you’ve called, my mother was bugging me to email the guest list despite everything that’s going on with, well, the funeral and everything. I’m really sorry about bothering you right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you did. It’s nice to be talking about a happy event.” Chloe quickly toggled to her in-box and quickly scanned her list of unread messages. Elaine’s was there. It had arrived about the same time she’d been opening Jack’s safe.

  “I’m looking at it right now.” She double-clicked the attachment. “Oh, wow, six hundred for the reception.”

  And what a list it was—a who’s who of the private jet set. Chloe’s lips parted in awe as she read. The bride’s family were old money—the kind of folks who endowed everything from animal shelters to public television. Between them, they owned a chunk of every major city on the continent.

  The idea that this slice of the social pie would be at a Chloe’s Occasions event—it made her palms sweat with excitement and apprehension. If everything went right, her fledgling business could be picking up referrals for years to come. Her company would have arrived at the big time. Who cared if the bride’s mother wanted a gold-hoofed horse?

  She tuned back in on Elaine’s voice. The young woman sounded even more apologetic. “It was about half of what Mom wanted, but we’re trying to be realistic, given the timelines. Oh, I think I forgot to mention in the email that we’ve finally picked a date.”

  “That’s great to hear. Is it next June?”

  She could almost hear Elaine cringe. “In two months. September 15. I’m sorry, didn’t your assistant tell you?”

  “That’s ridiculous.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Oh, crumb.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I’m sorry, Elaine, but a wedding like yours...” She stopped herself, letting the wave of panic slide through her stomach and out the other side. “I’m sorry if that sounded abrupt, but an event like yours takes a great deal of planning. Two months isn’t much time. I haven’t even sat down with you and Leo. I’ve just been dealing with
Mrs. Fallon.”

  “I know. And I’m so grateful that you found a source for those rare orchids she wants for the centerpieces.”

  “That’s just it. I know what she wants, but what do you want at your wedding?”

  She laughed at that. “I’m the easy part. I just want Leo. He just wants the wedding to be over. But you and I are scheduled to meet, just the two of us. In a few hours, in fact. Or, um, that’s what we were planning until things happened.”

  “But...” Chloe had been calling to put the meeting off. Clearly Elaine would understand if she cancelled.

  “But?”

  Two months. Now there wasn’t time to put Elaine off, and keeping the meeting made sense when she was here, in Wingman County, right now. “I think we should get together anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” She always met privately with her brides, sometimes traveling around the globe to do it. That one-on-one time was the best way to learn a client’s true desires. Chloe’s Occasions always gave the bride what she really wanted—and they seldom revealed it over the phone.

  “I really appreciate this. You see, it’s my grandmother,” Elaine said softly. “She hasn’t got long and she wants to be at the wedding. It forced us to pick something sooner than we would have liked, but making sure Grandma has a front row seat trumps trying to invite everyone that my parents think ought to be included.”

  Chloe rubbed her forehead. “I understand. There’s no problem. I’ll arrange an office in town where we can sit down and have a good talk. I’ll text you the address.”

  “Sounds great. Thanks so much, Chloe. See you then.”

  The call disconnected. Chloe slumped in the desk chair.

  They didn’t even have a hall booked. A headache clamped her skull. She didn’t need this kind of stress. Not now, with wolves and diamonds and thieves in the night to worry about.