Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

  "Ann, you've stepped into the middle of a legend. Now you're trapped." His voice was low, gentle, laced with sorrow . . . and satisfaction.

  "I didn't mean to." She spoke as softly, but every word trembled with trepidation.

  "Yet here you are, at my side. And if I would choose any woman to be with me during this ordeal, it would be you. Would you leave me here alone to face whatever comes?"

  "No!"

  "I think that's why you were chosen. That. . . and this." He kissed her.

  She bunched her fists against his shoulders and tried to pull back, to tell him he'd made a mistake, that she wasn't brave.

  But he wrapped his hand around her neck and held her still. He crushed her bare breasts against his chest, and he opened her mouth under his.

  This time she found it so much easier to give him everything. Desire rose at once—or maybe it had never completely disappeared. She sucked on his tongue, and gave him hers to suck, as well, and al­most drowned in the pure joy he offered.

  When he lifted his head, she tugged at his waist­band. "Take them off."

  "I can't."

  "Because they're wet? I'll help you." She reached for the button fly.

  He caught her hand right after she made contact with the fly, and the bulge underneath, and pulled her hand away with a grin and a grimace. "No, I mean, if I take them off, I won't be able to keep control."

  "Control is overrated." She wrestled for her hand.

  "I'll get inside you again, and I've already ridden you too hard. You're a virgin."

  "Not anymore."

  "Don't I know it?" That red flare grew in his eyes.

  She didn't care. She didn't care if he turned into a wolf right now. "I don't want to just go to sleep!" Not when he'd heated her, softened her, prepared her.

  "I didn't say we were going to do that." He placed his palm on her chest over her heart and pressed her back against the tub. "Now that we're inside and the security alarm is set, I can make love to you at lei­sure, without worrying that someone will sneak up, stab me in the back, and take you."

  The hunter. He must mean the drunk hunter. "I don't remember you being too worried while we were in the woods."

  "While we were in the woods, the wolf pack watched my back." He slid to the middle of the tub, turned the whirlpool on, and lay back, stretching out his long legs next to her hips.

  "The wolf pack? The wolf pack does as you com­mand?" She couldn't decide—was she more horrified about the wolves, or the way he smiled and crooked a finger?

  "I saved Leader's life. He is grateful. Come here, Ann."

  "Why?"

  "I chased you down. I screwed you in the woods. Don't you want revenge?"

  How could he make such a vindictive word sound so appealing? "What kind of revenge?" "Straddle me, and I'll show you.”

  By the time Jasha placed Ann on the bed, she was limp from coming.

  And he could have pounded nails with his dick.

  Yeah, he deserved it, but that didn't make it any less painful. His wet jeans scraped him like sandpa­per, and all he wanted to do was fuck her until he was senseless. He would, too—if he were a true Va-rinski. If he exulted in his animal nature. But he'd seen what happened when Adrik had surrendered to evil. Their mother and father couldn't stand to lose another son. Especially not now.

  So Jasha guessed he'd go take a shower and jack off, then come to bed and sleep with his newfound mate. He looked at Ann, eyes closed, brown hair spread across the pillow.

  Fear of the darkness had always made him deny one part of his being, a part he greatly loved— running through the woods, taking justice in his own hands, being at one with the wild.

  But this time, he'd given in to the impulse to be­come a wolf, to run off his frustration and his fury at the curse that now controlled all their lives. With that one impulse, he'd set off a chain of events that changed everything, and forced him to do what he'd never thought he would—cleave to one female for the rest of his life.

  Four years ago, Ann had arrived at the Wilder Winery as a file clerk. He'd noted how well she summed up every business situation. He'd kept an eye on her; then when the opportunity occurred, he'd plucked her from among the office staff to be his administrative assistant.

  He'd never looked at her as a woman; women he could find easily.

  But an administrative assistant whom he could trust with every aspect of his business? That made her rarer than a bloodred ruby.

  No choice. He had no choice. A man who took a woman as he had done today had to honor the con­nection, or know himself to be truly a beast.

  So despite his misgivings, it was Ann. He'd made her his mate. And the Almighty made it a covenant, for she was a virgin, and she had found the icon.

  She hovered on the brink of sleep, but she whis­pered, "Jasha?"

  "Yes?" He leaned over her.

  Her lids fluttered, and she smiled shyly. "Thank you."

  She was pretty. He'd always known it; he had a complete appreciation for a good-looking woman. Her complexion was clear and fine; her blue eyes were big and surrounded by long dark lashes. But when she smiled .. . my God, it was like a lamp had gone on in her soul.

  Ann was the most kind-hearted, loyal woman he'd ever met—and now she was his. He would keep her forever.

  Chapter 12

  Ann paused in the kitchen doorway. She wore white slacks, carefully chosen for the way they cupped her rear; an orange sweater, carefully chosen for the plunging neckline and the way the loose knit displayed her black, lacy bra and tiny waist; and open-toed sandals, carefully chosen to show off her formerly pristine pedicure, now ruined in her race through the woods.

  She observed Jasha as he sat at the breakfast bar, drinking coffee from a heavy ceramic mug. Morning sunshine poured into the kitchen, lighting his sculpted cheekbones, his wide, sensual mouth, his drooping bedroom eyes. He was reading from his open laptop and he had that grin on his face, a grin she hoped would never be turned on her, for his faithful administrative assistant knew it meant he'd scored against an opponent. He filled out his black T-shirt very nicely, with taut muscles and subtle muscles and bulgy muscles. And hey—last night he'd nearly drowned giving her pleasure.

  She wished she didn't feel so self-conscious—about wandering around in Jasha's house, about giving off lustful scents, about opening a conversation with a man she'd thought she knew so well. A man who she now knew hid an awful, glorious, damning secret.

  She needed to ask questions. Of course. But how to start? What to say? She'd never been in such a situation before, and please God, she never would be again.

  Then he glanced up, and she couldn't remember why she wanted to make conversation with him at all. Why talk when they could—

  "Come and see what's in our local paper this morning." He turned the laptop and shoved it toward the seat beside him.

  She walked across the kitchen, no longer self-conscious, and perched on the stool.

  The headline read, CALIFORNIA HUNTER ARRESTED FOR INTOXICATION.

  Jasha stood. 'Til get your coffee. Do you want eggs?" "Til do it." She started to get up again. "Read." Hand on her shoulder, he pressed her down.

  Californian Eric Lofts mas arrested yesterday after he drove to the police department and burst in, claiming he'd been attached by a Wolf Man while out in the woods. Mr. Lofts claimed the Wolf Man changed from a wolf to a human man who broke his rifle, then back into a wolf to chase him to his car. As proof, he displayed a fresh bite on his neck. Under further ques­tioning, Mr. Lofts admitted he'd provoked the at­tack when the "Wolf Man" caught him illegally shooting at one of the packs that runs the Olympic Mountains. Mr. Lofts's blood al­cohol level tested at .12, and he was arrested for public intoxication, DUI, hunting without a license, and shooting at an endangered species protected by federal law. He has been released on ten thousand dollars' bail.

  "They didn't believe a word he said." Ann ac­cepted the coffee and took a sip. Jasha knew how she liked it—Fre
nch roast served with nonfat milk and a packet of sweetener. They'd spent many an evening at the office drinking far too much coffee as they worked deals with wholesalers or planned their next expansion.

  "I told you so." Jasha sounded insufferably smug as he broke eggs into a bowl and whisked them into a froth. "Cheese?"

  "Please." They'd done this before, too—prepared a quick meal so they could keep working. "But what about the bite on his neck?"

  "They probably think he pissed off someone's dog." He tossed butter into the pan and turned on the burner.

  "I suppose." After such a night, and so many reve­lations, it seemed amazing to find themselves sliding into domesticity. But what better time to ask a few subtle questions?

  "Why did the icon burn you?" She winced. She didn't do subtle well.

  He cast her a sideways glance. "I'll tell you that story after we eat."

  "Will I like the story better after we eat?"

  "No, but with some stories, a full stomach helps. Before that, I want to know exactly, word for word, what happened at the office to bring you here." He poured the mixture into the pan and pushed the wheat bread down in the toaster.

  "I told you. The Ukrainians are threatening to can­cel the deal if you don't respond right away."

  "Word for word," he repeated. He put the plate in front of her and kissed her cheek. "Don't look so worried. We'll get this figured out. We always do." He pulled out his stool. "We're a good team. We always have been."

  "Yes. We always have been." But this was the same pep talk he always gave her around the office. And they were more than a team now. They were lovers, and their relationship would stand the test of time.

  Wouldn't it?

  For her intelligence and acumen, Jasha respected Ann more than any other person he'd ever met, so he knew she would draw comfort from his familiar words of confidence.

  If the coming battle proved as grueling as it was shaping up to be, she'd use every bit of that intelli­gence and acumen. She was the ideal woman to stand at his side. She was timid, yes, but she hid an inner strength. More than that, she was loyal. She would never run.

  Last night, he'd suffered doubts about her suitabil­ity as his mate.

  In the clear light of morning, he realized that fate had given him the right woman to keep by his side.

  And when they won the battle—and they would, somehow they would—she'd give him strong chil­dren. Maybe even a daughter.

  He looked at her with an eye for potential breeding.

  She was tall and would easily carry his babies. The combination of their genes would produce handsome offspring, and with her astute intelligence and his competitive business sense, the Wilders would come to rule the wine world.

  She saw him watching her, and lifted her brows. "What?"

  "You're much prettier than Meghan Nakamura."

  "For a man with supposedly good taste in women, it took you long enough to notice." Frost dripped from Ann's voice.

  "I do have good taste in women." He smiled charmingly and thought, But I don't understand them. Because he had no idea what he'd said to make her mad.

  She ate her eggs and her toast, drank her orange juice and her coffee, refilled both their cups, then turned to him. "Tell me about you. Why are you . . . like you are?"

  This morning, she couldn't yet bring herself to speak of his wolfy state, as Firebird called it. She'd back stepped into disbelief.

  "Like I am?" He lifted his brows.

  "You know. Part . . . half . . . sometimes a ..." She knew him so well. She knew he was chuckling at her. "You have a dog door and you don't have a dog!"

  "I'll tell you about me, but first—take me through the events that brought you here. Besides the fact that you're infatuated with me, I mean." He chuckled.

  Ann didn't.

  Perhaps it was a little early in their relationship to tease her. It didn't feel early, but perhaps he needed to remember she'd never been intimate with a man before, and endeavor to make her feel always at ease with him—for there might come a time when her trust signified the difference between life and death. "You know my family is from Russia," he said. "My father's family are Cossacks. My mother's family is Romany. Gypsy."

  Ann propped her chin on her hand and studied him. "Really? Your mother is a Gypsy?"

  "My parents had to leave Russia. Her tribe didn't want her to be with my fattier, and my father's fam­ily doesn't approve of marriage.”

  "To a Romany, you mean."

  "Especially not to a Romany." He'd heard the story on one chill winter night when he was seven­teen, a senior in high school. He'd been accepted to MET and, like all young men, anxious to strike out on his own.

  But when his father had said he wanted to tell the tale only once, Jasha had listened, because the old man loved to tell stories over and over and over.

  But not about his past Never about the Old Country.

  "Does anyone else in your family . . . you know . . . ?" She looked anxious, as if she didn't know whether to hope he was the only one or be relieved that there were others.

  "All the guys."

  "All the guys? Only the guys?"

  "It's complicated." And he didn't know how many more shocks she could bear. Although this morning she looked more like the unflappable Ann Smith and less like the creature created of storm and passion.

  Which one was the true Ann Smith?

  "I suppose it must be. But maybe that's why your mother's family wasn't happy about the marriage."

  "Because they're prejudiced against guys who turn into wolves? We could march on the Kremlin and demand equal rights."

  Ann still wasn't smiling.

  Man, he was giving her his best stuff, and she was not amused.

  Yes, this was definitely the real Ann Smith. While he found humor in the difficulties of life, she waited for him to finish joking, and put him back on track.

  But man, how he hated to tell her the truth. "There's a good chance my father's family is carrying a grudge."

  "Because your parents got married?" She sounded incredulous.

  "Oh, yeah."

  "They've been carrying a grudge for thirty-some years?"

  If she only knew. "A thousand years is nothing to them."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I've got insider information." Sooner or later, he'd have to tell her the whole story . . . but he didn't want to. He suspected that when she discovered what a pile she'd stepped into, she'd want to run for the hills. He wouldn't blame her—but he would have to stop her.

  "Now tell me what you know about the Ukrainian deal—"

  "I got a fax." Before he could pin her down, she said, "It was waiting for me when I went in three days ago.”

  "The day after the Fourth of July?"

  "Yes."

  "Doesn't that just figure?"

  "The fax said they'd decided to agree to our terms, but only if you'd meet with them by the end of the week."

  "Meet with them? Where?"

  "In your office."

  His eyes narrowed as he weighed the possibilities.

  Had the Varinskis tracked him? His dad's paranoia had always seemed exactly that—the paranoia of a stern old man with a terrible secret to hide. Yet in all his years in business, Jasha had never seen any indication that anyone from the Old Country cared about his little family.

  Yet he never took chances. He'd covered his tracks. He'd hacked into public computers, removed rec­ords, made himself an enigma with no past . . . just in case.

  "They want to close the deal. They want to meet you in person and get your signature," she said.

  To threaten him? To kill him?

  To find out his family's location and destroy them?

  "What did you tell them?" he asked.

  "That you were out of the office at a family func­tion—"

  If they'd been fishing for information, they'd pulled in a whale. "What did they say to that?"

  "They didn't say anything. It was a flurry o
f faxes, and they made no comment about your activities.” She lifted her eyebrows, waiting for his next ques­tion. When he said nothing, she continued: "I said I'd contact you, but to please be patient."

  "They refused."

  "They were very gruff, yes, so I told them I'd bring the contracts and we'd go over them. I convinced them to wait."

  He ran his gaze over her. Had they followed her? Had they put a tracking device on her? What else had she inadvertently told them? "Did you bring the whole file?"

  "Of course!" He'd insulted his superefficient secre­tary. She slid off the stool, fetched her briefcase, and spread the contracts and the faxes across the table.

  He looked through them. Everything was orga­nized according to time frame. He read them with a new eye, and he heard his mother's voice as clearly as if she sat beside him.

  The sons of Oleg Varinski have found you. You are not safe.

  Chapter 13

  The hair rose on the back of Jasha's neck. He looked directly at Ann, sitting quietly, watching him, and clearly trying to comprehend his thoughts.

  If the Varinskis had followed her, she would never have known it. If they ever realized what she'd done, what she was—the finder of the icon, the woman the Madonna had chosen—she wouldn't stand a chance in hell of survival.

  With more urgency, he asked, "Did they send you anything to give to me? A token of their goodwill? Anything?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Jasha." She sounded exasperated. "You can trust me to know whether I've been given something to bring you."

  "I do.”

  "Then act like it!"

  "It's not that I don't trust you. I don't trust them."

  "They're wine distributors." She threw out her hands in a gesture of exasperation. ''What's not to trust?"

  "You're naive." She was an innocent in all this, drawn into the depths of an ancient pledge because of her loyalty to him.

  "Naive? About business?" She half rose off the stool. "Isn't that another term for stupid!"

  He'd offended her. He put down the sheaf of pa­pers and looked her in the eyes. "No."