by Michele Hauf
But tonight she required someone different.
“The show is going well,” Lorcan said in his quiet yet enthusiastic voice. “The duchess Konstantinov has suggested to me she may loan the gallery her grandmother’s sapphire collection. She’s from old Russian money. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve a Fabergé egg stashed away, as well. Isn’t that spectacular?”
“Exquisite,” Blyss agreed. Yet the intrigue of whether or not the duchess did own a Fabergé egg didn’t pique her curiosity. Her heart wasn’t in the moment. Too much to think about. The plan must go off or she faced a horrible future.
“Is all well with the, erm...big surprise?” he whispered conspiratorially.
“Oui, bien sur.” At least, not if anyone cared to study Le Diabolique too closely. “Soon, Lorcan. But I don’t know about announcing it tonight.”
“I will leave it to you, then. You do have the only key to the storage room.”
Always trying to gain that access, Blyss thought. Maybe someday she would trust him to tend the acquisitions. But not yet.
“Keep working the room, Lorcan. And do be sure to introduce yourself to Madame Horchard. She’s filthy.” As in rich. A shorthand the two of them shared. Because if there was one thing that had drawn Blyss to Lorcan, it was his desire to climb the social ladder by means of attaching himself to money. “I must make another round through the gallery.”
They bussed each other’s cheeks. Lorcan knew well that Blyss abhorred getting her lipstick or her hair mussed.
Clutching the goblet, she strode slowly through the crowd, nodding in acknowledgment to those she knew. Normally she noted the flash of bling on ears, at necks, and wrists and fingers. So she had managed ten carats from her lover? Lucky girl. But tonight her mind was a scatter. Nerves made her tense.
Her heartbeats thundered. She inhaled and then exhaled deeply, vying for calm. She hated this feeling of desperation that had settled into her being the past few days. She’d thought to have perfected her life and that smooth sailing was all her future held.
Until her father, Colin Sauveterre, had shown up at her door a month ago, slobbering drunk and crying. His gambling debts had caught up to him. He’d needed her help. But by helping him, she had placed herself on a precipice that loomed over a dangerous fall.
Would she ever again feel safe and sure? As if her life was exactly as she had designed it? All she desired was to drop her shoulders and relax, knowing all was well. And that she fit in.
Exhaling heavily, she drew in a breath of courage. She could do this. She had to do this.
She managed a fake smile to a dignitary whose name she could not recall, and drifted away from the velvet-and-glass displays that featured dazzling diamonds and colored stones in gorgeous settings from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
Rubbing a hand along her lace dress, Blyss cursed the fact her palm was moist. Nerves were not her thing. She could work a room peopled with hundreds and never let them see her sweat. But tonight was different. And she hadn’t found the right man yet.
But she remained hopeful.
Trading her empty flute of champagne for a fresh one from a waiter’s silver tray, she glided through the room and out into the large gallery that housed marble sculptures and where many had gone to chatter louder and more gregariously than the smaller room allowed.
The men were of all varieties. Old, young, middle-aged. Handsome, ugly, oddly alluring. Black ties and designer labels, mostly. Some lesser suits, of which she did not recognize the designer. The women were all dressed to dazzle and reveal.
The couture made her wish she had a credit card that wasn’t maxed out. Alexander McQueen? Oh, yes, please.
Blyss revealed as much as the other women. The black lace dress was cut low in the back to expose almost everything, and the front featured a deep V that clung to her breasts yet revealed their inner curves. A thigh-high slit on the floor-length skirt showed off her red-soled Louboutins. Diamonds at her neck and ears were prizes earned on the quest for the rich and bored who hunted for a sparkling trophy to hang on his arm. But never commitment. No, she chose her men for their expiration dates—and the wanderlust in their eyes. And if they suggested something longer than a fling or a few weekends in Madrid? She quickly extricated herself.
It wasn’t easy maintaining the lifestyle she enjoyed, but every kiss, every extravagant meal, every late night hookup in a lavish hotel room was worth it. Blyss adored luxury.
Most of all, she adored being adored.
Hmm, now there stood a possibility. The man chatting with the waiter over by the Rodin. She hadn’t seen him at any of the gallery’s previous functions. He was tall, nicely tanned—perhaps from yachting?—and wore his hair in a close shave against his head. Bright white teeth flashed beneath his blade nose. An easy stance advertised a certain laissez-faire. He didn’t care what others thought about him.
Blyss could not relate to lacking concern. As well, something about him didn’t quite fit him among the elite crowd. Was it the fabric that stretched at his broad shoulders? The suit had been poorly tailored. Or his seeming awestruck gaze as he took in the festivities? He was...big. Almost awkward. Like a boulder tossed into a flower garden.
Well, he wouldn’t be here without an invite. And Blyss tendered her invites carefully. He was worth checking out—if not, using.
* * *
Stryke wandered through the marble-walled gallery, taking in the sculptures by artists he’d only read about in books. Yeah, so he was probably the only one of his brothers who claimed to read. Much unlike his brothers, who hadn’t the patience or interest in fine arts, he enjoyed learning new things and bulking up his cultural-knowledge quotient.
He took in the elite crowd who sipped champagne and nibbled caviar-coated crackers. He assessed every step, every gesture, every cut of fabric and deviously delivered bon mot. Diamonds glinted at ears, necks and cuff links. He was pretty sure the clothing cost a small fortune, and didn’t even want to guess at how long he’d have to work to afford the diamond choker around that old lady’s neck.
He wasn’t currently working for a paycheck. After a short stint as a volunteer fireman—the fire station had been closed due to budget problems—he was looking for something to fulfill his need for action and danger. It didn’t need to provide a paycheck; he was set for life. But as well, if it involved helping his own breed then he would be even more attracted to taking on the job.
These people were not his breed. They were human. Not his crowd. On the other hand, he was accustomed to existing among humans because that was simply life as he knew it. Wasn’t as if a private werewolf haven existed on an island in the Pacific.
He wouldn’t be interested if it did exist. He liked humans. They were just like him, but without the propensity to grow fur and flick out the claws when the mood struck. Poor humans.
Tonight’s biggest surprise? His brother Blade had come along with him. The last of the Saint-Pierre brothers he would have guessed had an interest in art. Reclusive almost to the extreme, Blade had nodded and muttered something about “getting away from the crazy chicks and their wedding talk.”
And yet, Blade had left fifteen minutes ago with his arms wrapped around sexy blonde twins wearing matching red miniskirts. So Blade’s idea of art was a little different than most.
Stryke had flown to Paris with his family. His parents, Malakai and Rissa Saint-Pierre, and their children, Trouble, Blade, Kelyn and Daisy Blu. Stryke’s aunt Kambriel was marrying Johnny Santiago in a few days. The Santiagos were the Hawkes side of the family, and they were vampires.
Fine by him. As with humans, he had nothing against vamps. His grandfather Creed Saint-Pierre was a vamp, and Blade was actually half faery—as well as vampire. It was all good so long as there were werewolves in the mix at the wedding.
Stryke had heard Europe’s werewolf population was booming and the females were in abundance, much the opposite of his native hometown. He hoped that was true. It would increase
his chances of meeting a female werewolf, falling in love and getting married.
If only reality proved as simple as the fantasy.
Stryke likely wouldn’t hook up so easily as Blade had tonight. He was no slouch when it came to dating, but he did tend toward a specific type. Pretty, yet slightly tomboyish, able to embrace fun and a lover of all things outdoors, including snuggling by a midnight bonfire and long walks through the woods.
Was that asking too much? He didn’t think so.
And yet he wasn’t feeling attraction to any of the women. All of them were dressed to the nines with hair that must have taken hours in a salon and makeup that had probably been professionally applied. The diamonds flashing on fingers, necks and ears could light the New Year’s Eve ball dropped in Times Square. He guessed none of them would even look at a man whose bank account didn’t scream high seven figures.
Didn’t matter. Now that Blade had taken off, he could focus on the art. He’d browsed through the jewelry display. Diamonds were just sparkly chunks of carbon, right? He couldn’t figure their appeal. Here in this large open area many sculptures held court. Carved from white marble, he was awestruck how the stone looked as if it was real, warm flesh. As if he should touch one of them the statue would startle. Cool.
He glanced around. Would an alarm go off if he did touch one? He crossed his arms to fend off the compulsion but the suit coat tugged at his shoulders. Vail was definitely less broad in the shoulders than he was.
A waiter offered more champagne and he refused. “Thanks, man—er, non, merci.” Yeah, he’d picked up a few French words. He would be working the language like a native in no time.
Stryke heard all languages babbling about tonight. Earlier he’d listened to a couple of women chatter in English about their hemlines. Why were the conversations he could understand the boring ones?
A crew of well-suited men passed him, each with a gorgeous looker draped on his arm. Stryke tilted back his shoulders. He didn’t need a woman to look important. He preferred his females a bit tussled and wilder, anyway. The princess of his pack would need endurance, patience and, hell, she must be fun, too. And like beer.
“But maybe I should reconsider lace,” he muttered as his eyes landed upon a sheath of black lace caressing the most gorgeous figure he had ever seen. He felt sure he couldn’t even dream up something so luscious.
Black lace caressed long legs and hugged a tight ass and narrow waist. Red-manicured fingernails glided over a hip before gesturing as she spoke to another woman. The gesture directed Stryke’s eyes to the deep-cut neckline that exposed the cusps of perfect, round breasts. And up the slender neck where a single diamond glinted, yet didn’t distract from the soft, pale skin.
Petal-pink lips caught his interest. Kissing those lips would be better than tasting the home-brewed beers he enjoyed and brewed in his basement. Kissing those lips, and running his fingers through that soft dark hair that was pulled up in back yet fluffed on top to frame black-lined eyes could ruin a man for other women.
After a man kissed those lips, there would be no going back. And to stroke his fingers down her neck and arrive at the curves of her breasts? Mercy.
Think rednecks and beer.
Stryke smirked and caught himself laughing quietly. He didn’t do stuff like moon over a gorgeous woman. That chick was so out of his league he’d never get closer than the nosebleed seats. He bet she would never wear flannel or even consider a hike through the pine forest out back of his home.
And yet, she was something to look at. Much more intriguing than the sculpture of a naked man immediately to his left.
So he let his gaze linger as he strolled closer, hoping to catch a whiff of her scent. It would be expensive, for sure. His werewolf senses picked up too much from the room. Perfume, aftershave, champagne, salted crackers, sweet treats, body odor. The sensory assault was overwhelming, but he knew how to turn it down and had done so within minutes after arriving.
Now he sought to home in on her scent. A piece of her to tuck into his memory and take along with him tonight. Something upon which to dream.
As he neared, she dismissed the person she was talking to and brushed close to him, not noticing him, but Stryke felt her heat pierce his borrowed suit and dress shirt. Her body heat was visceral. And her scent was sweet but not like sugar, more like a garden full of flowers with bees buzzing among the petals. Subtle yet intensely heady.
His wrist jerked as she passed, and Stryke swung to see what had happened. “Oh, shit. Uh...” He followed as she walked, unknowing, until she did realize and turned to bump chests with him.
“Sorry,” he said. “My cuff link is hooked on your dress. You passed so close.” He twisted his wrist, but could feel the resistance. “Uh, parlez vous Anglais?”
“Interesting way of picking up a girl,” she said in a cultured voice that belonged in a jewelry box aside all that was precious. And on the box? A sign labeled Don’t Touch. “Oui, I can manage English when I must. Can you get it unhooked?”
“Give me a minute. Your dress is all lace and so delicate. I don’t want to tear it.”
“Please do not, monsieur. It’s one of my favorites.”
He’d snagged her right over the ass, and he worked the back of his hand against her derriere, feeling guilty for the stolen touch, yet at the same time, loving the freebie. The diamond cuff link Vail had loaned him was worth a pretty penny, he felt sure. One of the clasps holding a stone had dug its clutches into the thin black lace.
He straightened, standing beside her with his hand behind her and fingers curled so he didn’t blatantly cup her ass. Causing a scene was the last thing he wanted to do, so he’d act casual. Mercy. She smelled good. It was all he could do not to tilt his head against hers to sniff her hair.
“My name’s Stryke Saint-Pierre, by the way.”
“Blyss Sauveterre,” she offered. And oh, yes, she was. “What sort of pre nom is Stryke?”
“The one my parents gave me. Uh, I’m from the US.”
“That is obvious from your accent,” she said with not even a smile.
Nope. He wasn’t going to win her over this way. Damn. Way to spoil things. Worst pickup ever. Now to extricate himself without humiliating her more than himself.
“Uh, could we move over near that column where there’s more light?”
He nodded toward a marble column at the edge of the gathering. Not a lot of people milling on that side of the gallery. They’d be granted some privacy to perform this delicate operation.
“If it’ll deliver me of your groping hand, then oui.”
She started toward the column and he followed, but it was easiest to let his fingers gently curl about her behind. Yeah, it wasn’t cool, but what about this situation was cool?
Once at the column he pulled her around to the other side, where they found privacy and better light.
“Excuse me for what I’m going to do,” he said.
Her lips pursed. Her bright green eyes were the most valuable jewels in the room tonight. And those pink lips. They looked moist and so wanting of a kiss. No chance of kissing them after this embarrassing debacle. Not as if he’d a chance with this delicious bit in the first place.
Stryke bent behind her to work at the tangle. She slid a hand down her hip, uncomfortable, he guessed. And impatient. God, she smelled amazing. All flowers covered in sugar and fluttering over him until he was buried in sweetness.
“So this is how American men meet women?” she asked over her shoulder. “Snag them like a poisson?”
Poisson? What was that? Poison? Hell, he didn’t know. “Not generally. I like to take a less aggressive tact when I’m interested in a woman.” Though certainly he was on the hunt. Wrong breed, though. This one he’d have to toss back. Ah! Poisson meant fish. “I suspect I’m not your type anyway.”
“What, or rather, who do you guess is my type, Monsieur Stryke?”
When she said his name like that Stryke wished they were the only two in th
e gallery, and that he had the courage to kiss her and steal away more of her elegant French words.
“Your type...” He stood and kept their close proximity by running his hand over her hip, and said, “...is rich.”
She quirked a perfectly arched brow. The eyeliner circling her beautiful bright eyes had been drawn out at the corners in a catty tease. As he had with the marble statues, Stryke reminded himself not to touch. This wasn’t the venue or crowd that appreciated his kind of sensual curiosity. He’d have to save the smoothing of his fingers over her skin for the bedroom. Which was never going to happen.
“So you do not qualify?” she asked. “Rich?”
“I do well enough.”
In truth, he could probably beat most of the people here tonight in a show of financial statements, but he didn’t like to brag. He was most comfortable living below his means. And if a woman judged a man by his checkbook? He wasn’t interested.
She tapped his free wrist where the diamond cuff link glinted. “I suspect you do.”
He wasn’t about to correct her assumption. Why create another mark against him?
“I’ve been in Paris two days,” he offered. “I have to say you’ve made the trip worthwhile.”
“How is that?”
Leaning closer, just managing the skim of his coat front against her back, he spoke near her ear when a curl of her hair tickled his cheek.
“You’ve pulled me out of my world and into a fantasy. Not often that happens to a guy. Would it be crass to ask if you’ve a boyfriend?”
“It would.”
He nodded. Yeah, he wasn’t going to score interest from this glamour girl.
She tilted her gaze at him and he couldn’t determine if she was disgusted or maybe intrigued. “Have you managed to detach yourself?”
