by Michele Hauf
Stryke shook the man’s firm grasp. “Stryke Saint-Pierre. Werewolf.”
“I like werewolves,” Tor offered, folding back the flap on the box. “But you guys can be a challenge when pissed off.”
Stryke tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Nothing wrong with being a challenge.”
“So.” Tor gestured Stryke approach the back of the van to peer into the box. “This is what I’ve got.”
“Rhys said your knights sometimes pick this stuff up from a slain vampire’s lair?”
“This artifact came from a vamp who was trafficking in magical accoutrements. Most of the stuff—herbs, nostrums and small ritual objects—we toss. But there were some decidedly demonic artifacts mixed in with the more innocuous stuff. Didn’t want to keep our hands on this, nor did we want it sitting around for any Tom, Dick or Edward to get his hands on.”
“May I?”
Tor nodded. “You’ll be taking it with you anyway.”
Stryke peered into the box and spied what looked like a staff of sorts. About two feet long, it was sleek, resembled steel and the top portion jutted up into prongs, which looked as though they should be clasping some wizardly sort of crystal.
His fingers neared the staff and then he flinched. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
“Demonic scepter.” Tor reached in and pulled out the item as if a child’s toy and waved it before Stryke. “Demons can do very bad things with it.”
Stryke took a step back and put up his hands. “That’s silver, man.”
Tor studied the length of the scepter, then nodded. “Yep, probably is. A good conductor of magic. I suspect a stone or some such fits in the prongs. Most likely the stone is required to activate the thing. Be thankful it’s missing. Here you go.”
“Dude, I am not touching that thing. Silver is—”
“Ah, right. Sorry. But the silver has to actually enter your bloodstream to do you werewolves harm, right?”
“In theory. But I had a bad experience with a silver-tipped arrow last winter.” He clutched his left biceps. “Almost died. I’m not taking any chances.”
“Yikes.” Tor carefully set the scepter back in the box. “Take it in the box, then.”
“So it’s cool sitting in this plain old brown box?”
“Should be.” Tor tugged out the box and handed it to Stryke. “But I’d get it back to Hawkes Associates and secure it with wards as quickly as possible. Just to be safe.”
Stryke thought he felt a wave of heat emanate from within the box and glow in his biceps. He winced. His brow began to sweat. His mouth dried. Flashes of last winter when the silver had fought to take his life disoriented him. But a healthy dose of wolfsbane had defeated the poison.
“Stryke? You okay?”
“Huh? Uh, yes.” Best to get the hell out of here fast. “Thanks, man. Do I need to pay you?”
“We’ve an account with Hawkes. It’s all been taken care of. Nice to meet you, Saint-Pierre. Stay wary.”
“Really?” Stryke asked, but Tor had already slipped around the side of the van and he heard the driver’s door slam shut.
“Wary,” he muttered as the van pulled away.
Again he felt the heat emanate from within the box. “You don’t have to tell me that. Me and silver do not have a good history.”
If he was going to run into more silver working for Rhys, he’d have to start carrying some wolfsbane with him.
* * *
Blyss touched up her eyeliner in the mirror, drawing it out in a cat’s-eye tease. Her brows were tweezed and shaded to perfection. A hint of blush. And bright red lips. Her usual daytime look. She liked to look sexy, and yes, she knew she was pretty. Men told her as much all the time. But sometimes it was hard to justify the beauty when she knew a beast lurked within.
She shook her head at the mirror’s reflection. Do not fall into those dark thoughts. She’d moved beyond such thinking and was managing her beast. Had been for years.
Only, now her life had started to unravel in incredible ways. Her supplier, Edamite Thrash, had always been kind and just with her, but even he could not put up with her missed payments. She was behind a year, and she needed to refill her supply soon. Only a few pills remained in the glass jar she kept on her vanity.
She must not allow the beast reign.
There was no questioning Edamite’s generosity by letting her go a year without paying. She’d had no choice but to divert her funds. Her father, well... She hoped he had learned a lesson and would never gamble again. But Blyss knew better.
Her bank account was in the red, and her social life was faltering. While usually she relied upon extravagant gifts from her lovers to seed her finances, she had not received a gift in months.
And she’d been given a week to procure an item for Edamite. An item so valuable he would forgive her debt and cover her for the next year’s supply. An item that she had obtained and then placed in another person’s care to divert suspicion. An item she must claim today so she could clear up matters with Ed.
She exhaled heavily, watching her shoulders slump in the mirror. Quickly, she corrected, pushing her shoulders back and lifting her chin.
Never let them see you suffer.
She’d worked too hard to establish her position among the humans. Blyss Sauveterre, Parisian socialite and gallery owner. She’d even been photographed with celebrities and had once made the gossip page after a weekend fling with a Russian duke.
She adjusted the combs, brushes and makeup on the vanity table before her so they lay straight and evenly spaced. She liked neatness. She was so close to avoiding a complete life catastrophe and smoothing over that annoying bump in her road. Control was her only means to relax.
Yet now Stryke Saint-Pierre had strolled into her life.
Her reflection frowned. She had been attracted the moment she’d laid eyes on him walking the gallery floor. And the attraction had been like nothing she had ever felt for a man before. She’d wanted to feel his hands roaming her skin, his mouth tasting hers. And she’d gotten that.
She wanted it again.
No. He is just the diversion.
Right. Stick to the plan. She had to see him again today. In order to retrieve what she’d planted on him, she needed access to his personal things. She must get close to him without raising suspicion.
Seduction would be necessary. And while seduction should prove a simple task—a job, nothing more—Blyss knew once she again stood in Stryke’s arms, all bets would be off. She’d fall into his beautiful brown eyes and sexy smile and wish only for his masterful kiss. A kiss that had left her breathless in the gallery office.
A kiss she wanted to taste again.
Shaking her head furiously, she battled with the devil and angel hovering above each shoulder. She would never be an angel. She tried not to be so devilish. But this afternoon she must tempt and seduce. And win back her standing with her supplier.
Because if she did not, she must then face her beast. And that was something she could not bear.
* * *
Outfitted in hazmat gloves and a face mask, Rhys Hawkes had been waiting for the delivery in his office. Stryke had chuckled, but then asked when he would be issued his own safety equipment.
“Sorry,” Rhys said as he took the silver scepter from the cardboard box. “I knew it was silver, but the thought to warn you didn’t occur at the time. I’ll have the company car outfitted with some precautionary equipment.”
“Precautionary,” Stryke repeated as he followed Rhys into an open vault that stretched back about twenty feet and featured an aisle four feet wide. He strolled his gaze up and down the security boxes, each fronted by a digital entry pad. “What all is in these boxes?”
“Gold, silver, coins from ages past. Magical items. Demonic accoutrements. Personal possessions that hold such great power the owner fears keeping them too near. Everything you can imagine. This is the preliminary holding cell for items the owners intend to retrieve instead of
having them stored long-term. As well, I keep items I’ve purchased in here—like this scepter—until a spot can be coded for them below. I’ve a marvelous warehouse underground this building. I’ll show it to you sometime.”
“Kind of Warehouse 13, eh?”
“Hmm?” Rhys punched in a code and pulled open a drawer. He hadn’t gotten the reference to the sci-fi show Stryke caught on replay every so often that featured a massive storage shed for items and devices of supernatural origin.
“So that wasn’t a very dangerous job,” Stryke commented. “You know I am capable if you’ve a particularly harrowing task.”
“Oh, indeed.” Rhys closed the drawer and tugged off his gloves. “You looking for some danger, Saint-Pierre?”
“Always.”
“Your father told me you’re the wise one of his children. Sort of the calm center amid a storm of fur and trouble.”
“Trouble being the key word in that statement. My brother definitely lives up to his name.”
“Malakai also tells me he’s encouraged you to start a pack?”
“Yes, Dad wants to retire. And we could use a more varied pack where I live. A mixture of families.”
“Always wise to integrate the pack with new blood. So you are married?”
“No, but I’m looking.”
“Heh. I’d introduce you to my granddaughters at the wedding—Trystan’s girls—but no. I don’t want you taking any from my family across the ocean.”
“Thanks. I do have my eye out while I’m in town.”
Rhys patted him on the back and led him back out to the office. “You enjoy the show last night?”
“It was interesting.” If not curious. And a boost to his ego. Until Blyss had shoved him out the door, and then his ego had fallen onto the concrete. “Met a gorgeous woman.”
“Ah? Werewolf?”
“No. Doubt I’ll find such luck so quickly.”
“You two have a date, then?”
“I think we’ve done the date, the first kiss, the— Let’s say it was sweet while it lasted.”
“Parisian women can be baffling. Such pretty baubles to admire, but try to nudge beneath the sparkle and learn them?” Rhys shook his head. “I am thankful for a long and loving relationship with my wife. Dating nowadays would stymie me. People don’t even talk anymore. They text. What is that about?”
Stryke offered him a shrug. He wasn’t much for texting. A long talk and hand-holding were more his style.
“But if you’re looking for a hookup in town,” Rhys continued, “talk to Johnny. He knows a lot of—”
“Vampires aren’t really my style. But thanks, Rhys. I’m going to head out. Unless you’ve more work for me?”
“Not at the moment, but I’m sure I will in a day or two. Thanks for helping out, Stryke. See you at the wedding this weekend.”
On the way home Stryke stopped for a crepe from a food stand across the cobbled street from Notre Dame. He’d been eyeing this stand every day since arrival. Worth the dive into unhealthy. Sickeningly sweet chocolate oozed out around thick slices of banana between the folded crepe.
Bananas were always healthy, right?
He consumed the crepe and wandered in through the lobby of the apartment building. Knocking on the door to the apartment his brother Blade was staying in, he waited, but no answer. Must still be out with the twins.
His parents were likely helping with the wedding stuff. And Kelyn had been serious about seeing the sights. The youngest Saint-Pierre brother had left the building this morning with a map in one hand and his iPod set to a city tour.
Shaking his head in admiration over Blade’s roguish prowess, Stryke headed up to his place. He surfed the television but couldn’t understand French or the Indian-language stations, though the talk shows that emulated the confrontational style so popular in the US were a hoot.
After fifteen minutes all the hair-pulling and shoving annoyed him. Time to head out and explore the city. Maybe he could pick up Kelyn’s scent and join him. He scanned out the window and eyed the row of shops across the river. He’d start there because he was pretty sure one of them was a bookshop.
A knock at the door must be a family member. Expecting a brother or even his mom or dad, Stryke answered the summons and chuffed out his breath at the sight of who it really was.
The sexy siren stood with one arm raised, her hand grasping high on the door frame, while her sinuous body slinked and seduced in red velvet. The dress hugged her from breasts to curvy hips. A party this early in the day? Stryke decided that every day—all day—was a party for this glamour girl.
“Blyss?”
She winked and strode across the threshold, handing him a filmy black scarf. He fumbled with it, not sure whether to scrunch it up and toss it aside or press it to his nose to inhale her scent. He compromised and brushed it over his face as he tossed it aside to land on the kitchen table littered with toast crumbs from a hasty breakfast.
Following the click of her high heels into the living room, which was bare of furnishings, save for a baroque couch and chair set that looked as if it hailed from the eighteenth century, Stryke waited for her to announce her reason for the visit.
Did he need a reason? Hell no.
The woman he’d thought to never see again stood not six feet away from him, looking like a sex goddess wrapped in red. Her dark hair was pinned up again, with a few wispy tendrils drawing his eye directly to her elegant neck. Right there. That was where he really wanted to kiss her.
She turned and crooked her finger at him and he almost lost it right there. But he was cool. Mostly. He got an instant hard-on, though. No fancy suit today, just a T-shirt and loose blue jeans that had gotten remarkably tighter.
“How’d you find where I’m staying?” he asked as he padded up to her and didn’t dare touch her. Yet. She smelled like flowers. And again he got lost in a meadow of blossoms.
“You told me you live above the candy shop. Only one on the island.”
“I didn’t think I’d see you again after that hasty send-off last night.”
“Excuse moi. I sometimes slip out of hostess mode, and then when I realize my guests are untended, I refocus with a vengeance. It’s a thing with me.”
“You often slip out of hostess mode at such gatherings?” Meaning, did she screw strange men in the office much?
Blyss tilted her head and fluttered her lashes.
Did he care what she did with other men? She was here now. She smelled like flowers. Looked like sin. And it was obvious she hadn’t come for a chat.
Stryke pulled her to him in a swift move that married their bodies at hips and chest. He felt her nipples harden beneath the velvet and his hand glided to one breast to squeeze. There was something about a woman intent upon getting exactly what she wanted. And he sensed this flawless piece of female was here on a seek-and-have-sex mission.
He dipped his head to her breasts. The dress was cut low, and he dashed his tongue under the velvet. She gasped and leaned into him, asking for more with her body.
“I hope you’re not busy,” she whispered. “I don’t normally stop by without first calling, but I didn’t have your mobile number.”
Mobile was what the French called the cell phone. He lashed his tongue over her firm breast. “Was only planning on sightseeing. Mmm, Blyss, you are incredible.”
Her hand slid up under his T-shirt, fingernails gently clawing his abs. “And you are très fantastique, Stryke.”
He slid the thin red strap off her shoulder and pulled down the dress to expose her breast. Kissing and suckling her erect nipple, he moaned at the pleasure of the surprise. And his inner wolf stirred, sensing the connection to—hmm...to what?
Something about her called to his feral instincts in ways that no woman ever had. It puzzled him, but then again, he couldn’t question it too much. Maybe later.
Her leg hooked about his and she gripped him at the back of his neck, pulling him hard against her breast. When he nipped her
skin she gasped. She liked that. A little rough? He’d always thought himself a gentle lover, but he could amp up the intensity if that was what she wanted.
Squeezing her other breast while he sucked in her nipple, he gripped her ass and lifted her so she wrapped her legs about his. The bedroom door was five steps away. Moving blindly, he managed to miss the door completely and crush her up against the wall. He knew she liked this position.
“Sorry, was aiming for the door.”
“Your bedroom is through there? Yes, let’s try it on a bed this time, mon amour.”
My love? Oh yeah. She was here for more than a social call.
This time he made it through the doorway and they tumbled onto the king-size bed made with simple white linens and a scatter of fluffy pillows. He didn’t let her go, though. Instead he pulled down the other dress strap and the dress fell to her waist. Burying his face against her breasts, he breathed in what was surely expensive perfume. He’d fallen into a rose garden.
She tugged at his shirt and he slipped it over his head. Cooing, Blyss ran her hands over his chest, setting his nerve endings ultrareceptive to all things good.
“So ripped,” she murmured. “American men are so much more than the French man.”
When he was about to foolishly say it was the wolf in him, she pressed a finger to his lips. “Let’s not talk. Let’s taste.” She lashed her tongue under his jaw. “And touch.” Her fingers slid over his crotch and curled about his erection. “And devour.”
“Devouring sounds good to me.”
Stryke made quick work of his fly, unzipping and shrugging out of his jeans. Boxer briefs hugged his erection, but they didn’t stay up for long. Blyss shoved them down his hips and grasped his aching hard-on. The contact felt like fire singeing him in the sweetest way. He hissed.
She coiled her fingers about him and squeezed. Oh, yeah, that was twenty kinds of all right.
Stryke was about to kiss her mouth, but the red lipstick stayed him. She was so pretty, so perfect. She deserved mussing, but he’d do it in another way. Planting the kiss on her neck, he nuzzled there and gently bit down along her shoulder. Her hands busied themselves with his cock and he would come too fast if she kept it up.
