by Michele Hauf
Blyss sighed, and her reflection blinked, messing up the eyeliner.
“What the hell am I doing?” she muttered as she swiped a tissue over the mess. “I don’t turn into a swooning schoolgirl when a man knows how to make love to me. I remain calm and distant, and thank him for whatever sparkling gift he wishes to give me.”
Stryke had gifted her gorgeous red roses. Nothing that could be resold, such as diamonds or platinum, or even a new car. She’d collected hundreds of thousands of dollars in gifts over the years. All of which were now gone. Ransomed to pay for her addiction.
“It’s not an addiction,” she whispered. “It is necessity.”
Because she couldn’t live as a werewolf. It was unthinkable.
And she did still own one gift—the gallery. Would she have to sell it to pay for her habit?
It wasn’t a habit; it was her lifestyle.
The mobile phone sitting on a silver tray played the opening organ notes from Schnorr’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. The caller ID was blocked. Blyss knew exactly who it was from the ringtone. She drummed her fingers on the vanity.
The phone rang insistently.
She finally picked it up. “Oui?”
“Mademoiselle Sauveterre.”
Even knowing who it was, her heart dropped to her gut. And it pulsed so erratically she clutched at her stomach, feeling as though she would be sick.
“You have Le Diabolique?” the deeply calm yet sinister voice asked.
It was Edamite Thrash. A demon. Her supplier.
“It is in transit. I’m to collect it tonight.”
The diamond had been their deal. If she obtained the Diabolique diamond, he would forget that she owed him five hundred thousand euros and also front her for another year’s supply. Those pills were what suppressed her werewolf.
“I don’t understand, Mademoiselle Sauveterre. I know the diamond has been taken from the gallery.”
How he knew about that secret operation, a crime she intended to keep out of the media by replacing the original stone with a fake, was beyond her. She hadn’t been in to check on the fake today. There was no reason to. And if Lorcan should see it he wouldn’t be able to tell it was a fake.
“I had to divert suspicion from me in order to get it out of the gallery,” she said. Any chance of Lorcan finding the diamond on her had to be reduced. The handoff to Stryke had been the only plan she could live with. She hadn’t expected the suit loan, though. “I will have it in hand tonight and can bring it to you tomorrow.”
“I’ll send a car for you in the morning.” The phone clicked off.
Blyss dropped the phone on the marble vanity. Her makeup supplies scattered, spilling across her lap, and she caught her face in her palms. Tears slid down her wrists.
There were six pills left in the jar she kept on the vanity. And she must take one today.
She sat up abruptly. “No.”
Racing down the hallway and into the kitchen, she clicked on the iPad and selected the calendar app. Counting out the days, she tapped her finger on the end date. And there, at the bottom of the day square, was a tiny circle.
“Full moon,” she gasped. “Oh, mercy, this can’t happen.”
Chapter 6
After he’d parked in front of Blyss’s building, Stryke adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror. He was oddly ambivalent about this evening. He had an unnerving suspicion about Blyss, and it hadn’t anything to do with the fact she wouldn’t admit to being werewolf to him. It had everything to do with what he’d found in the pocket of Vail’s suit. He didn’t know Vail well, and the guy did like his sparkly gemstones, but really?
He struggled with giving Blyss the benefit of the doubt or straight-out questioning her before they got to the wedding. And then he decided to play it by ear. If his suspicions were correct, she would reveal herself. And he wouldn’t like that.
He didn’t want her to be anything but the glamour girl he loved to make love to. And hell, he knew this was a fantasy. There wasn’t a woman in the world like her. It was foolish to entertain the idea that she could be a part of his future, the werewolf wife he wanted and needed to start his own pack.
Even if she never wanted to see him again, he would always have memories of her.
Plucking the white flower from the cup holder, he held it by the tiny plastic vial that held a few drops of water to preserve its freshness. Daisy Blu, his sister, had told him this was freesia. The bride, Kambriel, had them stuck all over in the wedding bouquets. It smelled like the best kind of perfume. Yet it was a simple flower, so opposite Blyss.
He slid out of the steel-gray Audi Rhys Hawkes had loaned him and strode across the cobblestoned street. He’d been borrowing a lot from his aunt’s new in-laws, but Rhys had insisted, and besides, he’d use it if Hawkes had any more jobs for him while in town. It was a lot nicer than the twenty-year-old Ford he drove back home.
Blyss buzzed him in at the entry and Stryke strode through the courtyard and to her door, where she met him with a kiss to both his cheeks. The French called the double-cheek kiss bises. He’d learned that from the groom’s mom, Lyric, this afternoon. But he wouldn’t let Blyss get by with that noncommittal greeting. Before she could pull away, he pulled her to him and kissed her long and deep. He felt her soften in his arms, and then her fingers clutched at his biceps and she pulled him over the threshold.
She wanted him. And he wanted her.
His hand roamed up her leg, noting a slit in the long skirt that allowed him free rein across her skin. His fingers danced over the lacy tops of her thigh-high stockings. He hadn’t intended to push her against the wall and have sex with her—the wedding began in less than an hour—but...
“No,” she gasped as she pulled away from the kiss, but then kissed his eyelids and the tip of his nose. “You’ll muss me.”
“I like you mussed, glamour girl.”
“Control yourself. S’il vous plaît.”
Stryke pressed his forehead to her shoulder. Yeah, she was right. Though he had the sinking feeling this would be his last opportunity at ever having sex with Blyss again. Tonight truths would be revealed. He just hoped they weren’t more startling than discovering he’d had sex with a werewolf unawares.
He displayed the tiny flower for her and she tilted her head in wonder. “What is it?”
“Freesia. Smell it.”
She sniffed, her eyelids closing to reveal dramatic dark and sexy eye shadow. Her red lips parted and a tendril of dark curl fell across her forehead. Diamonds hung at her ears and a single diamond glinted at her neck.
Stryke wanted to devour her. But she was right. He mustn’t muss this jewel before the big soiree.
“Smells like candy,” she offered. “Très jolie.”
“It’s from the bride’s wedding flowers.” He pulled the tiny flower out from the vial and flicked off the water droplets. “May I?”
She nodded.
He tucked the flower into her thick black curls, then sniffed it. “No match for you.”
“You are a sweet man, Stryke Saint-Pierre. I...” She suddenly looked aside.
Yeah, she was riding the same vibe as he. They both knew this night was going to end with a big kiss-off.
“Are you ready?”
She picked up a sheer black shawl from the floor, and smoothed a hand over her violet skirt that fell to the floor in a filmy swoosh. She looked garden-party ready, save for that sexy slit up to the thigh.
“Let’s do this,” she said, locking the door behind her, then heading out to the street. “You’ve a car. Delightful.”
Stryke was sure she’d expected a cab and was thankful for the loaner. The wedding was in an old rented mansion in the 8th arrondissement. He had already entered the directions into the GPS, though he’d been to the place a few times already so he could look around while Blyss pointed out the landmarks along the way.
The Champs-Élysées was a big long stretch of elite shops and tourist traps. The street was double-wide
and filled with cars, tourist buses, sports cars and the occasional bike weaving in and out of traffic as if it owned the road.
Blyss pointed to her favorite haunt: Louis Vuitton. “I love their purses.” She clutched hers, a little pink number that had some weird finger holes along one side in the shape of skulls. “This one is Alexander McQueen.”
“Uh-huh,” Stryke said. Best thing to do when a woman dropped into shopping mode was just nod his head and agree. “So if all the shops along this road are spendy then why do I see a McDonald’s over there?”
“They are not all so expensive. There are the DVD rental stores, as well. So gauche.”
He could only smirk at her obvious disdain for those lesser shops. Taking the roundabout by the Arc de Triomphe, he marveled that the setting sun beamed under the arch. Paris was a beautiful city, but it would take him a lifetime to see everything and to begin to feel comfortable in this land of the tourists and foreign babble.
When they were but a few blocks away from the wedding site, he took her hand and squeezed it. “I just have to warn you...”
He stopped the car at a stop sign, and she turned a wondering gaze on him.
“My whole family is here for this event. So there’s going to be lots of questions and stares, and you can expect downright ogling from my brothers.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Three. Be cautious of Trouble. He’s a flirt. So is Kelyn. And, hell, Blade has this sort of silent seduction thing going on that seems to render women into puddles of mush. He was at the gallery with me, but left fifteen minutes later. With twins.”
“I know those twins.” She chuckled. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Social events are my thing. I can mingle with the best of them.”
“Right, but I’m sure you haven’t had to dodge questions like ‘How long have you been dating?’ and ‘When are you getting married?’ Expect that stuff from my family. And my dad, well, he expects me to start a pack and if he sees me with a werewolf—I want to warn you in advance.”
“I see. No problem, Stryke. I can do this. Are we dating or just friends?”
“I, uh...” He’d love to answer that they were dating, but he wasn’t stupid. This felt more like an extended hookup than anything.
“We are lovers,” she decided. “That should give them something to whisper about behind our backs. Yet your father won’t have reason to believe we are committed to one another.”
Her wink twirled Stryke’s world out of orbit. He almost gushed out that he loved her, but he knew that would be a stupid reaction to a beautiful woman calling him her lover. He wasn’t some idiot who fell head over heels before the first gorgeous woman who gave him the time of day.
“Lovers.” He kissed her hand. “I like that. And, uh...they’ll also want to know that you’re wolf. My father again.”
“Ah.” She stared straight ahead. Stryke noted the delicate muscle in her jaw pulse once. “Well, you know the answer to that, don’t you?”
“I do, but— Why do I sense it’s not something you want to talk about?”
“Because it isn’t. And can we leave it at that?”
“The place is going to be swarming with werewolves. And vampires. And witches. And probably a few faeries.”
“I can deal.”
But why she had to “deal” bothered him. What was wrong with hanging with her own kind? Had to be better than some boring gallery showing among vapid humans. Now was not the time to get into an intense conversation. He’d save it for later.
If later didn’t blow up in his face.
Stryke drove onward and spied the building. “There’s parking around back. Do you want me to let you off at the front?”
“No, I’d like to walk in on your arm.”
If she kept saying things like that he may turn into that gushing idiot before the night was over.
* * *
Social events were Blyss’s air. She lived for the champagne and small talk. Mingling was her language. Air-kisses and light bon mots were her toys.
But as she stood in the reception hall draped with crimson chiffon and twists of black roses amid dozens of people, she realized this event would try her. It was a wedding between two vampires. She doubted there was even a human in the crowd.
Humans were the species she most related to. She strived to be human.
A mix of paranormals buzzed about the dance floor and chattered over the bubbly. But she couldn’t determine who was what. Her heightened werewolf senses were suppressed. As she preferred. Yet she felt the lone man on the raft right now. Unsure if she would sink or swim.
And the trouble with paranormals was that most lived for hundreds of years and yet aged slowly. A person could never tell if they were talking to someone their own age, or in fact, a five-hundred-year-old vampire who may have a witchy wife who had passed the millennial mark. It was enough to make Blyss nervous.
“You cool?” Stryke asked.
He hadn’t let go of her hand since they’d walked in, and while normally she would untether herself from her date and float among the masses, at the moment Blyss preferred the leash.
She nodded. “I need some champagne. Could you grab me some from that oncoming tray?”
Stryke scored two goblets, pressing one into her shaky grasp with a sweet kiss to the base of her ear. “Don’t worry. There may be vamps and witches running amok, but there are lots of wolves here tonight, as well. You’re in good company, glamour girl.”
That was the least comforting reassurance.
“They are dancing already?” she asked. “Did we miss the ceremony?”
“No. According to what I’ve gleaned from the female faction, tonight is all backward. Johnny’s band is playing for the dance right now. Later, when the clock strikes midnight, they’ll get hitched.”
“Interesting. Johnny is the groom?”
“Yep.” Stryke pointed over the dance floor toward the stage. A decidedly goth band sang a catchy tune that had all the guests dancing amid a flicker of strobe lights.
Hooking her arm in Stryke’s, she followed as he pushed through the crowd. The male eyes tilted toward her as they passed. Blyss couldn’t manage to lift her chin and beam as usual. This night couldn’t end quickly enough.
“Hey, man!”
Blyss turned to find Stryke hugging a burly man with wide shoulders and dark hair, and his eyes immediately went to her. A quick assessment found he wore a leather kilt and combat boots beneath the crisp white dress shirt and black suit coat. Even more interesting.
“This your girl?”
“This is Blyss Sauveterre. Blyss, my oldest brother, Trouble.”
Trouble took her hand and kissed the back of it, but Blyss noticed he sniffed at her skin for a few seconds before tugging her into his embrace and hugging her. He was strong, and he smelled great, but she wasn’t accustomed to such gregarious greetings.
Stepping back on wobbly heels, she managed a smile at the unrefined behemoth. “You’re quite the friendly one.”
“And you smell great. Flowers and sex. Gotta love that.”
“Chill, Trouble,” Stryke warned. He slipped his hand into Blyss’s and she was grateful for the grounding connection. “He’s the rowdy one in the family, in case his name didn’t clue you in.”
“She’s a looker, bro. Good catch,” Trouble said while tilting a wink at his brother.
“I think I saw faery triplets back that way.”
Trouble bounced on his toes to see over the crowd. “Where?”
Stryke pointed again. “We’re going to say hello to Kelyn. See you around, Trouble.”
Blyss hugged up close as he led her away from Trouble’s smirking summation of her. “I think I prefer the cool calm brother.”
“That would be me,” he confirmed. “Don’t let Trouble scare you. His bark is worse than his bite. He’s all show. Except when he picks a fight. Then you’d better run. Hey, Kelyn.”
A man Blyss would never have guessed was related t
o the well-muscled Stryke and Trouble turned and greeted them with a nod. He was tall, blond and slender, and his violet eyes smiled before his mouth met the emotion. A faery?
“Kelyn, this is Blyss. Kelyn’s the youngest Saint-Pierre brother,” Stryke offered. “Not sure where Blade is tonight.”
“Ah, Blyss,” Kelyn said. “The woman from the gallery.” He eyed Stryke, and Blyss sensed they were communicating silently. Had he told his brothers about his wild discovery that she was werewolf? Likely.
“How are you finding Paris?” Blyss asked, if only to break the brothers’ communication.
“It’s to my liking. But I don’t sense Faery here.”
Good, she hadn’t had to ask after his breed. Interesting mix in the family, to be sure. “I’m sure you know Faery does not survive over the well-populated areas. But there is FaeryTown. Rather a dodgy area, though, if I must say.”
She’d only been told what it was like by her brother, Kir. Blyss had as little interest in faeries as she did werewolves.
“I’ve heard about FaeryTown and may check it out,” Kelyn offered. “Interesting wedding, eh? Dancing and eating first, and saving the ceremony for the end?”
“Thought it was a vamp thing,” Stryke said and his hand glided up Blyss’s back. “Speaking of eating... Want to find something to munch on?”
“Sure.”
The food table was covered in red linen and sparkled with silver candelabras laden with more of the black roses. Stryke popped various hors d’oeuvres into his mouth, while Blyss managed a crunchy bit of toast with caviar. She wasn’t hungry. In fact, her stomach was churning. When would Stryke introduce her to Vail? Only then could she leave this crowd of misfits behind.
“Rhys!” Stryke chewed the last of a cherry tart, then introduced Blyss to a handsome Frenchman with salt-and-pepper hair and a generous smile. “Rhys Hawkes is the groom’s grandfather,” Stryke explained, “and he’s been giving me some work to do while I’m in town.”
“Hawkes Associates,” Rhys said as he shook Blyss’s hand. Of all the people she had met tonight, he felt the most grounded and sincere. Truth in his eyes. But what was his truth? Werewolf? Vampire? “And you are?”
