When A Lioness Growls (A Lion's Pride Book 7)

by Eve Langlais

Emerging back into the room proper, he took a moment to breathe in and out. Sifting scents, a few stood out.

  “I smell Maurice and Jan,” he intoned aloud, their flavor familiar even though they’d only met once.

  “And I’ll bet that banana scent is the girl.” She held up a bottle of lotion with the yellow fruit on the label. “Then there are two other scents.”

  “A human with body odor.” Who should invest in deodorant.

  “And someone else. Someone that smells of lion but isn’t quite right.” Her nose wrinkled.

  “Could be her assailant visited her room before abducting her?”

  “Maybe.” She drifted over to the sliding glass door, the one he’d easily popped open, the latch not hard to force. She dropped to her haunches and ran her fingers along the sliding track. She plucked free a hair. A golden strand. Holding it up, she peered at it.

  “Could belong to anyone,” JF stated, coming to stand close to her.

  “True. But the very fact there is so much trace evidence around is bothersome. I mean I get that management or the cops might think the girl went off on her own. However, any idiot with half a brain could see she didn’t take anything with her. Including her purse.” The large satchel sat on the nightstand, and she went over to glance inside.

  The pink case caught her eye. She pulled out a phone and pressed the power button. “It’s dead.”

  “You probably shouldn’t have touched it. Give it to me. I’ll wipe your prints.”

  “I’m keeping it.”

  “I’m pretty sure you don’t need to steal that girl’s phone. You have one already.”

  She shot him an evil glare. “I am not stealing it. Mine is much better than this seventh-generation thing. I’m collecting it as evidence. Maybe we’ll find something on it that will give us an idea of her plans.”

  “Assuming you can crack the passcode.”

  “Never fear, sweetcheeks, I can crack anything if I set my mind to it.”

  And more ominously, why could he have sworn he heard, including you.

  With the room not offering up any evidence other than reinforcing the idea of foul play, they returned to their quarters—separately, with him first wiping down all the things they’d touched—to ready for the evening.

  Or at least she got ready. He glared at the contents of the bag she’d filled with items for him. He pulled out the clothing piece by piece, his annoyance growing and almost snapping at the discovery of not one but two banana thongs.

  For those who didn’t know the expression, a banana thong was what men, usually with fat bellies, wore to showcase their lack of manhood and balls. The lack of fabric on the bathing suits was appalling, the fact she’d thought he’d wear them even worse.

  They hit the garbage can, along with the tight athletic shorts, the mesh crop top, and the T-shirt stating Hot Hunk on Duty.

  He did, however, hold on to the few items that weren’t completely abhorrent, such as the bright print collared shirts and the khaki shorts. He would have to visit the guest shops at the resort and see what he could do about clothing himself more appropriately.

  For now, he kept his current ensemble, the slacks a little more creased than he’d like and his shirt not as fresh as when he’d started the day, but passable enough. He wouldn’t be able to continue wearing it on the morrow, though, not with the heat. He’d stick out sorely if he did.

  Then again, he already stuck out sorely in this tropical place. People came to these types of places to enjoy themselves. Spend time in the sun. Drink copious amounts of booze. Get laid.

  JF hated all those things. Well, except for getting laid. He was a male with needs after all. Needs that shouldn’t involve the woman in the room alongside him.

  A woman who drove him fucking nuts and they’d not even been together a full day.

  Trapped in paradise with a pampered princess.

  The horror of it. Why couldn’t Gaston have sent someone else and left JF at home?

  Most people would have killed for his spot. JF knew that, even understood he was being an idiot for his determination to hate everything happening thus far. But he couldn’t help himself. He felt so fucking out of place.

  This resort was a place of sunshine and a lack of inhibition. A place people could let their guard down and have fun with no thought of consequences or tomorrow.

  However, JF couldn’t relax. Relaxing might let the beast within escape. A beast that didn’t have very many morals. He might do things, bad things, which would cause trouble.

  Only recently he’d seen what happened when those of his kind chose to let hunger and wanton desire overcome good sense. Some of the other soldiers Gaston created had turned on him. Turned on the rules that governed their existence and killed. Killed humans and shifters for food.

  Unacceptable for so many reasons.

  A whampyr who bucked the rules was a danger to himself and others. Without rules, they hunted without compunction or thought. And when that happened, they died, because Gaston the whampyr savior and creator, couldn’t allow his minions to get out of control.

  Even without the threat of his maker, JF wouldn’t allow himself to falter. He, not the darkness inside, ruled this body.

  This mission would test his limits. Test his ability to look temptation in the eye—instead of below the neck at the exposed valley between her pale breasts—ignore the sweet scent of a woman—honeyed with a hint of vanilla that made his mouth water and his teeth ache—and comport himself as a brother should, protective and glaring, instead of hungry and itching to drag a certain redhead close and see if she’d fit nicely against him.

  I already know she’s a perfect fit. And I’ll bet she tastes divine. Surely one lick wouldn’t hurt?

  Madness.

  “Are you ready, Stoney?” No surprise, she entered his room without knocking.

  What would she have done if she caught me doing something dirty? Hopefully joined in.

  “Stoney?” he queried.

  “Well, I can’t exactly keep calling you sweetcheeks. Or did you want to give folks a G.O.T. impression of our relationship?” When he blinked at the odd reference, she smiled wide. “Do you not watch Game of Thrones?”

  “I prefer reading to television.”

  “Then you should read the first book by George R.R. Martin. All kinds of cool stuff happening in his world and twisted mind. Maybe it will give you ideas. In the meantime, since I don’t plan to be Cersei to your Jamie, you need a more appropriate nickname that won’t make people think we’re doing the wild thing.”

  “How about just calling me by name? I have one, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Jean Francois. Which is much too long. Surely you have something shorter to use. When a woman climaxes and screams, it shouldn’t be more than a small mouthful, two syllables at most.”

  She said the most outrageous things. Two could play that game. “And here I thought women preferred a big mouthful.” Her mouth rounded, and he made sure she noticed him staring at her lips when he said, “Open wider.”

  “You are a very surprising man, sweetcheeks.”

  “Call me Jean.”

  “That was my grandmother’s name.”

  Compared to an old woman? His brow furrowed. “Gaston uses JF.” Most of his companions referred to him by his initials.

  “I am not part of your boys’ fraternity. Completely unacceptable. I guess if I must choose something then Francois will do. Although, that is quite French.”

  “Probably because I am French Canadian.”

  “Canadian?” Her pitch rose with a hint of incredulity. “I would have never guessed. Canadians are usually such nice people.”

  “I am nice.” He bared his teeth. “I haven’t killed anything yet.”

  She laughed. “The night is young. There’s still hope.”

  With the tinkling bell of her laughter trailing, she exited their room, and he could only follow, lured by the mesmerizing sway of her hips in the much-too-short dress. Could
it even be classed as a dress? It barely covered the curve of her buttocks. It clung to every nuance of her shape, enhancing the flare of her hips, the indentation of her waist. As to the front, the plunging vee neckline drew the eye.

  It would be so easy to push aside that fabric and nuzzle the skin of her breast.

  No nuzzling.

  Biting? his inner beast suggested.

  Definitely no biting.

  Or licking.

  Or fondling.

  Spoilsport. He couldn’t have said which of his inner voices said it.

  Dusk had fallen, and yet the resort remained lit, the torches lining the path flickering inside their glass domes, the bulbs within mimicking flames.

  He noted other guests, walking in twos or more, most hand in hand, all heading to where the distant thump of a hard bass filled the air.

  The pavilion they entered was huge, the massive terrace boasting numerous tables, some large enough to accommodate parties of up to ten people, while smaller two-and four-seat options lined the outer edges.

  A massive buffet station held a steady stream of people balancing plates and flatware as they partook of the food and then found a place to enjoy it.

  “Be a dear, brother, and fetch us some food while I locate us a spot.”

  Again with the orders, yet before he could tell her to fetch her own damned vittles, she’d disappeared, her figure sliding gracefully between people, leaving him alone.

  Since standing there like a stony rock in the midst of it all would seem suspicious, he headed for the buffet table but only filled up one plate. What he wanted to eat wasn’t available on a table or in a warming tray.

  With his great height, he could see over most heads and spotted the fiery red crown of his charge. Stacey had, of course, chosen a table in the middle of the action, one packed with people and no room to spare.

  He dropped the plate of food with a heavy thump in front of her.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Spoken through gritted teeth.

  “Everyone, this is Francois, my dear brother.”

  “Would your brother like to join us?” asked a young fellow—sniff—tiger by the smell. The fellow stood and began to move his chair over to make room.

  “Don’t bother,” he muttered. “I’m going to hit the bar.” He could handle a few drinks without ill effect. Alcohol didn’t affect him much, but unlike regular food, he enjoyed the hot burn of it as it went down his throat.

  Leaning against the far edge of the bar, his angle of sight including a direct one to his fake sister, JF looked around and noted all the details he could.

  The terrace made of some kind of white stone had several tiers to it. The topmost one, where they were, held the tables and food, plus the first bar. The second tier had comfortable seating, the kind with cushions and small tables to put a drink, circling around a large pool that had a few people swimming in it.

  A third tier was narrower in size and then spilled onto the beach. Despite the food on the top level, people milled around everywhere, and of that crowd, a disturbing number were shifters.

  Animals masquerading as people.

  The predator in him bristled. JF didn’t usually mind being amidst shifters. Hell, the club he worked at hired a good number of them and catered to them too. However, when at the club, he was on his turf. With his staff.

  Here, he was just another guest. A man outnumbered by pets. But the best part was they had no idea what walked among them.

  Shifters couldn’t smell his kind. To them, he was a blank olfactory spot. It meant he actually had to resort to wearing scent when out in public lest they wonder too long about it.

  Cradling a glass of whiskey—as if he’d debase himself to drink something frou-frou in a bright color—he amused himself by wandering around and identifying the different breeds. There were many.

  The most raucous table held all wolves. A rowdy bunch who, if not cut off, would probably start howling and singing.

  There were, of course, a large number of lions present. No surprise there considering who owned the resort.

  A few tigers, even a pair of foxes who kept to themselves, appeared sprinkled through the mix. And then there were the humans. Lots and lots of humans, many of them staff, but more than a few guests also lacked a shifter scent. It surprised him. He’d expected a resort run by lions to cater only to their type.

  Then again, the pride didn’t become filthy rich by only serving lions. They knew how to turn a profit.

  Still, though, he wondered how often they had to clean up a mess when a drunken shifter accidentally let his beast slip. Did the resort have a special crew for getting rid of pesky human witnesses?

  Gaston had a protocol in place for such situations. JF would be more than happy to give the resort a hand if they needed one. Getting rid of bodies was something he specialized in—after he’d taken a bite.

  Although it had been a while since he’d had to do anything like that. Once they moved to America, Gaston became very strict about who and what they could eat. In today’s modern age, with smartphones taping everyone everywhere, the boss feared the whampyrs getting caught.

  Probably a valid concern but it didn’t console much when a hollow belly grumbled with hunger. And he’d not eaten before he’d left.

  I’ll have to go hunting later on. See what he could find in the jungle.

  He tossed back the amber liquid in his glass, hearing the silvery bells of Stacey’s laughter as she enjoyed herself. He wondered if her gaiety was an act for whoever might be watching, or was this the true Stacey? A party-girl princess. A woman with no inhibitions and morals.

  Not that he cared. She wasn’t his type, and he wasn’t looking to start anything with anyone.

  Despite the mild evening, and the half-decent alcohol, JF couldn’t stand being surrounded by so much noise and revelry. Not when his hunger made his belly tight.

  I need to eat. The guests were off-limits. He’d have to find his blood elsewhere.

  As soon as he stepped onto the beach, his shoes sank in the sand. Not exactly the proper footwear for a stroll. It didn’t go unnoticed.

  “You know, most people usually take their shoes off first before going for a walk.” The voice came from behind him. A familiar one. He turned to see Jan, looking fetching in her sarong-style dress, her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders, held back on one side with a flower.

  Fetching, and yet she didn’t rouse the erotic hunger that Stacey did.

  “I don’t do barefoot.” He’d grown up in a place where winter reigned six months of the year.

  “You should try it,” Jan teased.

  The tone and smile made him frown. Only a completely oblivious idiot would miss the flirting. If only he wasn’t immune to it.

  Perhaps he should give Jan a chance. After all, she did work here and might provide a clue. Plus, he was hungry. Unlike some of his kind, he knew how to take only a fortifying sip.

  “Let me help you.” She knelt in front of him, a blonde halo that wouldn’t take much to be at the right height to satisfy at least one of his urges.

  Jan untied his shoes and slipped them from his feet, tugging his socks after them. Only when she’d gotten him barefooted did she peer up at him. “Isn’t that better?”

  Truthfully? “The sand’s warmer than expected.”

  “It’s been sitting in the sun all day.” For some reason, Jan remained on her haunches in front of him, her face almost at the right height. Her eyes bright with interest.

  It would be so easy to—

  “Brother, there you are.” Stacey’s voice hit him a moment before her scent did.

  A crease of annoyance marred Jan’s brow.

  “Done partying already?” he asked, tossing the query over his shoulder.

  “I’m tired. All that traveling.” Stacey covered an exaggerated yawn with her hand. “Walk me back to our room.” She didn’t ask but commanded.

  “I don’t think your brother
is ready to retire yet. I can have someone take you in a cart,” Jan offered.

  “No thanks. I only trust Francois to keep my virtue safe. He’s so big and strong.” Stacey said with a syrupy falseness that even Jan would never believe. “Shall we, brother dear?” Before he could answer, she’d linked her arm in his and tugged him away from Jan.

  After a few yards, far enough for them to be out of hearing, especially amidst the sound of the rolling waves, he hissed, “What was that about? I was planning to pump Jan for info.”

  “I know what kind of pumping she had in mind, and the only oral it involved would have included slurping.”

  “So what? It’s none of your business.”

  “I don’t trust that girl.”

  At least her instincts were good because neither did he. “Who said anything about trust? She might know things, things I could have found out if not interrupted.”

  “Or would you have gotten in over your head?”

  “I’m not a complete idiot.”

  “Are you sure? Because experience has shown when men think with their little head instead of the big one, stupid things happen.”

  “First off, it’s not little, and second, I am a grown man, which means if I want to fuck someone, I will, and I don’t need your permission.” Yet why did talking about fucking a woman other than Stacey make him feel dirty? As if he’d done something wrong.

  For some reason, his reply caused her nails to dig into his arm. “We are here on a mission. Not to hook up with the staff.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re jealous?” Surely not, and yet how else to explain her odd reaction to Jan’s flirting?

  “Jealous? Ha,” she scoffed. “You wish. I was just trying to save you from doing something you’d probably regret. A thank you would suffice.”

  “I always know what I’m doing, so I never regret anything.” Except getting involved with the wrong woman a long time ago. A woman who literally tried to rip out his heart. But at least he got a second chance.

  “We all have regrets, sweetcheeks. Things we wished we’d done. Things we’d have done differently.”

  “Dwelling on the past serves no purpose.” Ironic, considering his past was why he chose to not get involved anymore.