Outfoxed: A Zodiac Shifters Paranormal Romance: Gemini

by Melissa Snark

  Coyote grimaced, and his features remodeled, losing some of their sharpness. The god drooped in dejection. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to resort to coercion. I only brought this to you because it might actually benefit you, and it would finally make us even. I won't retaliate if you refuse. You have my word."

  Damn. Despite his better judgement, Silver's hardened resolve gave way to sympathy. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, Coyote meant to manipulate him, but that didn't automatically mean the god's heart wasn't in the right place. If it weren't for Coyote's machinations, Silver would've wound up just another faceless, nameless corpse at the bottom of a pit. Dead at fourteen years old.

  Silver owed a greater debt than Coyote actually wanted to call in.

  So long, crime-free life. He hadn't even made it a year. Silver heaved a wistful sigh and reached out, asking for the notebook. A wide grin split Coyote's face and then he slapped it into Silver's open hand.

  "So do we have a deal?" Coyote asked, pestering.

  "Yeah, it's a deal." Silver scowled. He wedged the sodas between his arm and his torso to free up a hand. They shook to seal the bargain. If the heist proved to be the simple burglary Coyote had made it out to be... he swore he'd eat his guitar.

  Unable to contain his curiosity, Silver flipped open the folder and scanned the top page. He'd already moved past reservations to anticipation. His mouth watered over the prospect of sinking his teeth into a fresh challenge. It'd be a pleasure to limber up his old larceny muscles and dive in.

  "Quick question." Silver glanced up. Coyote had covered a good twenty paces in the space of seconds. His receding figure mingled with shadows... if, indeed, that was even him at all. Silver raised his voice and called out, "Hey!"

  "What?" Coyote's voice floated on the air all around him.

  "What am I supposed to do with it once I have it?"

  "Hang onto it. I'll see you in Vegas."

  "Las Vegas? I don't have plans to go to Vegas."

  "Yet."

  "You're insane."

  Coyote snickered. "So I've been told."

  Chapter Two

  Nothing brought the senses alive like some good old-fashioned burglary. Silver edged behind the shrubbery, holding close to the side of the mansion. In the distance, the bright, lively strains of folk music filled the night sky over the Beverly Hills estate. The performers of the Irish dance troupe provided a private, outdoor showing for Roman Malkin and his guests. The Russian oligarch was an avid, borderline-obsessive fan of Riverdance. The clamor provided the perfect cover for breaking and entering, both of which he intended to do.

  Gauging distances, he eyed the second-story balcony overhead, estimating it to be twenty-five-foot jump to the lowest point on the Romanesque balcony where he could obtain a good handhold. The world record for a vertical jump was right around there. For a coyote-shifter who possessed enhanced strength and agility, it presented no challenge at all. In a burst of optimism, Silver decided his woeful expectations for this job had been too pessimistic. A smile curved his lips. This would be like stealing candy from a baby.

  He cracked his knuckles and backed up as far as he needed to get a necessary running start. To limber up, he dropped to a crouch, stretching his limbs. His lanky frame thrummed with energy; muscles bunched in preparation for action. He clenched his hands closed and flicked them open, undergoing a rapid partial shift. As he shifted his hands to claws, gray fur sprouted from his skin and sharp nails pushed from his fingers. Quivering, he performed a mental countdown—three, two, one... Go!

  He sprinted along the side of the mansion, gathering momentum before he sprang up toward his goal—the base of the balcony. Silver reached overhead with his long arms. His hands slapped against the concrete as his claws found purchase in the pockmarked facade. Like a gymnast, he swung in and out, employing his momentum to propel him higher. At the pinnacle, he grabbed for the gutter between the columns and hooked it. In a smooth motion, he hefted himself another three feet. From there, he scrambled up over the top rail and onto the wide landing.

  Panting, he settled into a crouch while he recovered. There he performed a quick survey of his surroundings. He was alone—the French doors leading into the mansion were closed. According to Coyote, the alarm system would be off for the duration of the party. Malkin granted his guests unfettered access to the first floor. A team of eight elite guards, drawn from former USSR military special ops and secret services, controlled access to the house's three stairwells. As an added precaution, Silver wore a magical charm to enhance his natural stealthiness, which rendered him less noticeable to observers. It would only last an hour, but that should be more than enough time.

  Silver stood upright, shifted his hands to fully human, and performed a swift up-down inspection. He brushed aside a bit of hedge clinging to the sleeve of his leather trench coat. As he fished his lock picks from his pocket, he strode toward the entryway. His kit unrolled with a flip of the wrist. Gloves would've been desirable except they interfered with his dexterity. A pair of super-thin gloves waited in his pocket in the event the burglary required him to touch anything.

  With a tool in each hand, he made quick work of the lock and returned the tools to their case. Another deft turn of his wrist returned them to his pocket. Everything had its proper place, accessible on a reflexive grab. The hallmark of a truly great thief mandated at least a touch of OCD.

  On a held breath, he pressed the leather-clad edge of his forearm against the handle, and pushed the door inward. It slid on well-oiled hinges without a sound. Silver exhaled and eased into the room. His nocturnal vision adjusted to the darkness, allowing him to survey the room.

  Two feet into the chamber, he halted in surprise. A slender, slight figure crouched over a security case against the far wall. If her dark clothing and fugitive manner weren't enough to mark her as a thief, the open electronic panel and tools in her deft hands removed all doubt. He crept closer and watched over her shoulder as she disabled the intricate security system.

  Her hair was a hot cinnamon riot of corkscrew curls that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. Silver opened his mouth and drank in her alluring aroma. Warmth and spiciness crossed over the sensitive olfactory glands in his palate. She wasn't a coyote, but there was no mistaking the scent of a fellow shifter and predator. His mind baffled—who was she? What was she? A wolf-shifter? But no, he'd have recognized the distinct odor of a werewolf. This beautiful woman was something so much rarer and more remarkable.

  Her bouquet was irresistible: rich, fertile, feminine... He leaned in closer, breathing her in the same as he would a mouth-watering meal. In a flash of insight, he identified her breed.

  Fox... and a fine one at that.

  Arousal punched him in the gut. His pants got a hell of a lot snugger, to the point he regretted having worn skintight leather. The diversion of blood from his brain to his crotch delayed his comprehension of why she smelled like a slice of heaven. When the epiphany arrived, it smacked him upside the back of the head.

  Fuck. She was in heat. No wonder he had a raging hard-on. Entranced, he leaned in closer. Fighting to ignore the distraction, he admired her skill as she negotiated the complicated security protocols with impressive expertise. He doubted he could have done it better or faster, although the admission pricked his pride. He begrudged admitting she was probably better with electronic systems, but not enough to interrupt her before she completed her task.

  The indicator light on the monitor changed from green to red, signifying that the security system had switched off. She rose and he followed, still watching over her shoulder as she opened the glass doors of the showcase. An unassuming wooden box perched atop the pressure-sensitive pad within the case. The container was big enough to serve as a matchstick holder, or maybe a case for guitar picks but not much beyond that. A Valknut, three interlocking triangles, and scrolling lines of Norse bind runes adorned the weathered gray lid. When she placed her fingers to either side of the container, his breath caught in
his throat. He held it in anticipation—more than a little expecting the alarms to sound when the pressure sensors in the stand activated. She lifted it free, clean and clear. A grudging grunt of admiration escaped him—his exhalation blew across her shoulder and stirred her hair.

  She stiffened and whirled toward him. Gleaming, green eyes glared at him. Their glow came from within and highlighted the sublime delicacy of her bone structure. Stars, but she was beautiful beyond even his wildest expectations.

  "Shh..." Silver placed his finger upon his lips, so he wouldn't have to take more extreme measures.

  No good. A warning rumbled in her throat. He caught the briefest glimpse of her sublime features in profile. Her lips parted in a snarl that grew in volume, alarmingly loud in the silence of the darkened room.

  He had to quiet her. Silver swooped in and caught her mouth with his own. His hand captured the back of her head, his splayed fingers buried in her riot of curls. His fingers threaded her tresses which were unbelievably soft and bouncy beneath his touch. And her lips...

  Oh, great gods above, her lips tasted like rose petals—fragrant and alluring, smooth and spicy all at once. He got hooked on her thorns, bled for her, and suffered for the want. No, not want. Need.

  She kissed him in return. There was no shocked or curdled hardening of her mouth. And it got even better when she pursued him. She caught the lapel of his leather trench, fisted the material, and hauled him closer. Her strength—impressive. Her tongue pressed against his lips which he eagerly parted. She thrust deeper, exploring the recesses of his mouth. His lady thief electrified his nerve endings and brought his every sense alive.

  A groan built in his chest. He pushed back, unwilling to surrender so easily to any female's claim on him. Oh no, as a footloose and fancy-free coyote-bachelor, he belonged to a great many women—and to none. Many a night spent in the arms of groupies—one and sometimes two women at a time—but never long-term. He didn't do commitments or relationships, no matter how often they tried to ensnare him.

  Her tongue slid across his smooth teeth, the tip exploring the roughness of his palette. His lady thief's peppery flavor set his taste buds on fire and burned itself into his brain—a permanent branding. He throbbed from his heart to his cock, to the point where he expected to burst at any second. Unbearable pressure within... pushed against his skin, seeking release.

  She broke the kiss from desperation—the need to breathe. He was positive because the same imperative left him gasping. His heart hammered in his throat. He stared into her face, and she gazed back with the same stupefied wonder. Shell-shocked. He lacked a natural talent for words, but yeah, that quantified how he felt—the bewilderment and the upset. The woman was perilous, like a nuclear weapon or a planet-killer asteroid. Dinosaurs might go extinct when she hit... along with his pride and any sense of self-preservation.

  A slow, unwilling smile curved his lips. "Oh, you're dangerous."

  She blinked multiple times, eyelids fluttering. "Who are you?"

  "Silver." His forearm brushed against hers on his way to his pocket. The slight contact registered at the periphery of his awareness but only just barely. His fingers snagged the hard steel loop. The metal chain clinked when he fished the handcuffs out. He wanted—no, hoped—for her to follow through with a caress but, as always, wishes might as well as have been fishes. And were worth exactly nothing. Nada.

  Zilch.

  "Like the metal?" She had an expressive voice—the husky refrain of a love song. Her clever hand fled from further contact, rendering him bereft of her touch.

  "Silver tongued." With a crisp click, the cuff locked on her wrist. Through clever sleight of hand, he closed the other end of the shackle about the metal leg of the display bolted to the floor. Before she reacted, Silver snatched the delicate box from her grasp.

  "No, wait. Please. Don't do this—" An immediate cry of anger escaped her. She threw out an arm, grabbing for him, but he dodged out of reach. Even so, her fingertips passed within a breadth of snagging on the lapel of his coat.

  "You lifted my lock picks. Use them to get free." He backed toward the balcony and freedom. The rules of survival were simple: (A) stay alive, and (B) stay free. He couldn't go losing his head over a pretty woman—even if she was another shifter.

  "You're a fucking bastard." She glared after him with tears in her eyes.

  "I'm sorry." Guilt twisted a dagger in his gut. Yeah, he was a bastard—he knew that. No heroes here, just a selfish, self-centered coyote-shifter who cared for no one aside from himself and his tiny band.

  "Please. You don't have to do this!" Panicked, she jerked on the restraint and then released a sharp cry of pain when it didn't give.

  "Stop fighting. You're hurting yourself."

  "I'm going to hurt you." She yanked and cried out again, doing greater injury to herself. Blood dripped from the laceration on her wrist.

  Shit. He hadn't expected her to panic. An accomplished thief—she'd handled everything else with aplomb, from disabling the sophisticated security to discovering a kissing bandit behind her. Why wasn't she bringing that same levelheadedness to this, too? Now he had to help her.

  Silver reversed course, took a step toward her, and opened his mouth to ask her to calm down. Before he spoke, she shoved the stand with both hands, trying to knock it over. Her struggles activated sensors built into the plate mounting the cabinet to the floor.

  An ear-splitting alarm shrieked, and his reflexes kicked in. Silver spun and bolted from the room. His long strides carried him quickly to the balcony. He vaulted over the railing, and soared through the night. His long coat billowed about him, flapping like a living wing. During his descent, he visited with self-recrimination and regret. Shackling her had been completely uncalled for. Unnecessary. He could've—should've done things differently.

  Alarms blared inside. Outside, shouts filled the night and the music stopped. Members of the audience and the staff rushed toward the mansion—chaos and confusion everywhere.

  His feet hit the ground. Silver bent at the knees to lessen the shock and bounded forward. He dropped his shoulder and rolled, keeping the prize close to his chest. As soon as he regained his footing, he fled across the estate, up and over the tall, ivy-covered fence, and into the night.

  Chapter Three

  "No. No. No. Please—" Hannah Kelly fought against the handcuff that bound her wrist. The hard metal cut into her flesh, hurting to the bone. She winced, but no matter how she struggled, it didn't give. Tears born of pain and anger pricked her eyes and helped offset her panic.

  Still, the blaring alarm rendered rational thought almost impossible. Think—she had to think. The bastard who cuffed her had said something about lock picks—he assumed she'd swiped his set... which would've been great and convenient except she hadn't. Instead, she grasped his cell phone in her free hand. Oh, unquestionably, given her present circumstances, those lock picks would've been a smarter choice, only she hadn't conducted an inventory while they were kissing. When he kissed her, all thought had deserted her. She'd swiped his phone as a matter of reflex.

  The door to the study slammed open and blinding-bright light flooded the room. Hannah closed her eyes and averted her face only for a second. Ignoring the discomfort, she forced herself to look back. One of Roman Malkin's linebacker-sized Russian guards stood in the doorway. The man had a military crew cut and piles of muscles crammed into a gray suit.

  "In here!" The man shouted over his shoulder in a thick Russian accent. He aimed a scary-looking black pistol at her and added a warning. "Don't move." He obviously wanted to take her alive, or he'd already have shot her.

  If Malkin caught her, his men would interrogate her. She wasn't weak willed, but she doubted she could withstand torture for long. They'd break her, and she'd wind up confessing her real name and probably anything else they asked. Her sister and her grandmother's lives rode in the balance. She'd rather die trying to escape than betray her loved ones.

  Just the pros
pect inspired her to take a crazy chance. She performed a swift shift to her natural form—a red fox. Physically, the transformation happened without pain. She simply shrank and altered. The phone dropped when her hands became black paws, but her slender leg also slipped free from the cuff. As a fox, she was much smaller and lighter. Normally, she would've undressed prior to shape changing for precisely the reason now delaying her escape. Her clothing tangled about her body—a fabric trap—and only her head remained free.

  "Stop!" The guard stampeded toward her.

  Hannah rolled onto her side and attempted to jam her front legs through the neck of her top. She got one paw through the opening but her other caught within the garment. Panting, she redoubled her efforts. The force of her struggles wrenched her limb and lancing pain shot through her. A yelp tore from her and the lightweight cotton ripped just a little but not enough.

  The man's enormous shape loomed over her. He blocked out the obnoxiously bright overhead lights, casting a menacing shadow. His huge hands closed about her—one on the scruff of her neck, the other on her freed leg. He straightened, hauling her off the ground.

  With an angry growl, she twisted in his grip and bit the hand gripping her leg. Her sharp teeth sank deep into the plump palm-heel beneath his thumb. Hot blood flooded her mouth.

  "Poshla ty!" he shouted and thrust her from him. The abrupt motion wrenched her jaws in a sideways motion. She kept her jaws locked so she wound up dangling from his arm by her teeth. Finally, she managed to get her other leg through the neck hole.

  Cursing furiously in Russian, the guard swung Hannah around in a bizarre version of mafia-fox airplane. She used the opportunity to widen the rip in the cotton so the shirt finally came off—flung away to some unknown location. She clung and spun, dizzy from the motion, but she refused to let go. Something had to give, but it wouldn't be her. Not for the sun and the moon and the stars in the sky.