Savage Retribution

by Lexxie Couper

  But plans had gone awry. Very awry.

  He pulled in a silent breath, tasting McCoy’s submission and fear on the particles in the air. Declan O’Connell would suffer for the annoyance, as would the human bitch. He would see to it. It wasn’t just werewolves he could perform the extraction on. It would not garner him anything of use, but to a human, the procedure would be like having every fiber of their body shredded.

  “I want them both,” he growled, letting McCoy hear his consuming rage. “Before sunset. Or everyone the cunt knows and loves will suffer. Starting with her brother.”

  Chapter 6

  Pulling the front door of his apartment closed behind him, Peter strode along the hallway to the elevator. Distantly, he hoped Rex would be okay. Reggie would have his nuts if something happened to that damn lizard of hers. He didn’t have a terrarium so the best he could come up with on short notice was turning every reading lamp he owned on, trying to emulate its baking heat. If Rex wanted to warm his cold-blooded body while “visiting” Peter’s home, he’d have to stretch out on a copy of the February edition of Playboy. Or the January edition, if he wasn’t into redheads.

  He shoved his keys into his hip pocket, the unnerving sense of unease he’d first experienced at seeing Yolanda Vischka still gnawing at him. She’d waited for him while he dropped Rex off, preferring to sit in his car. “I have a phone call to make,” she’d said, the husky tones of her voice playing with his senses in ways he couldn’t fathom. Jesus, the way he reacted to her anyone would think he was a horny sixteen-year-old, not a thirty-nine-year-old, seasoned divorcé.

  He walked quickly along the hallway to the elevator, playing over everything that had happened so far, doing his best to do so as a cop, not a worried-sick brother: Reggie’s disappearance, the unknown men on the end of her phone line, her trashed home, Detective Vischka…

  An image of the blonde filled his mind and Peter’s feet stumbled.

  Scowling, he jabbed at the elevator’s down button. The drive to deposit Rex at his apartment had been disturbing. The woman sitting beside him oozed with sensuality and mystery even as she questioned him about Reggie’s disappearance. She kept creeping into his head, taking up space and time that he should have been dedicating on his sister.

  Christ, he didn’t need this now.

  But you have it now. What are you going to do about it?

  The ding of the elevator’s door opening saved him from the answer. He stepped into the small cubicle, punched the “door closed” button and forced his attention back to his sister. Forensics would have the results of the urine samples taken from Reggie’s house in the next hour or so. He would head over to the labs and see if the results gave him any clue where to head next. If they didn’t…

  Don’t think about that. Not yet.

  He stormed from the elevator, scrubbing at his face as he headed toward his parked car. Jesus, what would he do if he couldn’t find her? What would he tell their parents?

  “The walking handbag is going to be fine, yes?”

  He dropped his hands from his face, his throat growing tight and dry at what he saw. Perched on his car’s hood, her long legs crossed at slim ankles, her arms folded under breasts high and full and heavy, was Yolanda.

  She’s sin and heaven all bundled into one enticing, distracting package, you know that, don’t you?

  “Rex will be okay,” he replied, keeping his voice calm and detached. “Did you make your call?”

  The skin around Yolanda’s eyes seemed to tighten. “Yes.”

  Peter studied her. He’d known her for less than an hour but already she was worming her way under his skin. Not just the way she looked, but the way she acted, like a fragile creature pretending to be a vixen. Or a vixen masquerading as a lost soul. He couldn’t figure out which. But she was getting to him in a way a woman hadn’t for years when he needed to concentrate the most. Damn it, he never had this problem with Doughnut.

  Frowning, he walked past her, too aware of her perfume for peace of mind. Shooting her a quick look, he yanked open his door. “I need to see the guys at Forensics. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere?”

  Eyes suddenly sharp, she straightened from the hood. “I will come with you.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not necessary. I’m sure you have quite a bit to do. Getting settled into a new city and—”

  His cell phone cut him short.

  Snatching it from his jacket pocket, he whipped it to his ear. Damn it, let this be Reggie…”Thomas.”

  “Detective Thomas?” the gruff voice sounded on the other end of the connection. Cold disappointment flooded through Peter. “This is Senior Sergeant Garrett, Bondi Local Area Command. Damn, it’s taken me a while to track you down. Do you know how many Detective Thomases there are in Sydney?”

  Peter frowned, impatience making him edgy. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “I have a gas station mechanic from North Bondi who tells me your sister’s been abducted by an Irishman. Do you know what he’s going on about?”

  The pulse in Peter’s neck leapt into furious life. “I do,” he said, his grip on the cell phone increasing. He flicked another look at Yolanda, unable to suppress his grin. “Tell me where he is.”

  *

  Peter followed his new partner into the gas station, agitation setting his teeth on edge. She’d peppered him with questions the whole way here: Where would your sister go? Does she know any Irishmen? Have any secrets? He was certain the questions were meant to help, but for some reason they seemed dogged, overly insistent.

  His eyes—almost of their own accord—dropped for a fleeting second to Yolanda’s butt as she took a step up into the gas station’s store and, noticing its seam-free firmness, he suppressed a moan. Damn it, he was going to kick Doughnut’s flabby ass when he returned from medical leave. If it were Doughnut walking in front of him, his mind would be firmly focused on the job at hand, not whether his partner was wearing a thong or no underwear at all.

  “I tell ya, the bastard growled at me. Like an animal.”

  The shouted words snatched Peter’s attention from his partner’s ass to the short, wiry and very greasy man in even greasier coveralls, yelling from behind the counter at a silent uniformed cop.

  Yolanda stepped forward, placing glossy, blood-red tipped fingers on the cop’s shoulder and a completely unexpected, irrational twinge of jealousy stirred in Peter’s gut. “We will take over, Officer.” She turned to the agitated man coated in grease. “What type of animal, sir?”

  The mechanic’s eyes grew wider. Wilder. “A great big fuckin’ dog.”

  Yolanda’s shoulders tensed. “Hmmm. And you gave him your car because…?”

  “Because he growled at me like a great big fuckin’ dog. Aren’t you listenin’ to me? Struth! You broads with badges. The bloke’s eyes turned silver, for Chrissake. Silver!”

  A heavy lump filled Peter’s throat. “Tell me about the woman with him.”

  Wild eyes swung to him. “She looked shit scared. Especially after gettin’ off the phone from the cops. An’ her shirt was all torn, like someone had tried to rape her.”

  Molten rage threatened to consume Peter. Rape. The word curdled in his mouth like sour milk. He gave the man a level look, forcing calm through his veins and muscles. “Did she go with him willingly?”

  The mechanic looked at Yolanda. “She didn’t put up a fight, but she didn’t look happy about it either.”

  Peter’s fist bunched. Not putting up a fight was not Reggie’s style. Unless this Irish son-of-a-bitch had something over her, she’d fight tooth and nail to escape him. Something was wrong about this whole situation. It just didn’t feel right.

  He flicked his own quick glance at Yolanda, not missing the intense way she was staring at him. She started, as if caught doing something wrong and, face poised and composed, turned her attention back to the mechanic, quick smart.

  The knot in Peter’s gut—the one twisting there from the second
he’d received Reggie’s aborted phone call too long ago—tightened. Not right. Something was just not right…

  “I am assuming you have given the arriving officer your registration details, yes?” Yolanda’s smooth, deep voice played over his nerves and he scowled. He was too aware of her sensuality. He needed to focus. Jesus. His sister had been abducted.

  Disgust rolled through him and he stepped up to the counter, staring hard at the mechanic. “I want to know every detail about this growling Irishman. I want to know everything he said. To you and to her. Word for word, inflection to Irish-Goddamn-inflection.”

  “Are you her brother? The cop I spoke to earlier said he was tryin’ to find her brother.”

  Peter clenched his fists. “Yeah, I’m her brother. Now what did the Irishman say?”

  “He didn’t look like he was gonna hurt her, but he was a scary bastard.”

  Peter ground his teeth. “What. Did. He. Say?”

  The mechanic turned his stare from Peter to Yolanda and back to Peter again. “He said he was keepin’ her alive. Safe from—”

  “Detective…” Yolanda’s hand brushed Peter’s arm, her intoxicating warmth invading his body as she stepped closer to him. He flicked her a look and his gut twisted. Direct blue eyes held his. Kept him frozen. “I think you are a touch too close to this situation, yes? Leave the questioning with me.” Heavily mascaraed lashes fluttered before her mesmerizing gaze returned to Peter. “Getting what I want is my specialty.”

  Peter scowled again and he narrowed his eyes. Is she working you? Does she know what she’s doing to you or is it all an act?

  He didn’t know. Things just didn’t feel right. According to the brother in you? Or the cop?

  “It’s fine, Yolanda. I can handle this.”

  “I know you can,” she said, understanding sympathy softening the sensual haughtiness of her face. “But let me be your partner.”

  He stared at her, his pulse hammering. The brother in him was worried sick, but she was right, he was too close to the situation at the moment to think rationally. He took a step back, letting her take charge of the questioning.

  He needed to clear his head. Of his fear for Reggie’s safety, of his anger at her abductor and his increasing attraction to his new partner. God only knew how though. All three emotions were growing in strength with each passing second, and it made his already churning gut churn more. With desire and disgust.

  * * * *

  “I have all the details the mechanic could recall of the man last seen with your sister plus a very detailed description of the stolen pick-up.” Yolanda’s sensual heat reached out for Peter all the way from the passenger seat of his car. “He sounds quite menacing. Tall, dark hair, eyes that may or may not be grey. Irish accent. Lean but muscular. The mechanic described him as…” she referred to a small notebook in her hand, “‘fucking two roos short of the paddock and nastier than a cut snake’. I am assuming he means the suspect is not friendly, yes? The uniform has posted an APB on both the Irishman and the pickup.” She turned her inescapable gaze on him and his skin prickled, making him want to squirm in his own seat. Instead, he gripped the wheel harder, turning into the quiet street she had directed him to. Long, slender fingers feathered over his thigh, high, so close to the bulge of his groin he almost swerved off the road. “She will be fine, Peter. I promise.”

  He ground his teeth, trying to focus on her words but distracted beyond belief. There was that touch again. That sensual brush. Making his body respond on an utterly physical, utterly male level. Was it innocent? Or calculated? He didn’t like being played, and something about his new partner told him she was doing just that. But why? He studied her from the corner of his eye. “Who is the bastard supposedly saving her from?”

  Yolanda gave him a blank expression. A practiced blank expression. “I don’t understand.”

  Peter accelerated through an amber light, his pulse quick, his knuckles white. “The mechanic said the Irishman claimed to be keeping my sister safe from someone. Who is it?”

  A long pause followed, before Yolanda shifted in her seat, fidgeting with the notebook. “The bad guys.”

  Taken aback, Peter raised his eyebrows. “The bad guys?”

  Another shift in her seat, a dismissive curl of her lips. “The bad guys.”

  Peter suppressed a growl of disgust. Damn it. Why didn’t he believe her? “What did Reggie say?”

  The hand on his thigh stilled. “Reggie?”

  “My sister. What did the mechanic remember her saying?”

  “Not much. He said she tried to call you but before she spoke to anyone at the station the Irishman arrived. That is it.”

  Peter bit back a curse. Everything felt wrong, but be damned if he knew why.

  Yolanda’s hand pressed firmer against his leg, the warmth of its contact making his skin tingle. “We will find her, Peter. We will find her and the Irishman will get what he deserves. I promise.”

  Eyes narrowing, he turned a corner. “Tell me why you transferred to Sydney City, Vischka?”

  The hand on his thigh stilled. “Why?”

  “Because unless you’re after something, I’m buggered if I can figure out why you’re all over me like a rash.”

  An unreadable expression flittered across her face, somehow lost and vulnerable, before, with a sharp sniff, she lifted her chin and turned away, looking out the window. “Maybe my transfer had something to do with the fact I told my captain to fuck off when he suggested a ‘quickie’ in the evidence room.” She fell silent, watching the houses pass.

  Ah, fuck. Way to go, dickhead.

  “This is it,” she suddenly said, voice distant, as she pointed to a small semi-detached house on the high side of the street.

  Peter pulled to the curb, self-contempt bubbling through him like boiling acid. Damn it. What was going on here? He killed the ignition, staring blankly at Yolanda’s house. Maybe he’d misread her? Maybe she was one of those touchy-feely people? Maybe she was more sensitive than she let on? A fragile female hiding in the vixen, after all?

  His ex-wife had spent the last four years of their marriage complaining he was a cold fish. Perhaps she was right all along? He suppressed a wry sigh. Fuck. Years of being a cop and he couldn’t tell if a woman was coming on to him or just being friendly. He shook his head. “Sorry, Yolanda. That wasn’t called for. I didn’t mean to imply…” He petered off, unsure what to say. He didn’t mean to imply she was a slut?

  For a moment his partner didn’t respond, her attention fixed on something outside the car, before she shrugged and turned back to him, expression ambiguous. “Do I intimidate you, Detective? Or intrigue you?”

  Peter clenched his jaw, the question throwing him completely.

  A slow grin curled one side of glossy red lips, any hint of vulnerability disappearing. “Because I am hoping the answer is intrigue.” Confident sexuality oozed from her once more. “I will not be long,” she stated, blue eyes direct. “I need to change my clothes. Grease is not easy to remove from linen and that gas station was literally painted in it.” The fingers returned to his thigh. Higher this time. Almost brushing the swell of his crotch through the material of his trousers. “Do not wait in the car. Not in this heat.”

  Peter narrowed his eyes on the immaculate presentation of Yolanda’s small house, fully aware the sweat trickling down his back was caused, not by the summer day, but by her words.

  You’re not going in there are you?

  Another brush of his thigh, this time high enough to tickle the swell of his balls. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was all an accident. But he did know better. Didn’t he?

  He climbed from the car, the mid-morning heat hitting him like a wave, wringing new sweat from his skin. He followed her up the path to the front door, impatience eating at him, edgy anticipation feeding it. What he anticipated he didn’t know, but it itched at the back of his mind, in the pit of his gut. His gaze dropped to Yolanda’s butt and he suppressed a groan
. Bloody hell. Concentrate.

  Her living room was a study in minimalism. Black angular sofa, black leather sling chair, a low, glass coffee table and two matching lamp tables on which sat short, fat polished steel lights. A small plasma screen hung on the wall above a glass shelf displaying a single objet d’art—a sculpture of the ancient Roman babes Remus and Romulus suckling on a wild wolf’s teats. Minimalism at its extreme.

  Peter took it all in, unease licking at his gut again. Cozy.

  Yolanda stepped past him, trailing warm fingers over his shoulder, setting his skin afire. “Come in.” She cast him a lidded look through the razor-sharp bangs falling over her eyes. “I won’t bite.” Those glossy blood-red lips curled when Peter didn’t move. “Not unless you want me to, that is.”

  * * * *

  Maggie looked at him with those large, liquid-chocolate eyes. Puppy-dog eyes, he’d called them, a term Maggie both loathed and loved since she was young enough to understand the pun behind the expression. Except tonight, those puppy-dog eyes were shining with tears. And agony.

  “I’m sorry, Dec.” Pain made the words almost indecipherable. Pain and the bloody knifepoint pressed to her throat.

  The ground underneath Declan’s paws vibrated with her terror and his body responded. There would be more blood spilt tonight. Just not Maggie’s.

  He took a step forward.

  “Enough, O’Connell.” McCoy’s hand—the one not holding the knife—curled harder over Maggie’s left breast. Maggie whimpered, a single tear marking her cheek as she cringed against the cruel assault.

  Declan bared his teeth, his growl low. Deadly.

  “Revenge is but a sweet thing, isn’t it?” Epoc stepped from the looming darkness surrounding them, his smooth pate gleaming in the silver moonlight. Even in human form, he stank of deranged insanity. Eyes glowing with an unnatural power, he stared at Declan, making Declan’s hackles rise. “How does it feel, knowing your sweet sister is the property of my clan, O’Connell? That I can taste her whenever I want. That I can do whatever I want to her and there’s nothing you can do about it?”