French Resolution (Dances With Gazillionaires Book 2)

by Nora Snowdon

  “What does he do if he doesn’t fly?”

  “He’s a car mechanic.” Eva’s pout said it all.

  “Well at least he has a job.” Rosie tried to cheer Eva up. “And you could use a good mechanic with that clunker of yours.”

  “Yeah, I could use a good mechanic, but I sure as hell don’t want to date one.”

  “But if he’s nice and you like the guy…”

  “No thanks.” Eva turned to go back downstairs to reception. “In fact, if you like him so much I’ll give you his phone number.”

  “I’ll pass.” Rosie quickly added, “But not because he’s a mechanic. He’s just not my type.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you don’t have a type, unless it’s the Invisible man type,” Eva called back from the elevator.

  “Ha-ha.”

  Rosie plowed her way through the morning drudgery, even fishing the dreaded designer out of her bin to set up the appointment. At noon her desk was clear and she grabbed her lunch before buzzing her boss. “I’ll be out for lunch. The proofs are ready and on my desk. I’ll be back at 1:30.”

  “Bon appétit.” Peter’s disembodied voice carried over the intercom.

  Outside her office building, Rosie found the perfect spot. The cement structures doubled as benches and flower containers and she sat on one with a view of the popular concourse. She scarfed her sandwich and apple and then leaned back to let the sun gently kiss her face. Her mind drifted to the night before and the handsome stranger. She could almost smell that luscious scent again…

  Her eyes snapped open and she scanned the wandering crowd, but he was nowhere to be seen. Someone else must be wearing that incredible cologne. Or she was hallucinating? She sniffed again but could detect no trace of the elusive scent. Wishful thinking? Maybe. Men that gorgeous never came onto her, only Eva.

  She’d only met him briefly, but in that short time he’d dredged a response from her that no man had been capable of in over a year. Okay, forever, if she was being honest with herself.

  She’d actually licked his throat. Her. Queen of the Repressed. And it had been amazing. She sighed, recalling his gentle kiss on her temple. Not to mention the feel of his erection pressing against her. He was turned on by her. And he hadn’t been drunk or sleazy. And now she would never see her mystery man again.

  Forcing herself back to reality, Rosie gathered up the remnants of her lunch and returned to the office.

  The afternoon was busy with a couple of new T.V. pilots casting and a music video. It was certainly more fun phoning the actors with directions to auditions instead of consoling them on the lack of opportunities. By five o’clock, she was tired and her throat hurt from talking. She packed up, grabbed her purse and ran for the door. If you dawdled at all, the clients would drag you back into working until your night was shot.

  The drive home was harrowing with her little Chevy stalling at, not one, but two stop lights. Relieved to finally be in the safety of her apartment, she threw a frozen dinner into the microwave and plunked herself in front of the television. After a couple of goofy sitcoms, she found herself getting wired and anxious.

  At nine, fully on edge, she pulled on her running gear.

  For the first block, with Jim Byrnes singing on her iPod, her arms pumping purposefully at her sides, she felt good. But the night encroached as it never had before. She jumped at every rustle of bushes, every car that brushed too close. What was wrong with her?

  A strange clicking noise came from behind her.

  She caught her breath then whirled.

  The dog from the other night? She blinked at it, certain she was seeing things. No, his coat was the same, distinctively marked. He stopped as well. It must’ve been his claws on the pavement she’d heard.

  She let out her breath. “Hey, buddy, what are you doing so far from home?”

  He trotted up to her as if he’d been waiting for an invitation. She started off again and they jogged in companionable silence for a few blocks.

  “You know, buddy. It doesn’t seem fair. Every time I go out with Eva, she ends up going home with some guy. So last night I finally meet a man but do I go home with him? No. Instead I end up with some mangy mutt. No offence.” She bent over and patted him midstride. “Still at least I don’t have to worry about STDs.”

  “Hey,” she continued after a while. “You could be my psychoanalyst. You’re almost as talkative. Maybe you could just throw in a, Hmm, and what do you think about that? occasionally.”

  The dog made a sound—a sneeze or something.

  “Gezhundheit.”

  She finished her five mile route faster than usual and realized it was more fun jogging with company, even of the silent sort. She wondered if she’d have to figure out where the dog belonged, but when they got back to her apartment he disappeared as quietly as he’d appeared.

  ****

  Trotting back to his house, Lucas felt both exhilarated and disappointed. He was glad he’d caught up with her for the jog and her scent still lingered in his brain, but every time he saw her he wanted more.

  What the hell was happening to him? Last night he’d just gone into the nightclub for a quick drink. Then as soon as he’d walked in, all his senses had instantly honed in on her. It was as if everything else in the club had been muted grays and there she was in vibrant colors. He’d circled her, knowing he couldn’t have her, but unable to resist the longing she evoked in him. Just one dance, he’d told himself, sure that afterward he’d be able to dismiss her into the background where she belonged. She’d felt so perfect in his arms, it’d almost been his undoing.

  He’d left the club quickly before he became more emotionally entangled. Still he couldn’t help watching from a distance until she’d left, too. If it hadn’t been for that drunken playboy, he would’ve made a clean escape. Then he’d had to see her safely to her car and noted her license plate. His friends at the DMV had provided her address.

  This was crazy. He couldn’t see her again. It was against all the rules. He would forget where she lived, he would not lurk outside her building, and he would forget he’d ever seen her. Final answer.

  He turned the corner and loped up the driveway into the garage behind his Lexus. As he stretched into his downward dog position – ironically he’d discovered it was the most comfortable position to transition in – Lucas grumbled to himself about his neighbor’s blaring music. Shouldn’t certain districts be zoned as Manilow-free?

  Concentrate.

  He always felt it first in his haunches, the stretching and cracking as his bones and muscles elongated, his back creaking as he straightened. His paws were a much more contained transition; the bones and claws melding, separating and then reforming. His face and head compressed and tightened as the cranial bones shifted. The final movement – so to speak – was the disappearance of his fur. He often felt vulnerable after the shift to human form. From such a luxurious coat of fur it was hard not to feel especially naked in bare skin.

  Lucas reached under the front of his car and pulled out the clothes he’d stashed there earlier. He entered his house and froze in his tracks. His nose and ears frantically trying to detect what his eyes could not see. Then he relaxed.

  “Robert. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Hey, little brother.” Robert stepped out from behind the doorway. “Mom was worried about you. You missed Sunday dinner.”

  “She’s worried because I missed her obvious set up with Laura. I wish she’d stop trying to find me a mate.” Mate. His mind immediately shifted to the woman he’d left moments before.

  “Well it is time and you’re not settling down on your own.”

  “Et tu, Robert?” Lucas chuckled. “I thought you’d understand.”

  “I do. But the clan’s getting restless. Dad’s ready to retire and as the next leader, you must have a wife. What about Annabelle?”

  “But you love her.” Lucas shook his head in disbelief. Robert had loved Annabelle for forever.

&nb
sp; “I can’t give her children. You can.” Robert looked out the window, his placid expression negated by his clenched fists.

  Lucas felt a twinge of guilt as he remembered his last encounter with Annabelle. “I can’t commit to a mate I don’t love just for the pack.”

  And maybe that was part of the lure of the mystery woman. She came without obligations. She was free of entrapment. Running alongside her, he’d felt more connection in silence than he had in speaking to the dozens of women his mother had set him up with.

  “That stupid hope of finding your perfect woman is childish, Lucas. You dreamt up that ideal woman when you still thought marriage meant just eating cookies together in bed. Choose a good mate, work on the relationship, and you’ll grow to love her. Mom and Dad had an arranged marriage to bring two feuding packs together and they’re happy.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “There isn’t someone else you’re attracted to, is there?”

  “No.” Well, not that he could have, Lucas thought grimly. If he concentrated he could still faintly recall the sweet scent of her hair and the feel of her soft skin pressed close against his body during their one dance and the touch of her hand when she petted him as a wolf.

  “Lucas?” Robert looked at him strangely.

  “There’s no one else.”

  There was no point dreaming about a human. Even if she wanted to convert, the pack would never accept her. Years ago, rogue werewolves would bite unsuspecting humans to bring them into the fold, but it was too risky now. It would never be allowed.

  Just One Bite is available on

  Amazon.com

  Amazon.ca

  THE FRENCH RESOLUTION ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Special thanks to Jacqui Nelson for critiquing and computer wizardry, Terry Mitchell for the amazing art, publishing knowledge and procrastination wrangling, and Kay Gregory for tea, sympathy and copious amounts of wine.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Living in New York and Toronto, Nora Snowdon was a jerk of all trades–one week hawking toys at major toy conventions, the next in a high-end jewelry store pandering to the rich. She worked in the financial market, gambling dens, environmental protection, food service industry and sold shoes. During these years she also either appeared in or directed twenty-five plays.

  Then Nora moved to the wet coast, took up health foods (dark chocolate and red wine) and became a Writer of Elegant Smut, (Although apparently her books are generally considered to be Romantic Comedies. Go figure.) Her ambition is to become a crazy cat lady and wine hoarder, not necessarily in that order.

  You can read more about Nora at

  http://norasnowdon.com

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