The Shadow Guard

by Diane Whiteside

  “I’d like to keep it that way. Hence the prohibition against touching. I plan on keeping a very safe distance.” While he was about the business of revenging himself on Celia Burke, he needed to keep himself safe from being forced into doing the right thing should his godforsaken plan be discovered or go awry. And he simply didn’t want to touch her. He didn’t want to be tainted by so much as the merest brush of her hand.

  “Can’t seduce, really seduce, from a distance. Not even you. Twenty guineas says it can’t be done.”

  “Twenty? An extravagant wager for a flinty, tight-pursed Scotsman like you. Done.” Del accepted the challenge with a firm handshake. It sweetened the pot, so to speak.

  McAlden perused the crowd. “Shall we pick now? I warn you, Del, this isn’t London. There’s plenty of virtue to be had in Dartmouth.”

  “Why not?” Del felt his mouth curve into a lazy smile. The town may have been full of virtue, but he was full of vice. He cared about only one particular woman’s virtue.

  “You’ll want to be careful. Singularly difficult things, women,” McAlden offered philosophically. “Can turn a man inside out. Just look at Marlowe.”

  Del shrugged. “Captain Marlowe married. I do not have anything approaching marriage in mind.”

  “So you’re going to seduce and ruin an innocent without being named or caught? That is bloody-minded.”

  “I didn’t say innocent. I said untried. In this case, there is a particular difference.” He looked across the room at Celia Burke again. At the virtuous, innocent face she presented to the world. He would strip away that mask until everyone could see the ugly truth behind her immaculately polished, social veneer.

  McAlden followed the line of his gaze. “You can’t mean—That’s Celia Burke!” All trace of jaded amusement disappeared from McAlden’s voice. “Jesus, Del, have you completely lost your mind? As well as all moral scruples?”

  “Gone squeamish?” Del tossed back the last of his drink. “That’s not like you.”

  “I know her. Everyone in Dartmouth knows her. She is Marlowe’s wife’s most particular friend. You can’t go about ruining—ruining for God’s sake—innocent young women like her. Even I know that.”

  “I said she’s not innocent.”

  “Then you must’ve misjudged her. She’s not fair game, Del. Pick someone else. Someone I don’t know.” McAlden’s voice was growing thick.

  “No.” Darling kept his own voice flat.

  McAlden’s astonished countenance turned back to look at Miss Burke, half a room away, smiling sweetly in conversation with another young woman. He swore colorfully under his breath. “That’s not just bloody-minded, that’s suicidal. She’s got parents, Del. Attentive parents. Take a good hard look at her mama, Lady Caroline Burke. She’s nothing less than the daughter of a duke, and is to all accounts a complete gorgon in her own right. They say she eats fortune hunters, not to mention an assortment of libertines like you, for breakfast. What’s more, Miss Burke is a relation of the Marquess of Widcombe, in whose ballroom you are currently not dancing. This isn’t London. You are a guest here. My guest, and therefore Marlowe’s guest. One misstep like that and they’ll have your head. Or, more likely, your ballocks. And quite rightly. Pick someone else for your challenge.”

  “No.”

  “Delacorte.”

  “Bugger off, Hugh.”

  McAlden knew Del well enough to hear the implacable finality in his tone. Hugh shook his head slowly. “God’s balls, Del. I didn’t think I’d regret so quickly having you to stay.” He ran his hand through his short, cropped hair and looked at Del with a dawning of realization. “Christ. You’d already made up your mind before you came here, hadn’t you? You came for her.”

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  Morgan watched from the surf. Spending so long out of water this afternoon had taxed his strength, both in the energy needed to maintain the illusion that he was a human and the strain it took for him to breathe on land. He felt an overwhelming weariness of body and spirit.

  Being in such close contact with the human woman should have dissolved the odd attraction he felt for her. Despite her quick wit and obvious intelligence, she was damaged, her health even more frail than the average land dweller. Although he couldn’t assess her physical condition without examining her, he guessed that she was paralyzed from the waist down.

  Not that it would have been a problem if she weren’t human. Atlanteans had virtually no physical handicaps and possessed super healing abilities. Short of the impossibility of replacing a missing limb that had been cut off in battle or eaten by a shark, almost any injury would heal in a matter of hours. They suffered from none of the viruses, heart disease, cancers, and various illnesses that plagued humans.

  Leaving the cradle of life, the sea, brought with it many challenges for the human race. The earth’s force of gravity and the constant assault on the earth’s surface from radiation put constant pressure on the human species. Atlanteans, who had remained in the water, were both superior intellectual and sexual beings.

  The sexual part was the problem. Unfortunately, heightened sensuality was one weakness that Atlanteans suffered from, both males and females. Although some couples mated for life and remained faithful to each other, the majority, like him, took sexual pleasure where they found it. Since his kind were bound by none of the artificial human rules of morality, adults finding pleasure whenever and wherever they pleased with other adults was the norm.

  Morgan reasoned that he had acquired a desire for a woman that he was forbidden to touch. It was a rare occurrence, one that he personally had never experienced, although he’d heard tales of other Atlanteans struck by this same fever in the blood. Inflamed by the unsatisfied lust for a certain object of desire—even a human one—brought weakness and both mental and physical pain.

  Claire was so human that he didn’t understand how he could be attracted to her. He should have felt pity for her. Instead, he wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to touch her skin, to taste it, to nibble his way from her delicate eyelids to the tips of her toes . . . to lave every square inch of her body with his tongue. He wanted to inhale her scent until he was intoxicated by it, to run his fingers through her hair, suck her nipples until they hardened to tight buds, and cradle her in his arms. Even now, watching her at a distance, Morgan could feel his groin tightening with need. He wanted her as he hadn’t wanted a female in three hundred years . . . perhaps five.

  And she had been equally attracted to him. He had read the invitation in her eyes. Naturally, most sexually mature humans desired his kind. There were legends of those who walked the earth, breathed air, yet lived on the blood of their fellow humans. Vampires, they were called. It was said that vampires possessed the ability to bewitch humans with their sexuality, but the power of these bloodsuckers—if they truly existed—would be nothing compared to the sensual lure of the Atlantean race.

  He sank under the waves, reveling in the powerful surge of the tide, savoring the tangy feel of the salt on his skin. This was his element; this was where he belonged. Venturing on dry land, even for a few hours, was dangerous in more ways than he could count.

  But the pounding in his head and the pressure in his groin remained as strong as ever. He seemed tangled in a web of sorcery. No matter how much reason told him to leave this place, to forget her, he was incapable of doing so. He had to find a way to end this connection before it was too late.

  Perhaps the only way to rid himself of his attraction was to make love to her. It would be risky. The laws against Atlanteans and humans sharing sexual favors were rigid and strictly enforced. If he were caught, he could be severely punished.

  The thought that he already could have been caught watching Claire by his greatest enemy came to him. But he didn’t think Caddoc had seen him spying on the woman. It was more likely that his half-brother had witnessed the near drowning of the
boy. If Caddoc knew about Claire, he would have taunted him about it. Caddoc never had the self-control to hold his tongue. The offense, having romantic contact with a human, would be even greater than rescuing one from drowning.

  Morgan clenched his jaw. Tonight, he would go to Claire. But this time, he would take her into his element. Once they were beneath the ocean, he could use his healing powers to temporarily give her back the use of her legs. She would be able to respond to his seduction, to feel his mouth on her body, to enjoy each shared sensation. And he knew he would satisfy her more than any human male she’d ever been intimate with. But then, sadly, he’d have to wipe away her memory of the evening.

  He told himself that if she came willingly, it wasn’t really abduction, and if she didn’t resist, what they did together would harm no one. The argument was as full of holes as the Titanic, but he was in no mood to be rational. As impossible as it was to believe, Claire had become an immovable obstruction. If he was to complete his mission and return to defend himself in front of the High Court, he’d have to shatter the ancient laws and seduce her first.

  There’s nothing sexier than a BIG BAD BEAST.

  Keep an eye out for Shelly Laurenston’s latest,

  coming next month!

  Ulrich Van Holtz turned over and snuggled closer to the denim-clad thigh resting by his head. Then he remembered that he’d gone to bed alone last night.

  Forcing one eye open, he gazed at the face grinning down at him.

  “Mornin’, supermodel.”

  He hated when she called him that. The dismissive tone of it grated on his nerves. Especially his sensitive morning nerves. She might as well say, “Mornin’, you who serve no purpose.”

  “Dee-Ann.” He glanced around, trying to figure out what was going on. “What time is it?”

  “Dawn-ish.”

  “Dawn-ish?”

  “Not quite dawn, no longer night.”

  “And is there a reason you’re in my bed at dawn-ish . . . fully clothed? Because I’m pretty sure you’d be much more comfortable naked.”

  Her lips curved slightly. “Look at you, Van Holtz. Trying to sweet-talk me.”

  “If it’ll get you naked . . .”

  “You’re my boss.”

  “I’m your supervisor.”

  “If you can fire me, you’re my boss. Didn’t they teach you that in your fancy college?”

  “My fancy college was a culinary school and I spent most of my classes trying to understand my French instructors. So if they mentioned that boss-supervisor distinction, I probably missed it.”

  “You’re still holding my thigh, hoss.”

  “You’re still in my bed. And you’re still not naked.”

  “Me naked is like me dressed. Still covered in scars and willing to kill.”

  “Now you’re just trying to turn me on.” Ric yawned, reluctantly unwrapping his arms from Dee’s scrumptious thigh and using the move to get a good look at her.

  She’d let her dark brown hair grow out a bit in recent months so that the heavy, wavy strands rested below her ears, framing a square jaw that sported a five-inch scar from her military days and a more recent bruise he was guessing had happened last night. She had a typical Smith nose—a bit long and rather wide at the tip—and the proud, high forehead. But it was those eyes that disturbed most of the populace because they were the one part of her that never shifted. They stayed the same color and shape no matter what form she was in. Many people called the color “dog yellow” but Ric thought of it as a canine gold. And Ric didn’t find those eyes off-putting. No, he found them entrancing. Just like the woman.

  Ric had only known the She-wolf about seven months, but since the first time he’d laid eyes on her, he’d been madly, deeply in lust. Then, over time, he’d gotten to know her, and he’d come to fall madly, deeply in love. There was just one problem with them becoming mates and living happily every after—and that problem’s name was Dee-Ann Smith.

  “So is there a reason you’re here, in my bed, not naked, around dawn-ish that doesn’t involve us forgetting the idiotic limits of business protocol so that you can ravish my morethan-willing body?”

  “Yep.”

  When she said nothing else, Ric sat up and offered, “Let me guess. The tellin’ will be easier if it’s around some waffles and bacon.”

  “Those words are true, but faking that accent ain’t endearing you to my Confederate heart.”

  “I bet adding blueberries to those waffles will.”

  “Canned or fresh?”

  Mouth open, Ric glared at her over his shoulder.

  “It’s a fair question.”

  “Out.” He pointed at his bedroom door. “If you’re going to question whether I’d use canned anything in my food while sitting on my bed not naked, then you can just get the hell out of my bedroom . . . and sit in my kitchen, quietly, until I arrive.”

  “Will you be in a better mood?”

  “Will you be naked?”

  “Like a wolf with a bone,” she muttered, and told him, “Not likely.”

  “Then I guess you have your answer.”

  “Oh, come on. Can I at least sit here and watch you strut into the bathroom bare-ass naked?”

  “No, you may not.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed. “However, you may look over your shoulder longingly while I, in a very manly way, walk purposely into the bathroom bare-ass naked. Because I’m not here for your entertainment, Ms. Smith.”

  “It’s Miss. Nice Southern girls use Miss.”

  “Then I guess that still makes you a Ms.”

  Dee-Ann Smith sat at Van Holtz’s kitchen table, her fingers tracing the lines in the marble. His kitchen table was real marble, too, the legs made of the finest wood. Not like her parents’ Formica table that still had the crack in it from when Rory Reed’s big head drunkenly slammed into it after they’d had too many beers the night of their junior year homecoming game.

  Then again, everything about Van Holtz’s apartment spoke of money and the finest of everything. Yet his place somehow managed to be comfortable, not like some spots in the city where everything was so fancy Dee didn’t know who’d want to visit or sit on a damn thing. Of course, Van Holtz didn’t come off like some spoiled rich kid that she’d want to slap around when he got mouthy. She’d thought he’d be that way, but since meeting him a few months back, he’d proven that he wasn’t like that at all.

  Shame she couldn’t say that for several of his family members. She’d met his daddy only a few times and each time was a little worse than the last. And his older brother wasn’t much better. To be honest, she didn’t know why Van Holtz didn’t challenge them both and take the alpha position from the mean old bastard. That’s how they did it among the Smiths, and it was a way of life that had worked for them for at least three centuries.

  Hair dripping wet from the shower, Van Holtz walked into his kitchen. He wore black sweatpants and was pulling a black T-shirt over his head, giving Dee an oh-too-brief glimpse at an absolutely superb set of abs and narrow hips. No, he wasn’t as big a wolf as Dee was used to—in fact, they were the same six-two height and nearly the same width—but good Lord, the man had an amazing body. It must be all the things he did during the day. Executive chef at the Fifth Avenue Van Holtz restaurant; a goalie for the shifter-only pro team he owned, the Carnivores; and one of the supervisors for the Group. A position that, although he didn’t spend as much time in the field as Dee-Ann and her team, did force him to keep in excellent shape.

  Giving another yawn, Van Holtz pushed his wet, dark blond hair off his face, brown eyes trying to focus while he scanned the kitchen.

  “Coffee’s in the pot,” she said.

  Some men, they simply couldn’t function without their morning coffee, and that was Van Holtz.

  “Thank you,” he sighed, grabbing the mug she’d taken out for him and filling it up. If he minded that she’d become quite familiar with his kitchen and his apartment in general, after months of co
ming and going as she pleased, he never showed it.

  Dee waited until he’d had a few sips and finally turned to her with a smile.

  “Good morning.”

  She returned that smile, something she normally didn’t bother with most, and replied, “Morning.”

  “I promised you waffles with fresh blueberries.” He sniffed in disgust. “Canned. As if I’d ever.”

  “I know. I know. Sacrilege.”

  “Exactly!”

  Dee-Ann sat patiently at the kitchen table while Van Holtz whipped up a full breakfast for her the way most people whipped up a couple of pieces of toast.

  “So, Dee . . .” Van Holtz placed perfectly made waffles and bacon in front of her with warmed syrup in a bowl and a small dish of butter right behind it. “What brings you here?”

  He sat down on the chair across from her with his own plate of food.

  “Cats irritate me.”

  Van Holtz nodded, chewing on a bite of food. “And yet you work so well with them on a day-to-day basis.

  “Not when they get in my way.”

  “Is there a possibility you can be more specific on what your complaint is?”

  “But it’s fun to watch you so confused.”

  “Only one cup of coffee, Dee-Ann. Only one cup.”

  She laughed a little, always amused when Van Holtz got a bit cranky.

  “We went to raid a hybrid fight last night—not only was there no fight, but there were felines already there.”

  “Which felines?”

  “KZS.”

  “Oh.” He took another bite of bacon. “Those felines. Well, maybe they’re trying to—”

  “Those felines ain’t gonna help mutts, Van Holtz, you know that.”

  “Can’t you just call me Ric? You know, like everyone else.” And since the man had more cousins than should legally be allowed, all with the last name Van Holtz, perhaps that would be a bit easier for all concerned.

  “Fine. They’re not going to help, Ric.”