by Lexi George
“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 this 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 a 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 his 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 coming 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 look 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.”
“And yet it seems as if they are—or at least trying.”
“They’re doing something—and I don’t like it. I don’t like when anyone gets in my way.” Especially particular felines who had wicked right crosses that Dee’s jaw was still feeling several hours later.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Just like that?”
“Yep. Just like that. Orange juice?” She nodded and he poured freshly squeezed orange juice into her glass.
“You don’t want to talk to the team first?”
“I talked to you. What’s the team going to tell me that you haven’t? Except they’ll probably use more syllables and keep the anti-feline sentiment out of it.”
She nodded and watched him eat. Pretty. The man was just . . . pretty. Not girly—although she was sure her daddy and uncles would think so—but pretty. Handsome and gorgeous might be the more acceptable terms when talking about men, but those words did not fit him.
“Is something wrong with your food?” he asked, noticing that she hadn’t started eating.
She glanced down at the expertly prepared waffle, big fresh blueberries throughout, powdered sugar sprinkled over it. In bowls he’d also put out more fresh blueberries, along with strawberries and peaches. He’d given her a linen napkin to use and heavy, expensive-looking flatware to eat with. And he’d set all this up in about thirty minutes.
The whole meal was, in a word, perfection, which was why Dee replied, “It’s all right . . . I guess.”
A dark eyebrow peaked. “You guess?”
“Haven’t tried it yet, now have I? Can’t tell you if I like it if I haven’t tried it.”
“Only one cup of coffee, Dee. Only one.”
“Maybe it’s time you had another.”
“Eat and tell me my food is amazing or I’m going to get cranky again.”
“If you’re going to be pushy . . .” She took a bite, letting the flavors burst against her taste buds. Damn, but the man could cook. Didn’t seem right, did it? Pretty and a good cook.
“Well?”
“Do I really need to tell you how good it is?”
“Yes. Although I’m enjoying your orgasm face.”
She smirked. “Darlin’, you don’t know my orgasm face.”
“Yet. I’m ever hopeful.”
“Keepin’ that dream alive.”
“Someone has to.” He winked at her and went back to his food. “I’ll see what I can find out about what’s going on with KZS and get back to you.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Don’t worry, Dee-Ann. I’ve got your back.”
She knew that. She knew he would come through as promised. As hard as it was to believe, she was learning to trust the one breed of wolf her daddy told her never to trust.
Then again . . . her daddy had never tasted the man’s blueberry waffles.
“But do me a favor, Dee,” he said. “Until I get this straightened out, don’t get into it with the cats.”
Dee stared at him and asked with all honesty, “What makes you think I would?”
Don’t mis
s Mia Marlowe’s newest,
TOUCH OF A THIEF,
available now . . .
Only once more, Viola vowed silently. Though, like the Shakespearean heroine for whom she was named, she’d miss wearing men’s trousers from time to time. They were ever so much more comfortable than a corset and hoops.
From somewhere deep in the elegant row house came a low creak. Viola held her breath. The longcase clock in the main hall ticked. When she heard nothing else, she realized it was only the sigh of an older home squatting down on its foundations for the night.
The room she’d broken into still held the stale scents of cigar smoke and brandy from the dinner party of the previous evening. But there were no fresh smells, which meant Lieutenant Quinn had taken Lord Montjoy up on his offer to introduce him at his club this evening.
Probably visiting a brothel instead. No matter. The house was empty and why made no difference at all.
She cat-footed up the main stairs, on the watch for the help. The lieutenant hadn’t fully staffed his home yet, but he’d brought a native servant back with him from India. During the dinner party, Viola had noticed the turbaned fellow in the shadows, directing the borrowed footmen and giving quiet commands to the temporary serving girls.
The Indian servant would most likely be in residence.
So long as I steer clear of the kitchen or the garret, I’ll be fine, Viola told herself.
Besides, the stones would be in Lieutenant Quinn’s chamber. Her fence had a friend in the brick mason’s guild who, for a pretty price, happily revealed the location of the ton’s secret stashes. Townhouses on this fashionable London street were all equipped with identical wall safes in the master’s chamber. The newfangled tumbler lock would open without protest under Viola’s deft touch.
She had a gift. Two, actually, but she didn’t enjoy the other one half so much.
Slowly, she opened the bedchamber door. Good. It had been oiled recently. She heard only the faint scrape of hinges.
The heavy damask curtains were drawn, so Viola stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness. There! A landscape in a gilt frame on the south wall marked the location of the safe.
Viola padded across the room and inched the painting’s hanging wires along the picture rail, careful not to let the hooks near the ceiling slide off. She’d have the devil’s own time reattaching them if they did. With any luck at all, she’d slide the painting right back and it might be days before Lieutenant Quinn discovered the stones were missing. After moving the frame over about a foot, she found the safe right where Willie’s friend said it would be.
Viola put her ear to the lock and closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. When she heard a click or felt a slight hitch beneath her touch she knew she’d discovered part of the combination. After only a few tries and errors, the final tumbler fell into place and Viola opened the safe.
The dark void was empty. She reached in to trace the edges of the iron box with her fingertips.
“Looking for something?” A masculine voice rumbled from a shadowy corner.
Blast! Viola bolted for the door, but it slammed shut. The Indian servant stepped from his place of concealment behind it.
“Please do not make to flee or I am sorry to say I shall have to shoot you.” The Hindu’s melodious accent belied his serious threat.
Viola ran toward the window, hoping it was open behind the curtain. And that there was a friendly bush below to break her fall.
Lieutenant Quinn grabbed her before she reached it. He crushed her spine to his chest, his large hand splayed over one of her unbound breasts.
“Bloody hell! It’s a woman. Turn up the gas lamp, Sanjay.”
The yellow light of the wall sconce flooded the room. Viola blinked against the sudden brightness. Then she stomped down on her captor’s instep as hard as she could.
Quinn grunted, but didn’t release his hold. Instead, he whipped her around to face him. His brows shot up in surprise when he recognized her. “Lady Viola, you can’t be the Mayfair Jewel Thief.”
“Of course I can.” She might be a thief, but she was no liar. “I’d appreciate it, sir, if you’d remove your hands from my person.”
“I bet you would.” The lieutenant’s mouth turned down in a grim frown and he kept his grip on her upper arms. His Indian servant didn’t lower the revolver’s muzzle one jot.
“Did I not tell you, sahib? When she looked at the countess’s emeralds, her eyes glowed green.” The servant no longer wore his turban, his coal-black hair falling in ropey strands past his shoulders. “She is a devil, this one.”
“Perhaps.” One of Quinn’s dark brows lifted. “But if that’s the case, my old vicar was right. The devil does know how to assume pleasing shapes.”
That was a back-handed compliment if Viola ever heard one. She hadn’t really considered Lieutenant Quinn closely during the dinner party. She made little time for men and the trouble they bring a woman. Once burned and all that. Besides, she’d been too intent on Lady Henson’s emeralds at the time. Now she studied him with the same assessing gaze he shot at her.
Quinn’s even features were classically handsome. His unlined mouth and white teeth made Viola realize suddenly that he was younger than she’d first estimated. She doubted he’d seen thirty-five winters. His fair English skin had been bronzed by fierce Indian summers and lashed by its weeping monsoons. His stint in India had rewarded him with riches, but the subcontinent had demanded its price.
His storm-gray eyes were all the more striking because of his deeply tanned skin. They seemed to look right through Viola and see her for the fraud she was—a thief with pretensions of still being a lady.
And keep an eye out for Cynthia Eden’s
NEVER CRY WOLF
coming in July
Lucas Simone paced the confines of the eight-by-twelve foot jail cell, a snarl on his lips. The wolf within howled with rage, and the man that the world generally saw, well, he felt more than a little pissed, too.
Collared for a murder he hadn’t committed. Talk about shit-luck. Yeah, Lucas had played on the wild side, he’d even killed before, and the bastards had more than deserved the death he’d given them.
But this time, for this crime, he was innocent. Right. Like the cops would buy that story.
His hands tightened around the bars. If he wanted, he could rip those bars apart, and if they didn’t let him out soon, he would. “I want my lawyer! Now!” His pack had to know where he was. A leader didn’t just vanish, and if he didn’t make contact with them soon, Lucas wasn’t exactly sure what would happen.
Probably hell on earth . . . or wolves running wild in LA, which, yeah, that equaled hell on earth. Especially if he wasn’t there to keep the wilder wolves on their leashes.
Everyone already knew that wolf shifters had a tendency to dance on the edge of sanity. Once those leashes were gone . . . hello, hell.
The bars beneath his fingers began to bend as the rage swelled inside him.
A human was dead. Tossed on his doorstep like garbage.
Not my kill.
Because Lucas had a rule. Just one. Don’t attack the weak.
As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t any being weaker than a human.
“Guard!” His teeth burned as they lengthened in his mouth. No more fucking nice wolf. He was getting out, one way or another. The metal bars groaned within his grasp. “Simone!” Not the guard’s voice. The dumbass detective who’d brought him in for “questioning.” Only he hadn’t been questioned. The cop had just thrown his ass into a cage.
Lucas’s kind didn’t do so well with cages.
He’d make sure the detective didn’t make the same mistake again.
His eyes lifted, tracked to the left to meet that beady gray stare—
And instead got caught by a pair of green eyes.
His nostrils flared. The woman stood behind the detective, a slight frown between her brows. She was tall, curved just the way he wanted a
woman to be, with sensual, full breasts and hips that would let a guy hold on tight for a wild ride.
Pretty face. Straight nose, tilted just a bit on the end—kinda cute. A light spray of freckles across her high cheekbones. Sexy red lips. Jaw that was a bit stubborn.
And gorgeous hair. A thick mane of dark, dark brown hair that curled around her face.
Her stare widened as he gazed at her. She licked her lips, a quick swipe of her tongue.
His cock began to swell, an immediate and instinctive response, even as suspicion rose within him. What was the sexy little human doing at his cell? Was she another cop? A lawyer?
Her eyes—the greenest he’d ever seen—stayed locked on his. That emerald stare didn’t waver at all. Not even to glance toward the right, to catch sight of the jagged remains of his ear.
Most women looked. Like they couldn’t help it. Looked, flinched. So did the men.
Lucas had never really given a damn. The top of his ear had been ripped off years ago in the worst fight of his life. He’d been ten at the time.
But she didn’t look.
A guard came scurrying into the holding area, keys loose and jingling in his right hand.
“Get him out.” The order came from Detective Dickhead.
Lucas let go of the bars, even as he tried to chain the beast that demanded he lunge for the ass’s throat.
Playing it civilized sucked.
The door opened seconds later with a harsh moan.
The woman smiled—with her lips, not her eyes. “Lover . . .” A sexy purr of sound.
He felt that purr run the length of his body, even as the lie burned in his mind. He knew he’d never been this lady’s lover.
Not yet, anyway.
“You’re free to go, Romeo,” Detective Dickhead drawled. “Your lady gave you an alibi for last night, one that we were able to back up with accounts from three other witnesses.”
Bullshit.
Last night, he’d gone running solo. He’d let the wolf out so that he could howl and hunt as much as he wanted.
