Evil sex sorceress!
“Trust me, darlin’,” she said low, “when this thing is over between us, I’ll let you know, in person. Like a woman. Not like some frightened little girl leaving bullshit little notes. And if you’re not sure . . . ask me.”
“If I ask, are you positive you won’t run?”
“I only run when police are involved . . . or I’m out of ammo.”
“That’s perfectly fair.”
“Glad you think so,” she murmured, then slowly leaned in and sniffed his neck. “Lord, you smell good.”
Ric groaned. “Dee, we can’t do this here.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the office and we’re two highly trained professionals who don’t screw in the office.”
“You were all ready to screw me in your restaurant office.”
“The restaurant is mine. This place belongs to the Group. Plus, I don’t have condoms just lying around for impromptu chair sex with horny, sweaty She-wolves who are driving me wild.”
She pressed her lips against his neck, her tongue making little figure eights against his skin. “Guess we’ll have to come up with something else to do as highly trained professionals.”
Forcing himself to put his hands on her shoulders, Ric pushed her back—and God, it had to be the hardest thing he’d ever done—and said, “We’ll have to come up with something else tonight. Not here.”
“You don’t want anyone to know about us?”
“I really don’t care who knows. But there’s such a thing as decorum and standard operating procedure, which I’m pretty sure doesn’t include sex on my desk.”
“What about in your kitchen?”
“Never in my restaurant kitchen. Hygiene. But all bets are off at my house. We just have to make sure to clean up before Mrs. M. shows up for work.”
“Okay. Okay. I got it.” She stood and if his cock had hands, it would have wrung his neck by now for letting her get away.
While Dee walked to the door and he tried to get control of his baser urges, Ric said, “Wait. When you caught Wendell . . . what did he say to you?”
Dee stopped in front of his desk and slowly faced him. “Nothing,” she said after a long moment, which worried him.
“Dee-Ann . . . what happened?” If his brother had touched her . . .
“I, uh . . . kind of beat the hell out of him.”
“Pardon?”
“Look,” she explained, “among the Smiths, there are just some things you don’t do to your own kin. You don’t steal a wolf’s ’shine, his vehicle, his She-wolf, unless she ain’t marked proper and she wants to go, or his money. I figured that’s what he was trying to get to so I . . . punched him a few times and kicked him in the face and, uh . . .” She cleared her throat. “I shoved him down the garbage chute. Your Mrs. M. showed me where it was.”
“Just tell me one thing, Dee-Ann”—Ric’s hand gripped his desk—“were you . . . naked?”
Now it was Dee’s turn to feel embarrassed. Lord, her cheeks were hot! She wasn’t sure she’d ever blushed before. Then again, she was willing to bet that rich, cultured Ulrich Van Holtz had never had one of his overnight guests shove his brother down a garbage chute. She could only hope her momma never heard of it.
“Lord love you, Dee-Ann,” her mother would exclaim. “Must you be so much like your daddy?”
“Were you, Dee-Ann?” Ric pushed.
“Well . . . you know I ain’t one for puttin’ on clothes first thing. I was hungry so I got up and—”
He was up and around his desk like a shot. When he caught hold of her arm, she thought for sure he was going to toss her out and tell her he didn’t want to see her again. But instead he grabbed her other arm and pushed her until her ass hit his desk. Taking his hand he swiped everything off except his computer and shoved her back against the polished wood.
“Uh . . . Ric?”
Busy pulling down her shorts, he stopped and asked, “You locked the office door, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Good.”
Her shorts and panties went flying and suddenly Dee had a tongue between her legs.
“I thought”—her eyes crossed—“no foolin’ around in the office?”
His tongue danced across her clit before he lifted his head and answered, “Do you know how often I’ve daydreamed about shoving my brother down that garbage chute? I’ve also thought about throwing him into a moving plane propeller, but I know that would be really wrong.”
“And first-degree murder.”
“Right. But you . . . you shoved him down the chute. And you did it for me.”
“Because he shouldn’t steal from his kin.”
Ric laughed and there was a touch of bitterness to it. “He doesn’t have a great role model for that. But I was lucky enough to have Uncle Van.” The bitterness faded and the grin returned. “And now I’m lucky enough to have you.”
“Hope you’re not thinking about making this permanent, Van Holtz,” she warned.
“Is this where you tell me you don’t do permanent?”
“No. This is where I tell you that I like you too much to think of you being buried in a shallow grave behind my momma’s house. Because that’s what’s going to happen if my daddy finds out a Van Holtz is messin’ with his only baby girl.”
Big hands with incredibly talented fingers stroked down her thighs. “Guess it’s too bad I think you’re worth the risk.”
“You go up against my daddy, Van Holtz, you won’t win.”
“I know.” He slid his arms under her legs and dragged her to the edge of the desk, spreading her thighs wide. “That’s why I’m going to have to be a little . . .”
Her eyes narrowed. “Wily?”
“Like I said, Uncle Van’s my role model—and the man is good at wily.”
Then his grin disappeared between her legs and Dee didn’t have the strength to stop a superbly talented tongue from giving her the best head ever.
Dez sat at the red light, waiting for it to change so they could head into Jersey. Malone sat in the passenger seat and Dee-Ann was in the back. Janis Joplin’s “Me and Bobby McGee” was playing on the radio while the sun began to set for the night.
At first, Dez thought Cella was humming along with the radio. She had a nice voice, too, throaty and mellow. She usually sang along with all the old rock songs. Anything from the sixties and up.
But when Cella turned her head and looked at her, Dez realized Cella wasn’t the one humming along to “Me and Bobby McGee.”
Dee-Ann had her long legs stretched out across the backseat of the black SUV; the blade she kept on her at all times held casually in her hand, her gaze focused out the window—and she hummed along with Janis.
The light changed and Dez moved forward, heading to their job for the night, and wondering what could make someone like Dee-Ann Smith hum.
CHAPTER 19
D an Phillips of South Jersey was nearly asleep when he felt that weight pressing down on his chest, that blade against his throat.
His eyes shot open and in the blackness of the night, he could see nothing but those shiny eyes. The eyes of an animal.
He opened his mouth to scream but a soft “Hush, now,” stopped the words in his throat.
Beside him lay his wife, sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware that something was on top of him with a knife to his throat.
It leaned in close and whispered against Dan’s ear. “The only reason I haven’t killed you yet is because you don’t really know what you’re helping to fund. So I’m going to give you one chance to save your life and keep what seems to be a happy family from mourning the loss of their daddy. Understand?”
He nodded.
“The name of the client that provides money to the Connecticut Animal Rescue Foundation?”
That’s what it wanted to know? About the goddamn animal rescue that a bunch of rich do-gooders invested money in?
He gave the name and he felt whatever
was on top of him stiffen in surprise. Then it said, “Thank you kindly” and was gone.
It didn’t need to tell him not to say anything to anyone or not to call the police. It didn’t have to. He knew if he ever said a word to anyone, it would be back—and he’d be dead.
Cella was stretched out on the hood of the SUV, staring up at the stars. “Are you sure you heard him correctly?”
“There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my hearing, Malone. I know what I heard.”
Fuck, this was bad. Very bad. And the two females resting against the SUV knew that already.
“Well?” Smith demanded. “Anyone have any bright ideas?”
MacDermot walked a few steps away from the SUV and suddenly yelled out, “Fuck! Fuck!”
Cella sat up. “Let’s all calm the hell down.”
“How do you expect me to calm down?” MacDermot asked. “I mean, seriously? This is bad.”
“For all of us,” Cella reminded her. “With what I found out and Smith . . . this is bad for all of us. But we knew some serious money had to be behind this.”
“Yeah,” Smith said, “but this? Did you know?”
Cella scowled at the wolf. “What are you accusing me for?”
“Stop,” MacDermot ordered them. “We’re not going to turn on each other now.”
“So what do we do?”
Smith pushed away from the SUV. “I’ll handle it.”
“No—” But Smith was already moving toward the back of the SUV.
Cella and MacDermot went after her. “You can’t do this without authorization,” MacDermot reminded her.
“Fuck authorization.”
She unlocked the trunk, but Cella slammed her hand over it. “You’re not doing this, Dee-Ann. Not without authorization.”
“And you really think we’re going to get that?”
Cella nodded. “Yeah. I think we’ll get it. But only if we handle this right.”
“And what’s the right way to handle this?”
“To let our bosses do it. Not us.”
“Why not us?”
She decided to be honest. “You”—she pointed at Dee-Ann—“kill at the slightest provocation. I hit for no other reason than I feel like it. And MacDermot is rude and abrasive.” Cella put her arms around each woman’s shoulders and hugged them in tight. “Oh, my God! I just realized. I love you guys!”
“You’re touchin’ me,” Dee-Ann complained.
“Yeah, but at least this time it’s not ’cause I’m hitting you.”
“Only ’cause my back’s not turned.”
MacDermot laughed. “She’s got a point, Malone.”
CHAPTER 20
D ee decided to walk in the front door of Ric’s building, rather than skulking around the back until she found a way in. As she approached the big glass doors, the doorman rushed to open it.
“Good evening, Miss Smith,” he said, tipping his hat.
Dee froze, her body tensing. She scowled at the full-human, but he only smiled and waited for her to walk through the door. She did and entered the elevator, taking it to the penthouse.
Going against everything she practiced on a daily basis, she used the set of keys Ric had given her and opened the front door. She pulled off her jacket, hung it up in the closet, and walked down the hallway. She still felt like she was skulking, sticking to the shadows of the dimly lit apartment. Deciding she didn’t want to skulk around the man’s apartment any more than she wanted to skulk around his building, she stepped more into the middle of the hallway and headed toward the kitchen. The one place he always seemed to be.
“Ric?” she called out, assuming people who didn’t skulk made noise. They always did in movies and on TV. She pushed open the swinging door and stepped in to the kitchen. “Ric? Are you here?” That always seemed like a stupid question coming from shifters since she knew the man was somewhere in the apartment. Her nose picked up his scent, her ears could hear him moving around, and she could feel his presence. But it was a normal question and she could do normal in short, controlled bursts. Like gunfire.
A low growl came at her from the darkness and Dee stepped out of the kitchen, letting the door swing closed behind her. The growl moved closer, and eyes reflected the light from the few lamps that were lit.
Smiling a little, despite the problems she and her team had walked into, Dee moved away from the kitchen door and more into the hallway.
“Now what do you think you’re doing, Mr. Van Holtz? To some poor little gal all alone in the middle of your big ol’ apartment. Defenseless.”
Big paws padded softly against the marble flooring, the wolf circling around Dee-Ann, staying hidden in the shadows, but she knew where he was at every second.
Thinking that play should wait, Dee-Ann said, “We need to talk, Van Holtz.” But he snarled at that. “I know what you’d rather be doing but that’s not the point. We should talk. About business. Like two professionals.”
He stepped out of the darkness, all rippling muscle and power passed down from ancestors hundreds of years gone. He lowered his head, bright blue gaze locked on her face.
Dee stepped back and shook her head. “This ain’t professional, Ulrich.”
And that’s when he charged her.
Dez walked into the Brooklyn home she shared with her husband and mate. Her two purebred Rottweilers met her at the front door, greeting her with wet kisses and excited tail wags. She’d refused to dock their tails like some owners and she was glad she hadn’t. Nothing drove Mace crazier than when her dogs knocked shit down with their tails.
She petted them and scratched the spot where their tails met their rumps until they were nothing more than wiggling dog flesh on the floor. Standing up, she pulled off her jacket and placed it over the banister. Her backpack dropped at the front door, Dez walked toward the kitchen, but before she got too far, the door opened and the most important thing in her life charged straight at her. Dez fell to her knees and opened her arms wide, laughing as the hyperkinetic bundle slammed into her body, knocking both of them to the ground.
She showered Marcus with kisses, knowing that everything she did during these long days and many nights was to ensure that one day he’d be able to roll around on the floor with his own son or daughter or both and all their dogs—because her son would have dogs. Even if he was a cat. Because what was a life without dogs?
“What is this on your face?” she asked him, realizing it was probably all over her face now, too.
“Okay,” Blayne Thorpe told her, barreling through the kitchen door. “It was just a slight mishap with the brownie mix. No reason to panic!”
Except Blayne appeared worse off than Marcus. Christ, the kid was covered. Did they actually bake any brownies?
“But I called in the heavy artillery,” Blayne went on, “to get this place spic and span.”
Dez got to her feet, lifting Marcus up until he wrapped his arms around her neck. “You called your boyfriend in to clean my apartment?”
“Someone had to do it,” came a voice from behind the kitchen door.
“Any other problems?” Dez asked, turning toward the front door as it opened and her husband walked in, his dog beside him. Apparently the mixed Rottie rescue was too good to stay at the house among Dez’s average, run-of-the-mill purebreds. Instead, she had to go into the city with Mace to help him endure the work day and keep Smitty’s dog, Shit-starter, from bothering him.
The little whore.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mace said. “Job ran long.”
“No problem,” Blayne chirped. She was perhaps the chirpiest person Dez had ever known. Marcus adored her and Mace . . . tolerated her more than most. And that said a lot. “No derby practice tonight.”
“My son,” Mace said, pulling Marcus out of Dez’s arms without an invitation and holding him high above his head. “Future of my bloodline.”
Dez shook her head in disgust, Blayne giggled.
Marcus scowled down at his father, pulled back his arm,
and slashed at Mace’s handsome face with nonexistent claws.
“Viper child!” Mace snarled.
Holding out her arms, Dez ordered, “Give me my son, Llewellyn.”
“Momma’s boy. That’s what you’ve turned him into.” He shoved his son back into Dez’s arms. “An ungrateful momma’s boy. I allow you to live, boy! Don’t you forget it!”
“Thank you, Blayne,” Dez said over all the bellowing and her son’s giggling. “Are you sure we can’t pay you?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Yeah, because everything should be for free,” Bo Novikov complained from the kitchen. “So we can live in a Blayne-like utopia.”
Blayne smiled and said, “Excuse me a moment.”
Dee waited until Blayne had gone back into the kitchen before she faced her husband. “We need to talk.”
“What did I do now?”
“Nothing.”
“Because whatever it was, I’m sure I didn’t mean to do it.”
“You’re not helping yourself, Captain Ego.”
“And if I want to help a friend,” Blayne bellowed from behind the kitchen door, “I’ll do it! And you’re not going to give me any shit over it, you oversized Visigoth!”
“ ‘They’re such a cute couple,’” Mace imitated back to Dez from a recent wild dog party where she’d had a tad too many margaritas.
“They are a cute, if unstable couple.”
“He’s more bear than lion.”
“Which means what? That his head’s not as big as yours?”
“Okay.” Blayne came back through the door, her hand gripping Novikov’s forearm. Dez would never say it out loud, but the size of that man was . . . off-putting. To her anyway. Mace was only a nice, relatively normal six-four, but getting into the seven feet and over range just freaked Dez out. What was it like to fuck someone that size? Could you be smothered? Especially when he wasn’t some skinny basketball player type but nearly four hundred pounds of muscle. God, what if he died on top of her? Would Blayne be able to drag herself out?
Mace bumped her with his hip and Dez realized she was staring at Novikov again. She probably had what Mace called her “look of abject horror” expression. She had to work on that.
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