Big Bad Beast

by Shelly Laurenston

  “You will recline, at once.” His tone was stern.

  Okay, muscles and a few control issues.

  She opened her eyes as he lowered her to the couch, and saw a grimace of pain flash across his features. It was the first expression of any kind she’d seen on his face, unless you counted the lip twitch thing. The man could give a marble statue lessons in being stoic.

  She caught his arm as he started to rise. “That thing hurt you!”

  He stilled, his gaze on her fingers wrapped around his wrist. “You are mistaken. The djegrali did not injure me. It is your touch that disturbs me.”

  Addy stiffened and drew back. “Well, excuse the hell out of me.”

  He caught her by the hand. “You misunderstand. You do not repulse me.”

  He knelt down beside her. He put his fingers under her chin and tilted her face with gentle fingers. Addy stifled a gasp. Who was this guy? The merest touch from him and her breasts tingled and she felt all hot and wobbly inside. What was the matter with her?

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  Sweet Sister Ruth, he had a voice like whiskey and smoke. She shivered and raised her eyes to his. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, a rapt expression on his face. His thumb drifted lower to brush her bottom lip. “You must be patient with me, Adara Jean Corwin. The Dalvahni do not experience emotion. It would be superfluous. We exist for one purpose and one purpose alone: to hunt the djegrali. For ten thousand years, this has been my objective, until now.”

  “Ten thousand years, huh?” With an effort, she squelched the sudden urge to scrape the pad of his thumb with her teeth. No doubt about it, she was in hormonal meltdown. “Sounds boring. You need to get a new hobby, expand your horizons.”

  “Earth is but one of the realms where the Dalvahni hunt the djegrali.”

  Oh, brother, too bad. He was paying a visit to schizoid-land again. Then the impact of his words percolated through the fog of lust that set her brain and her body on fire.

  “Hey, wait a minute, I didn’t tell you my name!”

  “The animal you call Dooley informed me of many things, including how to find this dwelling.”

  “You don’t say? Funny, she’s never said a thing to me in four years.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder as she tried to sit up. “You will not rise,” he said with annoying calm.

  “Oh, yeah? That’s what you think, bub.”

  She pushed at his arm, an exercise in futility. The man was built like a proverbial brick outhouse.

  His hand slid over her abdomen and down her running shorts to her legs. She froze. His hand felt hot against her bare skin.

  “Dooley, come here,” he said.

  The dog rose and trotted over to the couch.

  Brand traced an intricate pattern with his fingers along the skin of her inner thigh. Addy began to shake. What was happening to her? This was so unlike her. All her life she’d struggled to rein in her reckless nature, the wild streak that made her mama wring her hands in despair. Self-control was her hard-earned mantra. Think first and feel later. But this guy . . . this guy really got her going, made her want to throw caution to the wind. She wanted to arch her hips against his hand, a stranger’s hand.

  “Speak, Dooley,” Brand said with his gaze on Addy’s face.

  “DOOLEY LOVE ADDY. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE,” the Lab said in the growly voice of a three-pack-a-day smoker. Flinging up a back paw, she scratched her ear. “CAN DOOLEY HAVE CHICKEN LEG IN COLD BOX? CAN DOOLEY?” Her head snapped around. “OH, LOOK, A BUG!”

  There was a long moment of silence as Addy gaped at her dog in shock. Slowly, she raised her eyes to Brand’s.

  “Who are you?”

  A slight crease appeared between Brand’s brow. The expression in his eyes grew puzzled. “Until tonight, I thought I knew.”

  Lowering his dark head, he kissed her.

  Don’t miss 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.” S
he 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 next month . . .

  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 shitluck. 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 on 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.

  He’d come home with the taste of blood on his tongue, and then he’d found blood staining his front steps.

  Lucas rolled his shoulders, trying to force the tension back, and stalked out of the cage. Then she was in his arms. Throwing herself against him. Wrapping slender arms around his neck and pressing her mouth to his.

  Lucas wasn’t a stupid man. If a sexy woman wanted to plaster her curves against him, he wasn’t gonna argue.

  But he was most certainly gonna take.

  His hands lifted, caught her, locked right around the firm flare of her ass, and he pressed her closer. His mouth took hers, his tongue plunged deep.

  Oh, but she tasted sweet.

  Not the wild tang of his kind. Women like him, women who could shift into the powerful form of a beast, usually tasted like aged wine.

  She tasted like candy.

  He’d always had a sweet tooth.

  Her tongue moved against his, soft strokes, like a kitten, licking. A moan trembled in her throat.

  His cock strained against the front of his jeans. Okay, so he didn’t know who she was. Not gonna stop him. Because he’d sure like to screw h—

  “Ahem.” The Dickhead again.

  The woman in his arms stiffened, just a bit.

  For show. He knew she hadn’t forgotten the detective’s presence. And neither had he. Lucas just hadn’t given a damn that they were being observed.

  “Sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” Her voice was husky, sexual. Like a silken stroke right over his groin.

  “No problem, babe.” He curved his fingers under her chin. Two could play. He saw the small tremor that shook her, and he smiled. Deliberately, he let her see the sharp edge of his teeth. Way sharper than a human’s.

  But no fear flashed in her eyes.

  Interesting.

  The lady knew the score, he’d stake his pack’s reputation on that fact. She knew he wasn’t human. Probably knew exactly what he was.

  And she was still coming to his aid.

  Now, as a rule, Lu
cas didn’t believe that people were good. No, he knew they were more apt to be influenced by the devil than any pure motivation . . . so he figured the lady had an angle.

  “The Los Angeles police department apologizes for any inconvenience.” The nasally voice of Dickhead told him.

  Lucas released the woman. Gently, he pushed her to the side. His eyes narrowed as he cocked his head and waited for Dickhead to finish.

  “Of course, you have a known history of affiliation with certain—”

  He moved in one quick lunge. Lucas grabbed the detective, lifted the jerk by his too-thick throat, and slammed him against the bars.

  The guard stepped forward.

  Lucas’s head snapped to the right. “Don’t even think about it.” Guttural. Because really, a guy’s patience could only last so long.

  The guard’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “Good.” He glanced back at the detective. “Bruce, I think you and I need to clear the air.” So others were there watching—big deal. He wouldn’t play subtle. “You’ve got a hard-on for me. You been dodging my feet for the last two months.” He let the beast show in his eyes. Lucas knew the glow of the wolf would burn from his blue eyes. “You stay out of my way from now on . . . or you’ll find out just what I do to bastards who piss me off.”

  The detective’s skin bleached. “You-you can’t threaten a cop—”

  He let his claws dig into Bruce’s flapping flesh. “I just did.”

  “What are you?” A whisper.

  His smile faded. “Someone” something “You don’t want to have as an enemy.” His fingers loosened. The detective slid from his grip. Dropped to the floor. Probably pissed himself.

  Lucas stared down at the man. He let Bruce see the intent in his eyes. Then he caught the woman’s hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  BRAVA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street