When a Tigon Weds (A Lion's Pride Book 9)

by Eve Langlais

  The woman snorted. “Are you asking me to lie?”

  “I’m going to guess that’s a no.” He did his best to sound dejected about it, but in reality, that had gone better than hoped.

  The scene was set. The fabricated truth more believable than reality. The officer never thought to wonder how a bottle of exploding booze caused so much damage. Never thought to ask why his wife took such a late bath at night, or how he’d gotten his hands on the whiskey he wasn’t supposed to have.

  It took longer than he liked to have them put out the fire and leave his property, but once they did…Dean was alone with his wife, in a robe, in the parlor, with no gun, but a candlestick.

  Murder or seduction…it could go either way.

  Chapter Five

  Natasha pretended to smile and chide her husband while the fire was put out, and the officer wrote a report.

  It took forever for them to leave.

  Forever before she could turn around and glare at the man who happened to be her husband.

  Someone who’d almost died. A good thing he hadn’t since he’d saved her life.

  How had she gone from planning to possibly kill him, to preventing a sniper from shooting him? It would have been much simpler to let a stranger handle her problem. Now, she had to deal with him and his annoying, jovial attitude.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a change of clothes and a drink. Actually, I think a hot shower is called for. Care to join me?” His grin had a bit of alley cat in it.

  “No, I do not want to join you. I want answers.”

  “To what? The answer to life? I think Douglas Adam answered that in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”

  She couldn’t help but blink at the inane answer. When she didn’t reply, he continued. “It’s forty-two, by the way.”

  “How is a number the answer to life?”

  He shrugged. “You’d have to ask the computer that came up with it. But I’d have to assume it was accurate given it took him several million years to figure out.”

  “A fictional computer from a fictional story?”

  “You know what they say, all stories, even the most unbelievable, have a kernel of truth in them.”

  “You know the tales you hear about how bad the Russian mob is?” she replied with an arched brow. “All true, and actually tamer than the reality.”

  “Guess it’s a good thing I’m married to the mob, then.” He winked.

  “We are not married,” she declared as if that would make all the difference.

  “You say that, and yet we were the perfect image of a bickering couple for that cop. I have to say, the part where you told me I’d be sleeping on the couch was perfection.” He kissed the tips of his fingers, and a shiver ran through her.

  She’d not forgotten how those lips felt on her skin.

  “You’re cold. We should go back inside and take that hot shower I was talking about. After you.” He swept a bow.

  “I don’t want a shower.”

  “You say that now, but what if I promised to scrub your back?”

  “Touch me, and I’ll drown you.”

  “Testy tonight. They say our moods are closely connected to our sexual energy. Is Simon not doing it for you?” he asked as he headed into the house.

  “My sex life is none of your business.”

  “On the contrary, wife, I am very interested in it.” He stopped short just inside the room, and she had to wonder how the cop hadn’t noticed the broken door. Then again, Neville had done a good job of sweeping the broken bits out of plain sight and drawing the blinds.

  “Would you feel better if I said I orgasm on a regularly?”

  “Masturbation, while healthy, isn’t a substitute for a flesh on flesh climax. Would you like me to show you the difference?” His grin was wicked as he offered, and worse, she was tempted.

  “Can you stop screwing around for just a minute?” she huffed. “Rather than worry about my sex life, we should be discussing why someone just tried to kill you.” Later, she’d examine why she even gave a damn.

  He cast her a glance over his shoulder as he walked across the sunroom. “What makes you so sure they were after me?”

  “No one knew I was coming here.”

  “Maybe you were followed.”

  “Now, you’re just being silly. Nobody would dare come after me.” She had a family that would make death seem like a mercy compared to the alternative. Her papa wasn’t the kind to forgive, especially anyone who hurt his daughter.

  “I could say the same. Why come after me? Killing me would start a shitstorm of epic proportion.”

  “Arrogant much?”

  “Always. But that said, I probably do have a string of enemies. And I’ll bet you do, too.”

  “I was taught to never leave someone alive if they might do me harm,” was her pert reply.

  “Everyone has the potential to hurt, so how do you decide which of them lives?” he queried.

  “Are you really discussing theology with me?”

  “Why not? I thought I knew you once before. Apparently, I wasn’t asking the right questions,” he stated, letting the damp shirt reeking of booze slide from his broad shoulders.

  “You want to know what kind of person I am?” Her tone lilted. “Fine. I am the kind who doesn’t show mercy if you hurt me.”

  “That’s pretty standard for most people.”

  “I can also be merciless if I don’t like you.”

  “That’s pretty broad. I mean, what if it’s a random act that gets a person on your radar? For example, a person cuts you off in traffic and almost causes a crash.” He tossed the ruined shirt into a garbage pail, cleverly hidden within his living room.

  “I don’t care if they’re strangers. Do me wrong, and I will take note of the license plate, and pay a visit to slash some tires later.” She also sometimes took a bat to their windshield. People who couldn’t drive shouldn’t have a car.

  “I never knew you suffered from road rage.”

  “Because I always let you drive.” At the time, he would have been stunned to hear the language that emerged from her when she got behind the wheel of a car.

  “Anything else I should know about you that might not be documented?”

  “How about the fact that I’ll stab you with a fork if you touch my cheesecake.”

  “Really?” He arched a brow. Rakish to the extreme. “Way to make me crave some.”

  “Can we stop the idle chitchat? We have bombs and assassins to discuss.”

  “You were the one who got off track.”

  She couldn’t have said if that were true or false because, quite honestly, she kept finding herself distracted by his bare chest. The smooth flesh showed the fine musculature she recalled. Not to mention the narrowing of his torso at his hips, and the taut ass showcased by his snug swim shorts.

  “Do you know who wants to kill you?”

  “Do you know who wants to kill you?” he parried.

  “You, for one.”

  “Wrong, dear wife. If I wanted to be a widower, I’d have already rid myself of you.”

  “I’m not that easy to kill.”

  “Only because I haven’t tried,” he boasted.

  “Would you really snuff me?” She batted her lashes.

  His smile was deadly and devilishly handsome all at once as he said, “Like you, wrong me once, shame on me. I don’t do second chances.”

  “I wronged you.” She wouldn’t start pretending that she hadn’t.

  “You did. And yet, I let you live, baby. Have you wondered why?”

  “No.” Because it had never actually occurred to Natasha that he’d try to harm her. Not the man she’d known. If briefly. And falsely. Even now, she didn’t believe he’d do it. “You won’t kill me.”

  “I think that’s the truest thing to ever come out of your mouth.”

  “Are you going to whine again about the fact that I bested you?”

  “Oh, you had me, all rig
ht. By the dick and balls. I quite enjoyed it. Let me know if you want to relive those moments.” He winked.

  She wanted to—take him up on his offer. But she wouldn’t. She had a duty to perform.

  “Let’s go back to the assailants.”

  “Changing the subject? Is it getting uncomfortable?”

  She chose not to answer. “In the time you were tying up your target, did you get any clues at all as to their identity? Who they might work for?”

  “I didn’t have time to question because the moment I tied them up turkey-style, I went looking for you. Just in time to save that pert ass.”

  He thought it pert? She wouldn’t be distracted by such a ridiculous compliment. It would make her too girly. “I didn’t need your help. I can handle myself. You should have done a better job with your target. Because of your shoddy knots, we lost your guy.”

  “Girl, as a matter of fact. Aren’t you the sexist?” he taunted.

  She glared. “Guy is unisex.”

  “Not in the context you used it.”

  He was right, but she wouldn’t admit it. “Back to the girl you didn’t tie very well—”

  “I tied her quite nicely, I’ll have you know. I am quite adept when it comes to knots.”

  “So am I. And when I tie up a guy, he doesn’t get loose until I’m done with him.” She made it sound dirty and was rewarded with a nostril flare.

  He turned from her as he said in a tight voice, “Why, baby, I never knew you were into those kinds of games. Maybe I should have spanked you after the wedding for being a naughty girl.”

  “Lay a hand on my ass, and I’ll break it.”

  “Tempting,” he drawled, turning from a sideboard with a drink in hand. He held it out to her. “Scotch? I’m afraid I’m out of vodka.”

  “I don’t need a drink. I want to know about the woman who escaped. Can you describe her?”

  He tossed back the alcohol first. “She was shorter than you. Thicker. Heavier.”

  “What color was her hair?”

  “No idea.”

  “Eyes? Skin?”

  He shrugged. “She wore a hoodie. I only got the quickest of glimpses before I left to find you.”

  “Ugh.” Natasha paced. “That doesn’t help at all.”

  “Are you planning to hunt her down? I’m surprised you’d care. Didn’t you say being a widow would solve your problems?”

  It would, and yet if he died, it should be by her hand, on her terms. “If someone is trying to kill you, I want to know why.”

  “Why, baby, I knew you cared.” He beamed as he saluted her with his glass.

  She scowled, mostly because she knew he taunted her. “I don’t give a damn about you. I’m more interested in making sure this attempt isn’t connected to my family or me.”

  “Ouch. Very cold, baby.”

  “Would you stop that? I am not your baby.”

  “But you are my wife until I sign those papers. Which are gone, by the way. They didn’t survive the dunking.”

  “Where are my clothes?” She’d woken naked and under the covers of his bed, her sodden clothes out of sight. It wasn’t hard to find an oversized t-shirt and robe to wear down the stairs when she faked the part of his wife.

  Only she didn’t have to fake much. They actually were married. It still hadn’t quite sunken in.

  “Your stuff went down the laundry chute. I didn’t have time to throw them in the washer before the company arrived.”

  “You do realize the cops have you pegged as an alcoholic rich boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice cover,” she added begrudgingly and not without admiration. He’d hidden in plain sight and masked his actions as debauched partying.

  “Your social persona is pretty good, too.”

  “Don’t you mean perfect? I am exactly as I seem. A spoiled rich girl with a doting papa.”

  Half his mouth lifted. “Who kills people who wrong her family.”

  She shrugged. “It’s how I was raised.” Her papa had instilled a strong sense of family in her, maybe too much after her mother had died. Some would call her father a mean bastard. Maybe to outsiders. But he adored his little girl.

  “I need clothes,” she said, looking down at the dark blue robe.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t bring a spare set.” He snorted. The implication being that she should have thought ahead. In her defense, she hadn’t expected to go for a swim.

  “I came in light.”

  “Good thing for you, I have some stuff that might fit.” A room full to be exact. Women’s clothing in all kinds of styles and sizes.

  She couldn’t help a tart, “Entertain much?”

  “Yes,” he growled. “Damned Pride biatches think they can come over whenever they like.”

  She bristled. “With that kind of attitude, I’m surprised they haven’t slit your throat.”

  “Why would they cut it when they love me?” he said mournfully. “Apparently, my saying ‘no’ is playing hard to get. So, they keep coming over. Bringing me food. Leaving their stuff. Sometimes, trying to crawl into my bed when I’m asleep.”

  She stiffened, unable to halt the hot flood of jealousy. “I’m sure you hate all that attention.”

  “I like sleeping alone. And, as a chef, I cannot condone the eating of those gelatin and whipped cream desserts they keep bringing. If they truly wanted to win my heart, they should try making homemade pasta and sauce, or a roast with all the trimmings.” He sounded mournful.

  She set him straight. “I don’t cook.”

  “A good thing I can. Does this mean you’ll handle all the grocery shopping, then?””

  Her mouth rounded into an O of surprise. “No.”

  “What about house cleaning? Should we engage a maid, or would you like us to make up a chore list? You take care of the garbage, vacuuming, and mopping, I’ll handle the dishes and the toilets.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure divorce is the right choice. I mean, what if we’re being hasty and we’re a perfect match?” He smiled.

  Natasha scowled in reply. “We are getting divorced.”

  “Maybe.”

  She almost threw herself at him. He wouldn’t grin so smugly when she punched him in the mouth a few times. She hated to lose. Just ask Cousin Ivan, who never again looked her in the eye after the time he’d bragged that he’d gotten to the boss level in the game they were both playing. He also never played video games again.

  Dressing in various odds and ends, she noted the time. Not quite morning, but well past a proper bedtime.

  Maybe she’d head to her temporary home, grab a few hours of sleep, get another copy of the divorce papers and… Hold on. That involved leaving Neville Horatio Fitzpatrick alone. On his own. With two potential assassins on the loose, maybe more—and women who thought they could just pop in and seduce her husband.

  She eyed him. “You’re going to have to come with me.”

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yes, and given I need your signature, you are coming, too.”

  “I’m tired. The only place I’m going is to bed.”

  He headed away from her and down the hall, she knew this because she followed.

  “You can’t seriously be thinking of staying here.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, the broken sliding glass door.”

  “That exploding whiskey bottle sure made a mess.” The explanation given to the police officer.

  “It’s not safe here.”

  “Says you. I feel perfectly fine.” He flopped onto his bed, a waterbed she noted that wobbled when he landed.

  Having located not only a knife but a gun while browsing the garments, she felt no compunction in firing a bullet into his mattress.

  Kersplash.

  She stood just out of reach of the resulting flood. The man, lying within the soggy frame, sighed heavily. “You win. Take me to your boudoir since you insist.”

 
; “It’s a friend’s home.”

  “Even more sordid. Shall we be sharing a couch? Because if that’s the case, I’d really rather we just rent a room.”

  “Since when are you such a princess?”

  “I wouldn’t talk, baby. According to the gossip mill, you have champagne tastes and throw a tantrum when they’re not met.”

  She rolled a shoulder coyly. “You’re not the only one who can play dilettante.” Did he know how much he revealed when he admitted that he’d followed her online? Just how much about her did he know? If he had sources as good as hers, then that could be quite a bit.

  Or he was playing her because anyone who truly knew her reputation wouldn’t be so blasé.

  “Speaking of which.” He suddenly held up a phone and snapped a picture of her.

  “What are you doing?” she squeaked, conscious of the fact that she wore a towel on her head. “Delete that at once.”

  “Too late. Already posted.”

  “Where? You idiot. You’d better get rid of it before anyone sees it.”

  “Does it really matter?” he asked.

  “I’m supposed to be in Europe, on my way to Italy for my bachelorette.”

  His expression brightened. “Hell, yeah. You know this means I get a bachelor party, too. With strippers.”

  Her finger twitched, and she was tempted to throw something at him. “You’re not the one getting married.”

  “Because I already am. So, if you get to have a party after the fact, so do I. Or did you want to go modern and combine it into a Jack and Jill?”

  “We are getting divorced,” she hissed as he kept up the annoying pretense that they should make their marriage work.

  “Says you. Hasn’t happened yet, and until we do, I’m getting everything I can out of the arrangement. Which means a bachelor party with my closest buds, getting drunk, listening to horror stories of the ball and chain, and stuffing bills down some g-strings.”

  “Sounds sexist and degrading to women.”

  “Oh, really, and what do you have planned for your party, little miss likes to get drunk and post selfies where your lips look like you’ve gotten punched they’re pursed so far? I’m going to wager something pretty damned close to mine.”

  She hated that he was right. “It’s a sham for the public me.”