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

by Eve Langlais

  “Not that hard to buy one at the store.” Vinny had a reply.

  “A fake?” Neville put a hand to his chest. “Perish the thought.”

  “What happened to the ones at the ceremony?” she asked. Because he’d had a pair tucked into his pocket. He’d shown her the bands the night before.

  “They suffered an unfortunate incident. It didn’t feel right to replace them without my dear wife’s input. Not to mention, I wanted it to match the engagement ring.”

  “I got rid of it.” A lie. It was tucked inside a piece of fabric in a jewelry box at home.

  “No matter, we can always go shopping for a new set.”

  “Is he serious?” Vinny asked, then eyed Neville. “You can’t stay married to her. She’s engaged to someone else.”

  “Technically, she can’t be, as she and I had a prior and current commitment.”

  Vinny turned from him to Natasha. “Have you not explained what will happen if your father finds out?”

  “You mean the fact that my papa will probably hunt him and have him mounted as a trophy?” She rocked on her heels. “If he’s done his research as he claims, he knows.”

  “Do you want to die?” Vinny asked bluntly.

  “People keep asking me that, and the answer is no. But I am a man of my word. I promised until death do us part.”

  “And death is going to happen, you idiot, if you keep stubbornly refusing.”

  “Does this mean you’re ready to talk numbers?” Neville innocently inquired.

  “What’s he yammering about?” Vinny’s gaze narrowed at the word numbers.

  “He wants alimony.”

  “How much?” Vinny asked.

  Her husband named an outrageous sum. She was ready to say no when Uncle Vinny said, “Done. Now, sign.”

  “I want the deal in writing,” he insisted, which took an hour because they needed a lawyer to amend the contract. During that time, her husband went to eat. She followed, convinced he was up to something.

  He made the most beautiful sandwich. Layers of meat, cheese, with hints of Dijon mustard in between.

  By the time it was done, it required an unhinged jaw to take a bite.

  She stuck to a healthy salad mostly out of spite—which her belly didn’t appreciate.

  Not much was said as they ate. Mostly because she was annoyed. Not that her uncle had agreed to pay, but more because, apparently, there was a price on Neville’s supposed loyalty to his vows. She might not have liked it, but she respected him more when he refused.

  After their meal, they returned to her uncle’s office and the new divorce agreement. Neville made a show of reading it thoroughly, then signing it without looking at her once. Slid the documents back in the envelope and handed them to her.

  Then, he left. Without a word. No goodbye or final lingering glance. Nothing.

  As if she didn’t matter.

  And she hated that it bothered her. A lot.

  It figured Uncle Vinny felt an urge to open his yap.

  “What a shame your father has his sights set on that Simon cub. The tigon’s got balls.”

  “He lacks common sense.”

  “In my day, we called it being dashing. A pity he and Isabella didn’t work out. I could grow to like that husband of yours.”

  “Ex.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  She waved the envelope with the signed documents, but as her uncle kept smirking, she frowned and slid out the contract.

  “That feline mongrel,” she exclaimed. He’d signed the papers all right, signed them with a note.

  The first one said, Never. Followed by, Later, baby.

  Screw later, she was going to kill him now.

  Chapter Eight

  What a beautiful day. The sun was shining, warming Dean’s bare chest as he relaxed atop the Pride condominium. He’d removed his shirt and wore only his khakis and some sunglasses. No shoes. No weapons.

  He didn’t need any, not when his wife was tough enough for the two of them on her own. And he expected her to arrive any second now…

  “Neville Horatio Fitzpatrick!” She bellowed his name as she spilled out of the elevator onto the rooftop.

  It drew more than one lazy gaze—and twitched more than one tail. Drew a snicker too as someone taunted, “Neville, wasn’t that the name of Garfield’s dumb nemesis?”

  “That was Nermal,” explained Jodi.

  “Then who’s Neville?” asked Stacey.

  Rather than reply, Dean remained lying in the sun, enjoying the heated rays from behind his shades until someone blocked the light.

  “You bloody idiot!”

  He remained prone with his lids shuttered.

  She whacked him with a rolled-up sheaf of papers. “Don’t you ignore me.”

  He cracked an eye to see the storm. “Hey, baby. I didn’t expect you so soon. Did you miss me?”

  “Are you a moron?”

  “Not according to the intelligence tests they made me take.”

  “You said you were going to sign.” She waved the papers.

  “I signed.”

  “Not your name!” she snapped.

  “Yeah, well, as nice as the offer was, I couldn’t accept it.”

  “You’re the one who suggested it.”

  “No, you asked me for a price. I gave one that seemed reasonable. However, that didn’t mean I had any interest then or now in divorce.”

  “Asshole!”

  He pushed up his glasses and gave her a lazy grin. “Baby, really, is that any way to talk to your husband?”

  Any twitching by the watching ladies, ceased. You could have heard a hair drop, it got so quiet.

  Until someone shout-whispered, “Did he just say they’re married?”

  To her credit, Natasha—and her big brass balls—didn’t budge at all when over half a dozen golden gazes veered her way, some of them kind of menacing. It was impressive that she’d even made it to the rooftop. How had she run the biatch welcome committee gauntlet? Hopefully, someone had video footage.

  Natasha tossed back her dark hair as if defying them. “Don’t get involved,” was her warning. “This is between me and this mangy cur.”

  “I’ll have you know my fur is quite luxurious. Did you know Arik’s wife has transformed one of the first-floor condos into a salon? She gives the best scalp treatments.” A remark that met with more than one murmur of agreement.

  “Stop being deliberately obtuse. You agreed to the divorce. You got everything you wanted.”

  He sat up and replied, more tersely than warranted, “What I want is to be married. To you, I should add, in case that’s not clear.” It got easier to declare.

  “But I’m engaged to someone else!” Her temper flared, and she stamped her foot, but it was her words that drew the “ooh” from the watchers, and one exclaimed, “Quick, someone order some popcorn from the kitchen!”

  “Better call it off because bigamy is still a crime in this state.”

  “This is blackmail. I don’t want to be married to you.”

  Dean stood and towered over her. “Too bad. You’re mine.”

  “Oh,” was the responding swoon from everyone but his wife.

  Natasha wasn’t swayed. “I belong to no one.”

  “I have a marriage certificate that says otherwise.”

  All the eyes swung her way, and Zena, one of the few lionesses not trying to get in his pants, muttered, “Twenty bucks says she hits him in the gut.”

  “Fifty says they have sex before the day is over.”

  Wagers were tossed back and forth, but he ignored them. He didn’t dare remove his intent gaze from Natasha.

  “I won’t be your wife.”

  “You mean you won’t be Simon’s wife. You’re already Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” He poked her with a verbal stick. And still, the claws didn’t come out. She had excellent control despite her temper.

  “I am going to murder you,” she growled.

  “I wouldn’t try that
if I were you. My Aunt Kari over there will lose her shit if you hurt me. I’m her favorite nephew.” He pointed without looking.

  “Just say the word, and I’ll shred her for you, darling nephew,” was Aunt Kari’s cooed reply.

  The threat only narrowed Natasha’s gaze. “She can try. You can all try. If I go down, my papa will ruin you all.”

  “Who is her dad?” someone asked.

  Holding her gaze, because only an idiot would look away from a tigress in a rage, Dean replied, “Sergeii Tigranov.”

  “Did he say…?” The sentence was never finished.

  Despite the entertainment value of watching him spat with his unhappy bride, the name, renowned especially in their circles, caused the lionesses watching to scatter. Even here, far from his base, the Tigranov family was known—to be merciless.

  “I see they have more common sense than you,” Natasha remarked.

  “More like they heard the dinner bell. It’s Taco Tuesday at the restaurant.”

  “Tacos?” She glanced wistfully at the door going down. It was too damned cute.

  “With queso cheese sauce and homemade tortilla chips.”

  “Stop tempting me, I will not be swayed by food.” She pulled a fresh envelope from her back pocket and waved it at him. “Sign the damn papers.”

  “No.”

  “What part of my father will kill you, do you not grasp?”

  “Still a no. And who says I can’t get your father to agree?”

  “Try it, and you will end up with concrete feet, feeding the fish at our family estate.”

  “Do you think me so incapable? I can handle your father.”

  “Don’t you touch my papa!”

  “I won’t hurt him. But I will have him agreeing to this union.”

  “That will never happen because he’s not the biggest problem. I promised my babushka when I thought she might be dying that I’d marry Simon.”

  That more than anything sobered him. “Has she recovered?”

  “Yes.”

  “In order to assuage her disappointment, I’ll make sure to bring flowers when I meet her.”

  “You will do no such thing. I won’t have you shocking her into a heart attack.”

  “What makes you think she’ll be unhappy that you’re already hitched?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’ll be married to you.”

  “And? What’s wrong with me? As you’ve already noted, I’m wealthy.” His parents had died in his teens but left him two large life insurance policies, among other things.

  “You’re not a tiger.”

  “I’m half tiger.”

  “My babushka is a purist. She’ll never accept you.”

  “I didn’t take you for a coward.”

  She eyeballed him, up and down, more appraising than anything else. A heavy sigh escaped her. “You won’t stop until I agree, will you?”

  “You need to be married, and I don’t believe in divorce. So, why not make this work for both of us?”

  “This will get ugly.”

  “You think Simon will cry?”

  “Who cares about Simon. My papa won’t be happy if Babushka gets upset. Hell, I don’t want to upset her either if she’s really dying.”

  “I’ll deal with her. Women love me.”

  She snorted.

  “Trust me.”

  Famous last words, right next to “hold my catnip.”

  Whump. Whump.

  The steady beat signaled a helicopter overhead, not exactly uncommon in the city where many of the tallest buildings had pads. However, this one appeared to be swooping in on the Pride’s condominium, which didn’t have a landing spot. It should also be noted that regular helicopters usually sported a logo of some kind, indicating who they belonged to: nosy news networks, pleasure rides, a company that could afford a private chopper to fly its top cats around.

  The whirlybird dipping ever closer appeared matte black and sleek. It also sported machine guns that dropped into place and began sparking as they fired.

  No need to yell, Natasha was already moving, running for cover as bullets peppered the concrete roof deck.

  Dean zigged and zagged after her, playing a game of dodge the slugs. In a moment, he’d ducked behind the tiki bar. A flimsy shield at best. The helicopter hovered overhead, and they heard the rub of gloves on nylon as people rappelled down.

  He glanced at Natasha, who looked about as scared as a tiger confronting a den of rabbits. Meaning, she grinned and had a weapon in each hand.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  Before he could even think of replying, she stood and began firing, her revolver capable of piercing the body armor the men wore. But she was smart, rather than aim for kill shots, she maimed. Wrist holding a rifle. Kneecap, which was stupidly painful and effective at keeping someone down.

  As for Dean, he didn’t have a gun, just a stool and an old record in shot put. He swung the wooden seat up and over towards the helicopter, the furniture catching in the blades. Splinters rained down, and metal groaned. The chopper listed but quickly righted itself, and those machine guns began firing again.

  At Dean.

  He ran for the bullets instead of from them, keeping them trained on him, grunting as one managed to thud into the meaty part of his arm. He grabbed another stool in passing, and swung again, no sooner realizing it than he had a small metal side table.

  Gronk. The squeal of metal proved loud, and the effect even bigger. The helicopter leaned as it lost control with its now-crooked blades. It listed, and as it went past the edge, the harnesses attached to the shooters dragged them along, out of reach.

  Aunt Marni suddenly emerged on the rooftop, cracking a whip that wrapped around the leg of the chopper. She dug her feet in, but the moving heli dragged her along. The other lionesses that poured onto the deck grabbed her, and they tried to apply their combined weight to slow it. Only to suddenly tumble and land in a heap as one of the mercenaries shot at the whip, severing it. The chopper flew off, taking with it the breeze that ruffled Dean’s striped locks.

  He planted his hands on his hips and stared.

  “Who were those brazen thugs?” asked his aunt.

  “Who dares attack the Pride?” asked another.

  A good question. What kind of idiot did that?

  It was Luna who announced it first with a grim expression. “I think someone just declared war.”

  Chapter Nine

  An hour later, pacing the lion’s king’s boardroom full of big, golden-haired folks, and one striped fellow, Natasha still couldn’t believe the brazen attack.

  “I want to know who sent them!” It was Arik, the Pride leader, who roared to cut through the din.

  “We’re working on it,” one of the few dark-haired women replied. Melly something or other. “So far, we’re coming up dry. The chopper had no markings, making it really hard to trace.”

  “You won’t find anything. They were covert ops,” was Neville’s contribution.

  “How do you figure that?” someone snapped.

  “Because not only were they well equipped, but they were also smart enough to leave no traces,” Natasha declared.

  “No one asked you.” An older woman, an aunt of Neville’s, said with a glare.

  “Why is she,”—a younger, blond lioness jerked her thumb at Natasha—“still here?”

  “She’s probably the reason those idiot humans attacked. She’s a Tigranov, after all.” Said by yet another aunt as if it were a dirty thing.

  “Watch how you speak about my wife,” Neville uttered in a low growl.

  Arik slammed an open palm on the massive table. “Natasha Tigranov is here because we owe her an apology for not protecting her while enjoying Pride hospitality. She also deserves our thanks for helping out. Not to mention, being married to Dean makes her one of ours now.” His glare around the room dared anyone to argue.

  “But she doesn’t want to be married to him.”

  “That’s just a misunderstan
ding, Aunt Kari,” Neville declared.

  “That, or she obviously lacks taste,” sniffed his Aunt Loretta, who’d sidled close before the meeting and whispered, “Always wanted a striped fur coat.”

  “If she doesn’t want to be hitched, I can fix that problem,” muttered Aunt Marni, drawing Neville’s angry glare.

  “For your information, Natasha and I have decided to give our marriage a proper chance. Which means, I’ll need to borrow a jet.”

  “Going on a honeymoon?” Aunt Kari said with a sarcastic roll of her eyes.

  “Honeymoon. Bachelorette. Meet the parents. Natasha and I have some catching up to do, which will, at the same time, hopefully force whoever is attacking us to follow, giving us a chance to decipher the motive behind it.”

  “Do you really think it’s wise to leave, given what’s happened?” The only sane one in the room, Kira, asked. Must be her human genes that made her reasonable.

  Neville shrugged. “If they are after me, then leaving here will remove the problem from the Pride.”

  “Attacking you is still attacking the Pride,” Arik reminded.

  “I’d rather it happen somewhere a little less likely to get someone hurt.”

  Luna snorted. “No one got hurt. They were shooting blanks.”

  Literally. At the time, they’d been too busy ducking to notice that the machine guns were armed with rubber bullets. Stingingly painful but not murderous by any means. She wondered if they regretted that choice, given she’d wounded them with the real thing.

  “The bomb at his house wasn’t a fake,” Natasha noted.

  “Who wants my nephew dead? I want a name!” Aunt Marni slammed her fist down.

  “We’re digging,” Melly grumbled. “But we need a clue. I think Dean’s idea of going off on his own is a good one. If he’s the target, it will draw them out, and if he keeps moving, they’ll have to act on the sly instead of having time to plan a proper ambush.”

  “Why attack at all if they’re not even going to use real bullets?” asked Arik. “And how are we going to stop this from happening again? I won’t have my people vulnerable to another attack.”

  “Working on it, boss,” Melly muttered. “Implementing an airspace warning for any unidentified aircraft that comes too close.”