Manhattan Dragon

by Genevieve Jack

“It’s a real date.”

  His lips were close, and he was big. Big hands, big shoulders. She was a tall woman and she was a dragon, had grown up with dragons. This close, she could tell he was big enough to pass as one, and his nearness sent her inner beast into a frenzy. Muscles deep within her clenched and her skin turned hot.

  “I mean, I want it to be a real date. Do you?”

  She parted her lips, the heat of his body a sharp contrast to the cool rain pattering against the umbrella and sheeting down around them. His eyes were equally stormy. For a second she was lost in the moment. “I… Yes, I want that too.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Prove this is a date.”

  “How, exactly, am I supposed to prove that to you?”

  His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Kiss me.”

  Now her dragon writhed, and heat bloomed between her legs. She could barely hold her wings in. Her nipples hardened against his chest. She wanted to kiss him. Wanted to taste him. She placed her hand against his cheek. Rough. Stubbled. Hard. “The kiss comes at the end of the date.” She giggled and spent far too long inspecting a dimple in his chin before climbing inside the vehicle.

  “Where to, ma’am?” Djorji asked.

  She glanced expectantly at Nick, who had folded the umbrella and slid in beside her. She had no idea where they were going.

  “Wicked Divine,” he said. “Do you need the address?”

  Djorji shook his head. He knew Wicked Divine. So did Rowan.

  “What?” Nick asked.

  Rowan gave him a sideways look. She was a dragon, an expert at keeping secrets. She’d remained completely impassive. So why was Nick studying her? “I didn’t say anything.”

  He leaned forward in his seat. “There’s something I should share with you, Rowan. It’s probably not fair for me to keep this from you.”

  “Oh? You have a secret?”

  “I’m not just a detective. I have a certain background… a set of specialized skills. As it so happens, I’m an expert at reading people.”

  “Uh-huh.” She arched an eyebrow. Too bad for him she wasn’t “people”—she wasn’t even human.

  “Your friend Harriet may read palms. I read body language. When you brushed your hands over your skirt, crossed your legs, and then decided to look out the window instead of asking me about Wicked Divine, I knew there was something you weren’t telling me. What do you know about this place that I don’t?”

  Fuck. She looked him directly in the eye and put on her sweetest smile. “I drank too much and became ill there a few years ago. It’s a bad memory.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Riiiight. Liar… liar… pants on fire,” he drawled. “How about you try again. What else do you know about Wicked Divine?”

  “You’re really good at this.”

  “The best. Government certified. Better than a polygraph.”

  Rowan rubbed her hands together nervously. What could she tell him? He wasn’t ready to learn the truth. As a human, he might never be ready.

  “Okay. You’re right. I’m not crazy about sharing this, but I used to date the owner, Michael Verinetti.” Absolutely true. Nick didn’t need to know the guy was a shape-shifter and the head of the largest shifter pack in the Northeast. Michael could be a powerful ally in the hunt for information about NAVAK, or a powerful enemy if he was still pained about their breakup. She’d been the one to end things, and she’d been careful to stay out of the places he frequented since.

  Thank the Mountain it seemed to be enough of an explanation for Nick. “Things still awkward between you?”

  “Shouldn’t be. It’s been a number of years since I’ve seen him.”

  “I’ve never been so happy to be carrying a gun.” He flashed her a crooked grin that made the scar on his lip more pronounced.

  “We probably won’t run into him. Unless something has changed dramatically, he’s usually too busy managing things behind the scenes to notice what’s going on at the front of the house.”

  Nick leaned back against the leather seat, his gaze sweeping over her. “If all goes as planned, we’ll find what we’re looking for quickly and be out of there before he has a chance.”

  Rowan nodded, but inside, her stomach clenched. Nick didn’t know it yet, but they’d soon be arriving at a known supernatural hotbed, and the detective was likely in more danger than he realized.

  Chapter Ten

  Good God, the woman was beautiful. A beautiful puzzle full of secrets. She’d lied to him, twice now. He wanted to believe she’d had good reasons, but he was also wary. It didn’t make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside to think they’d arrived at a club owned by her ex-boyfriend, a club linked to the logo that was on his murder victim, who was found behind her community center. Coincidence? He didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Wicked Divine was one of those high-end places in prime real estate. Anyone who owned property here wasn’t just loaded, they had connections. Michael Verinetti wasn’t someone he wanted to deal with tonight. And he wasn’t fooling himself—there was no way they wouldn’t run into the guy. Rowan exuded sexual energy in that red dress and heels. Every man within a fifty-yard radius was going to notice her. Word would get back to Verinetti.

  Nick helped Rowan out of the car and led her toward the club, distracted by the bare skin of her back under his fingertips. Fuck, he needed to concentrate. He had work to do. A girl was dead and he needed to find Soren’s lead, the one with the same tattoo, and investigate if it had anything to do with her murder. That meant he had to resist his desire to not take his eyes or hands off Rowan. A tall order considering every cell in his body was cheering for him to pursue her relentlessly. His libido was on the megaphone and his hormones had formed a pyramid. He was trying to keep his dick from raising the flag.

  “Nick, over here.” Soren waved to him from across the parking lot, then did a double take when he saw Rowan. Nick watched his jaw drop in a way that would be comical if it wasn’t so embarrassingly obvious.

  “Everything okay?” Nick asked, fixing Soren with a deadly stare. “You have a little drool there.”

  “No. Uh, who’s your friend?”

  “Soren, this is Rowan. She’s the owner of Sunrise House.” He raised his eyebrow. Soren immediately connected the dots and didn’t push it any further.

  “Well, all right.” He gestured toward the bouncer. “After you.”

  This was the hard part, getting in without alerting everyone to the fact he was a cop. He took Rowan’s arm and led her to the front of the line where a bald and heavily tattooed bouncer gave him a puzzled look.

  “The end of the line’s back there, buddy.” The man gestured with his head, then pointed toward Rowan. “She can go in, but you’re gonna have to wait.”

  “We’re on the VIP list,” he said. At least he hoped they were. He’d had an analyst in the department working on pulling a few strings all day.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Grandstaff.”

  The man scrolled through a few screens on his tablet, barely looking at the names. “No one on my list by that name.”

  He glanced back at Soren, who stepped forward and said, “Try Averdale.”

  The man scanned Soren from head to toe. He never even looked at his tablet. “Not on the list.”

  Nick glanced back at the line. They might be able to interview some of the people who were waiting, but—

  “Check again,” Rowan said. When had she moved her hand to the man’s wrist? And holy shit, that was one hell of a ruby on her finger. It almost seemed to pulse as it glinted in the moonlight. “Try Valor.”

  The bouncer looked her in the eye, and Nick saw something strange pass through his expression, a subtle widening of the eyes and flaring of the nostrils. Recognition and fear. He was desperately trying to hide it.

  “Of course, Ms. Valor.” He reached for the rope and unclipped it, letting them through. “Have a good time.”

 
The bouncer hooked the rope behind them and Nick followed her to the door, trying his best to keep his dangling jaw from wagging in her wake. A hostess opened the door for her and the music swallowed them, a pulsing throb that he could feel on his skin and was accompanied by coordinated dancing lights. He had to lean in so she could hear him.

  “There is no way that guy isn’t going to tell his boss you’re here,” he said into her ear.

  She smiled and leaned in to answer him, her warm breath hitting the shell of his ear in a way that made his cock twitch. “It couldn’t be avoided. Did you see that line? We weren’t getting in without help. We need to hurry though. As much as I’d like to believe there’s no bad blood between us, I’m not sure how Michael will react to me being here. Like I said, we haven’t seen each other in years.”

  If Nick didn’t know better, he would have thought he’d come down with an instant case of heartburn, but the ache in his chest had nothing to do with his digestion. He suddenly had an urge to punch Michael Verinetti in the solar plexus, which made absolutely no sense and was completely not like him. He cracked his neck and tried to get his head in the game.

  “Let’s split up,” he said to Soren, who had edged to his side. “Try to find your friend or anyone else with the tattoo. Text if you find anything.”

  Soren nodded once and disappeared into the crowd. Nick hooked his hand around Rowan’s upper arm.

  “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Anything or anyone with that logo I showed you.”

  “Would it be more effective for us to divide and conquer? I could ask around. We might be able to cover more people.”

  He shook his head slowly. No way did he want her more than an arm’s reach way from him. Not in this crowd. Not in that dress.

  “It’s better if we stay together. Look like a couple. Blend in.”

  She seemed to agree because she threaded her fingers into his and held his hand. As they entered the crowd, Nick tried to concentrate on scanning the arms and wrists around him for the symbol, but it was hard to think of anything but the feel of her hand in his. He forced himself to focus. Nothing unusual. Expensive suits. More jewelry than he’d ever seen in one place in his life. Botox-tightened skin. Shiny, color-treated hair. Perfectly straight smiles.

  Rowan stopped at the edge of the dance floor. “Nothing.”

  “Me either.”

  She tipped her head toward the bar, where it took exactly five seconds for the bartender, who looked like he needed surgery to remove the giant chip on his shoulder, to notice Rowan. The guy was an Irish caricature with shocking red hair, freckled skin, and a scrappy physique. Nick could already tell he was going to be a pain in the ass.

  “That’s Connor. He sees everything,” she said. “Whether he’ll share it with you or not is a different story.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that.”

  They sidled up to the bar where Connor served the person he was waiting on, then made a beeline to where they’d pulled up a stool.

  “Rowan. There’s a face I never thought I’d see in here again,” Connor said. “Can I mix you my special Irish jig martini? It’s Irish cream, vanilla vodka, and a bit of Irish luck to either knock you on your arse or have you knocking him on his. Whatever suits you.”

  “No, thanks, Connor,” Rowan said. “It sounds delicious, but unfortunately, I’m not drinking tonight. I’m here on business and I need a favor.”

  Nick felt her gentle nudge at his elbow, and he produced the pictures he had brought with him. The first was Allison Sumner’s high school senior portrait and the second was of the symbol tattooed on her wrist.

  “Have you seen this girl?” He started with the portrait.

  Connor glanced down at the photo. “No.”

  He caught Rowan frowning at the picture and quickly slipped it back inside his jacket.

  “Are you sure? She sometimes went by the name Allison.”

  “So many girls come in here. I don’t remember every face.”

  Nick analyzed Connor’s body language. He was telling the truth.

  “What about this?” He slid the picture of the tattoo across the bar between Connor’s hands. “She had this tattoo on her wrist. You ever see this tattoo before?”

  Connor went absolutely still. Gotcha.

  “No. Sorry.” Connor’s eyes shifted away toward the woman three stools down who was motioning for his attention. “I need to get back to work.”

  That wouldn’t do. Nick reached across the bar and grabbed Connor’s hand before he could go anywhere, twisting and bending his little finger toward his wrist. It was a little trick of the trade. Uncomfortable. Got their attention. “I have a few more questions.”

  Connor froze and slowly looked down at Nick’s grip on his hand and wrist. His free hand balled into a fist. “Rowan, tell your guest to unhand me or I’ll pretty up his mug with a bit of black and blue and a few more scars for his collection.”

  Locked in eye-to-eye combat, Nick prepared himself for whatever Connor could dish out. He didn’t want to fight the guy, but he needed answers. “You’re lying about the tattoo. Tell me what you know.”

  Rowan’s manicured hand landed on Nick’s, and all his aggression seemed to drain out at her touch. “Let him go, Nick. Connor is a friend. This isn’t how we treat friends here.”

  Ah, hell. He didn’t want to burn any bridges with her informant. He released his grip and watched Connor stretch his fingers and massage his wrist.

  “Connor?” Rowan moved closer to the bar. “This is important.”

  Connor shook his head. “Don’t get involved in this, Rowan. Trust me on this one. Drop it. I don’t know nothing about the girl.”

  “But you’ve seen the tattoo,” Nick said, catching the nuance in the man’s voice.

  Rowan squeezed his upper arm and said, “Nick, come on. Dance with me. Connor has things to do.”

  Nick scowled at the bartender, who vamoosed without another word. He swept the picture off the bar and stashed it in the interior pocket of his jacket with the other one. Rowan led him to the dance floor and slipped her arms around his neck. Thank God for slow songs.

  “You know he was lying, right?” he whispered in her ear.

  “If Connor’s lying to me about something, it’s because he has to. It must have something to do with Verinetti.”

  “Tell me the truth. Did things between you and Verinetti end badly?”

  “No, just sooner than he would have preferred. He still occasionally buys art from Zelda’s Folly, but Harriet handles those transactions.”

  “So if Mr. Art Aficionado had a secret that Connor was keeping for him, who in his inner circle would be most likely to crack?” He’d like to crack someone right now. Anything to finish up here and get to the good stuff with this woman in his arms.

  She tilted her face up at his, and he had a moment to take in her softly curved nose, smooth olive skin, and amber eyes. “I think the first thing we should do is visit the VIP room.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Nick was going to be a problem. Rowan hadn’t felt her inner dragon roil inside her like that in a long time. Dancing in his arms, his sandalwood-and-spice scent surrounding her, it was all she could do to keep her mating trill from rumbling in his ear. What was wrong with her? This man could ruin her, and she’d do well to remember that.

  Had he picked up on the supernatural energy in Wicked Divine? Or did the tattoo of a wolf howling in front of the moon on the bouncer’s neck seem like any other tattoo? Connor’s red hair and green eyes revealed more than an Irish ethnicity; he was a leprechaun and a magical slave to Verinetti, who held his pot of gold in a vault under this place. He couldn’t have told Nick anything even if he’d wanted to. Which meant Michael was hiding something, something about NAVAK.

  No, she didn’t think Nick had noticed anything strange about the place at all. Although Rowan was rather fascinated by the human’s speed and agility. One did not easily snatch the wrist o
f an adult leprechaun. Odder still, Connor hadn’t immediately responded with a blow, which was curious indeed. The leprechaun was an infamous hothead. Which meant something about Nick that had given him pause. Rowan saw it too. Nick was imposing for a human.

  The scent of shifters grew stronger as Rowan led Nick up the stairs toward the VIP lounge. The upstairs bouncer recognized her immediately and let her through. She couldn’t remember his name, but knew he was a shifter whose animal of choice was a tiger. He winked one yellow eye at her as she passed by.

  Unlike the dance floor, which was mostly populated by humans, the VIP lounge was brimming with the most important members of the Manhattan supernatural community. She noticed Eva Hart right away. Her latest single was rising up the charts like it was strapped to a turbo booster. What it was actually strapped to was an ohrwurm spell. Eva was a powerful witch, and if you heard one of her songs, you never forgot it.

  As Rowan moved deeper into the dim room filled with leather couches, she saw Travellers like Harriet; a slew of werewolves; a handful of fairies, none of whom she’d ever seen before; and a gnome who was a popular fashion designer. Just like the rest of New York, Wicked Divine was a tossed salad of diverse supernatural beings, drawn here by the promise of liberty, the vast natural resources, and the cloak of human weirdness that made it easy for them to blend in and disguise their true nature.

  Only one supernatural group wouldn’t dare set foot in Wicked Divine: vampires. Vampires and shifters did not, historically speaking, get along. Even from her earliest memories in Paragon, her family’s political connections with Nochtbend, the vampire kingdom, were tentative at best. Two different worlds, the same challenges. Luckily, Manhattan had always been a shifter territory. The New Amsterdam pack had been the preeminent supernatural rule in Manhattan for hundreds of years. For all intents and purposes, Verinetti was king. Not of her, of course. She’d been around long enough to secure her independence from the pack and stake her claim as an equal, but still, her past relationship with Verinetti had elevated her power and influence in Manhattan.