by Michele Hauf
She shook her head. If she agreed with him he’d know she’d been haunted by him as well, and she wasn’t ready to surrender all when she’d given up the tears and had shown her weakness.
“And the flames,” he whispered.
“Please, Ridge, don’t—”
“Always they dance around your body in my dreams. I hate that one. It’s a nightmare, not a dream. No man should treat a woman like that bastard did to you. I know he wanted you dead. You don’t have to tell me why. Doesn’t matter. You needed protection then. You need it now. You have it.”
“Thank you for making it so easy to ask for protection.” She looked aside and sighed. She owed him something for his forthright willingness to step up. And she needed to say it, to release it from the tight clutches of all that haunted her. “His name was Miles Easton and he was a fire witch like me. We’d dated for six months,” she said. “He insisted I marry him because we were two alike, and when I refused because I didn’t love him like he loved me, he went insane. He was a powerful witch.”
“The guy was an idiot.” He caressed her hair and held her so she felt the heavy pulse of his heart pounding against her breast. She liked the rhythm of him, solid, steady, deep. True. This man would never treat her so cruelly as Miles had. “I hope he’s gone. He hasn’t bothered you since?”
She shook her head. “Haven’t heard from him. Good riddance.”
And her heart sank, because, like it or not, she was forever attached to Miles. Wherever he was, she hoped he’d changed, or at the very least, had found a woman who loved him so he wouldn’t use his magic in the same cruel manner as he’d used it against her.
By rights, she should have reported him to the Witches’ Council for attempting to burn her alive, and they would have named him warlock and banished him from the Light, but the less contact she had with him, the better. And it had all been part of walking away from her past and looking toward a new future. Revenge and spite got a person nowhere. She knew that now.
“What are we going to do now?” she asked softly. “We don’t know if the River pack has the vampire.”
“Let’s go back to the Northern compound. It’s not far from here. I need a few hours’ rest and time to think. I’m also hungry something fierce. There’s a burger joint open late along the way. Mind if we stop?”
She nodded. “I could eat a little. We’ll both do better with some rest. And we need to stay together.”
“Yep. I gotta keep an eye on you and your twitchy finger.”
At least someone cared. And that struck her hard. He cared, when he had no reason to care. Truly, she did not deserve Ridge Addison’s concern, but again, she was thankful she had it.
* * *
“Does that hamburger have an egg layered in there?” Abigail asked as she sipped at an overlarge glass of iced tea.
Ridge turned the greasy burger toward her to display what he’d been treating like a prized possession for the past few minutes, as he’d lovingly caressed it and noshed away. “A fried egg. Crispy, thick, peppered bacon. Gooey cheese and crunchy onions. It’s the Sin City burger.”
“Seriously? You chose the Sin City burger?”
He chuckled and took another generous bite, obviously getting the implication to their lusty night in Vegas, but not caring. He tapped the paper tray of veggie fries she was picking at. “No burger?”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“No way. How long?”
“Since the early nineteenth century. I don’t have a taste for meat.”
“You haven’t tasted twenty-first-century fast food, sweetie.” He displayed the half-eaten burger to her as a game show hostess would the mystery prize in a box. “Admire the grease glistening with delicious, juicy flavors. Note how the cheese drips over the bacon in thick, oozy drops. And that egg screams for attention.”
“I may be immortal, but I fear that burger will put me in the grave faster than fire ever could.”
“Ah, come on.” He teased the burger before her. “I dare you.”
His teasing tone was welcome after a long night had gotten them no closer to results. With a forty-eight-hour deadline, they had time yet to find the vampire, and right now Abigail wanted to go home and sleep. But she did need to eat or she’d get a headache.
“Fine.” She leaned forward, waiting for him to offer her a bite. “Let it not be said Abigail Rowan would ever refuse a bold dare.”
“That’s my girl.”
She took a bite, tasting the smoky bacon and cheese and then the unique tang of egg. And somewhere in there the meat didn’t offend so much as she expected it to. The juice or grease, or whatever it was, slicked a savory path across her tongue. The mix of flavors was remarkable, and a satisfied noise hummed in her throat before she took another bite.
Ridge’s half smile pleased her. He was so attractive when he wasn’t frowning or putting on the serious face. Hell, even his serious face was attractive. There wasn’t a thing about the man she didn’t like. Much like this burger.
“I do believe I’ve turned you into a reformed vegetarian,” he said, taking another bite.
“That is the most amazing thing I’ve had in years,” she confessed, and grabbed his wrist to get another bite. “Who would have thought? An egg on a burger. And what is that savory taste?”
“One hundred percent beef, my lady. Welcome back to the sane world. Remind me to grill some Angus steaks for you some time. The special blend of spices I use will take you to heaven.”
“I don’t believe in heaven,” she said, leaning forward for another bite.
“I do. Not that I expect I’ll be granted entrance, but it’s nice to know there’s a reward for those who do good and live well.”
“And what of those who commit the greatest sin once a century to keep living?” she asked, unashamed of what she did to survive. The immortality ritual involved drinking the blood from a beating vampire’s heart—it wasn’t pretty.
“That’s between you and your god, sweetie.”
“Goddess,” she corrected. “And when did I become your sweetie?”
“The moment this hamburger hit my palate. A man can’t be angry eating this, can he?”
She waggled a fried carrot stick before him. “I’ll trade a semihealthy slice of veggie for another bite of sin.”
He snatched the carrot from her fingers with his teeth, and then held the burger for her to claim a big bite. Grease dribbled down her chin and she laughed as she swiped it away.
Ridge lifted a brow. “You’ve got some mustard on the corner of your mouth. If you’re not careful I’m going to lean over there and lick it off.”
Surprised at that bold statement, she put a finger to her lips but didn’t wipe away the mustard.
“Did I just say that?” His face noticeably flushed.
She nodded silently.
“So I did. And I meant it.”
He took another healthy bite, finishing off the burger, and Abigail couldn’t determine if his smile was from having consumed such a delightful meal or his unapologetic flirtations. If he had leaned in to get the mustard, she wasn’t sure what she would have done. But letting it happen sounded too good to pass up.
She swiped a napkin over her lips and took another sip of iced tea. The wolf finished off her veggie fries with intent focus, avoiding eye contact with her now.
He was a study in contrasts. From wild to soft, bold to subdued. And she had to wonder what made Ridge Addison tick. What was his motivation for being so good? And why was he so determined not to succumb to the depravities others of his breed fell to?
How had this hardened man become such a softy? And truly, was it softness, or a shy discomfort that masked his steely core?
She hoped he wasn’t steel through to the core, because she liked this quiet moment of flirtation. She’d not felt so comfortable with a man in a long time. She didn’t feel as if she owed him something for sharing her time with him, no expectations, no trade-offs. Yes, he was too nice.
Could he possibly be feeling the same about her?
“What?” he suddenly said. “Now do I have something on my face?”
She realized she’d been staring at his golden-brown eyes, wondering if they could ever see beyond her crimes against him and others and into her soul. She wanted to bare her soul to him, and that didn’t frighten her as much as it should.
She touched a napkin to the corner of his mouth, to fake wiping off something. “Got it.”
He winked at her, and then held out his hand for her to take. “Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 6
Ridge parked the pickup in his compound, slid out and rushed around to the passenger side. Abigail opened the door, but he helped her down the steps. She didn’t need the help, but a man never let a lady get out of the truck by herself.
She stood in the dark of the garage, lit only by the low strip lighting, and smiled at him. “Thank you.”
He brushed a thumb over her dirt-smudged cheek. His finger only smeared more dirt there. Where had he gotten dirty since the restaurant? Hell, maybe it was oil. The truck needed a good cleaning. “Sorry. I made a mess of your pretty skin.”
She clasped his hand and then tilted on her toes to lean in and kiss him. A morsel, really. Just a peck, their lips barely touching. In fact, she would have missed his mouth had he not turned in to her.
She smelled like coconuts, tea and tears. And the touch shivered through him on tiny wings that awakened every part of his being. It was as if he’d never been touched before, and his very soul wakened to grasp this moment and imprint it forever.
She pulled away with surprise, and touched her mouth as if he’d burned her. “You’ve always been the honorable one. It makes me wonder why you haven’t found a wife by now. Seems you’d be the hot catch among your breed.”
“Maybe I’m biding my time until the right one comes along.”
“Maybe. Are there others inside?”
“Jason lives here. We’ve only four remaining in the pack. Frank and Lowell live in the suburbs. The compound is sort of under construction right now. We’re making some changes to the structure and by summer hope to have a plan for the grounds. That’s when I hope to get the horse logging business going full force.”
“Horse logging? I did know something about you being a lumberjack.”
“We clear out diseased and dead trees from forests ecologically, using hand tools—and a chain saw until the new equipment arrives—and horses to move the trees about.”
“Sounds like a lot of hard labor.”
“It is, but I enjoy the work. Makes me feel like I’m contributing to the health of the planet. And it leaves the forest as pristine as before we arrived. You can’t argue that.”
“I guess not.”
“You can stay in the former princess’s room. She left it all girlie and bright like she is.”
Blu Masterson gave colorful a new definition. The werewolf princess always wore bright wigs and dressed to seduce, yet there were no promises in her careful tease.
Ridge preferred the dark flashes of blue glinting in Abigail’s hair. When lit by the lights outside the River pack’s warehouse, it had glowed like flame.
He winced at the image. He shouldn’t put flames and witches together in the same thought. Bad karma.
“It’s late,” he said, gesturing to the door. “Let’s get you settled. Probably won’t run into Jason until morning.”
He led Abigail inside, not turning on the lights because his night vision was extremely fine. She didn’t complain, though she did grab his hand, and he liked that she allowed him to lead now. He wished she had had the same consideration back at the compound when she’d felt magic the best defense.
He’d get over it.
He was already over it, because her hand in his warmed his chilled fingers and trickled heat into his dark and quiet heart.
“I think she left behind some clothing in the drawers,” he said, walking her into the bedroom lit through the window by a distant yard light. “Help yourself.”
“What time is it now?”
“Around two. Let’s take three or four hours to sleep, and reconvene before sunrise.”
“Sounds good, though I’m so keyed up I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep.”
“Your brain needs the rest, Abigail, so you can come up with a plan for finding the vampire. If you’ve got a sleeping spell or something, use it. Good night.”
He closed the door and wandered down the hallway to his room.
He should have gone for another kiss. Had she expected one? He’d not seen a hopeful look or a move closer.
Damn, he should have done it anyway. He was romantically inept, but then again, the kiss in the garage had been a reaction, he felt sure, not a play at romance.
He’d not claimed Masterson’s suite yet, and he wasn’t sure if he would. He didn’t need the ostentatious four rooms the former principal had used for a bedroom, office and private spa. He was a simple man with simple tastes.
He liked a plain home with big and sturdy furnishings that wouldn’t get stained by dirt from his clothes after a long day of work. Grilled meats and veggies for meals could keep him happy, unless there was a hamburger hot dish within smelling range. And hobbies like chopping wood, working on his truck and relaxing on the porch with a beer in hand in the summertime satisfied his rugged spirit.
He also liked to try new things once in a while, such as stepping out to a new nightclub (as long as the live band wasn’t ear-blastingly loud), brewing his own beer (that hadn’t been so successful), rappelling the fake mountains in the gym with friends (he’d never get tired of the adrenaline rush) and tasting new foods like sushi (he didn’t need to ever eat that again) and sweet desserts (cream cheese and walnut brownies, anyone?).
Too bad the taste of another sweet treat—Abigail Rowan—had been so fleeting.
Stripping down and leaving his clothes in a trail to the bathroom, he stepped into the shower under a hot stream of water and soaped up. One thing he could imagine indulging was a massage every once in a while. After he shifted, his muscles always felt tight. As if they’d snapped from werewolf shape to regular were shape a bit too tightly.
A hot towel awaited him in the warmer—one of the luxuries he had moved out of Masterson’s suite. Wrapping the toasty towel around his waist, he sat on the edge of his unmade bed and lay across the flannel sheets, stretching his arms high to tangle his fingers within the close-spaced iron rods fitted into the rustic cedar headboard. He breathed in the cedar tang.
Home. Here he felt most comfortable.
And yet, if this was home, why did he also hate it?
Because it wasn’t really home. Well, sure, he’d grown up at the compound. His life was here. The few friends he’d claimed had been here. But the idea of home should be accompanied by family, and that was something Ridge had always struggled to find.
Sure, the pack was his family, but he’d been orphaned before he’d turned one. He’d never known his parents, and had always wondered what his life would have been like had they lived to see him grow up. Would his father have been kind to him? Would his mother have had more children, giving him siblings?
He had only known the cruel love sparingly doled out by Amandus Masterson.
“Wasn’t love,” he whispered in the darkness. Love wasn’t supposed to hurt. Nor was it supposed to make him angry. But what he’d seen of it surely had made him very angry when he was younger.
He punched a pillow and it fell over his face. The blue pillow. The one that was the same color as her eyes.
When he’d left the compound this morning for the inner city, he’d only intended to get a signature on a piece of paper—and free himself to search for a wife and, perhaps finally, for the love he pined to have.
Now, he may have the entire River pack on his ass.
Fine bit of luck he managed to trip over every time he went near the witch. Was Abigail some kind of bad-karma magnet? She’d
mentioned something about her earth magic attracting magnetism, but he hadn’t followed her too well. Maybe it interacted poorly with him, as well?
Or did the two of them simply not mix? He’d wager a thousand fancy towel warmers she hadn’t damaged other men as she had him. Not that he hadn’t been deserving at the time. And hell, what was new about being treated poorly? Why should he expect any different from Abigail?
Then again, he had no idea how the witch treated her lovers. Maybe the wicked witch of the Midwest was a serial man mangler? Could be the reason why she was unattached. Then again, immortals who tended to live for centuries—which included most breeds—did not pair up for the very reason that having a mate for so long could prove tedious and boring. After three or four centuries with the same partner, one tended to get a little tired of the same face day in and out.
Ridge shook his head. He couldn’t imagine getting tired of someone he loved. While his breed generally lived about three centuries—he was only thirty-seven—he could entirely imagine spending those few centuries with a woman he loved, and never once wishing he had someone else.
He believed in love. He’d never had it. Close, but no real love. And perhaps that was why he subscribed to the fantasy of it.
“It’ll happen,” he murmured.
Finding the one was the trouble. No sane werewolf female would hook up with him if she found out he was damaged and couldn’t produce children. Been there, done that. The females were very aware their kind was as rare as valuable jewels, and they sought to increase their numbers by having a brood.
That left mortals or other paranormals for Ridge. While he had no animosity toward vampires, he was quite sure he didn’t want to get involved with any woman who needed to drink his blood to survive. And in turn, if she were to bite him, that would result in him developing a wicked hunger for blood.
No, thank you.
Faeries and werewolves had an interesting relationship. They tended to hook up for political reasons that saw the two breeds sharing entrance into their realms, for the sidhe kept Faery blocked from most in the paranormal realms. But the sidhe tended toward the delicate and proved no match for his lusty and oftentimes rough werewolf. It was his nature to mate fiercely and passionately. He couldn’t worry about a torn wing because he liked to press his women against the wall and wrap their legs about his hips.