KT shook her head, checked the hall one last time, then closed and locked the door. After tossing the envelopes in the basket on the hall table, she hung the hat on a coat peg. She started to set her backpack on the floor and froze as she remembered hitting Massey, the feel of the impact, the sound, and the fear. Forcing herself to complete the movement, she set her backpack on the floor and straightened, releasing the memory with a slow breath.
When she turned around, Massey lay on her living room rug, wrists and ankles trussed with plastic ties and mouth gagged with a white cloth. Bruises had already begun to darken on his face and one eye was swelling. The man knelt over Massey, searching the inside pockets of his coat.
“What are you looking for?” She walked into the living room and stopped behind the couch.
He ignored her question, as well as the blood that trickled from his split lip and the cut above his eye, and continued his search.
“Is he going to be okay?” She moved to lean over the back of the couch. “I hit him pretty hard.”
“He’ll be fine,” he said. “Ah hah.” He straightened and held up a capped syringe for her inspection.
KT backed away. “Shit!” Could that be what I smelled earlier?
“No, sedative.” The man popped off the cap, pushed down the back of Massey’s collar, and jabbed the needle into the exposed skin just below his hairline.
“Hey!” KT stepped forward, hand out to stop him. “What’re you doing?”
“What he was going to do to you.” He pushed the plunger down just a little before he pulled the needle free. He replaced the cap and straightened up again, tucking the syringe into a coat pocket. His dark gaze captured hers.
“We need to talk.”
Chapter Two
Peyton Allers struggled to contain his temper as he faced the “princess” of the Marant clan, AKA Katarina Teresa Marant. Because a high-blood princess had slipped her leash and made herself a target for the Collectors, his cover and his operation were blown. No simple “chip & tip” would do for this Collector’s Item, damn it!
Added to the inevitable hysterics and demands for protection, he’d be elbow deep in politics. God, he hated politics. Bowing and scraping while maneuvering to find the best location to stick in the knife.
Not with this one, his jag, Max asserted.
The princess stood behind the couch, hands on hips, a tiny crease between her eyebrows while she looked from Massey on the rug to him and back. No hysterics in sight, Peyton noted with relief. Points for restraint.
Alpha, said Max.
Princess, Peyton countered. Even they had their moments of intelligence, but he knew better than to expect more.
In the half-light coming through the apartment windows, he could see the thin rim of white around the edges of her eyes. However, her breathing had calmed and her attitude leaned more toward pissed than frightened.
“Who the hell are you and why should I trust you?” she demanded, pinning him with a belligerent stare.
With those rain-snarled ebony curls and eyes so dark they appeared black, she reminded him of a drenched and enraged kitten. The comparison helped bring his temper down, but only a little.
“Good questions, but a little late, don’t you think?” He gestured to Massey. “Besides, you trusted him. Trusted him enough to agree to go for a drink on what, a five-minute conversation?”
Max’s disapproval of Peyton’s unfair judgment did nothing to sweeten Peyton’s mood. Of course, she didn’t know about the pheromones Massey mixed into his aftershave, but any paranormal who let their hormones override their logic only set themselves up for trouble. Didn’t he know it!
She blinked, but didn’t back down. “That’s none of your business.”
Her rapid downshift from accusation to dismissal made Peyton’s hands itch to shake her. He settled for a sub-vocalized growl. “Since your poor judgment forced me to blow my cover, it’s very much my business, princess.”
Her eyes narrowed and her hands curled into fists against her hips. “So you keep saying.” She took a deep breath and released it. “Now, who are you?”
“Peyton Allers, Protectorate.” He slipped his hand into his coat pocket. He paused when she backed into the small desk behind her. Her fingers curled around the handle of the desk drawer—weapon, he guessed. Fat lot of good it did her in there.
He gave her a tight smile and put as much reassurance as he could into his voice. “Just getting out my ID.”
She nodded, her gaze almost a physical weight. “Okay.”
He eased his wallet out of his inside pocket, unfolded it, and dug out his Protectorate identification card. Bringing it had been a risk, but he’d figured the princess wouldn’t just accept his word. The elite seldom accepted anything without all the necessary documentation, usually in triplicate.
She let go of the drawer and reached over to twist the knob on the desk lamp. A golden glow filled the room as she leaned forward to look at the card. Her gaze flickered from the ID to his face and back. She straightened, her hand returning to the drawer handle. However, her fingers just rested against it instead of holding it.
“Okay. So, what were you doing outside my door?”
He shoved the card into his wallet, folded it shut, and stuffed it back into his coat pocket. He wiped his mouth and winced at the sting. When his fingers came away bloody, he took a firmer hold on his temper and kept his tone calm. “Listen, I’d be glad to answer your questions, but could I get a towel or something?”
Her expression hardened and she didn’t budge. “Did my father send you? I told him I could take care of myself.”
Peyton let his gaze drop to Massey’s unconscious form and then flick up to hers.
Her cheeks blazed scarlet, but she refused to back down. “Did he?”
He blew out a breath of frustration. He’d just saved her from a world of hurt and she wanted to argue about her father? Clueless, absolutely clueless.
Instead of grabbing her and shaking her until her teeth rattled, he crossed his arms, fists tucked under his elbows. He jerked his chin at the man lying on the rug between them.
“Just so you know, that dose should keep him down for a while, but not long enough for a game of fifty questions.” He looked around for a box of tissues or something. “Listen, can I at least get a paper towel?”
She shook her head. “As I see it, you lurked in the shadows outside of my apartment for God only knows what reason, attacked a human unprovoked, and then strong-armed your way into my home. Explain or I’m calling the police.”
He ground his teeth. “I guess the fact that I’ve saved you from being tranked and carted off to decorate some Collector’s private menagerie doesn’t mean anything?”
She gave a disbelieving lift of one shoulder. “That’s your story. You haven’t offered me anything substantial to support it.”
And there was proof positive she was Anton Marant’s daughter. As the Paranormal Alliance’s spokesperson, Anton Marant had a reputation—nothing got past him. She’d certainly inherited his no-nonsense stare.
Peyton weighed and discarded several options before he decided on the truth. Why not? This game was over, called on account of an extra player on the field. The thought made him angry all over again, but he swallowed it.
He’d find another way in. Another angle. He had to.
“Okay, have it your way.” Unable to stand still, he paced the length of the room and back as he talked. “I was with the Protectorate for ten years, then two years ago, one of my best friends, Lance Thompson, disappeared. He was found murdered down in Virginia.”
Peyton stopped, his back to her, and stared at the wall in front of him. Even after all this time, the memory remained an open wound. He drove the pain deep and pivoted to face the woman watching him.
He focused on her skeptical expression and tried not to remember his last images of his best friend. “Lance’s body was found in the Shenandoah National Park. He’d been beaten, starved, and
pushed to the limits.”
A softer emotion flickered across her face. “I remember that case.” Then her eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms. “Collectors.”
He nodded. “Collectors. The case was never solved. Officially, investigators couldn’t find enough evidence to satisfy the DA.”
The sound of knuckles popping caught him by surprise. Peyton forced his fists to uncurl. Even now, remembering the arguments over jurisdiction and probable cause, the outright stupidity of it, made him want to bash something. He walked back to her end of the room.
“Mr. Thompson, Lance’s father, had a stroke shortly after. Mrs. Thompson swears it was Lance’s death that brought it on. I promised them I’d find his killer and took leave from the Protectorate to find out what happened. I’ve been tracking leads and pursuing suspects ever since.”
He stopped there. He didn’t know how she’d react to the rest. If she was as smart as she seemed, she’d figure it out pretty quickly. She’d almost gotten there a few moments ago with that lurking comment.
To delay the inevitable, he tilted his head. “So, can I have that towel now? This is one of my favorite coats.”
She started to turn and then just gestured to the short hallway. “Bathroom’s down there, second door on the left.”
“Thanks.”
Peyton gave the unconscious Massey a quick glance before he walked around the end of the couch. She tracked him, keeping her body squared to his. He pretended not to notice and kept going.
In the tiny bathroom, Peyton inspected his face in the mirror. Busted lip, cut above his right eye, assorted bruises, and the beginnings of a nice shiner—nothing major. He pulled a rolled up hand towel from the basket under the pedestal sink and soaked it with cold water. He winced as he pressed it to the torn flesh. Massey had quite a right hook on him. He’d have to remember that.
He’d also never forget seeing KT Marant swing that laptop. For a split second, he thought she meant to hit him and then it connected with Massey’s head. Perfectly controlled, despite her probable panic and paranormal strength. She could have crushed Massey’s skull, but, based on Peyton’s basic examination, Massey’d only have a sizeable goose-egg, maybe a concussion. Quick thinking, nearly flawless execution, she’d been well trained. He winced as his tight smile pulled his split lip.
Blood circled the drain as Peyton rinsed the hand towel. His face began a serious protest so he flipped open the medicine cabinet. Helping himself to four aspirin, he sloshed some water into the faux marble cup, and downed them in one gulp.
He needed to get some ice on that black eye, so he carried the hand towel with him into the living room. Just short of the threshold, he paused.
KT had moved from behind the couch to a chair and sat staring down at Massey. From across the room, he could sense her growing agitation. His earlier concern about hysterics returned. She had held it together pretty well, but it looked like events were catching up with her.
Anticipating the worst, he shucked his coat and tossed it onto one of the hooks near the door. He noticed she’d also snagged his hat from the hall. Observant. Good. He started to go into the kitchen to get her a glass of water. Hell, he could use some himself, but then she slumped forward, elbows on knees, hands over her face.
He crossed the room in two steps, folding the hand towel as he went. Lifting the hair from the back of her neck with one hand, he pressed the towel to the exposed skin. The midnight-colored strands wrapped around his fingers as if they were alive and her scent, a light floral mixed with a hint of fur, rose from her skin. The tightening in his groin and the desire to run his fingers through those curls startled him.
Max rumbled in anticipation. Alpha female.
Peyton smashed that thought into oblivion.
Not happening.
Never happening again.
Chapter Three
The shock of damp cloth on her skin brought KT back from the brink of panic. Peyton’s voice, a smooth baritone with a touch of western burr, reverberated in her ears. “Breathe slowly. Deep breaths.”
She reached up to steady the cloth and her fingers brushed against his. Her senses jumped at the warmth of his skin, warmer than human, were-warm. His hand slipped away and she pressed the cloth against her neck, welcoming the cold.
What was wrong with her? She glared at the pattern in the rug beneath her shoes. She let a perfect stranger, a Collector, no less, get the drop on her. If Peyton Allers hadn’t been there, she’d be the one lying unconscious on that rug, or more likely on the floor of a Collector’s cage.
Maybe her father was right after all. Maybe she did need a bodyguard, a Protector. She’d lived her entire life under the weight of watchful eyes. The cost of being one of the few paranormal clans to live openly in the limelight was the constant state of vigilance. As she knew too well, being “other” often meant being a target.
She took a deep breath and blinked away a traitorous misting of tears. She was a Marant. She could not, would not succumb to panic or self-pity. She sat up and dragged the washcloth off her neck.
Peyton leaned against the wall, positioned where he could watch her and Massey, his light brown gaze steady under hooded eyelids. Dressed in a dark-grey button-down shirt, black jeans and black, round-toed working boots, no wonder he faded into the shadows outside her doorway.
Now, though, with his hair smoothed down and his arms crossed over his chest, muscles straining the fabric, he reminded her of a drill sergeant. The square jaw and uncompromising line of his mouth, marred though it was by the ragged tear, radiated a no-nonsense attitude that stiffened her back.
Alpha, Andi purred in the back of KT’s mind.
Arrogant, KT snapped back, though she had to admit that the man had been built for business. Those arms, that chest. She clenched her teeth and pushed that train off the track.
Irritated, she stood up and stalked to the window overlooking the street. Rain streaked the panes, warping the street scene outside into a runny abstract. Living in the tiny walk-up apartment had given her a hard-won, intoxicating sense of freedom. Now, suddenly, it felt terribly vulnerable.
A Collector had attacked her outside her own door.
Her thoughts reeled, and then stopped on a dime. A Collector? They always worked in pairs or more, owing to the superior strength of paranormals. She stopped just short of the window and spun to stare at Peyton.
“Do you think he has a partner out there?”
A muscle at one corner of his mouth might have moved, but he shook his head. “Not out there.”
Her pulse spiked again. What the hell did that mean? “Not out there?”
Peyton lowered his arms. “I’m his partner.”
“Shit!” Out the corner of her eye, KT judged the distance to the desk and sprang. She cleared the couch and grabbed at the handle of the drawer on her way to the floor. Her fingers never reached it.
Peyton’s hand clamped on her wrist, then pushed it and her down. She just managed to turn her head before she hit the floor with a grunt. Jagged light shot across her vision as her cheek smashed into the bare wood. Somehow, his knee ended up pressed between her shoulders while he pulled her arm around into an agonizing angle. She tried to push to her feet, but he had her pinned.
“Calm down and let me explain,” he said, his voice almost conversational. “I’d hate to have to break your arm, princess.”
“Quit calling me princess,” KT snarled, the coppery taste of blood in her mouth. Furious, Andi clawed against KT’s control.
Something pressed against the side of her neck and the sharp sting of a needle shattered the last of KT’s control. It had to be a salipen, an auto-injector for salison!
“Damn it!” She tried to buck him off her back while Andi leaped forward in her consciousness. The familiar burn of transformation ignited in KT’s chest—ignited and died.
Thanks to the salison, KT’d be unable to shift for hours, Andi’s consciousness sent into a sleep state. All paranormals carried a sal
ipen, nicknamed “Sally,” to keep from shifting if injured. She’d never thought of one being used against her.
KT’s feet scrabbled on the floor, wet rubber squeaking against the bare wood. “So that’s the plan, eh? Gain my confidence and then shoot me full of salison to keep me from shifting?”
“Right now, I’m just trying to keep you from doing something we’ll both regret.” Peyton sighed. “I told you already. I’m undercover, trying to infiltrate the Collectors. Or I was. Massey was my first real break. He’s connected. Highly connected. The Alliance has got a traitor somewhere inside. They’re hoping I can smoke him out.”
“Or maybe you’re the traitor!” KT tried to reach around to grab his knee with her free hand. Salison might keep KT in human form, but a lifetime of martial arts training ensured she did not to rely on her jag alone.
Peyton sat down on her back, hard, his knees to either side of her ribcage, flattening her against the floor.
“If I am the traitor, why aren’t you the one on that rug right now, huh?” Peyton’s reasonable tone grated on her nerves, but he had a point.
She refused to give him the satisfaction. “No, instead, I’m the one lying on the floor of my apartment with a 500 pound gorilla on my back.”
“Princess, I’m hurt. I don’t weigh over 225.” She heard the smile in Peyton’s voice and her palms itched to smack it right off his face. His chuckle only added insult to injury. “But, if you promise to be a good little girl, and not go for whatever you’ve got in that desk drawer, I’ll let you up.”
“K. T. I’m KT, not princess,” she grunted. He was pressing all the air out of her chest. Before she ran out completely, she gasped, “Okay, I promise. Now, get the hell off my back.”
He chuckled again. “Tut tut, such language, princess.”
Darkness fluttered at the edges of her vision. “Screw you. Now. Get. Off!”
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