by Jill Shalvis
normal rules didn’t apply. Might she see him differently?
If he analyzed his idea, he’d decide it was crazy and never do it. So, forget about being rational. He’d hustle upstairs and go online to arrange getting money transferred out of the trust fund he hadn’t touched since coming to Canada.
It had been a matter of principle: proving to himself that he wasn’t a spoiled rich kid and could make his own way in the world. But now, principles be damned. Train travel wasn’t cheap, and this was a chance to win the woman he loved.
Unrequited love was unhealthy. He’d break the good buddy limbo, stop being so fucking pathetic, and go after her.
But first, he had to set things up with Kat so she’d be totally surprised when he showed up on the train. “Yeah, okay.” He tried to sound casual. “I’ll be your token good guy. I’ll fly out for the wedding.”
“Oooeeee!!” She flung herself into his arms, a full-body tackle that caught him off guard and almost toppled them both. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She pressed quick little kisses all over his cheeks.
When what he longed for were soul-rocking, deep and dirty kisses, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue. Groin to groin.
Enough. He was fed up with her treating him this way. Fed up with himself for taking it. Things between them were damned well going to change.
He grabbed her head between both hands and held her steady, her mouth inches from his.
Her lips opened and he heard a soft gasp as she caught her breath. “Nav?” Was that a quiver in her voice?
Deliberately, he pressed his lips against hers. Soft, so soft her lips were, and warm. Though it took all his willpower, he drew away before she could decide how to respond. “You’re welcome,” he said casually, as if the kiss had been merely a “between friends” one.
All the same, he knew it had reminded her of the attraction between them.
She would be a tiny bit unsettled.
He had, in a subtle way, served notice.
Token good guy? Screw that.
He was going to be the sexy guy on the train.
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THE JAGUAR PRINCE,
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This wasn’t happening. Callie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re not real,” she repeated over and over until she could feel herself beginning to relax.
The naked hottie was only the last fragment of a delicious dream she’d been having. Right before she went to sleep, hadn’t she wished he would magically materialize in her bed?
She relaxed and smiled. It had been a great dream. The way he touched her, nuzzled her neck, pressed his naked body against hers. It had been one long sensuous dream. That was probably why she’d apparently gotten rid of her hot granny gown sometime during the night. Okay, now she was back to normal. No more fantasies that a hot sexy man was in her bed. The idea was ludicrous.
Deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. She was wide awake now. She opened her eyes.
He was still there, sitting on the end of her bed, staring at her with what appeared to be…amusement? He laughed at her! He was in her house, her bed, and he laughed at her!
Callie sat up, and the cover fell to her waist. His gaze dropped. She grabbed the sheet and pulled it against her chest. “Get out! Who are you? How did you get into my house? Where’s my gown?”
One eyebrow arched. “Are you always this emotionally unstable?”
“Emotionally…” she sputtered.
“Unstable,” he slowly and distinctly repeated.
“I am not emotionally unstable!” Oh God, she was arguing with the serial killer. She took another deep breath, then exhaled once more. She needed to stay calm. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the police.”
Oh, yeah, now he really looked nervous—not! He didn’t even flinch. Just sat there staring at her. And why wouldn’t he? He probably weighed around one-eighty. She would be no match for him.
Maybe if she kept him talking, he wouldn’t kill her right away. She’d once read somewhere that if you could befriend your abductor, then he would be less likely to kill you. Not that he’d abducted her, but he had apparently broken into her home. God, she hoped this worked.
“How…uh…did you find me?” Surely someone would’ve noticed a naked man following her car. For the first in her life, Callie wished her rattletrap car went faster.
She frowned. How had he followed her? Her car wasn’t that slow. He probably had his own car. He’d waited for her to leave, then followed.
So, he drove around naked. And no one noticed this?
“Does it matter how I came to be here?” he asked.
“I guess not.” If she knew where he came from, then maybe she could talk him into going back, though. “Where are you from?”
“New Symtaria.”
“Never heard of it. Is that a suburb of Dallas?” New ones were cropping up all the time.
“It’s in another galaxy.”
Alrighty. “Another planet?”
He nodded, still looking amused about something.
“And you are?”
“Prince Rogar.”
She nodded. Delusional. Probably escaped from the state hospital. This was worse than she ever could have imagined. Not only was he naked, but he was a nut. Automatically, her eyes strayed downward. She swallowed, then quickly jerked her gaze to a safer place. She had to stop looking…looking at him…down there. It wasn’t like she’d never seen a naked man before.
This was ridiculous. She needed help and all she could think about was staring at his…his nakedness. She had to call the police or something—911. Her cell phone was in her purse. From now on, she was keeping it on her bedside table. If there ever was a from-now-on in her future. Okay, keep him talking.
“And why are you here?” She smiled. At least she tried to pull it off as a smile, even though her stomach rumbled, her hands were sweating, and she was probably going to throw up any second.
“To take you home.”
She looked around “I am home, so…bye-bye.”
He grinned and she noticed his teeth were pearly white, and he had a nice smile. Ted Bundy probably had a nice smile, too.
“You’re part Symtarian,” he continued.
“Okayyy…” He thought she was from another planet, too. This was worse than she could’ve imagined.
“When our planet was dying, some of the people were sent to other places. An expedition went in search of a new planet to call home. Some of our people were forgotten, and became integrated with the aliens. Now we’re searching for them so we can bring them home.”
“And you’re doing it without clothes.”
“It happens when I shape-shift.”
“Well, of course, I should have guessed.” The guy was a raving lunatic. “And what form do you take?”
A fog began to roll across her bedroom. She glanced nervously around, then looked at her crazy guy. Her mouth dropped open as he slowly began to change.
The prince dude gritted his teeth and lowered his head. His skin changed from flesh to short black hair with visible spots. He stretched out across her bed, his hand curling into a fist, becoming a paw.
Oh, God, she was crazy. Now she would never get her chance to work with the big cats—except in her warped mind. It wasn’t fair.
The fog rolled in thicker until all Callie saw were patches of black fur, a glimpse of golden eyes boring into her. She couldn’t move. She tried, but her legs wouldn’t budge.
The fog slowly dissipated.
A black jaguar from last night lay across the end of her bed, panting slightly. It met her gaze, and seemed as though it was gauging her reaction.
She opened her mouth, then closed it when no words came out. The cat purred from deep in its throat. She swallowed past the lump in hers. What if the jag was real? Oh, yeah, now she felt better. She was going to die. Then again, she might already be dead and
this was hell.
Whatever it was, the jaguar was still stretched across the foot of her bed.
The room began to tilt, then grow dark, and she knew without a doubt, she was about to faint. She’d never fainted in her life.
And here’s a sneak peek at
UNDONE,
the historical romance anthology featuring Susan Johnson, Terri Brisbin, and Mary Wine.
Turn the page for a preview of Susan’s story, “As You Wish.”
Fortunately for the earl’s pressing schedule, the night was overcast. Not a hint of moonlight broke through to expose his athletic form as he scaled the old, fist-thick wisteria vines wrapped around the pillars of the terrace pergola. The house to which the pergola was attached was quiet, the ground floor dark save for the porter’s light in the entrance hall. Either the Belvoirs were out or already in bed. More likely the latter, with only a single flambeau outside the door.
He’d best take care.
Kit had described the position of Miss Belvoir’s bedchamber—hence Albion’s ascent of wisteria. Once he gained the roof joists of the Chinoiserie pergola, he would have access to the windows of the main floor corridor. From there he could make his way to the second-floor bedchambers, the easternmost that of Miss Belvoir. Where, according to Kit, she’d been cloistered for the last month, being polished by her stepmother into a state of refined elegance for her bow into society a few weeks hence.
Which refinements, in his estimation, only served to make every young lady into the same boring martinet without an original thought in her head or a jot of conversation worth listening to.
Hopefully, there wouldn’t be much conversation tonight. If he had his way there wouldn’t be any. He hoped as well that she wouldn’t prove stubborn, but should she, he’d stuff his handkerchief in her mouth to muffle her screams, tie her up if necessary, and carry her down the back stairs and out the servants’ entrance. It was more likely, though—with all due modesty—that his much-practiced charm would win the day.
Pulling himself over the fretwork balustrade embellishing the pergola, he stood for a moment balanced on a joist contemplating which window would best offer him ingress. His mind made up, he brushed himself off, navigated the vine-draped timbers, and reached the window. Taking a knife from his coat pocket, he snapped open the blade, slipped it under the lower sash, and pried it up enough to gain a fingerhold.
Moments later, he stood motionless in the dark corridor. The stairs were to the right, if Kit’s description was correct. After listening for a few moments and hearing nothing, he quietly made his way down the plush carpet and up the stairs. A single candle on a console table dimly illuminated the hallway onto which the bedrooms opened. Pausing to listen once again and distinguishing no undue sounds, he silently traversed the carpeted passageway to the last door on his right.
It shouldn’t be locked. Servants required access if the bell pull by the bed was rung. For a brief moment he stood utterly still, wondering what in blazes he was doing here, about to abduct some untried maid in order to seduce her. As if there weren’t women enough in London who would welcome him to their beds with open arms. Considerable brandy was to blame, he supposed, along with the rackety company of his friends who had too much idle time on their hands in which to conjure up wild wagers like this.
Bloody hell. He felt the complete absence of any desire to be where he was.
On the other hand, he decided with a short exhalation, he’d bet twenty thousand on this foolishness.
Now it was play or pay.
He reached for the latch, pressed down and quietly opened the door.
As he stepped over the threshold he was greeted by a ripple of scent and a cheerful female voice. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”
The hairs on the back of his neck rose.
His first thought was that he was unarmed.
His second was that it was a trap.
But when the same genial voice said, “Don’t worry, no one’s at home but me. Do come in and shut the door,” his pulse rate lessened and he scanned the candlelit interior for the source of the invitation.
“Miss Belvoir, I presume,” he murmured, taking note of a young woman with hair more gold than red standing across the room near the foot of the bed. She was quite beautiful. How nice. And if no one was home, nicer still. Shutting the door behind him, he offered her a graceful bow.
“A pleasant, good evening, Albion. Gossip preceded you.” He was breathtakingly handsome at close range. Now to convince him to take her away. “I have a proposition for you.”
He smiled. “A coincidence. I have one for you.” This was going to be easier than he thought. Then he saw her luggage. “You first,” he said guardedly.
“I understand you have twenty thousand to lose.”
“Or not.”
“Such arrogance, Albion. You forget the decision is mine.
“Not entirely,” he replied softly.
“Because you’ve done this before.”
“Not this. “But something enough like it to know.”
“I see,” she murmured. “But then I’m not inclined to be instantly infatuated with your handsome self or your prodigal repute. I have more important matters on my mind.”
“More than twenty thousand?” he asked with a small smile.
“I like to think so.”
He recognized the seriousness of her tone. “Then we must come to some agreement. What do you want?”
“To strike a bargain.”
“Consider me agreeable to most anything,” he smoothly replied.
“My luggage caused you certain apprehension, I noticed,” she said, amusement in her gaze. “Let me allay your fears. I have no plans to elope with you. Did you think I did?”
“The thought crossed my mind.” He wasn’t entirely sure yet that some trap wasn’t about to be sprung. She was the picture of innocence in white muslin—all the rage thanks to Marie Antoinette’s penchant for the faux rustic life.
“I understand that women stand in line for your amorous skills, but rest assured—you’re not my type. Licentiousness is your raison d’être, I hear: a very superficial existence, I should think.”
His brows rose. He’d wondered if she’d heard about Sally’s when she mentioned women standing in line. She also had the distinction of being the first woman to find him lacking. “You mistake my raison d’être. Perhaps if you knew me better you’d change your mind,” He suggested pleasantly.
“I very much doubt it,” she replied with equal amiability. “You’re quite beautiful, I’ll give you that, and I understand you’re unrivaled in the boudoir. But my interests, unlike yours, aren’t focused on sex. What I do need from you, however, is an escort to my aunt’s house in Edinburgh.”
“And for that my twenty thousand is won?” His voice was velvet soft.
“Such tact, my lord.”
“I can be blunt if you prefer.”