by Leo, Rosanna
It helped. A little bit.
She didn’t feel the need to maul passing men in the hallways anymore, but her lynx prowled inside her, still restless. It threatened her regularly. It sought … something different. Sought it everywhere.
Which was why Marci had embarked on a campaign to silence the animal. As much as it hurt to ignore her primal instinct to seek out a mate, she slapped a lid on her bothersome lynx. Every time the animal so much as cracked open its eyes, Marci forced it into a virtual corner of her being. So far, in public, her scheme was working.
But in private…
Now that she hid behind closed doors, the fever set in, rampaging through her like a bloody horseman of the apocalypse. Her lynx reared its lascivious head and let out a cry of sexual frustration.
“Feed me!” it screamed.
She might think she had the animal under control, but during those quiet, vulnerable moments, the beast attacked her again and again, demanding she listen. Demanding she provide the man it so obviously craved.
“I don’t know who you want,” Marci spat in disgust. “Leave me alone!”
The great cat banged against her insides, clamoring for attention and satiation. Swallowing past the thick walls of her throat, Marci dashed into her bedroom and threw the walkie-talkie to the carpeted floor. She collapsed onto her bed. Kicking off her skirt, she ripped a hole in the crotch of her pantyhose and shoved aside the elastic of her panties.
With a frenzied cry, Marci slid her fingers between her sore, swollen lips and rubbed herself to orgasm to the sounds of her lynx moaning. As the animal in her howled, presenting its ass to some invisible partner, Marci bit down on her bottom lip and stifled a primal shout. Even after coming, her orgasm a mere shadow of the one building in her system, she felt no relief. Her lynx wasn’t satisfied and wouldn’t stop crying.
It wanted more. It wanted a man.
Well, it would have to wait. She had a job to do.
Marci sat up and wiped at her clammy face, and then supported her pounding head. She stared at her ripped hose, frowned, and let out a long sigh.
She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up.
* * * *
Anton Gaspar disembarked from the Gemini Island ferryboat. Before doing anything else, he touched his fingers to his brow, chest, left and right shoulder in sequence, in the sign of the cross.
Old habits die hard.
Sighing, he tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder, and then clutched the two large suitcases that contained the most essential of his worldly belongings. A few outfits, his fencings foils, some toiletries, and his Bible were all he needed. As the ferry made ready to pull away, he stole a moment and took in the surroundings of his new home and work.
Gemini Island, Ontario, such a long way from Budapest, jarred him in its differences. In this tree-covered place, he could spy no majestic historic buildings nor delicate bridges. No statues to dead royals, ornamented in bird excrement. No fountains and picturesque roads.
Perfect. He breathed long and deep, and the brisk autumn air found a home in his lungs.
He made a few other quick comparisons between the island and the seat of his family’s power. There was no corruption here; he could smell its absence. Unlike home, Gemini Island seemed free from the stench of long-dried blood and betrayal. In this more innocent place, he would not always have to constantly swallow the acid tang of violence as it clung to every wall and every person.
God help him, he’d make sure it stayed that way. He needed to know places like this existed in the world.
He flexed his Siberian tiger muscles and began the walk to the Ursa Lodge, ready to begin. No looking back.
Szabadság. Freedom reigned here.
If only he could free himself from the vile clutches of his memories.
As he marched along the well-marked path to the lodge, a hundred reminiscences replayed in Anton’s mind like a ridiculous film reel of shame. Thirty years spent in the bosom of a family who didn’t think twice of betraying their own kind. Almost thirty years as the older brother to a man who valued status and power more than family and love. Thirty years as son to a bloodthirsty dictator.
Thirty years too long. He should have done this a sad decade ago.
Never mind. His nightmares would have chased him wherever he went. Even now, he could not erase the horrible imagery from his mind. The clouded visions of him locked in a cage with his brothers, taunted by their sham of a father. The same hateful pictures had tortured him from youth, making him crave retribution. At least here, away from Budapest, he would be out of temptation’s grasp.
Vengeance ran in his blood, but he would not be a slave to the same base desires that claimed his family. He needed to begin again, to rise from the ashes of deceit.
He thought he’d found his perfect refuge when he took up residence at the Pannonhalma Monastery near Gyor. For a while, the Benedictine Abbey had been the perfect escape. Silence and peace and simplicity had been the new themes in Anton’s life. Brother Ferenc had taught him the benefits of meditation, of treating one’s body like a temple, and he’d thrived.
It hadn’t been long before the vivid nightmares found him there too. He’d known at that point he needed to get away from his beloved Hungary altogether. As long as he remained in his homeland, there would always be a chance he’d succumb to the evil in his genes. Tigers like him had trouble controlling their urges, fashioned as they were for hunting prey. And his tiger had been on the hunt for some time, eager for payback, for fresh blood.
For that reason, he couldn’t trust himself at home. He wanted nothing more to do with the Gaspar clan, couldn’t stomach being in the midst of their vile machinations. His only hope at living a normal life was to create a new one, despite how much he wanted to clean up after his father and lead his tribe into a safe and happy future.
When he’d heard of Ryland Snow’s unusual resort through shifter acquaintances, something in him snapped into place. He’d known instinctively the Ursa Lodge was where he needed to reinvent himself. His subsequent conversations with Snow confirmed his suspicions. The man owned a lodge for shifters, a place where they could be free to be themselves, unafraid of retribution or prying human eyes. A place where he mentored young shifters and taught them how to be proud of their unique talents.
No one had ever taught him these things.
He longed to be part of this positive environment, away from the sham court created by his father and one sycophant brother Istvan. No more infighting. No more terror. Just freedom.
He would miss Gabi, his other brother, but sacrifices must be made for sanity.
Casting an appraising eye around the property as he approached it, Anton noticed a few teenage shifter males flirting with a group of girls. He would be spending his days helping teens adjust to their unique talents and gifts. Proud to do it, frankly he couldn’t wait to start work. Mulling over a few ideas for icebreakers, he marched toward the front door. The sliding doors swung open for him and he walked in, head high.
Immediately, the fragrance hit him, activating his Jacobson’s organ. He swallowed, tasting it on his tongue and at the back of his throat, and wondered if he was mistaken.
No, how could he mistake the unique scent of a female cat in heat? It was too delicious a scent to forget. Sweetness coated his taste buds, winding a delirious path down his throat. As his head swam, he blinked and tried to clear his thoughts of the sexual imagery racing through it.
The scent did not belong to another tiger shifter, but some other type of predatory cat. One whose perfume he hadn’t sampled before. One who must be particular to this region. Cougar? No. Mountain lion? Surely not.
Whatever she was, her scent teased him with its delicious flavor.
Don’t, he warned himself. Wasn’t it enough that he spent the last few years of his existence trying to escape the sick wiles of the grasping women at court? And God only knew how hard he’d worked to maintain a state of abstinence at Pannonha
lma, devoting his life to meditation. He’d come here to work, not lose himself in a sweet piece of…
Stop it. This was no time to think of pussy, even though he’d never been more desperate for a taste of creaming woman.
His tiger howled inside him, hungry for that which it had been denied for almost two years.
Still the perfume, more intoxicating than any he’d known, wafted toward him. He wanted to close his eyes and drink it in. The unyielding power of the aroma could make him forget his vows. Granted, he wasn’t really a monk, but he had followed the monastic lifestyle from day one at Pannonhalma. The purity in the monk’s life had been the very thing he’d required to get his life back on track.
So why did he want to find the source of the scent and fuck her until she begged alternately for mercy and for more? Her need seemed strong. Whoever this lady cat was, she must be in dire agony for her scent to be so powerful.
None of his business.
Mentally caging the growling tiger inside him, he shook his head and approached the front desk. He dropped his luggage and cleared his throat at the woman working there. Her head had been down as she read some reports, but she looked up now.
“Welcome to the Ursa…” Her jaw fell open and her sentence hung in the air, unfinished and clearly forgotten.
Well, well. A beautiful little lynx.
The scent of desire emanated from her. Only now, it flourished under his gaze, increasing tenfold, if such a thing could be measured. Tendrils of teasing perfume waved around her body, blending into the golden brown highlights in her hair and winding their way around her hips and breasts. Exuding from her pores and sinking straight into his. Delicious, sensual saturation.
Anton’s heart raced and his tiger spotted its new prey. The animal licked its lips.
The man sheltering the beast fought to stand upright. He clenched his fist around his duffel bag handle.
They said nothing for a moment, just stared at each other. Anyone watching them must think them simple. The lynx, a totally touchable woman, stood about 5’7” with rounded curves meant for caressing. The bright sheen in her golden brown eyes allowed a glimpse at the hungry cat within; he could almost see the lynx, with its tufted ears and soft gray fur, sniffing at him. She’d pinned up her sorrel brown hair in a professional chignon, but as she stared at him, a few strands came loose. They seemed to beg his fingers to wrap around them to see if they were truly as soft as they appeared. Perspiration broke out on her skin, ornamenting her upper lip and brow, and he could taste her heat even from across the reception desk. It made him want to seek out the other hot spots on her body. To lick at the moisture gathering under her plump breasts, to nuzzle under her arms, to feast on the heat between her legs.
He wanted to make her hotter.
Anton, stop this madness!
He searched his brain for the name of the person Ryland gave him. He blinked and stood up like the aristocrat he was raised to be. “I am Anton Gaspar of the house…” He caught himself in time, almost saying he was of the house Árpád. He no longer had a house. “Please bring me to Marc Lennox.”
The lynx woman gawked at his lips as he spoke. He clenched them and something in her face clenched as well. “Um, it’s Marci Lennox. I’m Marci Lennox.”
With such a heat to plague her, it was astounding she recalled her own name. He narrowed his eyes at her. He then pulled out his cell phone and scrolled quickly through Ryland’s latest texts, looking for the name. “That is impossible. Mr. Snow told me to ask for Marc, the man in charge.”
The warm golden tones in her eyes scintillated with sudden harshness. “It’s Marci, and I’m the woman in charge.”
In spite of himself, he sniffed in disdain. In no way could this woman be trusted to run a resort. Her heat, so distracting, would prevent her from getting any work done at all. He’d known female cats in heat before. They could barely recall the instructions for boiling water when under the influence of their sex-crazed spirit animals. Better she run along home and find a nice little lynx boy to satisfy her.
At home, he answered to kings. No chance of calling this frustrated girl “boss.”
Besides, he couldn’t report to a woman, certainly not one who looked and smelled like this. Not if he was to remain celibate and stay sane.
She cocked her head. “Is there a problem, Mr. Gaspar?”
He was about to remind her to use his title, but bit his lip. You’re not in Hungary, remember? These people were not of his tribe, and here, he wasn’t anyone special. He’d better get used to it. And soon. Still, his tiger made an appearance and compelled him to play with her. Its voice rumbled into his throat, taking over his vocal cords. “You tell me, little girl.”
Her pretty face reddened, making her cheeks appear as bright as the apples in his father’s orchard in September. “I must be hearing things. Did you just call me little girl?”
He dropped his bags and leaned on the counter between them, inhaling the scent that was close to making him forget himself. Ah, hell, he had already forgotten himself. “Come now, Ms. Lennox. I’m sure Mr. Snow wouldn’t want you wasting anyone’s time. Who’s really in charge here?”
“I am.”
“You don’t look … old enough to run a resort.”
Her lynx eyes flashed again. “For your information, I am old enough. I’ve been working at this resort since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Mr. Snow trusts me to do the job … and why am I explaining myself to you anyway?”
Enough fun, Anton. Don’t make the girl mad. She’s already beside herself with the need to fuck.
Like you are, his petulant tiger retorted. He blinked and warned the animal away.
“My apologies. I am suspicious by nature. I was raised that way.” He tried to smile, but was worried if he showed his teeth, he’d swallow her scrumptious perfume and eat her to orgasm right there. “I’ve never had a young woman for a supervisor, but I’m sure we can be friends, cicuskám.”
“What does that mean?”
He allowed one side of his mouth to curl up in a half grin, enjoying her flustered sputtering more than he’d enjoyed anything in a long time. Certainly more than he enjoyed matins or tranquil walks in the cloister. “Nothing special.” It wouldn’t do to tell the new boss he’d called her my kitten. Not that she was his. He wasn’t in the market for a lady lynx. He could hear his brother Gabi now. “A lynx, Anton? You are a tiger, a prince among shifters. Stop slumming it.”
God love Gabi. He might be his favorite brother, but he was an incurable snob. As for Istvan, well, Anton tried never to listen to anything his youngest brother said. Istvan wouldn’t have advice on courtship. He didn’t court his women; he beat them into submission.
Dismissing painful memories, Anton eyed Marci. “Very well then, boss. Show me where to begin.”
She walked around the reception desk, her disconcerting gaze trained on him the whole time, as if worried he might pounce. Or was she worried she might? Anton wasn’t sure, but had a feeling he was going to like toying with the nervous kitten too much for his own peace of mind.
Damn. Maybe he should never have left the monastery.
Chapter 2
Heat.
As a terrible, intimidating heat scorched her core and wound its way through her bloodstream, Marci wiped at her moist upper lip.
She tried to ignore the tiger at her back as she led him to his new cabin, but it was like being a snake charmer trying to ignore a poised serpent. She just couldn’t let her guard down.
As the savage streak of fire tore through her body, her Canada lynx’s keening cry rang in her ears. It pounded on Marci’s stomach, clawing at her, even biting her sensitive insides. Him. Him. I want him!
Tucking a tendril of hair behind her ears with a shaking hand, she struggled to maintain the decorum of a businesswoman, and not of a flesh-hungry animal. What was wrong with her? She’d forced her lynx to behave, but the animal was crying as if in pain. And its plaintive howls were directed at him.
Anton Gaspar. The stranger with the brusque manners, ones that bordered on the misogynistic.
Him? I don’t think so, fur ball. Get back in your cage.
Why would the lynx assault her over this guy? Sure, he had nice looks. No. She mentally corrected herself. Nice looks did not describe Anton Gaspar. She couldn’t even describe him as handsome.
In her books, dangerous men did not earn the label “handsome.”
The tiger shifter towered over her, almost knocking his head on a couple of lower door frames. He had to stand 6’5”. Marci wasn’t tiny but felt small next to his girth. She had trouble dragging her gaze away from his black hair, cropped so close to his head, and found herself already dreaming of traipsing her fingers over the short hairs near his ears. Clear, green eyes penetrated hers every time she dared to dart a quick glance in his direction. Somehow, he seemed to see everything, making her want to writhe in discomfort. He looked like a bruiser with his enormous muscles and broken nose. His cargo pants and long-sleeved T wouldn’t restrict him in a fight, but still managed to cling to each plane of brawn on his body. And the black wardrobe only emphasized the aura of coiled danger around him. As he walked, he clenched his fists a lot and leaned forward a little, as if on the hunt.
A tiger prince. Well, no matter what they called him in Hungary, he was the furthest thing from Prince Charming she could ever imagine. She saw him for what he was: aloof and judgmental and condescending.
All those negative qualities aside, her mouth ran dry just walking with him.
Inhaling several cleansing breaths, she led the way to the cabins designated for employee housing near the far end of the resort. Many of Ryland’s staff members chose to live on the island rather than ferry back and forth to the mainland. As she unlocked the door to cabin 47, she surveyed the pristine interior. “So, I imagine this cabin is much more modest than what you’re used to.”