by Julie Kenner
That didn’t matter. All that mattered was the heat that filled her body, the longing for his touch and only his touch, and the need to merge with him, to be with him.
To mate with him.
Oh, dear Lord, where the hell had that come from?
She didn’t stop to analyze. Instead, she put her hand in his and, as his fingers closed around hers, all rational thought left her head, replaced by the need to touch him.
He leaned down, the coarse remnant of his beard brushing her cheek. “Come with me.”
She nodded, her entire body tingling with anticipation, his mere touch sending electricity coursing through her veins.
They moved hand-in-hand through the crush of people, the crowd parting as if in awe as they passed. She heard a few murmurs, saw a few deferential nods, and then, as they left the ballroom, one of the benefit’s hosts stepped into their path, his hand outstretched.
“Luc. Mr. Agassou. We’re all so glad you’re back.”
Cate drew in a breath, stopping short, her fingers still trapped in his hand. The host’s greeting still rang in her ears. Innocuous words, but with a particular meaning to her—she was leaving the party with a man whose name she had learned from a stranger. Even for Cate, who’d had her share of one-night stands, that was a first.
“I—” she began.
“It’s good to see you again, too, Armand.” Luc smiled, but irritation reflected on his chiseled features, and that whiskey-smooth voice held an edge. “I apologize for stealing Detective Raine away. We have business to take care of.”
Armand stepped back, his entire manner deferential. Cate started to back away, too. Second, third and even fourth thoughts were coming at her a mile a minute. What was she doing, and who was she doing it with? Had she gone insane? Were her dreams the product of some latent madness?
“I shouldn’t be—”
“Come with me, Caitlyn,” he said. His fingers stroked her arm as he spoke, and all reason left her head. It was as if she belonged to him, as if he’d tuned in to some primal frequency in her soul, and she was simply on automatic pilot.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had the moral strength to pull away. But the truth was, she didn’t want this moment to pass. The pull of the dreams was too strong, and she wanted to feel that intensity of passion in real life, not just in her fantasies. She was bad, after all. Why not be bad all the way?
“Where are we going?” she asked, as he led her onto the elevator. Her voice sounded timid, and she cringed. She was a detective, for crying out loud, not some shrinking flower of a woman. She drew in a deep breath and moved closer, pressing her body against his. “Not far, I hope.”
Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes. He cupped the back of her neck with his hand, and she stifled a shiver. “I like your enthusiasm. I’d thought perhaps I would have to entice you. I’m pleased to have been mistaken.”
Once again second thoughts filled her head, and she took a step back from him, protests and apologies dancing on her tongue. “I shou—”
He pressed a finger to her lips even as he reached around her to push the emergency stop button on the elevator. “Don’t disappoint me, Caitlyn,” he whispered, then closed his lips over hers.
All thoughts of objection evaporated. Her knees turned to rubber, and she clung to him, her arms linked around his neck to prevent her from collapsing to the ground in a heap.
His mouth, hot and demanding, worked a magic on her lips like nothing she’d ever experienced. She gasped, and his tongue slipped inside, tasting and teasing. One hand stroked her back while his other hand slipped between their bodies, his fingers expertly easing the silky material of her skirt up to expose her legs.
The pad of his thumb stroked the back of her bare thigh, and she melted a little bit more. She was hot and cold at the same time, a mass of need. Her hands slipped over his shoulders and fisted in the lapels of his tuxedo. She was probably ruining the jacket, but she didn’t care. All she cared about, all she wanted, was this man. She wanted to possess, to be possessed, and the depth of her need both thrilled and terrified her.
His thumb eased up, finding her now wet panties. He pushed aside the elastic at her leg, and she gasped as his finger found her core and slipped inside. She gripped him, pulling him in, wanting to take all of him inside her and never have this moment end.
His mouth brushed her neck. “Now,” he whispered, “I must have you now.”
She nodded, unable to respond any other way. And when she heard his last murmur—“Soon, it will be too late”—her mind was too full of heat and lust to ask what he meant. Instead, she did the only thing she could do. She simply succumbed to his touch.
LUC STIFLED A GROAN, fighting back both a wave of lust and the persistent tingling in his bones that always signaled the change. His need for her was like a living thing, and the depth of his want disturbed him. He had known that he would feel a connection with Caitlyn and an urgent need to mate. Need, yes. He had expected that. But this wanting, this desperate longing for her, had taken him by surprise.
And he did want her. Wanted to touch her, wanted to taste her, and most of all, wanted to bury himself deep inside her. Not to forestall the change, but because he wanted to.
His lack of control fired an anger in him, and he pulled his hand away from her sweet folds, his hands instead gripping her at the wrists as he pressed her up against the side of the elevator. She gave a little gasp of surprise and pleasure, and his body stiffened even further, responding to her desire. The reaction fueled his anger. Was he entirely unable to control his own body? First the change, and now this woman? Everywhere he turned he was forced to succumb to some primal urge. And, damn him, unlike the change, he would willingly succumb to this urge.
She was pressed up against him, her breasts soft against his chest. The insistent pressure sent a heat shooting through his body, settling in his cock. He was hard and hot, and the time was now.
“Caitlyn,” he said.
“Now,” she whispered. She tugged her wrists free, then explored him with her hands. Her fingers snaked inside his shirt, finding bare flesh.
He groaned, reaching out to slip the thin strap of her gown off her shoulder. It fell free, exposing the swell of her breast. He bent, pressing his lips to her soft flesh. He knew he needed to just do it, to slam himself inside her, to hold the change at bay.
Even now, he was dancing with danger. The change was coming upon him, pushing at the back of his head, emerging from his muscles and his skin. Soon, he’d lose his tenuous grip on control. He had to simply take her, without pretense, with none of the courtship that human females so desired. Later, there would be harsh looks and recriminations—and he would make all the appropriate explanations. He would soothe the way for making love to her fully and completely. Now, though, there was no time.
“You’re mine, Caitlyn,” he said. “Now, and forever.”
She gasped, but said nothing, and he covered her mouth with his, forestalling any protests. As he did, he tugged her skirt up to her waist, sliding his hands between her legs. Once again, he slid into her wet heat. His cock hardened when her slick muscles gripped him as he withdrew his finger. With a guttural growl more feline than human, he ripped off her panties, then tugged his zipper down.
He eased between her legs, her slick heat stroking the tip of his cock. She moaned, little mewling sounds that only made him harder. His fingers tightened on her ass, and he lifted her just slightly, planning to impale her on him, to let her take as much of him as she could.
The elevator jerked and shuddered, and he lost his footing. They tumbled to the floor, their clothes and bodies tangled.
He got to his knees, then reached down to help her. As he did, the lights flickered, and the elevator started to move, controlled by someone who’d overridden the emergency stop. Her eyes went wide, her mouth forming into a little O as she adjusted her clothes. She stood up, backing away from him as she shook her head.
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��I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have—I wasn’t thinking. Please, I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
Her words were like a slap. She couldn’t leave him; she was his mate. She was necessary. And, damn him, he wanted her.
She turned toward the elevator door, but there was nowhere for her to go. He tugged at her hand. “Caitlyn. You can’t go.”
He could see the last remnants of the spell break. Her features turned hard, those gentle blue eyes turning to ice. “Watch me.”
She punched a button on the elevator, and it jolted, then stopped, and then doors slid open, revealing a deserted lobby.
She stepped off, then turned back to look at him, her stiff demeanor laced with confusion. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t understand what happened tonight, but I am sorry for letting it go so far.”
And with those words still hanging in the air, she turned and ran across the lobby and out into the stifling heat of the New Orleans night.
Luc watched her go, his mind blank, entirely devoid of emotion. Later, he knew, he would think about her departure, and it would anger him, probably even bewilder him. But right then, he felt nothing except a need to run. He was in that place between human and feline. And soon, very soon, Luc knew that he would follow in Caitlyn’s footsteps, loping on four legs behind her as he succumbed to the change and wandered loose through the city in search of one more victim in the night.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE RACED FROM THE BUILDING, her heels clattering on the uneven stone walkway. He didn’t follow, but still his shadow haunted her, his essence seeming to cling to her very soul.
The night hung around her, heavy with the scent of magnolias. Heated and sensual. A night filled with longing and need, and she’d lost herself in it. Lost herself to him.
Cate raced toward Jackson Square, finally stopping and leaning against the iron fence that surrounded the area. Her breath came ragged, and not from exertion. No, her body was hot. Needy. And now it was rebelling because she’d run away from what it had wanted most. Him. Luc Agassou.
She closed her eyes, drew in a breath. Tourists and locals passed, eyeing her curiously, but she dropped her gaze, focusing on the battered pavement. How many times had she come here before, a detective hiding behind her badge and her gun? Now she stood here in her evening gown and heels, feeling stripped naked for all the world to see. She’d exposed herself to that man, made herself vulnerable.
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, her grip tight around the fence post, as the night settled around her.
What the hell was she doing?
Even on her wildest days, she’d never gone at it with a stranger in an elevator. And this wasn’t even about the sex. A one-night stand was one thing, but this was…She shook her head, not sure what it was, only knowing that it was more. More heated. More sensual. More enticing. More desperate.
More everything.
And so help her, she wanted everything she could get.
Her body tingled, and she looked around, staring out into the night, past the corners and shadows, past the clumps of tourists, past the inviting lights of Café Du Monde. She was looking for him, not sure what she would do if she found him, only knowing that she had to look, even as her head told her to get the hell out of there as fast as her legs could carry her.
A sharp crack sounded behind her, and instinctively, her hand went to her hip where she usually wore her gun. It wasn’t there, and she turned and saw a couple. The man bent down to pick up the cell phone he’d dropped and then they continued walking toward her, hand-in-hand.
She exhaled, a sense of longing welling in her. She was on edge. Antsy. And she needed to get home. Put on some coffee. Play some Little Feat on the CD player. Revel in the trappings of normalcy.
With purpose, she started walking again, cutting diagonally across the intersection so that she could head back to Canal Street and catch the streetcar back home. The side street was dark, the businesses closed up, the street vendors gone for the night. She walked toward the lights on Decatur, toward the horse-drawn carriages and a vibrant civilization she’d never really been part of.
As she walked away, she caught a shadow out of the corner of her eye and she shivered. A great cat. Watching. And waiting.
She blinked, then looked again, sure she’d been mistaken, and this time it was gone.
A trick of the light, surely.
And yet, somehow, Cate knew that wasn’t true. The cat was there. It was waiting for her.
She should be scared, but she wasn’t.
And that’s what scared her most of all.
BLOOD.
On his hands, his face. Everywhere. The metallic stench of it consuming him, tormenting him.
Naked, Luc collapsed on his back lawn, the twelve-foot stone fence ensuring his privacy. He pressed his face to the grass, his hands outstretched in front of him, a penitent praying to a god he no longer knew.
Forsaken.
Tears clogged his throat, and he pressed his eyes closed, helpless against the onslaught. He remembered nothing more than touching her. She’d calmed him, stilled the raging waters inside him. And then she’d abandoned him, leaving him to the horror that was his life. To the horror he’d been inflicting on the city.
Her taste still hung on him. When their lips had met, nothing else in the universe had mattered. His curse had disappeared. He was only a man wanting a woman.
But he wasn’t that man, and he knew that he could never really have her in love, only in need. For, truly, what was there to love about him?
He sat back on his haunches, his face toward the sky, his bloodied hands lifted in front of him. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was his.
He had to have her.
He would have her.
Tonight.
Before anyone else got hurt.
HER EARLIER CHAMPAGNE BUZZ HAD burned off, extinguished by the heat generated between her and Luc Agassou. And though she knew she should simply crawl into bed and lose herself to sweet sleep, Cate couldn’t do that. For her, sleep was no longer sweet. And so she opened her freezer, took out a bottle of Smirnoff, and poured herself a shot.
She slammed the drink back, the thick, icy liquid immediately setting her blood to burn. She closed her eyes, felt the warm tingle of alcohol, and knew she was a coward.
She poured another shot, just to prove to herself that she didn’t care. She should work. Should review the case file and skim the reports and crime-scene photos. But, dammit, she couldn’t do that. Not tonight. Not now.
No, she wanted to sleep tonight. No dreams. No nightmares. Just sleep. And if it took an entire bottle of vodka, then dammit, that’s what she was going to do.
Another shot. Then another. Until her entire body felt warm and malleable and her eyelids drooped. She poured one last glass, this time mixing it with water, and went in to settle on her bed. On the way, she plucked the perfume bottle off her dresser, then sat on top of her comforter, squinting at the delicate, curious glasswork.
So beautiful. Swirling patterns of color, the intricate design, the delicate filigree—
She blinked, startled by something she hadn’t noticed before. She turned the bottle upside down and blinked a few more times, trying to get her hazy mind to focus. Sure enough, there was some sort of inscription etched into the glass.
Drowsiness had been creeping up on her, but now it was shoved aside, replaced by curiosity about the bottle. She couldn’t make out any words, though, and finally she crawled out of bed and stumbled to her desk. She rummaged around until she found a magnifying glass, then examined the bottle again under her desk lamp.
The words seemed to float in front of her. Definitely not English, but not any language she recognized, either. She frowned at the bottle, but not in annoyance. The mystery had pushed past the blur of alcohol and was keeping her awake, yes, but it had also filled her head, edging out thoughts of Luc and the way his hands had felt on her. The way she wanted t
o pick up the phone and find him, go to him.
Frustrated, she drummed her fingers on the desk. It was already past midnight. She knew she should just go to bed, not get involved in some project. But knowing and doing were two different things, and instead of going to sleep she booted up her computer.
Less than a minute later, she’d copied one of the words into a search engine and pulled up a single hit. She started scrolling through, her brow furrowing as the web page announced that the language was Romani.
Romani? That sounded vaguely gypsyish, but she was hardly an expert. And she certainly couldn’t translate the inscription.
She scrolled through a few more pages and finally came across a reference to some professor in Georgia. She scribbled down the woman’s name and number, Dr. Evonne Baptiste, an anthropologist with some sort of specialty in Romani. Automatically, she reached for the phone, then realized what time it was. With a sigh, she put the receiver back down. Tomorrow. She’d call the woman tomorrow.
As she headed back to the bed, though, she had to wonder why she was even going to bother. It was just writing on a perfume bottle after all.
But as she snuggled under the covers and pulled the sheet up tight, she knew that she would call. The dreams had started with the bottle, and the nightmares. Somehow, the bottle had opened a door in her soul, and she simply had to know.
“CATE.”A brush against her cheek. “Cate, my darling. My one. Cate.”
She moaned, lost in the haze of sleep. Another dream, but not a nightmare. Instead, soft and appealing. A touch. A caress. And the burning heat of desire in her belly, between her thighs, in her rock-hard nipples.
She moaned, arching up, trying to cheat sleep as she pulled him closer.
“Yes, Cate. That’s right. You’re mine. Come to me.”
His hands stroked her breasts, drifting down to cup her waist. His hand eased around her back as he pulled her up into an embrace. Her lips parted, and he feasted on her, his tongue slipping into her mouth, tasting and teasing. Sensual. Erotic. Enticing.