by Anne Marsh
“Point made.” What do I do with a wolf in my living room?
The wolf rubs the top of its head against my leg, its fur brushing sensually against my bare legs. Then he shifts, the wolf flowing into the man just as quickly as that. Luc stands there casually, like he’s neither buck naked nor clearly nonhuman. Naturally the naked part is where my head decides to fixate. I take a good, long look. There’s plenty of Luc to admire. When he isn’t talking, I like him just fine.
“Glad we’ve got that settled,” he drawls. Reaching over, he snags my phone and deletes my latest picture. I don’t bother telling him that I have an automatic upload to Dropbox and still have my proof.
Looking at him, there’s no missing the leashed power. This is no backwoods man. This man is king in his domain. “You should know that my office knows precisely where I live.”
I don’t think he’d hurt me, but life has taught me it pays to be cautious. Always assume the worst and then enjoy the best when it and if it happens.
He reaches for his pants, a move that both pleases and disappoints me. “I don’ wan’ to hurt you. Convincin’ you would be plenty fun, however.”
Instead of pulling on his clothes, however, he strides toward my door.
“Where are you going?” Not that I care. Much.
“To take care of your wolf problem,” he snaps, pausing to grab the pile of his clothes and tuck them under his arm. “And then when I’m done, I’d prefer to not be strollin’ down your street naked.”
My female neighbors certainly wouldn’t be complaining. When I look out the window, however, I spot more dark shadows. Yellow eyes gleam in the light.
“How do you plan on doing that?”
He gives me a look. “I’m a hands-on kind of a man, shug. I’m goin’ out there to kick some ass. Close the door behind me and lock it.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Close the door. Lock it.”
Yeah, see, his first problem is that even if he is really, really good at issuing commands, I don’t take orders. He needs to find himself a different wife if he’s in the market for blind obedience.
“I heard you the first time.”
“All you have to do is listen to me once.”
Nope. Not happening when he’s playing the jump when I say jump game. “Are you coming back in?”
“I won’ leave you alone to face them. It would be better if you came on out to the bayou. Let me defend you on my own territory.”
The Louisiana bayou is rough backcountry that contains nothing civilized or citified. Going there voluntarily? Yeah. So not my thing. A body thuds against my French doors, the glass shuddering. Luc curses.
“You got to make up your mind fast.”
“Time’s up?”
“Uh-huh.” He focuses on the door and what it’s holding out. Barely.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” I point out. The french door shakes a second time. How fast can a 9-1-1 call get the police here? The army. A tank. A vet with a huge fucking tranquilizer gun. I don’t care which option works, but I’m certain that if the wolf on the other side of the door makes it inside my house, I’m screwed. And not in the good way.
“Non.” He lopes back toward me and brushes his mouth against my cheek. “I’ll fix it for you, shug.”
Then he opens the door, slams it shut, and shifts.
My hand hovers over my phone as if my fingers are waiting for instructions from my head. My heart. I have no idea what I’m doing if I’m honest. Animal control can’t do anything here, but playing the part of the peanut gallery isn’t my choice either.
Bodies slam into each other, snarls filling the air. I settle for activating the security alarm, even though the gesture seems stupid and petty. More sounds filter into the house from my backyard, and God help me, I have no idea what to do.
What I should do.
He intends to fix my wolf problem—and I’m in way over my head. I press my cheek against the cool glass, but the wolves are nothing but shadows in my garden now. I can’t see what’s happening, but the racket’s dying down. A shadowy form bolts away, followed by a tall male striding toward my front gate.
Luc.
For the briefest moment, he hesitates, like maybe he’s waiting for some signal from me. Right. He’s a werewolf. He’s my ex. And he’s given me one hell of an orgasm, and I want more. All of these are good reasons to let him keep right on walking away from me.
He disappears into the dark.
Problem solved.
GIANNA
I park my BMW in the B&B’s lot. Now that I’m actually here and not tearing up the highway with the radio cranking, I have a whole lot of so now what? running through my head. The wedding invitation I tossed on the dashboard doesn’t look like a ticking time bomb. In fact, it’s real pretty, hand-printed on cream-colored paper in bold, calligraphic slashes. If I was the one getting married, I might pick the same thing.
Of course, before I can send out wedding announcements, I need to find a guy, date him, fall in love with him, and then pop the question. I wouldn’t mind if he beat me to the last step in the process and he asked me, but it’s not a deal killer either. I’m perfectly okay doing the asking. Cruz Jones’s face does a little hey look at me dance in my imagination. I’m not sure what I’m feeling for the man, but I have every intention of checking it out.
Just as soon as I’m free to do so.
Port Leon isn’t exactly a tourism hotspot. I count three bars, a gas station, an oyster bar and market, and the B&B. I also passed a small veterinary practice on my way into town, but otherwise Port Leon consists of weatherworn clapboard houses and riverbank. If you want groceries or a home-cooked meal, you’d better be growing the stuff in your backyard, catching it with your bare hands, or hopping in your truck and hotfooting it out of town.
I grab the wedding invitation. The words printed on the front haven’t changed since I found the thing propped up on my kitchen counter two weeks ago. Dag Breaux and Riley Jones request the pleasure of your company. Dag Breaux. Luc’s brother. As I get out of the BMW, I try to convince myself that this is a smart move. I need to get out of town for a few days while the Baton Rouge police deal with the biker gang. This is an invitation to do so.
The B&B was once an old plantation house. My guestroom is pretty, with a big claw-foot tub that might fit two if those two people don’t mind getting real, real close. Since I don’t need to be imagining sexy times with Luc Breaux—or anyone—I fish my cellphone out of my bag, half-surprised that I even have reception this far out. Cruz Jones gave me his number in case I need to get in touch with him, and look at me, I’m currently parked in his town.
“Jones here.” The sheriff’s rough tones are comfortingly familiar. He’s a big, no-nonsense man. We hit it off—or so I think—but everything has been strictly professional, despite the frisson of sexual chemistry that has me thinking that ten years is too long and I really need some me time. Now that Luc is back in my life, dating is out of the question.
“This is Gianna Lynn.” And… here’s the awkward moment I’ve been dreading. What if he doesn’t remember me? What if the interest is all one-sided—on my side?
“Ms. Lynn.” Warmth fills his voice, like he’s just been sitting around waiting for me to pick up the phone and make the call. “What can I do for you?”
Quickly I recap the threats from the Baton Rouge biker gang. “The local police are handling that, but they believe it would be wisest if I leave town briefly. Give them some room to work without worrying about my personal safety.”
Is that a growl? Impossible. I simply have growly men on the brain.
“They don’ wan’ to worry about your safety? Boo, you come to Port Leon, and I’ll personally make sure no one gets near you.”
“About that… I’m already here.” I drop awkward conversational bomb number two. Cruz, bless his heart, doesn’t miss a beat.
“You got a place to stay?”
“I’m booked into t
he local B&B.”
In the ensuing silence, I can practically hear him running scenarios in his head. “That’ll do,” he says finally. “I can have some guys keep an eye on the place when I can’t. No one’s gettin’ to you, not in my town.”
“Thank you.” What’s his anti-wolf policy? Thinking about biker gangs and wolves seems surreal now that I’ve put some miles between myself and Baton Rouge.
“I’ll come out now. Check in and make sure you’re doing okay.”
“Ah. That’s the thing.” I look down at the wedding invite in my hand. “I’m supposed to be attending a wedding reception.”
“I’ll drive you. The Breaux do?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” His chuckle is rueful, husky. God, he has a nice laugh. That’s not grounds for happily ever after, but surely it could be a start? He’s downright hot, he’s clearly a paragon of responsibility who saves lives on a daily basis, and I like the way he laughs. He has to be a better choice for me than Luc Breaux. “The thing is, I’ve got an invite to the wedding reception myself and a command appearance to make.”
“Dag Breaux and Riley Jones request the pleasure of your company?” I ask lightly. Is Dag a werewolf like his brother? Does Cruz know?
“Uh-huh. That would be the one.” There’s a pause. “I’d still be happy to take you out.”
And… once again, I’m not sure what he means. Misunderstanding would be an embarrassment of epic proportions. Plus, I’m really, really not free to date. Not that I don’t want to be but… it’s complicated. And I have no idea what to do, because my rulebook and libido aren’t talking to each other.
That’s the thing about Cruz Jones. He’s a big man, rough around the edges, more backwoods than city boy, but he makes me feel… happy. I like being around him. He’s comfortable.
He’s the antithesis of Luc.
“That didn’t come out right at all, did it? Not that I wouldn’t be happy to be datin’ you, boo, but I’m bettin’ your current situation doesn’t make for a social life.”
“Yeah.” I debate telling him the truth, but I have no idea how to explain the situation in which I find myself. How do I say: I’ve got a biker gang stalking me that just might allow werewolves as members, plus my long-lost fiancé recently surfaced, and dating isn’t on the table for me until I sort out my feelings for him. Oh, and by the way—he’s a werewolf and his brother’s marrying into your family.
“My life is complicated,” I admit.
“No worries,” he says, sounding like he means it. “When you’re ready for somethin’ more, you know where to find me. In the meantime, why don’ you let me drive you out to this reception and we’ll have us a little bit of a good time.”
He sounds like he’s proposing a trip to the dentist or forty hours of overtime after putting in an eighty-hour week. Unhappy doesn’t begin to cover the way he says reception. Or maybe it’s just a guy thing, not wanting to get dressed up and dance.
“You don’t like weddings?”
“That’s not it at all.” He exhales. “I’ll be there in five. That work for you?”
“If you’re sure it’s no problem.” I like the idea of not showing up alone. Luc might have left the invitation for me, but I have no idea why he wants me attending or if I’ll even see him there. The man redefines confusing, and that just pisses me off. I like things black and white.
Cruz groans. “It’s no problem at all. That’s my sister gettin’ her sweet self married.”
CRUZ
True to my word, I show up in five. Looking anxious is a bad move, but sweet baby Jesus… I took one look at Gianna Lynn strutting her stuff in the courtroom, and I was a goner. The effect her sassy-assed business suits have on me should be illegal. I bet I’m not the only man who imagined pushing that skirt up to her waist and eating her pussy. And then she opened her mouth and did her lawyer thing, and while the sexual chemistry had still been there, I’d also discovered a whole lot of respect for her. She’s damned good at lawyering. She owned that courtroom, and once she started arguing, her possession of the place had nothing to do with her skirt or her sex. Nope. She was all brains and soul, and I got harder on the spot.
So helping her out now is a downright pleasure. I’ll get close to her however I can. When she’s ready to start looking about her for a man, I plan on being the lucky guy. By the time I put my truck into park, she’s out and waiting for me on the B&B’s front porch. She’s every bit as sexy gorgeous as I remember. She wears some kind of sheath dress in pink cotton. When she comes down the porch, all tap-tap-tap, her fancy heels flash red soles, and the little straps and buckles wrapped around her ankles make me think of bedroom activities.
I swing down from the truck and come around to meet her, smiling like a loon. She’s pressed her long curtain of dark hair into a straight sheet and painted herself a pair of deep pink lips with smoky eyes. She’s gone all out. But underneath the war paint, she looks nervous, like she’s a fish out of water and knows it. I have no idea how she ended up here either, but I’m grateful. That’s the truth, pure and simple, and I’ll make the most of my opportunity.
“It’s good to see you.” I come to an awkward halt in front of her, not sure if I should pump her hand, kiss her cheek, or fall back, because she’s smiling at me and her smile rocks my world.
“You too.” Her hands are full of an enormous tote bag and a silver-wrapped present, so the friendly handshake is definitely out. She doesn’t look like the kissing type either, so I settle for popping open the passenger-side door for her.
She nods toward the little gift bag I toss into the front seat of my mud-splattered truck, trailing crazy ribbon everywhere.
“The invitation didn’t include a registry card. Hell. I’m practically a wedding crasher. I haven’t met the bride or the groom. I don’t even know why I’m here.”
Interesting. “You got an invitation?”
She waves the cream-colored card, but I’m not surprised. Gianna has gorgeous manners. She’d never randomly crash a wedding. “Groom’s family.”
Well. Shit. Because my baby sister is marrying into the Breaux clan and every last one of them is a werewolf. Does Gianna know that? If so, it might make my own dating life easier. Or not, I guess, depending on how she feels about wolves. I have my own secret to share if we’re going to have a future together.
“So you know one of Dag’s brothers?”
She chews her lower lip. “Luc.”
Oookay. The pack Alpha. She’s not messing around with her friendships. I’ll need to tread carefully unless I want to incite a war between the packs. I measure the distance from the ground to the truck and then eyeball her dress. Fuck it. “All aboard.”
Wrapping my hands around her waist and lifting is a quick one-two-three. It feels damned good to finally get my hands on her for more than a brief hi-how-are-ya and a handshake. She squeaks in surprise and pokers up, but there’s no way in hell she climbs up into my truck without flashing the world her panties, and I don’t think that’s her thing. Not that I’d mind, but I’ll be a gentleman even if it kills me.
And it just might.
I deposit her on the seat, and she hangs on to her big-ass tote bag and the gift-wrapped present like they’re walls she can’t throw up fast enough. Yeah. I might have moved too quickly there.
“Thank you.” She sounds breathless, but not pissed off. I can work with that. “Next time, I’d like a heads-up before you go the caveman route, okay?”
Yeah. I can do that too. I give her a slow smile. Shut the door and leaned in. “Sure, boo. I’ll let you know before I touch you again.”
She gets real busy in her bag, so score one for me. I’ll bet I’m not just Cruz the Sheriff in her head anymore. Good. I’d be happy to let her get to know me any way she wants. Emphasis on want.
GIANNA
The wedding reception is picture-book pretty. White tents dot the edge of the bayou, tables and chairs decorated with lots of tulle and ribbons
and… lavender. Apparently the bride likes purple. Which may explain Cruz’s uncharacteristically purple tie. He’s dressed to match his sister’s decorations, which is unexpectedly sweet.
He parks the truck in a field more than half-filled with beat-up trucks and cars, grinning up at me when he opens my door. I’m still trying to figure out how to negotiate my dismount when he pats his shoulders and announces “Hold on.”
Figures he likes this part of the job. Flashing him my panties is almost a given. Since I have to get out of his monster truck somehow (and flirting a little doesn’t seem so bad), I place my hands on his shoulders. The heat of him radiates through his jacket and shirt, and not just because the sun’s beating down hard on this part of Louisiana. I jump and his hands find my waist, guiding me down. Easy-peasy, and if I lean against him for a minute when I land, that’s a happy accident.
Reaching around me, he grabs my things and insists on carrying them for me. He should look ridiculous. Instead, my bag and all those ribbons just make him look more masculine. Life isn’t fair. He also steers me straight over to the bride and makes the introductions with easy good humor. Thank God. Unlike Luc, Cruz has beautiful manners.
Riley Jones, the bride, wears a simple knee-length white shift and a crown of daisies and roses. She’s kicked off her shoes and stands barefoot on the grass. The big man next to her is a scary motherfucker—the family resemblance to Luc is clear—but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. The groom might not be tame but… he’s happy.
The antique crystal candlesticks I brought come from nineteenth-century France. There’s nothing practical about the gift, but I like imagining the stories the crystal could tell. If candlesticks could talk, which they can’t. I’m not that crazy. Not yet.
“Congratulations,” I say warmly, handing over the gift-wrapped box.
Riley takes the present with a smile of thanks. The rings on the other woman’s finger flash as she squeezes Cruz with easy affection. I try—and fail—to imagine my own family hugging and kissing like that. Or celebrating anything good. I don’t need a McMansion to be happy, but not living in a fog of drugs definitely helps.