[The Shifters Committee 05.0] Sensual Hero

by Rebecca Foxx

  Lassier shrugged.

  “As you know Hazel, I’m a very busy man,” he reminded her, adding as he averted his gaze to the desk beneath him, “And as much as I do love women of all types, they seem to have trouble accepting certain things about me.”

  Hazel snorted.

  “What, pray tell, can’t they accept about you?” she queried, adding as she made a broad gesture down the length of his tall muscled form, “Could it be the blond, chiseled good looks that liken you to the love child of Fabio and a female Fox news anchor? Or, I’ve got it, perhaps it’s the billion-dollar bank account!” she paused here, snapping her fingers as she suggested, “Maybe it’s the two homes, the three sports cars, or the hover craft! Surefire turn offs for any gal.”

  Lassiter rolled his eyes.

  “Or it could be the overly sardonic and sometimes lovably annoying administrative assistant,” he proposed with a snide grin, adding more seriously, “Let’s just say that, all things considered, it’s probably for the best that I’m married to my career. Even so, I think I might actually look forward to my lunch date with one of the most talented and popular journalists in Miami. So when and where am I supposed to meet Delilah Moore?”

  Chapter two

  The creature was going to kill her. And she was powerless to stop it.

  Standing frozen and motionless at the center of a lush emerald leaved forest, Delilah Moore watched petrified as she stared her destiny square in the eyes; eyes that glowed blood red in the dead of night as their bearer—a ferocious creature that had emerged without warning from a nearby bush--charged full and hard in her direction as it howled its deadly intentions.

  For a split second she strove to identify the animal before her; a large furry being with glowing eyes and long sharp fangs, that seemed too large and fierce to be a dog or even a wolf.

  All coherent thought fled her mind seconds later as her natural fighting instinct took over; impelling her to raise her fists before her and back sharply away from her savage attacker.

  She gasped then as the wolf-like creature sprang upward from the ground beneath it; surging forth to sink its fangs deep into her arm, breaking a surface of smooth ebony skin to release a stream of vivid red blood.

  Even as she let loose with a horrified scream, wincing as her entire being was consumed in a fit of unbearable agony, she managed to reach into the seashell purse that hung loose from her broad sturdy shoulder; grabbing hold of the Taser that she kept with her at all times for the purposes of self-defense.

  “I hope it works on this—this demon,” she mused vaguely, blood continuing to run free from her arm as she ripped the Taser from her purse and sank it into the creature’s side; sighing relieved as the wolf released her arm and fell limp and motionless on the ground beneath them.

  And just then, once again, the darkness consumed her.

  Delilah let loose with a second anguished cry as she bolted upright in bed; her eyes flying wide as she trembled outright.

  Her body stilled moments later as she came to the soothing realization that she lay safe in the warm satiny sheets of her canopied bed; the vision of diamond stars woven into the fabric of a sleek silken canopy supplying infinite comfort to her troubled psyche.

  “It was all a nightmare,” she whispered aloud, shifting in her bed as she folded her arms before her and drew a deep sustaining breath.

  Yet one look at her exposed right arm murdered all sense of security; reminding her with a jolt that the night terror constantly wracking her psyche—and, more often than not, wrecking any hope of a good night’s sleep—was not a nightmare at all. It was a memory.

  Three weeks had passed since the horrific occurrence that had changed her life forever; one that, far worse, had changed just who and what she was.

  While working on assignment for Miami Life and Style Magazine, she had visited a local nature preserve after dark; seeking simply to write a light piece about the varieties of creatures that roamed the Florida landscape under cover of night.

  After admiring and taking due notation of the pearl pink flamingos, the ivory feathered cranes and the whimsical emerald lizards that ruled the preserve after hours, she cringed somewhat at the sight of a rather sizable alligator that lounged conspicuous on the border of a nearby pond.

  Her apprehension erupted to a show of abject terror seconds later, as a fierce wolf like creature sprang from a wooded copse and attacked her; sinking its lethal fangs into her arm before she subdued it with the aid of her trusty Taser gun.

  “I almost wish I hadn’t brought the gun,” she reasoned now, adding as she clutched her head in her hands, “I realize that this is an awful thing to say; but if the demon dog had killed me, then he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what I suspect was his mission all along—to turn me into a killer, just like him.”

  Oh, she had yet to make her own transformation to a dreaded creature of the night; yet according to a doctor she had consulted just after her attack, it was only a matter of time before she lost all semblance of sanity or humanity.

  Although initially relieved that she had fought and subdued her attacker, her terror returned upon her visit to a local hospital; where a doctor who specialized in paranormal phenomena conducted a thorough examination of her bite wound--determining immediately that she had been bitten by a werewolf.

  “That’s insane,” she had told the physician, a dour salt-and-pepper-haired man named Dr. Bradley Murray. “Werewolves don’t exist.”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “I’m so sorry Miss, but it’s true,” he told her, tone firm but gentle. “You’re not the first person in this area to have suffered this kind of attack—and without exception, each of those afflicted has gone on to succumb to the sickness of the moon.”

  Delilah shook her head.

  “You mean that they themselves have become werewolves?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  The doctor nodded.

  “I can’t tell you when it will happen,” he told her, adding with a deep sigh, “but rest assured, Miss. It will happen.”

  Taking these words to heart, Delilah returned to her everyday job as a chief features reporter at Miami Life and Style magazine; at the same time lingering after dark behind a locked door, battling both constant nightmares about the night of her affliction and acute anxiety about the state of her future.

  “I feel like a ticking time bomb,” she mused now, pulling herself from the sheltering sheets of her bed—her frequent place of escape during this trying time—and throwing herself beneath a cold shower. “I know what will happen to me—I just don’t know when.”

  For the time being, she figured, all she could do was throw herself into her work; and she did look forward to an interview she’d scheduled today with Lassiter Lange, owner of Lange Homes.

  Although she’d never met Mr. Lange, Delilah knew his homes; and whenever she had covered home tours for Miami Life and Style, she had reveled in the beauty and rich architectural style of Lange’s opulent residential creations.

  “When I step through the doors of a Lange house, I always feel as if I am stepping back in time,” she mused now, stepping out of the shower and grabbing a silky foot length kaftan from the side of her wardrobe closet.

  Draping the comforting silken fabric of her jewel blue kaftan across the curves of her rubenesque body, she ran a long brush through her long dark hair and applied just a touch of ruby red lipstick. Then, after inspecting the results in a corner mirror, she grabbed her seashell purse and headed for the door.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or even tonight,” she thought, adding as she immersed herself in the comforting rays of the bright Florida sunshine, “All I can do at this point is enjoy today.”

  Her spirits brightened moments later, as her sleek ruby red compact car arrived at the front double doors of Café Nouveau; a trendy art deco style restaurant that would serve as the setting of that day’s interview.

  Smiling as she rec
ognized the bright pop art paintings and radiant flame colored tablecloths that distinguished one of her favorite local eateries, Delilah nonetheless squinted confused as her eyes scanned its interior; seeking out a man she had never met, but who—or so she thought—she would know on sight.

  Finally approaching a distinguished gray haired gentleman who sat alone at a corner table, she greeted him with a cheery smile and asked, “Are you Lassiter Lange?”

  The man shook his head, pointing with a smile in the direction of a nearby table.

  Following his gesture, her eyes flew wide as they beheld the most beautiful man she ever had seen.

  The man’s tall muscular form sat with uncommon grace in a sleek velvet-cushioned chair; his azure-eyed, golden-haired good looks doing much to add to the beauty of his surroundings.

  These eyes now focused keen in her direction; now coming accompanied by a brilliant white-toothed smile that summoned her forward.

  “I certainly hope you’re Delilah Moore,” he greeted her, his deep sonorous voice sending tingles down her spine as he extended his sturdy hand to her.

  Taking the man’s hand in a robust handshake, Delilah warmed immediately at his touch; a surge of electricity surging free through her body as their hands remained clenched.

  “I certainly hope you’re Lassiter Lange,” she returned, striving to keep a professional tone as she got a closer look at the face that seemed to have no flaws; adorned as it was with chiseled cheekbones, full soft lips and a planed forehead. “Although I must admit, I’d be very surprised if you were.”

  Lassiter arched his feathered eyebrows, rising from his seat to pull out her chair as he asked her, “Why do you say that, Miss?”

  Delilah shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” she told him, fighting to keep her tone steady as she felt his strong masculine presence hovering just above her; looming close before finally taking his seat at the opposite side of the table. “After seeing the homes that you build, with all of their intricate details and classy historical accents, I must admit that I pictured you as—I don’t know—a gentleman of a certain age.”

  She took in her breath as Lassiter met these words with a slow, mysterious smile.

  “I guess I’m an old soul,” he told her, tone low and cryptic as he added, “Although a modernist in many ways, I do appreciate the look and feel of classic architecture.” He paused here, adding as he pinned her with an azure hued gaze that reflected his obvious interest, “As do you, if your excellent articles are any indication. I’ll tell you something, Delilah; although your magazine does happen to feature some beautiful photography, your articles in particular need no illustration. Your words bring every house to life, making the reader want to live there, or at least visit the place. I only wish I could create a house as beautiful as the ones you describe—you could make a Taco Hut sound like the Taj Mahal.”

  Delilah chuckled, feeling her ebony cheeks suffuse with heat as she considered these flattering words.

  “You’ve really read my work?” she asked him, eyebrows arched in a show of surprise.

  Lassiter nodded.

  “I love your work,” he affirmed, adding with a flirty wink, “I guess you could say that I’m something of a Delilah Moore groupie.” He paused here, adding with a courtly bow, “And today, Miss Moore, lunch is on me.”

  The couple continued to talk and laugh as they commenced their formal interview; with Lassiter delivering a round of articulate answers to Delilah’s challenging questions—expounding on his substantial knowledge of architectural history and styles, while offering strong opinions about the past and present states of the ever changing building industry.

  She listened enrapt as her subject described his extensive travels through London, Paris and Milan; touring a bounty of classically designed homes as well as museums that included the Louvre in Paris and Jane Austen’s House Museum in Hampshire, England.

  “Through the years and with every nation and city I visit, every building that I see strikes an image in my mind,” he explained to her, adding in a wistful, faraway tone, “When you visit historical homes and places, Delilah, you sometimes get the impression that you’ve lived a thousand lives—learning more and more each time about human beings and the way they live.”

  Delilah smiled.

  “And that’s exactly how I feel whenever I myself visit one of these homes,” she agreed. “When I was a child, Lassiter, my parents loved to tour museums of all kinds, along with restored homes. And whether we were visiting a house that once belonged to a prim Victorian miss or a scandalous ‘20s flapper, I pictured myself back in that time; wearing the elegant clothes, going to the parties, leading the life. Sometimes I even feel like I was born in the wrong time.”

  Lassiter looked at her for a long moment, then nodded.

  “I know that I was,” he told her, adding as he stared deep into her eyes, “It’s very rare that I meet someone who shares that particular viewpoint—along with many others. I’m rather surprised, in fact, that you didn’t go into the real estate business yourself.”

  Delilah shrugged.

  “Well with all due respect, Lassiter, the real estate business is all about facts and figures, dollars and cents,” she explained, adding as she snuck a shy smile in his direction, “By writing about homes instead of selling them, I can admire their beauty and feel their atmosphere—without having to concern myself with their mortgage rates and selling points.”

  She took in her breath as Lassiter reached across the table, taking her hand in his as—once again—a wave of electricity seemed to pass unbidden between them.

  “Once again, my dear, you know just what to say. And you say it beautifully,” he praised her, adding as he regarded her above the rim of his juice glass, “Your man must be very proud of you, Delilah.”

  Delilah grinned.

  “Well actually,” she told him, adding with a pointed look in his direction, “I’m single right now.”

  Her eyes flew wide as Lassiter’s azure gaze came alight at this news; regarding her with an intense look as he squeezed her fingers in his.

  “OK then, it’s decided; I’m also buying dessert,” he told her, adding with a flirtatious wink, “With champagne.”

  Moments later the couple sipped bubbly from sparkling flutes as their hands remained clenched across the table; their gazes also locked as their conversation turned to more personal matters.

  “Well Lassiter, I must admit it,” Delilah said at one point, “I now have more than enough material for an interview. Even so, I’d love for us to get together again sometime, for another chat about our common interests.”

  Lassiter grinned.

  “I’d like the same, very much so,” he affirmed, adding as he inclined his head in her direction, “So with that in mind, let me ask you: Do you happen to have any plans for next Sunday?”

  Delilah froze.

  “Valentine’s Day?” she queried, tone laced with surprise.

  Lassiter nodded.

  “Indeed,” he affirmed, adding with a shrug, “Generally my least favorite evening of the year, as I tend to spend it alone. I was thinking, though, that perhaps you could change my luck.” He paused here, adding as he raised her hand to his full moist lips for a long, slow kiss, “What do you say, Delilah? Let me sweep you away this Valentine’s Day—spoiling you rotten and showing you the time of your life.”

  Shifting uncomfortable in the cushions of her seat, Delilah bit her lip as she considered this unexpected proposal.

  “I don’t know, Lassiter,” she said finally, adding with an uneasy shrug, “We’ve only just met, and truth be told,” she paused here, adding as she shifted her gaze to the table below her, “I’m not much of a night person as of late.”

  She took in her breath as Lassiter surged across the table, erasing all distance between them as he released on a whisper, “Well as it turns out, Delilah, I am very much a night person. Now how can I get you around to my way of thinking?”

&nbs
p; “Would a kiss help?”

  With these words he surged forward across the table to seize her lips with a passionate kiss; his soft, moist lips massaging hers in smooth, hypnotic strokes.

  Angling his head over hers to intensify the kiss, Lassiter plied her mouth with the greatest affection; their tongues entangling between them as their public surroundings dissolved.

  Leaning full and hard into his kiss, Delilah smacked her cherry red lips against his as waves of sublime pleasure coursed her from head to toe; erasing and eliminating the near paralyzing tension that had held her captive the past few weeks.

  Her eyebrows arched as their kiss deepened; her tongue plunging forth into Lassiter’s mouth to lap what seemed to be some inordinately sharp teeth.