Primal Instincts

by Susan Sizemore

  “I don’t know of any vampires named Wilde. He lives too out in the open to be anything he seems to be.”

  “Purists busting in on an orgy would be more fun.”

  “It would be. But Purists busting in on a meeting of powerful Hollywood types is far more dangerous.”

  “I’m sure they only believe in vampires at the box office.”

  “For now,” he said in agreement. “But there’s a fine line between rumors and reality in these parts.”

  “Better not to get vampire rumors started. What’s the plan, boss?”

  “The Purists’ attack will be planned to start when the gate opens for the guests to leave. Putting film executives in danger will not endear our boy to the moguls, even if they don’t believe he’s a vampire. However, they’ll be much more understanding of pretty girls and watchful paparazzi.”

  “I think I see where this is heading, boss. Want me to call Sasha Corbett, then get naked in front of the gate?”

  “Call Sasha,” he said, “but you’ll be too valuable in a fight.” He glanced up the street where the seething energy of a pouting princess radiated from the darkness. “I’ve got another pretty girl in mind for the diversion.”

  Mom’s going to kill me if she finds out about this, Francesca thought as she pranced up the street—and prancing while barefoot, swinging her shoes in her hand, wasn’t easy.

  But since she’d been wearing flats, which were decidedly not sexy, bare feet looked better. Her black skirt was hiked up nearly to her hipbones. She’d been wearing a lacy black sweater over a cami. Now she was wearing only the lacy black sweater. Her nipples were not appreciating the cool night air, but she was sure the watching males were appreciating her nipples peeking out through the sheer lace.

  She carried a champagne bottle in her other hand. How the witch had gotten her hands on the wine at such short notice was a mystery. When she’d asked, Strahan had grinned proudly at the red-haired mortal and said, “Delilah McCoy is the most resourceful woman you’ll ever meet.”

  “I am, you know,” Dee said, grinning back at Strahan.

  The pair’s camaraderie ground against Francesca’s shield of indifference. Strahan and McCoy liked each other; maybe it was more than liked. They certainly shared a purpose. They were Dark Angels and she would never be. She was an outsider Strahan only turned to for a moment’s help.

  Jealous much, are you? Francesca asked herself as she strutted up to the closed gate. Yes, she admitted. But not going into the who or what.

  Heads up, woman! another voice said in her mind.

  She could sense far more than Strahan’s attention on her, but his were the thoughts touching hers. She recognized the sparks of Dark Angel minds in the darkness but could also pinpoint the hostile attention of other watchers as well.

  She had an audience. It was time to play to it.

  Francesca smiled into the eye of the security camera to the side of the gate, dropped her shoes, and coyly waved her fingers. “Hello, Jimmy!” she called. She pressed the buzzer. “Jimmy Wilde, come out and play! I’m here!”

  She heard cars approaching and caught the glow of headlights from the corner of her eye but carefully kept her back turned to the street. In a moment there was more to the light than headlamps; she was illuminated by glaring flashbulbs and the click of cameras at her back. The media sharks had come looking for blood—the poor dears had no idea—and it wouldn’t be long before the police and rent-a-cops pulled up to join them.

  A riot is a terrible thing . . .

  Pay attention! Strahan’s order was stern, but she could feel his amusement in her head. . . . to waste, he added.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The disembodied voice this time issued from a speaker beside the security camera and had a rich Irish accent.

  “Jimmy!” Francesca bounced up and down and waved the champagne bottle while cameras clicked and recorded. “You told me to stop by, remember? Let me in! Or come out and play.”

  “Oh, I’m coming down all right.” The angry Irish voice issued loudly from the speaker.

  He’d been telepathically briefed to play along with this nonsense.

  There was a solid wall of hungry anticipation behind Francesca. The paparazzi’s excitement almost overlaid her awareness of Angels and enemies alike.

  Soon the gate swung open and two dark cars pulled out into the street before James Wilde stepped into the firing line of flashbulbs and shouted questions.

  She hadn’t expected him to grab her and kiss her in front of the crowd, but it made sense for dragging out the diversion a little longer. The kiss looked fierce and hungry, but there was no passion in it. Francesca barely remembered to lean against him and put her arms around his neck. She did remember to drop the champagne bottle.

  Which was when the fight between the Dark Angels and Purists started.

  She had no idea what sort of potion the witch had put in the bottle, but the fumes from it kept the media bloodsuckers’ attention on her and Wilde instead of the fight—even after Wilde spun her through the gate and closed it behind them.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Stay here,” the actor Prime ordered her before rushing off to join the fray.

  Of course. It was an order she was getting used to hearing. This time she didn’t mind obeying it. Let the boys have fun without her. Francesca knew just how far she dared go in helping the Dark Angels, and the last few minutes had come very close to crossing that line. If any of the photos about to hit the tabloids showed her face she would be in very deep trouble with her Matri.

  Then again, her mom was enthusiastic about the prospect of having a grandchild from her. So even if she was going to get locked away in Idaho for the foreseeable future it wouldn’t be until that deed was accomplished.

  She was not perturbed when a scream issued out of the darkness near the house. The sound did make her fingertips tingle, claws wanting to come out. A faint scent of blood perfumed the air and she ran her tongue over her slightly extended fangs.

  What a shame the boys got to have all the fun.

  Francesca kept her instincts under control by nursing her resentment against the whole of vampire culture and stayed put. She adjusted her clothing, leaned against the gate, and waited.

  Eventually Joaquin, the blond werewhatever, came up to her and said, “Boss told me to take you back to the safe house.”

  I don’t want to be safe.

  No answer came back to her.

  Typical Prime bastard. Strahan brought me here, used me, and now abandoned me to go hunting.

  She knew this was not completely true and was annoyed with herself. She was a pro at pouting—shouldn’t she be able to come up with something better than that to keep her interest in Strahan under control?

  “Welcome back,” Ben Lancer told Tobias as he opened his front door.

  Tobias had a key and knew all the security codes, so he was surprised to find the old mortal waiting up for him.

  “You do know our needing permission to enter somewhere is only folklore, right?”

  Lancer didn’t take this as a joke. “Not at my house it isn’t,” he said.

  Tobias hadn’t been in contact with Lancer for many years, but he trusted their old friendship. “What’s up, Ben?” he asked.

  Lancer moved aside to let Tobias enter the house, then led him into the kitchen before he spoke. “I hear you had a pretty good time tonight.”

  Tobias wondered where Lancer’d gotten his information. “I did,” he answered. Except for watching Wilde kiss Flare and being unable to stop it, the last several hours had been most satisfactory.

  Lancer opened the refrigerator and handed Tobias a beer. “Unless you’d prefer something stronger,” he said. “Scotch?”

  Tobias had already twisted the cap off the beer bottle. “I’m good.” The old mortal’s emotions were . . . not angry, exactly . . . more like tense and worried. “What’s the matter?” Tobias asked him. “What have I done that you don�
�t like? Was it bringing Flare here?”

  Thick silver brows lowered over bright blue eyes. “Why would that bother me?”

  Tobias didn’t know. Flare had been the first thing that came to mind—hadn’t been off his mind since the beginning of the day. Had they been together for only one day? It seemed like forever.

  He shrugged. “It’s been a long day, Ben.”

  “A fun one for you,” Lancer said. “You’ve been hunting Purists, protecting vampirekind. Taking prisoners?” he asked, the tone and tilt of his head skeptical.

  Tobias knocked down the rest of his beer before answering. “I take it you want a full report on the Dark Angels’ activities.”

  “I think I deserve one.”

  “Because you’re my host? Because I could be putting your household at risk?”

  Ben Lancer snorted. “My household consists of professional bodyguards. I deserve an explanation as your self-appointed mortal conscience. There’s a whole city full of mortals out there uninvolved in your war. I want to make sure you remember the innocents and try to keep them out of your battles.”

  “I noticed you said try.”

  “I understand the nature of combat. But you damn well better keep collateral damage to a minimum.”

  Tobias knew that if he didn’t stop the attacks in Los Angeles, mortals were soon going to know of his kind’s existence. Then the war wouldn’t be with only Purists and hired guns. Who would be the innocents then? Who would be the targets? Vampires and werefolk, that’s who. But for now, Lancer’s concerns about mortals were legitimate.

  “Several mortals did die tonight,” Tobias said. “Mercenaries working for the bad guys.”

  “I have no problem with that. Pros know the risks. What about the Purists?”

  “Taken prisoner. Every Purist we manage to snatch is being held. For now.”

  Lancer didn’t ask about later. He knew the old rules between vampires and the mortals who hunted them. The Purists would eventually be brainwashed and freed, turned over to the hunter authorities to deal with, or killed. Their fate depended on the truth about how they’d become involved in the attacks.

  “What about the cops you ran into tonight? What about the security patrols?”

  “Are you worried about how we treated the paparazzi, too?”

  “Even them,” Lancer said. “More or less.”

  Tobias smiled. Many of Lancer’s clients were celebrities. The bodyguards who worked for him would probably cheer any news of bad things befalling the packs of paparazzi they spent time fending off.

  “No permanent damage was inflicted on any innocent mortal we encountered tonight, Ben. We messed up some memories, but nobody was hurt.”

  Lancer gave a sharp nod, satisfied. “Make sure you keep it up.”

  “Keep what up?” Domini asked, coming into the kitchen. She glanced at the kitchen clock, then at her grandfather. “Weren’t you going to bed?”

  “Weren’t you going home?” he growled back.

  “Not until Alec picks me up.” She jerked a thumb at Tobias. “He’s”—her eyes glazed over briefly—“going to have a baby.” She blinked. “Damn. I hate when that happens.”

  Tobias stared at the woman.

  “You do know she’s a seer?” Lancer asked.

  “Don’t mind me,” Domini said. “I see real things, but I’m pretty sure it’s Francesca who’s going to have a baby. My sixth sense is having directional problems this evening.”

  “I have every intention of having a baby,” Tobias admitted.

  Domini looked him over from head to toe. If he hadn’t been aware of her bonded status, he might have leered back at her. “Good luck with that,” she said after she’d assured herself of his masculine gender.

  “That does it,” Lancer said. “This time I really am going to bed.” He kissed his granddaughter’s cheek, gave Tobias one more stern glance, then walked out of the kitchen.

  “What was that all about?” Domini asked, eyeing Tobias with protective suspicion. “You aren’t trying to get him to do more than host this little party of yours, are you?”

  What was it with the Lancer family? Tobias wasn’t used to being questioned. Nagged, yes. Dee was an expert at it. But the first rule among the Dark Angels was absolute, unquestioning obedience. Not that it wasn’t good to be questioned sometimes, at least by competent outsiders. He needed reminders that he wasn’t omnipotent.

  Such as Flare? Oh, yeah, she was a major reminder.

  She’d looked sexy walking up the street dressed like a tramp. And he couldn’t do a damn thing but stand there and want her.

  Domini glanced at the wall clock again. “I’d really love to get home, but my bondmate is working late tonight. Who do you have on my house?” she asked casually.

  “A couple of werecoyotes,” he answered. “Stationed on the hill above your place.”

  She nodded. “Good choice. There are coyotes in the neighborhood. No one will notice a difference if they see them.”

  It was so nice that this professional bodyguard was comfortable with the idea of being protected herself. Unlike, say, Flare.

  “What is wrong with that female, anyway?”

  He hadn’t meant to speak and the words came out as a low, growling complaint. The mortal woman still picked up on them.

  “Francesca’s really a sweetie,” she said.

  “How do you know I mean Flare?”

  Domini chuckled. “You’re a Prime, and she’s the one you all want. Not that any of you have the faintest idea of how to go about it.”

  Oh, he knew how to go about it—but the proper method for taming a vampire female wasn’t something he could talk to a mortal female about. Especially not one bonded to a civilized Clan male.

  “Care to give me some advice?” he asked. “Lancers seem determined to give me advice tonight.”

  Domini shook her head. “My name is Reynard, remember? Francesca is family. You’ll have to work it out with her.” She turned to go, then glanced back at him. “One thing, though: she absolutely loathes, hates, and despises anyone but her brothers calling her Flare.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Francesca.” His whisper was hoarse with need.

  “Hmm . . . ?” the female lying flat on her stomach murmured. Awareness of him had not yet really intruded on her peaceful sleep.

  “I’m a dream,” he whispered. “A good dream. The best dream you’ll ever have.”

  He leaned forward from the chair beside her bed. Her bare back was covered by a bright red sheet, only her shoulders visible, a tumble of shining black hair obscuring her elegant profile. He appreciated the outline of her body beneath the clinging satin for a moment, licking his lips. But the gift wrapping didn’t hold his interest for long.

  He enjoyed the anticipation, the curl of desire tightening at his groin, the fire growing in his blood. The pulse of stirring fangs was pleasant in his mouth, not yet the driving ache he wanted. The inside of his mouth was warming, taste buds preparing for the feast. His acute sense of smell honed in on the sharp tang of female scent.

  Her unique scent.

  He tugged on the edge of the sheet, cool satin caressing his fingers. He watched it caress her skin, knowing exactly how it felt to her as it slipped down her back, revealed a slender waist and the smooth mounds of her buttocks.

  He paused to appreciate her beauty. His vision adjusted as he watched. He took the time to savor the changing view. The red of the sheets darkened to near black. The lush body laid out before him grew clearer, white as alabaster, the pulsing blood beneath running in warm silver rivers. The scent of flesh was sweet in his nostrils and in the back of his mouth. Her body heat rose up in a heady mist, calling to him.

  His claws shredded the cloth in his hand, making him smile and bringing on a compulsion impossible to resist. He moved to sit on the bed. For a moment he held his palm over her back with his eyes closed. Close enough to be warmed by her heat but not touching.

  Anticipate. Anticip
ate. Hunger. Was there ever anything so sweet as hunger?

  Satisfying it.

  He touched her. Only one finger. The tip of one diamond-sharp claw.

  One small prick. One bead of blood. Another. Another. A thin line of blood down the long length of her spine. Silver of life emerging the scarlet of sex. The sweet heated scent merged with the tang of hot copper.

  His fangs grew over his bottom lip, craving.

  He gave a low, animal growl.

  Hunger, need, and pain merged into a deep answering groan from her throat. Her spine arched up toward him.

  Lie still, he ordered.

  She answered with a snarl. Her muscles tensed, but she didn’t move.

  Obedience deserved reward.

  His mouth came down, the tip of his tongue flicking. He tasted each scarlet drop, savored, licked hot silk skin, moved on. Her orgasms shot through him—into his mind and down to his cock. Her blood intoxicated him.

  She turned over when he reached the base of her spine. Sinuous and swift, she came at him with raking claws and gleaming fangs. Her predatory beauty sent a shock of intense heat through him, leaving him vulnerable for a fraction of a second. Long enough for claws to swipe across his chest. Pain and pleasure sang through him.

  She sucked the wounds, licked, and sank her fangs deeply into one of the cuts. He howled in ecstasy.

  Even as his mind shouted, Control! Keep control! he threw her down onto her back and held her there. She thrashed and snarled while he forced a kiss on her. They tasted each other as blood mingled from their lips and on their fangs and tongues.

  She swore when he pulled his mouth from hers, breaking the connection before the blood bond could build to the point where their tastes, their very essences, became one.

  He held her slender wrists locked in his large hand and held her down with his heavier body while he sank his fangs into her throat. Her breasts were crushed against his chest and his cock pressed against her belly. Awareness of her softness, her heat, excited him. Her awareness of him echoed back into his mind. She was just as excited, a little afraid, angry at his dominance. But pleasure at it, longing for it, flickered into flaming life in her soul.