I place my hands on my hips. "Well, explaining the trick stops it from working. I'm not giving you anything."
He drops to the ground, and I swear he gives a little doggie shrug of his shoulders. "I didn't expect you to. You're a harder nut to crack than that."
"Oh? And you think you can crack me?"
He grins, his bushy whiskers parting to reveal his crimson tongue. "Course! I know just the trick. I'll be swimming in gravy and rolling in steaks for the rest of my life."
"Now, this I have to hear." I can't help it. His oversized confidence contrasts so sharply with his scruffy little self that I have to fight to not smile.
"I'm going to help you catch this cat thief. You claim all the credit, I claim all the steaks."
I consider his offer. He does have talents I don't have. That, and for once the dark streets of Honeycomb Falls don't look quite as serene and safe as they usually do. There's a killer prowling the hills, and what's to stop him from coming into town? Both of the full-time officers are out patrolling in their cars tonight, driving around the outskirts of town, keeping a wary eye out for trouble. Still, a little company while I walk about would be welcome.
"Fine. Exactly how much steak will be negotiated, but I can guarantee a fair amount. If you're instrumental in catching the thief. Just hanging around won't cut it."
"I never 'hang around', I'll have you know. I always have a purpose. Even if I'm not yet sure of what it is. And." He pauses and steps up to me, sniffing sharply at my pants. "There's a very faint smell of werejaguar on you."
"What?" I nearly jump. I look down at my uniform pants. I haven't worn them in two days. "How? These have been in my locker. Are you saying the thief took them and then put them back?"
Groofy shakes his head from side to side. "Weirder things have happened. But it's very faint. Strange."
"Very." I consider my uniform again, and try to imagine the thief wearing it. Too bizarre. "Well, let's get going."
I like to vary up my route, but there are a few spots I always like to check. Tin Pan Alley is one, leading off of Bridge Street to Art's little indie movie theater. It's a claustrophobic passage by day, and something right out of a noir movie by night. It's empty, though, so I keep going. I usually scramble down to the boulders that surround the pool at the base of the Honeycomb Falls waterfall, picking my way by moonlight to check for what crime novels call 'floaters', but tonight I decide to give that a pass. The odds of the thief being down there are nil.
I'm heading down Conway Street, Groofy trotting happily at my heels, when I see the front door to Anita's new bakery standing open. It's past midnight, and all the lights are out. Anita's not due to arrive for another three hours, when the dough she prepared during the evening has sat long enough to be ready for the oven, so what's going on?
I know, deep down in my heart, that she probably just forgot to lock the door on the way out. This is Honeycomb Falls. The wind must have pulled it open. But still. A little thrill of excitement runs through me, and I lick my lower lip and put my hand on the mace canister at my belt. "Ready to investigate?"
Groofy steps up to the door and sniffs. "I smell boysenberry bear claws. Treacle tarts. Chocolate-filled croissants. Blueberry muffins. Rhubarb and strawberry tarts. Sourdough. Coffee - "
"Yes, yes." I step up next to him and peer into the dark. "It's a bakery. Got it."
"And werejaguar," says Groofy.
A thrill of fear runs down my body. I gulp and look down at him. "You sure?"
He nods. "Yup. Fresh and strong."
I take a deep breath. I know what I should do. I can hear the chief's voice loud and clear. If I come across any sign of trouble, I call for backup. I under no circumstances investigate by myself. I am not to act like a hero.
My heart is pounding. I grab my walkie-talkie and press the button. "Bardwell? Do you copy?" Saying things like that makes me feel awesome.
"This is Bardwell."
"The door to Anita's bakery is standing open, and I've reason to believe there's a thief inside. Over."
"Copy. Hang tight, Kilmarten. I'll be there in five."
Five minutes? The thief could be long gone by then. I lower the walkie-talkie and bite my lower lip. Everything is silent. The faint light that filters in through the large front windows causes shapes to loom out of the gloom. Should I wait? I should wait. But then I imagine telling Chase about tonight's adventure. How I hung around on the pavement until the real cops showed up.
That cinches it. I push open the door and peer into the bakery. It's strange to see it dark and still. Ever since Anita opened it last month it's been packed, sometimes with a line literally stretching down the block as people from all over Franklin County drive in to taste her amazing cakes, tarts, pies, and muffins. I lift my pocket flashlight and flick it on, and sweep the bakery with its light.
Nothing. Everything is in its proper place. Groofy is standing between my ankles. I'm about to ask him if he's sure the werejaguar is in here when I hear a creak. It comes from the back of the bakery. It could just be the building settling on its foundations. But I know it's not. I look down at Groofy. "You stay out here."
"Me? Why?"
"Because I'm telling you to. Now wait for me." So saying, I step into the bakery, cross to the end of the counter and duck under it. The door to the kitchen is one of those swinging doors, a porthole centered at the top. Whoever is back there can see the glow of my flashlight through the little window. They know I'm here.
"All right, you're under arrest," I say, trying to project authority and confidence. It comes out like more of a squeak. "Come out, nice and easy, hands up."
I wait. Nothing. I wipe my sleeve across my forehead. Now what? Go outside and wait for Bardwell. That's the wise move. Going into the back of the bakery by myself is definitely not the smart move. It's the kind of move silly women make in horror movies. The kind of move that gets them killed. But I think of Chase's green eyes. Think of my father's years serving and protecting. Think of what kind of woman I see myself as. The brave kind, one who takes risks to catch the bad guys, or the safe kind, who waits for others to show up and take over the situation?
I start to push open the swinging door, take a deep breath, and then shove it all the way open and step inside, whipping my flashlight from side to side, searching for the intruder.
I see gleaming chrome tables, the big oven, massive mixing bowls, windows to the little parking lot out back, shelves of cook books... Where is he? "I know you're here!" I call out. "Come out!"
"Well, if you insist." The voice comes from right behind me. It's smooth, an amused drawl, lazy and utterly confident. Before I can spin around, a large hand closes around my shoulder. It's bigger than a human hand. I can feel the sharp prick of claws. The grasp is powerful and firm, and holds me locked in place.
My eyes go wide. The werejaguar. Dear lord, I'm alone in the dark with a criminal shifter. I don't have a chance. What was I thinking? That I'd drop him with a can of mace? I feel him lean in close and inhale deeply at the nape of my neck. The hairs there stand on end. His breath is a low, strangely alluring rasp, almost as if he's on the verge of purring. Say something, stupid! Don't just stand here!
"You're under arrest," I say. I feel like I'm floating six feet above my body. "Let go of me immediately."
"Hmm," he rumbles, voice right against my ear. I can feel the tickle of his whiskers. "I don't know if I want to do that. You're so delicious to hold onto."
There's something familiar about him. Something about his sexy voice. Where have I heard it before? It's the kind of voice you want to drown in, masculine and predatory, undercut with a hint of promised danger. And suddenly I'm not sure I want him to let me go. I want that powerful hand to move over me, to touch and explore where he will.
What is wrong with me?
"You're not going to get away with this," I say. "We will catch you."
He rumbles in amusement, and I'm supremely aware of his body behind mine, his massive
jaguar presence, lethal and dangerous beyond compare. "Then I'd better make the most of my freedom. Would you blame me for wanting to spend those moments with you?" His rumbling voice makes me want to melt into him. "To hold you? Caress you? Kiss you, lick you, make you scream?"
My mind is racing. I need to act now before things spiral out of control altogether. How can I salvage this situation? I'm having such a hard time focusing. His magnetic presence is mesmerizing. Get it together, Jo! Surprise him! My dad's voice comes through loud and clear in my mind. I gather my wits. I don't have much time. He may be interested in playing games, but I'm here to arrest him.
So I use my dad's favorite trick. The one I never thought I'd actually get to use in the real world, the one that cracked me up when he told me about it.
I raise both hands as if I'm under arrest, and say loudly and clearly, "But what about the parade?"
There. In that one moment of confusion as he tries to figure out what the hell I'm talking about, I feel his grip weaken. I spin around with all my strength, slamming my forearm into his wrist, breaking his hold altogether. I'm free - but I'm not done yet. Because I've raised my hands, my mace is already in position. I complete the turn and fire it in his face.
But he's fast. Goodness, he's so fast. I see a blur of pale gold fur covered with black spots, and he's gone. Panicked, I wheel around, trying to track him with my flashlight as he bounds over the central table with a laugh, moving with such lithe athleticism that I know I don't have a chance in hell of catching him. He crouches, and just as I train my light on his powerful body he leaps, up and into the shadows, and actually dives headfirst out an open window.
I run to the back door, unbolt it and throw it open. Step out into the crisp night air, pulse racing, and sweep the parking lot with my flashlight. Empty. He's gone. There's a knot the size of Rhode Island in my throat, my hands are shaking, and I've got nothing to show for my attempted arrest but the intruder's trailing laughter as it fades away into the night air.
I didn't even come close to stopping him. He escaped with ease. And in truth, he could have done so much worse. I'm lucky he didn't take advantage of me when he had me in his power. I hug myself tight, fighting the dirty thoughts that come creeping unbidden into my mind. What did he say? You're so delicious. His voice right in my ear, his presence in the dark magnetic, electrifying. What if he had unbuttoned my shirt and slid his hand inside it, to cup my breast? I shiver, and then shake my head.
What on earth am I thinking? I immediately grab my walkie-talkie and press the button. "Bardwell? The suspect just fled the bakery, out through the back into the parking lot."
"Damn it, Kilmarten!" Bardwell is normally as cool as a cucumber. "I told you to stay the heck out of there!"
I wince. "I'm sorry. I didn't want him to escape."
"Well, get back out onto Conway Street. And don't do anything else!"
"Copy," I say miserably, and hustle back outside.
Groofy leaps up as I emerge. "You're alive!"
"Of course I'm alive," I snap. "Did you think I was going to die?"
"Yeah," says Groofy with disarming honesty. "I was about to start the grieving process."
I cross my arms and look up and down Conway Street. No sign of Bardwell yet. "I didn't know you cared about me."
"Oh, not you. I was going to start grieving for the steaks." He sniffs at me, walking in a circle. "You ran into him."
"Yeah. Then he got away. He's damned fast."
"Uh-huh." Groofy sits and scratches behind his ear. "Shifters all are. You won't catch him by running after him. You have to make him come to you."
I go to say something sharp and witty and mean and then stop. First off, just because I'm in a bad mood doesn't excuse my being rude. Second, he's got a point. "How so?"
Groofy lowers his leg. "Well. Set a trap. Like a mousetrap, but for a werejaguar."
"OK, that sounds great in principle, but how do I do that?"
Groofy frowns, and I follow his gaze and see the flashing lights of Bardwell's approaching patrol car. "Set bait, and catch him when he shows up. Find something he would want to steal, and wait next to it."
I don't have time to answer. Bardwell parks sharply beside me and gets out, hand on his holster. His eyes are narrowed. He scans the road, then looks at me, then down at Groofy with some surprise. "You bring your pet on patrol, Kilmarten?"
"Woof!" says Groofy, and wags his tail.
"No, sir. He's a stray that just showed up."
"All right. I'm going to take a look. Make yourself useful and use my car to fetch Anita. The chief's on his way."
I gulp. Great. "Yes, sir."
Sighing, I get into his patrol car and drive over to the large house where Soren rents the top floor, and ring the doorbell.
The werebear opens the front door a moment later, and I gulp. He's only wearing pajama pants, and the sight of his broad shoulders, furry chest, and cobblestone six-pack is almost too much for a curvy gal like me to take. My face flushes as his dark eyes train on me, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Jo? What's going on?"
I fight for a professional tone of voice. "Soren, um, hello." Anita is one lucky woman. I fight to keep my gaze from wandering all over his gorgeous body. To the pajama pants that are hanging dangerously low over his hips. "I'm afraid there's been a burglary at Anita's bakery. We'd like her to come take a look and see if anything's missing."
Soren's face immediately darkens with concern, and he nods. "One moment." He closes the door, and I step back to the patrol car. Wait. A shifter thief. I've never heard of the like. Arresting him would take a whole squad of men. Could I do it if I was armed? Maybe. But given how fast the intruder moved, I might just fire shots into the air as he danced around me.
The front door opens and Anita hurries out, face pale, putting on her black glasses. "Jo? What's happened?"
I give Anita a quick hug and then step back, remembering I have to be professional. "Jump in the car. I'll explain on the way over." Which I do, since there's not much to explain. By the time we get to the bakery, Chief LaBonte has shown up, and somebody has switched on all the lights inside. Anita jumps out of the car before it stops moving and runs into her bakery, looking around wildly until I see her calm. Soren and I follow in right after.
Chief LaBonte steps up. "Anita? Can you identify if anything is missing?"
She nods distractedly, checks the register, then moves into the kitchen. We all trail after. "Nothing seems to be missing," she says distractedly, touching everything as she goes as if she's counting off her belongings. We watch. Did I interrupt the thief before he could take anything? A thin ray of hope shines through my gloom. That would be worth something, wouldn't it?
"Wait." Anita pauses, then steps up to a little framed picture of a honeybee. She pushes it aside and reveals a small iron safe, whose face is no larger than a book. "Oh no." She opens the little door without any effort. We all see its empty interior. Anita clutches at her head and turns to stare at Soren. "It's gone! The Elysian honey! All of it, it's gone!"
Chapter 7
I crouch on the corner of the general store's roof, three flights above Conway Street, and watch the scene below as it plays out. One hand grips the brick, the other lazily tosses the fat jar of magic honey up into the air, and catching it neatly each time it falls back down. Nobody looks up. Nobody ever does. Even if they did, would they be able to make me out, silhouetted against the night sky? Maybe. Maybe not.
Joanna is below. She's standing to one side, wearing that police uniform that makes her look so unbearably luscious and delicious. I can recall her scent with ease. Oh, how I was tempted to shift into my human form when I had her in the bakery, and kiss her neck. Reveal myself to her, give up on my planned theft, and run my tongue over her skin? Sink my hands into her gorgeous hair, and pull it just tight enough to make her gasp?
Thinking these thoughts makes my jaguar want to prowl right down there and take her away. Steal her to a hidden place in the dark, wher
e we can lie down and explore each other's bodies. Where I can taste her to my heart's content, taste her sweat, her lips, the slit between her legs. To feel her full body beneath mine, to trace her magnificent curves. To touch her in the way that will make her groan, make her plead for more...
It was a neat trick, that one she pulled. Breaking my grip like that. I thought for one moment, one terrible, aching moment, that she had figured out who I was, had put two and two together and was about to succumb. Then she utterly confused me, broke my grip, and tried to blind me from point blank range.
I grin. Now that's a woman I can admire. Not a pushover. Coming into the dark to find me. To arrest me. I scented her fear. Scented the copper tang of her adrenaline, thick in the air like blood in the water. Yet she still came back there. That took courage. That took will. Not a timid woman, Ms. Joanna Kilmarten.
I watch as Anita and her werebear boyfriend emerge from the bakery, and for a moment I wonder if the bear will look up. But no. He's a cave-dwelling animal. Used to rooting his snout in the dirt, looking for acorns and roots. Bears don't look to the sky. And true to form, he ushers the plump little baker into the patrol car, and one of the officers drives them away, leaving Joanna to get lectured by the police chief. Why is she in trouble? She did her job, as far as I can see. No telling, with humans.
Finally the chief leaves, shaking his head, and it's just Joanna and a little dog standing in front of the dark bakery. She's got her fists on her hips, and seems to be talking to the mutt. A talking dog? I strain and hear words. Indeed. How strange. Perhaps a witch's familiar. Or a spirit possessing the animal? Either way, he doesn't look to pose a threat. The two of them reach an agreement, and the dog trots away, its ridiculously-formed body ungainly and awkward.
Leaving just Joanna, alone in the night.
Catching the Cat Burglar: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (Honeycomb Falls Book 3) Page 5