by Rosanna Leo
Bart elbowed her gently. “Yeah. Let’s hang her on the wall.”
“Oh, you two,” Shirley crowed. “Always ganging up on me.” The amused arch to her brow clearly showed she loved every minute of their teasing. “I’m going to go flirt with the bartender to see if he’ll give me another Bloody Caesar.”
“Don’t flirt too much, woman,” Joseph warned in jest. “Or I’ll come over there and remind you who’s your Alpha.”
She sashayed off, wiggling for her mate’s benefit. His father watched her walk away, a dreamy cast to his gaze. Bart could not have been more appalled if they’d dropped to the floor and had sex right there. And he’d walked in on them by mistake a couple times over the years, and remembered well the particular lurch of his gut. God bless his parents. They still went at it like captive rabbits on a breeding mission.
“My God,” he whispered. “So many years together, and three grown children later, and you two still act like newlyweds. It’s embarrassing.”
His father cuffed him on the arm. “One day, when you take over as Alpha, and when you have the love of a good woman, you’ll know what it’s like.”
Old tensions rose to the surface, but Bart swallowed any leftover angst. They’d had this conversation umpteen times. “Dad, you know how I feel about the Alpha business. It’s not for me. If you’re insistent on training a protégé, talk to Nate, or even Lena.”
Bart nodded over to his younger siblings, who were engaged in a half-hearted dispute at the jukebox. Nate, occupied in trying to punch certain buttons, no doubt so they could have an all-Poison music selection for the night, was caught in Lena’s headlock. Frankly, his money was on Lena. His little sister never backed down from a fight, and Nate would always give in to her. They both adored their sister and had gone to ridiculous lengths in the past to make her dark eyes crinkle with glee.
Their dad chuckled but looked back to him. “I love your brother and sister, but they’re not ready and they’re not as level-headed as you. And besides, you’re the eldest of your generation.”
“Well, then,” Bart replied, grasping at straws, “talk to Flynn or Fletcher. They’re just a couple of years younger than I am.”
They both turned to regard Bart’s cousins, sons to Joseph’s deceased brother. “I’m sure your cousins and your brother and sister would all jump at the chance to be Alpha, but none of them are my first choice,” his dad said, frowning. “I’d like to know, if I ever decide to step down, the pack will be in good hands. I trust you, Bart.” He cocked an eyebrow in the direction of Flynn and Fletcher. “Besides, your cousins have other concerns, and their business keeps them busy. With all the work coming to their design firm, I don’t know that they have enough time to devote to pack concerns.”
“And I do? My job here at the Ursa keeps me busy. Besides, Dad, I’ve got important stuff on my mind.” Like making sure a hardened criminal didn’t get anywhere near his pack or his friends from the lodge.
“I realize that, but you’re the sort of man who will always make time for family, as much as you pretend to be removed from it. I don’t see the same quality in Flynn, nor in Fletcher.”
Bart eyed his cousins, who stood clustered with a group of third cousins from Vancouver. Fletcher, attired in designer duds that looked out of place in the Ursa Lodge pub, sensed his gaze and turned and waved. Flynn, the older of the two brothers, noticed and turned as well. He glared at Bart and then frowned.
Dumb Flynn. Always with a chip on his shoulder. As if it was always someone else’s fault his life was a mess. Maybe if he didn’t impregnate every woman he slept with, he’d be a damn sight jollier.
Bart sighed. “Well, whatever you decide, Dad, I’m not the one. I’m happy with my life. I don’t want to spend my days refereeing petty squabbles for the cousins. I don’t want to clean up after Flynn every time he becomes someone else’s baby daddy. And I certainly don’t want to be pinned down to one place, unable to disappear for a while, or take a holiday without ruffling someone’s feathers.”
“It’s not like that and you know it. This isn’t the old days when being in a pack meant huddling in a cave somewhere, hunting together for our next meal. We all have lives outside the pack, but we still need someone to act as our moral center. Someone to focus our concerns and rise above any differences. You have that ability.”
Joseph was about to argue the point further when a long dog whistle caught their attention. Bart turned his head and spotted Charlotte at the pub door.
Thank God. He breathed a long sigh of relief.
He turned to see the source of the whistle. It had come from Flynn the Super Sperm, who now regarded Charlotte like a hungry carnivore and as if she were a free surf and turf dinner.
Bart just about flew to the door, shielding her from his cousin’s rapacious gaze. He blinked at her several times in quick succession. “You came.”
She tossed him a blasé look, but he saw the twitch of nerves around her silver eyes. “I was tired of staring at my document on representations of evil in Christianity. Besides, I wanted to say hi to your folks.”
He took her in, and felt as if someone had flipped his switch to “pause.” All of a sudden, he couldn’t move. Charlotte had kept her hair down tonight, and dark waves tumbled around her shoulders. The sort of hair that called to his hands, making them want to bury themselves in it, to lift it and expose her skin. Her curves, so pleasingly wrapped in tight black jeans and a sparkly black top, tempted him as nothing did. Even the hint of cleavage in her V-neck played havoc with his self-control. He’d never known anyone so freaking gorgeous, and it didn’t appear she had a lick of makeup on. Just her usual pale gloss and a faint touch of glittery stuff on her eyelids. He allowed his gaze to drop to her feet. Granny boots, one crossed over the other. She tapped her toe, as if ill at ease. He smiled, and something rattled around in his chest, no doubt his foolish heart. Inside his core, his wolf jumped onto its hind legs and tried to paw her in happiness.
“So,” she said quietly. “Do I get to come in, or do you want me to work the door and keep the riffraff out?”
“Come in, of course.” Unwilling to give himself a swat for being a dolt, he swatted his wolf instead, urging the filthy beast to calm down.
Someone appeared next to them. Two someones, whose strong colognes warred with each other. Bart turned and caught the famished looks on both Flynn’s and Fletcher’s mugs.
Did nothing ever change? No matter how many women laid themselves before Flynn and Fletcher, they always seemed more interested in another man’s woman. Not that she was his.
Was she?
“Bart,” Flynn drawled. “Introduce us to this pretty lady wolf.” He took a swig from his beer bottle, eyeing her boobs at the same time with a lazy, entitled air.
He turned and whispered to Flynn, “Not until you stop staring at her chest, asshole.”
Flynn curled his lip and lifted his gaze with the help of an eye roll.
Cursing his cousins’ sense of timing, he muttered, “Charlotte, meet my cousin Flynn Cairo and his brother Fletcher.”
He knew his cousins were both good-looking dudes, very much Charlotte’s type: tall, arrogant, and available. He waited for her usual exclamation of appreciation, and for her to abscond with one of them, or both of them. Accustomed to the routine, he’d spent countless evenings watching her walk off into the sunset with some undesirable.
However, she just cleared her throat and shook both their hands, like a prim woman of business. “Nice to meet you.” And then she looked at him and bit her bottom lip.
What? And what was with the sexy lip nibble? She never nibbled her lip in his direction.
“Um…” he began, at a loss for words, but feeling he needed to interject something.
“Charlotte,” Fletcher said, his mouth spread wide in a grin that no doubt worked wonders on lesser women. “How about a drink? Let me guess. You look like a martini woman.” He spent a moment looking her up and down, as if to verify someone ha
d scrawled the word martini all over her boobs and hips.
She barely spared him a glance, but her lips twitched in a tiny grin. “I’m good for now, thanks. And Bart knows my drink order. Milk on the rocks.”
Fletcher chortled, as if he was in on the private joke and found it oh-so amusing. He reached in his pocket and handed her a business card. “Honey, if you ever have any interior design needs, I’m at your service. If you check out my website, you’ll find out everything you need to know about my company—”
“Our company,” Flynn interrupted, winking at her. “My brother does the designs, but I’m the contractor. The muscle of the team, you could say.” He stretched out his arms, flexing his biceps for her benefit. “My number’s on the card.”
“So’s mine,” said Fletcher.
“Um, thanks.” She pocketed the card without looking at it and trained her gaze on Bart instead. “Can we talk?”
He took a step toward her, his head swimming from the fact she hadn’t succumbed to his cousins’ obvious come-ons. Her amazing smell didn’t help his poor head. Her perfume seemed stronger tonight, more enticing. She wore the same pretty baby powder scent, but in that moment it seemed to incorporate softness and sweet dreams, all in one fragrant package. “If you’d like.”
“I’d like.” She chewed her lip again, tormenting its plumpness.
Holy shit. What was happening? He wasn’t accustomed to her doing so much lip sucking in his general vicinity. She normally nibbled her lip at other men, making him want to punch something hard and break all his knuckles.
His cousins wandered away, seeing Charlotte wasn’t interested, in them or their interior design company. Even still, they both aimed looks back at her, as if deciding the right time to make another play. As he trudged toward the bar, Flynn threw him another glare as well. He didn’t care. He was used to Flynn’s surly face and had been living with it all his life. His cousin had always been the jealous sort and seemed to think Bart had it made in every arena: work, money, and women. He supposed he did all right in all those areas. Thanks to his job with Ryland, he was quite comfortable and enjoyed his work. And yes, he’d been able to appease his wolfish appetites with a few pretty women.
Just not her.
He stifled a quiet laugh. If only Flynn knew the truth—that Bart spent many of his nights pining for the girl who hadn’t even been close enough to get away. Of course someone like Flynn would resent any sort of success in others, even the fabricated kind.
“What’s with Thing 2?” asked Charlotte, indicating Flynn.
“Oh, he’s just a moody bastard. Ignore him if he asks you for money. It will happen. He pays a lot of child support.”
“Don’t worry. I promise not to write him any blank checks.”
Ignoring Flynn’s petulant attitude, Bart led Charlotte toward a quiet corner, touching her elbow. Even that innocent touch sent his wolf into a fit of lovelorn howls. He remembered her splayed under Dylan, so vulnerable, and bit back a curse. “What did you want to talk about?”
She faced him, and every swoop of her black lashes made his heart thump harder. “I wanted to apologize…and say thanks.” She gazed at him for a moment, and then scratched her head. “Fuckdamnshitpisshell, I’m so not good at this.”
He grinned at the use of her patented swear word, the one she only brought out when really bothered. “Okay, let’s take one thing at a time. Why do you want to apologize?”
“I flew off the handle with you.”
“I know, Charles. It’s what we do. I know the drill by now.” He grinned again.
She shook her head and frowned. “No, it’s wrong. I don’t want it to be like that. You’ve always been really nice to me, Bart. You deserve the same in return.”
Nice. Another thing he didn’t want from her. “Okay. So we’ll behave from now on. Don’t sweat it.” He sidled closer to her, so tempted to do something stupid like tip up her chin and taste her lips. “And why do you want to thank me?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Well, I should think it’s obvious, Bartholomew. You saved me from Dylan when he got overexcited, and you protected my honor. Even though I could have handled him myself. He was drunk. In another minute or two, he would have just fallen off me.”
“That’s not how I saw it, and you weren’t handling him at all.”
Her lips thinned. “Is that why you were loitering outside my cabin, listening at the door?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I work security. I’m supposed to be everywhere. You never know what sorts of unsavory characters are around. And I’m not going to apologize for being there when you needed me.” He looked away, pinning his gaze on a blank piece of wall while he focused his thoughts, and then whipped his head back around to glare at her. How did she manage to push all his buttons? Did she do it on purpose? “Oh, and when it comes to choosing men, you’re the pits.”
She gave her head a little shake, her eyes darkening with what appeared to be regret. His comment seemed to hit home. “Dylan meant nothing to me anyway.”
“Then he shouldn’t have been there with you.”
“Don’t lecture me on who I see. I can see who I damn well choose.”
“Well, you chose wrong, sweetheart. And it’s not the first time. You know, for a smart woman, you make some shitty decisions.”
“And how about you, you humungous asshole? I come here, trying to bury the hatchet, and you attack me.”
“Attack you? You know what you need? You need…” Nerves choked off the rest of his words.
“What?” she demanded, her eyes widening at him. “What do you think I need? Just say it, for fuck’s sake!”
She needed a damn spanking for being so impertinent. However, the vision of her naked body spread over his lap while he fingered and palmed her did nothing for his escalating blood pressure, so he quickly banished it.
What did she need? She needed a man who would treasure her, someone who would treat her better than an itinerant fuck buddy would. She needed someone with inner strength who would never hesitate to share himself with her. She needed truth and gentleness, but also a man who would love her the way she deserved to be loved: with ardor and passion and well into the night. She needed someone who would protect her, who would sacrifice everything to keep her safe.
“Bartholomew?” she prompted, her nostrils flared.
“Oh, Charlotte!” With reluctance, they both turned and faced the owner of the squeal. Bart’s mom ran toward them, her arms outstretched. She embraced Charlotte as if someone had told her she could only give out one more hug for the rest of her life. “It’s so good to see you.” After squishing the life out of her, his mom held her at arm’s length and gave her entire body a once-over. “You look good, girl.”
She swallowed and her blush calmed and faded. “Thanks, Mrs. Cairo. Must be my meat-and-potatoes-only diet.”
“A girl after my own heart. And I told you at the last reunion to call me Shirley. You’re the only one of Bart’s friends who gets to call me by name.” She arched a brow at her son.
While his mom and Charles chatted, Bart looked away and tried to steady his erratic pulse. Breathing in and out, he concentrated on peaceful, quiet things like goldfish and babbling brooks, and baby robins.
Before long, his horny wolf careened into his tranquil image, stuck his gnarly head into the babbling brook, and devoured all the little goldfish. Chewing angrily, the wolf lifted its head and howled in Charlotte’s direction.
Oh, fuck. The night had just begun, and it already seemed interminable.
*
Jesus. It had happened again. She had no clue how, but it seemed she and Bart were destined to bite each other’s heads off. And to think she’d come here tonight to make peace and, well, she wasn’t sure what else, but she’d hoped it might involve some up-close-and-personal time with his sin-inspiring scar.
While his mother rambled on about how the bartenders at the Ursa always made the best Bloody Caesars, Charlotte snuck a peek at
Bart. He’d looked away, and his lip was curled in dislike, whether at her or the situation, she couldn’t tell. Either way, her discomfort level grew at a steady rate.
He seemed more on edge than usual. Is that what she did to him? Proof positive they were so wrong for each other.
“So Bart tells me you’ll be lecturing at the university soon,” Shirley said between sips of Caesar.
He’d been talking about her? To his mother? “Yes, that’s right. One of the profs in the Religious Studies department turned ninety and decided to finally retire. I was teaching assistant to the department head, sort of his pet flunky, and he put in a good word for me.”
“You’ll be wonderful.” She turned to her son. “Won’t Charlotte be wonderful, Bart?”
Forced to look at her again, he turned, and she waited on his response. He gritted his teeth, but she glimpsed a faint fluttering in his eyes. “Yeah, flippin’ marvelous.” He looked away, gave his scar a rough rub, and stared at his beer bottle.
Shirley pulled him closer to her, ignoring his testiness. Clinging to his shirt sleeve, she gushed to Charlotte. “Did you know Ryland made Bart head of security?”
“He did?” Warmth spread across her chest at his news, but also some disappointment because he hadn’t shared it with her himself. Mind you, it wasn’t as if he ever had an opportunity when all they did was yell at each other. “I mean, that’s amazing. You never said, Bart.”
The skin around his scar twitched and reddened, making her want to soothe it. Did it still hurt? She’d always wanted to ask but felt bad bringing it up. One day, she’d summon the bravery to ask him how he got it.
“It’s no big deal. Not like your news.”
“Don’t be silly,” she countered. “This is huge. I’m so happy for you. You’ve wanted to assume more responsibility for a long time. Does this mean you’ll implement that new security system you were checking out?”