Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Kristin Miller. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
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Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Scorched is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Candace Havens
Cover design by Kelly Martin
Cover art from Period Images, Bigstock, and Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-63375-954-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition June 2017
To Justin
I did it! I took the dare and managed to fit those two disgustingly hilarious words in a book. Took me long enough, right?
Chapter One
Snow
Somewhere in the Pacific Northwest
White Wolf Pack
“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” I pray, staring at my reflection, “please don’t let Malcolm’s dick be small.”
Of all the things that could be wrong with him, this is the only thing on my mind. The teensy-tiny little smidgeon of uncertainty niggling at the back of my brain. Because come on, there has to be something wrong with Malcolm Taylor, wildly successful CEO of Taylor’s Jewelry in New York City. Nobody is intelligent, hardworking, witty, and swinging a club between the legs.
He’s a total Hemsworth to boot, or so he seems from the pictures. Just under six feet tall, dirty-blond hair that tickles his broad shoulders, tapered waist, muscles for days—more than enough to sweep me off my feet—and dreamy blue eyes.
Does he have a sixth toe? A nasty scar? I’ll gladly accept both of those things and so much more.
“But for the love of God,” I say aloud before spreading ruby-red gloss across my lips, “please don’t let him be packing peanuts below the belt.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” my stepmother says from behind me, drawing me around. Although she’s only in her mid-forties, the silvery-white hair pulled back from her narrow face, and the stress lines etched around her eyes make her appear twenty years older. She’s holding out a glass filled with a lime-green alcohol. “I brought this to loosen your nerves.”
I frown, staring at the martini glass. “What is it?”
“Tonight’s special.” As her lips curl into a sinister smile, I notice that she’s painted them dark burgundy. It reminds me of the shade of blood. “It’s an appletini. Made just for you.”
“Thanks.” I take the drink and sip carefully. It’s mostly vodka, with a hint of sweetness. Perfection. “I don’t like these parties. Never have. Too many people.”
“I know.” My stepmother folds her arms over her chest, giving off a vibe of icy indifference. “But tonight, it’s paramount that you put your best foot forward. I’ve just received word that Malcolm Taylor has arrived.”
“Already?” The breath catches in my throat. “He’s early.”
“I thought you’d be pleased. You’ve had a crush on him forever. I see the way you stare at pictures of him in the White Wolf Pack Newsletter.”
“Oh, I’m excited to finally meet him in person.” And I’ll be sure to ogle his pictures in private from now on. “But I’m nervous, too.”
Because I’ve built him up in my head as the perfect guy. We’ve never met, but beyond his stunning good looks, I hear he’s kind and thoughtful, with a sense of humor that’ll have you rolling every day. As a member of our pack, he’s reached borderline celebrity status. It’s too bad his work in New York City keeps him from attending our full moon festivities.
This weekend, though, is special.
Every werewolf in the pack must be here, including him. Sunday is my twenty-fifth birthday, which means I’m carrying on the tradition of my maternal line. I’ll become Alpha of the pack and rule the wolves in our care.
And he’ll be here to see it.
My heart races at the thought. “You must take tonight seriously,” my stepmother goes on, her voice grave. “You know how dire our situation has become.”
Sighing heavily, I toss back a stiff drink. “You don’t have to remind me.”
Each month during the phase of the full moon, we close down the luxurious White Estate and open it to the werewolves in our pack. We party for three days straight, with dinners, dances, and an induction ceremony on the final day. Any other weekend, our estate is a top-notch bed and breakfast for non-shifters. We offer all kinds of outdoor activities for those who wish to escape city life. During the full moon, though, on a weekend like this one, our estate is a shifting sanctuary, a place where we can be ourselves, giving in to our primal urges.
But behind closed doors, our estate is in trouble. Expenses are high, and the income is lower than it’s been in five years, ever since my dad passed away. We’ve applied for loans, ones that would allow us to remodel and hopefully get back on our feet, but we’ve been denied time and time again.
“Lucky for us, the solution to all of our problems is right here, staring at me with wide, innocent eyes.” My stepmother pinches my chin in her bony fingers and squeezes too tightly. “Once Malcolm Taylor falls head over heels in love with you, we’ll be set. Our future will be brighter than either of us could have ever dreamed.”
The diamonds on her fingers gleam brightly—the rock on her middle finger is new. It seems as if she’s always exchanging smaller gems for larger, plain cars for more luxurious. No wonder we’re in such dire financial straits. It’s the spending that’s gotten out of control. We should be cutting down to basics, not using more than we have. Not that I could ever point those things out to her.
After this weekend, when I’ve become Alpha and she’s no longer my advisor, I’d like to think I could change things and improve this place. But I’ve seen the amount of debt we’re in, and it’s downright oppressive.
“It should be easy to get him under your spell,” she goes on before I can respond, “someone with your flawless beauty.”
I lean away from her touch. “You make it sound simple. Walk up to him, introduce myself, and—bam. He’s in love. Doesn’t work that way, Stepmother.”
Though, damn, I wish it did. I’ve been thinking and dreaming of him for longer than I care to admit.
“Oh, my dear…” She shakes her head as if she pities me. “He’s a hot-blooded, unmated werewolf. Of course that’s the way it works.”
Okay, I must be stupid. Or naive. But I’ve met countless men who didn’t fall in love with me after a simple introduction and handshake. Maybe I’ve been going about things the wrong way.
“You’ll go downstairs and catch his attention,” she continues, eyeing me carefully. “You’ll seduce him. Convince him he can’t live without you. Before long, there’ll be wedding bells, and we will be partne
rs in the largest jewelry company in the country. Doesn’t sound difficult.”
It sounds manipulative. Borderline evil.
“Oh, of course.” I laugh nervously. “Seduce him—trick him, you mean. I’m not going to buy our way out of debt with sex. I don’t care how big of a co—rock,” I correct, blushing, “he can promise me.”
She laughs, a malicious sound that pricks my ears. “I’m not asking you to sleep with Malcolm Taylor against your will. Though, if his balls were in my court, I’d—”
“No, Stepmother…” I turn a cough into a laugh. “You mean if the ball was in your court. Not his balls.”
She waves me away. “Don’t twist words on me. You know what I mean. I’d do anything to save our estate.”
“Maybe I’m misunderstanding,” I say quietly, “but it sounds like you’re telling me to deceive him, sleep with him, and then marry him for his money so we avoid foreclosure.”
Her narrow face remains stoic, though truth twinkles in her dark eyes. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
“Then what?”
Slowly, she pulls down the masquerade mask I’d lifted onto my forehead. It’s made of silver sequins with red feathers flaring over the top, matching the colors in my mermaid-fit dress perfectly.
“Malcolm Taylor is a catch, Snow, and he’s here, in your home. This is your chance to get to know him, get closer to him. What harm would it do if you went downstairs, put on your sweetest smile, and tried to capture his attention? You never know—you just might hit it off and live happily ever after.”
“Things never go that smoothly for me.” I down the last of my appletini. “Especially not in that department.”
“Think positive, my dear.” My stepmother turns, her black dress flaring around her ankles as she walks toward the tower in the west wing. “He’ll be the one in a midnight-blue tux.”
“I’m sure there will be lots of men in blue,” I call out.
She cranes around and glares over her shoulder. “The one with the women draped all over him, then.”
Well, she’s right there. I don’t have to be downstairs to know that half of the estate is filled with women who want to get into his pants. When we received confirmation that he’d be attending this weekend, the reservation department telephone rang off the hook with women wondering what room he’d be staying in, and asking if they could reserve the room closest. It was madness.
As I adjust my dress in the mirror, tugging on the top to make sure the heart-shaped drop covers my breasts, I give myself a mental pep talk.
I’m not doing this for my stepmother, or the promise of marriage to a guy who’ll save our estate from foreclosure. I’m doing this for me. Because I have to meet Malcolm Taylor. If I don’t take advantage of the opportunity in front of me this weekend, I’ll lose the best chance I’ve ever had. He’ll go back to New York, and I’ll most likely never see him again. I’ll always wonder “what if.”
Sighing heavily, I push the worry from my mind. “Here goes nothing.”
The party is hopping. In the kitchen, the staff hustles to arrange food on silver serving trays. Packmates lounge on every chair, couch, and barstool in the living room. They hover near the bar in the dining room, meeting up with friends, and flirting with strangers. Women are decked out in formal gowns, elegant masks covering the top parts of their faces. Men are dressed in tuxedos with matching black and white masks. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling above, casting colorful slivers of light around the room.
It’s very Phantom of the Opera. With wolves. And liquor.
Ghosting my hand over the banister, I traipse down the stairs slowly, using my vantage point high above to locate Malcolm.
Doesn’t take long.
He’s there. Just as my stepmother said he would be, he’s lost in a sea of estrogen. The midnight-blue pinstripe suit fits him perfectly, accenting the breadth of his shoulders, the swell of his chest muscles, and the lean lines of his waist. He’s wearing a rose on his lapel, too.
A true romantic.
As the brunette on his right laughs at something he said, she smacks him in the arm. But for no reason, his attention snaps to me. I can’t see his eyes behind the black mask, but I can feel their intensity as he sizes me up. Chills scatter over my body, spreading liquid heat from my chest down to the juncture between my legs.
The photos I’ve seen haven’t done Malcolm justice. Shadow of stubble on his wide jaw. Thick arms. Big hands clasped in front of his groin. Oh yeah—I take an extra generous glance at the impressive pitch in his pants. He’s batting with something long and strong.
I feel cool and composed—so not like me—as I take the final step onto the glossy great room floor. And slip.
Fuuuu—it’s too late for curse words.
My foot shoots out from under me. I squeal, clutching the railing as if my life depends on it.
A strong hand grips my elbow and helps me upright before I hit the floor.
“Thank you so much.” Brushing strands of raven-black hair from in front of my mask, I look up—right into the gorgeous face of Mr. Sexy Pinstripe. “Oh shit. It’s you.”
He chuckles and grins slowly. Two dimples prick the corners of his cheeks. Funny, but I don’t remember seeing dimples in the pictures. I would’ve remembered that cuteness. It’s off the charts.
“It’s me,” he parrots, glancing at my shoes. “First time wearing heels?”
“No, but you’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I free my elbow from his grip, but my arm is still warm and tingling where he touched me. “Maybe I should ditch them.”
“I think you’re radiant, with or without them.” He leans in close, just over my shoulder, his breath coating my ear. “But keeping the heels on is always fun.”
Shivers roll through me, but I repress a shudder so he won’t see the effect he has on me. No wonder this guy has every woman in the pack eating out of the palm of his hand. Two seconds and I’m the one under his spell instead of the other way around.
“How ’bout a drink?” he asks.
Nodding slowly, I glance over his shoulder. The gaggle of women he’d just left is glaring, narrowing their eyes and whispering about me. I can hear every word with my sensitive hearing, and none of it’s good.
“That would be great,” I say finally, and let him lead me toward the bar.
I order a second appletini—can’t get enough of the sweetness—and Malcolm orders a Guinness. There’s only one open stool at the bar. He guides me back, step by step, until I have no choice but to sit on it, and then he stands in front of me, his thigh brushing my knee.
“You’re different,” he says, eyeing me carefully, tipping back his drink.
I frown. He must mean different from what my stepmother told him. “Good different?”
“Yeah.” He nods slowly, taking me in, from my halo of black hair, to the mask hiding my eyes, to my lips. “Definitely good.”
I don’t know how he does it, but time seems to stop around him. We order a second and third drink, and talk for an hour about absolutely nothing at all—not about the pack, not about our families—and it’s wonderful. He’s a Seahawks fan like I am, even though he lives in Giants territory, which is strange. But I don’t question it. He’s spent the last five years traveling the world trying to build up his business, though he doesn’t dwell on the details of it. In fact, he doesn’t mention jewelry at all, and I’m careful not to be the first to bring it up.
By the time I’m three—or is it four?—drinks down, my brain is a little fuzzy. I’m not sure who started touching who first, but I’m pretty sure his hand has been on my thigh for the last half hour. And I want him to leave it there. No, scratch that. I want his hand to move up my thigh, sweep between my legs, and continue up, up, up, until his fingers reach home.
“Want to get out of here?” I hear myself ask, and I’m not even sure where the boldness comes from. I’m not normally this forward, but something about Malcolm is bringing it out in me. I
’m relaxed and calm and feel like I’ve known him my whole life. “Somewhere…private?”
“Sure thing, gorgeous.” He leans over to whisper in my ear. “Lead the way.”
Hell, to the yes. I haven’t been able to think about anything else since I met him.
It might be the alcohol taking over my body, but I snatch his hand off his lap and drag him through the great hall, past packmates and staff, and head toward the back door. But as we turn into the massive, industrial-sized kitchen, I glance over my shoulder. He grins, revealing those adorable dimples. And I lose my mind.
Spinning around, I snatch the lapels of his coat in my fists and haul him against me, crushing my mouth to his. Bursts of sensation explode inside me as he takes my face in my hands and tilts, deepening the kiss. On a groan, he presses against me, his hips against my hips, something long and hard against my stomach.
I moan into him, into the raw, scorching heat of him as I lean my head back and let him feast on my neck.
“Snow,” he says, licking a slow line from my jawbone down to the heart of my neck. “You taste like apples, sweet and juicy.”
“Oh God—yes.”
I don’t know if I’m buzzed or sex-drunk, but the world swims in front of my eyes, and I can’t help but wrap my leg around his hips to draw him closer, then closer still. My eyes flutter closed as he ropes his hand around my leg to keep it there and then claims my mouth with fevered kisses.
Voices sound from the direction we just came.
“Someone’s coming,” I whisper against his lips. “We should stop.”
He rips his mouth from mine on a hiss. “Hell no.”
Jerking open the door to my left—a coat closet for the kitchen staff—he guides me inside, slamming it behind him. A laugh bubbles out of me, but he kisses me quiet, slipping his tongue past my lips. Voices hit my ears. The packmates out there are laughing hysterically as they scrounge through the kitchen for more booze.
We’re clear.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers, pushing me against the wall. His hands are on my breasts, cupping their full weight, and his mouth is on mine, possessive and hungry, seeking out every dark, wet corner. “Always have been, but now…”
Snow's Seduction (A Snow White Werewolf Tale) Page 1