by Zoe Chant
By the time Grant came back into the country, Mathis had stepped back so far he’d vanished. All of Grant’s calls and messages had gone unanswered.
Grant was a panther. They weren’t pack animals—not like Mathis and his lion’s pride. Not family-oriented. He didn’t need to be around others to feel secure with his place in the world.
But, dammit, he did need his oldest friend to at least pick up the phone once in a while.
Tonight’s mission might not unearth Mathis, but Grant was hoping that his friend’s twin sister, Francine—Frankie—would find the lure of the art event too tempting to resist. Frankie and he might not have always gotten along, but he was hoping she’d at least give him some answers about why Mathis had ghosted on him.
Time to find out, he told himself as he stepped out onto the street. Snowflakes settled on his shoulders as he hurried to the front door, his panther inwardly seething at the cold weather.
Lance fell into step beside him. He seemed completely at ease in the freezing weather—a side-effect of being a snow leopard shifter, Grant assumed, or maybe something to do with his military background. Whereas Grant’s panther longed for the sticky heat of the jungle, Lance’s feline form relished the ice and snow. Even in human form, Lance didn’t seem to feel the cold.
Grant felt better the moment he stepped through the front door and into the warm embrace of central heating. By the time the elevator spat them out on the fifth floor, he was almost purring.
He took a moment to make sure that he wasn’t. Satisfied, he glanced around the room.
The gallery was full of people. Grant took a slow breath as he looked around. He couldn’t help it; even in his human form, he instinctively tried to identify the guests by scent as much as by sight.
Most of them were strangers, but one familiar scent made him turn his head to the end of the room.
Francine Delacourt was a statuesque platinum blonde, with skin as white as snow and iceberg-blue eyes. She looked a little like Marilyn Monroe, if Marilyn had been six feet tall and possessed all the warmth and kindness of a glacier.
Lions. Even when they were in human shape, lion shifters—well, all predator shifters, Grant supposed—had this aura of sheer power around them. Mathis used his in the ring, keeping his opponents on edge. Frankie used hers—or at least, so Grant had heard—to keep her company’s board of directors in line. Right now, she seemed to be happily terrifying a circle of onlookers in front of some paintings of mountains.
“There’s Frankie,” he said, relieved his hunch had been correct. Then his shoulders slumped. He knew it was too much to hope for that Mathis would be here with his sister—the two might be twins, but they were far from inseparable—but some small part of him still grated at not finding his friend here. Frankie was holding court alone.
“You need me to come glare at her with you?”
Grant shook himself out of his restless thoughts and glanced at Lance. “This isn’t a shakedown, Lance. I just want to talk to her. Go guard the canapes or something.”
Lance snorted and moved away. Grant rubbed his forehead. This wasn’t a shakedown—so why did he feel so strange? His skin was still prickling with the same sense of wrongness he’d felt earlier.
Or—was it wrongness? Or was it just different? A new, unsettling sensation. Something he couldn’t identify. Something from his shifter side.
If he’d been in the jungle still, he’d have slunk into the shadows, every sense alert as he waited for his instincts to zero in on what was wrong, on the watch for poachers or another predator.
In the city, though…
I’m in a crowded room, with my bodyguard behind me and a lioness shifter in front of me. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
Frankie’s white-gold hair shone like a flame at the far end of the room as Grant made his way toward her. He slipped easily through the crowd, people moving out of his way without even noticing they were doing it. Lions might ooze raw, visceral power, but panthers had their own effect on bystanders. Grant might not like it, but he had to admit it was useful.
He was only halfway there when Frankie turned around. The painting on the wall behind her was all burnished gold and umber, and her light face and hair stood out against it like a beacon. Her eyebrows drew together as she locked eyes with him, and a strange expression stole briefly over her face. She quickly smoothed the unreadable expression off her face, but the smile that replaced it looked strained.
She mouthed something, too quietly and too far away for Grant to hear it.
Frankie? he called out silently and saw her frown. She turned away and thrust her wine glass into the hand of the woman she’d been standing in front of. Grant could have sworn he saw her spine stiffen before she turned back.
It was so like Frankie to just hand her glass off to some poor human bystander. The woman wasn’t one of waiters, with their expressions of mingled boredom and superiority. She was wearing a soft-looking black dress that hugged her generous curves, and was almost as tall as Frankie. Unusual, for a human.
Grant raised his eyes to the woman’s face, intending to give her an apologetic smile. Instead, he felt as though he’d been struck by lightning.
Next to Frankie’s gleaming blonde hair and silver dress, this other woman should have faded into the background. Her dark curls haloed her face, and the dress that clung jealously to her curves was a matte black that seemed designed for blending in with shadows.
Instead, she was suddenly the only person in the room he could focus on.
Grant’s eyes swept back up to her face, searching for—what? She wasn’t even looking at him. Her eyes were cast down, looking at the half-empty wineglass Frankie had pushed on her. Her lips quirked, and she glanced up at Frankie’s back—and past her, to Grant.
The strange feeling that had dogged Grant since they pulled up outside the gallery was swept away, replaced by a hot, thrumming need. It was a sexual need—Oh, hell, is it sexual, he thought, swallowing—but it was more than that, too. And it terrified him.
The woman’s eyes were dark, a brown so deep they seemed almost black. When Grant looked into them, he was gripped by a need to protect so overwhelming that it was all he could do not to leap across the room and take her into his arms.
Go to her! his panther demanded. It wanted to break free, to make him shift and stalk through the room on four legs, tail lashing, a barely veiled threat aimed at anyone who would harm her. The scents of the room grew stronger as he came closer to shifting, his animal senses becoming sharper.
No, he told himself, and his panther, with all the self-control he could muster. That is a bad idea. That is the WORST idea. What are you thinking?
And this is the worst possible timing for—for this.
He knew what was happening. The thing he was most afraid of.
This woman, this human woman, was his mate. His soulmate.
And there was nothing he could do about it. No choice. No control. He had spent the last six months letting his panther off the leash, in the hopes that that time in the wild would exhaust it. And now he felt as though he’d fallen into a trap from which there was no escape.
No. The situation wasn’t the trap. His shifter nature was.
Grant started to move towards her, unable to keep a feline stalk from his movements. He barely noticed Frankie as he passed her, though her indignant hiss was unmistakable.
He still needed to talk to her. Later. Later, for sure. Right now, though, he had to…
Grant stopped an arm’s length away from the dark-haired woman. She was staring at him, eyes wide. This close, he could smell her scent, a sweet, tantalizing perfume that went straight to his head.
“Hello,” he said, his voice almost a purr.
3
IRINA
The evening had gone to complete crap.
Oh, to start with, everything had been going fine—Tay had found her a glass of wine that probably cost more than her grocery budget for the week, they’d
oohed and aahed together over some of the more incredible outfits on display throughout the room, shared gripes about work and art, and then…
And then Francine Delacourt had turned up.
Sleek, gorgeous, and dripping with self-confidence, Francine Delacourt was a permanent fixture of the sort of Top Thirty Under Thirty listicles that seemed specifically designed to make everyone else feel like a pathetic under-achiever. Not only was she immensely wealthy, she was thickly built but had the confidence to wear her curves like a queen.
Irina wasn’t sure which she envied more: Francine’s money or her confidence.
Except the confidence probably comes at least a bit from the money, she reasoned. If I could afford a dress like THAT, I would never have to worry about unsexy mono-boob ever again.
She had the perfect opportunity to examine Francine’s dress because the first thing the woman had done when she arrived was to stalk across to stand in front of Irina’s paintings. Which would have been great, except…
Everyone knew about Francine Delacourt. Even Irina did. She’d never met her, but she’d heard all the gossip about the ice queen of the art scene. With a single word, Francine Delacourt could make an artist—or destroy their career forever.
Tonight, for God knows what reason, she had decided to terrorize the few people who had gathered to look at Irina’s work.
Tay, bless him, had slunk away the moment the blonde woman had showed up. Irina didn’t blame him. The last thing any artist wanted was to be next in Francine Delacourt’s line of fire.
It was certainly the last thing she wanted.
You promised Clare you wouldn’t run away, she told herself. You promised.
On the other hand… you made that promise based on the assumption that Francine Delacourt wasn’t going to turn up and rip you to shreds.
And the door is only a few yards away...
The door might as well have been ten miles away. Irina couldn’t have reached it if she tried. Francine was standing so close to her that Irina could count the diamond chips in her earrings, and Irina’s feet were glued to the floor.
First, Francine stared at the paintings, her pale blue eyes expressionless. Then she swung her head around and stared directly at Irina.
It was like being caught in a spotlight. Irina felt like an ant trying to scurry away from a magnifying glass.
“Disappointing, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t actually a question. It might have been worded like one, but Francine’s tone left no room for alternative views.
“Er,” Irina said helplessly. “Yes?”
Francine waved one arm lazily, encompassing the entire room. “Look at them all. Two days ago, no one had even heard of this place. My idiot assistant sends one tweet about the exhibition, and suddenly… lemmings. Desperate, squeaking lemmings.”
Her mouth twisted, and Irina couldn’t tell if it was in frustration or disgust. She still felt pinned in place, and took a swig of wine to cover her nerves.
“Why are you here, then?” she blurted as soon as she finished swallowing, and immediately wished she’d just chugged the whole glass. And lost the ability to talk. And passed out. And been taken away by an ambulance, never to be seen again.
Francine’s gaze grew even sharper, something Irina wouldn’t have thought was possible.
“Certainly not for the artwork,” she replied with a sniff. Her eyes slid sideways, and Irina sagged with relief that she was no longer under the spotlight.
Until she realized the other woman was now looking at the paintings. Her paintings.
“Are these yours?” Francine said, her voice expressionless.
“Yes,” mumbled Irina, wishing a hole would appear in the floor under her feet. Across the room, Clare was staring at her wide-eyed, waving her hands in the universal gesture for “Talk!”
But not, Irina noted, actually coming over herself to join the conversation.
“I, er,” Irina stammered, glaring at Clare. Come on. You can do this. Just… try to sound like you’re meant to be here. Like you’re not massively intimidated by everyone here, not just Francine.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, I—er—I summered in the Adirondacks, and had a bit of free time to work on these. Clare—that is, the gallery manager—insisted I bring them with me back here, and…” Irina trailed off.
Summered? Is that something people still say? Or ever said?
Irina bit her lip and gave a shrug that she hoped looked casual and sophisticated, and not like she was a turtle trying to hide in its shell. Inside, she was groaning. Can we rewind that and try again?
Francine was still staring at the paintings with her ice-blue eyes. “The Adirondacks? I wonder…” She paused briefly, her perfect eyebrows drawing together. “Did you happen to meet…?”
Irina waited on tenterhooks for Francine to finish the sentence. She had the horrible feeling that she had fallen into some sort of art-world pop quiz. Any minute now, she would get something wrong, and Francine Delacourt and everyone else would know what a fake she was.
The pause lengthened into an even more uncomfortable silence. Francine was still staring at the painting, her eyes glassy.
“Did I meet…?” Irina repeated. “I mean, I met a lot of people, of course, it’s very popular. Lots of outdoor activities. Lots of mountains.” Her words echoed in her mind. Lots of mountains? Are you serious right now? “People also like the rivers.” Oh God. Stop. STOP.
Thankfully, Francine was too distracted to notice Irina’s babbling. She shook herself, as though she was waking up from a daydream and fixed her eyes on Irina again.
Irina promptly shut up.
Francine stared at her with the same intensity as she had just been inspecting the paintings. And Irina felt—awful.
Her heart was thudding in her ears, and her whole body was jittery with nervous energy. The last time she’d felt like this, she’d been clinging to a rope handrail ten feet above a stream, after a bridge she was crossing started to collapse. Irina had inched her way safely back to solid ground, but her body hadn’t decided it was safe until she was back at the cottage that evening.
It was the same here. Nothing was wrong, nothing bad was happening—but Irina’s body wasn’t convinced.
What the hell? It’s one thing to be nervous, but this is just… what’s wrong with you? Even her tongue was frozen stiff. She felt… well, terrified, but wasn’t that a bit over-the-top?
Finally, Francine broke her gaze, and said:
“Self-taught?”
Irina sagged with short-lived relief. Her palms were sweating from the intensity of—of whatever had just happened.
Oh, well. Here it goes, thought Irina miserably. The tragic tales of the art-school dropout.
She squared her shoulders. “Actually, I—”
She stopped as Francine held up one hand. “Wait.”
Irina stared at the other woman’s hand, mouth still open. She shut it with a clack. Francine Delacourt’s hand was perfectly manicured, a sliver-thin gold ring her only jewelry. And she had stuck it palm-out in Irina’s face to shut her up.
Worst of all, it had worked. Francine turned away, scanning the room, and Irina was left hanging.
Irina was already on edge from their strange, constantly shifting conversation, and now she felt her nerves flare into anger. How dare she? What, is she just looking around for someone more interesting—but keeping me on hold just in case?
She glanced behind Francine. If she can check out of the conversation to look for something better, so can I. Where are Tay and Clare?
The gallery was small enough that it only took her a moment to scan through the crowd. Tay was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Clare. And she didn’t know anyone else in the room.
Not even when she was wandering around the Adirondacks taking photos and doing sketches for her paintings had Irina felt so completely alone. She bit her lip. No one was even looking in her direction, or if anyone was, it was only with short, furtive glances,
as though afraid of attracting Francine’s attention.
The only person who was facing Francine and Irina head-on was a man who must have just arrived. Irina didn’t recognize him from her earlier scans of the room. And she knew she would have remembered him. He ticked all the boxes: tall, handsome, and obviously well-built under his expensive-looking suit.
Francine was still directing her laser-glare elsewhere, so Irina let her own eyes linger longer on this newcomer than she usually would have. Or maybe it was just that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.
Anyway, she reasoned with herself, I must be practically invisible here, stuck behind Francine—so it’s not like anyone’s going to notice me staring, right?
And, wow, was there a lot to stare at. The man had amazing cheekbones, and a sensuous jawline that looked all the better for a dark dusting of five-o’clock shadow. His curly black hair was just long enough to touch his collar, and swung flirtily over his eyes. And his eyes—his eyes were such an intense, vivid green that every other color in the room looked dull by comparison.
Irina closed her eyes and allowed herself one millisecond of a daydream in which this attractive stranger swept her off her feet and carted her off somewhere far, far away from Francine Delacourt.
She opened her eyes—and froze.
The handsome stranger was staring straight at her. For one moment, his eyes widened, as though he recognized her. But that wasn’t possible. Irina knew she would remember if she had ever met him before.
And then he smiled, a slow, joyful smile that was like the sun rising.
Irina’s own lips began to curve in automatic response.
“Excuse me.” Francine’s voice hit Irina like a bucket of ice. In response, Irina snapped her eyes away from the handsome stranger. Francine was staring at her again, but somehow, her gaze didn’t seem so terrifying this time.