Alphas Unwrapped: 21 New Steamy Paranormal Tales of Shifters, Vampires, Werewolves, Dragons, Witches, Angels, Demons, Fey, and More

by Michele Bardsley

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  Copyright © 2015, Mary Arsenault Buckham

  ISBN 978-1-939210-32-6

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by

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  Please Note:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. No demons were killed in the making of this book, unless they deserved to die.

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  CHAPTER 1

  Jaylene Smart owned the night. This night. Striding down the Georgetown sidewalk, listening to the tap, tap, tap of her peep-toe Louboutins striking concrete, breathing deeply of the late evening December air, she flexed her fingers against her leather Bottega Veneta clutch and smiled. Darkness shot through with the lights of fashionable boutique shops flashing her image back at her from the windows she passed. Over six feet with the heels, sin-red silk dress accentuating her curves, oblivious to the chill, she looked good, better than good, and knew it.

  Own it. The world was hers.

  One more assignment and she’d be free.

  Dyer was a pig, but he paid well, and right now that made all the difference. This job and she could walk away. Free and clear. Her mom would be taken care of and, for the first time since she was twelve and on a different set of city streets, in a very different world, Jaylene would soon call her life her own.

  Freedom had its own scent, its own sound. It had sung its seductive siren to her for the last dozen years. And now? Now it was so close, she could inhale it.

  It wasn’t like Dyer to offer so much for one job. But she’d had him sign a contract, one safely stored in an anonymous safe deposit box at National Capital Bank under a false identity that even Dyer didn’t know about. Sleeping with snakes taught her even more lessons than her early days on Chicago’s South Side.

  One job. Connect. Find a small flash drive owned by a man who made Dyer look like a saint. Liberate it. Bring the flash drive to Dyer and voilà!

  After tonight? Jaylene Smart would disappear.

  She’d read her Tarot cards before she left her sublet off Dupont Circle. Her immediate future? The Devil card. Like the dancing horned being, she could feel her own desires rising, strumming through her, heating her blood. A creature of carnal desires, of pleasure and abandon. Danger, yes. But also release.

  A fine line. Dancing with the devil came at a cost. Her whole adult life so far proved that. But there was only one way out of Hell. Her own hell.

  Autonomy came with risk. One she was willing to take.

  Some of the other cards worried her. Change. Hard choices. Destruction. It wouldn’t be the first time she faced any of them, but all together—in the same spread—one she’d read three times to make sure she understood the message she was getting, that she needed to be aware. She’d handle the warnings sent her.

  And the Magician card that kept appearing. Using her gifts, trusting them, she understood the importance of that card. It was all about making things happen, being in control, getting what you wanted because you’ve earned it. Always in the future position, meaning wishes being granted, even those wishes you didn’t know you could ever have. Which scared the willies out of her.

  She’d come to rely on the cards—her gut, her intuition, her spirit guides—didn’t matter what she called them, they watched out for her. Had in the past. Would in the future. Just once, it’d be nice to get good news—like smooth sailing, opportunity ahead, happy days. Blah, blah, blah.

  Fact was she wouldn’t believe any of those messages. They belonged in fairytales and paperback novels—the kind that guaranteed happy-ever-afters, justice, and heroes.

  Realism worked for her—gritty, fight-for-it, hang-on-tight-if-you-found-it kind of realism. Her world. Everything else she’d handle. Stay on her toes, give it her all, remain flexible. That included handling an enigma like Herm Kane.

  The trill of her phone made her pause, and breathe deeply before she answered, aware that the game was beginning.

  “Jaylene here.” She watched her breath waft in a curl of heated vapor before her. The December night temperatures were plunging fast. Best to get inside soon.

  “You there yet?”

  Grabeski. A wild boar of a handler. Smarter than he looked, and cagey. Not nasty like Dyer, but close.

  She glanced down the sidewalk, still busy in spite of the weather. District suits liked to party hearty. Twinkling lights in green and red cut through the darkness, forcing cheer. Leaning forward to see the cut off from M Street, she said, “I can see Cady’s Alley from here. Another block.”

  “No screw ups.”

  Because Grabeski couldn’t see her, she rolled her eyes. “The boss wanted the best. I’m the best.”

  Either hearing her tone, which wasn’t subtle, or aware she didn’t suffer fools well, Grabeski huffed, “Do your job. This guy’s not some lightweight waiting to be scammed.”

  She hung up without telling him where to shove his advice, dropping her phone back into her clutch.

  She knew her business. Make contact. Set up the mark. Find that flash drive. Piece of cake.

  Herm Kane was hers for the taking. He was going down.

  CHAPTER 2

  Walking from the elevator into the members only M2M Lounge on the second floor of the two-story former warehouse hinted at how far Dyer was willing to go to take down his adversary—Herm Kane. Membership in the club cost close to a thousand dollars—a year. That Dyer was willing to spend those kind of bucks just to get Jaylene in the door warned her the stakes were high. If she had a thousand bucks, it wouldn’t be spent on buying an opportunity to see and be seen. No way.

  Good thing that she thrived on risk, and keeping her cards, and her personal goals, close and secret.

  “Jaylene Smart,” she murmured to the hostess at M2M’s door while flashing her newly minted and very discreet membership card.

  The girl barely looked at it. “Welcome, Miss Smart. This your first visit?”

  Jaylene nodded, her focus on the layout of the club’s rooms. Red brick and chiseled sandstone walls, muted lighting, white cubed seating—the place reeked of exclusivity and ambiance. Holiday twinkle lights were low played. A few gold bows and white poinsettias. That was the
only nod to the time of year. The low-driving beat of Hexagon and Sarasani pulsed from hidden speakers. Interesting. The techno dance vibes increased tension but on a subtle sub-level, creating that itch to move, to walk on the wild side, to be alive.

  “You’re welcome to visit any of the public spaces, or grab a seat at the bar.” The hostess waved one languid hand toward a small, but well-stocked area tucked against a close wall. “There are two secluded parties behind closed doors. We ask that you respect their privacy.”

  Not going to happen. Not when Herm Kane was behind one of those two doors.

  “Otherwise, enjoy,” the girl finished up her spiel, already greeting a trio of tipsy party-goers who had just spilled out of the elevator.

  Jaylene stepped into the main lounge, created in a double H pattern, making for a sense of intimacy. Refuge. Something the up-and-coming movers and shakers of the District craved as much as power. Both were illusions.

  She crossed to the nearest side area, sliding up to the bar as the best location to scope out the set up and the players.

  “Can I get you something?” A good-looking, very young Asian bartender leaned toward her, opening his eyes wider, pursing his lips in a silent whistle.

  She’d eat him for breakfast, and they both knew it.

  “A SoCo Kamikaze,” she purred, just playing with the boy, but not mean-spirited. She despised women who used sex to destroy. It should be a gift, a pleasure. Sometimes a tool, but not all tools had to be weapons of destruction. She drew the line there.

  He swallowed. Hard. Twisting his bar rag until he remembered what he was supposed to do next, and it wasn’t to drool.

  Sometimes males were too easy.

  As he cleared his throat, scampering off to mix and stir, she counted the visible bodies, sizing them up and dismissing them. A handful of Congressional staffers who had the independent means to afford the membership fees far beyond their salaries. A few PAC members, those insidious political action committee parasites. East coast princes and princesses from Georgetown and GWU, playing with mummy and daddy’s money.

  Enough to make Jaylene feel jaded.

  She was.

  Experience is just a different word for been around, which Jaylene definitely had. Inhaling a deep breath as the white-jacketed arm of the bartender slid her drink before her, she reached for it with a smile that was more real and less practiced than she was used to giving.

  Taking a sip, she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the kick of top-shelf vodka and lime juice with a hint of triple sec. “Sweet,” she murmured as she opened her eyes and raised the glass toward the young man. Graduate student maybe. Working to fund the last years of an education he’d be paying off for the next sixty years.

  Once college and education had been a given for her, too. Then reality kicked her upside the head.

  Enough. No looking back. Never again.

  “Name’s Brandon,” he said, taking her comment, and look, as encouragement.

  It wasn’t. But she did need intel. “Tell me, Brandon. Mr. Kane’s event?” She raised one brow along with an abrupt shoulder shrug. “It’s bad enough walking in late. Can you point out which room it’s in?”

  Brandon’s gaze shot to the closest closed door before he ducked his head. “Sorry. Not supposed to give out any details of the private events.” He paused, then lowered his voice. “But if you’d like to meet up later, say when I’m off around two, I might be able to make an exception.”

  Unfortunately, not on the agenda. This time her smile wavered bittersweet. Bartender Brandon might think he was world-wise and ready, but he wasn’t. “Appreciate the offer.” She glanced at him over the glass, lowering her voice, letting him hear regret. Let him make his own assumptions. “Maybe some other time?”

  No need to slam the door in the boy’s face. Hope was a luxury she could offer, even if she had no intention of acting on it.

  Brandon widened his shoulders, his smile deepening. She might not have given him a lot, but she hadn’t shut him down. If he believed the illusion that maybe, within hours, her no would become a definite yes…what did it hurt?

  The tipsy trio staggered to the bar, capturing Brandon’s attention as Jaylene shifted her gaze to the closed door.

  Time to get down to business.

  Make Kane come to her? Or invade his space? Possibilities. Keep him off-kilter as an opening gambit.

  The packed file Dyer had on Kane outlined external successes—a power player who started in law, then segued into business, and now? He bought and sold businesses like Monopoly pieces. A crusader against evil with Dyer in his crosshairs? Or a guy wanting a bigger slice of the criminal pie all for himself? One that rolled in a heck of a lot more money than any legit business.

  She allowed herself a small prickle of curiosity, wondering what kind of man could scare Dyer. That alone would make it worth meeting Kane.

  At another time or place, she might have been rooting for Kane. Taking down Dyer was not a bad thing. Except for the possible fallout. And if Kane proved to be a Dyer in sheep’s clothing?

  If Dyer went down, so did she. True, she might get off with a few hard slaps, as most of what she’d done for the kingpin was peripheral—setting up marks, making initial contact, connecting the dots—nothing more.

  But the second issue made it easier to complete this evening’s mission. In the Tarot Cards, the Crusader often overlapped the Magician—the individual who sought transformation. Problem was transformation often meant a shift in power, not an elimination. If Kane took down Dyer, soon there would be someone looking to take down Kane. The circle would continue.

  Besides, retrieving the flash drive would not necessarily destroy Kane. A balance of power shift perhaps—checkmate. Not retrieving and delivering the flash drive, and whatever it contained, did mean destruction—destruction of her world. Dyer did not accept failure as an option. So why this nagging feeling? Residual guilt? Jaylene didn’t consider herself a user, but in this case, she was. A fine line to cross.

  But only if Kane was a good guy, which she didn’t think was the case. And if he was like most people—some good, some bad—she was talking one night. That’s all. Decision made. She’d connect with Kane. Find a way back to his place. Retrieve the flash drive. Trust that doing so meant no harm to any innocent.

  She took another small sip, deciding to bide her time. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her legs, allowing the slit in the silk dress to reveal the length of her leg, from ankle to thigh, and the promise that what still remained hidden could be uncovered. For the right man.

  Action in the lounge picked up in tempo, or maybe it was the anticipation thrumming through her, edging her nerves, making her breathing shallow. When the door she’d been eyeing finally opened, it took all her self-control to release a breath and slowly, surely ease the still almost-full drink to her lips. The better to lower her head and gaze across the room.

  Ready to offer a come-hither tease the minute she spotted Kane.

  She’d learned body language early. Understood it first as a survival tool. Watch the eyes, but never forget the stronger messages telegraphed by another’s body. It’d saved her skin more than once. Now it gave her one more weapon in her arsenal. The feminine glance upwards—message loud and clear. I’m helpless, I need you, protect me. Very few men could resist it. Even fewer knew that, from her, it was all an act.

  The first two men out of the room looked like law enforcement—they swaggered like gunslingers, dominating their space, doing a quick scan of the room, aware of entrance and exit points. Both gazes skimmed over her. One returning, the other quickly looking away. Both wore wedding rings, which meant one took his vows seriously. The other? Arrogance was often the downfall of warriors who believed all could be conquered. They rarely thought of the consequences of battle.

  She kept her gaze on the doorway behind them. Waiting. Aware of her blood pounding in sync with the drums beating through the speaker system. One second. Two. Three—


  Oh my!

  Craving blasted through her, low and heated.

  She’d seen his photo. A sideways profile as he turned away, as if aware of the camera. It’d intrigued her as most crusaders craved the limelight. Tall. Handsome. Successful. She expected all and assumed she’d be prepared.

  She wasn’t.

  My, oh double my!

  Some men walked into a room. Some men strutted. Herm Kane did more than that—the still point in a suddenly spinning vortex. He filled the room, swallowed all attention, compelled all gazes toward him. Including hers.

  He was tall, a good five or six inches taller than her, but it wasn’t his height that drew the eye. It was the way he moved—supple, like a jungle panther, assured of his power, and his role as biggest, baddest, and deadliest predator in the kingdom.

  He didn’t walk. He owned his space. Kings and pirates came to mind.

  A flutter beneath her breastbone warned her this was not the easy mark she expected. Not by a long ways.

  Broad shoulders swelled beneath his custom suit. A runner’s body, but muscled. Not the ropey sinews of a long-distance marathoner but the rippling, well-honed build of a man in his prime.

  And OMG he was prime. One-hundred-percent pure male testosterone.

  Her mouth went dry. Her breath jammed even as every nerve ending quivered. Want fired need. The all-consuming, no-holds-barred kind. The kind she never allowed to get in the way of a job. Never.

  He was focused on his friends, a wry twist to his smile, easy camaraderie between friends clear until his gaze snagged hers. Whatever air remained in the room evaporated.

  Obsidian eyes so dark they absorbed light, except for the flash of intelligence and intensity. A dangerous combo. Very dangerous.