by Milly Taiden
Behind the seat, a woman was curled into a ball on the ground. He stared at her ass. Damn, if that wasn’t the most perfect ass he’d ever seen. He could see she was curvy and not scrawny like most women in this place of sex and sin.
He caught her scent. It was . . . his mate?
He stood frozen as the woman unwound herself and peeked through the bench slats. Her hands shook. He wanted to hold them in his and assure her everything was okay now. But his body wasn’t receiving the message, or was playing stupid, because his cat told him he hadn’t moved toward their mate yet.
More noise and confusion erupted behind him, but he couldn’t worry about that. He had a mate to help. She turned and met his gaze. Her fear and shock floated in the air. Eyes widening, her jaw dropped open. Then her look moved to focus behind him, then at the grenade launcher still in his hand. Shit. He’d forgotten he had it.
Next thing he knew, he was facedown on the concrete, surrounded by a dozen cops pointing guns at him. His mate took the opportunity to scream and run. Shit. This was not good.
ALFA rules said that when in a situation where being arrested by local police, the agent would follow commands and allow himself to be taken into custody. When the agent reached a more secure location, the agent would contact the DC office. In no case should the agent reveal his true identity or shift. So guess where he was going.
He complied with officer demands and was cuffed and shoved into a police cruiser. Well, now he wouldn’t have to pay for a taxi to take him to the station for his meeting with Freeman. That was the only good thing in the past several hours.
Sometimes he loved fate. It led him to her years ago.
Sometimes he hated fate. It led him to her once again. And she ran. Again.
Fuck. Trying to keep his cat focused on their job would be nearly impossible now. The animal inside agreed. They needed to find their other half and convince her to mate. No, that wasn’t happening. They had a job to do. Screw the job. Nothing is more important than mate.
He almost agreed to that. Almost.
“Officer, would you please call ahead and tell Detective Freeman I’ll be early for our meeting?” The cop eyed him with a frown. A few minutes later, he picked up the radio’s mic, hopefully passing along the info.
The police car pulled into the station parking lot and, with little consideration, François was hauled inside the building. The place was busy for morning hours, but in a city that didn’t sleep, neither did the police.
A partially bald guy with deep lines etched around his eyes leaned against the wall. His sport jacket looked as worn as he did.
“Thanks, Marshall,” he said, pulling keys from his pants’ pocket. “I got him from here.” The man removed the cuffs and held out a hand to François. “I’m Max Freeman.”
François accepted his hand. “Nice to meet you. François Dubois.” The man opened a door next to him and motioned for François to precede him. The cougar shifter wasn’t keen on having a potential threat at his back. And that’s why the detective made him go first. This was a test for the detective to see his reaction: team player or rabble-rouser.
“Second door on right.”
He kept his cool and chose team player. No reason to cause problems. Yet.
“Seems you got caught up in some gang action at the mall,” Freeman said.
“Got caught up in something,” François said. “But didn’t feel like gang. How many around here carry RPGs?”
The detective’s brow raised. “Really? At a shopping mall?”
“Yeah, a bit overkill, I’d think.” But what did he know about the Las Vegas underground? Zilch. He entered the second office on the right. He’d heard once that the longer a person lived in one place, the more they accumulate and nest. Freeman was well nested with stacks of folders on every flat surface, photos taped to the walls, and an empty pizza box sitting on top of the black mesh trashcan.
“How’d you end up with the launcher?” Freeman asked.
“I took it from the person in the backseat of a black Hummer, after smashing his face for my warm welcome to your city.”
Freeman laughed. “At least you’re alive still.” He pulled a file from several sitting on the side of his desk. “Did you by chance catch the number on the tags?”
“I did,” François said. “They had a paper plate like those on new cars, which I’m sure was faked.”
Freeman sighed. The tired office chair creaked when he leaned back and laid his twined fingers on his hairless crown. “Goddamn Mafia boys.”
“Yeah, about that,” François replied. “I thought the Mafia was history in Vegas. How strong are they now?”
“Not very,” Freeman replied. “Their influence has been cut way back, but they are still here. Most have corporations to hide their names and illegal activities. Giuseppe Ragusa is the power right now.”
“Why would the Mafia want to blow up the front of Prada?”
“Who knows what the fuck they want,” Freeman said. “If I had a clue, I would’ve busted Ragusa’s ass long ago and retired when I was young enough to enjoy it.” He rocked his chair forward to put his arms on the crowded desk. “All of which brings us to you.”
“Ah.” The first puzzle piece locked into place for him. “The Mob boss’s niece you want to keep alive.”
“You got it. I don’t know if you know much about the Mafia in Las Vegas, but they’ve been here since the beginning. They owned several of the first casinos and gambling hangouts. As I mentioned, the current head of the family is Giuseppe Ragusa, and he’s a real son of a bitch.
“But his son, Tony, apparently didn’t get the shitload of brains his father has. Robbed a bank yesterday, killing a senator and a kid in the process—and didn’t even take the money bags when trying to leave. Someone shot Tony on his way through the door, so he was an easy catch. But who wielded the gun and where that gun has gone is a mystery. We’re getting bank surveillance footage shortly.
“Anyway, Ragusa’s niece was inside the bank and agreed to testify. But I’m hoping she’s the foot in the door we need to get in and bring down Ragusa. She’s important, Dubois.” A hidden phone rang. Freeman reached into his jacket’s pocket and pulled out a beat-up cell phone. He glanced at the ID on the screen. “Hmm. This could be interesting.”
He answered, and a high-pitched voice that sounded scared shitless floated to François. Whatever it was didn’t concern him. His attention turned to the surroundings. The cat inside paced, was agitated. It needed to chill out. Maybe later they would search for their mate and find out why she left him four years ago without even a good-bye.
Freeman launched from his chair. “Come on. Got someone you need to meet.”
CHAPTER 5
Amerella crouched in the corner of the far stall in the women’s fitting rooms inside Prada. Her mind was in such a spin she didn’t know whether to be scared by the attempted hit on her or the fact that her past boyfriend, her only love, saw her. Each held consequences not in her favor.
How could fate be so cruel? Meeting Frank on the Vegas Strip while in college, realizing they were both attending the same university, giving way to three years of the happiest times of her life, then never seeing again until now.
Her heart ached like it had four years ago when she left him. But she had no choice. Still had no choice. Not if she wanted to keep her son alive. Tears from her helplessness at the situation stung. If only she could find a way to keep everyone alive.
Speaking of staying alive, if not for her keys, she’d be dead. When she dropped them in her purse, they caught on the edge and fell onto the concrete. As she bent to scoop them up, gunfire rang out and a bullet hit the palm tree where her head would’ve been if not bent over. She’d dived behind a bench, which provided only mediocre coverage.
Then Frank appeared, holding a grenade launcher. She thought about that image. There
would be no reason for her Frank to have such a weapon on the Strip. Her mind had been under such stress and fear, maybe her eyes pretended to see the only person she ever felt safe with. Yeah, that was it. Her mind fricking playing tricks on her. She’d never been so scared in her damn pathetic life.
Her heart started to slow and her breathing became deeper and longer. She swore she was going to hyperventilate. Oh my god, she would’ve been so dead. Who would’ve taken care of her son? Her heart froze, thinking of Uncle Giuseppe getting his hands on her son. She couldn’t let that happen. She wished the police would put him in prison.
Wait. She opened her purse and pulled out the business card Detective Freeman gave her yesterday. After the third try to dial with her shaking hands, she heard his voice.
“Detective Freeman, I was shot at. Uncle Giuseppe’s men are trying to kill me. Oh my god. What do I do?” He calmed her and asked where she was. She told him and he said he’d be right over. Her courage to leave the stall was non-existent. Anyone out there looking like a normal shopper could be an assassin.
After several minutes, a knock sounded on the fitting room door. She startled but remained quiet.
“Amerella, it’s Detective Freeman. Are you in there?”
His voice was familiar, so it was probably him. She had to be fast to be sneaky. With one hand, she opened the door several inches, and with the other, she grabbed his arm and jerked him inside. Quickly, she closed and locked the door. Her body slumped against the wall. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Amerella, are you okay?”
Tears she would not cry burned her eyes, but she would not cry. Here in the small room, she didn’t have to be “on.” She could be herself.
“I’m better, but scared to go outside. What if they are waiting for me out there?”
Freeman shook his head. “First, tell me: Are you sure this is your family, not just coincidence?”
She snorted. “What do you think? Nobody testifies against the Mafia and lives. Oh my god, I’m going to die.” She whipped around and pressed him against the wall with her hands. “Swear to me that you’ll put my son in Witness Protection if I’m gone.”
Freeman scowled. “I didn’t even know you had a son. Where is he now?”
She took her hands off him and paced a step forward to the door, turned, paced another step to the back wall, then turned and paced to the door again. She was getting dizzy. Maybe pacing wasn’t such a good idea.
“Look,” Freeman said, “let me take you home, then you can relax. I have somebody I’d like you to meet. He’s a bodyguard of sorts. His job is to keep you alive.”
She stopped and looked at him. “Really? Is he cute?” He gave a deer-in-the-headlights look. She held up a hand. “Sorry, never mind. I don’t expect you to answer that.” She leaned against the wall. “I have my car. I’m just worried about getting to the parking lot.”
“This bodyguard is really good with detecting things. I’ll have him tail us to see if anyone follows. I’ll walk you to your car and we’ll follow right behind you all the way to your house.”
She chewed her lip. “That would probably work. But first I need you to bring me the biggest scarf the store has and a lightweight cover-up.” She opened the door and shoved him out.
“Wait. What’s a cover-up?” he asked.
“Ask the saleslady. She’ll help. Hurry up.”
• • •
François casually walked out of Prada, avoiding the shattered glass door wrapped in plastic and duct tape. He took a seat on a large concrete planter holding a young palm tree. From his pocket, he pulled out his phone and pretended to be occupied with it.
He took a deep breath, smelling for anxiety, anger, or anything that clued him in to a bad guy. Besides the urine, shit, puke, and trash, all smelled fine. Then he surveyed the area for a sniper or shooter. He texted Freeman the okay to come out.
François continued sniffing and carefully eyeing each person who walked along the sidewalk. A group of people including a curvy, delicious woman with large sunglasses and blue wrap around her head came out the opened door. Not too far behind came Freeman. Shit, was a person in the group the one they were protecting? He should’ve asked for a picture or physical description at least. He didn’t expect her to hide with others.
Then he smelled it. His mate. She was close. One of the women coming up or down the sidewalk was her.
Frantic, he searched both directions looking for her long dark curls. Which direction was the wind blowing? He headed into the breeze, following the group that just left the store. No one had the right hair or body.
Wait. Could the woman with the blue scarf be her? She wasn’t with the group anymore. He turned back, looking for her. No, he reminded his cat. They were there on a job. He pivoted around and looked for the group of women. One of them had to be their girl. But which one? Where the hell was Freeman?
His eyes caught a flash of blue, the same as the scarf the woman wore, hurrying through a parking lot. His cat went wild, coming close to stripping away his control. Mate! Feet rooted, he couldn’t move one way or the other. Fuck!
A car came to a screeching stop beside him on the street. Freeman leaned over the seat and opened the door. “Get in, Dubois.” François looked over his shoulder at the parking lot. She was gone. His cat screamed. He tried to control his wince to the pain, seeing as he was the only one hearing it. Somehow, he got in the car and Freeman took off.
Freeman glanced at him. “You all right, man? You don’t look good.”
François rubbed his temple. “Just got a headache coming on. Must be the dry air messing with my sinuses. Nothing to worry about. Which car is hers?”
“The Lexus a couple cars up,” Freeman said. François kept his eyes roaming, memorizing other vehicles around them, studying the drivers’ faces for signs of something different. Within a few minutes, they’d left the Strip behind and entered residential areas. They pulled up to a security gate and it opened immediately. She must’ve told the guard they were with her.
Freeman caught up with the Lexus and parked behind her in a circular drive.
“Nice place,” François said, opening the passenger-side door. But he wouldn’t have expected anything less. The Lexus’s car door closed. He turned to finally get a look at the prima donna.
The most beautiful women he’d ever seen approached Detective Freeman. François’s cat spazzed and broke into a happy dance. They’d found her, and she was their charge. Good times ahead. François reminded his cat that they had to remain professional throughout the entire job. The cat snorted. Guess it didn’t believe him.
Amie shook Freeman’s hand, then the detective motioned to François on the other side of the car, and her beautiful eyes turned to him. Their sparkle quickly died, along with his heart. He’d hoped that her disappearance was some kind of fluke. Something beyond her control that made her stay away from him.
That little bubble of hope that he’d lived in for four years popped.
Even the cat was pissed. How could their mate not want them? Was that even possible? Did Mother Nature screw up? Didn’t matter right now. They had a job to do and that took precedence over everything else, he thought.
Amie hurried around the front of her car, away from him, and up the steps to the front door. He wasn’t letting her get away that easily this time. He caught her arm before she slid the key into the lock. Holding her so closely after so many years, he couldn’t think of what to say. There were a book’s worth of questions he had, but the cover to that tome didn’t open.
Amie jerked her arm from his grip, but he held fast. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to let go. Her sad eyes met his. He smelled her love for him and heartbreaking dismay. He didn’t understand what that was about. He’d have to ask her. Duh, his cat said. Shut up, cat.
The tang of chemicals hit his nose. The same chemicals he
spent a lot of time learning in his ALFA training.
Amie turned away and slid her key into the lock and twisted the deadbolt. François and his cat jumped at the same time, taking Amie to the ground, covering her body with his as the front door and windows exploded.
CHAPTER 6
Amerella sat in the front seat of Detective Freeman’s sedan, blanket draping her shoulders, but her body still shook uncontrollably. The only thing running through her mind was that she would’ve been dead. She should’ve been dead. The love of her life saved her. Of course he did. Who was the last person in the world she wanted to see? The one walking toward her with broad shoulders, well-fitting T-shirt showing off his narrow waist, faded jeans that cupped in the right places, and worn leather boots.
Fuck. She could spontaneously combust right this second, just from watching the man walk. God, how could she have forgotten how sexy he was? The same way she tried to forget everything about him: pharmaceutically induced suppression. She took so many pills she was sure she’d put a couple sales reps’ children through college.
Pills for manic depression, bipolar depression. Pills to let her sleep, pills to wake her up. Pills for high blood pressure the other pills were causing. God, she was such a fucking mess.
The car door opened and Frank looked at her with his amazing smile and happy eyes. She melted on the spot. He took in a deep breath, then held out his hand. “Let me help you out. Everything is safe.” She placed her hand in his and savored the feel of his callus-roughened hands.
She remembered how those hands had slid over her body, caressing every part of her. Every part. Shit. Her undies were wet now. Frank’s grip on her hand tightened as he inhaled. He couldn’t smell that, could he? No, humans weren’t able to do that.
He pulled her out of the car and into his arms. Oh, god. How she’d missed this. Missed his touch, his smell, his body pressed against hers. Nowhere else had she ever felt so protected, so safe.