By the Tail cf-1

by Marie Harte

  Warning: A trickster cat finally meets his match in a proud feline used to getting her way. Hunters, hijinks and danger abound as the pride comes together for one heck of a battle.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for A Matter of Pride:

  A door slammed. Swearing, snarls and spitting hisses pierced the early morning quiet of what promised to be a beautiful summer day. Life in the pride was never dull, but today looked to be especially interesting.

  Whistling, Dean Chastell grabbed a cup of coffee and reveled in the comfort of having such a close-knit, loving extended family.

  “Son of a…! I’m going to kick your ass, Chastell!” Miles Bermin, fellow shapeshifter and current Catamount Ranch guest, had been using the shower upstairs because the water heater in his cabin wasn’t working.

  At least, not since Dean had tampered with it.

  “Miles?” From upstairs, Burke’s deep voice sounded rusty. “What the hell? It’s not even seven yet.” Great, now Burke would be in a bad mood. Dean’s oldest brother and pride leader wasn’t exactly pleased with him lately. Not after yesterday’s mess with the gray wolves.

  The mangy bastards.

  Dean decided it might be prudent to leave—and fast—before he was discovered, and bumped into a troublesome gray wolf on his way out the back door.

  “Where are you off to so early?” Monty GrayClaw, the only wolf in the pride, yawned and stretched as he entered the house. “I thought today was your day off.”

  Dean shrugged and put down his coffee. “Just thought I’d get in a few—”

  Burke’s laughter echoed through the house. “Holy crap. Is your hair blue?”

  Monty blinked. “Your brother’s up early. This can’t be good. And who’s he talking to?”

  “Yeah, it’s blue,” Miles roared. “I have business to attend to today, not to mention a date later this evening. And blue hair?”

  Monty’s grin stretched across his lips. “Nice.”

  Like Dean, Monty didn’t particularly care for the snotty cats visiting from Miami. They tolerated the females well enough—mostly—but Miles was a huge pain at the best of times. It didn’t help that the women in town thought he walked on water.

  Dean did his best to look innocent, and failed miserably when Monty started laughing. Loudly.

  Footsteps pounded overhead. Miles’s scent drew closer, robust with the heat of rage. Considering the dude had a few inches on Dean, as well as a surprisingly muscular frame under the stupid designer suits he often wore, Dean decided to make haste. He inched past Monty toward the door.

  “I’d hurry if I were you.” Monty nodded for him to go.

  Deciding avoidance made sense—because who wanted to fight so early on a gorgeous Friday morning—Dean slipped outside and into his truck. He turned the key and shifted into reverse when the passenger door opened.

  Christ, wasn’t one of them enough to deal with today? He stared in dismay at the most beautiful—and annoying—woman he’d ever had the misfortune to know. “Not now, Stacey. I’m late for work.”

  “You have today off.” Miles’s sister just stood there looking finer than fine.

  “Come on. I have things to do. Shut the door and move away.”

  He inched the truck back. Any second now Miles would be out the door…

  “I need a ride into town.” She glanced behind her at the back door and frowned.

  Fuming because he had two choices—give in to the princess’s demands or suffer Miles’s wrath—he leaned across the passenger’s seat. “What did you say?”

  When she leaned closer to respond, he grabbed her by the collar and yanked her inside. She yelped as she tried to right herself, while he gassed the truck and lurched back just as Miles Bermin tore through the back door of the house, dripping wet and wearing nothing more than a towel and blue hair.

  “Get back here!”

  Stacey swore as the car door slammed, barely missing her pricey skirt. She stared out the front window and gasped. “Oh my God. Is Miles’s hair blue?”

  Miles had made one too many comments about Dean’s love life at dinner last night. It was one thing for the rest of the pride to joke about him being the last standing Chastell without a mate, but when Miles said it, he sounded insulting. A lot like his sister. Dean regarded Stacey out of the corner of his eye, wishing he could turn off his attraction to her.

  Whipping the wheel to turn the truck around, Dean jumped on the gas and tore down the dirt driveway. He kept his gaze half on the drive and half on the rearview, making sure Miles didn’t decide to go for broke and hunt him down. But all the while he remained painfully aware of the woman next to him.

  He’d dated his share of women. Had never hurt for girlfriends or a companion on a Saturday night. But none of them held a candle to Stacey Bermin. Part of the Miami pride temporarily staying at the Catamount Ranch, Stacey represented every fantasy of feline perfection he’d ever had.

  Long golden hair—not blond or brown, but white spun with gold—lay in soft waves over her shoulders. A strand curled above her breast, drawing his attention to the generous swell cupped by what was no doubt an expensive lacy bra under her blouse. The woman designed clothes for a living and looked like a professional model. Today she wore spiked heels with some kind of leopard print—which he hoped to hell was fake—a short khaki skirt and a silky shirt that brought out the blue of her eyes. Like her brother, she had looks that attracted attention no matter where she went. And when she dressed like that, people stopped to stare. She was that hot.

  “Problem, Jethro?” she asked in that haughty voice that set him on edge and got him hard in a heartbeat.

  He thickened a hick accent to annoy her. “It’s Gomer, darlin’. Just wondering why you’re out of the house without protection.”

  “It’s been a month. If Lex was going to pull something, he’d have done so by now.”

  “Maybe.” Then again, with what they’d heard about the Ac-taw down South, the shapeshifting scum might be lying in wait, just itching for a chance to kidnap and torture the Bermins one at a time.

  “Besides, I’m with you.” Stacey sniffed. “No doubt if there’s a problem, you can call Burke or Grady for help.”

  As if Dean couldn’t handle a few scraggly Florida cats by himself. He forced himself to ignore yet another insult. “So here’s another question for ya. Why are you dressing like a hooker on a Friday morning? Got a hot date over eggs and bacon at the Fox’s Henhouse? ’Cause that’s where we’re headed.”

  “Not that I agree with you, but really, hooker? If anything, I’d go with high-class call girl.” She frowned. And even that turned him on, the way her light-colored brows furrowed, wrinkling the baby-fine skin of her siren face. “I thought you were going into Whitefish.”

  “Nah. Grady’s got that covered.” His older brother had this morning’s tour group because he’d switched with Dean for the weekend. Now that Grady had mated his own spirited cat, he’d turned into a real homebody. Of course, if Dean found someone as nice and pretty as Gabby Easton, he’d have done the same.

  He gave Stacey another discreet once-over, wondering what she might be like if she could keep her mouth closed, or at the least go for ten seconds at a time without saying something mean. He counted silently to eight before she parted her lips. He sighed.

  “Any reason you can think of that my brother—who has a meeting in another three hours with an investment firm interested in expanding our designs out West—would have dyed his hair blue today?”

  Inwardly, Dean cringed. Okay, so it hadn’t been the best time for a little revenge on the snot staying with them. Temporarily, he kept reminding himself. Although Stacey’s sisters seemed to have settled in right nice, Stacey and Miles acted like they’d rather be anywhere but Cougar Falls.

  “No idea. Maybe he wants to impress Juneau Jacobs? Heard he has a date tonight.” Juneau was a sweet bear who could do so much better than Miles.

  Stacey’s lips thinned.

  “What? H
ell, if something as stupid as blue hair will kill the deal, then do you really want these investors in the first place?” Great. Now he was feeling guilty about giving Miles what he deserved. Trust Stacey to ruin a great prank.

  “I thought you and Juneau were an item. Or is it Reggie you’re catting around with lately?”

  At least she wasn’t worried about Miles, which meant he hadn’t screwed up their chance to nab investors. He frowned. “Juneau and I dated over a year ago. Reggie’s a nice girl. A friend. You have a problem with her?” He left the dirt road leading to the ranch and headed into town.

  “Not at all. It’s not the poor girl’s fault she’s been tempted by the town slut. The women around here have pitifully little to work with.”

  He gritted his teeth and clenched the wheel. He reminded himself she was under the pride’s protection, that the skirmish in Miami wasn’t quite over, and that danger could be stalking her just around the corner. But damn, it was hard to remember all that with her smug expression daring him to give her a taste of her own medicine.

  At the word taste, he immediately wondered what her lips would feel like under his. Oh hell. Not going there. Not with this one. He just wished he didn’t always have to remind himself of that fact.

  He pulled into the parking lot of the crowding diner, turned off the engine and faced her with a forced smile. “Sweetheart, if I’d known how interested you were in my love life, I’d have made sure to save you a night.” He leaned closer, entranced by the lingering smell of her perfume and by the heady scent of anger roiling from her pores. “I can pencil you in on a Sunday afternoon if you’d like.” He trailed a finger down her forearm to her hand and did his best to ignore the heat licking through his body.

  He thought for a moment her pupils dilated, that he caught the spike of arousal in the air. Until she gave him one of her trademark sneers, which annoyed him to no end, because even her disgust turned him on.

  “You could only be so lucky.” Stacey left the truck with the grace of a feline in her prime. After shutting the door, she leaned in through the window and gave him a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage framed by a blue lace bra. “Sorry, sweetheart, but my tastes run higher than the five ’n dime.”

  Who’s afraid of the big bad hybrid?

  A Love Worth Biting For

  © 2013 Roxy Mews

  Hart Clan Hybrids, Book 1

  Amber Paulson’s wolf has chosen a mate for her, but Amber is not amused with its pick. Jake Meyers might look amazing in a wet T-shirt and have the cheekbones and strong jaw that artists drool over. Too bad he is missing a pulse.

  Jake is a vampire, well, mostly. Then a tall, curvy redhead pops up on his radar and something awakens in him. Even though he tries to stay away, Amber gets under his skin, and his vampire/werewolf heritage starts to become more bark and less bite. For the first time, he feels the call of the moon, and he knows it’s all because of Amber Paulson.

  Amber’s trying to stay away, and Jake’s trying to not turn furry. They both fail miserably—and with a lot of sweaty and enjoyable property destruction.

  By giving in to her mating call, Amber finds out more than she ever wanted to know about herself, her family, and the rogue wolf who took so much from her so long ago. As her past comes back to bite her, she’ll have to decide what she’s willing to give up for her mate. Her home? Her pack? Her…heartbeat?

  Warning: This book contains a snarky shifter heroine who could give Sookie a run for her money, a hot hunk of a vampire with a soft (and furry) side, and sex so sizzling that even an inter-species war can’t get in the way.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for A Love Worth Biting For:

  I wasn’t prepared for it. That’s what everybody says when they meet the love of their lives. But I’m not everybody. Hell, most of the time I’m nobody, or at least I try to be. I was given the name Amber Paulson for crying out loud. A name like that does not a rock career make. Daddy always told me that the urge to mate is something you can’t control. That you would just find yourself smacked upside the head one day. If you were lucky.

  I didn’t know anyone in my Pack who was mated. That’s not to say we are virgins. Hell no! Everybody that uses the expression “Fuck like bunnies”? Well, those people obviously haven’t met a werewolf. Me and the rest of my Pack get furry on occasion, but for the rest of the time we rocked a decidedly human form. Those forms just have libidos of epic proportions.

  Anyway, I was walking through the latest campus we had moved to. It was some little rinky-dink town in Indiana of all places. Land-locked, but lots of places just outside the city for a wolf to run. Big enough to get lost in, small enough to get away from everybody when you needed to. The campus was walkable, and I took my time, because if I hurried, I could outrun an Olympic medalist. And I still had plenty of time until my next class.

  Mary called and reminded me not to be late. Mary Fields was my best friend these days. I liked humans, but I loved Mary most. I met her on my first day of orientation, and somehow she puts up with me. I threw her a quick text to let her know I’d see her in class.

  Did you know the average werewolf lives for four hundred years after turning? I’ve been around for fifty as my wolfy self, so the American History class was one I have repeated often. From the complete lack of effort needed this time through, either I was radically expanding my brainpower or society was expecting less and less intelligence from the general student body. Which brings me back to me not being prepared. I was walking slowly to class, when one student body in particular caught my attention.

  There always seems to be an impromptu game of football being played on the practice field outside the cafeteria that involves guys taking their shirts off and trying to impress the co-eds in hopes of getting the chicks’ shirts off later. Personally, unless you’re taking down a twelve-point buck with your shirt off—while covered in hair—I am not usually impressed.

  That day was different. For some reason, my feet stopped moving when they hit the spray-painted white line on the field. Guys and girls chased the pigskin in the sunshine. The temperature was a degree below fried eggs, and not a cloud was in the sky. I heard a bottle pop open, and what should have been a glance turned into full-on ogling. He still had his shirt on, but had begun pouring the open bottle of water across his chest in an effort to cool off.

  My increased hearing picked up the sighs and elevated heart rates from the women around me as the thin fabric of his shirt clung to his body and drops of water cascaded down. Deep tan skin began to peek through. His chocolate-brown nipples puckered. The water must have been cold. Thank you Jesus for whoever had those puppies in a cooler.

  I could see a slight smattering of chest hair sandwiched between his skin and tee. Then he pulled up the shirt to wring it out, and I caught the brief glimpse of his six-pack and a trail of body hair that drew my attention down to his black shorts. I swear it was like an arrow directing me where to go. Boy, did I want to follow it.

  The healthy dose of yum shook the water from his head and hands. The shirt fell, and I pulled my jaw up off the ground just in time to not have my tongue loll out the side like a freaking German Shepherd.

  He looked up and waved. My hand waved back on instinct. When his eyebrows drew together and he began jogging back toward the game, I looked around to see a petite blonde behind me, with her hand also up in greeting. I gave her the “I’m an idiot, never mind me” salute and started off toward campus. What the hell was wrong with me? He wasn’t even Pack. Why was I ogling him like I was headed into my first heat?

  “Hey! Wait up!” A feminine voice called from behind me.

  I slowed my pace to about half my pulse rate. I had learned that to step below my pulse rate was a great way to appear more human. The fact that I was still speeding through campus told me my pulse was hammering like a hippie playing bongos.

  “Sorry, I…oh. Were you talking to me?”

  The blonde from the practice field jogged to catch up with me. Her little p
erky boobs bobbed with her ponytail, but nothing else on her jiggled. I hated her instantly.

  “Yeah. Damn you’re fast.” A smile broke her face, and not even a drop of perspiration dotted her brow. I really hated her. “Do you know Jake?”

  “Who?”

  “Jake’s my brother. You know, the guy who put on a water show at the practice field.” She knocked her elbow into me.

  Little tip from a werewolf—don’t touch us. It’s considered a confrontational act. Lucky for this chick, it was pretty obvious to my wolf that her little five-foot-nothing frame was no match for my five-feet-ten-inches of overgrowth. When my instincts settled, I noticed she smelled different. She wasn’t from the area. For some reason, everyone here smelled faintly of earth and plants. Okay, they smelled like corn, but I don’t want to sound prejudiced. This little waif smelled empty. Like, clay or wood. You know that smell you get when you open a really old box or jar? Not moldy or musty, just…empty.

  “So I saw you looking at my brother.”

  “What? No I wasn’t. I was watching the game.”

  “They were taking a break.” Her voice shifted from upbeat to dead serious in a second.

  “Yup. I noticed that. Why I left. Have a good one.” I turned and tried to pace my steps. Then an image of Jake filtered into my brain, and I found my steps increasing their tempo. I tried to slow them, with the old standby of listening to the closest pulse. My feet stopped midstride when I realized the closest pulse wasn’t inside my little cling-on. I couldn’t hear the small blonde chick’s pulse. She didn’t have one. Fuck. Vampires.

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