When a Liger Mates

by Eve Langlais

  She shuttered her gaze for impact, only to jolt slightly as her upper body hit something hard. An arm curled around her waist to steady her, and the tray was plucked from her hands. At least it hadn’t crashed.

  She cracked open an eye and then blinked them both at the sight of a man balancing her tray in one hand. The stranger knelt, offering his upper thigh as a cushion, while his other arm—the one that stopped her from faceplanting—remained around her waist. Holy smokes. The guy had the reflexes of a superhero.

  “Superman, I hope,” was a deep, rumbled reply. “He always did look good in those tights. But I have to say that Cavill fellow looks even better as the Witcher.”

  Oh, dear God, he’d heard her say it aloud. Her cheeks heated as she mumbled, “I said thank you.”

  “In that case, you’re welcome.” His smile was much too perfect. He was too…just too much.

  Charlotte pushed away from her savior and stood. “Thanks for stopping my fall.”

  He rose to face her, still balancing the tray with only one palm. How did he do that? She doubted she could have held it for one second before it tilted.

  “The pleasure is mine.” He practically purred.

  The flirting was wasted on her. She held out her hands. “I’ll take that back now.”

  “What if I want it?”

  “You can’t have it. It’s for everyone,” she stated, fingers wriggling insistently.

  “But I don’t like to share, and I love to eat.” He winked and popped one of the appetizers into his mouth.

  “Does that corny line seriously work on anyone?” Horror engulfed her as she realized she’d yet again spoken aloud. She blamed fatigue. So damned tired. And still at least four more hours to go. She might need to chug some caffeine. And then hopefully not crash until she got home.

  “Do you think I’m flirting?” he asked, flirting.

  She ignored the charm. “Give me my tray.”

  “Say please.”

  She looked at his smirk. The way he tried to manipulate her into getting what he wanted. Not today, Satan. “You want it. Keep it. I’ll go get another.”

  “Wait.”

  She’d already turned her back on him, and lucky for her, her mishap was seen. While the sous chef harangued her, they found someone to take her spot and put her back on washing dishes. She didn’t leave the kitchen for a few hours, didn’t have time to breathe hardly as the rush was on. Food was cooked and served in a nonstop chain. Dishes moved rapidly. She scrubbed to keep up, content with the monotonous work, the kind she could do by rote that allowed her to think about her next move.

  She almost had enough for a plane ticket back home, and at least three months’ rent. Her issue was she didn’t have a place to go, and should she even leave? She’d not yet found her brother.

  Where are you, Peter? She’d yet to find any trace of him. Just a small apartment that she took over during her search. Five months of futility.

  It hurt to contemplate, but even she had to admit it was time for her to give up.

  As the evening waned, the party only got livelier. The music provided a thumping bass that gave her a rhythm she washed to. Even with the rubber gloves, her hands wrinkled from the moisture. Her skin felt dewy, or it might have been sweat. A kitchen wasn’t a place to cool off.

  Around midnight, they sent her on a meal break. Thirty minutes all to herself, and she knew how she wanted to spend them. Outside and yet not because she smoked. With winter here, she took a moment to slide on her boots, not exactly fashionable but they were warm and waterproof. She tucked her pants inside them and then donned a sweater and jacket. A scarf was the last thing she wound around her head before heading outside, hands bare in her pockets. She’d either managed to lose her gloves since she arrived or someone borrowed them.

  She exited the kitchen into the alley, anxious to get out of the steam and smells and into the fresh air. First, a run through the cloud of cigarette and weed smoke that hung around the exit. She shook her head when a hand offered her a hit.

  No drugs. No booze. No nothing. Some might call her boring. They’d be right. She’d already lived her party years. She never planned on going back.

  Escaping the smoke, she found herself basting in a miasma of garbage, the container overflowing with bags and filth. Quite pungent despite the cold. She didn’t even want to imagine the stench in summer.

  Fresh air remained elusive, but she intended to find it. To give herself a quiet spot to just plain relax. Ducking her chin into the collar of her coat, she strode with purpose in the direction of the street behind the reception building. If she recalled correctly, it was a quiet road, the businesses being closed for the night.

  The moment she popped out of the alley, she glanced around. Being not only a woman but also someone far from home, she had to be extra vigilant.

  The road was empty in both directions.

  Alone at last. The tension in her shoulders eased as she leaned against the cold brick and pulled out her phone, checking for the millionth time for a message from a contact labeled The Pumpkin Eater. A joke between her and her baby brother.

  They’d been so close growing up, but then their parents died when they were teens. An aunt took them in, but a scholarship to college took Charlotte away. Peter seemed to be doing all right. He got a chance to play soccer overseas and did so for a few years until he hurt his knee. Even then, he remained on the other continent, claiming he was working on a special project that took him all over Europe and, most recently, Russia.

  Seven months since she’d last heard from him. They’d never gone longer than a month before. By the end of the second month, she’d flown over. She’d spent the next five in a fruitless search. She didn’t have a single clue to her brother’s whereabouts or wellbeing. Not one. She was lonely and tired of eking out an existence. It was time to go home before officials kicked her out.

  She’d been granted a six-month work visa, her other job as an English tutor being her official reason for being in Russia. Apparently, people would pay to spend a few hours with someone who could only communicate in English. A good gig, however, her permit would soon expire. It gave her no choice but to return to America, only she had nothing to go back to.

  In her quest, she’d given up her apartment, her life, and had apparently recently lost all her belongings in a fire at the storage unit she’d rented. Insurance money would replace the furniture, but what of the personal effects? She tried not to have a tiny violin moment, but it was hard to not fall into a morass of self-pity.

  Woe is me.

  The deep voice startled. “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

  Her whole body jolted, and she lifted her head. How had she not heard him sneaking up on her? And what was he doing here?

  Despite the fact his features remained in shadow, she recognized him. The handsome and arrogant man from the party who’d rescued her tray. “I’m fine.” And then because she knew to never encourage a stranger, “I’m surprised you don’t need a wheelbarrow to move after taking on that entire tray of food.”

  The sassy reply chased his brows up his forehead, and he smiled. “After you left, I decided I was being selfish, and so I shared with a few of my friends. You most definitely do not look fine. Is something wrong?”

  “How I look is none of your business. Now if you don’t mind, I’m on my break. If you need something, I suggest you return to the party.” Yes, it emerged kind of rude, and yet at the same time, she didn’t like this stranger being with her alone in a place where she couldn’t expect any help.

  “Implying I’m disturbing you.” He uttered a short bark of laughter. “I’m so very sorry, Peanut.” His English didn’t have any trace of an accent, and his teeth gleamed white from the shadows.

  “My name isn’t Peanut.”

  “What is it then? Mine is Lawrence.”

  She shouldn’t encourage him, and yet she found herself saying, “Charlotte.”

  “The web-weaving type or
the kind who prefers Charlie?”

  “The kind that is wasting her break talking to you.” Apparently, she’d have to be blunt, or he wouldn’t leave her alone.

  “Can you blame me for wanting to make conversation with a beautiful lady?”

  That brought a huge snort. “I’ve been washing dishes for hours. I’m wearing the most hideous coat and a giant woolly scarf. Hardly pretty. But I am cold. I should get back inside.” She shoved away from the wall, only to have him sidestep.

  “So soon?”

  “I’m not being paid to talk to you. If you’ll excuse me.” She went to move around him, only he shifted again.

  “Perhaps later, after you finish work.”

  He was one of those guys. The kind who didn’t understand when a woman wasn’t interested.

  She pulled a can of mace from her pocket and brandished it. “Back off.”

  “No need to be so violent.”

  “Apparently, there is,” she muttered as she evil-eyed him the entire time she skirted his body.

  “So that’s a no for later?”

  She felt perfectly justified in the middle finger she shoved over her shoulder. Enough was enough.

  She stomped harder as his laughter followed until she turned the corner into the alley. The light in it flickered. Bzzt. Bzzt. Someone needed to tighten it.

  The flare of a red-tipped cigarette from up ahead was the only sign she wasn’t alone. No big deal. The alley was a popular place to smoke. Probably one of the kitchen staff. She’d passed a few on her way out.

  The scuff of a shoe on pavement came from behind. That jerk better not be following her. She whirled with the can of mace at the ready and saw two people—a man and a woman—wearing leather and bad intent. Their eye contact and smirks made it clear they stalked her. She just had to get back to the kitchen and she’d be safe.

  She whirled, ready to run, only to find a second man standing in front of her.

  “Hello, there.” He grabbed her by the arm.

  “Help!”

  Chapter Three

  Lawrence had been soundly rejected. Bluntly, too. The aunts would have hit the floor laughing.

  It stung. Why did she appear so determined to dislike him? He’d done no wrong. It made him feel less than charitable toward her, and yet when he saw the two figures slip into the alley after her, he followed. It might be nothing, and yet the hairs on his body tingled.

  “Help!”

  He heard her cry out, and all caution fled. He loped into the alley and took in the situation at a glance.

  Two—no, make that three—people confronted the waitress he’d been flirting with. They loomed over her petite frame, menacing her with their size and presence.

  Oh, like hell. What appeared as bad odds for Charlotte would be sporting fun for him.

  “Where is he? We know you’ve seen him. Tell me where he is, or I’ll hurt you,” the biggest one threatened in a heavy accent, only to screech as the lady used her can of mace.

  That almost had his graceful ass stumbling. She might be human, she might be tiny, but hot damn she was mighty.

  “Get your hands off me,” she yelled while continuing to spray, only it went from a fine mist to spitting drops. Then nothing.

  The red-eyed thug wiped at his eyes. He looked pissed. Shit was about to get ugly real quick. He needed to draw attention away from her.

  “Hey, assholes, wrong person. It’s me you’re looking for.” Lawrence waved. Then taunted, “Come and get me.”

  The thug with streaming eyes snapped something in Russian and squinted in his direction. The conversation resulted in some shrugging. The woman, her long hair plaited down her back, grabbed hold of Charlotte’s arm. Peanut’s mighty glare did not burn the grip to ash.

  Lawrence would need to give her a hand. Pity he couldn’t pop a claw. He dropped into a semi-crouch, knowing he couldn’t exactly shift, not this publicly. Too many witnesses around. He didn’t need his liger to handle three street thugs. He rotated his fists as he bounced on his heels, drawing their eyes. Let them get hypnotized by his movement.

  The thugs moved in, splitting apart, thinking they could rush him from opposing directions. He dropped down and kicked, snaring the tallest of the group around the ankle and toppling him. Lawrence was just in time to pop up as the second thug, the one with the beard, dove at him. Had only enough time to place his hands on his chest and propel him away. The fellow hit the wall hard and slumped to the ground, dazed for the moment, but not out of it yet.

  The one he’d tripped had recovered and came at him. They hit the ground and grappled, messing up his suit. There went the deposit on that rental. It happened a lot more often than it should.

  He managed a head butt that knocked out his attacker, which then left him the bearded guy. It took only a little maneuvering before he had a grip around the man’s neck and applied pressure to make him pass out.

  Lawrence only eased up when he heard an ominous, “Let him go and come quietly, or she dies.”

  A quick glance showed the woman, holding Charlotte against her chest. She had at least a foot and probably a hundred pounds on Peanut. She held a knife at Charlotte’s throat hard enough to pierce skin and draw a bead of blood.

  Ah shit. “Don’t you worry, Peanut. I’ll get you out of this safe.”

  “Drop Jarl,” the woman demanded in a strong accent.

  Now it should be noted Lawrence could technically kill everyone in this alley. A snap of a few necks, even a quick shift into his liger, a few swipes of his claws, and he’d emerge victorious. But Charlotte would probably end up dead.

  Some of his friends would say, so what? She didn’t belong to the Pride. She wasn’t anyone really, and yet he wasn’t the kind of guy to let an innocent be killed, not on his account. Besides, he was curious. Who had sent a team of humans to find him?

  He’d heard them asking Charlotte where he was. Why her of all people? He’d just met her.

  The thugs had probably spotted them together on the street. Meaning the attack was kind of his fault. But who were they?

  To find out, he’d have to go with the thugs somewhere a little more private. Getting answers might involve screaming.

  “You win.” He flung red-eyed Jarl from him and held out his hands. “I’ll come nicely, just don’t hurt the girl. She has nothing to do with this.”

  Apparently, he should have included himself in that deal. Jarl had some anger issues and took it out on Lawrence as he tugged a burlap bag over his head—handy how they kept a stash in the trunk—and zip tied his hands behind his back.

  Laughable really. He could have snapped those without even trying.

  Then they thought to humiliate him by shoving him in the direction of the car, waiting to laugh as he fell. Please. A cat always remained on his feet.

  His captors had a conversation in Russian, the only word he recognized being “large.” Probably talking about him. Two Russian girls he’d dated had said it often enough.

  He heard doors unlock; however, Lawrence was less than impressed when they stuffed him into the trunk while the waitress with the lovely smell got to ride in the back seat!

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte sat squished against the door as far as she could get from the not-so-nice guy she’d sprayed in the eyes. Jarl didn’t seem too happy with her and now was taking her somewhere with him.

  She tried not to panic. Tell that to her racing heart and clammy hands. Not to mention the guilt she felt that the guy who’d come to her rescue got caught in her mess.

  This had to be about her brother. What kind of trouble had Peter gotten into this time? Drugs? She’d thought he’d finally gotten clear of them after spending those six months in jail.

  Was it stealing? Had he been so stupid again? He’d only gotten off the last time because he’d negotiated a plea deal by giving them a bigger fish.

  Whatever the reason, she’d give him an earful when he surfaced. Because Peter would return. Anything else wasn’t
acceptable.

  Although perhaps it was time to worry for herself. What did they want with her? And why had they taken that other guy? What had he said his name was?

  It took her only a moment to remember his purred, Lawrence.

  He’d come to her rescue and gotten stuffed into a trunk for the effort. A heroic if foolish gesture. Or not so foolish since technically he’d been winning the fight in the alley until she got caught by Mrs. Mean Lady, who really needed to do something about that funky smell.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Quiet,” Mrs. Mean Lady snapped from her spot in the front seat.

  “You can’t just kidnap me,” she said, only to have the woman whirl and glare.

  “I said quiet.”

  “Or else,” added a much-too-gleeful voice from her left side.

  Jarl, with his very red eyes, dropped a heavy hand on her thigh. She pushed it off and huddled against the door, trying to not hyperventilate.

  Would they hurt her? Because they certainly appeared determined to terrify her. Technically, they’d not hurt her yet, if she ignored the spot of blood on her neck. But just because they wanted her alive for something didn’t make that reason any good.

  Their intent became more ominous with every mile that took them out of the city. From bright lights to sketchy dark roads, they drove long enough she managed a fitful nap and woke drooling on the window. As she shifted her body, she realized Jarl had his hand high on her thigh. She flung it off with disgust.

  He leered and licked his lips.

  She shuddered.

  “We’re here,” Mean Lady said. “Do not try to escape. There is nowhere to go.”

  For some reason, Charlotte knew this to be the truth. They’d stopped at a decrepit house well outside the city limits. In the dawning light she saw the cleared fields covered in a light layer of snow, the pickets of a fence still standing in some spots. At one time it might have been a farm, but the weathered barn had caved in, and the house with its lopsided appearance and sagging roof looked close to following.