Seduction would be necessary.

And while seduction should prove a simple task—a job, nothing more—Blyss knew once she stood in Stryke’s arms again all bets would be off. She’d fall into his beautiful brown eyes and sexy smile and wish only for his masterful kiss. A kiss that had left her breathless in the gallery office.

A kiss she wanted to taste again.

Shaking her head furiously, she battled with the devil and angel hovering above each shoulder. She would never be an angel. She tried not to be so devilish. But this afternoon she had to be a temptress and seduce.

Because if she did not, she would then have to face her beast. And that was something she could not bear.

MICHELE HAUF has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries populate her stories. And if she followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries and creatures she has never seen. Find her on Facebook, Twitter and at michelehauf.com. You can also write to her at PO Box 23, Anoka, MN 55303, USA.

Moonlight and Diamonds

Michele Hauf

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

Paris

“Achoo!”

Stryke Saint-Pierre chuckled at the power sneeze that had blown out of Summer Santiago’s two-year-old mouth. Her dad, Vail, instead of wiping his daughter’s nose and cooing reassurance, lifted his head and fiercely scanned up and down the Parisian street. They stood before the Hawkes Associates building, along with Rhys Hawkes, Vail’s stepfather. The trio were enjoying the cloudy day and discussing Rhys’s need for help.

“See any?” Rhys, a tall, salty-haired half vampire, half werewolf, asked his son.

Vail, full-blooded vampire, nodded across the street.

Stryke followed the vampire’s nod and spied a lanky man wearing a blue hoodie, tattered jeans and combat boots who strode down the sidewalk. The stranger glanced toward them. Red eyes glowed.

“Demon,” Vail confirmed. “He’s cool, though. Doesn’t appear as though he means any trouble. Does he, sweetie?” He kissed his daughter’s curly blond hair.

“Demons are not my favorite breed,” Rhys muttered. “But he looks harmless. She still allergic?” he asked Vail.

Vail, with coal-black hair and silver rings on his fingers that glinted even with the lacking sunlight, nodded. He explained to Stryke. “Ever since Summer had a little run-in with Himself last year she’s been allergic to sulfur. Good demon alarm, though.”

“How does a baby have a run-in with Himself?” Stryke had been in Paris all of two days and was staying in an apartment owned by his grandfather—the rest of his family was, as well—and what he’d learned since arriving was that paranormal breeds of all varieties were in abundance here as compared to Minnesota, which he called home.

“Himself kidnapped her,” Vail provided. “Long story. She’s good. Wasn’t hurt. But you know. Allergic now. I have to head out. Lyric is probably already at the tailor’s waiting for me. I have to try on the tuxedo again. I hope the tailor got the studs right this time.”

Stryke smirked. Vail wore black velvet jeans and a crisp black shirt with black lace around the wrists. And there was enough silver and diamonds on his wrists, ears and rings to flash signals to the moon. The vamp defined glamour rock, but with a bite.

“I sent a suit to your apartment, Stryke,” Vail said. “Your mother reported to my wife that her sons hadn’t properly packed. Ha! Anyway, not sure if they’ll fit you with a tux for the wedding. But in case not, I thought you could borrow one of mine. I sent one to your brother Trouble’s apartment too, but that guy is a block. Not sure my stuff will fit him.”

Indeed, Stryke hadn’t packed anything fancy for the family wedding. When he’d learned it was black-tie, he’d shaken his head and tried not to moan too loudly. Suits were not his style. But it was generous of the vamp to send him a loaner. Stryke’s shoulders were broader than the vampire’s and his biceps were definitely bigger, but he figured he could make it work. Unless it was velvet. It was probably too late to specify a more subtle fabric choice, so he’d keep that worry to himself.

“Thanks, man.” Stryke met Vail’s fist bump and then tweaked Summer’s button nose. “See you at the wedding, Summer.”

The shy toddler tucked her face against her dad’s neck yet, with a giggle, peeked back at Stryke.

“Hug?” Stryke held out his arms.

Surprisingly, she stretched out her arms and he took her into a bear hug. A hug from a kid defied explanation. Stryke wanted a pack of his own. Soon. The urge to raise a couple of sons, and heck, why not a few daughters too, was strong. Hugs seemed a very necessary purpose to life.

“She likes you.” Vail retrieved his daughter.

Summer said, “Puppy?”

“Ha! She’s already got a nose for the wolves,” Vail said.

Stryke playfully barked at her, and Summer giggled.

“See you at the wedding!”

The vampire strode off toward the red Maserati convertible parked down the street. Stryke and Rhys waved to Summer in the front car seat as the twosome rolled by.

“That’s the third Maserati in so many years,” Rhys commented on the sleek vehicle that sported a noticeable dent on the passenger door. “That boy needs to take a driver’s course.”

“Wow.” Stryke shoved his hands in his front jeans pockets. He couldn’t imagine having the kind of disposable income to afford a six-figure car—three times over. While set for life, thanks to investments, he lived a middle-class existence in a small town. He gladly claimed the title of redneck. Happiness to him was living simply.

Though he wouldn’t mind hooking up with a pretty Parisian werewolf while here. The available females back home were slim-pickings, and his werewolf had never had the pleasure of dating another of his breed. It was what he most desired. That, and starting a family that he could call a pack.

Finding a woman had actually become necessity since Stryke’s father had given him the task of starting a new pack. Malakai Saint-Pierre was ready to retire and travel the world with his wife, Rissa. The Saint-Pierre pack consisted of only family. They needed a strong new pack in the area. A diverse pack made up of many families. It was how the werewolves in Minnesota would finally grow their numbers.

The Saint-Pierre pack’s scion was currently Trouble, Stryke’s eldest brother. Trouble hadn’t the calm control to step into his father’s position as principal and lead others. Malakai had said as much to Stryke. His oldest brother was a loose cannon, who picked fights at the drop of a shifty glance and reveled in partying all night. Slightly ADD? Always possible with Trouble.

Stryke was eager to head a pack and had the confidence to do so. But to grow a pack a man needed a good woman at his side.

“So you said you were going to stay on a bit after your family heads home?”

“A few days, for sure.” Stryke returned his attention to Rhys, who owned Hawkes Associates, a sort of bank/savings/storage conglomerate that catered to all paranormal species. “My parents and brothers and sister are here for five days. But Grandpa Creed said we could stay in the apartments as long as we like, so I’m going to fit in some touring when the wedding is over.”

“When you’re not wandering and checking out the sights I’d love it if you’d consider helping me out. I’m shorthanded and have a lot of work in the office. My assistant is out of town on his honeymoon. I’ve a pickup with the Order of the Stake. It would be simple. You’d meet Tor and he’ll hand over the artifacts.”

“Is the Order of the Stake what I think it is?”

“Yes, they are an ancient order of mortal knights who hunt vampires. But they’re cool. Vail informs for them on occasion. Torsten Rindle does their spin. He also handles exchanges with Hawkes Associates. Sometimes the knights in the Order come upon treasure or, let’s just say...their victims’ belongings have to be cataloged. They’ve recently acquired a demon artifact that I bought for my own collection. It wouldn’t take long. But I don’t have the time to run over there myself with all this wedding stuff.”

“I can do that. Doesn’t sound too difficult. Tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll text you the information and provide Tor with your name. Thanks, Stryke. I appreciate it. Oh, and now that I think of it... Here.” Rhys tugged out two tickets from his jacket pocket. “You have any interest in gallery showings?”

Stryke shrugged. “I do hope to catch some of the museums and culture while I’m in town. Always willing to put new ideas in my brain and learn what I can about art and history.”

“I think this is a seventeenth-century jewelry collection on display. I got the tickets weeks ago, but won’t be able to make it tonight. As grandparents of the groom, my wife and I have to attend a rehearsal dinner tonight. Tedious.”

Stryke accepted the tickets. He wasn’t much for jewels, but he’d made the decision to take in as much of the city as he could while here. This was the first time he’d been overseas. He wasn’t sure he could survive being cooped up in an airplane for nine hours to ever make the return visit, so while on land he would do the town up right.

“Maybe one of my brothers will go along with me. Do I have to dress up?”

“You’ll probably want to wear the suit Vail sent to your place. Thanks, Stryke. I’ll call you in the morning with details on the job.”

Rhys clapped a hand across Stryke’s shoulder then wandered back inside the six-story black granite building where he did business.

Stryke tucked the tickets in his back pocket and shook his head as a bright pink Vespa scooted by. A gorgeous woman wearing a skirt commandeered the scooter. She even wore high heels. The women here were so different from back in the States. They liked to look good, no matter what the activity.

He didn’t understand a single word of the language, so he had gotten more sneers and snide side glances than he’d experienced in a lifetime. He was taking it in stride. He wasn’t the sort to anger easily. That was his brother Trouble’s forte. Maybe by the time he boarded the plane for the return trip home he’d actually know a bit of the language and have found that fantasy werewolf he dreamed about meeting?

Then again, he’d be thankful to not starve—because he couldn’t ask for what he wanted in French—not get arrested, and not make a fool of himself if a pretty woman did glance his way.

And if he was lucky he might happen upon some danger. Because before he started the dream family and pack, he needed to satisfy a soul-deep craving for adventure. His brothers always seemed to find danger and excitement in spades.

Stryke had survived a near-death experience last winter. Time to live his life and make the most of it.

Private gallery, 10:00 p.m.

Two hundred people wandered about the airy gallery off the Rue de Rivoli. Excellent turnout. The champagne flowed, and the silver-dusted vanilla macarons catered from Pierre Hermes were nibbled even by those women who would never deem to smudge their lipstick. It wasn’t the calories, chéri; it was the humility of being seen chewing in public.

Blyss Sauveterre had owned the gallery for two years and it wasn’t so much a labor of love as her means to keep tabs on society. By featuring a new exhibit every month she ensured the flow of the rich and famous in and out of the gallery doors never ceased. The diamonds on display this evening were once Marie Antoinette’s prized possessions. Gifts from her lover, Count Axel von Fersen.

Blyss wasn’t sure she believed the provenance. Axel Fersen had been a rake, a solider, an opportunist. Had he really garnered enough wages to afford such elaborate diamonds for the queen? History painted him more a lover than a businessman, which she was inclined to agree with. Whether or not he’d had an affair with the doomed queen? She certainly hoped that part was true.

The fantasy of it all intrigued her, and no one this evening had questioned the story behind the beautiful gemstones glinting within their rococo silver-and-gold settings.

The exhibit tonight was a preshow to the grand event Blyss and her assistant planned to feature perhaps next month—the unveiling of Le Diabolique to the public.

Le Diabolique was a fifty-carat black diamond that glinted red from within. History told that it had been given by a seventeenth-century Belgian duke to the French Queen Anne. It had been stolen less than a week after she’d taken it in hand. The diamond had been recovered and stolen throughout history many times over, and rumor told that anyone who possessed it faced great torment, wickedness and terrible evil. If not the ultimate misfortune of death.

Blyss believed the rumors. The diamond would prove her greatest torment should she not pull off the heist properly this evening. Part one had already been accomplished. Now the handoff.

“Blyss!”

Her assistant, Lorcan Price, was bedecked in a pink bespoke suit and bright purple bow tie. He adjusted his thick black-rimmed glasses and crossed the room, weaving between patrons and wielding champagne flutes in each hand. He gained her side and pressed a cool champagne glass into her hand.

The man seemed to possess a sixth sense about how to please her. Bon mots uttered at the precise moment she was beginning to doubt herself, a compliment about her designer shoes, even a conspiratorially catty wink from across the room during such events as tonight.

Blyss tilted back a few sips of bubbly, eyeing the crowd over the crystal rim as she did so. Most men had a woman draped on their arm this evening and looked oh-so-bored. If they were wise, they’d pay attention to those things that attracted their partners’ eyes, such as all things sparkly. Blyss’s usual type, an older man who wore an expensive suit, tended his nails and hair, and who reeked money, were spread throughout the gallery. Some had even come alone. Such fortune.

But tonight she required someone different.

“The show is going well,” Lorcan said in his quiet yet enthusiastic voice. “The duchess Konstantinov has suggested to me she may loan the gallery her grandmother’s sapphire collection. She’s from old Russian money. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve a Fabergé egg stashed away, as well. Isn’t that spectacular?”

“Exquisite,” Blyss agreed. Yet the intrigue of whether or not the duchess did own a Fabergé egg didn’t pique her curiosity. Her heart wasn’t in the moment. Too much to think about. The plan must go off or she faced a horrible future.

“Is all well with the, erm...big surprise?” he whispered conspiratorially.

“Oui, bien sur.” At least, not if anyone cared to study Le Diabolique too closely. “Soon, Lorcan. But I don’t know about announcing it tonight.”

“I will leave it to you, then. You do have the only key to the storage room.”

Always trying to gain that access, Blyss thought. Maybe someday she would trust him to tend the acquisitions. But not yet.

“Keep working the room, Lorcan. And do be sure to introduce yourself to Madame Horchard. She’s filthy.” As in rich. A shorthand the two of them shared. Because if there was one thing that had drawn Blyss to Lorcan, it was his desire to climb the social ladder by means of attaching himself to money. “I must make another round through the gallery.”

They bussed each other’s cheeks. Lorcan knew well that Blyss abhorred getting her lipstick or her hair mussed.

Clutching the goblet, she strode slowly through the crowd, nodding in acknowledgment to those she knew. Normally she noted the flash of bling on ears, at necks, and wrists and fingers. So she had managed ten carats from her lover? Lucky girl. But tonight her mind was a scatter. Nerves made her tense.

Her heartbeats thundered. She inhaled and then exhaled deeply, vying for calm. She hated this feeling of desperation that had settled into her being the past few days. She’d thought to have perfected her life and that smooth sailing was all her future held.

Until her father, Colin Sauveterre, had shown up at her door a month ago, slobbering drunk and crying. His gambling debts had caught up to him. He’d needed her help. But by helping him, she had placed herself on a precipice that loomed over a dangerous fall.

Would she ever again feel safe and sure? As if her life was exactly as she had designed it? All she desired was to drop her shoulders and relax, knowing all was well. And that she fit in.

Exhaling heavily, she drew in a breath of courage. She could do this. She had to do this.

She managed a fake smile to a dignitary whose name she could not recall, and drifted away from the velvet-and-glass displays that featured dazzling diamonds and colored stones in gorgeous settings from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Rubbing a hand along her lace dress, Blyss cursed the fact her palm was moist. Nerves were not her thing. She could work a room peopled with hundreds and never let them see her sweat. But tonight was different. And she hadn’t found the right man yet.

But she remained hopeful.

Trading her empty flute of champagne for a fresh one from a waiter’s silver tray, she glided through the room and out into the large gallery that housed marble sculptures and where many had gone to chatter louder and more gregariously than the smaller room allowed.

The men were of all varieties. Old, young, middle-aged. Handsome, ugly, oddly alluring. Black ties and designer labels, mostly. Some lesser suits, of which she did not recognize the designer. The women were all dressed to dazzle and reveal.

The couture made her wish she had a credit card that wasn’t maxed out. Alexander McQueen? Oh, yes, please.

Blyss revealed as much as the other women. The black lace dress was cut low in the back to expose almost everything, and the front featured a deep V that clung to her breasts yet revealed their inner curves. A thigh-high slit on the floor-length skirt showed off her red-soled Louboutins. Diamonds at her neck and ears were prizes earned on the quest for the rich and bored who hunted for a sparkling trophy to hang on his arm. But never commitment. No, she chose her men for their expiration dates—and the wanderlust in their eyes. And if they suggested something longer than a fling or a few weekends in Madrid? She quickly extricated herself.

It wasn’t easy maintaining the lifestyle she enjoyed, but every kiss, every extravagant meal, every late night hookup in a lavish hotel room was worth it. Blyss adored luxury.

Most of all, she adored being adored.

Hmm, now there stood a possibility. The man chatting with the waiter over by the Rodin. She hadn’t seen him at any of the gallery’s previous functions. He was tall, nicely tanned—perhaps from yachting?—and wore his hair in a close shave against his head. Bright white teeth flashed beneath his blade nose. An easy stance advertised a certain laissez-faire. He didn’t care what others thought about him.

Blyss could not relate to lacking concern. As well, something about him didn’t quite fit him among the elite crowd. Was it the fabric that stretched at his broad shoulders? The suit had been poorly tailored. Or his seeming awestruck gaze as he took in the festivities? He was...big. Almost awkward. Like a boulder tossed into a flower garden.

Well, he wouldn’t be here without an invite. And Blyss tendered her invites carefully. He was worth checking out—if not, using.

* * *

Stryke wandered through the marble-walled gallery, taking in the sculptures by artists he’d only read about in books. Yeah, so he was probably the only one of his brothers who claimed to read. Much unlike his brothers, who hadn’t the patience or interest in fine arts, he enjoyed learning new things and bulking up his cultural-knowledge quotient.

He took in the elite crowd who sipped champagne and nibbled caviar-coated crackers. He assessed every step, every gesture, every cut of fabric and deviously delivered bon mot. Diamonds glinted at ears, necks and cuff links. He was pretty sure the clothing cost a small fortune, and didn’t even want to guess at how long he’d have to work to afford the diamond choker around that old lady’s neck.

He wasn’t currently working for a paycheck. After a short stint as a volunteer fireman—the fire station had been closed due to budget problems—he was looking for something to fulfill his need for action and danger. It didn’t need to provide a paycheck; he was set for life. But as well, if it involved helping his own breed then he would be even more attracted to taking on the job.

These people were not his breed. They were human. Not his crowd. On the other hand, he was accustomed to existing among humans because that was simply life as he knew it. Wasn’t as if a private werewolf haven existed on an island in the Pacific.

He wouldn’t be interested if it did exist. He liked humans. They were just like him, but without the propensity to grow fur and flick out the claws when the mood struck. Poor humans.

Tonight’s biggest surprise? His brother Blade had come along with him. The last of the Saint-Pierre brothers he would have guessed had an interest in art. Reclusive almost to the extreme, Blade had nodded and muttered something about “getting away from the crazy chicks and their wedding talk.”

And yet, Blade had left fifteen minutes ago with his arms wrapped around sexy blonde twins wearing matching red miniskirts. So Blade’s idea of art was a little different than most.

Stryke had flown to Paris with his family. His parents, Malakai and Rissa Saint-Pierre, and their children, Trouble, Blade, Kelyn and Daisy Blu. Stryke’s aunt Kambriel was marrying Johnny Santiago in a few days. The Santiagos were the Hawkes side of the family, and they were vampires.

Fine by him. As with humans, he had nothing against vamps. His grandfather Creed Saint-Pierre was a vamp, and Blade was actually half faery—as well as vampire. It was all good so long as there were werewolves in the mix at the wedding.

Stryke had heard Europe’s werewolf population was booming and the females were in abundance, much the opposite of his native hometown. He hoped that was true. It would increase his chances of meeting a female werewolf, falling in love and getting married.

If only reality proved as simple as the fantasy.

Stryke likely wouldn’t hook up so easily as Blade had tonight. He was no slouch when it came to dating, but he did tend toward a specific type. Pretty, yet slightly tomboyish, able to embrace fun and a lover of all things outdoors, including snuggling by a midnight bonfire and long walks through the woods.

Was that asking too much? He didn’t think so.

And yet he wasn’t feeling attraction to any of the women. All of them were dressed to the nines with hair that must have taken hours in a salon and makeup that had probably been professionally applied. The diamonds flashing on fingers, necks and ears could light the New Year’s Eve ball dropped in Times Square. He guessed none of them would even look at a man whose bank account didn’t scream high seven figures.

Didn’t matter. Now that Blade had taken off, he could focus on the art. He’d browsed through the jewelry display. Diamonds were just sparkly chunks of carbon, right? He couldn’t figure their appeal. Here in this large open area many sculptures held court. Carved from white marble, he was awestruck how the stone looked as if it was real, warm flesh. As if he should touch one of them the statue would startle. Cool.

He glanced around. Would an alarm go off if he did touch one? He crossed his arms to fend off the compulsion but the suit coat tugged at his shoulders. Vail was definitely less broad in the shoulders than he was.

A waiter offered more champagne and he refused. “Thanks, man—er, non, merci.” Yeah, he’d picked up a few French words. He would be working the language like a native in no time.

Stryke heard all languages babbling about tonight. Earlier he’d listened to a couple of women chatter in English about their hemlines. Why were the conversations he could understand the boring ones?

A crew of well-suited men passed him, each with a gorgeous looker draped on his arm. Stryke tilted back his shoulders. He didn’t need a woman to look important. He preferred his females a bit tussled and wilder, anyway. The princess of his pack would need endurance, patience and, hell, she must be fun, too. And like beer.

“But maybe I should reconsider lace,” he muttered as his eyes landed upon a sheath of black lace caressing the most gorgeous figure he had ever seen. He felt sure he couldn’t even dream up something so luscious.

Black lace caressed long legs and hugged a tight ass and narrow waist. Red-manicured fingernails glided over a hip before gesturing as she spoke to another woman. The gesture directed Stryke’s eyes to the deep-cut neckline that exposed the cusps of perfect, round breasts. And up the slender neck where a single diamond glinted, yet didn’t distract from the soft, pale skin.

Petal-pink lips caught his interest. Kissing those lips would be better than tasting the home-brewed beers he enjoyed and brewed in his basement. Kissing those lips, and running his fingers through that soft dark hair that was pulled up in back yet fluffed on top to frame black-lined eyes could ruin a man for other women.

After a man kissed those lips, there would be no going back. And to stroke his fingers down her neck and arrive at the curves of her breasts? Mercy.

Think rednecks and beer.

Stryke smirked and caught himself laughing quietly. He didn’t do stuff like moon over a gorgeous woman. That chick was so out of his league he’d never get closer than the nosebleed seats. He bet she would never wear flannel or even consider a hike through the pine forest out back of his home.

And yet, she was something to look at. Much more intriguing than the sculpture of a naked man immediately to his left.

So he let his gaze linger as he strolled closer, hoping to catch a whiff of her scent. It would be expensive, for sure. His werewolf senses picked up too much from the room. Perfume, aftershave, champagne, salted crackers, sweet treats, body odor. The sensory assault was overwhelming, but he knew how to turn it down and had done so within minutes after arriving.

Now he sought to home in on her scent. A piece of her to tuck into his memory and take along with him tonight. Something upon which to dream.

As he neared, she dismissed the person she was talking to and brushed close to him, not noticing him, but Stryke felt her heat pierce his borrowed suit and dress shirt. Her body heat was visceral. And her scent was sweet but not like sugar, more like a garden full of flowers with bees buzzing among the petals. Subtle yet intensely heady.

His wrist jerked as she passed, and Stryke swung to see what had happened. “Oh, shit. Uh...” He followed as she walked, unknowing, until she did realize and turned to bump chests with him.

“Sorry,” he said. “My cuff link is hooked on your dress. You passed so close.” He twisted his wrist, but could feel the resistance. “Uh, parlez vous Anglais?”

“Interesting way of picking up a girl,” she said in a cultured voice that belonged in a jewelry box aside all that was precious. And on the box? A sign labeled Don’t Touch. “Oui, I can manage English when I must. Can you get it unhooked?”

“Give me a minute. Your dress is all lace and so delicate. I don’t want to tear it.”

“Please do not, monsieur. It’s one of my favorites.”

He’d snagged her right over the ass, and he worked the back of his hand against her derriere, feeling guilty for the stolen touch, yet at the same time, loving the freebie. The diamond cuff link Vail had loaned him was worth a pretty penny, he felt sure. One of the clasps holding a stone had dug its clutches into the thin black lace.

He straightened, standing beside her with his hand behind her and fingers curled so he didn’t blatantly cup her ass. Causing a scene was the last thing he wanted to do, so he’d act casual. Mercy. She smelled good. It was all he could do not to tilt his head against hers to sniff her hair.

“My name’s Stryke Saint-Pierre, by the way.”

“Blyss Sauveterre,” she offered. And oh, yes, she was. “What sort of pre nom is Stryke?”

“The one my parents gave me. Uh, I’m from the US.”

“That is obvious from your accent,” she said with not even a smile.

Nope. He wasn’t going to win her over this way. Damn. Way to spoil things. Worst pickup ever. Now to extricate himself without humiliating her more than himself.

“Uh, could we move over near that column where there’s more light?”

He nodded toward a marble column at the edge of the gathering. Not a lot of people milling on that side of the gallery. They’d be granted some privacy to perform this delicate operation.

“If it’ll deliver me of your groping hand, then oui.”

She started toward the column and he followed, but it was easiest to let his fingers gently curl about her behind. Yeah, it wasn’t cool, but what about this situation was cool?

Once at the column he pulled her around to the other side, where they found privacy and better light.

“Excuse me for what I’m going to do,” he said.

Her lips pursed. Her bright green eyes were the most valuable jewels in the room tonight. And those pink lips. They looked moist and so wanting of a kiss. No chance of kissing them after this embarrassing debacle. Not as if he’d a chance with this delicious bit in the first place.

Stryke bent behind her to work at the tangle. She slid a hand down her hip, uncomfortable, he guessed. And impatient. God, she smelled amazing. All flowers covered in sugar and fluttering over him until he was buried in sweetness.

“So this is how American men meet women?” she asked over her shoulder. “Snag them like a poisson?”

Poisson? What was that? Poison? Hell, he didn’t know. “Not generally. I like to take a less aggressive tact when I’m interested in a woman.” Though certainly he was on the hunt. Wrong breed, though. This one he’d have to toss back. Ah! Poisson meant fish. “I suspect I’m not your type anyway.”

“What, or rather, who do you guess is my type, Monsieur Stryke?”

When she said his name like that Stryke wished they were the only two in the gallery, and that he had the courage to kiss her and steal away more of her elegant French words.

“Your type...” He stood and kept their close proximity by running his hand over her hip, and said, “...is rich.”

She quirked a perfectly arched brow. The eyeliner circling her beautiful bright eyes had been drawn out at the corners in a catty tease. As he had with the marble statues, Stryke reminded himself not to touch. This wasn’t the venue or crowd that appreciated his kind of sensual curiosity. He’d have to save the smoothing of his fingers over her skin for the bedroom. Which was never going to happen.

“So you do not qualify?” she asked. “Rich?”

“I do well enough.”

In truth, he could probably beat most of the people here tonight in a show of financial statements, but he didn’t like to brag. He was most comfortable living below his means. And if a woman judged a man by his checkbook? He wasn’t interested.

She tapped his free wrist where the diamond cuff link glinted. “I suspect you do.”

He wasn’t about to correct her assumption. Why create another mark against him?

“I’ve been in Paris two days,” he offered. “I have to say you’ve made the trip worthwhile.”

“How is that?”

Leaning closer, just managing the skim of his coat front against her back, he spoke near her ear when a curl of her hair tickled his cheek.

“You’ve pulled me out of my world and into a fantasy. Not often that happens to a guy. Would it be crass to ask if you’ve a boyfriend?”

“It would.”

He nodded. Yeah, he wasn’t going to score interest from this glamour girl.

She tilted her gaze at him and he couldn’t determine if she was disgusted or maybe intrigued. “Have you managed to detach yourself?”

He displayed the cuff link he’d freed from her dress minutes earlier. But since she’d been engaged in talking, he’d not informed her of her freedom too quickly. And the stolen moments of standing in her air? Priceless.

She clasped the cuff link. And then he remembered it wasn’t his. He shouldn’t just hand it over like that.

“Blyss,” he repeated, not addressing her, more feeling the taste of her on his tongue.

She dipped her lashes before looking directly at him and dragging the diamond cuff link across her kiss-me-now lips. “Oui?”

Oh, man, those lips said things he wanted to be true. He breathed her name again. It was so appropriate. Every pore on his body inhaled her perfume and imagined her sugar-flower taste as her silken skin glided against his body.

Before he could claim the cuff link, she strode off. Long legs moved her swiftly, high heels clicking the marble floor. The hand behind her back toggled the diamond cuff link, allowing it to catch the light teasingly. She didn’t reenter the crowd, but instead veered toward the curved marble wall where he had earlier seen the waiters coming and going.

Before walking through an open doorway, she cast a look over her shoulder at him. The cuff link was in her mouth, glinting between those luscious lips.

Stryke’s jaw dropped open. He didn’t need an interpreter to guess what she was saying.

Come claim it. If you dare.

Chapter 2

Stryke Saint-Pierre was one gorgeous man. And polite. While he could have copped a feel when they’d been tangled out on the museum floor, he had remained the consummate gentleman. Too bad for her. Blyss wanted to feel his deft fingers smooth over her derriere. She wanted to lose herself in the rugged smell of him, the roughness of him.

And she wanted to feel that now.

She strode down the dimly lit hallway toward the back office. It was her office, but she shared it with Lorcan, her assistant, and used it principally for paperwork, business calls and the occasional make-out session with a sexy man. It was what she did. She saw an attractive man. She wanted him. She won him. The winning part gave her immense satisfaction. And sometimes a sparkler for her finger or ear. She was choosy, most certainly, and discreet. And never greedy.

Tonight the win was born of necessity.

“You live in Paris?” she called back.

“Staying for a week or so, then heading back home to Minnesota.”

Perfect. He’d be gone and out of her hair as soon as she had accomplished her task.

Minnesota? Blyss vaguely imagined a tundra with blowing winds and snow and—not of interest to her.

As she unlocked and opened the door and strode into the office, she surreptitiously glanced over a shoulder to catch the strut of the man’s long, confident strides. Following at a distance. Smart man. Well, she did have something of his that he wanted back. The cuff link was too small to sell for any worthwhile amount, so she would give it back.

But first, to enact part two of tonight’s plan.

Stryke closed the door behind him.

“Lock it,” Blyss cooed. She stood across the room and turned, back against the wall, one leg bent and a black patent leather shoe heeling the wall.

The man’s long fingers flicked the steel door lock. Something about those sexy, strong fingers. She needed to feel them on her body. And she would. And the man’s name was Stryke. So bold and macho. Everything about him screamed alpha—yet to think that term gave her a shudder.

She eyed the small drawer at the corner of her desk. Inside was the key to securing her future. She must concentrate on the task at hand. Not on his virile attraction or her increasing need to surrender to that virility.

“Where are you staying?” she asked, because it was important.

“On that little island behind the big church.”

The man was quaintly rustic. But that smile of his was dangerous. It said to her, “I like to have fun, and if you’re lucky, you can go along for the ride.” Blyss couldn’t remember when last she’d had fun with abandon. Had she ever?

“Île Saint-Louis?” she guessed, keeping her growing desire for his touch under control by pressing her palms against the wall behind her.

“That’s the one. My grandfather owns one of the buildings and my entire family is staying there. We’re in town for my aunt’s wedding. The apartment I’m staying in is right above a candy shop. In the mornings I wake up to the smell of chocolate.”

“Oh, I know that one. About center of the island.”

“Yeah, exact center, I’d guess. It’s a neat little neighborhood. I haven’t done much exploring since arriving, but I hope to walk the city tomorrow. So...”

His eyes followed the lines of her body, up the slit that exposed her leg, which was darkened by a sheer black stocking. A red bow teased at the top of the stocking. All carefully planned, of course. Blyss thrived on male attention. It fed a part of her soul. If not her bank account.

He strode toward her and she smiled and placed the cuff link between her lips. He wanted her. She wanted him. Too bad this was to be a business engagement.

“Quickly,” she said around the cuff link. “I can’t be away from the event for too long.”

“Is that so?” He stepped before her and plucked the cuff link from her mouth. They matched in height, but that was only because of her heels. She tapped his long blade of a nose, gliding her finger down it and to his lips, which were firm and, over the upper, topped with stubble. His tongue lashed her finger and she pushed it into his mouth for him to suck. “You want me?”

He pressed closer so she could feel the fabric of his suit brush against the lacy dress, yet he didn’t push his body against hers. Teasing? Or not so daring as she had hoped?

“You are like those diamonds displayed out in the gallery,” he said. “Pretty to look at, yet a man could never dream to possess them.”

“Good boy. So you know you’ll not be walking out of here tonight with me on your arm.”

“I get your game. A quickie with a stranger?”

“Quickie is a vulgar term. I prefer an amorous liaison.”

“I like the sound of your French words, glamour girl. Then I guess I’d better get to it. Quickly,” he whispered against her ear.

The brush of his mouth along her jaw made her sigh and tilt her head back, wanting him to paint his warm breath along her skin and to, for one moment, feed her the warmth she sought.

Stryke’s hands glided up her thighs. One stopped at the ribbon that topped her stocking. The tickle of his finger shimmered a delicious hum through her mons and core.

“Mustn’t tug,” she admonished. Placing her hand over his, she again claimed the cuff link.

“Let me guess. You don’t like to be mussed.”

She slid her hands down to his fly and unzipped him.

“No mussing, it is,” he groaned tightly.

He was hard and ready. Just the way she wanted him. But before they began, she lifted his wrist and stuck the cuff link through the buttonhole. “I’ll let you keep this trinket.”

And gliding her hands inside his coat, she slid them up his back between the crisp dress shirt and the silk coat lining. So many pockets lining the interior. Excellent. And then back around to unbutton his trousers and push them down.

“Take me,” she insisted, defiantly holding his wondrous gaze. She did love it when they seemed shocked, the treat of a stolen liaison so unexpected to them. “Fast and hard.”

His swallow was audible. But he didn’t balk. Pushing up her dress, he lifted her against the wall at the same time. She wrapped her legs about his hips. His erection fit like a hot steel rod against her mons.

“You’re soft and you smell great, and you’re so hot,” he babbled as he found his way inside her.

Blyss gasped as his thickness entered her in a smooth glide. She hadn’t required lubrication because she’d been turned on since he’d gotten caught on her dress. Mmm, he felt like hot, hard steel. Every in-and-out motion teased at her apex, and she thought she might even climax, even though simple thrusting generally didn’t do it for her.

She glided her fingers through his hair, seeking to grip hanks but it was so short, like uncut velvet. And then she did something she never did with her hookups. She didn’t even think about it. Her head simply tilted and her mouth sought his. He tasted like champagne. His moan echoed inside her, stirring up her own moan. His powerful biceps flexed under her hands. His hips slammed her against the wall.

Gripping him at the back of his neck, she kissed him deeply, wanting to get lost in him, to find... No. Mustn’t be a fool.

Stryke gasped harshly, yet quickly muffled the noise by pressing his mouth against her neck, his teeth pressing gently into her skin. “Shoot, I didn’t use a condom...”

“I am on the pill,” she whispered. “No worries.”

“Whew.” And as his body shook against hers, she reveled in his quick yet furious orgasm that shuddered his body against hers. Until she remembered...

The desk drawer beside her slid open with ease. She palmed the item she’d placed inside earlier and then slid her hand inside his suit coat. He was lost in the orgasm, oblivious to her actions.

“That was so—mmm, good.” His eyes sought something in hers, so desperately, Blyss felt as if she’d done something wrong. “You’re...” He sniffed, pushing his nose against her neck again and lingering at the base of her ear where her hair must tickle his face. “God, you smell good. But there’s something...”

She dropped her legs and tugged down her skirt. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. I just...” He pressed a hand over her breast, and it was only then that Blyss noticed how her heartbeats thundered. She’d love to do it again with this one—to actually take her time and find her own orgasm—but...

She would see him again. He just didn’t know that yet.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “But you don’t belong here.”

The hand at her chest suddenly felt like a two-ton weight. Blyss gaped. She shook her head. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know why I feel that, but I do,” he said. “Something about you. Are you...lost?”

A knock at the door sounded.

Stryke quickly zipped and Blyss tugged down her dress and adjusted the red ribbon at the top of her silk stocking. “Lorcan?” she called.

“You busy?” a British voice called from outside the door. They’d done this drill before. He knew never to simply open the door and walk right in.

“He’s my assistant.” And such perfect timing!

She pushed by Stryke and strode toward the door, hands smoothing over her hair. “I have to get back. They’ll be looking for me. You should leave now. Please.”

She unlocked the door and opened it, revealing Lorcan waiting outside. He knew better than to show a cheeky grin or even a raised brow. The man was ever discreet. She returned the same courtesy to him. Turning, Blyss gulped down the longing that had been planted there by Stryke’s sensual prowess. She’d wanted to linger.

Really? Linger against his heat, his overwhelming essence of man, sex and muscle? Sounded delicious. But indulgence in what her heart desired was something she never allowed.

Stryke passed her and slowed, as if he wanted to say something to her, but with Lorcan standing in the doorway, his eyes respectfully gliding along the door frame, Stryke simply nodded and walked out.

“Don’t go back into the gallery!” she called after him. “Please.”

He nodded as his strides took him down the hallway and away from her.

And she turned and strode back to the desk, palm pressed over her heart and biting her lip to prevent the tears.

Tears? What had he meant when he’d insinuated she was lost? Perhaps he hadn’t been such a wise choice, after all. It was too late to alter her plan. She’d already completed the main step.

She would have to see Stryke again. And she looked forward to it. She dreaded it, as well.

“Everything all right, duck?” Lorcan asked.

She nodded. “I’m sorry. You know sometimes I just...”

“No need for an explanation. I’m headed out myself with a pretty young thing. Wanted to let you know I’m leaving. Unless you need me to stay and lock up?”

“No. Thank you, Lorcan. I’ve the security guard and the waitstaff will be around, as well. Go have some fun. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Yes. We’ll cement our plans for the showing then, eh?”

She nodded.

If all went well, that showing would never occur. And the only one aware it had failed would be her. She had a plan for keeping Lorcan in the dark about it.

He left the office door open, and Blyss bent and peered past her assistant to see if she could still see Stryke’s back, but he was gone.

“The Île Saint-Louis,” she whispered. “Now to step three in the plan. This will be the most difficult.”

And if her heart got in the way again she truly would be lost, as he’d guessed.

* * *

Talk about the cold shoulder.

Stryke actually shivered as he strode down the darkened hallway, passed by the gallery and aimed straight for the exit.

Outside, he shrugged off the uncomfortable suit coat and tossed it over a shoulder. He should have hailed a cab, but he could see the river Seine from here. One thing he’d learned since arriving in Paris: if a man could locate the river, he’d never get lost. There was the left bank and the right bank, and the river. And he knew the island where he was staying was to his left.

It would be about a twenty-minute walk. He could use the fresh air. It was July and even nearing midnight the air was sultry. But not as sultry as the sexy handful he’d just held up against the wall.

“Blyss,” he murmured.

And yet.

“What happened back there?”

Earlier this evening he’d donned a borrowed suit, met Blade on the street before the chocolate shop and entered the gallery with hopes to view some interesting artwork. A couple of rednecks mingling with the snooty set. It was supposed to be a kick. Stryke hadn’t expected to pick up the hottest chick in the place.

And to have sex with her.

Blade and his miniskirted twins had nothing on what he’d scored.

But the craziest thing of all? There had been something about her. And it wasn’t her beauty or her bold tease or the quick but satisfying liaison. He toggled the cuff link she’d returned to him. Her scent had been... Well hell, he didn’t know how to categorize the uniqueness of her. Beyond the sweet flowery perfume, he had scented something deeper. Intriguing. Familiar?

“Crazy,” he muttered as he strolled along the river. Lights on the buildings cast a spectacular show across the Seine’s darkened waters. He marveled that tourists were out in full force. The City of Light truly never slept.

“I was caught in the moment. And what a moment.”

Would he ever see her again? If he returned to the gallery would she give him the time of day? Acknowledge they’d shared that moment?

Probably not. A woman like Blyss probably picked out a man to please her then tossed him aside without a glance over her sexy, bare shoulder.

Yet she hadn’t gotten off. He’d come so quickly. Hadn’t been able to stop himself. He felt bad about that. Normally he tended to a woman’s pleasure before allowing his own. But the moment had jumped on him and he’d been swept away. He should have dropped to his knees and...

The assistant had banged on the door, ruining the whole thing.

Stryke paused at an intersection and glanced back the direction from which he’d come. A brightly lit Ferris wheel spun through the Paris sky to his left.

Why had he walked away? He should have waited around for the guy to leave and then got her phone number.

Was his hasty retreat because he’d felt as if she’d rejected him by pulling away from him so quickly? Probably. The woman defined classy. So out of Stryke’s universe. Probably ate caviar and champagne for breakfast, then skirted around Paris in a Lamborghini painted pale pink, the color of her lips.

Rubbing his brow, Stryke shook his head and walked across the street on the green light. Smirking, he shook his head again. “It was a hookup,” he muttered. “Let it go.”

But with the lingering scent of flowers imbued on his skin, letting go was easier thought than done.

Chapter 3

Torsten Rindle was an interesting fellow. Stryke met him in a parking lot on the left bank down the street from a vast city park. The man drove an olive-green van, and he’d opened up the back doors to reveal some boxes sitting in the stripped-to-the-framework interior.

Tor was tall, slender and dressed in a tweed vest and pleated trousers. A polka-dot tie tightened about a crisp white dress shirt, of which, the sleeves were rolled to his elbows. A cicada was tattooed on the underside of one of his forearms, but otherwise, he appeared a dapper Englishman.

Stryke liked his accent. So Downton Abbey. Not that he’d ever watched the show. Okay, maybe once on a date a girl had suggested they cuddle on the couch and watch TV. The things a guy did for a little snuggling.

“So Hawkes Associates is strapped for help?” Tor asked as he carefully peeled back the packing tape from the top of a cardboard box.

“Actually, Rhys Hawkes is busy with a family wedding. Which is why I’m in town. The bride is my aunt.”

“Ah yes, Johnny Santiago and his girl are tying the knot. Good couple. Vampires.”

“Yes, indeed.” And this guy worked for a secret order that hunted vampires. “You, uh...ever try to stake them?”

“Me?” Tor grinned, exposing a boyish charm. “I don’t do the stake. I’m spin. Someone has to make sure the mortals didn’t see a vampire bite a person’s neck, but instead, just happened upon a couple actors rehearsing for a show at the Moulin Rouge. You know? The Order of the Stake only pursues those vampires who are a danger to humans. Like me. I’m human.” He turned and offered his hand to shake. “Sorry, didn’t do this properly. Torsten Rindle. Human.”

Stryke shook the man’s firm grasp. “Stryke Saint-Pierre. Werewolf.”

“I like werewolves,” Tor offered, folding back the flap on the box. “But you guys can be a challenge when pissed off.”

Stryke tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Nothing wrong with being a challenge.”

“So.” Tor gestured Stryke approach the back of the van to peer into the box. “This is what I’ve got.”

“Rhys said your knights sometimes pick this stuff up from a slain vampire’s lair?”

“This artifact came from a vamp who was trafficking in magical accoutrements. Most of the stuff—herbs, nostrums and small ritual objects—we toss. But there were some decidedly demonic artifacts mixed in with the more innocuous stuff. Didn’t want to keep our hands on this, nor did we want it sitting around for any Tom, Dick or Edward to get his hands on.”

“May I?”

Tor nodded. “You’ll be taking it with you anyway.”

Stryke peered into the box and spied what looked like a staff of sorts. About two feet long, it was sleek, resembled steel and the top portion jutted up into prongs, which looked as though they should be clasping some wizardly sort of crystal.

His fingers neared the staff and then he flinched. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

“Demonic scepter.” Tor reached in and pulled out the item as if a child’s toy and waved it before Stryke. “Demons can do very bad things with it.”

Stryke took a step back and put up his hands. “That’s silver, man.”

Tor studied the length of the scepter, then nodded. “Yep, probably is. A good conductor of magic. I suspect a stone or some such fits in the prongs. Most likely the stone is required to activate the thing. Be thankful it’s missing. Here you go.”

“Dude, I am not touching that thing. Silver is—”

“Ah, right. Sorry. But the silver has to actually enter your bloodstream to do you werewolves harm, right?”

“In theory. But I had a bad experience with a silver-tipped arrow last winter.” He clutched his left biceps. “Almost died. I’m not taking any chances.”

“Yikes.” Tor carefully set the scepter back in the box. “Take it in the box, then.”

“So it’s cool sitting in this plain old brown box?”

“Should be.” Tor tugged out the box and handed it to Stryke. “But I’d get it back to Hawkes Associates and secure it with wards as quickly as possible. Just to be safe.”

Stryke thought he felt a wave of heat emanate from within the box and glow in his biceps. He winced. His brow began to sweat. His mouth dried. Flashes of last winter when the silver had fought to take his life disoriented him. But a healthy dose of wolfsbane had defeated the poison.

“Stryke? You okay?”

“Huh? Uh, yes.” Best to get the hell out of here fast. “Thanks, man. Do I need to pay you?”

“We’ve an account with Hawkes. It’s all been taken care of. Nice to meet you, Saint-Pierre. Stay wary.”

“Really?” Stryke asked, but Tor had already slipped around the side of the van and he heard the driver’s door slam shut.

“Wary,” he muttered as the van pulled away.

Again he felt the heat emanate from within the box. “You don’t have to tell me that. Me and silver do not have a good history.”

If he was going to run into more silver working for Rhys, he’d have to start carrying some wolfsbane with him.

* * *

Blyss touched up her eyeliner in the mirror, drawing it out in a cat’s-eye tease. Her brows were tweezed and shaded to perfection. A hint of blush. And bright red lips. Her usual daytime look. She liked to look sexy, and yes, she knew she was pretty. Men told her as much all the time. But sometimes it was hard to justify the beauty when she knew a beast lurked within.

She shook her head at the mirror’s reflection. Do not fall into those dark thoughts. She’d moved beyond such thinking and was managing her beast. Had been for years.

Only, now her life had started to unravel in incredible ways. Her supplier, Edamite Thrash, had always been kind and just with her, but even he could not put up with her missed payments. She was behind a year, and she needed to refill her supply soon. Only a few pills remained in the glass jar she kept on her vanity.

She must not allow the beast reign.

There was no questioning Edamite’s generosity by letting her go a year without paying. She’d had no choice but to divert her funds. Her father, well... She hoped he had learned a lesson and would never gamble again. But Blyss knew better.

Her bank account was in the red, and her social life was faltering. While usually she relied upon extravagant gifts from her lovers to seed her finances, she had not received a gift in months.

And she’d been given a week to procure an item for Edamite. An item so valuable he would forgive her debt and cover her for the next year’s supply. An item that she had obtained and then placed in another person’s care to divert suspicion. An item she must claim today so she could clear up matters with Ed.

She exhaled heavily, watching her shoulders slump in the mirror. Quickly, she corrected, pushing her shoulders back and lifting her chin.

Never let them see you suffer.

She’d worked too hard to establish her position among the humans. Blyss Sauveterre, Parisian socialite and gallery owner. She’d even been photographed with celebrities and had once made the gossip page after a weekend fling with a Russian duke.

She adjusted the combs, brushes and makeup on the vanity table before her so they lay straight and evenly spaced. She liked neatness. She was so close to avoiding a complete life catastrophe and smoothing over that annoying bump in her road. Control was her only means to relax.

Yet now Stryke Saint-Pierre had strolled into her life.

Her reflection frowned. She had been attracted the moment she’d laid eyes on him walking the gallery floor. And the attraction had been like nothing she had ever felt for a man before. She’d wanted to feel his hands roaming her skin, his mouth tasting hers. And she’d gotten that.

She wanted it again.

No. He is just the diversion.

Right. Stick to the plan. She had to see him again today. In order to retrieve what she’d planted on him, she needed access to his personal things. She must get close to him without raising suspicion.

Seduction would be necessary. And while seduction should prove a simple task—a job, nothing more—Blyss knew once she again stood in Stryke’s arms, all bets would be off. She’d fall into his beautiful brown eyes and sexy smile and wish only for his masterful kiss. A kiss that had left her breathless in the gallery office.

A kiss she wanted to taste again.

Shaking her head furiously, she battled with the devil and angel hovering above each shoulder. She would never be an angel. She tried not to be so devilish. But this afternoon she must tempt and seduce. And win back her standing with her supplier.

Because if she did not, she must then face her beast. And that was something she could not bear.

* * *

Outfitted in hazmat gloves and a face mask, Rhys Hawkes had been waiting for the delivery in his office. Stryke had chuckled, but then asked when he would be issued his own safety equipment.

“Sorry,” Rhys said as he took the silver scepter from the cardboard box. “I knew it was silver, but the thought to warn you didn’t occur at the time. I’ll have the company car outfitted with some precautionary equipment.”

“Precautionary,” Stryke repeated as he followed Rhys into an open vault that stretched back about twenty feet and featured an aisle four feet wide. He strolled his gaze up and down the security boxes, each fronted by a digital entry pad. “What all is in these boxes?”

“Gold, silver, coins from ages past. Magical items. Demonic accoutrements. Personal possessions that hold such great power the owner fears keeping them too near. Everything you can imagine. This is the preliminary holding cell for items the owners intend to retrieve instead of having them stored long-term. As well, I keep items I’ve purchased in here—like this scepter—until a spot can be coded for them below. I’ve a marvelous warehouse underground this building. I’ll show it to you sometime.”

“Kind of Warehouse 13, eh?”

“Hmm?” Rhys punched in a code and pulled open a drawer. He hadn’t gotten the reference to the sci-fi show Stryke caught on replay every so often that featured a massive storage shed for items and devices of supernatural origin.

“So that wasn’t a very dangerous job,” Stryke commented. “You know I am capable if you’ve a particularly harrowing task.”

“Oh, indeed.” Rhys closed the drawer and tugged off his gloves. “You looking for some danger, Saint-Pierre?”

“Always.”

“Your father told me you’re the wise one of his children. Sort of the calm center amid a storm of fur and trouble.”

“Trouble being the key word in that statement. My brother definitely lives up to his name.”

“Malakai also tells me he’s encouraged you to start a pack?”

“Yes, Dad wants to retire. And we could use a more varied pack where I live. A mixture of families.”

“Always wise to integrate the pack with new blood. So you are married?”

“No, but I’m looking.”

“Heh. I’d introduce you to my granddaughters at the wedding—Trystan’s girls—but no. I don’t want you taking any from my family across the ocean.”

“Thanks. I do have my eye out while I’m in town.”

Rhys patted him on the back and led him back out to the office. “You enjoy the show last night?”

“It was interesting.” If not curious. And a boost to his ego. Until Blyss had shoved him out the door, and then his ego had fallen onto the concrete. “Met a gorgeous woman.”

“Ah? Werewolf?”

“No. Doubt I’ll find such luck so quickly.”

“You two have a date, then?”

“I think we’ve done the date, the first kiss, the— Let’s say it was sweet while it lasted.”

“Parisian women can be baffling. Such pretty baubles to admire, but try to nudge beneath the sparkle and learn them?” Rhys shook his head. “I am thankful for a long and loving relationship with my wife. Dating nowadays would stymie me. People don’t even talk anymore. They text. What is that about?”

Stryke offered him a shrug. He wasn’t much for texting. A long talk and hand-holding were more his style.

“But if you’re looking for a hookup in town,” Rhys continued, “talk to Johnny. He knows a lot of—”

“Vampires aren’t really my style. But thanks, Rhys. I’m going to head out. Unless you’ve more work for me?”

“Not at the moment, but I’m sure I will in a day or two. Thanks for helping out, Stryke. See you at the wedding this weekend.”

On the way home Stryke stopped for a crepe from a food stand across the cobbled street from Notre Dame. He’d been eyeing this stand every day since arrival. Worth the dive into unhealthy. Sickeningly sweet chocolate oozed out around thick slices of banana between the folded crepe.

Bananas were always healthy, right?

He consumed the crepe and wandered in through the lobby of the apartment building. Knocking on the door to the apartment his brother Blade was staying in, he waited, but no answer. Must still be out with the twins.

His parents were likely helping with the wedding stuff. And Kelyn had been serious about seeing the sights. The youngest Saint-Pierre brother had left the building this morning with a map in one hand and his iPod set to a city tour.

Shaking his head in admiration over Blade’s roguish prowess, Stryke headed up to his place. He surfed the television but couldn’t understand French or the Indian-language stations, though the talk shows that emulated the confrontational style so popular in the US were a hoot.

After fifteen minutes all the hair-pulling and shoving annoyed him. Time to head out and explore the city. Maybe he could pick up Kelyn’s scent and join him. He scanned out the window and eyed the row of shops across the river. He’d start there because he was pretty sure one of them was a bookshop.

A knock at the door must be a family member. Expecting a brother or even his mom or dad, Stryke answered the summons and chuffed out his breath at the sight of who it really was.

The sexy siren stood with one arm raised, her hand grasping high on the door frame, while her sinuous body slinked and seduced in red velvet. The dress hugged her from breasts to curvy hips. A party this early in the day? Stryke decided that every day—all day—was a party for this glamour girl.

“Blyss?”

She winked and strode across the threshold, handing him a filmy black scarf. He fumbled with it, not sure whether to scrunch it up and toss it aside or press it to his nose to inhale her scent. He compromised and brushed it over his face as he tossed it aside to land on the kitchen table littered with toast crumbs from a hasty breakfast.

Following the click of her high heels into the living room, which was bare of furnishings, save for a baroque couch and chair set that looked as if it hailed from the eighteenth century, Stryke waited for her to announce her reason for the visit.

Did he need a reason? Hell no.

The woman he’d thought to never see again stood not six feet away from him, looking like a sex goddess wrapped in red. Her dark hair was pinned up again, with a few wispy tendrils drawing his eye directly to her elegant neck. Right there. That was where he really wanted to kiss her.

She turned and crooked her finger at him and he almost lost it right there. But he was cool. Mostly. He got an instant hard-on, though. No fancy suit today, just a T-shirt and loose blue jeans that had gotten remarkably tighter.

“How’d you find where I’m staying?” he asked as he padded up to her and didn’t dare touch her. Yet. She smelled like flowers. And again he got lost in a meadow of blossoms.

“You told me you live above the candy shop. Only one on the island.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again after that hasty send-off last night.”

“Excuse moi. I sometimes slip out of hostess mode, and then when I realize my guests are untended, I refocus with a vengeance. It’s a thing with me.”

“You often slip out of hostess mode at such gatherings?” Meaning, did she screw strange men in the office much?

Blyss tilted her head and fluttered her lashes.

Did he care what she did with other men? She was here now. She smelled like flowers. Looked like sin. And it was obvious she hadn’t come for a chat.

Stryke pulled her to him in a swift move that married their bodies at hips and chest. He felt her nipples harden beneath the velvet and his hand glided to one breast to squeeze. There was something about a woman intent upon getting exactly what she wanted. And he sensed this flawless piece of female was here on a seek-and-have-sex mission.

He dipped his head to her breasts. The dress was cut low, and he dashed his tongue under the velvet. She gasped and leaned into him, asking for more with her body.

“I hope you’re not busy,” she whispered. “I don’t normally stop by without first calling, but I didn’t have your mobile number.”

Mobile was what the French called the cell phone. He lashed his tongue over her firm breast. “Was only planning on sightseeing. Mmm, Blyss, you are incredible.”

Her hand slid up under his T-shirt, fingernails gently clawing his abs. “And you are très fantastique, Stryke.”

He slid the thin red strap off her shoulder and pulled down the dress to expose her breast. Kissing and suckling her erect nipple, he moaned at the pleasure of the surprise. And his inner wolf stirred, sensing the connection to—hmm...to what?

Something about her called to his feral instincts in ways that no woman ever had. It puzzled him, but then again, he couldn’t question it too much. Maybe later.

Her leg hooked about his and she gripped him at the back of his neck, pulling him hard against her breast. When he nipped her skin she gasped. She liked that. A little rough? He’d always thought himself a gentle lover, but he could amp up the intensity if that was what she wanted.

Squeezing her other breast while he sucked in her nipple, he gripped her ass and lifted her so she wrapped her legs about his. The bedroom door was five steps away. Moving blindly, he managed to miss the door completely and crush her up against the wall. He knew she liked this position.

“Sorry, was aiming for the door.”

“Your bedroom is through there? Yes, let’s try it on a bed this time, mon amour.”

My love? Oh yeah. She was here for more than a social call.

This time he made it through the doorway and they tumbled onto the king-size bed made with simple white linens and a scatter of fluffy pillows. He didn’t let her go, though. Instead he pulled down the other dress strap and the dress fell to her waist. Burying his face against her breasts, he breathed in what was surely expensive perfume. He’d fallen into a rose garden.

She tugged at his shirt and he slipped it over his head. Cooing, Blyss ran her hands over his chest, setting his nerve endings ultrareceptive to all things good.

“So ripped,” she murmured. “American men are so much more than the French man.”

When he was about to foolishly say it was the wolf in him, she pressed a finger to his lips. “Let’s not talk. Let’s taste.” She lashed her tongue under his jaw. “And touch.” Her fingers slid over his crotch and curled about his erection. “And devour.”

“Devouring sounds good to me.”

Stryke made quick work of his fly, unzipping and shrugging out of his jeans. Boxer briefs hugged his erection, but they didn’t stay up for long. Blyss shoved them down his hips and grasped his aching hard-on. The contact felt like fire singeing him in the sweetest way. He hissed.

She coiled her fingers about him and squeezed. Oh, yeah, that was twenty kinds of all right.

Stryke was about to kiss her mouth, but the red lipstick stayed him. She was so pretty, so perfect. She deserved mussing, but he’d do it in another way. Planting the kiss on her neck, he nuzzled there and gently bit down along her shoulder. Her hands busied themselves with his cock and he would come too fast if she kept it up.

He grabbed her wrists and pinned them up by her shoulders. This time, he intended to orchestrate their liaison. No coming for him until she did first. He owed her one. She cooed, her tongue dashing out to lick those teasing red lips. He’d caught her. Now what would he do with her?

Indeed, what to do with this gorgeous bit of glamour that surprised him at every turn and whom he wanted to figure out. And yet, he did not. The surprises were what made her so exciting.

Rocking his hips against hers, he teased at her hot, sticky wetness with his cock. She moaned and murmured, “Yes,” but he was inclined to tease a bit longer.

The dress hugged around her waist. Her thigh-high stockings glided like silk against his legs. She still wore the shoes, and thinking about those spiked heels hardened his cock even more. He wanted to feel her softness and her dangerous sharpness all over his skin.

So when she struggled against his hold on her wrists, he relaxed his grip and allowed her to push at him. He rolled to his back, pulling her on top of him in a smooth movement. Straddling him, she pulled off the dress and tossed it to the floor.

Afternoon sunlight beamed across the bed and her body glowed as if she were a sun goddess. Stryke glided his hands up her stomach. When he cupped her breasts, she tilted her head back, offering her succulent fullness to him. She wiggled, her moistness heating his cock. And with a shift of her hips she managed to take him inside her.

“I don’t have any—” Stryke never had unprotected sex. Werewolves could get mortal women pregnant.

She tutted him. “You didn’t last night either, no?”

Right. She’d said she was on the pill.

“Lover, you are steel between my legs. Mmm...”

He closed his eyes and fell into the exquisite rhythm of her rocking above him, feeding off him, milking him, pairing with him. Bonding—no.

When two werewolves had sex together in werewolf form they bonded for life. It was a serious deal. And while he hoped to someday bond with a werewolf and make a family together, this woman was merely human and he just wanted to have fun with the glamour goddess.

Blyss cupped his hands, still wrapped about her breasts, and squeezed. Murmuring an approving sound, she quickened her pace, up and down, bringing him to climax with expert skill. Stryke’s hips bucked up against her, and when she pressed her hands to his chest and watched him ride out the pleasure, he thought surely she was looking inside him for some secret.

The secret was that he was stymied by her interest in him. But then again, maybe he should stop thinking like a Northwoods hick and accept the Parisian ideal. Whatever that was.

Slipping his fingers between her legs, he found her swollen apex and stroked her until she gripped at his shoulders and tossed back her head. The scent of flowers and salty sweetness and...something so familiar filled his senses as she cried out in pleasure.

Stryke inhaled deeply, testing the scent she gave off and wondering... It was too familiar not to recognize. Was she really? There was no mistaking her feral scent. He knew it from long runs in the woods with his brothers while they were in wolf form and from the rush of adrenaline the wolves got when chasing prey.

As Blyss’s body softened above him, Stryke gripped her by the shoulders. “You’re a werewolf?”

Chapter 4

Blyss pushed out of Stryke’s demanding grasp and shuffled off the bed. She clasped her hands across her breasts, the urge to protect herself heightened by his out-of-the-blue question. And his strangely accusatory tone. Inhaling, she fought to not mentally return to that moment in high school—the moment life had turned against her.

How could he have known?

In all the years she had been taking a pill to suppress her werewolf, never had anyone guessed her truth. Sure, she tended to live and socialize only with humans. Not too often a human was going to make the jump to ask “Could you be a werewolf?” But on occasion she sensed a vampire or other in the crowd—vamps could be so obvious at times. None had ever guessed at her beastly origins.

Yet Stryke knew. In the moment when she had cried out as an orgasm had swept through her, and then he too had come—

Was it possible another werewolf could scent her during an aroused state?

Apparently it was. But not simple arousal, rather climax. It was the first time she had come when with him.

“Blyss? Are you...?”

A frightening truth assaulted Blyss like a blow to the gut. The only way Stryke could possibly guess such a thing about her was if he was also a wolf.

She had just slept with a werewolf.

Oh, mercy, what terrible thing had she done?

“It’s okay.” He moved to the edge of the bed, his hands up to placate. His eyes softened, as did his voice. “I didn’t realize you were my breed. I’m werewolf,” he offered, obviously sensing her distress. “I didn’t realize what you were last night in your office. Usually I can scent another of my kind. Maybe your perfume overwhelmed my senses.”

“I can’t talk about this right now.”

The innate instinct to flee when cornered moved Blyss’s limbs. She excused herself to go to the bathroom and rushed across the hardwood floor. With the door closed behind her, and the cool bathroom tiles beneath her bare feet, she turned on the faucet and splashed her face with tepid water. Her reflection could not overlook that twitch at the corner of her heart that manifested in a frown. Her hair was tousled, her lipstick worn away. Her eye shadow still looked perfect, but...

Nothing was perfect. He knew.

And while she should have laughed off his guess and made a grand and confident exit as stunning as her entrance, she couldn’t simply leave. She had come here for a reason. Her very life depended on securing the black diamond she had planted in Stryke’s suit pocket.

Merde. Stryke Saint-Pierre was a werewolf.

Her heartbeats dropped to her stomach. Blyss pressed her palms to the cool vanity sink, bowing her head. He hadn’t scented her because the pills she took to suppress her werewolf made her virtually human.

“How did he know?” she begged her reflection.

It had to have been the sex. When she had climaxed and her body had released...something had clued him to her heritage. Pheromones or something like that. No man had noticed before because she’d never had sex with a werewolf.

What luck—the one man she had picked out from the crowd to help her should be the very man she needed to stay away from. Wanted to stay away from. But now could not.

Not until she found what she’d come for.

She straightened and nodded firmly at the mirror. She would go out there, dress, and she had to check the closet for the suit he’d worn last night. How to do that without raising suspicion? And how to avoid the werewolf questions?

She wanted to run away from it all. As she had so many years ago when her fellow classmates had stared at her with horror.

“You can do this. You have to do this.” She winced. Could Stryke possibly help her? No. She had a plan. She would stick to it. “He must never know what kind of trouble I’m in.”

With a few adjustments to her hair and a pat of a towel to dry her face, Blyss wandered back into the bedroom. Her lover stood by the window, naked, with an erection. The sun beamed across his face and shadowed his body, silhouetting that proud jut of manhood before the glass. Gorgeous. Something she would miss. She already missed him. The whole man. His kisses. His firm yet loving touch. His sexy smile...

Hell, what was she thinking? Get your head on course.

Blyss sat on the end of the bed. She picked up the red velvet dress from the floor. Where was her purse? Must have left it in the kitchen when she’d entered. “Your water is nice and hot here.”

“Is that a good thing? I mean, isn’t it all over the city?” He strode over to her and stroked his fingers over her hair. A shiver trickled down her neck and tightened her nipples. He smelled like fire and strength and sex. It was annoyingly distracting.

“Usually takes mine five minutes to warm nicely in the winter,” she provided in an attempt to stick to the plan. “I may live off the Champs-Élysées, but the plumbing doesn’t care that it is the ritzy section of town.”

“Is that the street with all the fancy shops on it? The one that leads up to Napoleon’s statue?”

Blyss smiled and stood to face him. She trailed a finger down his chest that was dusted with brown hair. His muscles gleamed in the sunlight.

“It’s not a statue. It’s a monument. The Arc de Triomphe was erected by Napoleon to commemorate his military victories.” She kissed his jaw. Avoided touching his hard-on. Not an easy task. “Wish I had a toothbrush.”

“I might have seen an extra in the drawer. Give me a few minutes to brush my teeth. Then I’ll set one out for you. Okay?”

“Perfect.”

He kissed her on the mouth and she pushed away from him. “I just said—”

“Are we going to discuss the werewolf thing?”

Heartbeats rammed against her rib cage. “I don’t want to. I... No. Please let it go, Stryke.”

He sighed and nodded. But for a few seconds he studied her. Trying to look inside her? Figure how he had missed that she was a werewolf?

If only she had known the same about him.

Finally, Stryke strolled toward the bathroom.

Tearing her gaze from his sexy backside, Blyss sighed. The life she led was a difficult achievement. And she did strive for it. But it was to be her undoing.

When the bathroom door closed, she slipped the dress over her head as she made a beeline for the closet door. Inside, the walk-in closet was vast and empty. Only the first rack held a few items. Two pairs of men’s shoes sat on the floor beside a large empty suitcase.

She touched the hung items. A few T-shirts. Some jeans and a pair of dressier slacks. One white dress shirt. Nothing designer. And one black tie that wasn’t silk but rather something like polyester.

Blyss shuddered. The man’s wardrobe was hideous. Not a natural fiber in the lot, and yet the suit last night had been Zegna, if she was not mistaken. And she rarely misjudged couture. Though it had been poorly tailored to fit him, it had been expensive. She was sure of it.

Where was the suit?

“Hey.”

Blyss startled. She hadn’t heard Stryke’s return and now he stood in the doorway, filling the space with an easy confidence, shoulders set back and head tilted. He’d put on a pair of jeans that hung low, revealing the hard cuts of muscle that veered toward his groin like some kind of traffic alert that screamed “Go this way!”

“What are you doing?” He held a boxed toothbrush in his hand.

“Uh, just...looking.” She spread her palm down the front of one of the T-shirts. Shit. What to say? “I’m a bit of a snoop.” Weren’t all women? “A girl can learn a lot about a man by standing in his closet.”

Oh, bad save, Blyss. Very bad save.

“Is that so? Tell me what you’ve learned about me?”

“That you’re a terrible traveler. Didn’t you say you were in town for a wedding? Where’s the suit you wore last night?”

“It was a loaner. I dropped it off at Vail’s earlier today. I’ve been doing a lot of running around for my family, picking up things they need for the wedding.”

“Vail?”

“A vampire. He’s the father of the groom. I borrowed the suit for the night. I’ve been informed by the female faction of all this wedding madness that I’ll have a rental for the wedding. Although...I imagine Vail will probably wear the suit for the wedding.”

“Vail,” she muttered. “I don’t think I’ve heard of him.”

“You probably haven’t. Vamps tend to stay off the radar.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

He discussed vampires with her so casually. As if it was something she was familiar with and engaged in discussion every day. The paranormal breeds were something she avoided with a passion. And talking about them made her uncomfortable.

“But since you don’t want to discuss the werewolf thing, I’ll assume vampires are off the table, too?”

She nodded and dropped her hand from the front of the dress shirt.

“So, do you want to go to a wedding?” Stryke offered as he waggled the toothbrush before her.

Blyss accepted the packaged offering and tapped it against her lower lip. A wedding with vampires? Oh, mercy no. But if the suit was going to be there? Had she any other choice?

The last thing she wanted to do was associate with werewolves and vampires.

“Weddings are always fun,” she managed to say brightly. “When is it?”

“Saturday. It’s an evening wedding. I’ll pick you up around six?”

She nodded. “It’s a date.”

Step three of the plan had failed miserably. On to step four. Emergency procedures.

“I’ll need your address.”

Blyss strolled out into the bedroom, stepped into her heels and spied his mobile phone on the nightstand beside the bed.

“I’ll enter it for you.”

She typed in her address on the contacts app, but she didn’t enter her number. She never gave any man her number.

When Stryke took the phone he leaned in to kiss her, but she performed a twist and managed to avoid the contact as his lips brushed her cheek. She clicked toward the bedroom door, abandoning the toothbrush with a toss toward the bed.

“I’m so sorry to rush off, but I have to get back to the gallery!”

She didn’t listen for his reply, but suspected he was probably kicking himself for inviting her to the wedding after that cold brush-off. Of course, now the man would have another day to think and wonder over her. Not a good thing.

Grabbing her scarf and purse as she breezed through the kitchen, she hastened through the front door and skipped toward the elevator.

A vampire wedding would prove a challenge. But if she did not find the suit, she would not be able to pay off Edamite Thrash. And life as she knew it would never again be the same.

* * *

“It freaked me out,” Stryke said to his brother Kelyn as they strolled down a narrow cobbled street somewhere in the 5th arrondissement. Trouble walked ahead of them. “I had no idea she was werewolf.”

“Something must be wrong with her,” Kelyn offered in his usual quiet tone.

Of the four Saint-Pierre boys, Kelyn had no wolf in him and was 100 percent faery, thanks to their mother’s genes. Physically he looked like no one in the family—save their mother—and was tall, lithe and pale. He usually covered the faint white markings that traced his arms, chest and back of his neck. Faery markings even he wasn’t sure about. His violet eyes had a tendency to make women swoon. And Stryke had heard more than a few whispers about Kelyn’s prowess between the sheets that made the ladies collapse in delighted exhaustion.

His sidhe brother seemed to navigate Paris as if he knew the city, yet used the ley-line excuse when Stryke asked about it. Faeries were inexplicably connected to the ley lines that crissed and crossed across the planet.

Trouble, who strode in front of them, his shoulders swaying with each sure stride, eyed a pair of women in stilettos and brandishing patent leather purses as they sat sipping café au lait before a chic café. The dark-haired Trouble winked and nodded to them. The women ignored his blatant flirtations with a chill Stryke was all too recently familiar with. Blyss’s quick escape earlier had made him want to check if icicles had formed on the doorknob.

There was something up with her. Beyond the weird aversion to discussing the fact they were both wolves. That was why he’d asked her to the wedding. He needed to know more. And—to have one huge question answered.

“The city girls are snobs,” Trouble said as he slowed and parted Stryke and Kelyn to walk between them. “I can’t get a rise out of any of them. I’m ready to go home.”

“I like Paris,” Kelyn commented. “It feels familiar. And Stryke found himself a werewolf without even trying.”

“Dude, really? How’d you score that?” Trouble wrapped an arm about Stryke’s neck and gave him a noogie. “Thought you were at some fancy-schmancy gallery last night with Blade? Did you hear about Blade?”

“What?” Kelyn asked.

“Scored twins,” Stryke confirmed.

“That man is a master,” Trouble said in awe. “But a werewolf, eh? ’Bout time my little bro hooked up with his own kind. Dad will be happy to hear you are serious about starting a pack. Where’d you find her? Vail hook you up?”

“I met her at the gallery. I think she’s the owner, but we didn’t talk about much. Mostly I pushed her up against the wall and had a quickie.” Because brothers shared everything. And he had to tell someone about the insane but amazing encounter.

“Nice.” Trouble wasn’t the most discerning when it came to women. He liked them fast, sexy and amiable. And they couldn’t be too fancy or prissy. Trouble was a man’s man, and he liked a woman who did all the kinds of things he liked to do.

Same with Stryke. If she couldn’t handle a fishing rod or ride behind him on the four-wheeler while careening through a muddy field, well then, that was it.

Blyss was none of the above. But hell, she was his Paris fling. And what happened in Paris stayed in Paris. Right?

“She stopped by my place earlier for more sex,” Stryke explained, “and it was the first time I realized she was wolf. When she came, I scented her. How the hell could I have not known before then?”

“Weird.” Trouble pounded his fists together, a sort of tic. “What did she say about it?”

“She didn’t want to talk about it. I had sex with a werewolf. You know how rare that is? Back in Minnesota the packs guard their females so well, if you can manage a date it’s like breaking into Fort Knox. I don’t have a clue why she didn’t want to talk about it when she learned I was wolf. But I’m seeing her again. Taking her with me to the wedding.”

“I’ll sniff her out,” Trouble offered. “See what’s up.”

“Keep your nose away from my woman,” Stryke said with a less-than-gentle nudge to his brother’s ribs. “I’ll figure it out. She’s...complicated.”

“Ah, hell, complicated women are not for me.” Trouble wandered ahead again at sight of a gaggle of tourist girls who couldn’t be a day over the age of sixteen.

“This way,” Kelyn called, and they veered to the right to distract their brother’s wandering attention. “Let’s get something to eat at that gyro place we ate at last night.”

“I’m going to head across the river,” Stryke said. “I want to walk through the Tuileries and check it out.”

“The what?” Trouble asked.

“It used to be the royal gardens a few centuries ago.”

“Dude, I don’t care about flowers.”

“I know. That’s why I’ll head there by myself.” And he didn’t need the harassment of his brothers should he manage to find Blyss’s place while pretending to be interested in some stupid flowers. “I’ll see you two later.”

The brothers exchanged fist bumps, and Stryke headed across a bridge laden with padlocks and toward the garden. He’d eaten a sandwich after Blyss left and wasn’t hungry yet, so he didn’t miss the food break. Trouble could eat all the time. And Kelyn, well... That kid rarely ate. So he was odd. Stryke worried about him at times. This world was not the place for Kelyn, but he wasn’t sure Faery would welcome him either.

The Tuileries was a disappointment. Where were the flowers? It was mostly espaliered trees and trimmed shrubs and some marble statues. The French had strange ideas about gardens, that was for sure.

Crossing a wildly busy roundabout intersection, Stryke then wandered down the Champs-Élysées, taking in the elegant storefronts and dodging tourists who wielded armloads of shopping bags. He pulled out his phone and clicked on Blyss’s address. The GPS located her immediately. About two blocks from where he stood.

Spying a stand selling flowers, he detoured.

“Can’t show up uninvited and empty-handed.”

He purchased some flowers then wandered deeper down the narrow streets that hugged three-and four-story buildings that he guessed must be centuries old. He knew Paris had been drastically redesigned sometime in the nineteenth century by Haussmann, and Napoleon had also torn down many structures, but the ancient history remained. Everything was elaborate, the building fronts featuring carved stone edifices and mascarons and even gilding on some of the stone and ironwork. Locked gates and digital entry systems clued him he had entered a ritzy neighborhood.

Stryke suddenly felt very underdressed in his Boundary Waters T-shirt and jeans with the worn hems dusting his scuffed Doc Martens. Maybe this was a bad idea? Showing up at a socialite’s pied-à-terre looking like a tourist? He wasn’t even sure what pied-à-terre meant, but it sounded cool.

He paused on a street corner paved in cobblestones. A red Vespa scooted by, and an elderly woman with gray hair bound behind her head and a pair of leather chaps nodded at him. The image made Stryke smile and he decided to go for it.

But as he stepped off the curb he heard the click of high heels.

“Are you stalking me, Monsieur Saint-Pierre?”

He turned to find Blyss looking like some kind of magazine model in a tailored pink dress and matching high heels. One hand clutched a slim purse and in the other dangled a dainty bag sporting the store name Pierre Hermé. She’d changed since seeing him only a few hours earlier.

“Uh, I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d see if I could find your place.” He held out the red roses, bound with twine. “These made me think of your lips.”

She strolled slowly across the street, her eyes never leaving his, and the sexy tilt of her head pretty much went straight for his loins. She traced a delicate fingernail along a rose petal. Stryke could smell her perfume and the sweetness inside the bag she carried. Must be pastries. Yet he couldn’t scent her wolf now.

“So you’ve found me.” She walked across the street, away from him.

That was it? She hadn’t taken the roses. “Uh, maybe you want to invite me up?”

She paused before a steel door, her fingers perched upon the digital entry pad. Did she have to think about it? Yep, he should have tried more for suave instead of tourist with his look today.

She punched in the code, pushed the door open and strode inside. She didn’t close the door, so Stryke took that as an invite to follow. The woman had a way with leading him places. And he liked what happened once he arrived.

Closing the door behind him, he saw she walked through a small open courtyard lined with militantly trimmed green shrubs and simple flowers. It was amazing how Paris had all these hidden gems of greenery tucked in private courtyards. Reminded him of being home in the country.

Well, not really, but he’d use his imagination. It was necessity when surrounded by tarmac, buildings, and nothing but humans for miles and miles.

Blyss veered right and disappeared into the cool shadows.

He hastened his steps to keep up with her. Normally, Stryke could follow another werewolf by scent alone. Why was it that he had only sensed her innate wolf when they were having sex? It was as if the adrenaline had to be rushing through her system to stir whatever pheromones his wolf could react to.

And he understood the subject of their breed was off-limits. It shouldn’t bother him, but he couldn’t help being curious. How often did Blyss happen upon another werewolf? Was it so common to her that she’d grown bored of the discussion? Couldn’t be.

He’d lucked out. And as little as he knew about her, he did like her. Could something come of this? He daren’t hope, but at the same time, his inner wolf howled with joy.

* * *

Blyss opened her front door. Stryke looked so innocently hungry staring at her with that adoring expression and underlined by the gorgeous bouquet of roses. The wedding wasn’t until tomorrow but she believed his excuse that he had been walking in the area.

She never invited men into her home. It wasn’t wise. Once invited in, it was often difficult to make them leave after she tired of them. And they sometimes returned. It was a sticky business to have to deal with.

And this particular man was more than man. He was werewolf. The last creature in this world with whom she wished to be intimate.

Alas, she had ignored any intuition that would have kept her safe from that emotional danger. And even as she vacillated with grabbing the roses and slamming the door in his face, the compulsion to pull him in by that awful T-shirt and let him have his way with her was even stronger.

She couldn’t resist his wild allure. It was an accidental allure, she felt sure. The man wasn’t a master seducer. Though he was an amazing lover. And he wasn’t suave or polished, as she preferred her men. He was a rough and awkward man from the United States, of all places, who had happened to fall into her scheme, and now he was milking it for all he could. Because he knew something about her that others did not.

Would he use that information to blackmail her such as Edamite Thrash had?

He thrust the roses forward. Sweet blackmail, if there was such a thing. And that smile. She wanted him to teach her all the things that smile promised.

Blyss took the bouquet by the ribbon-wrapped stems, and then she grabbed her suitor by the shirtfront and pulled him inside. Turning, she walked down the long hallway, roses dangling at one side, man clutched at her other side.

If she was going down the wrong path, she might as well do it big. At least, until the wedding was over and she held the key to her future safe in hand.

Chapter 5

Stryke followed Blyss down a long white hallway and into a kitchen that gleamed white and silver. It looked like something out of a minimalist designer’s dream. White marble countertops, not an appliance on the counter, no signs it was a kitchen if not for the sink and sleek, glass-fronted fridge that sported wine bottles down one side.

Placing the roses on the counter, Blyss veered left into a living area that featured a white furniture set beneath a ceiling that was entirely glass. It was like standing in a conservatory without the plants. Everything was white. He didn’t dare sit down because he’d been walking through Paris. His shoes must be dirty.

How could a person relax in a place so white?

The gorgeous contrast of pink silk and blackest hair and eyebrows turned and tilted a brilliant red smile at him. “I didn’t think I’d see you until Saturday. But now that you’re here...”

She pushed her hand up under his T-shirt, her glossy nails gliding over his abs. At the erotic touch Stryke sucked in a breath. The intention in her eyes was apparent. This woman went from cool to boiling faster than a rocket ship.

He abandoned his need to ask about her werewolf and instead slid a hand about her hip and pulled her to him. Her fingernails dug in at his chest, and one of them tweaked his nipple. Yep, that gave him a hard-on.

“You are so hard to resist,” he growled.

“Then why must you? I certainly have no intention of denying myself what I want.”

“I’m guessing you are a woman who likes to be spoiled.”

“Very much so.”

“Then why me?” He caught her hand against his chest, the shirt between his hand and hers. Leaning closer to her face, he tried to scent her innate wolf but could not. “Am I just a fling?”

“Of course you are.” She kissed his mouth without making a connection—more like breath against breath—just enough of a tease to keep him close to her. “I never get attached to a man. It’s a rule. Can you deal with that, Stryke?”

It sounded fifty ways wrong. But he needed only one reason to stay. And that reason had grown hard as steel, standing at attention, ready for some action.

“Works for me,” he said and lifted her up against him.

As her thin pink skirt slid up high, she wrapped her legs about his hips and Stryke set her on the back of the white sofa. He bent to kiss along her neck, smelling only the sweet flowers that blossomed on her skin. The heat of her combined with the sweetness melded into an intoxicating perfume that he inhaled deeply. Still no wolf. He’d ask her about it later.

He slid down the zipper at the back of her dress, his fingertips strolling slowly over her skin, the straightness of her spine, until he felt the sexy divots that topped her derriere. There he rocked his thumbs against the concave curves.

“I gotta taste you.” He pulled her from the couch, turning her, so her gorgeous ass faced him. Bending to lick the Venus dimples above her hips, he curled his hands around in front of her mons. One glided up toward her breasts; the other sought the moist warmth between her legs.

“Blyss,” he muttered against her sweet skin. It wasn’t so much her name as an experience, and he intended to take it to the maximum. “So good.”

She turned and put up a foot on one of his shoulders, forcing him to kneel. So that was the way of it?

“S’il vous plaît,” she asked sweetly.

He didn’t know what that meant but that wasn’t going to stop him from taking and giving what he desired. Stryke kissed her mons and glided his hand up her thigh until her wetness enticed him to dash his tongue down her hot seam. Mmm...he was hungry now.

He lashed at her sensitive apex and her body shuddered in response. Fingers clasping his hair, she balanced there on the back of the couch, one leg sliding over his shoulder, the other, toes barely touching the floor.

Reaching up, he was rewarded with her hand clasping his. She squeezed tightly every time his tongue hit the spot. She moaned appreciatively.

The best feeling a guy could have? Kissing a woman between her legs as she came, her thighs squeezing his face and her hands tugging him in desperate release. That he could make her ride a high like this gave him immense satisfaction. He felt pride and also needed to feel her heat wrapping about his cock.

Before he could stand, Blyss sank to the floor and straddled him, taking his erection inside her. She was so wet and still spasming from the orgasm. The tug and tease on his cock lured him to a speedy orgasm.

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