Taming The Shifter (Nocturne Wolf Romance) Page 7

  He shrugged. “Just some friendly advice.”

  “We’re not friends,” she coldly informed him.

  “We could be,” he offered, his eyes gleaming with hope, “if you could find a way to forgive me.”

  Her resentment bubbled up, gagging her. “When hell freezes over.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Kate,” he warned her. “You could use my help.”

  “I could use your honesty,” she said. “Tell me what you know about what happened in that alley last night.” It was clear he knew more about Bernie’s death than he was willing to admit.

  “I don’t know anything about last night,” he said, but his pale blue eyes shuttered, hiding other secrets—just as he had during their brief marriage.

  “But you know something about other nights.” Maybe the night she had shot Warrick even though Dwight had acted as if she had gone crazy and hallucinated the whole experience. Then he’d taunted her about it.

  “And you know something about Club Underground,” she surmised.

  “Just leave it alone,” he advised her. “Forget about everything you’ve seen.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “A man died,” she reminded him. But she suspected her determination had less to do with Bernie’s violent death than with Warrick James. “And you need to stop bothering me so I can get back to work solving his murder.” She reached for the phone.

  But Dwight caught her hand, his touch chilling instead of warming her. “Kate, I don’t want to see you get hurt again. And you will…if you don’t let this go.”

  She didn’t have to ask him again. She knew without a doubt that that was a threat.

  *

  “That was Kate,” Dr. Davison said as he slid his cell phone back into his pocket. “The two of you have been keeping me busy lately.”

  “Do you think she remembers being here, Ben?” Warrick asked the underground surgeon. Tonight had brought him and Dr. Davison to a first-name basis—when Kate had called her friend’s husband to the alley to help him. “Do you think that’s why she called you tonight?”

  Ben tensed. “I don’t know why but I’m damn glad that she did.”

  “Me, too,” Warrick said. If she had called someone else…

  But why had she called Ben earlier to the alley and again now?

  “What about that call?” he asked. “Was she checking on me?”

  Ben nodded. “She also wants me to make a cast of your teeth.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if your teeth will match the wounds on the victim she found in the alley.”

  Of course she didn’t know that, when the sun had risen an hour ago, he had turned back into his human form. He no longer had his canine teeth or the bullet she had fired into him. He lifted his hand to the bandage on his shoulder. The flesh beneath was raw and tender from where the surgeon had dug out the bullet and stitched up the skin.

  “Was he your victim?” Ben asked.

  Offended, Warrick sucked in a breath of surprise. “No.”

  “That first night Kate shot you because you were trying to tear some man apart.”

  “It wasn’t the man she found in the Dumpster tonight.” He had never seen that man before, and he wished like hell that Kate hadn’t seen the guy, either. Not like that…

  “Then who were you fighting with that night?”

  Sebastian had already let slip that Ben had treated Warrick’s enemy, too. So the doctor knew—he probably just wanted Warrick’s side of the story he would rather not share. So he vaguely replied, “Someone I used to know.”

  At least he’d thought he had known him until Reagan had betrayed him. Apparently Warrick had never really known him at all. “I didn’t know the man in the Dumpster,” he said. “I’d never seen him before.”

  “I knew him. Kate knew him. She said she thought he was a witness,” Ben remarked as he checked the tape securing the bandage to Warrick’s skin.

  “A witness to what?”

  The older man shrugged. “Considering his condition, I don’t think she had a chance to find out. She did say that someone called her to the alley— promised to give her information.”

  “And she thought it was the homeless man?”

  Ben shrugged. “I don’t know if she recognized his voice or not.”

  “And this information?” he asked. “What was that supposed to be about?” Him? Reagan?

  The surgeon shrugged again. “Obviously one of her investigations.”

  “Kate and her damn investigations.”

  “She’s a detective,” Ben said with a sigh of resignation. “It’s her job.”

  “I know.” Frustration gnawed at him, hurting more than the ache in his wounded shoulder. “But it’s going to get her killed.”

  “Kate’s not your concern,” Ben pointed out. “In fact, if I were you, I’d stay away from her. Every time you two are together one of you winds up getting hurt.”

  He tensed with indignation. “I would never hurt Kate.”

  “She can’t say the same about you. She’s shot you twice now.” Amusement lightened the doctor’s dark eyes.

  “Only because she doesn’t understand…”

  “And you can’t explain,” Ben reminded him. “You have to keep your secrets.” He tossed a shirt at Warrick to go with the jeans he’d already loaned him. “And you have to keep your distance. You should probably leave Zantrax before anyone else gets hurt.”

  Warrick shook his head. “Not now. That man was attacked right where Kate had been just a few days before.” And she had been called to that alley. By the vagrant? Or by whoever had killed the vagrant?

  “He was brutally murdered from what I saw of his body,” Ben agreed. He had arrived before the coroner and crime scene units. “It looked like a werewolf attack.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Warrick maintained. And since it wasn’t him, it had to mean that his enemy had not yet left the city. The homeless man could have seen something he shouldn’t have, and Reagan had been forced to kill him. Perhaps Reagan was as sick of running as Warrick was sick of chasing him.

  “Someone—or something—attacked him,” Ben said.

  But had the man been the intended victim or had Kate?

  *

  She was a victim, perhaps of her own selfishness. If only she hadn’t made such a mess of her life and of theirs. Even if Reagan and Warrick were still alive, why would either of them return for her? She had caused so much trouble.

  And now she was paying for what she’d done, imprisoned inside the house where once she had envisioned living happily ever after. That would have never been her fate, though—only a fantasy. Especially after the rift she’d caused between the St. James brothers.

  Her baby—or babies—moved inside her belly, kicking her. Sylvia had needed that kick—that urging to fight for them. For herself. She wasn’t a victim. She would not be a victim.

  She pulled open drawers in the kitchen, looking for tools—for something that would help her break the heavy locks at the doors and the windows. She needed to escape. And then instead of waiting for them to return to her, she needed to find Reagan and Warrick. She needed to warn them—that the danger wasn’t from each other.

  The true danger was coming from someone they would never suspect. One of those chains holding the doors shut rattled, as a key turned in the lock. She tensed as fear overwhelmed her. And once again it was too late for her to escape. Too late for her to save herself or the man she loved.

  While their relationship had been a fantasy, her feelings hadn’t been. She’d felt that connection to him—that had drawn her to him as if their souls had called to each other. She could still feel him—could sometimes feel his frustration, his guilt, his torment…

  She had caused him that pain—him and his brother. But she hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. The same could not be said for the person—the monster—holding her hostage. Had a ransom been demanded?

  Their lives for hers? />
  *

  Tears of exhaustion and frustration burned Kate’s eyes. She had been up all night writing that damn report. It was full of gruesome details but no conclusions. No explanations. Because she hadn’t reported what else she’d found in that alley besides Bernie’s mutilated body…

  Her hand trembled as she shoved the key in the lock of her apartment. She turned it and the knob, nearly falling inside the door. The sleepless night wasn’t the reason for her exhaustion. Not even the frustration really.

  It was that damn dog—or whatever the mammoth, muscular beast had been. When she had called Ben earlier, he had given her the news: the dog hadn’t made it. While she was pretty certain that it had probably been what had attacked Bernie the homeless man, she hadn’t wanted to shoot the animal.

  But it had just kept coming at her. She lifted her fingers to her throat. And she hadn’t wanted to be next. So she’d done the only thing she could do, but just as Warrick had, she suspected that beast would haunt her, too.

  She fought to keep her lids open, but they were so heavy, her eyes and body so tired. No matter what she might see when she closed them, she had to sleep. Or at least try.

  While it was close to noon, she had all the drapes drawn in the apartment. So she moved through the shadows to the bedroom, kicked off her shoes, unclasped and stepped out of her pants. Buttons freed, she shrugged off her coat and shirt. The panties and bra she dropped beside the bed, wanting nothing between her skin and the satin sheets.

  But when she crawled into her bed, she found something between her and the sheets. She found a hard, warm male body.

  Strong arms closed around her, a hair-covered chest rose and fell beneath her breasts—as his breathing came fast and hard. He wasn’t sleeping. He was tense, every muscle taut as her body moved over his.

  “You’re here,” she murmured. She’d hoped he would be and not because she wanted to arrest him and prove his existence to the department. She didn’t care anymore what anyone thought. Not even herself because she was beyond thinking—because all she’d thought about was his kiss and how much she wanted him.

  She could only feel now. And he felt so good beneath her. So very strong and male. His erection nudged her hip. The warm flesh throbbed with desire. For her?

  He wanted her as much as she wanted him. That surprised her. She was forty, probably ten or twelve years older than he was since barely any lines marred the masculine perfection of his handsome face. His unusual topaz eyes didn’t even crease at the corners.

  But even if she wasn’t older than him, she still wouldn’t have thought he would consider her that desirable. Except for her breasts, she had few curves: skinny hips, long, skinny legs—all lean muscle instead of voluptuous softness.

  But his hands slid over her as if he had to touch every inch of skin. With a fingertip, he traced the line of her spine down to the small of her back. She shivered and arched against him, pushing her breasts into his chest and her hips into his. His erection pulsated, and a rough groan slipped through his lips.

  “Woman, you feel so good in my arms…”

  She smiled as whatever insecurities she’d briefly entertained drained away along with all her stress and worries. If this was a dream, then she hoped she never woke up.

  He ran his hands up her back and tangled his fingers in her hair. Then he tugged her down so that her mouth met his. He kissed her hungrily, nibbling at her lips before parting them. He invaded her—with his tongue and his flavor—so rich and seductive.

  She moaned as passion consumed her, heating her blood and her skin and accelerating her pulse. Tension gathered deep inside her, building another kind of frustration apart from what she’d been feeling when she had unlocked her door.

  The door had been locked. Dead-bolted even. Like it had been all those other times she’d found him in her bedroom. She pulled back to ask, “How do you always manage to get inside?”

  “I’m not,” he said. “Not yet. But I want to be inside you—buried deep inside so that we don’t know where one of us begins and the other ends.”

  She shivered at the image his words invoked. Then, like a cat, she rubbed against him.

  “If you do that again, I won’t be able to wait,” he warned her.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  She wasn’t going to stop him this time; she wasn’t going to pull her gun and shoot him. She didn’t want to think about violence tonight. Not anymore. She didn’t want to think at all. She only wanted to feel—as out of control with desire as only he had ever made her feel.

  He wrapped his arms around her again and flipped her over so that she lay sprawled on her back beneath him.

  She lifted her legs and arched, so ready to take him then—if he thrust inside her. But he kissed her again. Touching just his lips to hers. He didn’t deepen the kiss. Instead, he skimmed his lips down her chin, along her neck to the curve of her collarbone.

  Finally his hands—those big, slightly rough, calloused hands—touched her again, sliding over her skin. He ran them up her sides, tracing the slight curve of her hips to the indent of her waist. Then he moved his palms up her rib cage until he cupped her breasts.

  “So damn beautiful…” he murmured and lowered his head to the slope of the mound. He pressed kisses to the sensitive skin before closing his lips around a nipple. He tugged gently with his lips and his teeth.

  She arched off the bed, whimpering as the sensation spiraled through her. “Oooh…” Heat and moisture rushed between her legs as the orgasm peaked.

  He eased back with a grin. “This is what I’m waiting for…”

  “This is good,” she agreed. Had she ever come so easily before? It had been so long since she’d made love with anyone that she couldn’t remember. She’d been focused on her job and her friends. She hadn’t focused on herself and her needs in a long time.

  “Just good?” he asked, those topaz eyes igniting with a playful challenge. And he lowered his head again, lapping at one nipple with the tip of his tongue while teasing the other with his thumb.

  She writhed beneath him, greedy for more of the pleasure that somersaulted through her. The pressure built again, winding tightly inside her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to pull him toward her.

  But he eased back again. A wicked grin curved his naughty mouth. Then he lowered his head, and that naughty mouth moved down her body. His tongue flicked into her navel before tracing a path lower to the very core of her.

  She arched up and cried out. He pulled her tight against him, driving his tongue deep inside her. And his thumb teased her there, stroking over her most sensitive spot until the unbearable pressure broke. And she came with a cry of intense pleasure.

  “Was that just good?” he asked, a dark brow arched over one eye. Cords stood out on his neck and along his muscled arms, as if he was holding himself tightly in rein.

  Unable to speak as she panted for breath with her heart pounding out of her chest, she managed a nonchalant shrug—to challenge him more.

  He uttered a soft growl of frustration. “What’s it going to take to satisfy you, woman?”

  She reached between them and wrapped her fingers around the thick muscle of his erection. The sleek flesh pulsed in her grasp, so she slid her hand up and down the impressive length of him. Then she summoned the energy to lift herself up, so that her mouth could reach his chest. She moved her lips through the soft, velvety hair until she found a tight male nipple. And she teased him as he’d teased her, sliding the tip of her tongue over it.

  He tangled his fingers in her hair again and tugged her head up so that he kissed her again, thrusting his tongue between her lips—deep inside her mouth.

  Kate stroked him faster, and a bead of desire spilled from the end of his cock and into her palm. He pulled his mouth from hers, and they both panted for breath.

  “No more waiting,” he warned, his voice rough with passion and impatience. His control snapped, and he pushed her back onto the
bed.

  He parted her legs and pressed his hips against hers. With her hand still wrapped around him, she guided his erection inside her. He was so big that she had to stretch and arch her hips, but he eased in, inch by tantalizing inch. But before he could fill her completely, he pulled out.

  A protest—half moan, half growl—slipped from her throat. And she dug her nails into his back, then his butt—pulling him back.

  He thrust hard. Deep.

  And she screamed.

  He tensed, sweat beading on his brow and upper lip. His muscles quivered as he struggled for control. His voice gruff with passion and concern, he asked, “Did I hurt you?”

  “No! I want more…of you. I want all of you.” His body, his passion and his secrets.

  He thrust hard and deep again. She locked her legs around his waist and held on, arching into him. Then as the tension built again, the pressure was unbearable, and she lost all control. Desperate for release, she clawed at his back and bit the side of his jaw and his neck.

  He growled and thrust harder and faster, winding the tension so tightly inside her that when it finally broke she nearly lost consciousness. The orgasm crashed over her with an intensity she had never felt before. Her body shuddered and spasmed and clutched him tightly and pulled him even deeper inside her.

  Some primal, guttural roar emanated from him and his passion spilled, filling her. He clutched her tightly, his arms—muscles bulging—locked around her as if he never intended to let her go.

  “God, woman…” He panted for breath, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm of hers. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

  Kate was afraid that the reverse would actually come true. He would be the death of her. Because he had given her his body and his passion but not his secrets. While two out of three usually wasn’t bad, she suspected that in this case—with his secrets—it might prove fatal.

  For her.

  She didn’t regret making love with him, though, because she had never known such passion before. Or such completeness. She curled up in his arms and laid her head on his chest as exhaustion again overpowered her. She drifted off to sleep with no regrets but with many, many fears…