Wild Thing

J. Kenner

Contents

Title

Introduction

About the book

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

The Trouble with Demons (a five book anthology Sneak Peek)

Excerpt from Tainted

Excerpt from Bitch Slap

Excerpt from Wicked Grind

More from JK in Kindle Unlimited!

Also by J. Kenner

Also by Julie Kenner

About the Author

WILD THING

by J. Kenner

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Introduction

I absolutely love writing in paranormal worlds, and when I got the rights back to this sexy, fun shifter romance novella, I knew that I wanted to put it out there again.

The story was originally published in 2004 in the Essence of Midnight anthology, under the name Julie Kenner. And while I’ve kept the core of the original story, I’ve done a few minor updates, while retaining the “classic Kenner” feel!

I hope you enjoy!

XXOO

JK

About the book

Part panther, part human, Luc Agassou lives a cursed life. Only his true mate can save him, but Luc has given up the hope of ever finding her. And so he stays hidden in the shadows, locking himself away from those he might harm.

Caitlyn Raine has spent her life fighting her own personal demons. Now a detective, she’s made it her mission to track down and lock away the human monsters that roam the dark streets of New Orleans. 

From the moment he sees her, Luc knows that Cate is the the one. But in order to save him, Cate will have to give in to her own primal urges and leap into the dark … trusting that their love will save them both.

Wild Thing

Originally published as “Wild Thing” in the Essence of Midnight anthology by Harlequin Books S.A.

Copyright © 2004, 2017 by Julie Kenner

Cover design by Covers by Rogenna

Published by Martini & Olive Books

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

One

Caitlyn Raine leaned forward, her hands clutching the edge of the concrete bench as she gazed into the cage, mesmerized by the great cat's regal beauty. Muscles rippled under the midnight-black coat as the beast stalked behind the fencing, its copper-colored eyes never leaving her own.

This section of the Audubon Zoo had been her favorite place to escape since she'd moved to New Orleans nineteen months ago. How many times had she come here, walking alone through the famous Garden District to get to this solitary spot?

The zoo provided a peace she couldn't find in her job or in herself. The cages and habitats, specifically designed for each unique species, provided an ordered respite from a world that never quite made sense.

A world where Cate never quite fit in.

She'd spent her whole life stalking demons, the kind on the street and the kind that lived inside her.

Night after night she hit the streets, hunting down the killers and the rapists and the vandals. And day after day she testified in court. The stalwart detective. No need to get emotional. Why bother? As soon as one monster was off the street, another would pop up to take his place.

And still she kept fighting, determined to vanquish the monsters that roamed the world as well as the voices in her head.

You’re a bad girl, Caitlyn. A cursed girl.

She was five, cowering in a corner of the kitchen, her skinny legs drawn up to her chest a she peered up at her mother’s glowering face.

You should never have been born, you evil thing. I should have let them cut you right out of me.

She closed her eyes, wincing at the memory, amazed that the voice could persist even after the woman was gone. The day Cate had graduated from high school, her mother had walked away, taking her anger and her superstitions with her, and leaving seventeen-year-old Cate to fend for herself.

It hurt, yes. But it was also a relief. The woman herself was gone.

But the voice in her head remained, and so Cate came here to the zoo to try to silence it. Hour after hour she'd lose herself in the sweet pleasure of doing nothing but watching the great cats move about. Their lives were her escape, and she was grateful for it. But it was the one called Midnight that she loved the most. More aloof than his counterparts, and certainly more violent, the cat had been relegated to private quarters—a smaller habitat off the main panther area. And for months, Cate had kept silent vigil, watching the cat, feeling absurdly, pathetically, as if there was a bond between them.

Today, she'd once again succumbed to the urge to come here, ignoring Adam's offer to buy her a beer and his protest that it wasn't right to spend her birthday alone. She sighed. He was probably right. She probably should have accepted her partner's offer, but she just couldn't handle company or the false camaraderie. Not now. Not when she was alone and turning thirty.

With a tug, she hefted her backpack into her lap, then pulled out a small package wrapped in gold paper. It was from Madam Romana, the proprietor of the Rampart Voodoo Shop, one of the few in the Quarter that was supposed to be authentic. Cate had no idea if that was true or not, but she’d met Alma Romana the first day Cate had arrived in New Orleans, and the older woman had taken an instant liking to her.

“You have a spark,” she’d said, as she used a mortar and pestle to crush gemstones on the combination check-out stand and work desk that served as the focal point of her tiny shop. She had long gray hair that hung in a braid down her back and eyes so brown they were almost black. Eyes that seemed to see too much, and yet her smile wiped away all trepidation.

“A spark?” Cate had repeated. “What does that mean?”

“I supposed we’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

They’d never talked of it again, but Cate had developed the habit of browsing the shop whenever she was in the area, picking out knickknacks to decorate her new, Louisiana abode.

Most days, Alma let her browse on her own. Today, Alma had come out from behind the counter and pressed a small package into Cate’s hands, insisting that was a birthday gift, and absolutely refusing to tell Cate how she knew it was her birthday in the first place.

Now, Cate twisted the package, examining its sides and corners, and imagining that it held something fabulous. Alma’s store was filled with wonderful things, after all. Maybe it was something exotic. Something festive.

Yes, festive would be good. Because maybe Adam did have a point. Maybe it was a bit pathetic to be all alone on her thirtieth birthday.

"But I’m not really alone," she said, looking once again toward the panther. "I've got you."

The cat stopped stalking and cocked his head, those copper eyes peering at her over the wide, flat nose. Cate shivered, overwhelmed by the sense that the beast had understood her. Which, of course, was nuts.

She licked her lips. "I hope it's okay if I spend my birthday with you."

A few more seconds passed, and the cat's gaze never wavered. Then he blinked—a gesture Cate took as acquiescence—and resumed pacing the habitat. Cate scowled, shaking her head at her own foolishness as she turned her attention from the cat back to the package in her lap.

She found an untaped section of the thick gold paper and slipped her pinkie nail—the only one she hadn't bitten off—underneath, edging it along until the tape peeled up. Slowly, she urged the tape away, careful not to let any of the gold color catch on the adhesive. The box was small, but Alma had used a lot of tape. It took almost ten minutes, but finally Cate managed to remove the wrapping paper intact.

She folded it into a square and tucked it into her purse before turning to the box.

Her unwrapping ritual was grueling and probably a little silly, but Cate had never had many presents growing up, and she’d learned to cherish those she did receive.

And not just the gift inside. No, what Cate loved most was the anticipation. The way her breath would catch and her heart would seem to stutter as she peeled back layer after layer of colored paper and tape to get to the goody buried deep inside.

With a present, you always knew the digging was worth it. With people, you simply couldn't be that sure.

Now that the paper was off, she lifted the cardboard lid slowly, revealing an understated wooden box with tarnished hinges. The wood was polished to a high sheen, but other than that, the box was wholly unremarkable. Even so, there was something wonderful about it, as if beneath that simple lid lay the treasures of the universe.

Ever so carefully, she plucked the box free. The wood seemed warm in her hands, and for just a moment she closed her eyes, pretending that this was the crowning gift of a fabulous birthday party and she was seated at the head of an ornately laid table, thirty or forty of her closest friends raising their flutes in a champagne toast to her, her parents sitting tall and proud at the head of the table.

"Utter nonsense," she whispered, her eyes straying toward the cat. The panther blinked, but didn't reply.

Cate scowled, knowing she was being ridiculous, both in talking to the cat and in fantasizing about large, unwieldy parties. She didn't like crowds. She didn't need parents or a cadre of friends. She was doing just fine.

She swiped the edge of her thumb under her eye, warding off the tears she simply wouldn't shed. Hell, maybe she should have taken Adam up on his offer.

But no. It wasn't a casual drink or polite conversation she wanted. True, Adam might fix her up with one of his friends, but if she wanted to get laid she'd have to arrange it herself. In that regard, at least, New Orleans was the perfect city, and she knew how to work it.

She was a bad girl, after all. Wasn’t that just what her mother had always said? Bad blood, bad girl?

And wasn't that what bad girls did? Had wild, hot, sex with gorgeous men who never called again? Men who, no matter how much she secretly wanted them to, never bought flowers or candy or told her she was special. Why would they? She was who she was, and no man could save her any more than she could save herself.

A tear slid down her cheek, and she roughly brushed it away. "It's only a birthday," she said, her soft whisper directed toward the panther.

The great cat stared back, then settled himself on the cool stone, his regal head resting on crossed paws.

"Time to see what I've got here," Cate told it. At midday in the summer heat, the zoo was almost empty, so no one would hear her talking foolishly to a cat. As she lifted the lid on the box, though, all thoughts of idiocy left her head, replaced with an intense sense of wonder.

There, nestled in the velvet-lined interior of the box, lay the most beautiful glass perfume bottle Cate had ever seen. The product of fine artistry, the bottle evoked an erotic sensuality, warm silver intricately intertwined through cut, cool crystal. "Oh," she whispered, the word little more than a sigh, as she lifted the bottle out.

Obviously an antique, the bottle was more solid than it looked, and despite its almost ephemeral beauty, she didn't worry that she would break it by handling it. This bottle had seen the world, and she let her imagination fly as she pictured it decorating the dressing tables of royalty, holding specially commissioned perfumes or scented oils for a king's mistress. Because surely a bottle such as this had witnessed both passion and intrigue.

This was no casual gift, and Cate was baffled that Alma—a woman she barely knew—would give her such an extravagant present. Although the bottle was empty, Cate couldn't resist the urge to tug at the stopper but it was stuck fast. Not that it really mattered. The bottle was bone dry, and probably had been for some time. And it wasn't as if she'd ever take the time to fill it with her favorite fragrance. That was hardly her style. Though she was happy to add the beautiful bottle to her dressing table.

She held it up to take a closer look at the fine crystal. The facets caught the light, breaking it into a rainbow of color. And when she shifted the angle, sparks seemed to leap from the bottle into the humid Louisiana air.

In front of her, the cat raised itself, then stood rigid. Its nose twitching and its eyes near-slits.

"What is it," she whispered. "What's wrong?"

The cat didn't answer. And Cate realized that she'd actually expected it would. Absurd.

Instead, it began pacing, more frenetic than before. It circled the habitat, faster and faster, as if searching for a heretofore unnoticed exit.

Still holding the bottle, she stood, then moved to the fence. The cat stopped, turning to face her. Their eyes met, and she lost herself in the deep color of the beast's irises. She stood, mesmerized, as seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to eternity. She'd been drawn in, and now the panther was filling her head, overwhelming her senses. She was the panther. Stalking. Caged. Anguished.

Wanting. Needing.

Needing her.

Gasping, Cate jumped back, the spell broken. She glanced at her watch—barely a minute had passed. Had she drifted off into her own daydreams? Or had the panther called to her, reaching out to meet her mind?

Once again, she had to wonder at her far-fetched imagination today. A mind meld with a panther? Because, yeah, that was so much more likely than the reality that she’d simply drifted off because she was overtired and sleeping so poorly recently.

That was it, of course. A reasonable, rational explanation. And Cate clung tightly to it.

But at the same time, she couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of foreboding. The sense that she was being stalked.

That there were demons in the dark, and they knew her name.

"Do you know?" she whispered to the panther.

"Do you know what's happening?"

And then, drifting on a wind that was surely born of imagination, Cate heard the whispered reply—I know, Caitlyn. I know that you are mine....

* * *

She was the one.

A wild euphoria swept through Luc Agassou as he watched the dark-haired woman flee down the path, her backpack slung over one shoulder and a wooden box clutched to her breast. He'd watched her for almost two years now, safe inside his feline prison, suspecting but not certain that she was the one. His mate. The one woman in all the world who could help him control his curse.

She'd first appeared nineteen months ago, as he was beginning the second year of his self-imposed sentence. He'd noticed her sitting on the bench in a torrential rain, a yellow slicker and rain hat her only protection from the elements. For the first few months after his confinement, he'd examined each female visitor with an intensity born of desperation. Was it her? Or her? Or perhaps that lush blonde over there?

But disappointment after disappointment had hardened his heart, and he'd quit looking, telling himself that if she came, he would certainly notice. And if she didn't ... well, then one such as he deserved this dark and solitary confinement.

When this woman had sat on the bench, he'd noticed. That had been his first clue. The fact that he couldn't take his eyes off her had been the second.

Her eyes had caught his attention first. A deep blue, like the purest sapphire, and so full of pain and untapped passion that he thought his heart would break. He wanted to free her—to loosen whatever bonds were holding her back. To let her run wild—and then to tame her all over again.

He imagined running his fingers over every inch of her bare skin, and the muscles in his sleek, feline body tightened with a wild, primal need as his mind’s eye saw the way she arched toward his touch, her breath coming in small gasps as he slowly explored her secrets.

He'd almost summoned the change right then, that first moment he’d seen her, so desperate was he to take his human form again. But he couldn't risk it. If he took this woman—if he mated with her—and she wasn't the one...

He'd trembled at the possibility of succumbing to the change while she was still in his bed. Could he, in the madness that took him as he changed into feline form, prevent himself from mauling that perfect specimen of female flesh? He didn't think so. He was a killer, a beast. That was, after all, why he'd confined himself to this private hell, a majestic black panther who lived only to entertain the masses that wandered the paths of the Audubon Zoo.

Like all the unknown others of his family, Luc went through life in the body of a man but with the soul of a panther. And at times, the panther fought to get out.

When the curse came, it was hard and brutal, attacking both body and mind so that Luc lost all control. He would lose minutes, sometimes hours, and when his senses returned, he'd find himself in feline form, often hungry and on the prowl.

The change could never be predicted, sometimes not coming for weeks, other times coming twice or three times in one day. But once the madness passed and self-awareness returned, he could shift back into human form at will. That was how he'd stayed at the zoo for so long. He'd simply stayed a panther.

Before he'd come here, he'd tried to live a normal life, tried to pass as truly human. It had been easier before his parents had died. Geneticists, his parents had adopted him after his birth mother had committed suicide, leaving him and his identical twin. The infant boys had become wards of the state, and eventually, his brother had been adopted. Luc often mourned their separation, and hoped that his brother had been as fortunate as Luc. The couple that eventually took Luc into their home and their hearts had truly loved him. Even more, as scientists, they’d understood him.

Genetics, they'd said. Not magic. But Luc knew it didn't matter what they called it. There was only one cure—sex. And even that wasn't a real cure. Sex with his life mate would stave off the change, but even that was only temporary.

And for most of his life, the identity of the woman who would be his mate had been unknown to him.

A curse, he'd said.

Science, his parents had answered. Pheromones and hormones and all controllable with time, with practice. When puberty hit, they'd put bars on his room, so that when the change came he would be out of harm's way.

Life had been bearable while his parents had lived. They'd tried to teach him control, to keep some shred of humanity during those first lost moments during the change. And they'd promised him that a permanent cure did exist. They just didn't know what or how.

After his parents had died, his world had been turned upside down. He'd searched for his mate each night, instinct telling him that she was in New Orleans, that she would find him. But his efforts were to no avail, and he was careful to spend every night in his cage. Such precautions were insufficient, however. On one tragic day, the change had come, fast and furious, and Luc had been unable to grasp the control his father had sworn was possible.

He'd failed. He was cursed. And he'd confined himself in this feline habitat, hoping against hope that somehow, some way, his mate would wander past his cage.

His days had been filled with disappointment. Woman after woman had passed in front of him, but he hadn’t found the woman who could quell the fire that burned within him. Whose humanity, meshed with his own, could stifle the demons in his soul.

Then the dark-haired woman had come, and for the first time, he’d hoped. But for nineteen long months, that hope had been nothing more than a warm glow in his belly.

Now, that glow had transformed into a raging inferno.

Now, he knew.

He didn’t know what had changed today, and frankly, he didn’t care. All he knew was that his hope had been borne out.

Today, he'd seen into her soul, felt her being, and had known.

She was the one. His mate. His cure.

And he would have her.

Two

She was on Bourbon Street, and she was all alone. No tourists, no business owners, no cops. Just Cate ... and someone following her. Neon lights advertising nude girls and cheap liquor flashed around her, as if lighting a path to her damnation. She stifled a shiver and ran the other direction, into the shadows, into the dark.

The pad of footsteps reached her ears, soft and steady, and Cate's breath caught. She reached for her gun, wanting to turn on her stalker once and for all, but he wasn't there.

She wore a silky negligee, and though the streets were empty, golden eyes peered from windows that looked down on the alley. The wind whispered with a dozen voices. Give in, Cate. You are his. Give in ... give in...

Her heart pounded in her chest as she twisted, trying to see her tormentor in the shadows. No one. And no sound in the night except the whisper of the wind.

And then he was there, his hand on her breast, his lips on her neck. "Mine," he whispered, as he pushed the loose strap of her negligee off her shoulder. The garment slid down, the soft material cool against her hot skin.

Her nipple peaked and he rubbed it with the pad of his thumb. Then he lowered his head, his mouth closing over her breast, his teeth teasing and taunting her.

She wanted to take his head in her hands and lift him up to face her, but she couldn't move, couldn't do anything but lose herself to the heat swirling in her body. She hadn't even seen his face, and yet she welcomed him with her body, with her soul. And with one low, desperate moan, she shifted, spreading her legs as she felt his hand cup her heat.

Her sex throbbed, and she swallowed a scream of frustration. She wanted him, wanted him inside her, filling her.

Possessing her.

"Mine, Cate," he whispered again. "Remember that you are mine."

And then, without warning, he was gone, and she was knocked to the ground by the force of a leaping panther. The panther lashed out, attacking the man who'd been following her. Not her lover, but someone else. A dark man, with ragged hair and a dirty face. A flash of dark fur and claws, and then the stalker's knife clattered to the ground. It lay there in a pool of the man's blood as Cate screamed, the sound of her own voice drowned out by a single word that filled her brain, scaring her even more than the attack.

Mine.

* * *

Cate jerked bolt upright from where she'd fallen asleep on the couch. Her heart beat so hard she was certain her ribs would crack. She tried to catch her breath, tried to slow her pulse, but the dream still held her in its clutches, and all she could feel was fear.

This was too much. Ever since her birthday two weeks ago, dreams had been haunting her. Each time she closed her eyes, her head filled with dark, erotic thoughts of need and lust and possession. Someone wanted her, was looking for her, would find her.

Even in her dreams she couldn't hide.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Those dreams had become familiar friends in contrast to the nightmares that came more sporadically. There'd been three so far, including the one she still trembled from. Each nightmare was awash in violence and blood, and in each one he seemed to be coming closer to possessing her completely.

Except she didn't know who the hell he was. And, worse, the horrific foreboding in her mind was seeping out into real life. The sensation that she was being followed. That something was happening to her. That the world as she knew it was about to change, horribly and irrevocably.

Cate shivered, the warm sunlight streaming in from her window no defense against the cold inside her.

She was in so much trouble. And she didn't even know why.

The sharp ring of her cell phone brought her back to her senses, and she levered herself off the couch then crossed the small room to grab her phone off the top of the television. She checked the ID, saw that it was Adam calling, and knew immediately what he was going to say.

"It's happened again," she said, her voice flat. Of course it had. Another brutal attack. The third.

She knew, of course, because she'd seen it. In her dream. She'd been right there, watching, just as she'd seen the others over the past ten days. Unable to do anything, to save anyone. Entirely powerless to help.

"About an hour ago. The bastard clawed up some homeless guy this time. He survived, but he’s messed up."

"Where? Let me get dressed and I'll meet you."

"Not necessary. Riz and Beauchamp took the call. I'm heading to the hospital to take a statement. But I can cover it. I know tonight's your big night."

Cate took a deep breath. “Right. Sure. No problem."

Adam laughed. "You're the only person I know who'd rather go to a hospital and interview a vic doped up on morphine than go to a black-and-white ball."

"I have to give a speech," she said.

"Just thank the nice people for your award and shake a lot of hands." To his credit, he didn't even try to tell her she'd be great. Despite trying to drag her out on her birthday, Adam knew she hated crowds. She loved kids, however, and the one community project that had drawn her in was the All Children's Fund, a charitable organization that helped underprivileged kids. She gave them her time and her money, and she’d logged the most volunteer hours in the past year. For that, she got an award.

And had to give a speech.

The thought was more terrifying than all her dreams put together.

Her dreams.

For a few moments, she'd actually pushed them from her mind, but now the memory returned, along with that constant looming sense of being watched.

Forcing the dark thoughts aside, she headed into her bedroom, saw the black floor-length dress she'd laid so carefully across the bed. With a little frown, she stripped down and stepped into it, twisting her arm into an awkward angle to do up the zipper in the back.

Finally dressed, she headed toward her vanity and the single bottle of Chanel No. 5 she'd been hanging onto for years. As she dabbed a bit on her pulse points, her eyes drifted toward the birthday bottle from Alma. She'd been tempted to pour the perfume into the lovely container, but she'd stifled the urge. A bottle like that was a showpiece. If it was ever going to hold perfume again, it would be some zillion-dollar-an-ounce concoction.

Not that she ever intended to put anything in the bottle. It was too special, too different. Too—

The bottle.

Her pulse kicked up as the realization hit her. The dreams had started when she'd received the bottle. It had to be—

But no. That was nuts. What on earth could a bottle have to do with her dreams?

Besides, the dreams had started when she'd turned thirty, and that was a far better reason for nutty behavior than a perfume bottle, no matter how old or beautiful.

With a wry grin, she picked up the bottle. Color swirled in the glass, drawing her in like some hypnotic dance. She stared, losing herself in the color. Reds meshed with purples, gold danced with green. And there, deep in those transient swirls, she imagined the coppery eyes of the panther—watching her and seeing all the way down into her soul.

* * *

Luc turned the shower on, then paced between the bathroom and the connecting bedroom as he waited for the water to heat. Tense and sore, his muscles screamed in pain. His pulse was rapid, his skin burning hot. He couldn't remember where he'd been for the past three hours, but still he knew. The blood on his hands was testament to his whereabouts. To his sins.

In the bedroom, he grabbed the remote and aimed it at the wall-mounted television. Sure enough, the local news was already covering the attack.

"... marks the third mauling in the past ten days. This latest victim, whose identity is being withheld pending further police investigation, is currently in stable condition. While the community lives in fear, both police and zoo officials continue to search for the black panther that escaped from the Audubon Zoo..."

The video cut to a shot of a harried detective on the steps of the police station. A young, blond reporter held a microphone to the detective’s face.

"We have not confirmed that the panther is responsible for these attacks. While our forensic team confirms that many of the scratches are feline in nature, other factors such as location suggest a human culprit."

"Someone taking advantage of the panther's escape?" the reporter asked.

"Could be. At any rate, we won't know for certain until the perp is apprehended or a victim recovers consciousness and can give us a description. In the meantime, we advise all citizens to stay on alert and to contact the police if—"

Luc clicked off the television. He'd heard enough.

The nature of the maulings suggested a large feline had made the attacks. But some of the evidence pointed to a human. It was a conundrum, and one the police weren't prepared to answer. Never would they suspect that the culprit was both man and beast. But Luc knew. And the truth ate at his soul.

He stalked back to the bathroom and stepped into the shower, letting the now-hot water pound away at the guilt ... and the blood. With a deep, guttural groan, he pressed his hands against the smooth white tiles and faced down, letting the pulse of water pummel the back of his neck.

What the hell had he done? He should have moved to South America years ago and lived out his life in the wild. But he'd been selfish, wanting to harness his curse, believing he could find his mate.

And so he'd stayed in New Orleans, waiting and watching. And then, two weeks ago, he'd finally found her, only to lose her again. But he knew she existed, and so he'd taken human form to facilitate the search. He'd end his curse. He was certain of it. But at what cost?

Once before he'd tried to wrangle control, relying on his parents' belief, coupled with his own will and obstinate personality. But his parents had been wrong. Without his mate, control wasn't possible, not really. And in the end, his hubris had almost killed a child. That was when he'd confined himself to the zoo. Damn him to hell, hadn't he learned anything while he'd been in that self-imposed prison?

He lifted his face to the stream, as if that could wash away his regret. His shame.

He'd go back to the zoo. He’d instruct Martin that when the next change came, Luc was to be restrained and captured. Even the possibility that he'd found his mate couldn't justify remaining free. Days had passed since he'd taken human form, and still he'd been unable to locate the woman.

Decided, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He’d entered the bedroom and was adjusting the towel around his hips when Martin knocked at the door, not waiting for a response before he entered.

Though ostensibly the butler, Martin was in fact so much more.

Now, Luc waited for him to speak, but Martin merely moved to the closet and pulled out Luc’s freshly pressed tuxedo.

"I'll be leaving tomorrow," Luc said, hesitating only briefly before speaking. "This time, I don't intend to return."

"I saw the news." The butler removed the tux from the garment bag. "I don't believe you are the culprit."

"Then you're an old fool," Luc said. "Or have you already forgotten that you let me in the back door not thirty minutes ago naked and covered in blood?"

"You have more control than you let yourself believe," Martin said. "You've always had more control."

A sliver of anger cut through Luc's gut, and he thought of Clarissa Taylor, the little girl whose life he'd almost taken. "You don't know anything."

"On the contrary, sir. I know everything. That's why you keep me in your employ."

There was more truth in that than Luc wanted to admit. Martin had worked for Luc's parents, and had been a constant figure in the Agassou household. In fact, it had been Martin who had "donated" the black panther on behalf of millionaire recluse Luc Agassou, who, Martin assured the zoo, was taking several years to tour Europe or else he would have been happy to attend the dedication of the new panther habitat.

So, yes, Martin did know most of Luc's secrets. And he loved Luc like a father.

And that was part of the problem. The man was too loyal, believing the best of Luc when Luc was quite aware that it was the worst that had been manifested over and over again. How else could he explain these maulings?

"This isn’t up for discussion," he said. "I’m going back in the cage tomorrow. And you'll be the city's newest hero when you bring me in."

Martin sniffed. "Nonsense. You're not going anywhere except to the All Children's Benefit tonight."

"These attacks—"

"Will stop once you're with the woman."

A harsh finality laced Martin’s voice, and Luc cocked his head, afraid he was reading too much into the words and the tone. “Martin? Are you..."

He trailed off, afraid to get his hopes up. He'd searched for a week but had no clues. Had Martin succeeded where he had failed?

"I took it upon myself to visit the police station three days ago, following the last attack. I spoke with one of the detectives working the case. Caitlyn Raine. A lovely young woman. As it turns out, she enjoys visiting the zoo."

But Luc barely heard those last words. How could he, when music had filled his head and his heart the moment he heard her name?

Caitlyn Raine.

She was the one--he was certain. His Caitlyn.

His mate.

The fact that she was a detective assigned to find him snarled his plans up just a bit, but Luc wasn't worried. This woman belonged to him, and he would have her. He smiled. Perhaps he'd been too hasty in planning a return to the zoo after all.

"And she’ll be at the benefit?"

In answer, Martin merely opened a dresser drawer and withdrew a bowtie. "If you’d get dressed, you might even make it to the function on time. I’d hate for you to arrive so late that the lady has already left."

Luc would hate that, too. He had no idea when the change would come again. Which meant he needed Caitlyn in his bed.

And the sooner he got her there, the better.

Three

She’d survived.

Truly a miracle, but Cate had actually made a speech to a roomful of people and hadn't dropped dead from mortification. Not only that, but at least a dozen people told her how moved they'd been by her deeply felt words about the children, their plight, and the hope that the organization provided.

Amazing. In the last five hours, she'd lost herself in an erotic and terrifying dream, seen a panther in a perfume bottle, and survived a keynote address.

Frankly, she couldn’t decide which event was the most astounding.

A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne flutes, and she traded her empty glass for a fresh one. She wasn't exactly drunk, but she'd had a few more drinks than common sense would dictate. Then again, if common sense were running the show, she wouldn't have agreed to make a speech in the first place.

At least the keynote had taken her mind off the dreams and the visions. And as a nice little bonus, she’d experienced something completely terrifying ... and she’d survived.

A few more people came up to make small talk, complimenting her on her speech and asking about her involvement with the organization. She answered the questions, managing to down another flute of champagne in the process.

The room spun a little, and she eased next to a marble pillar, grateful for its support. She knew she ought to mingle a bit more, but she'd already reached her capacity for small talk. Better to stand here looking interested. If anyone approached, she'd try her best to be witty and friendly. And if they all left her alone for the rest of the night, well, that was fine, too. After all, it wasn't as if there was anyone here she was dying to meet or—

Him.

She was certain she’d never seen him before, and yet she knew him. Not as an acquaintance, but somehow deep in her soul. He was dark—his skin deeply tanned, his hair as black as midnight.

He wore his tuxedo with a casual elegance that suggested familiarity, and yet there was a wariness about him, too. As if he was not certain that he belonged, but would challenge anyone who suggested he leave.

She swallowed, taking an involuntary step away from the safety of the marble pillar. The crowd parted to let him pass, but he looked neither left nor right as his long steps carried him across the ballroom toward her. Right toward her.

Cate gasped, then gulped in air as she realized she'd forgotten to breathe. He was close now. And for the first time, she could see his eyes—copper with flecks of gold.

She gasped, her chest tightening as her heart skipped a beat.

She knew those eyes. She'd seen them in her-dreams. Staring down at her as warm hands stroked her body, bringing her to the brink over and over again.

This was the man. This perfect male specimen had been filling her nights with erotic fantasies and decadent dreams. Dreams that often faded into the violent nightmares that had made her afraid to fall asleep at night.

She shivered. Despite the nightmares, she was never afraid in his arms. Her blood never ran cold until the panther leapt through the sky. The lover in her dreams kept her safe. And until this moment, she'd had no idea who he was.

But this man couldn't be her dream lover. The possibility was absurd. Even so, her soul knew exactly who he was, and her body was more than happy to respond accordingly. Her nipples peaked, hard nubs that rubbed against the soft silk bodice of her evening dress. Her stomach filled with a liquid heat that seemed to shoot down into her thighs. Her knees were weak, and she wished she was sitting down.

Somehow, her dreams had become reality. Either that, or this man had been invading her dreams, moving into her secret fantasies, her decadent longings. Both ideas were impossible, of course, and yet here he was. This man. And she knew him. She really did.

"Caitlyn," he said, his voice somehow familiar.

He was right in front of her now, so close she could feel the heat from his body and smell the musk of his cologne. His hypnotic eyes drew her in, and she took a step toward him, barely conscious of her own movements.

"I'm not ... this isn't..." She didn't know what she wanted to say, knew she wasn't making sense.

"Isn't it?" His voice was low, husky, with the slightest hint of a Cajun accent. His words surrounded her, flowing over her like warm honey. Her thighs tingled, a moist heat building at their apex. She fought the urge to slip her hand, under her dress and stroke herself over her damp panties. She wanted release, needed it, and God help her, she wanted it right then, right there, with that man.

"It's time, Caitlyn." He held out a hand.

Inside her head, she screamed at herself to run away. Far away, and never look back. She didn't really know this man, this stranger who had peeked into her soul. How could she?

But then she looked into those eyes again, and it was the truth that looked back at her. She did know him. She didn't know how or why, she only knew that she did. Somehow, some way, she knew everything about him even if, at the moment, she didn't even know his name.

That didn't matter. All that mattered was the heat that filled her body, the longing for his touch and the need to merge with him, to be with him.

To mate with him.

Oh, dear Lord, where the hell had that come from? She didn't stop to analyze. Instead, she put her hand in his and his fingers closed around hers. Immediately, all rational thought left her head, replaced by the primal, basic need to touch him.

He leaned down, his breath caressing her cheek. "Come with me."

She nodded, her entire body tingling with anticipation, his mere touch sending electricity coursing through her veins.

They moved hand-in-hand through the crush of people, the crowd parting as if in awe as they passed. She heard a few murmurs, saw a few deferential nods, and then, as they left the ballroom, one of the benefit's hosts stepped into their path, his hand outstretched.

"Mr. Agassou. Luc. We're all so glad you're back." Cate drew in a breath, stopping short, her fingers still trapped in his hand. The host's greeting echoed in her ears. Innocuous words, but with a particular meaning to her—she was leaving the party with a man whose name she had learned from a stranger. Even for Cate, who'd had her share of one night stands, that was a first.

"I-" she began.

"It's good to see you again, too, Armand." Luc smiled, but irritation reflected on his chiseled features, and that whiskey-smooth voice held an edge.

"I apologize for stealing Detective Raine away. We have business to take care of."

Armand stepped back, his entire manner deferential. Cate started to back away too. Second, third and even fourth thoughts were coming at her a mile a minute. What was she doing, and who was she doing it with? Had she gone insane? Were her dreams the product of some latent madness?

Did she already know this man? Something about his name was familiar to her, though she was certain she would have remembered if they’d met.

She turned to face him, feeling more uncertain by the second. "I shouldn't be—"

"Come with me, Caitlin," he said. His fingers stroked her arm as he spoke, and all doubt left her head. All reason, too. It was as if she belonged to him, as if he'd tuned in to some primal frequency in her soul, and she was simply on automatic pilot.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had the moral strength to pull away. But the truth was, she didn't want this moment to pass. The allure of the dreams was too strong, and she wanted to feel that intensity of passion in real life, not just in her fantasies. She was bad, after all. Why not be bad all the way?

"Where are we going?" she asked, as he led her onto the elevator. Her voice sounded timid, and she cringed. She was a detective, for crying out loud, not some shrinking flower of a woman. She drew in a deep breath and moved closer, pressing her body against his. "Not far, I hope."

Something dark and dangerous flashed in his eyes. He cupped the back of her neck with his hand, and she stifled a shiver. "I like your enthusiasm. I'd thought perhaps I would have to entice you. I'm pleased to have been mistaken."

Once again second thoughts filled her head, and she took a step back from him, protests and apologies dancing on her tongue. “I should..."

He pressed a finger to her lips even as he reached around her to push the emergency stop button on the elevator. "Don't disappoint me, Caitlyn," he whispered, then closed his lips over hers.

All thoughts of objection evaporated. Her knees turned to rubber, and she clung to him, her arms linked around his neck to prevent her from collapsing to the ground in a heap.

His mouth, hot and demanding, worked a magic on her lips like nothing she'd ever experienced. She gasped, and his tongue slipped inside, tasting and teasing. One hand stroked her back while his other hand slid between their bodies, his fingers expertly easing the silky material of her skirt up to expose her legs.

The pad of his thumb stroked the back of her bare thigh, and she melted a little bit more. She was hot and cold at the same time, a mass of need, and she fisted her hands in the lapels of his tuxedo. She was probably ruining the jacket, but she didn't care. All she cared about, all she wanted, was this man. She wanted to possess, to be possessed, and the depth of her need both thrilled and terrified her.

His thumb eased up, finding her now wet panties. He pushed aside the elastic at her leg, and she trembled as his fingers stroked and teased her, making her knees go weak. She arched back in his arms, wanting more, then bit her lip to keep from crying out in wild, primal relief when he finally thrust his fingers inside her.

She rocked shamelessly against his hand wanting to take all of him inside her. Wanting this moment to never end.

His mouth brushed her neck. "Now." His voice was low. Urgent. “Please, Caitlyn. I must have you now."

She nodded, unable to respond any other way.

And when she heard his last murmur of, "Soon, it will be too late," her mind was too full of heat and lust to ask what he meant. Instead, she did the only thing she could do and lost herself in the pleasure of his touch.

* * *

Luc stifled a groan, fighting back both a wave of lust and the persistent tingling in his bones that always signaled the change. His need for her was like a living thing, and the depth of his want disturbed him. He had known that he would feel a connection with Caitlyn and an urgent need to mate. Need, yes. He had expected that. But this wanting, this desperate longing for her, had taken him by surprise.

And he did want her. Wanted to touch her, wanted to taste her, and most of all, wanted to bury himself deep inside her. Not to forestall the change, but simply because he desired her.

His lack of control fired an anger in him, and he pulled his hand away from her sweet folds, instead gripping her at the wrists as he slammed her up against the side of the elevator. She gave a little gasp of surprise and pleasure, and his body stiffened even further, responding to her desire. The reaction fueled his anger. Was he entirely unable to control his own body? First the change, and now this woman? Everywhere he turned he was forced to succumb to some primal urge. And, damn him, unlike the change, he would willingly succumb to this urge.

He was pressed against her, her breasts soft against his chest. The insistent pressure sent a heat shooting through his body, settling in his cock. He was hard and hot, and the time was now.

"Caitlyn," he said.

"Now," she whispered. She tugged her wrists free, then explored him with her hands. Her fingers snaked inside his shirt, her skin warm against his bare flesh.

He groaned, then reached out to slip the thin strap of her gown off her shoulder. He bent, pressing his lips to the exposed swell of her breast. He could feel her heart pounding, and he knew he needed to just do it, to slam himself inside her, to hold the change at bay.

Even now, he was dancing with danger. The change was coming upon him, pushing at the back of his head, emerging from his muscles and his skin. Soon, he'd lose his tenuous grip on control.

He had to take her, without pretense, with none of the courtship that human females so desired. Later, there would be harsh looks and recriminations—and he would make all the appropriate explanations. He would soothe the way to making love to her fully and completely. Now, though, there was no time.

"You're mine, Caitlyn," he said. “Now, and forever."

She gasped, but said nothing, and he covered her mouth with his, forestalling any protests. As he did, he tugged her skirt up to her waist, sliding his hands between her legs. Once again, he slid his finger into her wet heat. His cock hardened when her slick muscles gripped him as he withdrew. And then, with a guttural growl more feline than human, he ripped off her panties before tugging his zipper down.

He eased between her legs, the tip of his cock stroking her heat. She moaned, little mewling sounds that only made him harder. His fingers tightened on her ass, and he lifted her just slightly, planning to impale her on him, to let her take as much of him as she could.

The elevator jerked and shuddered, and he lost his footing. They tumbled to the floor, their clothes and bodies tangled.

He got to his knees, then reached down to help her. As he did, the lights flickered, and the elevator started to move, controlled by someone who'd overridden the emergency stop. Her eyes went wide, her mouth forming into a little O as she adjusted her clothes.

She stood up, her expression wary as she backed away from him, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have—I wasn't thinking. Please, I'm so sorry, but I have to go."

Her words were like a slap. She couldn't leave him. She was his mate. She was necessary. And, damn him, he wanted her.

She turned toward the elevator door, but there was nowhere for her to go.

He tugged at her hand. "Caitlyn. You can't go."

But it was too late. For a few delicious moments, she’d been his. He didn’t understand the nature of the magic, the connection, the whatever-it-was that had drawn them together, but he knew that somehow, the veil had lifted.

It was over. He knew it even before those gentle blue eyes turned to ice. Even before she repeated, "Can’t go?" and then smiled slowly and said, "Watch me."

“Caitlyn.” His voice was a plea, but she ignored him. Without looking at him again, she punched a button on the elevator. The car jolted, then stopped. The doors slid open, revealing a deserted lobby.

She’d exited the car before finally turning back to look at him, her stiff demeanor laced with confusion. "I'm sorry." Her voice trembled. "I don't understand what happened tonight, but I am sorry for letting it go so far."

And with those words still hanging in the air, she turned and ran across the lobby and out into the stifling heat of the New Orleans night.

Four

She raced from the building, her heels clattering on the uneven stone walkway. He didn't follow, but still his shadow haunted her, his essence seeming to cling to her very soul.

The night hung around her, heavy with the scent of magnolias. Heated and sensual. A night filled with longing and need, and she'd lost herself in it. Lost herself to him.

Cate raced toward Jackson Square, finally stopping and leaning against the iron fence that surrounded the area. Her breath came ragged, and not from exertion. No, her body was hot. Needy. And now it was rebelling because she'd run away from what it had wanted most. Him. Luc Agassou.

She closed her eyes, drew in a breath. Tourists and locals passed, eyeing her curiously, but she dropped her gaze, focusing on the battered pavement. How many times had she come here before? A detective, hiding behind her badge and her gun? Now she stood in her evening gown and heels feeling stripped naked for all the world to see. She'd exposed herself to that man, made herself vulnerable.

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, her grip tight around the fence post, as the night settled around her.

What the hell was she doing?

Even on her wildest days, she'd never gone at it with a stranger in an elevator. And this wasn't even about the sex. A one-night stand was one thing, but this was...

She shook her head, not sure what it was, only knowing that it was more. More heated. More sensual. More enticing. More desperate.

More everything.

And so help her, she wanted everything she could get.

Her body tingled, and she looked around, staring out into the night, past the corners and shadows, past the clumps of tourists, past the inviting lights of Cafe Du Monde. She was looking for him, not sure what she would do if she found him, only knowing that she had to look, even as her head told her to get the hell out of there as fast as her legs could carry her.

A sharp crack sounded behind her, and instinctively, her hand went to her hip where she usually wore her gun. It wasn't there, and she turned and saw a couple. The man bent to pick up the cell phone he'd dropped and then they continued walking toward her, hand-in-hand.

She exhaled as longing welled inside her.

She was on edge. Antsy. And she needed to get home. Put on some coffee. Turn on the television. Revel in the trappings of normalcy.

With purpose, she started walking again, cutting diagonally across the intersection so that she could head back to Canal Street and catch the streetcar at Carondelet. The side street was dark, the businesses closed up, the street vendors gone for the night. She walked toward the lights on Decatur, toward the horse-drawn carriages and a vibrant civilization she'd never really been part of.

As she walked away, she caught a shadow in her peripheral vision and she shivered. A great cat. Watching. And waiting.

She blinked, then looked again, sure she'd been mistaken, and this time it was gone.

A trick of the light, surely.

And yet, somehow, Cate knew that wasn't true.

The cat was there. It was waiting for her.

She should be scared, but she wasn't.

And that's what scared her most of all.

* * *

Blood.

On his hands, his face. Everywhere. The metallic stench of it consumed him, tormented him.

Naked, Luc collapsed on his back lawn, the twelve-foot stone fence ensuring his privacy. He pressed his face to the grass, his hands outstretched in front of him, a penitent praying to a god he no longer knew.

Forsaken.

Tears clogged his throat, and he pressed his eyes closed, helpless against the onslaught. He remembered nothing more than touching her, and in those moments, he’d felt calm. The raging waters inside him going still.

But then she'd abandoned him, leaving him to the horror that was his life. To the horror he'd been inflicting on the city.

Her taste still hung on him. When their lips had met, nothing else in the universe had mattered. His curse had disappeared. He was only a man wanting a woman.

But he wasn't that man, and he knew that he could never really have her in love, only in need. For, truly, what was there to love about him?

He sat back on his haunches, his face toward the sky, his bloodied hands lifted in front of him. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she was his.

He had to have her. He would have her. Tonight.

Before anyone else got hurt.

* * *

Her earlier champagne buzz had burned off, extinguished by the heat generated between her and Luc Agassou. And though she knew she should simply crawl into bed and lose herself to sweet sleep, Cate couldn't do that. For her, sleep was no longer sweet. And so she opened her freezer, took out a bottle of Smirnoff, and poured herself a shot.

She slammed the drink back, the cold heat of the alcohol immediately setting her blood to burn. She closed her eyes, felt the warm tingle course through her, and knew she was a coward.

She poured another shot, just to prove to herself that she didn't care. She should work. Should review the case file and skim the reports and crime-scene photos. But, dammit, she couldn't do that. Not tonight. Not now.

No, she wanted to sleep tonight. No dreams. No nightmares. Just sleep. And if it took an entire bottle of vodka, then dammit, that's what she was going to do.

Another shot. Then another. Until her entire body felt warm and malleable and her eyelids drooped. She poured one last glass, this time mixing it with water, and went in to settle on her bed. On the way, she plucked the perfume bottle off her dresser, then sat on top of her comforter, squinting at the delicate, curious glasswork.

So beautiful. Swirling patterns of color, the intricate design, the delicate filigree...

She blinked, startled by something she hadn't noticed before. She turned the bottle upside down and blinked a few more times, trying to get her hazy mind to focus. Sure enough, there was some sort of inscription etched into the glass.

Drowsiness had been creeping up on her, but now it was shoved aside, replaced by curiosity about the bottle. She couldn't make out any words, though, and finally she crawled out of bed and stumbled to her desk. She rummaged around until she found a magnifying glass, then examined the bottle again under her desk lamp.

The words seemed to float in front of her. Definitely not English, but not any language she recognized, either. She frowned at the bottle, but not in annoyance. The mystery had pushed past the blur of alcohol and was keeping her awake, yes, but it had also filled her head, edging out thoughts of Luc and the way his hands had felt on her. The way she wanted to pick up the phone and find him, go to him.

Frustrated, she drummed her fingers on the desk.

It was already past midnight. She knew she should just go to bed, not get involved in some project. But knowing and doing were two different things, and instead of going to sleep she turned on her computer.

Less than a minute later, she'd copied one of the words into a search engine. She started scrolling through the results, her brow furrowing when she found a site that suggested the 1anguage was Romani.

Her frown deepened. Wasn’t that a gypsy language? Hadn’t Alma once suggested that she had gypsy blood?

Tomorrow, she’d ask. With any luck, Alma already knew what the bottle said. Not that it really mattered; it was just a marking on a perfume bottle, after all. She really should just forget about it. Between her case load and her dreams and her sudden dive into wantonness, she hardly needed to add an errand to the mix.

But as she snuggled under the covers and closed her eyes, she knew that she would call. The dreams had started with the bottle—and the nightmares. Somehow, the bottle had opened a door in her soul, and she simply had to know

* * *

“Cate.”

A whisper of breath. A gentle brush against her cheek. "Cate, my darling. My one. Cate."

She moaned, lost in the haze of sleep. Another dream, but not a nightmare. Instead, soft and appealing. A touch. A caress. And the burning heat of desire in her belly, between her thighs, in her rock-hard nipples.

She moaned, arching up, trying to cheat sleep as she pulled him closer.

"Yes, Cate. That's right. You're mine. Come to me."

His hands stroked her breasts through the thin T-shirt she’d worn to bed, drifting down to cup her bare waist. His hand eased around her back as he pulled her up into an embrace. Her lips parted, and he feasted on her, his tongue slipping into her mouth, tasting and teasing. Sensual. Erotic.

And so very, very enticing.

She wanted him. Wanted this to be real. Wanted him there, holding her.

Holding her?

Her eyes flew open.

This was no dream!

Her heart pounded as her breath came in erratic gasps. She scrambled backwards, out of his arms, the sheet clutched to her chest as she rolled toward the bedside table and snatched up her gun. She held it out, aimed at his heart. He didn't seem to care.

“You.” Her voice was stiff, almost unrecognizable.

A slow, sensual smile eased across that perfect face. "Me." He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, and now he inched toward her.

She waved the gun, just slightly. "I don't think so."

He held up a hand, a silent surrender. "Whatever you say, detective. But I thought you'd be happy to see me."

Insightful little bastard. She kept the gun level.

"How'd you get in?"

That damn cocky smile broadened. “The door."

"It was locked."

"Do you really think a lock could keep me away from you?"

"I—" She closed her mouth. Her head wanted to argue with him, to scream, to yell at him to get out of her house and to leave her alone. Her body, though...

Her body was terrified that he would leave. She tried again. "I—"

He reached out, and she remained perfectly still, her own gaze locked on his haunted eyes. His hand closed over hers, caressed her skin, then gently tugged the gun away. She trembled, just a little, and she felt a single tear roll down her cheek as, finally, she succumbed to this man.

Foolish, perhaps. Dangerous, definitely. But right now this was what she needed. He was what she needed.

With the pad of his thumb, he brushed the tear away. "Darling Caitlyn, don't cry. We've found each other now. My life. My mate."

His fingertips stroked her lips, and she leaned forward, opening her mouth to him, her entire body filled with need. She was charged up, vibrating with passion. Lust and want filled her veins and pounded through her soul.

She no longer questioned why. She was beyond caring. She'd been reduced to a primal being, driven only by instinct and need.

She reached out, letting the sheet drop away, revealing the simple, threadbare T-shirt that she'd worn to bed. Her hand snaked around his neck, urging him closer. At the same time, she opened her mouth, and his finger slipped in. She pressed her lips around the digit, then moved back and forth, slowly and methodically, building a sensual rhythm, a promise of things to come.

She kept her eyes closed, but his mouth on her breast came as no surprise, and she arched her back, still sucking on him as his teeth grazed her nipple, teasing it through the thin material of her T-shirt.

He slipped his hand from her mouth, and she groaned, wanting the taste of him. His lips moved to her neck, and she felt her pulse beat against his lips as his hands cupped her breasts, kneading and stroking, the pads of his thumbs flicking over her nipples in a way that sent threads of heat lashing through her, culminating in the growing fire burning between her thighs.

"Caitlyn," he growled, “I need you." Without waiting for her to speak, he clutched the T-shirt and pulled it over her head, tossing it casually aside.

She leaned forward, wanting his lips against her own, but he parried, tugging her down until she was lying on the bed, naked except for a tiny pair of bikini panties. His actions were both rough and gentle, and everything about him—about this wild coupling—turned her on. Her panties were soaked, and all she could think was that she wanted more, would beg if she had to.

But she didn't think she'd have to.

This was a dangerous encounter. The kind she was born for. The kind her mother had always warned her about. "Do you think you’re a girl for romance and flowers? You’ve got the demon after you, girl. And it will find you."

If Luc was the demon her mother had feared, then Cate welcomed it. He was rough and demanding. Hot and wild. Tender and gentle.

He knew her—she didn’t know how, but he did.

And he would take her where she’d never been before. And she would go with him, deeper and farther. Wilder and hotter.

Go with him?

Hell, she’d drag him down with her. And with a boldness born of pure need, she took his hand and slipped it inside her panties.

"Mine," he growled.

"Yours," she whispered, then pulled her own hand free.

He released her only long enough to pull her panties down, and then his magical fingers were touching her again, driving her so close to the edge that she clawed at him in time with the rising tide of need, her fingernails raking over his back where her hands had roamed under his shirt.

"Off," she demanded, able to force out the word only because her need to feel his skin against hers was so intense it felt as though it might consume her.

He complied immediately, tossing the shirt into a corner. But it wasn’t enough, and when she tugged at the waistband of his jeans he sat up and quickly stripped off his shoes and pants without the necessity for of words.

They were apart for only a few seconds, but during that short interlude, the fog seemed to clear from her mind, and the reality of what she was doing hit her full force.

She knew nothing about this man. Nothing other than his name.

And yet, when he reached for her—when he pulled her naked body against his—she knew that there was no place else for her. Just as there was no one else in the world for her, either.

He rolled her over, settling her astride his stomach, her thighs on either side of his waist.

"You're so damn beautiful," he said.

The praise felt as warm as summer, as sweet as candy. She leaned forward, wanting to taste his lips, but he forestalled her, slipping one hand between their bodies to stroke her clit, as the other reached up to caress her breast.

She froze, wonderfully caught by the onslaught of sensations coursing through her blood. Her body was calling to him, building for him. The sparks inside her gathered, readying for an explosion that she craved more than anything she’d ever desired. She wanted this. More than that, she needed it.

But even the orgasm built inside her, a tiny voice in her head told her to pull away. To roll off him.

To run.

You shouldn’t, Cate. You’re better than this, Cate. Love. You deserve love.

Shouldn't? The word seemed foolish and Pollyanna, especially with his fingers inside her, stroking and tugging and demanding. He'd fired every cell in her body, and still she wanted more.

She'd spread herself wide open for this man. Even more, she'd be devastated if he walked away now.

No, she thought. Shouldn't was for fools and women without the balls to live the life they were born to. Tonight of all nights, she was grateful she knew who she was. Because with Luc, she wanted to be bad. Very, very bad.

With what she hoped was casual aplomb, she slid off him, rolling onto her back and spreading her legs wide. "Take me," she demanded. "Take me now."

Fire flickered in those golden eyes, and with an almost desperate freneticism, he straddled her. He groped her, his hands claiming her, blazing a heated path for his mouth. He reached the apex of her thighs and spread her legs even wider, so wide her muscles ached, and she bent her knees up, giving herself to him.

He lowered his mouth to her sex, then laved her, the rough shadow of his beard scraping against her inner thighs. His tongue danced and dipped, tasting and tempting, pulling her closer and closer to the precipice.

She reached down, her fingers twining through his silky dark hair. She bucked against his mouth, wanting him fully, needing him completely.

But he backed away, and she cried out in frustration as he trailed kisses down her inner thigh, then pushed himself up until his face was over hers, the hard tip of his cock pressing at the apex of her thighs, so close to everything she wanted and yet a million miles away.

His eyes burned into her, and she slid her hands down until she cupped his rear. She pressed, silently urging him inside her.

"Luc. Please."

"Please what?"

"I already told you. Inside me. Now. Please." She arched up, lifting her head to brush her lips against his.

He took his time, first teasing her ear with the tip of his tongue. The spot was sensitive, and she gasped, relaxing back down onto the bed and losing herself to his ministrations. Go with it, Cate. Let him take you there.

As his tongue worked one kind of magic, his hand worked another, slipping down her belly, the pressure not so much a caress as a demand.

A single finger slipped inside her, and her body tightened around him, pulling him in, demanding. Insistent.

Desperate.

"Now, Cate," he said, his voice raspy with need.

Roughly, he spread her thighs, positioned himself over her, and she was so ready she thought she might die if he didn’t take her right then.

"The time is now," he said, as the tip of his cock pressed insistently against her wet folds. "I must have you now before all is lost."

And then he entered her, hard and demanding. He filled her completely, his deep thrusts everything she'd wanted since the first time she'd seen him in the ballroom.

It was right. It was perfect.

So why, then, when her body was filled by this man, did she feel so damned empty?

* * *

Mindless, he thrust harder and harder, fighting to come. Fighting to stave off the change that, inexplicably, threatened once again.

He could feel it. Crawling under his skin. Threatening to burst through. Threatening to consume him. To consume Cate.

No. She was the one. She could ward off the change. He was certain of it. He'd simply waited too long and now he was on the cusp as he rammed himself into her, need and fear driving his thrusts.

A haze engulfed him, and the fear grew to terror.

The change. Oh, Lord, no. He couldn't be wrong. If he changed with her in his bed...

No, no, he couldn't harm her. Not Cate. Not this woman—

And then the world exploded, and Luc with it.

* * *

When his senses returned, he was curled up naked next to her. He sat bolt upright, pulling the sheet back to expose her. Her breasts, belly, thighs.

Unmauled.

Her eyes widened, still heavy with sleep, but a small smile played at her mouth. "Round two already?"

He collapsed back against the pillows, relief crashing over him like a tidal wave.

He hadn't changed. The sensations had been so similar, yet so different. He'd only come. He'd exploded in passion inside this woman and together they'd held the change at bay.

He'd been right. She really was his. His Caitlyn.

His mate.

Five

She woke in his arms, then snuggled closer. His arm tightened around her and he kissed her forehead.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Ravenous."

He slid out of bed, his hand out to her. She took it, smiling, then followed him into her kitchen. He pointed toward the tiny breakfast table, and she quirked a brow, amused at the thought that the man who'd been in her bed was now in her kitchen. She didn't protest, however. Just sat down and wondered what he thought he'd be able to find that would even remotely resemble food.

Amazingly enough, he managed just fine, somehow turning five eggs, a frozen link of sausage, and a few other odds and ends into a brilliant omelet.

"I'm impressed," she said as he slid the plate in front of her.

"Good." He used his own fork to stab a bite. "That was my intention."

They ate together in comfortable silence until Cate started to get fidgety. He was watching her, his eyes intense, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "What?"

"You deserve a better meal."

"In that case, I need to go grocery shopping more often."

He ignored the flippant comment. "Tonight," he said.

"Tonight?"

A hint of a smile graced his lips. "May I have the honor of taking you to dinner?"

"I..." She'd wanted to review the case files tonight. Technically, though, this was one of her days off. And, she did want to be with this man...

She drew in a breath, gathering courage. "Yes," she said. Then, more firmly, "Yes."

She'd succumbed to her heart, and it felt good.

Even so, when he left, promising to come back for her at eight, she was grateful. She needed some time alone. Some time to think.

There’d been something familiar about his name when she’d heard it at the party. Other than that, though, she knew nothing about him. Nothing other than a burning intensity shining deep in his eyes, and a desperate, almost violent need to possess her. To fill her. To consume her.

To mate.

She shivered, her body tingling from the memory of his hands on her, his mouth tasting her, his body filling her.

Oh, dear Lord, she was wet again. Wet and needy and frantically wishing that he hadn’t left after all.

Frustrated, she headed for the bathroom, then turned the cold water in the shower to full-strength. Still naked, she stepped under the spray, fighting a scream as the icy blast of frigid water pummeled her.

When she’d finally adjusted to the temperature, she pressed her palms against the tiled shower stall. Her head hung, letting the spray pound the back of her neck.

A thousand recriminations danced through her head, but she shoved them all away, a single question rising to the surface—who was he?

Luc Agassou, yes. She knew that. Prominent, apparently, if Armand’s deferential manner was any clue. Which probably explained why his name was familiar, even though she couldn’t quite place it.

If she’d been smart, she would have researched him on the Internet, not Alma’s bottle.

But she hadn’t, and now Luc remained a mystery. And all she knew for certain was that she craved the man.

* * *

Cate glanced at the clock above her sofa. Just past two. She’d spent most of the day researching Luc Agassou. She’d called in a favor to one of the gals at Division and got her to expedite a search, stretching the truth when she said that he’d recently popped up and might be relevant to something Cate was keeping her eye on. But even that obfuscation had been for naught. Because all she learned was that he was clean. No criminal record. Not even so much as a traffic ticket.

Which was good, but didn’t answer her questions.

Her own Internet search supported what she’d learned. The man was a pillar of the community, although he'd left New Orleans a few years ago, only to return in the past week. That explained why she'd never heard of him. According to her research, he was the son of internationally known geneticists, and had inherited their fortune when they'd been killed in a car crash almost ten years ago.

She'd felt a stab of sadness for the man who'd lost his family. He'd grown into a well-known philanthropist, donating a huge percentage of his net worth to hand-picked causes. She scrolled through the list, noting several youth services groups, animal rights funds, literacy programs, the Audubon Zoo, the—

She stopped scrolling, then leaned in closer to the screen, suddenly realizing why his name had seemed so familiar to her. Luc Agassou had sponsored the panther habitat. He'd donated Midnight, the panther that had escaped.

With a start, she sat up straighter, a ridiculous thought occurring to her. She'd been sitting in front of Midnight's cage the first time she'd heard Luc's voice.

Slowly, she let go of the mouse and rolled the chair backwards, her eyes never leaving the screen even though her pulse beat wildly, fear-induced adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Luc's voice. She'd heard it. In her head. Right after she'd opened Alma’s present. She'd been holding the bottle and then, as she'd looked at Midnight, she'd heard it. Heard him.

I know, Caitlyn. I know that you are mine.

Mine. He'd said the same thing in bed.

Trembling, she hugged herself, bending over to stop the threat of tears.

He'd been in her head. He'd been in her bed. And despite everything she told herself, he'd even started to sneak into her heart.

Dear Lord, who was he? How could she hide from him?

More important, did she want to?

* * *

"The lady will be moving in with us." Luc sat at the table, his fingertip idly tracing the rim of his iced tea glass.

"She is amenable?" Martin looked up from where he'd been fussing nearby.

Luc avoided the butler's curious glance. "She doesn't know yet. I'm taking her out tonight, and I intend to be extremely persuasive." Martin didn't even blink, simply moved closer, the crystal pitcher in his hand. "More tea?"

"Dammit, Martin, it's the only way."

"I don't recall arguing, sir."

Luc stabbed at a piece of andouille sausage. "The hell you didn't."

"You seem put out, sir."

"I'm not put out. I'm frustrated. It's entirely different."

"Of course, sir."

"I swear, Martin, if you call me sir once more..."

"I understand ... Luc."

Luc pushed back from the table and tossed his napkin on the chair. "I'm out of here."

"May I ask where you're going?"

"I'm going to go get the girl," he said, feeling like a total prick even as he said the words. He headed to the garage. The girl deserved to be romanced and seduced, but he needed her to be available when the change approached.

More than that, he needed the sex to be wild. Feral.

A violent coupling to stave off even more violence.

The most vicious of circles, and he was perpetuating it.

His gut ate at him, a tinge of humanity coloring the instincts that drove him. He moved silently through the garage and slid behind the seat of his Porsche, then fired the engine. The garage door was still down, and for a moment, he just sat there.

So easy.

It would be so easy to end the suffering. His own.

His victims.

No.

He'd found his cure. He'd found Caitlyn. He could have her. He could have life. And he'd give her as much romance as possible. And even if it wasn't perfect, so what?

Luc had seen enough of this world to know that very little ever was.

He steeled himself, seeking strength. Then he lifted his hand to the visor and pressed the button to open the garage door. The mechanism kicked in, raising the door and letting the late-afternoon sun filter into the space.

Eerie shadows danced on the walls, but Luc ignored them. Shadows didn't disturb him. The only monster that mattered already lived in him.

With a violence born of frustration, he slammed the car into reverse and peeled out, leaving rubber scorch marks on the polished concrete and the pale asphalt driveway.

He maneuvered the street in a frenzy. The change didn't tingle in his blood right now, but even so, he was desperate to see her.

Her apartment topped a garage in the Garden District, and he parked in front of the stairs leading up to her home. He got out of the Porsche, not bothering to close the door behind him, and climbed the stairs two at a time.

He pounded on the door, anxious for her to answer, desperate to touch her once again.

Nothing.

He pounded again. And still Cate didn't come.

After a moment, he simply broke in as he had the day before.

Her rooms were dark and had an abandoned feel. He shook his head, sure he was simply being foolish. It was after three. She'd probably simply gone to work.

He crossed to the phone and dialed the precinct, his confidence not dwindling until the receptionist told him that Detective Raine was on one of her days off, and could someone else help him?

No. There was no one else.

Silent, he hung up the phone, then walked to her bathroom as if sleepwalking. No toothbrush. No hairdryer. No deodorant.

Damn it all to hell. She'd left him.

* * *

"You want to tell me again why you're camping out in my guest room?"

Cate shook her head, avoiding Adam's stern gaze.

"I'm sorry. Bad date. The guy makes me nervous. I ... I just thought I should make myself scarce for a while."

He sat on the edge of the bed, tugging his wife, Alice, down beside him. "Shit, Cate."

Alice smacked him on the thigh. "Adam!" She rose and went to hook an arm around Cate, steering her to the bed and shoving Adam aside. "You're welcome to stay for as long as you need. I completely understand." She flashed Adam a meaningful look. "Men can be such asses."

He held up his hands in surrender. "What the hell did I do?"

"Nothing," Alice said. "Yet." She stood up, pulling Adam along with her. "We'll leave you to unpack or whatever. If you want to join us in the living room, feel free. We'll most likely be watching some television program that drips testosterone."

Adam pointed to himself, an affronted expression drawn on his face. "You see? You see what I put up with?"

Alice rolled her eyes and tugged him from the room with one last sympathetic look in Cate's direction. Alone, Cate curled up on the bed and hugged the pillow, willing herself not to nibble away another nail as the horrible truth ate at her—that was what she wanted. What Adam and Alice had. Love. Camaraderie.

They were soul mates, and Cate was certain that, no matter what, they'd always be together.

Would she ever find her soul mate? She licked her lips, her arms tightening around the pillow as the real question seeped through her. Had she already found him and then run away?

Restlessness tinged her blood, and she slid off the bed, determined not to think about it. She'd made the decision to stay at Adam's place and it was a good plan. She needed distance, needed to think. And she wasn't about to second guess her own choices.

She glanced at the clock. Not quite six. Time to unpack and then pop into the living room and join her friends. Adam had said something about ordering pizza, and her mouth watered with anticipation. She lived in New Orleans, city of amazing food, and yet a super cheesy pizza always sent her right over the edge.

She hadn't packed much, so it didn't take long to put everything away. Underwear. A few pairs of jeans. A couple of T-shirts. Some slacks and tops for work.

And there, in the little side pocket under a pair of socks, she found the bottle.

With a tiny bit of trepidation she pulled it out. She didn't even remember packing it, and yet for some reason, her subconscious had thought it was important.

She didn't know why, but she was determined to find out, and so she rummaged through her purse until she found the business card Alma had given her the first week they’d met—a card on which she’d scrawled her home number on the black side.

She’d never before called the woman at home, but she did now, and as the phone rang, she wasn’t sure if she wanted Alma to answer ... or if she’d rather remain blissfully ignorant.

No. Better to know the truth, and when Alma’s soft voice answered the line, Cate exhaled in genuine relief.

“Alma, it’s Cate. Caitlyn Raine? I was wondering if I could ask you about—"

"The bottle?"

"I—well, yes. How did you know?"

"Simple. I recently gave it to you. And it is the kind of thing that fascinates, is it not? What do you wish to know?"

"Anything you can tell me. The writing for starters. Do you know what it says?"

Even as she asked the question, she felt foolish. What difference did it make what the inscription on some stupid glass bottle said?

"It’s just that I’m curious," she said, as if Alma needed an explanation. "Because it’s such a lovely piece."

She purposefully didn't relay the strange wash of sensations that had invaded her soul since she'd unwrapped the bottle. That little tidbit was simply too personal.

"It is a Romani inscription. It means, the strength of the gift. I thought it was appropriate."

"Appropriate? Do you mean, like a gypsy curse?"

"A curse? I suppose it could mean that. It enhances the paranormal that surrounds you."

Cate frowned. "I’m sorry. I don’t understand."

She could almost hear the smile as Alma said, "You will."

"But—"

Except it was too late. The older woman said goodbye and ended the call.

Cate hugged her knees to her chest as she remembered her mother’s accusations. That she was bad. Cursed.

And now, the only thing that Caitlyn knew for certain was that she needed to stay as far away from the bottle—and Luc Agassou—as she possibly could.

Six

The setting sun cast shadows across the pages that Cate had spread over the large, wooden table. But Cate barely noticed. She was too lost in the work to notice something as trivial as the fading light.

"Come on, kid. You need to take a break."

She looked up, startled, at her partner who seemed to have materialized behind her.

He plucked one of the dozen files off the patio table and leafed through it. "Even you have to eat sometime."

Cate frowned, reaching back to lift her heavy hair off the nape of her neck. She was damp and sticky, but none of that mattered.

"I need to figure this out," she said. "I need to catch him." "You're supposed to be taking time off."

"No shit," she said.

Adam sighed and took the chair opposite. They'd been working this case since day one, and they'd both kept photocopies of all the relevant reports and key evidence. She'd spent the morning reviewing the documents once again, hoping they'd missed something before and she'd find the clue they needed.

"Okay," he said. "What have you got?"

She met his eyes. "Our perp is feline." As much as she hated the thought that the panther she'd spent so many afternoons with was a mauler, she knew there was no other explanation.

Adam frowned. "There are some suggestions that the perp might be human. Honestly, it’s the weirdest damn thing I’ve ever seen. Manny agrees," he added, referencing the baffled medical examiner. New Orleans was not your average town in a lot of ways, but this series of attacks profoundly illustrated that truism.

"Adam, I know I'm right."

He met her eyes, and she held his gaze. After a moment, he nodded. “Okay. Tell me." The playfulness was gone from his voice, and his expression was totally serious. All cop. He nodded toward the evidence spread out on the table. "Tell me what you see."

And so she did, trying to convince him without telling him the biggest clue of all—that, somehow, she'd seen the attacks.

She wished she could simply write it off to her subconscious, her mind processing the details of a case as yet unsolved. But it was more than that. So much more.

And there was no denying that the culprit was a great, black cat.

* * *

Three days.

For three days, Luc searched for her, and three times the earth turned on its axis without any sign of his Cate. He'd talked to her landlord, but he'd had no more clue as to her whereabouts than Luc did. He'd gone to the precinct, but these were her days off, and while they'd offered to have her paged, he'd declined. He knew well enough that she wouldn't return the page.

Something had scared her off. He’d scared her off. But he needed to get her back, and soon. His feline instincts were clamoring just below the surface. He'd gone days without the change, but soon ... soon it would come again. And without Cate, Luc was certain someone else would get hurt.

He'd hit the point of desperation. She was gone, and if he wanted to spare any more victims he needed to lock himself in the basement at his house. A prisoner, but out of harm's way.

With a deep groan of frustration, he stood in the middle of St. Charles Street, his arms to the side. He turned in a slow circle, his head tilted up to the sky. He stood on the cable-car track, but there was no car coming. He wouldn't have cared, anyway. His fate was sealed. This was his one last-ditch effort to find her. If it didn't work ... well, he'd worry about that when it happened.

Closing his eyes, he let nothingness fill his consciousness. Somewhere, in the depths of his soul lay the heart of a great beast. And a heart that sang with Cate's. He called to her now, reached out, his mind finding that silken thread that connected their souls.

Searching, longing, needing.

The cable car approached, easing down the track toward him, but Luc neither knew nor cared. All his focus was on this mission. He had to succeed. He had to find her.

His mind found the thread and he held tight, following it through the dark and dank shadows, the hidden places. Further and further as the cable car groaned closer and closer.

A house. A room. A man and a woman.

And there, finally, he found her.

He opened his eyes just as the car approached.

And as the car glided over the spot where Luc had stood only moments before, he was already racing across the street, heading toward his Caitlyn.

* * *

“Cate.”

Startled, she looked up from her notes into Luc's copper eyes. She expected anger, a sense of violation, instead she felt almost giddy to see him again.

"How..." She trailed off, the question not worth asking. Somehow, she was his. Of course, he'd found her.

"You ran," he said.

She nodded. What had earlier seemed like a survival instinct now seemed kneejerk and foolish. She wanted to be with this man. Wanted to soak up his heat-filled gaze and lose herself in the protection of his arms. She took a deep breath and decided simply to tell him the truth. "I was scared."

"Of me?"

"No," she said honestly. "Of us."

"You feel it, too." Deep relief tinged his voice.

She frowned, her eyes searching his face. "Didn't you know?"

"I couldn't be sure." He took the seat that Adam had sat in earlier, then pulled one of the folders to him, ignoring the bright red Confidential stamp.

"Those are police files."

"So I see."

She didn't object further, even though she should. Instead, she just watched as he flipped through the papers.

"Will you catch him?"

She propped her chin on her fist. "Him? Not it?" His expression was unreadable. "Human or cat," he said, "it doesn't matter. Both are attacking."

"I know. And, yes, I'll catch it."

"It? Not him?" he said, tossing her question back at her.

"Our perp is a panther. The panther that escaped from the zoo."

His eyes darkened. "I didn't realize the police had confirmed that yet. The news reports suggest that a human culprit is still being sought.”

"I know. But this is my theory."

"Oh?"

She nodded. "I'm keeping an open mind, of course. But I'm sure I'm right. And in the end, I will catch the panther. It's ... personal."

His gaze seemed to bore into her. "Personal?"

She felt her cheeks heat. "I’m sure that seems foolish to you, but I used to go to the panther habitat."

"And you feel betrayed."

She squinted at him, surprised he could read her so well. "I ... yes. Yes, that's it." She started to gather her papers. "At any rate, I’ll catch him. It's my job. And I owe it to the people he's hurt."

He nodded, somewhat thoughtfully, then held out a hand. "Come with me, Cate. I think it's time we talked."

"I—"

"Cate. Just come."

All thoughts of argument abandoned her. She knew she would go with him. Hell, from the moment she'd left her apartment, she’d known she would go with him if he found her. That was, after all, why she'd run in the first place.

But she wanted this. She truly did. There was something comforting about his presence, and she wondered if that's what happened between soul mates. This soothing, easy compliance. No thought. Simply feelings and trust.

The trust frightened her. Except for Adam, she'd never really trusted anyone. She'd learned from her mother that loyalty was an illusion and that trusting was the easiest way to get burned.

With Luc, though, trust had bloomed, despite the frantic lust that sparked between them. Or, perhaps, because of it.

The trouble, of course, was that now she expected to get burned.

* * *

"Wow." Cate turned in a circle, taking in the splendor that was his home. "Wow," she repeated.

Luc couldn't help his grin. Some of the homes in the famous Garden District had started to fall into ruin. But not the Agassou mansion. The house was his only link to the happiness he'd once enjoyed with his family. He could never let it fall into disrepair.

"I'm glad you like it."

"It's stunning." She crossed to the inlaid credenza and picked up a vase that she was sure must be worth more than a year's worth of her salary.

"My father inherited it. His family moved to New Orleans from France, and be can trace his roots back to the twelve hundreds."

Her eyes widened. "It must be amazing to feel all that history tugging at you. All I know about my father is that he was vile. And my mother ran away when she was sixteen and never told me a thing about her parents."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." She shrugged. "It's my life and I'm used to it. But I do envy you."

The irony of her words twisted in his stomach. "Believe me, you wouldn't want to share my heritage."

Her questioning glance was so sincere, so full of interest, that he felt compelled to tell her the truth even if that light might fade in her eyes. Some form of the truth, anyway. "I'm adopted. My blood ancestors are—" He cut himself off. He couldn't simply blurt out the truth. "I don't know anything about them."

"You know they exist."

He nodded. "Ever the pragmatist. Yes," he confirmed. "I know they exist. I even know that I have a sibling. A twin brother." He'd often wondered about his brother. Was there someone else out there who shared his curse? An ally he'd never met? Or had his twin escaped the pull of genetics, leaving Luc to bear the burden of their heritage?

Most likely, he'd never know. "He was adopted first. I assume he lives somewhere in the States, though I suppose he may have moved back to our homeland."

"Where's that?"

"South America. My mother and father were from there."

She nodded, apparently satisfied, then moved across the room, and twined her fingers with his. "I think you put too much stock on blood ties. Your parents adopted you. They loved you, cherished you and took care of you." A tiny smile touched her lips. "I think that you can claim their ancestors as your own."

"So sweet." He brushed the side of his hand across her cheek. "You're a good woman, Caitlyn Raine."

Her eyes darkened and she shook her head. "You don't really know me."

"I know enough," he said. "I know you're a cop. Cops help people."

She lifted one shoulder, but didn't meet his eyes. He stepped closer, compelled to stroke her hair, wanting simply to comfort her.

We'll find a cure, Luc. His mother's voice rang in his head, and he saw her there in his mind, holding fast to his father's hand. We'll find a cure and you, my darling baby boy, I promise you will find someone to love.

He wanted to cry out, a low moan of pain and longing, a cry to the mother he'd lost and the life he'd always wanted but had never been allowed to have.

Instead he held tight to Cate, to the promise and hope she represented. He knew her, fully and completely, and yet in so many ways, he didn't know her at all.

Even so, she was his. His life, his mate. And, he hoped, the love his mother had promised.

"Luc?" Her voice was soft, muffled by the pressure of her mouth against his chest.

He stepped back, rubbing his temples as he shook his head just slightly, hoping he looked normal but certain that every ounce of pain was reflected on his face. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to overwhelm you."

He pressed his hand to his heart. "But you fill me, Cate. You're everything to me, and the knowledge that you are here with me now, in this house, is—" He broke off, once again skirting dangerous territory. "Well, let's just say that I'm very, very glad that you're here."

He could tell that his words pleased her, but almost immediately she tamped down her reaction, a tiny self-deprecating smile playing on her lips. "I don't really understand what's happening between us. But you should know that I'm not the woman you think I am. I'm not remarkable. I'm not even very good."

He moved closer, edging against her, breathing deep of her glorious scent. He bent, lifting her hair to press a kiss behind her ear. "I think you're very, very good."

She didn't answer in words, but the tremor that passed through her body spoke volumes. He wanted her then. Wanted to cherish her, to seduce her. To start on her toes and kiss all the way up to those beautiful lips. This wasn't about need. Not even a hint of the change was upon him. He simply desired this woman, this mate that destiny had brought to him.

He had told her they would come here to talk, and though they'd spoken of their lives, he had yet to tell her the real truth about himself. Or about the two of them.

He’d planned to, yes, but now his resolve faded. He was the beast she hunted, the beast by whom she felt betrayed. He would have to tell her sometime—of course he would. But not now. Not yet.

First, he wanted to court her, to date her, to win her heart as men had done with women through the ages.

He wanted to be a man with her, not a beast. He wanted to love her.

And he wanted her to love him. Because only if she loved him would she be able to find it in her heart to forgive him.

His arms encircled her waist and he drew her close to him. He tilted her head back and her eyes, wide and full of desire, looked up at him. Her lips parted, and he didn't wait to discover if she was about to demand that he stop or beg him to continue. He took her mouth with his, his tongue demanding entrance with a force born of purely sexual need.

A man's desire flooded his veins—pure human, pure lust—and the only thing feral was the wild demand that fed him, thousands of years of mating instincts driving his need to take this woman, to make her his own, once and for all.

She melted under his touch, her willing acquiescence to his demands arousing his passion even more. He didn't wait—he couldn't—but instead urged her toward the parlor doors, his fingers fumbling for the button of her jeans. He had to have her right then. And she was just as desperate.

They tumbled to the floor, rolling over an antique Turkish rug until he was straddling her. She wriggled her hips and he jerked her jeans down, taking both the denim and the soft satin of her panties. She lay before him, exposed and glistening, and her lips formed only one word. "Now."

He didn't hesitate. He was too hard, too ready, and he clambered out of his own clothes, then spread her legs, his cock teasing her slick folds. He played with her, just a little, but he couldn't stand the strain. And he thrust inside her as she begged for him to take her.

His climax was fast and sure, and Luc exploded inside her. He rolled over, taking her with him, his lips seeking hers. And as he kissed her, soft and sweet, a new reality settled around him. His cursed bloodline bound him to Cate, it was true. But also, Luc knew, he was bound to her by the ties of love.

* * *

By late afternoon, Cate realized that she didn't know herself as well as she thought. She'd always believed she was tough. Certainly not one of those women who bought into the whole Cinderella fantasy. But she was buying into it now, and the more Luc treated her like a princess, the more she found herself enjoying the role.

They'd spent the afternoon in Luc's castle, because there really was no other way to describe the stunning mansion or the flower-filled gardens. Cate knew nothing about either fine furniture or fantastic horticulture, but she knew enough to recognize the effects of both care and money. And the Agassou estate reflected both.

They'd walked slowly through his backyard, her hand tucked in his, the broad branches of the magnolia trees sheltering them. Fabulous purple flowers spilled out of oversized stone pots lining the walkway, and he'd plucked one, then made a show of tucking it behind her ear before brushing a soft kiss on her cheek.

It had been silly and sentimental and she'd fallen for it utterly.

Because it was New Orleans, the heat was close to unbearable, and they now sat at a small metal table tucked into a fragrant corner of a shady arbor. Martin, Luc's charming butler, had brought them tall, cool glasses filled with mint juleps. The whole afternoon had been thoroughly decadent and Cate had enjoyed every minute of it.

She licked her lips. She hated herself for doing it, but she couldn't help second-guessing something that seemed too good to be true. "Luc?"

He'd been telling her about the history of the house, but she'd tuned him out, simply content to hold his hand and lose herself in her own thoughts. Now he stopped talking, a question in his eyes, but no accusation. Even so, she was certain he knew that her mind had wandered. He squeezed her fingers, the intimate gesture his only response.

"I don't understand this."

A grin danced at the comer of his mouth. "It's quite simple. My father brought in two tons of dirt and raised the backyard. That let him—"

She whacked him on the knee, but couldn't stifle the laugh that bubbled out. “That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"I know." This time his voice held no tease, and when he squeezed her fingers, the touch was purely sensual. Her body fired in immediate response and she pressed her legs together, unwilling to let a visceral reaction to this man control every waking moment.

"I don't understand what's happening between us," she elaborated.

He regarded her quietly for a moment, then traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip before curling a strand of her hair around his forefinger. "Must you understand everything?"

"It's my nature."

"And we must all behave in accordance with our nature."

It was a statement, not a question, and so she didn't respond, simply sat, her eyes focused on his face, as she waited for him to continue. Somehow, she knew that he would.

"I won't say that I love you, Cate, because that might scare you away."

She swallowed, not nearly as frightened by his words as she imagined she should be.

"But I will say that we are connected, you and I."

"But that's exactly it." She leaned forward, happy to grasp onto something other than love. Right then, it was a word she feared, a word that hit just a little too close. "Why are we connected?"

He grinned, a sudden mischievous look. "Perhaps if I found the connection unpleasant I would seek out a reason. But since I have no complaints, I'm content to accept the inevitable."

“The inevitable?"

"You," he said simply.

She swallowed, the implications hitting her. Luc was inevitable. For reasons she didn't understand, this man was tied to her future. And damned if she didn't want him there.

But as much as he filled her soul, violent images still filled her head in the form of darkly erotic dreams. And though there’d been no more nightmares and no more maulings, the cat was still loose. And she knew she couldn't rest until it was found ... and the dreams faded into nothingness.

"Cate?"

Those copper eyes were focused intently on her, and she feared that he had managed to read her thoughts. She swallowed, shaking her head. "Sorry. Just thinking."

“The maulings."

"You're very perceptive."

His fingers brushed the bare skin on her arm and once again she fought the urge to tremble. "Perhaps. Or perhaps only I understand you."

He gathered her into his arms, and she clung to him. "Maybe there won't be any more attacks."

He spoke with an intense conviction, and she wanted to kiss him simply for trying to make her feel better. As it was, his strong assurance was contagious, and she nodded, almost against her will. "I wish I could believe that, but—"

"Believe it."

She met his eyes, found them clear and determined. "Why?"

"Because you have no reason not to. There's been no attack for several days. It's your day off, right?"

She nodded. "It's ridiculous. I've got a huge caseload, and the bureaucrats are making me take two stinking weeks." She hadn't wanted to take them, but the department number crunchers had finally insisted that Cate, and a few other detectives who'd been squirreling away vacation time, needed to use it. Cate had ignored the memo from brass for three months. But when her captain had finally put his foot down, she'd had no room to argue.

"Then enjoy those days."

"I want to," she said. And she did. She really did.

"Good." He leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to her lips that, while not decadent in itself, offered so much. "Because I thought we'd start with a late-afternoon siesta..."

* * *

Cate didn’t actually get to rest during their siesta, but as she stretched naked on the satin sheets after an hour-long bout of lovemaking, she definitely felt sated and relaxed. Across the room, Luc was pulling on slacks in front of the closet, and she was watching him, thoroughly enjoying the view and thinking one very disturbing thought—she could get used to this.

A tiny buried part of her dared to hope that the voice in her head was wrong. That she could have the whole dream. A husband. Children. A family that loved her.

No, no, no. She needed to get that thought out of her head. No matter what this thing was that seemed to be filling the air between them, the bottom line remained the same, and the familiar refrain reverberated through her head. Not for you. Never for a girl like you. A girl cursed by the circumstances of her birth to walk in the darkness. Who had badness in her soul.

"Something wrong?" Luc stood, looking utterly sexy as he buttoned his-starched white shirt. Such a short time and already he knew her too well. A blossom of hope dared to bloom, but Cate ignored it, tucking it instead into the darkest corner of her heart.

She shook her head, the lie as natural as breathing. "Just enjoying the view."

"I'm glad you think it's worth watching."

She shrugged. "It's an empirical fact. Can't have you thinking I'm an idiot."

He let his eyes roam over her, and her body tingled in response, the sensation starting at her toes and drifting all the way up to the top of her head until her entire body felt warm and malleable and it was all she could do to keep herself from begging for his touch.

With his eyes lingering on her, he smiled. "I can't believe these words are coming from my lips, but you really should get dressed. I have plans for you this evening."

"It's only five."

As his smile broadened, so did the heat in her belly. "I have plans for a very, very long evening."

"Oh." She licked her lips. Discomfort warring with an intense desire to wrap herself up in this man. A lifetime of putting up walls won out, though, and she licked her lips, at the same time eased the sheet over her bare thigh. "Listen, Luc, today has been, well, it's been great. But I really do need to get going."

"Why?"

The question startled her, though she certainly should have expected it. "Well, I might be off from work, but I have tons of paperwork to catch up and evidence to review for all of my cases."

He nodded, his copper eyes intense as he sat on the bed again. "You've already admitted there's something happening between us. I thought we'd agreed to explore that."

"I..." She trailed off, then shrugged. How could she explain to him that she was fine with the sexual tug between them? If that's all it was, she'd stay in his bed forever. Sex she could deal with. But this was more. The way he touched her, the way he looked at her, the way he talked with her—as if she were special, as if they could have a future...

She didn't have the tools to deal with that. All she knew how to do was run.

"I'm not proposing marriage, Cate," he said, once again sitting next to her. He took a strand of hair and curled it around his finger, then flashed a devilish grin. "At least not yet. Just a dinner that you won't run from." He stroked her cheek, his hand caressing her face, then tracing her lips. "And maybe a bit of after-dinner entertainment."

Her buttons. He knew every single one of them.

How to manipulate her, how to say exactly the right thing. That reality both frightened and comforted her, and her head screamed that she should run far and fast from this man. That he could get past her defenses, leaving her bare and vulnerable.

She stayed anyway. And she had to wonder if she was being supremely stupid or if, God help her, she was falling in love.

Seven

They had dinner at Commander's Palace and then went dancing at Tipitina's. An elegant dinner followed by the crush of bodies, sweat, and the pulse of music and lust in her veins. They pressed together on the dance floor, moving to a rhythm that the band couldn't hear but that seemed to beat through both of them.

They took a taxi back to his house, and had she been doing her job, she should have cited them both for indecent exposure. In truth, she didn't think the driver saw anything, but it had taken every ounce of self-control in Cate's body not to scream in pleasure as Luc made her come, his fingers buried in her slippery folds.

They'd left her panties on the floorboard of the cab. Just a tiny souvenir.

Inside, they'd made a beeline for the bedroom, barely managing to stay somewhat clothed before the door shut behind them, exercising that tiny amount of propriety in case Luc's butler Martin happened to be about.

All night, Luc's presence had been taunting her.

His scent, the subtle brush of his hand. When he'd finally touched her in the taxi, she'd come right away.

Now, again, she had no patience to wait.

She reached for his belt, her fingers fumbling as she unfastened it, letting it hang open as she moved on to the button. His hands were just as busy, inching her skirt up around her waist, cupping her right there as she clenched her thighs together, allowing no chance to lose his touch.

He stroked her, a single finger sliding over her. And when her legs simply couldn't hold her upright anymore, she fell backwards onto the bed.

He kicked off his shoes and stripped off his jeans, then climbed onto the bed to straddle her. Her skirt was around her waist, her blouse unbuttoned, and she lay there exposed and needy. He watched her, one hand cupping her breast. “You're beautiful," he said.

“Tell me later." She had to force the words out past a wall of need. "Right now, I want you inside me."

His face changed with her words, his expression turning possessive. Good. She wanted him to have her, to take her, and dammit, if he didn't do it right then, she thought that she would scream.

When he thrust inside her, she almost did. He consumed her, filled her, and when he pounded inside her, she was certain she was going to rip apart. She matched him, thrust for thrust, her hips bucking. They were wild, desperate for each other, as if by this frantic lovemaking they could discover the source of their connection. As if, by the melding of flesh, they could become one.

The orgasm ripped through her, and she clung to him, fingernails clenched into his shoulders, her body bucking beneath him. It was primitive and wild, and with this man, it felt completely right. Exhaustion took her, and she curled up against him, still half-clothed. His fingers played with the buttons on her shirt, finally unfastening them all and laying the material open to expose her breasts. She hadn't worn a bra, and now he stroked her, his fingers dancing lazily around her nipples.

"I'd be careful if I were you," she said dreamily. "I might demand a repeat performance."

"And I might be happy to oblige." He kissed her breast, the heat from his lips shooting straight down between her thighs. She squeezed her legs together, prolonging the pleasure, and sighed. "You're wonderful," he said.

"No, I'm not." The words came out automatically. A simple truth. And she rolled sideways, drawing her thumbnail to her mouth even as she spooned against him. She hadn't meant to bring her past into their bed, but it had come anyway, and now she shrank from the memories.

His hand idly stroked her hip, and she could feel the light touch of his breath on the back of her neck. For a moment, she didn't think he was going to speak, then he shifted, moving to sit up with his back against the headboard. She stayed where she was, but pulled her knees up to her chest. His fingers found her hair, and he stroked softly.

"I can only report what I see," he said.

"My father raped my mother," she said simply, unable to look at him. Tears welled in her eyes and she squeezed them tight, fighting the pain, trying to hold on to reason. She wasn't stupid. She knew that simply because her mother said something didn't make it so. But that didn't change the hole in her stomach when she thought about her life.

"She told me that he was more than just a bad man—that he was cursed. And that he passed it on to me."

His fingers stilled in her hair. "I'm sorry. Was he a stranger?"

"No. She knew him. He was obsessed with her, and she’d avoided him. I don’t know his first name, but his last name was Duchat."

"Duchat?" The word was a question.

"Do you know the name?"

"No. There’s something familiar about it, but ... no."

She knew she shouldn’t be disappointed—it wasn’t as if she’d expected he would know the man—and yet she couldn’t help the niggling frustration that seemed to poke at the back of her neck.

She shrugged, forcing it away. "For years, I tried to track him down. Never managed."

She drew in a shaky breath, hating that her mother’s coldness toward her because of what that man did still stung so much. "She tried to end the pregnancy. It didn't work."

"Oh, baby." He held her close. "You were—you are—innocent."

"I know. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like he was cursed. Like there’s something of him still inside me." She didn't want to cry. And she told herself she didn't want his sympathy. But when he whispered, "Come here," the dam burst. The tears poured out and she rolled over, letting him close his arms around her as she buried her face in his chest. She did want him, dammit. She wanted his sympathy and his support.

For the first time in her life, she not only wanted a man's love, she needed it. She needed this man's love.

He held her for an eternity, his hands gently stroking her back, his muscles taut and firm under her hands. And when the tears stopped and she was no longer shaking, he said simply, "Tell me all of it."

And she did. She told him about growing up with her mother, about never doing anything right. Of trying anything and everything to get the woman's attention until, finally, she'd forgotten just why she'd been acting out in the first place. "I stayed out late, I drank, I was rowdy as hell. I slept around. Anything and everything to prove my mother right. I was cursed. A bad girl."

"You were looking for someone," he said. "Someone to save you from your life. Or for your father, for retribution."

"No—"

"And when you didn't find either, you became a cop. Now you're helping other people. Doing for them what no one ever did for you."

His words shot through her, the touch of truth cold against her heart. "No." She whispered the protest. "I'm not that noble. All I'm doing—all I've ever done—is try to erase my mother's voice in my head."

He pressed a kiss to her hair. "The cause doesn't matter. What you're doing is noble. You are helping people, and you are doing good."

She'd been pressed against him, the top of her head to his chest so that if she opened her eyes all she saw was the bed and their bodies. Now she tilted her head up, straining to look into his eyes. "It doesn't matter," she said, "because it never ends. I can't save anyone. Not really. Hell, I can't even save myself."

"Perhaps you aren't meant to save yourself," he said. "And as for others, about that, you're wrong."

"No—"

He pressed a finger to her lips. "You can, Cate. You can save me." He stroked her cheek. "And believe me when I say that you already have."

* * *

She was obsessed with finding the escaped cat, and Luc could do nothing to dissuade her from her job.

He watched as she used her vacation days to pore over records, check 911 calls for reports of animals in alleys, and check in with the hospital, hoping that one of the victims had regained consciousness. She was concerned about the victims' condition, of course. But she also wanted information.

Luc hoped the victims survived, too, though for a different reason. While Cate wanted information, he wanted absolution. He wanted to know that he was not a murderer even though he couldn't erase the fact that he'd surely put those people through hell.

Most of all, he wanted Cate to back off the search. If they survived, and if there were no more attacks, then with time he figured she would back off. The city would assume the animal had been killed by a car or a shotgun, and that would be the end of that.

Right now, though, he knew that her blood burned with the need to capture the savage who was stalking the innocent on the streets of New Orleans. What would she do, he wondered, if she knew that he was the man she sought, the creature she'd come to hate even though she did not know him?

There was no reason for her to know. The realization came to him in a flash, and he knew that was the only way. With Cate in his arms and in his bed, he was safe. He'd carry the secret to his grave. She need never, ever know the dark parts of his soul.

Indeed, he tried to escape the dark himself. During the day, when he managed to pull her away from work, they walked the French Quarter, sipping chicory coffee and eating beignets at Cafe Du Monde before strolling down Royal and peering into the windows of the antique stores that lined the picturesque street. They held hands and laughed and joked.

At night, though, shadows loomed, the shadow of his secret most of all. And even when he was spent, exhausted after losing himself in her arms, still he lay awake, watching this woman who was his savior. This woman he'd come to love. He couldn't disappoint her. Couldn't ever let her know. The truth, he vowed, would remain hidden.

As he did every night, Luc watched as Cate's chest rose and fell, sleep having finally overtaken her. He'd meant what he'd said a few days ago. She had saved him. This woman who didn't even know her own worth was, literally, his key to salvation.

She deserved his love. And, so help him, she had it.

She murmured in her sleep, shifting against him, and he stroked her hair, saying soft things, wanting to make the world right for her. She stilled, and he simply watched her, amazed that someone so beautiful could doubt herself so much.

They sat like that for a while, him watching, absorbing the essence of Cate, until sleep started to overtake him. He was just about to drift off when she tensed, crying out in her sleep and sitting bolt upright, her breath coming in gasps as she clutched his arm. She stared at him, her eyes wild, but she didn't seem to see him.

"Cate. Cate."

She blinked, finally focusing, the alarm on her face fading to relief. "I had a dream."

"A nightmare, more like it."

She nodded, easing herself up to hug her knees and press her body closer to his. It was a subtle motion, but it warmed him. She trusted him, wanted his comfort. And he wanted to give it to her. "Not as bad as some of my nightmares, though." She tilted her head a bit, this time aiming a gentle grin toward him. "And not nearly as pleasant as the other dreams I've been having. Though I will say that being with you makes those dreams seem pretty tame."

He had no idea what she was talking about, and his confusion must have shown on his face. "It started a few days before we met," she explained. She licked her lips. "It sounds silly, but I've been having these, well, these dreams."

A bone-deep cold settled over him, and for no reason at all, he feared her words. "What kind of dreams?" he asked, forcing himself to form the question.

Color rose on her cheeks. "At first, just erotic dreams. Very erotic. As if I was being called by someone and I could feel him touching me."

"I see." His jaw tightened, and he forced himself not to be jealous of a dream. "And was that the kind of dream that woke you just now?"

She shook her head, her eyes meeting his. "No. Those dreams have stopped since I've been with you. I think..." She trailed off, no longer meeting his eyes. "I think I don't need them anymore."

Good. But he didn't voice the thought.

"This was a nightmare." She spoke the word matter-of-factly, and he realized that this nightmare was something she lived with.

"Your mother?" he asked.

"No. These are ... violent. I don't know. It's hard to describe." She shook her head, as if shaking off a memory. At any rate, I shouldn't have even called it a nightmare. The real nightmares always have Midnight in them."

Immediately, his senses were on alert. "The panther?"

She nodded. "He's there. And he attacks. Violent, hideous attacks."

Nausea rose in his gut. Him. She was seeing him in her dreams. They were connected, he and Cate, even more than either of them had ever imagined.

He forced himself to form words. "And these dreams. Do they—" He couldn't finish the thought. It wasn't necessary. She knew what he meant.

"Yes," she said. "They seem to coincide with the maulings." Her face twisted, contorted in anger. "It's as if he's taunting me, showing me that he can attack, that he will attack, and that there's not a damn thing I can do about it."

She hugged herself, trembling slightly. "Apparently, my part in all of this is more than just my job. More even than the fact that I used to go to the zoo to watch him. It's like I've failed."

He frowned. "Failed?"

She nodded, clearly miserable. "I see the attacks in my dreams, and I should be able to do something. But I can't, and now all those people are in the hospital. I couldn't save them. Hell, I couldn't even help them."

His stomach roiled as he remembered that he was the one who put them in the hospital.

Her features hardened. "That's why I have to catch him. It's my job, yes. But I have to do it for me. For my peace of mind." She drew a breath. "I have to—no, I will—catch Midnight."

A chill settled over Luc, and he trembled, just the smallest shaking of his muscles. She felt it, though, and her face transformed. Gone was the anger, replaced with pure compassion and total beauty. "Are you okay?"

He forced a smile. "Just concerned for you." He pulled her into his arms and pressed her cheek to his chest. He wanted the feel of her against him, but he also didn't want her to see his face. "When did these dreams start?"

"My birthday," she said. "It was the last time I saw Midnight," she added. "I'd spent the day at the zoo. I'd opened my birthday present there. I'd even—" She cut off with a shake of her head, the color high on her cheeks.

"What?"

"You," she said, and his blood ran cold. Did she know? How? How could she know?

"Me?" His own voice was hardly recognizable.

"I think it must be the bottle," she said.

“Bottle?”

“A perfume bottle with gypsy writing. It was my present from a friend. But I think it did something to me. So many things have happened since then. The maulings. The visions. And..." She broke off with a little shrug, but a smile danced at her mouth. "And this connection to you."

"What do I have to do with the zoo?"

She frowned, perhaps hearing the urgency in his voice. Then she licked her lips. "That's the odd part. I first felt this connection, this thing, between us there. And I heard your voice in my head."

"My voice? What did I say?"

"That I was yours." She lifted herself and pressed a kiss to his lips. "And the voice was right. I am."

He clutched her close to him as terror coursed through his veins. She was right about the connection. But what she didn't realize was that it was all connected. Him, the maulings, everything.

"Tell me about this bottle." He asked the question more from curiosity. He had no idea what a bottle could have to do with anything.

She drew in a breath, looking disturbed.

“Cate?” he urged.

"Supposedly, it increases paranormal gifts a person might have." He saw tears glisten in her eyes. "I think—I think my mother was right, and it’s making the curse stronger."

"No." He spoke firmly. "You’re not cursed, Cate. And no bottle would change that." He ought to know. He was cursed.

He frowned, considering what she’d told him. "And your dreams haven’t changed?"

"No." She frowned. "Well, actually yes. Sort of. Since I've been with you, I no longer dream of the cat. I guess that’s a good thing." She snuggled close to him, her eyes heavy with sleep. "I love you, Luc. I don't really understand what happened between us, so fast and furious. But I want you to know that I love you."

His heart wrenched, and he stroked her hair. "And I love you, my Cate. My love."

She leaned against him, and as the moon rose outside his windows, she slept.

And Luc realized what he had to do.

* * *

Shadows taunted her.

She walked barefoot down a darkened alley, the stench of garbage hanging in the dense air. The humidity seemed to envelop her, but even so, she shivered, not from cold, but from fear.

He was out there. He was stalking her. And this time, she wouldn't escape.

A low growl filled the air, and she spun, looking for the source but finding nothing.

And then one of the dark shadows moved, taking the form of a leaping panther—teeth bared, eyes golden and lost in the thrill of the kill.

She stood frozen to the spot. So she did the only thing she could do.

Cate screamed.

* * *

The sound ripped from her throat, jerking her to consciousness, and she sat up, the cold grip of terror still on her as she fumbled beside her for Luc's warmth.

He wasn't there.

She waited, knowing he would have heard her.

Knowing he would come running to hold her. To soothe her. To make it better.

But he never came.

And as her pulse slowed, finally returning to normal, Cate hugged the pillow to her chest and told herself she wouldn't cry. This was expected, after all. The people she loved betrayed her. And Cate could rely on no one in this world but herself.

Eight

"If I might say so, sir, you are being most unreasonable."

Luc glared at Martin from behind the bars in the basement confine. He'd left Cate hours before and gone to his study, unable to hold her while knowing the truth—that the passion with which she hunted him was spurred by more than just her job. It was deep and personal.

He had to tell her the truth. He'd been selfish in thinking he could keep it from her, thinking only of his own pain and not his victims'. Cate was right—he should be caught. Should be made to pay retribution even though he wanted nothing more than to live out his life in peace with Cate at his side.

And so he would leave the choice to her, even though he already knew that she’d turn him in. In her eyes, Midnight's attacks were a betrayal. So, too, would be the secret that he'd been keeping from her. And in the end, she'd do what she must. For duty, for the victims. And because, as she'd said, it was personal.

"I've made up my mind, Martin. Now can I please have some water?" He was locked in now, an unfortunate necessity, but he'd felt the change coming on. At first, despite his newfound resolve, he'd thought to go to her, to use her, his feline instincts urging him back to his mate. But he'd fought instinct, fought for his humanity to shine through, and in the end, he'd won the battle.

A dubious victory, considering he felt less than human now, locked in a cage, depending on Martin to bring him food and drink. "You cannot tell her that you attacked those people."

"I have to, Martin. She deserves the truth. She deserves to find the culprit she's been searching for."

"Dammit, man, you did not injure those people. Your parents taught you control. Don't offend their legacy by not believing."

Self-loathing consumed him. "It's not a question of belief. I've seen the blood on my hands. I attacked. Just as I attacked little Clarissa Taylor."

"The child survived, sir," Martin said.

"I almost killed a five-year-old," Luc shot back.

"Sir, you are—" Luc never found out what he was going to say because Martin's words were lost, buried beneath the pounding of blood in his ears as the force of the change struck him. The world spun out of control, and he rushed the bars, beating against them with his fists.

And then he was gone, the maelstrom sucking him in, pure animal instinct taking over and, once again, he was floating in the blackness of his own soul, awaiting the moment when awareness returned.

* * *

Cate had wasted half an hour crying in the bed, tears of anger and betrayal, then finally falling back to sleep. She'd hoped he'd come back. That she'd been wrong and he'd simply gone for a walk because he couldn't sleep.

She should have known better, of course.

And so she gathered her things and headed for the front door. She'd go back home and bury herself in her job, finding in her work the comfort she could no longer find in Luc's arms.

Now, she stopped at the door and scribbled a note, addressing it only to Martin so the gentle old man wouldn't worry. She was just trying to figure out the best place to put it, when the man himself appeared beside her.

Cate jumped, her heart pounding. "I didn't hear you come up."

"It is a butler's job to be invisible." He nodded to the suitcase. "You are taking your leave of us, Miss?"

She nodded, but didn't meet his eyes, afraid that if she did, the tears would start up again. "I need to get back to work. If Luc can't find the time to leave a message for me, I certainly can't find the time to wait indefinitely for him." She winced—she hadn’t intended to show her hurt in front of Luc’s butler.

He bowed just slightly. "He does have a message for you, Miss Cate. Though it will be a hard one for you to hear."

"What is it?"

Martin shook his head. "He wanted to tell you himself, but that's no longer possible. I shall have to speak for him."

Fear coursed through her veins. "Is he hurt?"

Martin shook his head. "Let me bring you to him."

Cate squinted. "Where is he?"

"Not far, But it's not the where that is important. It's the what." He held out his hand to her. "Come, my dear. I'll explain on the way. About Luc. About your dreams. And about the history of the Duchat name."

* * *

A panther.

It was impossible, absurd. And yet somehow, deep in her heart, Cate knew that Martin’s story was absolutely true—Luc had transformed into the sleek black panther that now paced the basement cage.

And as if that weren’t strange enough, the other half of the story was that she alone was the key to controlling his curse.

Because of her father.

According to Martin, Luc’s parents had identified the Duchat family as one in which the panther’s spirit was strong. They’d been trying to find Luc’s relatives, and though they never did, they realized that the Duchat line was of the same race. They’d sought the family out, but no one was willing to speak to them. The Duchat’s believed their race was superior, and they took human females against their will, believing it was their right.

“Luc’s parents never fully uncovered the secrets of Luc’s ancestry,” Martin said, “but they did learn enough to realize that only the males shift. The females remain human, like an anchor to this world. A mechanism, if you will, through which the males can control the change and harness their humanity. You, Cate, have the blood of the cat in you through your father. And for whatever reason, it is your blood—your soul—that is bound to Luc.”

She didn’t fully understand it, but she believed it, especially now that she was standing by the cage, looking at him, and knowing in her heart that he belonged to her, just as she belonged to him.

Hesitating just a little, she stepped to the bars, pressing her face against the cool metal. Basements were unusual in New Orleans, and from this vantage point she could see that this was new construction, specially reinforced to survive the boggy terrain. She wanted to ask Luc about it, but the man was nowhere to be seen. The man, but not the cat.

She stared at the sleek creature, then drew a breath. "Luc?"

Nothing.

"Dammit, Luc. Martin told me. He told me everything." She felt like a fool speaking the words, not quite able to get her head around the fact that she really and truly believed it.

Now, though, she had to see it. Had to see him. "Change, Luc. If you love me even a little, I need you to change."

That did it. The cat rose from the ground, muscles rippling under its thick coat as it walked toward her, teeth bared. She stayed where she was, her hands clutching the bars, her face pressed into the space between. If the cat lunged now, she was surely dead. But she held her breath. And trusted.

And then she blinked, not sure her eyes were functioning. But yes, there it was again—a ripple. The cat's body, changing. Shifting and pulling until—

Luc.

He crouched naked on the cold concrete floor. "It's true." She whispered the words, then crossed herself.

"You didn't believe?"

"I’m not sure," she admitted. "I think I did. But even then, to see it—"

She drew a breath. "Oh, Luc. Why didn't you tell me?"

He stood and crossed to her. "Tell you what? That I’m the man you seek? A marauder? The attacker of innocents? The cat who stalks in your dreams? The truth is, I was going to. Because you deserved to know. But then the change came, and..."

A tear trickled down her cheek, and she didn't try to stop it. He was everything she'd sworn to fight against, but she loved him.

And, dear God, she could save him. She could end the curse and be the anchor for the man she loved. She was certain of it.

But to do that, she had to turn her back on his past victims. All those innocents who deserved justice.

How could she do that, even for love?

"Oh, Luc." The words were barely a sigh.

"You must turn me in," he said.

She shook her head, not willing to accept that. Not yet. There had to be a way. "No. I love you. And I can save you."

"Yes, but you would resent it. Perhaps not at first, but Cate, I'm the evil you've been stalking. You cannot tie yourself to me, not and live with yourself. It goes against everything you've spent your life doing, all the bad you've overcome. It's not a sacrifice I can ask you to make. Nor one I can accept."

No. With a sudden clarity she knew what she had to do. She loved him. Even more, for the first time in her life she'd believed in someone other than herself, trusted someone else completely.

So help her, she still trusted him.

And she didn't believe that Luc was capable of those attacks, not even when he was in his feline form. "Martin says you can't remember," she said.

"I don't need to remember. I've seen the blood on my hands afterward."

"You didn't attack those people, Luc. There's got to be another explanation."

He just stared at her.

Damn the man, she wanted to throttle him. "Martin says you have control. That you wouldn't attack, even during the change."

"Martin is an old fool who loves me. And," he added as he reached out to stroke her cheek, "I believe that you are a fool in love, too."

"Maybe. But that doesn’t mean we’re not right."

He made a scoffing noise, but Cate just shook her head, certain that she was right. She held one card, one secret about which Martin had spoken, and she played it now. "He says that Clarissa survived. That you stopped, and that she lived."

Pain slashed his face. "I almost killed that child," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

She wanted to wince, wanted to cry, but she steeled herself. "Tell me."

"It was after my parents' death. I was dining at the home of friends and afterwards we were in the garden. I felt the change, so I made my excuses, determined to reach home and my cage before it happened." He described the scene, his voice passionless, monotone.

"Inside the house, though, it hit me. More abruptly than I'd expected. My friends' little girl was in the house, and she was all alone, you see. All alone with the beast."

"And she survived."

"She did."

"You did have control."

“I don't know what caused me to stop, to not finish her. And it doesn't matter. I shouldn't have been in a position to harm her in the first place."

He licked his lips, met her eyes. "The next day I arranged for the donation of a black panther to the zoo, and began to spread the word that Luc Agassou would be traveling abroad."

Her eyes brimmed with tears, still unwilling to believe what he told her. "No." She shook her head. "It wasn't you. You didn't hurt those people."

"Cate. I appreciate the faith, but it's misplaced."

"No, it's—" She stopped, something important tickling at the back of her brain.

And then she knew. Dear Lord, she knew, and she was right, and she could save him. This man that she loved, she could not help control his curse, but she could prove that he was innocent.

But to do that, she needed his help.

* * *

Days passed, and Luc paced his cage, knowing that Cate was somewhere above, making futile preparations to prove him innocent. He wanted to believe her. Wanted to buy into her eager and enthusiastic protestations that he wasn't killing. That he couldn't be attacking because she'd dreamed of the panther while he'd been locked in the cage.

One dream, however, wasn't enough to convince him. She seemed to think she'd been seeing through the attacker's eyes, but Luc knew that made no sense. Most likely she was seeing raw images, emotions mixed with dreams.

But she'd asked if he loved her, and he'd been unable to lie.

"If you love me, let me try this. Let me try to prove you innocent." She'd smiled that smile he loved so well, and she'd looked at him with dark, professional eyes. "Let me do my job, Luc. And if I'm wrong, I'll leave."

Even though he knew she was wrong, he had to take the chance. Because he did love her. And, damn him, he wanted her to stay.

Now they were waiting.

Waiting for the fickle workings of his curse to send him prowling the streets again.

Waiting for the change.

Waiting for—

He gasped.

Now.

His soul rippled, and he drew in a breath.

It was upon him.

Soon, Cate would know the truth.

And just as soon, Luc knew, he would be really, and truly, alone.

* * *

"I don’t know how much assistance I can be, Miss Cate," Martin said.

"You're doing fine. I'll be doing all the important stuff." She would have preferred he stay behind, but she did need help and, under the circumstances, asking Adam for assistance was simply out of the question.

At the moment, they were in her car, following a dot blipping on a screen. They'd tagged Luc with a transmitter, and now the wonders of technology helped them track him as he prowled the streets of New Orleans. A great cat, loose in the dead of night. They intended to follow him, and, Cate was certain, the true culprit would appear.

Luc didn't believe her, of course, but Cate didn't care. She was right. She was certain. And she'd prove Luc's innocence.

"There," Martin said, pointing to the screen. Cate nodded, then maneuvered the car into a space. "From here we go on foot." She opened the glove box and took out the small pistol she'd prepared earlier. "This is for you," she said. “Just in case."

Martin looked at it, his face paling. But he nodded and clutched the gun.

Cate checked her own weapon, then got out of the car, the tracking device in one hand as they walked through the deserted streets near the offices of the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals.

“That alley," Martin said, pointing to a service road alongside one of the buildings that surrounded the imperious courtyard.

They headed in that direction, Cate's gaze cutting across the open area as they walked. The homeless tended to huddle in the dark corners, finding shelter in the nooks and crannies of the deserted plaza that teemed with life only during working hours. Tonight, though, the place was deserted, and Cate couldn't help but wonder if someone—or something—had scared off the squatters.

As if in answer, a scream ripped the sky, and she raced forward.

And there he was. A black panther, his muzzle and feet bloody as his teeth and claws ripped at the leg of a man, mercifully passed out on the bloodstained concrete.

"No!" Her own scream cut through the sky, pure horror pulling the cry from her. The cat turned, ears cocked, copper eyes focused on her.

The nose flared, and she took a step backwards, the movement foolish, as it only provoked the beast. He lunged, soaring through the sky. She pulled her gun, taking aim, frantic to prevent the claws and teeth from rending her flesh.

She didn't fire, though, because her target was knocked out of the air by a streak of black. As Cate scrambled backwards, she watched, mesmerized, as the two great cats warred, claws and teeth bared, fur flying.

"They'll surely kill each other." Martin spoke from behind her, his voice frantic.

He was right. The two panthers twisted, identical except for the collar on Luc. They rolled and grappled, and the rogue cat sank his teeth into Luc's neck. Luc howled, a bone-deep cry of pain.

"No!" Cate screamed. Any longer and the rogue would kill Luc. And as she lifted her gun and fired, she could only hope that she didn't kill him herself.

* * *

Luc crossed to the bed, his neck bandaged where the panther had latched on twenty-four hours before.

He still couldn't believe it. She'd been right. Not only that, Martin had been right. Luc had always had control. He had, in fact, been the only reason that the victims had survived and not been mauled to death by the panther who had attacked them.

His twin. His very own brother.

Just as Cate had felt a connection to Luc, Luc had felt a connection to his brother. He'd always been at the maulings because he'd been called there, following in his brother's path. His feline self had been determined to protect the innocent from his twin, who lacked the control taught to Luc by his parents.

His sibling was gone now. Cate had killed him to save Luc. The police had been called, of course, as well as zoo officials. The terror was over. The culprit caught.

He slid beneath the sheets, desperate to feel her warmth. "How did you know?" he asked. She'd told him already, of course, but only in bits and pieces.

Now, though, he wanted to know the full story.

She curled against him. "I realized that since we were connected, the dreams must fit in somehow. It made sense that I was seeing things through your eyes. That scared me at first, because I thought it meant you were the attacker. But then I realized the truth. If I was seeing with your eyes and I was watching a black panther attack people—"

"Then I couldn't be the one doing the attacking?"

"And then I had the dream while you were in the cage, and I knew there had to be another. Someone that you were connected to. And you'd said you had a twin..."

She trailed off with a shrug. “I'm a cop. I trust my gut, but I also trust the evidence."

"You were right." He leaned over, capturing her mouth with his. "You believed in me, Cate. Even when I didn't believe in myself."

"Sometimes it's hard to believe in yourself," she said.

"I love you, Cate."

Her smile lit her face. "I love you, too."

He held her close, just listening to the beat of her heart. "And, you know, I suppose I should also thank you," he said after minutes had ticked away. "You saved me, after all."

"I'm your mate, remember? That's what I'm supposed to do." She smiled. "Besides, I'd say we saved each other." She stroked his arm, then snuggled closer. "Will you miss it?"

He didn't have to ask what she meant. There was a freedom in being feline, a different perspective on the world. But no, he would not miss it. Now Cate was his world, and that was all that he wanted.

"No," he said simply.

"Good." Her grin turned mischievous. "Because I intend to keep you rather occupied in the bedroom. If you did miss it, I'm afraid you'd be out of luck."

He affected a look of shock. "Are you suggesting, my dear, that you would use me for your sexual pleasure?"

"Indeed, I am, Mr. Agassou," she said. And then she slid under the sheet and began to show him in delicious, erotic, magnificent detail, just what exactly that sexual pleasure entailed.

The End

Want more?

Check out JK’s dark urban fantasy romance series, The Blood Lily Chronicles. Grab book one, Tainted, now!

In the mood for light paranormal romantic comedy? Take a peek at Aphrodite’s Kiss, the first book in JK’s series of superhero romances.

Want paranormal women’s fiction with humor and heart? Try The Trouble With Demons, an anthology with the first five books in JK’s Demon Hunting Soccer Mom series.

Keep turning the pages for excerpts and more!

The Trouble with Demons (a five book anthology Sneak Peek)

CARPE DEMON, Book 1, Chapter 1

My name is Kate Connor and I used to be a Demon Hunter.

I’ve often thought that would be a great pickup line at parties, but with a teenager, a toddler, and a husband, I’m hardly burning up the party circuit. And, of course, the whole demon-hunting thing is one great big gargantuan secret. No one knows. Not my kids, not my husband, and certainly not folks at these imaginary parties where I’m regaling sumptuous hunks with tales from my demon-slaying, vampire-hunting, zombie-killing days.

Back in the day, I was pretty cool. Now I’m a glorified chauffeur for drill-team practice and Gymboree playdates. Less sex appeal, maybe, but I gotta admit I love it. I wouldn’t trade my family for anything. And after fourteen years of doing the mommy thing, my demon-hunting skills aren’t exactly sharp.

All of which explains why I didn’t immediately locate and terminate the demon wandering the pet-food aisle of the San Diablo Wal-Mart. Instead, when I caught a whiff of that telltale stench, I naturally assumed it emanated exclusively from the bottom of a particularly cranky two-year-old. My two-year-old, to be exact.

“Mom! He did it again. What are you feeding him?” That from Alison, my particularly cranky fourteen-year-old. She, at least, didn’t stink.

“Entrails and goat turds,” I said absently. I sniffed the air again. Surely that was only Timmy I was smelling.

“Mo-om.” She managed to make the word two syllables. “You don’t have to be gross.”

“Sorry.” I concentrated on my kids, pushing my suspicions firmly out of my mind. I was being silly. San Diablo had been demon-free for years. That’s why I lived here, after all.

Besides, the comings and goings of demons weren’t my problem anymore. Nowadays my problems leaned more toward the domestic rather than the demonic. Grocery shopping, budgeting, carpooling, mending, cleaning, cooking, parenting, and a thousand other “-ings.” All the basic stuff that completely holds a family together and is taken entirely for granted by every person on the planet who doesn’t happen to be a wife and stay-at-home mom. (And two points to you if you caught that little bit of vitriol. I’ll admit to having a few issues about the whole topic, but, dammit, I work hard. And believe me, I’m no stranger to hard work. It was never easy, say, cleaning out an entire nest of evil, bloodthirsty preternatural creatures with only a few wooden stakes, some holy water, and a can of Diet Coke. But I always managed. And it was a hell of a lot easier than getting a teenager, a husband, and a toddler up and moving in the morning. Now, that’s a challenge.)

While Timmy fussed and whined, I swung the shopping cart around, aiming for the back of the store and a diaper-changing station. It would have been a refined, fluid motion if Timmy hadn’t taken the opportunity to reach out with those chubby little hands. His fingers collided with a stack of Fancy Feast cans and everything started wobbling.

I let out one of those startled little “oh!” sounds, totally pointless and entirely ineffectual. There was a time when my reflexes were so sharp, so perfectly attuned, that I probably could have caught every one of those cans before they hit the ground. But that Kate wasn’t with me in Wal-Mart, and I watched, helpless, as the cans clattered to the ground.

Another fine mess …

Alison had jumped back as the cans fell, and she looked with dismay at the pile. As for the culprit, he was suddenly in a fabulous mood, clapping wildly and screaming “Big noise! Big noise!” while eyeing the remaining stacks greedily. I inched the cart farther away from the shelves.

“Allie, do you mind? I need to go change him.”

She gave me one of those put-upon looks that are genetically coded to appear as soon as a girl hits her teens.

“Take your pick,” I said, using my most reasonable mother voice. “Clean up the cat food, or clean up your brother.”

“I’ll pick up the cans,” she said, in a tone that perfectly matched her expression.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that she was fourteen. Raging hormones. Those difficult adolescent years. More difficult, I imagined, for me than for her. “Why don’t I meet you in the music aisle. Pick out a new CD and we’ll add it to the pile.”

Her face lit up. “Really?”

“Sure. Why not?” Yes, yes, don’t even say it. I know “why not.” Setting a bad precedent, not defining limits, blah, blah, blah. Throw all that psycho mumbo jumbo at me when you’re wandering Wal-Mart with two kids and a list of errands as long as your arm. If I can buy a day’s worth of cooperation for $14.99, then that’s a deal I’m jumping all over. I’ll worry about the consequences in therapy, thank you very much.

I caught another whiff of nastiness right before we bit the restrooms. Out of habit, I looked around. A feeble old man squinted at me from over the Wal-Mart Sunday insert, but other than him, there was nobody around but me and Timmy.

“P.U.,” Timmy said, then flashed a toothy grin.

I smiled as I parked the shopping cart outside of the ladies’ room. “P.U.” was his newest favorite word, followed in close second by “Oh, man!” The “Oh, man!” I can blame on Nickelodeon and Dora the Explorer. For the other, I lay exclusive blame on my husband, who has never been keen on changing dirty diapers and has managed, I’m convinced, over the short term of Timmy’s life, to give the kid a complete and utter complex about bowel movements.

“You’re P.U.,” I said, hoisting him onto the little dropdown changing table. “But not for long. We’ll clean you up, powder that bottom, and slap on a new diaper. You’re gonna come out smelling like a rose, kid.”

“Like a rose!” he mimicked, reaching for my earrings while I held him down and stripped him.

After a million wipes and one fresh diaper, Timmy was back in the shopping cart. We fetched Allie away from a display of newly released CDs, and she came more or less willingly, a Natalie Imbruglia CD clutched in her hand.

Ten minutes and eighty-seven dollars later I was strapping Timmy into his car seat while Allie loaded our bags into the minivan. As I was maneuvering through the parking lot, I caught one more glimpse of the old man I’d seen earlier. He was standing at the front of the store, between the Coke machines and the plastic kiddie pools, just staring out toward me. I pulled over. My plan was to pop out, say a word or two to him, take a good long whiff of his breath, and then be on my way.

I had my door half open when music started blasting from all six of the Odyssey’s speakers at something close to one hundred decibels. I jumped, whipping around to face Allie, who was already fumbling for the volume control and muttering, “Sorry, sorry.”

I pushed the power button, which ended the Natalie Imbruglia surround-sound serenade, but did nothing about Timmy, who was now bawling his eyes out, probably from the pain associated with burst eardrums. I shot Allie a stern look, unfastened my seat belt, and climbed into the backseat, all the while trying to make happy sounds that would calm my kid.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Allie said. To her credit she sounded sincere. “I didn’t know the volume was up that high.” She maneuvered into the backseat on the other side of Timmy and started playing peekaboo with Boo Bear, a bedraggled blue bear that’s been Timmy’s constant companion since he was five months old. At first Timmy ignored her, but after a while he joined in, and I felt a little surge of pride for my daughter.

“Good for you,” I said.

She shrugged and kissed her brother’s forehead.

I remembered the old man and reached for the door, but as I looked out at the sidewalk, I saw that he was gone.

“What’s wrong?” Allie asked.

I hadn’t realized I was frowning, so I forced a smile and concentrated on erasing the worry lines from my forehead. “Nothing,” I said. And then, since that was the truth, I repeated myself, “Nothing at all.”

For the next three hours we bounced from store to store as I went down my list for the day: bulk goods at Wal-Mart—check; shoes for Timmy at Payless—check; Happy Meal for Timmy to ward off crankiness—check; new shoes for Allie from DSW—check; new ties for Stuart from T.J. Maxx—check. By the time we hit the grocery store, the Happy Meal had worn off, both Timmy and Allie were cranky, and I wasn’t far behind. Mostly, though, I was distracted.

That old man was still on my mind, and I was irritated with myself for not letting the whole thing drop. But something about him bugged me. As I pushed the shopping cart down the dairy aisle, I told myself I was being paranoid. For one thing, demons tend not to infect the old or feeble. (Makes sense when you think about it; if you’re going to suddenly become corporeal, you might as well shoot for young, strong, and virile.) For another, I’m pretty sure there’d been no demon stench, just a particularly pungent toddler diaper. Of course, that didn’t necessarily rule out demon proximity. All the demons I’d ever run across tended to pop breath mints like candy, and one even owned the majority share of stock in a mouthwash manufacturer. Even so, common sense told me there was no demon.

Mostly, though, I needed to drop the subject simply because it wasn’t my problem anymore. I may have been a Level Four Demon Hunter once upon a time, but that time was fifteen years ago. I was retired now. Out of the loop. Even more, I was out of practice.

I turned down the cookie-and-chips aisle, careful not to let Timmy see as I tossed two boxes of Teddy Grahams into the cart. In the next aisle, Allie lingered in front of the breakfast cereal, and I could practically see her mind debating between the uber-healthy Kashi and her favorite Lucky Charms. I tried to focus on my grocery list (were we really out of All-Bran?), but my brain kept coming back to the old man.

Surely I was just being paranoid. I mean, why would a demon willingly come to San Diablo, anyway? The California coastal town was built on a hillside, its crisscross of streets leading up to St. Mary’s, the cathedral that perched at the top of the cliffs, a focal point for the entire town. In addition to being stunningly beautiful, the cathedral was famous for its holy relics, and it drew both tourists and pilgrims. The devout came to San Diablo for the same reason the demons stayed away—the cathedral was holy ground. Evil simply wasn’t welcome there.

That was also the primary reason Eric and I had retired in San Diablo. Ocean views, the fabulous California weather, and absolutely no demons or other nasties to ruin our good time. San Diablo was a great place to have kids, friends, and the normal life he and I had both craved. Even now, I thank God that we had ten good years together.

“Mom?” Allie squeezed my free hand, and I realized I’d wandered to the next aisle, and was now holding a freezer door open, staring blankly at a collection of frozen pizzas. “You okay?” From the way her nose crinkled, I knew she suspected I was thinking about her dad.

“Fine,” I lied, blinking furiously. “I was trying to decide between pepperoni or sausage for dinner tonight, and then I got sidetracked thinking about making my own pizza dough.”

“The last time you tried that, you got dough stuck on the light fixture and Stuart had to climb up and dig it out.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” But it had worked; we’d both moved past our melancholy. Eric had died just after Allie’s ninth birthday, and although she and Stuart got along famously, I knew she missed her dad as much as I did. We talked about it on occasion, sometimes remembering the funny times, and sometimes, like when we visited the cemetery, the memories were filled with tears. But now wasn’t the time for either, and we both knew it.

I squeezed her hand back. My girl was growing up. Already she was looking out for me, and it was sweet and heartbreaking all at the same time. “What do you think?” I asked. “Pepperoni?”

“Stuart likes sausage better,” she said.

“We’ll get both,” I said, knowing Allie’s distaste for sausage pizza. “Want to rent a movie on the way home? We’ll have to look fast so the food doesn’t spoil, but surely there’s something we’ve been wanting to see.”

Her eyes lit up. “We could do a Harry Potter marathon.”

I stifled a grimace. “Why not? It’s been at least a month since our last HP marathon.”

She rolled her eyes, then retrieved Timmy’s sippy cup and adjusted Boo Bear. I knew I was stuck.

My cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID, then leaned against the grocery cart as I answered. “Hey, hon.”

“I’m having the day from hell,” Stuart said, which was a poor choice of words considering that got me thinking about demons all over again. “And I’m afraid I’m going to ruin your day, too.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Any chance you were planning something fabulous for dinner? Enough to serve eight, with cocktails before and some fancy dessert after?”

“Frozen pizza and Harry Potter,” I said, certain I knew where this was going to end up.

“Ah,” Stuart said. In the background I could hear the eraser end of his pencil tapping against his desktop. Beside me, Allie pretended to bang her head against the glass freezer door. “Well, that would serve eight,” he said. “But it may not have quite the cachet I was hoping for.”

“It’s important?”

“Clark thinks it is.” Clark Curtis was San Diablo’s lame duck county attorney, and he favored my husband to step into his shoes. Right now, Stuart had a low political profile, working for peanuts as an assistant county attorney in the real estate division. Stuart was months away from formally announcing, but if he wanted to have any hope of winning the election, he needed to start playing the political game, shaking hands, currying favors, and begging campaign contributions. Although a little nervous, he was excited about the campaign, and flattered by Clark’s support. As for me, the thought of being a politician’s wife was more than a little unnerving.

“A house full of attorneys,” I said, trying to think what the heck I could feed them. Or, better yet, if there was any way to get out of this.

Allie sank down to the floor, her back against the freezer, her forehead on her knees.

“And judges.”

“Oh, great.” This was the part about domesticity that I didn’t enjoy. Entertaining just isn’t my thing. I hated it, actually. Always had, always would. But my husband, the aspiring politician, loved me anyway. Imagine that.

“I tell you what. I’ll have Joan call some caterers. You don’t have to do anything except be home by six to meet them. Folks are coming at seven, and I’ll be sure to be there by six-thirty to give you a hand.”

Now, see? That’s why I love him. But I couldn’t accept. Guilt welled in my stomach just from the mere suggestion. This was the man I loved, after all. And I couldn’t be bothered to pull together a small dinner party? What kind of a heartless wench was I?

“How about rigatoni?” I asked, wondering which was worse, heartless wench or guilty sucker. “And a spinach salad? And I can pick up some appetizers and the stuff for my apple tart.” That pretty much exhausted my guest-worthy repertoire, and Stuart knew it.

“Sounds perfect,” he said. “But are you sure? It’s already four.”

“I’m sure,” I said, not sure at all, but it was his career, not mine, that was riding on my culinary talents.

“You’re the best,” he said. “Let me talk to Allie.”

I passed the phone to my daughter, who was doing a good impression of someone so chronically depressed she was in need of hospitalization. She lifted a weary hand, took the phone, and pressed it to her ear. “Yeah?”

While they talked, I focused my attention on Timmy, who was being remarkably good. “Nose!” he said when I pointed to my nose. “Ear!” I pointed to my other ear.

“More ear!” The kid was literal, that was for sure. I leaned in close and gave him big wet sloppy kisses on his neck while he giggled and kicked.

With my head cocked to the side like that, I caught a glimpse of Allie, who no longer looked morose. If anything, she looked supremely pleased with herself. I wondered what she and Stuart were scheming, and suspected it was going to involve me carpooling a load of teenage girls to the mall.

“What?” I asked as Allie hung up.

“Stuart said it was okay with him if I spent the night at Mindy’s. Can I? Please?”

I ran my fingers through my hair and tried not to fantasize about killing my husband. The reasonable side of me screamed that he was only trying to help. The annoyed side of me retorted that he’d just sent my help packing, and I now had to clean the house, cook dinner, and keep Timmy entertained all on my own.

“Pleeeeeeze?”

“Fine. Sure. Great idea.” I started pushing the cart toward the dairy aisle while Timmy babbled something entirely unintelligible. “You can get your stuff and head to Mindy’s as soon as we get home.”

She did a little hop-skip number, then threw her arms around my neck. “Thanks, Mom! You’re the best”

“Mmmm. Remember this the next time you’re grounded.”

She pointed at her chest, her face ultra-innocent “Me? In trouble? I think you have me confused with some other daughter.”

I tried to scowl, but didn’t quite manage it, and she knew she’d won me over. Well, what the heck? I was a woman of the new millennium. I’d staked vampires, defeated demons, and incapacitated incubi. How hard could a last-minute dinner party be?

Mindy Dupont lives at our exact address, only one street over. Once the girls became inseparable, Laura Dupont and I followed suit, and now she’s more like a sister than a neighbor. I knew she wouldn’t care if Allie stayed over, so I didn’t bother calling ahead. I just bought a chocolate cake for bribery/thank-you purposes, then added it to Allie’s pile as she set off across our connecting backyards to Laura’s patio. (They’re not technically connected. A paved city easement runs between us, and it’s fenced off on both sides. Last year Stuart convinced the city that they should install gates on either side, so as to facilitate any city workers who might need to get back there. I’ve never once seen a utility man wandering behind my house, but those gates have sure made life easier for me, Laura, and the girls. Have I mentioned I adore my husband?)

A little less than ten minutes later I had Timmy settled in front of a Wiggles video, and I was pushing a dust mop over our hardwood floors, trying to get all the nooks and crannies a judge might notice, and ignoring all the other spots. I was pretty certain there was a dust bunny convention under the sofa, but until the conventioneers started wandering out into the rest of the house, I wasn’t going to worry about it.

The phone rang, and I lunged for it.

“Allie says you’re doing the dinner party thing. Need help?”

“Actually, I’m good. My clothes are laid out, the sauce is simmering, the appetizers are on cookie sheets ready to go in the oven, and I even managed to find eight wineglasses.” I took a deep breath. “And they match.”

“Well, aren’t you just a little Martha Stewart? In the pre-scandal, domestic-goddess days, of course. And the munchkin?”

“In his jammies in front of the television.”

“All finished with bathtime?”

“No bath. Extra videos.”

She released a long-suffering sigh. “Finally, a flaw. Now I don’t have to hate you after all.”

I laughed. “Hate me all you want for managing to pull this together. It’s a feat worthy of your hatred.” I didn’t point out that I hadn’t actually pulled it off yet. I wasn’t counting this evening as a success until the guests went home happy, patting their tummies and promising Stuart all sorts of political favors. “Just don’t hate me for dumping Allie on you. You sure it’s okay?”

“Oh, yeah. They’re locked in Mindy’s room trying out all my Clinique samples. If they get bored, we’ll go get ice cream. But I don’t see boredom in their future. I’ve got two years’ worth of samples in that box. I figure that works out to at least four hours of free time. I’m going to make some popcorn, stick in one of my old Cary Grant videos, and wait up for Paul.”

“Oh, sure, rub it in,” I said.

She laughed. “You’ve got your own Cary Grant”

“And he’ll be home soon. I’d better run.”

She clicked off after making me promise to call if I needed anything. But for once, I actually had it under control. Amazing. I tucked the dust mop in the utility closet, then headed back to take a final look at the living room. Comfortable and presentable. Some might even say it had a casual elegance. The dancing dinosaur on the television screen really didn’t add to the ambience, but I’d close up the entertainment center as soon as Timmy went to bed.

I was running through my mental checklist as I headed back into the kitchen. A flash of movement outside the kitchen window caught my attention, and I realized I’d forgotten to feed Kabit, our cat.

I considered waiting until after the party, decided that wasn’t fair, then crossed to the breakfast area where we keep the cat food bowl on a little mat next to the table. I’d just bent to pick up the water dish when the sound of shattering glass filled the room.

I was upright almost instantly, but that wasn’t good enough. The old man from Wal-Mart bounded through the wrecked window, surprisingly agile for an octogenarian, and launched himself at me. We tumbled to the ground, rolling across the floor and into the actual kitchen, until we finally came to a stop by the stove. He was on top of me, his bony hands pinning down my wrists, and his face over mine. His breath reeked of rancid meat and cooked cauliflower, and I made a vow to never, ever ignore my instincts again.

“Time to die, Hunter,” he said, his voice low and breathy and not the least bit old-sounding.

A little riffle of panic shot through my chest. He shouldn’t know I used to be a Hunter. I was retired. New last name. New hometown. This was bad. And his words concerned me a heck of a lot more than the kill-fever I saw in his eyes.

I didn’t have time to worry about it, though, because the guy was shifting his hands from my wrists to my neck, and I had absolutely no intention of getting caught in a death grip.

As he shifted his weight, I pulled to the side, managing to free up my leg. I brought it up, catching his groin with my knee. He howled, but didn’t let go. That’s the trouble with demons; kneeing them in the balls just doesn’t have the effect it should. Which meant I was still under him, smelling his foul breath, and frustrated as hell because I didn’t need this shit. I had a dinner to fix.

From the living room, I heard Timmy yelling, “Momma! Momma! Big noise! Big noise!” and I knew he was abandoning the video to come find out where the big noise came from.

I couldn’t remember if I’d closed the baby gate, and there was no way my two-year-old was going to see his mom fighting a demon. I might be out of practice, but right then, I was motivated. “I’ll be right there!” I yelled, then pulled on every resource in my body and flipped over, managing to hop on Pops. I scraped at his face, aiming for his eyes, but only scratched his skin.

He let out a wail that sounded as if it came straight from the depths of hell, and lurched toward me. I sprang back and up, surprised and at the same time thrilled that I was in better shape than I realized. I made a mental note to go to the gym more often even as I kicked out and caught him in the chin. My thigh screamed in pain, and I knew I’d pay for this in the morning.

Another screech from the demon, this time harmonized by Timmy’s cries and the rattle of the baby gate that was, thank God, locked. Pops rushed me, and I howled as he slammed me back against the granite countertops. One hand was tight around my throat, and I struggled to breathe, lashing out to absolutely no effect.

The demon laughed, his eyes filled with so much pleasure that it pissed me off even more. “Useless bitch,” he said, his foul breath on my face. “You may as well die, Hunter. You surely will when my master’s army rises to claim victory in his name.”

That didn’t sound good, but I couldn’t think about it right then. The lack of oxygen was getting to me. I was confused, my head swimming, everything starting to fade to a blackish purple. But then Timmy’s howls dissolved into whimpers. A renewed burst of anger and fear gave me strength. My hand groped along the counter until I found a wineglass. My fingers closed around it, and I slammed it down, managing to break off the base.

The room was starting to swim, and I needed to breathe desperately. I had one chance, and one chance only. With all the strength I could muster I slammed the stem of the wineglass toward his face, then sagged in relief when I felt it hit home, slipping through the soft tissue of his eyeball with very little resistance.

I heard a whoosh and saw the familiar shimmer as the demon was sucked out of the old man, and then the body collapsed to my floor. I sagged against my counter, drawing gallons of air into my lungs. As soon as I felt steady again, I focused on the corpse on my newly cleaned floor and sighed. Unlike in the movies, demons don’t dissolve in a puff of smoke or ash, and right as I was staring down at the body, wondering how the heck I was going to get rid of it before the party, I heard the familiar squeak of the patio door, and then Allie’s frantic voice in the living room. “Mom! Mom!”

Timmy’s yelps joined my daughter’s, and I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

“Don’t come in here, sweetie. I broke some glass and it’s all over the floor.” As I talked, I hoisted my dead foe by the underarms and dragged him to the pantry. I slid him inside and slammed the door.

“What?” Allie said, appearing around the corner with Timmy in her arms.

I counted to five and decided this wasn’t the time to lecture my daughter about listening or following directions. “I said don’t come in here.” I moved quickly toward her, blocking her path. “There’s glass all over the place.”

“Jeez, Mom.” Her eyes were wide as she took in the mess that was now my kitchen. “Guess you can’t give me any more grief about my room, huh?”

I rolled my eyes.

She glanced at the big picture window behind our breakfast table. The one that no longer had glass. “What happened?”

“Softball,” I said. “Just crashed right through.”

“Wow. I guess Brian finally hit a homer, huh?”

“Looks that way.” Nine-year-old Brian lived next door and played softball in his backyard constantly. I felt a little guilty blaming the mess on him, but I’d deal with that later.

“I’ll get the broom.”

She plunked Timmy onto his booster seat, then headed for the pantry. I caught her arm. “I’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

“But you’ve got the party!”

“Exactly. And that’s why I need to be able to focus.” That really made no sense, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Listen, just put Timmy to bed for me, then head on back to Mindy’s. Really. I’ll be fine.”

She looked unsure. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. It’s all under control. Why’d you come back, anyway?”

“I forgot my new CD.”

I should have guessed. I picked Timmy back up (who, thankfully, was quiet now and watching the whole scene with interest). “Put the munchkin down and you’ll be doing me a huge favor.”

She frowned, but didn’t argue as she took Timmy from me.

“Night, sweetie,” I said, then gave both her and Timmy a kiss.

She still looked dubious, but she readjusted her grip on Timmy and headed toward the stairs. I let out a little sigh of relief and glanced at the clock. I had exactly forty-three minutes to clean up the mess in my kitchen, dispose of a dead demon, and pull together a dinner party. After that, I could turn my attention to figuring out what a demon was doing in San Diablo. And, more important, why he had attacked me.

But first, the rigatoni.

Did I have my priorities straight, or what?

Click here to download The Trouble With Demons, a Demon Hunting Soccer Mom anthology containing all five novels! Currently in Kindle Unlimited!

Excerpt from Tainted

Blood Lily Chronicles, Book 1

Can I just say that dying sucks? All that bullshit about seeing the light and having this final moment of inner peace, blah, blah, blah. It's crap.

Dying is messy and terrifying and it hurts like hell.

I ought to know. After all, I was the one on that basement floor in a puddle of my own blood and bile. And there was no peace, no light, no anything. Nothing except the ice-cold knowledge that the sins I'd racked up in the last twelve or so hours were more than sufficient to push me through the gates of hell.

Forget everything else I'd done in my twenty-six years on this earth, good and bad. You go out planning to kill a man—even a man as vile as Lucas Johnson—and your fate is pretty much sealed.

From a practical standpoint, the moment of death is a little bit late to start getting all profound and reflective. As they say, what's done is done. But that doesn't matter, because even if you're the least introspective person on the planet, you still go through the whole Psych 101 rigmarole. You tell yourself that maybe you should have said your bedtime prayers once in a while. You wonder if all those torture-porn horror movies you watched while your boyfriend copped a feel weren't actually a sneak peek into what hell had to offer.

In other words, you get scared.

When you're living, you might tell God to take a flying leap for putting your mother six feet under when you were only fourteen. For leaving you with a stepfather who decided to cuddle up with Jack Daniel's because he no longer had a loving wife in his bed. For leaving you in charge of a pigtailed little half sister who thought you hung the moon.

And for making you arrogant enough to swear that you'd protect that precious kid no matter what, even though that wasn't a promise you could keep. Not when there are monsters like Lucas Johnson trolling the earth. Monsters who suck the life from little girls.

For all those reasons, you might turn your back on God, and think you're oh-so-righteous for doing it. But you'd be wrong.

Trust me. I know.

I know, because even as my life faded, the fires of hell nipped at my toes.

In the end, I got lucky. But then again, luck is all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?

Check out JK’s dark urban fantasy romance series, The Blood Lily Chronicles. Grab book one, Tainted, now!

Excerpt from Bitch Slap

The first time I met her I wanted to slap her.

The second time, I wanted to fuck her.

As for the third time, a gentleman doesn’t tell.

So I guess it’s a good thing I’m no gentleman … right?

I don’t believe in relationships, but I do believe in fucking.

Why, you ask? Hell, I could write a book. The Guy’s Guide to Financial, Emotional, and Business Success. But honestly, why bother with a book when the thesis boils down to just four words: Don’t Date. Just Fuck.

Hear me out.

Relationships take time, and when you’re trying to build a business, you need to pour every spare hour into the work. Trust me on this. In the months since my buddies and I launched Blackwell-Lyon Security, we’ve been busting ass twenty-four/seven. Working assignments, taking meetings, building a rock solid client base.

And our commitment’s paying off. I promise you our roster wouldn’t be half as full as it is now if I was spending chunks of prime working time answering texts from an insecure girlfriend who was wondering why I wasn’t sexting every ten minutes. So skip the dating and watch your business flourish.

Plus, hook-ups don’t expect gifts or flowers. Drinks or dinner, maybe, but a guy’s gotta eat anyway, right? There may be no such thing as a free lunch, but you can come close to a free fuck.

But it’s the emotional upside that’s the kicker for me. No walking on eggshells because she’s in a bitchy mood. No feeling trapped when she demands to know why poker night was more appealing than watching the latest tearjerker starring some tanned metrosexual sporting a man bun. No wondering if she’s banging another guy when she’s not answering her texts.

And definitely no falling into a deep, dark pit of gloom when she breaks your engagement two weeks before the wedding because she’s not sure she loves you after all.

And no, I’m not bitter. Not anymore.

But I am practical.

The truth is, I like women. The way they laugh. The way they feel. The way they smell.

I get off on making a woman feel good. On making her shatter in my arms and then beg for more.

Like them, yes. But I don’t trust them. And I’m not getting fucked over again.

Not like that, anyway.

So there you go. Q.E.D.

I don’t do relationships. I do hook-ups. I make it my mission to give every woman who shares my bed the ride of her life.

But it’s a one-way street, and I don’t go back.

That’s just the way I roll. I walked away from relationships a long time ago.

So as I pull up in front of Thyme, the trendy new restaurant in Austin’s upscale Tarrytown neighborhood, and hand the valet my keys, all I’m expecting is business as usual. Some causal flirting. A few appetizers. A solid buzz from a little too much liquor. And then a quick jaunt back to my downtown condo for some mid-week action.

What I get instead, is her.

Grab your copy of Bitch Slap now!

Excerpt from Wicked Grind

a standalone novel set in the exciting world of Stark International!

He was surrounded by naked women, and he was bored out of his mind.

Wyatt Royce forced himself not to frown as he lowered his camera and took a step back, his critical eye raking over the four women who stood in front of him in absolutely nothing but their birthday suits.

Gorgeous women. Confident women. With luscious curves, smooth skin, bright eyes, and the kind of strong, supple muscles that left no doubt that each and every one of them could wrap their legs around a man and hold him tight.

In other words, each one had an erotic allure. A glow. A certain je ne sais quoi that turned heads and left men hard.

None of them, however, had it.

“Wyatt? You ready, man?”

Jon Paul’s voice pulled Wyatt from his frustrated thoughts, and he nodded at his lighting director. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

JP turned his back to the girls before flashing a wolfish grin and lowering his voice. “I’ll bet you were.”

Wyatt chuckled. “Down, boy.” Wyatt had hired the twenty-three year old UCLA photography grad student as a jack-of-all-trades six months ago. But when JP had proved himself to be not only an excellent photographer, but a prodigy with lighting, the relationship had morphed from boss/assistant to mentor/protégé before finally holding steady at friend/colleague.

JP was damn good at his job, and Wyatt had come to rely on him. But JP’s background was in architectural photography. And the fact that the female models he faced every day were not only gorgeous, but often flat-out, one-hundred percent, provocatively nude, continued to be both a fascination to JP and, Wyatt suspected, the cause of a daily cold shower. Or three.

Not that Wyatt could criticize. After all, he was the one who’d manufactured the sensual, erotic world in which both he and JP spent their days. For months, he’d lost himself daily inside this studio, locked in with a series of stunning women, their skin warm beneath his fingers as he gently positioned them for the camera. Women eager to please. To move however he directed. To contort their bodies in enticing, provocative poses that were often unnatural and uncomfortable, and for no other reason than that he told them to.

As long as they were in front of his camera, Wyatt owned those women, fully and completely. And he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that in many ways the photo shoots were as erotically charged as the ultimate photographs.

So, yeah, he understood the allure, but he’d damn sure never succumbed to it. Not even when so many of his models had made it crystal clear that they were eager to move from his studio to his bedroom.

There was just too much riding on this project.

Too much? Hell, everything was riding on his upcoming show. His career. His life. His reputation. Not to mention his personal savings.

Eighteen months ago he’d set out to make a splash in the world of art and photography, and in just twenty-seven days, he’d find out if he’d succeeded.

What he hoped was that success would slam against him like a cannonball hitting water. So hard and fast that everybody in the vicinity ended up drenched, with him squarely at the center, the unabashed cause of all the commotion.

What he feared was that the show would be nothing more than a ripple, as if he’d done little more than stick his big toe into the deep end of the pool.

Behind him, JP coughed, the harsh sound pulling Wyatt from his thoughts. He glanced up, saw that each of the four women were staring at him with hope in their eyes, and felt like the ultimate heel.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, ladies. Just trying to decide how I want you.” He spoke without any innuendo, but the petite brunette giggled anyway, then immediately pressed her lips together and dipped her gaze to the floor. Wyatt pretended not to notice. “JP, go grab my Leica from my office. I’m thinking I want some black and white shots.”

He wasn’t thinking that at all, not really. He was just buying time. Talking out of his ass while he decided what—if anything—to do with the girls.

As he spoke, he moved toward the women, trying to figure out why the hell he was so damned uninterested in all of them. Were they really that inadequate? So unsuited for the role he needed to fill?

Slowly, he walked around them, studying their curves, their angles, the soft glow of their skin under the muted lighting. This one had a haughty, aquiline nose. That one a wide, sensual mouth. Another had the kind of bedroom eyes that promised to fulfill any man’s fantasies. The fourth, a kind of wide-eyed innocence that practically begged to be tarnished.

Each had submitted a portfolio through her agent, and he’d spent hours poring over every photograph. He had one slot left in the show. The centerpiece. The lynchpin. A single women that would anchor all of his carefully staged and shot photos with a series of provocative images that he could already see clearly in his mind. A confluence of lighting and staging, of body and attitude. Sensuality coupled with innocence and underscored with daring.

He knew what he wanted. More than that, somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he even knew who he wanted.

So far, she hadn't wandered into his studio.

But she was out there, whoever she was; he was certain of it.

Too bad he only had twenty-seven days to find her.

Which was why he’d stooped to scouring modeling agencies, even though his vision for this show had always been to use amateur models. Women whose features or attitude caught his attention on the beach, in the grocery store, wherever he might be. Women from his past. Women from his work. But always women who didn't make a living with their bodies. That had been his promise to himself from the beginning.

And yet here he was, begging agents to send their most sensual girls to him. Breaking his own damn rule because he was desperate to find her. That elusive girl who was hiding in his mind, and who maybe—just maybe—had an agent and a modeling contract.

But he knew she wouldn't. Not that girl.

No, the girl he wanted would be a virgin with the camera, and he'd be the one who would first capture that innocence. That was his vision. The plan he'd stuck to for eighteen long months of squeezing in sessions between his regular commercial photography gigs. Almost two years of all-nighters in the dark room and surviving on coffee and protein bars because there wasn't time to order take-out, much less cook.

Months of planning and worrying and slaving toward a goal. And those sweet, precious moments when he knew—really knew—that he was on the verge of creating something truly spectacular.

He was exhausted, yes. But he was almost done.

So far, he had over forty-one final images chosen for the show, each and every one perfect as far as he was concerned.

He just needed the final nine. That last set of photos of his one perfect woman. Photos that would finally seal his vision—both of the girl in his mind and of what he wanted to accomplish with this solo exhibition.

He'd sacrificed so much, and he was finally close. So damn close … and yet here he was, just spinning his wheels with models who weren't what he wanted or needed.

Fuck

With a sigh of frustration, Wyatt dragged his fingers through his thick, short hair. "Actually, ladies, I think we're done here. I appreciate your time and your interest in the project, and I'll review the shots I took today and be in touch with your agent if you're selected. You’re free to get dressed and go.”

The girls all looked at each other, confused. For that matter, JP’s face reflected that same confusion as he returned to the studio with Wyatt's Leica slung over his shoulder and a tall, familiar redhead at his side.

"Siobhan," Wyatt said, ignoring the trepidation building in his gut. "I didn't realize we had a meeting scheduled."

"I thought you were going to shoot a roll of black and white," JP said at the same time, holding up the Leica in the manner of a third grader at Show-and-Tell.

In front of Wyatt, the girls paused in the act of pulling on their robes, obviously uncertain.

“We’re done,” Wyatt said to them before turning his attention to his assistant. “I have everything I need to make a decision.”

“Right. Sure. You’re the boss.” But as he spoke he looked sideways at Siobhan, whose arms were now crossed over her chest, her brow furrowed with either confusion or annoyance. Quite probably both.

But Wyatt had to hand it to her; she held in her questions until the last model had entered the hallway that led to the dressing room, and the door had clicked tight behind her.

“You got what you needed?” she asked, cutting straight to the chase. “Does that mean one of those models is the girl you’ve been looking for?”

“Is that why you’re here? Checking my progress?” Shit. He sounded like a guilty little boy standing in front of the principal.

Siobhan, thank God, just laughed. “One, I’m going to assume from the defensive tone that the answer is no. And two, I’m the director of your show first and foremost because we’re friends. So take this in the spirit of friendship when I ask, what the fuck are you doing? We have less than a month to pull this all together. So if none of those girls are the one you need, then tell me what I can do to help. Because this is on me, too, remember? This show flops, and we both lose.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I appreciate the uplifting and heartfelt speech.”

“Screw uplifting. I want you on the cover of every art and photography magazine in the country, with your show booked out on loan to at least a dozen museums and galleries for the next five years. I couldn’t care less if you’re uplifted. I just want you to pull this off.”

“Is that all?” he asked, fighting a smile.

“Hell no. I also want a promotion. My boss is considering moving to Manhattan. I covet her office.”

“Good to have a goal,” JP said, tilting his head toward Wyatt. “I covet his.”

“Go,” Wyatt said, waving his thumb toward the dressing room. “Escort the girls out through the back door. And then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“That’s your subtle way of getting rid of me, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wyatt retorted. “I wasn’t being subtle at all.”

JP smirked, but didn’t argue. And with a wave to Siobhan, he disappeared into the back hallway.

“So how can I help?” Siobhan asked once he was gone. “Should I arrange a round of auditions? After all, I know a lot of really hot women.”

That much was true enough. In fact, Siobhan’s girlfriend, Cassidy, featured prominently in the show. And it had been through Cass that Wyatt had met Siobhan, who had both a background in art and a shiny new job as the assistant director of one of the more prestigious private art museums in Los Angeles.

Originally, Wyatt had envisioned a significantly smaller show staged in his studio, not a gallery. The location was good, after all, and he anticipated a lot of foot traffic since folks could walk from the Third Street Promenade. He’d asked Cass to model about eight months ago, not only because she was stunning, but because he knew the flamboyant tattoo artist well enough to know that she wouldn’t balk at any pose he came up with, no matter how provocative. Cass didn’t have a shy bone in her body, and she was more than happy to shock—so long as the shock was delivered on her terms.

Siobhan had come with her, and before the shoot, Wyatt had shown both of them three of the pieces he’d already finished so that Cass would have a sense of his vision. It was the first time he’d laid it out in detail, and it had been cathartic talking to Siobhan, who spoke the language, and Cass, who was an artist herself, albeit one whose canvas was skin and whose tools were ink and needles.

He’d explained how he’d originally just wanted a break from the portraits and other commercial photography jobs that paid the bills. And, yes, he was beginning to make a name for himself artistically with his landscapes and city scenes. That success was gratifying, but ultimately unsatisfying because those subjects weren’t his passion. There was beauty in nature, sure, but Wyatt wanted to capture physical, feminine eroticism on film.

More than that, he wanted to make a statement, to tell a story. Beauty. Innocence. Longing. Ecstasy. He wanted to look at the world through the eyes of these women, and the women through the eyes of the world.

Ultimately, he wanted to elevate erotic art. To use it to reveal more about the models than even they were aware. Strength and sensuality. Innocence and power. Passion and gentleness. He envisioned using a series of provocative, stunning images to manipulate the audience through the story of the show, sending them on a journey from innocence to debauchery and back again, and then leaving them breathless with desire and wonder.

That afternoon, Wyatt spoke with Cass and Siobhan for over an hour. Showing them examples. Describing the emotions he wanted to evoke. Listening to their suggestions, and taking satisfaction from the fact that they were obviously loving the concept. They’d ended the conversation with Cass posing for another hour as he burned through three rolls of film, certain he was capturing some of his best work yet.

Then they’d walked to Q, a Santa Monica restaurant and bar known for its martini flights. They’d toasted his project, Cass’s pictures, and Siobhan’s career, and by the time they ended the evening, he was feeling pretty damn good about his little pet project.

The next morning, he’d felt even better. That’s when Siobhan had come to him with a formal offer from the Sunset Fine Arts Center. He’d said yes on the spot, never once thinking that by doing so he was tying another person to his success—or, more to the point, his potential failure.

“I’m serious,” she pressed now, as his silence continued to linger. “Whatever you need.”

“I’ll find her,” Wyatt said. “I have time.”

“Not much,” she countered. “I need the prints ahead of time for the catalog, not to mention installation. Keisha’s already getting twitchy,” she added, referring to her boss. “We don’t usually cut it this close.”

“I know. It’s going to be—”

“Twenty-seven days to the show, Wyatt.” He could hear the tension in her voice, and hated himself for being the cause of it. “But about half that before you need to deliver the prints. We’re running out of time. If you can’t find the girl, then you need to just find a girl. I’m sorry, but—”

“I said I’ll find her. You have to trust me on this.”

Right then, she didn’t look like she’d trust him to feed her goldfish, but to her credit, she nodded. “Fine. In that case, I just need to see the latest print so I can think about the promotional image. And you’ll email me a file for the catalog?”

“Sure. This is it,” he added, walking to a covered canvas centered on the nearest wall. He pulled down the white coversheet, revealing a life-size black and white photograph of a woman getting dressed. At first glance, it wasn’t the most provocative of his images, but that was because it was such a tease. The woman stood in a dressing room, and hidden among the dresses and coats were at least a dozen men, peering out to watch her.

The woman, however, was oblivious. She was bending over, one foot on a stool, as she fastened a garter. The view was at an angle, so at first glance the audience saw only her skirt, a hint of garter, and the woman’s silk-sheathed leg.

Then they noticed the mirror behind her. A mirror that revealed that she wasn’t wearing panties under the garter belt. And even though absolutely nothing was left to the imagination, it still wasn’t a particularly racy or erotic photograph. But then you noticed the reflection in the mirror of another mirror. And another. And another. Each with an image of that same woman, and each slightly more risqué, until finally, as the mirror approached infinity, the woman was nude, her head thrown back, one hand between her legs, the other at her throat. And all those men from the closet were out in the open now, their hands stroking and teasing her.

Most important, the mirror was so deep in the image, that you had to stand practically nose-to-print to see it.

Wyatt couldn’t wait to see how many people did exactly that at the showing.

“This is fabulous,” Siobhan said with genuine awe in her voice.

“It was a hell of a photograph to set up and then develop. Lots of work on the set and in the darkroom.”

“I believe you.” She met his eyes, hers full of the kind of genuine awe that reminded him of why he didn’t just take photos for himself. “I want to take it back with me right now and show Keisha,” she added.

“Soon.” Although Siobhan and Keisha had wanted him to deliver each print upon completion, Wyatt had balked, explaining that he needed the art surrounding him in order to ensure the continuity of story in the overall exhibit. And the size of the canvas and particulars of the way he handled the image in the darkroom were such that duplicates weren’t adequate.

That meant that when Siobhan needed to see a piece, she came to him. And now that she was not only putting together the official catalog, but also doing promotional pieces from the images, she was coming a lot.

Wyatt was adamant that the images not be revealed prior to the show, but Siobhan’s team had promised him the rapidly expanding catalog mockup would be kept locked up. More important, the pre-show promotion wouldn’t reveal any of the artwork—while at the same time, teasing the art’s provocative nature.

So far, they’d not only managed to do just that, but the campaign was already a success. The gallery had been releasing one image a month—one of his photographs, yes, but only a sexy snippet shown through a virtual barrier laid over the image. Once, it was yellow caution tape. Another time, it was a keyhole in a hotel room door. Clever, yes, but also effective. Wyatt had already been interviewed and the exhibit pimped out in no less than five local papers and magazines. And he was booked on two morning shows the day the exhibit opened.

Not bad, all things considered, and he told Siobhan as much.

“If you really want to see a bump in our publicity,” she replied, “we should get your grandmother on board.”

“No.” The word came swift and firm.

“Wyatt …”

“I said no. This exhibit is on my shoulders. I can’t hide who I am, but I don’t have to advertise it. If we trot my grandmother out, book her on morning shows, make her sing little Wyatt’s praises, then everyone is going to come. You know that.”

“Um, yeah. That’s the point. To get people to your show.”

“I want them to come for the show. Not because they’re hoping to get Anika Segel’s autograph.”

“But they’ll see your art. They’ll fall in love then. Who cares what brings them through the door?”

“I do,” he said and was relieved to see that she didn’t seem to have an argument against that.

She stood for second, possibly trying to come up with something, but soon enough she shook her head and sighed. “You’re the artist.” She made a face. “And you have the temperament to go with it.”

“See, that’s how you wooed me into doing the show with you. That embarrassingly sentimental flattery.”

“You’re a laugh a minute, Wyatt.” She hitched her purse further onto her shoulder, then pointed a finger at him. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“Cross my heart.”

“All right then.” She leaned in for an air kiss, but caught him in a hug. “It’s going to be great,” she whispered, and he was surprised by how much he appreciated those simple words.

“It will,” he agreed. “All I have to do is find the girl.”

Her grin turned wicked. “Like I said. Happy to help. Just say the word and Cass and I will start the search.”

“A few more days like today, and I’ll take you up on that.”

“A few days is all you have,” she retorted, then tossed up her hands, self-defense style. “I know, I know. I’m leaving.”

She headed for the front door, and he turned back to the print, studying it critically. A moment later he reached for the canvases that covered the prints on either side of the first image, then tugged them off, revealing the full-color photos beneath.

He took a step back as he continued his inspection, ensuring himself that there were no more refinements to be made. Slowly, he stepped back, wanting all three in his field of vision, just like a visitor to the exhibition would see. One step, then another and another.

He stopped when he heard the door open behind him, cursing himself for not locking up as Siobhan was leaving. “Did you forget something,” he asked as he turned.

But it wasn’t Siobhan.

It was her.

The girl who’d filled his mind. The girl who’d haunted his nights.

The woman he needed if he was going to pull this exhibit off the way he wanted to.

A woman with the kind of wide sensual mouth that could make a man crazy, and a strong, lithe body, with curves in all the right places. Eyes that could see all the way into a man’s soul—and an innocent air that suggested she wouldn’t approve of what she saw there.

All of that, topped off with a wicked little tease of a smile and a sexy swing to her hips.

She was a walking contradiction. Sensual yet demure. Sexy yet sweet.

A woman who one minute could look like a cover model, and the next like she’d never done anything more glamorous than walk the dog.

She was hotter than sin, and at the same times she was as cold as ice.

She was Kelsey Draper, and he hadn’t laid eyes on her in over ten years, and as far as he was concerned, that was damn good thing.

Her lips twitched in a tremulous smile. “Oh,” was all she said.

And in that moment, Wyatt knew that he was well and truly screwed.

* * *

Grab your copy of Wicked Grind now!

More from JK in Kindle Unlimited!

Be sure to check out all these titles, currently available in Kindle Unlimited!

Sexy standalone novels

Bitch Slap

The Protector Series (paranormal romantic comedy):

The Cat’s Fancy (prequel)

Aphrodite’s Kiss

Aphrodite’s Passion

Aphrodite’s Secret

Aphrodite’s Flame

Aphrodite’s Embrace (novella)

Aphrodite’s Delight (a bonus novella from JK )

Or get Kiss, Passion, Secret & Flame in Aphrodite’s Charms, a Protector anthology!

Demon Hunting Soccer Mom Series (paranormal mommy lit with a hint of romance):

Carpe Demon

California Demon

Demons Are Forever

Deja Demon

The Demon You Know (short story)

Demon Ex Machina

Or get all 5 in The Trouble With Demons - a Demon Hunting Soccer Mom anthology!

The Blood Lily Chronicles (sexy urban fantasy):

Tainted

Torn

Turned

Or get all 3 in The Blood Lily Chronicles anthology!

Also by J. Kenner

Click here for a printable booklist

The Stark Trilogy:

Release Me

Claim Me

Complete Me

Anchor Me

Stark Ever After:

Take Me

Have Me

Play My Game

Seduce Me

Unwrap Me

Deepest Kiss

Entice Me

Hold Me

The Steele Books/Stark International:

Say My Name

On My Knees

Under My Skin

Take My Dare (includes short story Steal My Heart)

Stark International Novellas:

Tame Me

Tempt Me

S.I.N. Trilogy:

Dirtiest Secret

Hottest Mess

Sweetest Taboo

Stand alone novels:

Most Wanted:

Wanted

Heated

Ignited

Wicked:

Wicked Grind

Wicked Dirty

Wicked Torture

Additional Titles

Bitch Slap

Also by Julie Kenner

Click here for a printable book list

The Protector (Superhero) Series:

The Cat’s Fancy (prequel)

Aphrodite’s Kiss

Aphrodite’s Passion

Aphrodite’s Secret

Aphrodite’s Flame

Aphrodite’s Embrace (novella)

Aphrodite’s Delight (novella – free download)

Demon Hunting Soccer Mom Series:

Carpe Demon

California Demon

Demons Are Forever

Deja Demon

The Demon You Know (short story)

Demon Ex Machina

Pax Demonica

Day of the Demon

The Dark Pleasures Series:

Caress of Darkness

Find Me In Darkness

Find Me In Pleasure

Find Me In Passion

Caress of Pleasure

The Blood Lily Chronicles:

Tainted

Torn

Turned

Rising Storm

Rising Storm: Tempest Rising

Rising Storm: Quiet Storm

About the Author

J. Kenner (aka Julie Kenner) is the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal and #1 International bestselling author of over eighty novels, novellas and short stories in a variety of genres.

JK has been praised by Publishers Weekly as an author with a “flair for dialogue and eccentric characterizations” and by RT Bookclub for having “cornered the market on sinfully attractive, dominant antiheroes and the women who swoon for them.” A five-time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award, JK took home the first RITA trophy awarded in the category of erotic romance in 2014 for her novel, Claim Me (book 2 of her Stark Trilogy).

In her previous career as an attorney, JK worked as a lawyer in Southern California and Texas. She currently lives in Central Texas, with her husband, two daughters, and two rather spastic cats.

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