Blue Moon Brides: The Complete Series (58 page)

The woman on the sidewalk was every bit as buttoned up, ironed and pressed as she’d been ten years ago. She wore a power suit and ridiculous shoes and, from his spot in the shadows, he could read the tiny, shiny label on her leather bag.
Kate Spade.
She’d always liked things that came with names of their own.

He’d sent a few messages of his own, namely by depositing funds into her checking account twice a year. She belonged with him and, if he couldn’t have her in his home, he’d make sure she never went without. He bet it had driven her crazy. She’d changed banks three times in ten years and had never spent a dime of his money—except on those crazy-ass, impossible shoes of her. There was a
fuck you
right there, except when he looked at her shoes, he didn’t see a waste of money or a scrap of leather that cost more than the rent on some apartments.
Non.
He saw her heels digging into his back, hanging onto him as he slammed inside her sweet, tight channel.

His mate was of average height for a female, although he’d never seen her in anything but heels. She clearly belonged to the
taller is better
camp, because the current pair added at least three inches to her height. She had the same long, dark hair meticulously straightened into a sheet of gorgeous. Mussed up some now, because fighting to live had that effect on a hair-do. Pale, like she didn’t get outside much and couldn’t be bothered with a spray-on tan from a can. Thank God. She smelled sweet and natural, rather than like chemicals. The rest of her was as he’d remembered too: brown eyes, long lashes, straight nose and a mouth sporting a freckle above her upper lip. She had freckles in all sorts of interesting places. On her left ear, two on her throat, and a gorgeous little spray on her right breast. He couldn’t wait to get reacquainted with her freckles.

Later. After he stopped the biker gang from hell in their murderous tracks.

The Breed had split their numbers, half herding her down the sidewalk and half closing in on her from in front in a classic pincher move. The incoming wolves would either go through the hedge or leap it. Either way, she wouldn’t have seen them coming, so he’d take care of business for her now.

A quick survey turned up ten wolves, the five waiting in the wings plus the five closing in on his mate. He shifted into a fighting stance, palmed his blades, and went to town on the five wolves-in-waiting. Before the fuckers knew who was coming for them, he’d slammed into them. The faster he struck, the faster he controlled the situation.

He balanced on the balls of his feet, facing the wolves. Knees bent, elbows in, he brought the knife up. With his left hand, he checked the first wolf with a brutal fist-meets-throat, while his right hand cut. One down.

Stepping in, he closed the distance between himself and target number two. He had no intention of retreating and he sure as shit didn’t mind getting cut. The knife flashed, an extension of his cutting hand. Wolf number two yelped and bounded off, leaving a trail of blood. Tracking the bastard down and taking him out was a job for later, however, because wolves three and four lunged, working to bring him down. Luc kicked and cut, all animal instinct and reflex. Small sounds of feminine distress filtered through the hedge, encouraging him to step it up and finish punching holes in the aggressor wolves.

Bodies hit the ground with a thump-thump. And…game over. The wolves could drag themselves off or lay there and bleed until they were empty or local animal control hauled their asses off to the pound. Not his problem. He vaulted the hedge, shitkickers slamming into the pavement beside his mate.

“Run,
shug
.” He’d cleared the path. It was past time for her to evac and get the hell out of here. Her presence was a vulnerability because if those wolves got her, he’d go down fighting for her in the wolf version of
until death do us part
.

Her gaze shifted briefly from the wolves to him. She didn’t have a clear shot at him, but he could practically feel her trigger finger itching—and her head counting down the pumps remaining in her pepper gun.  No recognition registered on her face, although she gave a little start at his voice.  A new wolf came at her, and Luc slid his body between her and the new attacker. The
hi-how-are-ya-remember-me?
could come later.

“Now.” He barked the command as wolf number one hit the ground. That bastard wouldn’t be rejoining the fight.

She kicked off her heels—smart girl—and bolted. Her pretty little bag lay on the ground, so he hoped like hell she’d got a code for the front door of her place. He hadn’t scented any trouble there, but he wasn’t fucking perfect. He could have missed something. Someone.

He itched to shift and fight the wolves tooth to tooth and claw to claw. If he shifted, however, he’d be buck-ass naked when—if—he shifted back, and no way Gianna would have a conversation with him then. Hell, he wouldn’t want to talk to his ugly ass. So he’d stay fully clothed and do this the old-fashioned way. He slammed his fist into a furry side and then got busy with the blade.

~*~

Who needed a second invitation?

Gianna ran like hell. No matter how fast those cops got here, it wouldn’t be fast enough once the dogs got hold of her.  There was no time to stick around and ask her rescuer
Hey, you sure you’re okay with a dog mauling
?
Nope. Definitely time to hightail it and move, move, move.

Air sawed out of her lungs, the burn and stitch in her side reminding her that skipping cardio had been a bad idea. Not that she needed to be skinny and toned for the dogs, but being able to run like the wind suddenly took on a whole new appeal. Stopping wasn’t a good idea either. She counted breaths, forcing herself to move faster. Slam of her feet against the pavement. It wasn’t like she was running on glass, but she’d never done the whole barefoot running thing and her feet protested. Desperation was a great motivator, however.

Up.

Down.

Her nylons shredded with each downward step. Holy. Jesus. She reached the end of the block. Crossed. Then she went all Lot’s wife, unable to resist a backwards glance. No cops in sight.
Nada
. Just the shadowy form of her savior, up to his elbows in the dog pack. Growls followed snaps…and then silence.
Shit
. She faced forward and ran on. Silence wasn’t her friend either.

Had the 9-1-1 operator dismissed her call as a prank? Straining her ears, she heard no footsteps. No growls.

A strong male arm snaked around her waist, yanking her back against a hard chest.
Don’t panic.
She sucked in a fresh breath.
Go with the back-up plan.

“Gianna.” The rough, male voice in her ear was just possibly familiar.
Too late.
She slammed her foot down as she drove her head back and screamed. Unfortunately, the man wrapped around her was wearing motorcycle boots. Her bare feet didn’t make a dent.

“Gianna.” There was her name again, but this time the voice held laughter too. He had a beautiful voice.

The first siren lit up the night. Rescue was on its way. All she had to do was fight and hold out, two things she had a lifetime of experience in doing. The nausea churning up her stomach was her first clue that she was out of time, followed by a bone-deep chill.
Shoot
. Without permission, her legs went rubbery, demanding she sit down. Suck it up. Ride it out.

“Hey,
shug
.” Big hands eased her down, getting her back against a handy tree.

She blinked.
Jesus
. Cool pavement soaked through her skirt. Her legs stuck out in front of her, the nylons laddered. Yep. She was ass-planted on the ground and her clothes were headed for the trash. Her guy set her tote bag down beside her. Not a robbery. That was a good sign, right?

“You breathe for me now,” he said, the demand pure Cajun drawl.

Something in her reacted to the unfamiliar note of authority in his voice. She didn’t take orders, unless it was from a judge in a courtroom—or from a senior lawyer. She definitely didn’t take orders from too sexy, overly familiar Cajuns.

Especially
if she wanted to.

Focus.
The advantage of parking it on the sidewalk was that her position put her on eye-level with his chest. A broad, powerful chest unfortunately concealed beneath a black T-shirt. He crouched casually beside her, forearms resting loosely on powerful denim-clad thighs. He leaned in some—probably checking on that breathing order he’d laid on her—but the move put him too close. He was also too large, too sure of himself. If she’d had him in a courtroom, she would have taken him down a peg.

Since she wasn’t in court, she’d have to work with what she had. Dragging her gaze up—and up—she grabbed her bag and shoved her hand inside. Like a sign from above, her pepper spray rolled into her palm and she flipped the canister out. She was pretty sure she was close to out in the burn-your-eyes department, but
he
couldn’t know that.

“Back off.” He might not be a mugger, but he was still an unknown quantity.

The cop cars got closer and louder, but so did he. “I thought we were old friends,
shug
.”

Not touching her, but definitely in her space. This time, as her heartbeat slowed some from its mad rush toward a heart attack, she looked at his face, really looked, and a different kind of cold shock spread through her veins, followed by rage. She knew this guy. She’d spent the last ten years looking for him and hadn’t found him. Since he was
here
and she didn’t believe in coincidences, she’d also bet he’d know where she was all along.

“
Oui.
I’m the man you asked to marry you.” He didn’t move, kept those powerful hands loose on his thighs. He’d touched her with those hands, had coaxed her, held her down as he’d taught her all the different ways a woman could come apart for a man like him. If she was being honest, she hadn’t made him work all that hard either. She’d let go and seized the pleasure he offered, trying to cram a lifetime of pleasure into one Vegas weekend. Sin City needed a new marketing slogan, because what happened in Vegas clearly had
not
stayed in Vegas.

Like her, he was ten years older. Unlike her, however, his face didn’t show it. No, damn it, he was still a dark-haired, dark-eyed Cajun but that description was as uselessly bland as noting he was male. Power rolled off him and not just the kind his muscles gave him. Luc Breaux wore a different kind of authority like the way the lawyers she worked with wore their nine-hundred dollar bespoke suits. Her
fiancé
was damned used to giving orders—and having them followed.

A second cop car joined the first down the street. Luc crouched there beside her, unconcerned. Raised voices floated up the street as the cops got out, did some door slamming and started walking the scene.

“I need to go,” she said, slipping her shoes back on and pressing her palms against the sidewalk. It was only October, but the concrete was already cold, any residual heat from the day long gone. She traced the cracks with her fingertips, pushing the dirt beneath her nails.

“You spend ten years lookin’ for me, and you don’t wan’ to talk some now that we’ve been reunited?”

Nope. Not really.

Because she had no idea what he would say and the embarrassment was unexpectedly excruciating. She remembered the magic of his touch. She definitely remembered the orgasms—and the too-much-champagne part of the night. Hell, she even remembered asking him to marry her. The remaining hours of the night were a haze and the kicker was: she didn’t actually know if they were married or not. It was a possibility, especially given her distressing memory of an Elvis impersonator with a cleric’s collar. She’d asked…but had he said
yes
? She let the silence build up between them, a trick she’d learned in the courtroom. He didn’t crack, which shouldn’t have surprised her. After all, she’d been the one out of control. Lost in the pleasure. He’d been…she had no idea what he’d been doing although he’d had his dick in her. On her. Other places. Being married to someone she’d known for one night would be insane—but part of her hurt that he’d turned her down.

“I’ve got nothing,” she said.

“I doubt that.” He placed a hand on her knee, curling his fingers around her skin. She held her ground, but the shocking heat of his naked palm touching her had her thinking retreat. Just like that, baring herself for his touch seemed like the best of ideas.
Please
demanded the part of her that had been alone for the last ten years.  That traitorous part didn’t want to be armored in her suit and her nylons, wearing three-hundred dollar Manolo Blahnik pumps.

His fingers were simply there. Not pressing or compelling or threatening, but her entire universe contracted to those few inches of skin and Luc.
Shit.
He couldn’t do this to her. Not again.

She hated
him
.

Right. Time to fall back and regroup. She shoved to her feet. The move wasn’t particularly graceful and she might possibly have flashed him her panties, but she ignored his outstretched hand. Touching him was every bit as dangerous as the wild dog pack had been.