“Look at me,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. I’m here,” Sam said.

He reached out, catching her hands gently in his. His skin was cool and wonderful, the gesture infinitely comforting.

Chloe met his eyes. A subtle shift came over his features, a tightening of the lips, his pupils eating up the steel-gray irises. There was concern there, but something else now, too. Desire. Possession. He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing the lightest of kisses across the back of her fingers.

The gesture was courtly, barely qualifying as a true kiss, but a flood of tingling arousal swamped her skin from head to foot. No one had ever touched her so intimately with so little flesh.

SHARON ASHWOOD is a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk.

Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA® Award for Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.

Possessed by a Warrior

Sharon Ashwood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mom, who taught me never to give up.

Contents

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Afterword

Extract

To love someone deeply gives you strength.

To be deeply loved gives you courage.

—Lao Tzu

Chapter 1

Sam Ralston shed his robe, tossing it to the floor. He’d done so a thousand times, in many contexts. Most involved women.

This time, however, he was staring at a wall of knives. They were eight inches in length, set about four inches apart, each point aimed straight out like the quills of an angry porcupine. In the half light, the blades gleamed softly, stainless steel polished to the understated efficiency of a showcase kitchen. The wall of blades blocked the room from end to end, leaving only a narrow gap near the ceiling.

Getting over the wall was his first challenge. Sam gave a derisive sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. It echoed oddly in the otherwise bare room, adding nothing to the gray-on-gray atmosphere.

Trust La Compagnie des Morts to come up with an obstacle course designed to shred the runner right at the start. Everything that came after would be painful in the extreme, even for vampires.

But Sam was one of the Four Horsemen, La Compagnie’s crack unit named after the riders of the Apocalypse: Death, Plague, Famine and War. Units like theirs were called in after the CIA, the FBI, MI5 and all the rest of the international alphabet soup had failed to get results. Then they swept in and saved whatever needed saving.

As jobs went, the hours were bad but it was never boring.

Sam was War, and he was better than any trial the Company of the Dead could dream up. He’d proven it, mission after mission. Nevertheless, the Company put all their operatives to the test every so often, which was why he was standing in their Los Angeles facility, wearing nothing but running shorts, sneakers and fangs.

He flexed his knees and leaped. The gap was too narrow to land on top of the wall—that would have been far too easy. Instead, Sam caught the edge with his right hand, forcing himself to pause in a kind of one-armed pushup before he swung his feet onto the ledge. He felt the muscles in his shoulder and stomach bunch to hold his weight. The maneuver was almost perfect, but one blade kissed his left calf, leaving a trail of blood to snake down his leg and into his shoe. He cursed, mentally docking himself a point.

Without pausing at the top, he flung himself onto the mat on the other side. Wooden arrows hummed through the air, whispering against the back of his neck, skimming his chest right above the heart. He rolled, grabbing a SIG Sauer from the rack on the wall and taking out the two mechanical bowmen within seconds. He dropped the gun, knowing there were only two bullets inside. Miss once, and he’d be staked.

Dispassionately, Sam scanned the room for the next course on the menu. The room was lined in more stainless steel, and he could track his movements in a blurry reflection. Dark hair, gray eyes, a body coiled more like a beast than a man. No more emotion than a machine.

He heard a door open, and an enormous wolf bounded forward. A werewolf, actually. Famine, one of the other Horsemen—but the fact they worked together didn’t mean Kenyon would give him an inch. For the first time, Sam felt his stomach tighten. Everything so far had been a test of strength or coordination. Kenyon, on the other hand, had a very crafty mind.

The wolf stopped a few paces away, crouching with a warning growl. Pale gold eyes raked over Sam, sending an electric prickle across his shoulders. He growled right back, feeling the low rumble in his chest. His fangs were down, adrenaline bringing out his own beast. His calf stung from the knife wound, and he could smell the blood, the coppery scent almost, but not quite, like a human’s. From the gray wolf’s twitching nose, he’d noticed it, too.

Kenyon sprang. Sam leaped to grab the wolf in midair, twisting so that they both fell hard to the floor. Kenyon writhed, jaws snapping, hind legs slashing. Sam straddled the beast, the coarse hair rough against his skin. At the same time, he had the wolf’s head between his hands, trying to immobilize him. They were matched for strength. Sam’s only hope was to keep him off balance.

It might have worked, except Kenyon chose that moment to shift. The burst of energy sent Sam sailing backward. His back had barely hit the floor when Kenyon was on top of him, huge hands around Sam’s throat, shutting off all air.

“Sucker,” Kenyon gloated. A manic grin lit his Nordic features.

Sam replied with a hard right jab.

“Ungh!” Kenyon fell sideways, releasing Sam’s neck.

Sam got to his feet and glared down at the werewolf, putting one foot across his throat. “Vampires don’t have to breathe, remember?”

Kenyon rubbed his face and swore.

“Time.” The voice came from somewhere in the ceiling. “Two minutes, fifteen seconds.”

Sam grunted. Not bad. Not his best speed, but close. He held out a hand to Kenyon, who took it and pulled himself up.

“You’re not even sweating,” the wolf complained.

“Cardio only applies if you have a pulse.”

Kenyon gave him a scathing look. He’d heal quickly from Sam’s punch, but he’d have a black eye first. “I should have had you.”

“Dream on, dog breath.”

The door opened again, and this time one of the human technicians came running in holding Sam’s cell phone. Sam exchanged a look with the wolf, seeing his own question in Kenyon’s eyes.

The tech waved Sam’s iPhone, a harried look on his face. “For you. It’s Death.”

* * *

“Sam, I need you and the others at Oakwood pronto. Code...whatever. Code the whole damned spectrum. Just get your butts over here.”

Jack Anderson, also known as Death, threw the phone onto the seat beside him, needing both hands on the wheel. He should have been using the hands-free option, but driving with undue care and attention wasn’t Jack’s issue.

It was the jackass trying to make a hood ornament out of his Porsche that was the problem. Not that anything could outrun his silver Porsche 911 GT2 RS—or at least not here, on the back roads of Wingman County, where soccer-mom SUVs and handyman trucks ruled the two-lane highways. Except the car behind him was a black Mercedes SLS complete with a sniper in the passenger seat.

Jack navigated a sharp turn, hugging the cliff and ignoring the sheer drop to his right. A bullet punched through the back windshield and tore through the leather seat. Bloody barbarians!

He could have sworn the bullet had glinted like silver. They know I’m a vampire. Jack stepped on the accelerator, taking advantage of a straight stretch of road to leap ahead. Then the downshift, left turn, and he was on the wooded road leading home.

The next bullet made a spiderweb of the windshield. Who are these guys? They were bad shots, or maybe just not up to Jack’s standards. Sam would have taken out a tire and sent the car over the cliff. That was how you ended a car chase: one bullet, no fuss.

He’d picked up the yahoos on his tail about halfway home, just after he’d left the populated part of the coast. They’d started shooting as soon as he was on the treacherous cliff road and couldn’t get away. Jack drove as fast as he could, but the twists and turns held him back. The fact that it was two in the morning and pitch-black didn’t help, either. Vampire night vision only did so much.

Just like his so-called immortality had its limitations. He was hard to kill, but a silver bullet or a fiery crash could take him out. Whoever was behind this attack had done his or her homework.

What do they want? There were plenty of people who wanted him dead. Okay, extra-dead. Re-dead. Whatever. Which ones were these?

Another turn, this time to the right. Now it would be safe to jump out of the car, vampire-quick, but he was almost home. He could do it. He could beat them.

He could see the massive iron gate of Oakwood, his mansion with its handpicked security staff. Oaks flanked the entrance, huge, gnarled sentries. Thank God. Jack’s heart leaped with relief. Safe.

Then, finally, a bullet took out the rear tire. The Porsche bucked and slid. Jack swore, one curse running into the next. He’d been going too fast, and...

Chapter 2

“Is there a problem, Ms. Anderson?” said the attorney, who was visibly sweating in his penguin suit of funereal black.

Is there a problem? Chloe mused, tears threatening to seep through her defenses. Let’s see. My billionaire playboy uncle Jack wrapped his Porsche around the oak tree out front because he supposedly drank too much at the yacht club, and now our dysfunctional relations are circling like hungry raptors. And, oh, yeah, he named me executor. Fun times.

The sarcasm couldn’t shut down the pain squeezing her heart. She already missed her uncle like crazy—but right now it was her job to be cool, collected and businesslike.

“No, there’s no problem,” she said in a tight voice, memories choking her until her words were little more than a whisper.

Thankfully, she hadn’t been the one to identify Jack—his butler had done that honor before she’d even arrived at Oakwood. The faithful old servant had quit after that. She didn’t blame him one bit.

Chloe swallowed hard, feeling faint as she unfolded the scrap of notepaper with the combination to her uncle’s private wall safe. It was slow going because her hands were clumsy and sweaty. The cause wasn’t nerves, exactly. It was more like her body’s attempt to melt away so she wouldn’t have to deal with whatever was behind that steel door. Opening the safe was like admitting Jack was gone. She didn’t want to believe it.

What happened, Jack? Did you really drive home drunk? For a moment, tears blurred the numbers on the notepaper. It just doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

For one thing, Jack was never a drinker. Chloe had told that to the police. They’d given her a pitying look, as if she were a rosy-cheeked innocent. In the end, they hadn’t listened to a word she’d said.

Her tears dried as she felt a pair of steel-gray eyes boring a hole between her shoulders. Irritation flooded her, momentarily washing out grief and the daunting sense of responsibility thrust on her as executor. Is there a problem? Oh, yeah, there’s a problem. The room is a thousand degrees, my feet hurt in these stupid shoes and that guy over there is giving me the screaming willies.

The guy in question was named Sam Ralston. He’d shown up for the funeral along with two of Uncle Jack’s other friends. They were big, handsome men, pleasant, mixed with the other richy-rich guests well enough, but there was something off about the lot of them. Something other.

Who was Ralston to Uncle Jack? It was hard to say. Although she referred to Jack as her uncle, he was actually a distant cousin, and she’d never quite worked out his place in the family tree. Even though Jack had been her guardian after her parents’ death, he’d not been around a lot of the time. At fourteen, it wasn’t as if she’d needed supervision 24/7—at least not once the initial shock had passed. So, there were chunks of Jack’s life she knew nothing about, Sam Ralston among them.

Jack had named him as the other executor, which was why he was here with her and Mr. Littleton, the family lawyer. Whatever was in the safe Jack had installed in his palatial bedroom would have to be documented as part of the estate, even if it was meant for Chloe.

Too bad. When she’d found out Ralston would be her partner in settling the estate, Chloe had actually shivered, as if someone had opened a refrigerator door right behind her.

“Do you need help?” Ralston asked, his baritone voice threaded with impatience.

“No,” Chloe returned.

“You know you need a key, too. The safe has a double lock.”

“Got it.” She turned and gave Ralston a look over her shoulder.

The view, at least, was no hardship. More than once, she’d found herself staring at him, her body clenching with an unexpected and unwelcome fever of desire. He was somewhere in his thirties, tall and hard-bodied, with thick dark hair combed back from a broad forehead. He had the kind of face advertisers of leather jackets and fast cars would have liked—strong bones, a few character lines, and a dark shadow of beard no razor could quite obliterate. His nose was blade straight, his lips full and sculpted above a slightly cleft chin. The set of his head and shoulders said he owned whatever room he was in, and the rest of the planet besides.

Yummy and forbidding at the same time.

At the moment, he was returning her glare with a face carefully scraped clean of expression—and yet every line of his body screamed “Hurry up!”

So what’s the rush? she wondered. He’d been like this—barely repressed urgency—ever since he arrived.

A career as a wedding planner had honed Chloe’s skills at reading people. Too many couples ordered an event based on what they thought was correct rather than what was in their hearts. Chloe was good at ferreting out the truth from a shared look, an inflection in the voice, a finger drawn down the picture of a fluffy white dress in a magazine.

Just like her gut said Ralston and his buddies might have fat wallets and Italian-cut suits, but they’d break heads just as easily as they tossed back their single-malt whiskey. Now he was standing a little to the side, just out of the splash of late afternoon sunlight pouring through the French doors—a shady guy staying in the shade.

Ralston shifted, making a noise like a stifled sigh.

“Cool your jets,” Chloe said evenly. “Whatever’s in here is what Uncle Jack left me.”

“He already left you a nice bequest,” Ralston pointed out.

“So?”

Chloe cursed the lawyer for staying tactfully silent. She turned back to the safe and away from Ralston.

“Whatever is in the safe is going to be the interesting part.” He sounded amused, the first sign of warmth she’d seen in him. “He liked his secrets.”

“How do you know?”

“I know—knew—Jack.” Now he sounded sad. She liked him better for it.

“How did you come to know him?”

He gave the same nonanswer he’d given her once before. “We hung out in a few of the same places.”

Chloe began spinning the dial on the safe, her mouth gluey with unease. What was in there? Gold bars? The deed to a private island in the Caribbean? A stack of bearer-bonds with tons of zeroes? Jack had possessed a Midas touch, turning every business venture into a wild success.

Poor Jack. People would remember his GQ style and his tragic death, but Chloe would remember him starting a game of hide-and-seek with her when she was six. He’d sent the care package of flowers and chocolate when her engagement had fallen apart. He’d always been there, a steady friend and the best of listeners in a world where people were too busy to slow down and truly care. Sure, he’d had money, but he’d always offered his heart, too. People—especially their family—had never stopped grabbing long enough to notice.

Chloe swallowed hard, her fingers fumbling with the dial. The safe lock clicked. She swallowed again, feeling as though she was gulping down the entire situation and it was stuck painfully in her throat. Blinking to keep her vision clear, she took the key to the second lock out of the pocket of her sleeveless, indigo sheath dress.

The key slid into the lock. Chloe turned it and then pushed down on the long handle. The safe opened on a silent glide of hinges. It was wide enough that she had to step back to accommodate the swing of the door.

The men were suddenly behind her, Ralston so close that she could feel his lapel brush her shoulder. The lawyer was a bit better about personal space, but she could sense him hovering. If curiosity had a frequency, theirs was vibrating high enough to shatter glass.

All three of them made a noise when they saw what was in the safe. There was nothing but a white box about eight inches tall and maybe four feet by three feet, with a note taped to the lid. Chloe reached in, pulling the note off. The clear tape made a ripping sound as it pulled a tiny patch of the box’s white lid away with it. She unfolded the note and felt the men lean in as she read.

Chloe,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. Keep this secret and safe. When the story comes out, you’ll know what to do with it, and I know you’ll do the right thing. Trust Sam. Be careful.

Love you, kid,

Jack

Chloe reread the note. Trust Sam. Why? With what?

“What could it possibly be?” asked Littleton, a little breathlessly.

“Let’s find out,” said Ralston, lifting the large white box out of the otherwise empty safe.

Chloe took it out of his hands before he had taken one step away from the safe. “Uncle Jack left this for me, remember?”

His eyes flared with surprise, as if people rarely snatched loot out of his grasp. “I was just going to put it on the bed.”

Chloe looked up into his steel-gray glare and smiled sweetly. “Thanks. I can manage.”

Her heart kicked a little at Ralston’s frown—part fear, part perverse enjoyment. He was a bit too pushy for his own good. Trust Sam.

She walked the few steps to Jack’s orgy-sized bed. The whole room was in a black-and-white color scheme, making the scene look like a homage to liquorice allsorts. When she set the large white box on the ebony silk counterpane, the mystery of the package seemed even more emphatic.

The room was utterly silent, the rasp of Littleton’s rapid breathing the loudest sound in it. Chloe felt for the box’s opening. There was no tape. The lid lifted off, revealing a nest of blue-white tissue paper, the type meant to keep cloth from turning dingy with age. Ralston was at her elbow, close enough that her skin tingled with the breeze of his movements. Even now, her body felt magnetized to his nearness.

He pulled back one piece of tissue at the same moment that Chloe picked up the other. Despite the fact that they were strangers, they shared a look. It was utter astonishment.

“A wedding dress?” Chloe asked aloud. She touched the beaded bodice with one finger. The glittering stones were cold. Definitely not plastic. She’s seen a lot of dresses in her career, and she could tell the work was exquisite.

“What the hell?” Ralston looked utterly stunned. “Jack would never have married.”

“When the story comes out,” Chloe said, repeating the note Jack had left. “What story? What was Uncle Jack doing with a dress?”

Ralston’s eyebrows shot up with sudden dark amusement. “Well, it’s tiny. At least we know it wasn’t for him.”

Chloe smiled, but her mind was already racing ahead. There were only so many reasons Jack would lock something away for safekeeping, whether it was treasure or weapons or even a gorgeous dress: because it was valuable, because it was meant for someone important to Jack or because dangerous people wanted it for the wrong reasons.

She was willing to bet the confection of lace and satin was all three.

Chapter 3

Death. That had been Jack’s code name.

So who killed Death? It was almost a joke.

Irony sucks. Sam finally left the bedroom, taking a last look at Chloe Anderson bent over the white froth of the wedding dress. The image of her, sad and beautiful, stroking the symbol of so many feminine hopes and wishes—it brought a rush of something that was neither lust nor hunger, but held a hint of both. Strangely unnerved, he had elected to retreat. He could tell she wanted to be alone with her memories of Jack, and Sam appreciated that. The soft-spoken beauty was the only one in the family who seemed to care the man was dead.

And someone had to do the weepy thing. Sam was better at revenge.

The thought made his fangs descend, prepared to rip and tear in savage retribution.

His mind went back to Jack’s last phone call, wringing each word dry of meaning. Jack had been running from his killer. Ambushed. Not much made Death run.

Sam banged out of the side door of the house, grateful to be in the clear air. The sun had just dipped behind the trees, making the outdoors safe for the undead. He took a huge breath, smelling green trees and the sweet pungency of the sun-warmed dirt. This was what he liked: solitude and no walls to hem him in. The past few days at Oakwood had been pure torture.

The people were the worst, and not just because they were a banquet of veins he couldn’t touch. They were nasty. He didn’t mind good, honest greed, but he couldn’t stand all the whispered speculation about who would score big-time in Jack’s will. And Sam called himself a mercenary. He was a rank amateur compared to Jack’s aunt Mavis and that litter of useless, grasping cousins.

No wonder Jack was so good at covert operations. He’d needed them to survive his relatives.

Jack had been good. There went that verb tense thing again. It was hard to think of Jack in the past.

Sam swore under his breath. What were the Horsemen going to do now? There were only three of them left: Sam, the werewolf Kenyon, and Dr. Mark Winspear, the vampire they called Plague. Jack was—had been—their team leader.

He started toward the gate, his shoes crunching on the white gravel drive. It was so clean, Sam could imagine the hired help dusting each tiny pebble every morning, working inch by inch across the broad sweep that led back to the road.

Sam walked through the gates, approaching the oak tree where the Porsche had crashed. The tree had survived better than the car, but not by much. It would have to be felled before there were any serious windstorms. One heavy branch dangled from the trunk, hanging on by a thin layer of bark.

Plague was frowning at the ground around the roots of the oak. He was tall, olive-skinned, and dressed in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt. The doctor looked enviably casual.

In contrast, Sam felt hot and irritable in the black suit he’d put on for the paperwork-signing and safe-opening portion of the entertainment. “Find anything?”

Winspear looked up, his dark eyes serious. “About half a mile down the road. Shell casings. The local cops missed them. Kenyon is going over the woods again, sniffing for more. Maybe he’ll find a bullet in a tree.”

His voice still held a faint trace of an indefinable accent. Despite the English-sounding name, he’d once mentioned growing up in Italy. The last of the Horsemen to join, he was by far the most private. No one could actually say they knew Mark Winspear. Still, he was the best at what he did. He was not only an accomplished doctor, but was what the vampires called an “eraser”—someone who possessed a rare ability to manipulate human memory.

“Kenyon looked at the casings and believes the bullets were silver,” the doctor added. “We’ll know more once we’ve gone over the car.”

“So it was assassination,” Sam said, stating what was rapidly becoming the obvious.

The doctor was peering awkwardly under the dangling branch, examining the marks in the soil, and made a sound that held a world of resignation. “The car had to be going eighty, by the amount of damage. That raises questions. Jack loved his Porsche too much to risk it at that speed on these roads. And you know how slim the odds are of a vampire actually getting drunk, despite the headlines.”

Playboy Dies Living Fast and Hard. Sam swore. “He might have been drugged. Can you do a tox screen?”

Winspear’s mouth was a grim line. “The body was badly burned, but if it’s possible, I’ll get the information we need.”

He looked stricken, and for a moment Sam felt sorry for him. It didn’t seem right that he had to do an autopsy on a friend, but who else had the expertise to examine dead vampires? Not the city morgue.

Sam shifted impatiently. “You have any theories about all this yet?”

Winspear stood, folding his arms. “I don’t like to speculate before I have all the facts.”

“Jack had a lot of enemies. We all do. We need some way to narrow down the list.”

Winspear shrugged. “What stands out? What was Jack up to during the last month?”

“I don’t know.” The Horsemen had been taking a short break from the job and from each other—a necessary thing when so much of their work was all about death and carnage.

“I can’t answer that, either—I was out at my cabin. It was just by chance that I’d arrived back in town when you called.”

Sam grunted in irritation. Patient deduction wasn’t his forte. He liked the part where he got to hit things. “Jack seems to have been close to his niece. He might have mentioned something. Small details can provide clues.”

“Maybe.” Winspear looked away.

Sam understood his doubts. The Horsemen were the only ones who knew who and what Jack really was. The rest was all playacting, learning to fit in with the latest slang and electronic gadgets. Remembering to hide every second of every day.

An unexpected jolt of melancholy hit Sam. He swatted it away with an answering annoyance. “I’ll ask some questions. A few odd things have come up in the estate.”

Winspear raised a dark brow. “Such as?”

“He left his niece a wedding dress.” The image of Chloe and the dress came back, along with that strange, restless feeling.

“A dress hardly seems alarming. Unless it was, as I have heard human girls exclaim, a dress to die for?”

Sam closed his eyes, fighting down a sarcastic retort. “Never mind. It’s a puzzle piece I can’t make fit.”

“Then I would talk to the niece. Maybe there’s a dressmaker or a delivery company that can provide a clue.”

Sam gave a small, ironic salute. “Shall do.”

Winspear looked dubious. “Can you talk to—what’s her name? Chloe? Or do you want me to do that?”

“I think I can handle her.” In fact, handling her sounded like a solid plan—he could spend hours executing that particular mission, if he left his scruples at the door.

A faint trace of a smile lurked in Winspear’s face. “I’d be careful if I were you. She looks like the smart, quiet type. They’re dangerous.”

“I’m a vampire. She’s just a wedding planner.”

Winspear gave a rare, low laugh. “So was Cinderella’s fairy godmother. Don’t underestimate her.”

Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’ll steer clear of mice and pumpkins.”

* * *

It took little time for Sam to track Chloe down. She had taken the dress from Jack’s suite to the room where she was staying. The door was ajar, allowing Sam to pause a moment before he had to knock. He used the time to study the location, as he always did before mounting an assault. It was a large chamber, one window, sparse furniture. Definitely a feminine space, with flowery prints on the walls and bedspread.

Chloe was standing in the middle of the room with her back to the door, looking sleek and polished from her high-heeled shoes to the twist in her dark blond hair. She was staring at the dress. It was hooked to the front of a huge, mahogany wardrobe, the dark wood showing off the white foam of lace.

Sam knew nothing about gowns, but he was pretty sure this one was exceptional. There was something in the proportions and detailing that said this wasn’t some off-the-rack number.

The same could be said for Chloe. The curve of her spine drew his eyes, his gaze lingering on her exposed neck. Ever since he’d arrived at Oakwood, she’d drawn him. Sam desired women and had them, well and often, but few provided more than a moment’s interest. War was not prone to the softer emotions—they were anathema to everything he was.

This woman, though, brushed his senses like the scent of a delicate perfume. She was pretty, but it was a sense of poised energy that made her remarkable—like an arrow about to fly. He couldn’t help watching, expectant for the moment, wondering what would happen if she finally sprang loose.

Sam imagined that release of energy, feeling it with his whole body. It would be exquisite. The thought made his fangs descend, and he quickly began thinking of dull paperwork instead. She’s not for you. Women like her die around creatures like you.

She turned, her brows drawing together when she saw him there. “Something I can help you with?” Her words were quiet and low, but her voice resonated right through him.

You have no idea. A sudden stab of hunger pushed to the fore, reminding him again of what he was: a weapon meant for blood sports. She looked soft and delicious, as if she would taste of summer. Once again, his body tightened in anticipation.

Sam swallowed hard, wrestling himself as he had Kenyon’s wolf, holding back the snapping jaws of the beast. Small talk. Make small talk.

“I can’t help wondering what Jack was doing with that.” He nodded toward the dress.

She relaxed a bit. “Me, too.”

“It’s good quality, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She folded her arms and walked toward it. Sam trailed after her, using the moment as an excuse to get closer. The room was redolent with her perfume—something that reminded him of sunshine and lemonade.

He realized he was stalking her, and forced himself to stand still. “Should it be out of the safe?” he asked.

“Maybe not, but I can’t learn anything about it when it’s locked away.”

Sam nodded. She had a point. “That’s right. You’re the wedding expert. Any insights?”

With a professional air, Chloe eyed the dress. “There’s no label, but I’m sure it’s made to order. The beading is hand-done. It’s probably unique.”

“Expensive?”

“It’s worth a fortune. That’s Italian silk or I’m a duck.”

Sam slanted a glance at her. She was definitely not a duck. “None of your relatives tried to make off with it yet?”

She gave a rueful smile. “They don’t know about it. Fortunately, the last of the happy horde is leaving in the morning.”

“How long will you be here?” He wouldn’t be leaving a moment sooner.

She looked up. Her eyes were dark blue. “Until the end of the week or so. After that the house will be going on the market.”

“You don’t waste time.”

She gave a soft sigh that made his skin tingle. “It’s not me. Everyone wants their piece of the estate.”

Sam watched her eyes sparkle with tears. Forgetting himself, he brushed her wrist with his fingertips, the lightest gesture of sympathy. One he would never normally make. She blinked, folding her arms across her stomach. Sam dropped his hand, the feel of her skin clinging to the pads of his fingers. Silky.

He forced his mind to the task of asking questions, doing his best to shut off his senses. The woman was like a drug, scrambling his thoughts. “Was Jack close to any family but you?”

“Not really. My father, but he died when I was fourteen. Along with my mother.” She looked away. “Long story.”

Something told Sam now was not the moment to ask for details. “No one was close, but the rest still think they should get a piece of all this?” He made a gesture indicating the house.

“Of course.” Chloe made a slight movement, almost a shudder, as if she was trying to shake off a distasteful memory. “Jack had a talent for making money.”

He also had centuries of financial experience, but Chloe didn’t know that.

“Who were Jack’s friends?” he asked abruptly.

“I thought that was you.”

Winspear was right. He sucked at interrogation. Frustration made him resort to his usual bluntness. “You’re in the wedding business. You said the dress was unique. Is there any way to figure out who owned it?”

“What did you say you did for a living?” She narrowed her eyes.

Too blunt. Oops. “Trust fund baby,” Sam said lightly. “I don’t do anything.” But I want to know Jack’s exact schedule for the last six weeks.

The set of her mouth said she didn’t believe him. “But obviously you like solving mysteries.”

“Why not?”

“Well, here’s one for you to chew on. I don’t think Jack died the way the police say he did.”

Sam nearly started. He kept his voice very neutral. “Oh?”

Chloe sat on the edge of the bed, looking suddenly tired and much younger than she had a moment ago. “Jack had a hidden side. I don’t think most people even noticed, but if there was a loud noise, he’d reach for a gun even if he wasn’t wearing one. I never knew what that was all about, but I’d bet good money you and your friends do.”

A very, very smart girl.

“Did Jack have enemies?” she asked, her voice even.

“They’re mostly dead.” Or undead.

Her hand, so fine-boned and soft, made a fist. “I think you guys missed one.”

“What are you talking about?”

She shot him a look. “You’ve got that whole brothers-in-arms vibe going on. I think you watch each other’s backs pretty closely, and I don’t mean around the boardroom table. Well, try this one on. I don’t think Uncle Jack smashed up his car by accident.”

Sam stayed mute.

Chloe pushed on, her jaw set in a stubborn line. “He never drank as much as he pretended to. The whole playboy thing was a game, like a mask he wore when it suited him.”

Her fierce tone was doing something to Sam’s insides, a painful, hot, sweet feeling radiating from deep in his gut. He was getting turned on in a big way. Oh, good timing, Ralston.

“I don’t know,” he said casually. “Once in a very rare while, Jack could tie one on.”

Chloe grimaced. “He wasn’t stupid. Not where the Porsche was involved.”

God, she did know her uncle. Jack loved that car. This whole conversation offended his sense of fair play. She deserves to know she’s not the only one who thinks Jack was killed. But if he broke cover, it wasn’t just his existence on the line. Women like her die around creatures like you. The thought repeated in his mind like a tolling bell. He knew that from bitter experience. Everything about who he was, what he did, invited danger.

“Leave it to the police,” he said reasonably. “They know what they’re looking for.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Which is why your two friends are all over the scene of the accident? They’ve been there since day one like a pair of designer-casual bloodhounds.”

Sam stomped on a snort of laughter before it could get away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Lame.” The heat in her eyes said she didn’t like being dismissed.

“You’re just upset because he died suddenly. It’s understandable.”

“Lame.” A flush of pink was climbing her cheeks. “I’m not a clueless child, Mr. Ralston. Don’t try to hide information from me.”

Irritation flashed through him. “What do you think happened? One of your relatives hired a gunman to get Jack’s estate?”

Her blue eyes didn’t waver. “I bet you’d know how to find out if they did.”

He gave up. “I can’t help you.”

“Then get out of my bedroom.”

Her expression was hard. Unexpectedly, Sam felt it dent his ego. He wanted to reach across the gulf his job and his nature put between them. It was a rare impulse, and one he couldn’t do a damned thing about.

Probably just as well.

His gaze wandered to the wedding dress, taking it in for a brief moment. Marriage was just one more human entanglement he’d left behind, but for a split second he wondered what it would be like to be that unguarded with somebody. It had been too long to remember.

Sam turned and walked out of the room, leaving Chloe alone on the bed.

For now.

Chapter 4

Chloe curled up under the covers, her eyes sandy from lack of sleep. The room should have felt restful, for this was where she’d slept most of her teenage years—but too much had dramatically, tragically changed.

Someone had murdered Jack, she was sure of it, but she had no proof. She’d tried talking to the police, but they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help. They’d treated her like a kid too young for grown-up worries. It pushed every one of her buttons. Still, how could she blame the cops? All she had to go on was Jack’s character and the suspicious behavior of his buddies.

In the dark quiet of the bedroom, she surrendered to pain and loss, letting the pillow muffle her sobs. She just couldn’t grasp the fact that she wouldn’t see Jack again. Ever. For as long as she drew breath. But it wasn’t just grief she felt. Hot, frustrated anger sliced along her raw nerves. She wanted to act, to avenge, but she didn’t know how.

Chloe sniffed and rolled over, the sheets sticking to her hot skin. Outside the window, wind hissed through the trees, making a lullaby of the restless breeze. Chloe’s mind ticked on.

Suspicion just wouldn’t stop clawing at her. She knew she was right to speak up, but other people reacted like she was a hysterical freak—even Sam Ralston. Once she’d asked him about Jack’s accident, it had been like talking to a wall, his handsome face wiped of expression.

Oh, well. At least stone-faced was a change from broody or bossy, which seemed to be his other settings. Too bad he had a magnetism that turned her insides to pudding. Yeah, right. A broody, bossy blank wall with gobs of animal magnetism. Every girl’s dream.

She had worked long enough in the marriage business to know what she wanted in a man: dependable, home-oriented, quiet and sensible. None of her family’s nasty competitive streak. An independent business owner or middle-ranking executive would be perfect. Solid, but not flashy.

Chloe pulled the blanket under her chin. Someone who likes gardening and country fairs.

Not Sam Ralston.

She rolled over again and froze.

What was that? It wasn’t a sound so much as the sense of the air being displaced. As if something had passed in absolute silence. Chloe held her breath, listening.

The wind soughed outside. Almost beyond her range of hearing, she could hear the clock on the grand sweep of stairs chime half past midnight, and then the house was still once more. Logic said she’d been imagining things. There was no one there.

And yet every nerve ending strained with apprehension. A bead of sweat trickled down the small of her back, making her shiver.

She heard a faint exhalation of breath.

Not her own.

Someone’s in the room with me!

Without moving a muscle, she scanned the darkness. The bedroom curtains were partially open, admitting just enough moonlight to separate one blob of furniture from the next. Opposite the foot of the bed, the wedding dress hung on the wardrobe door like a filmy ghost. She wasn’t about to leave the dress unattended, but having it near made her feel closer to Jack so she’d left it there for the night. She suddenly wondered if that had been a wise thing to do.

Beside the tall wardrobe lurked a darker shape, and it was slowly moving. Like a stain, it crept across the white cloud of the dress, making the garment shift. The moonlight caught the crystal beads, making the bodice glitter with shards of cold light. Chloe heard the soft rustle of silk, and then the dress seemed to bob in the air.

Someone was stealing it. Outrage sparked through her, followed by flat-out disbelief. She was right there, mere feet away! Why would anyone risk her catching them? And who knows I’ve got it?

Aunt Mavis? Her hand snaked out from beneath the comforter, finding the switch of her bedside lamp.

“Don’t.” The male voice was hard and cold and not one she recognized.

The sneering tone made her more defiant than smart. Chloe swore under her breath and flicked the switch anyway.

She felt the rush of air as the figure lunged across the room. The china lamp exploded as it hit the floor. Chloe yelped in surprise, instinctively rolling away to avoid the spray of shards. Rough hands grabbed her by the back of her nightgown, forcing her facedown on the mattress.

“Don’t,” the voice repeated, the sneer turning to something more sinister.

Chloe panted in fright, her face turned away from her attacker and pressed hard into the bed. He had her arms pinned behind her back at a painful angle.

Let go of me! she screamed in her head, but somehow the words couldn’t find her tongue. She was paralyzed, the man’s hot breath stroking her skin as he chuckled, long and low.

“Can I trust you not to move?” he said.

It was then she felt the cold kiss of a gun muzzle against her spine. She sucked in a stuttering gasp. She felt his lips brush her ear. “I’d rather not shoot. I’d rather leave without attracting attention. Get it?”

“Y-yes,” she whispered, feeling a hot sting as tears filled her eyes. She squeezed her eyelids tight, stifling a sob. She wanted to scream so badly, but her voice had abandoned her. She’d taken self-defense classes, but the gun trumped any tricks she knew. She’d never been so terrified in her life.

She felt a sudden weight on her back as the thief straddled her, pinning her arms with his body and squeezing the air from her lungs. Her head was turned to the side, but it was still hard to breathe. Chloe struggled, gulping air that stank with her attacker’s sweat.

She sensed him grabbing a pillow off the bed. A moment later, the cool cotton muffled her face, filling her nose and mouth. A gun might make too much noise, but suffocation was silent.

Desperate, Chloe tried to squirm away.

“Damn you!” he muttered, and she felt his grip tighten.

Fighting would only get her killed a different way, but Chloe couldn’t stop. The will to survive was too strong. She bucked hard enough that the pillow slipped and she gasped in precious oxygen.

Wham!

Her eyes went wide as the bedroom door slammed against the wall. The pillow fell away and a flare of sudden light filled the room as someone turned on the overhead. The thief swore, pushing Chloe’s face against the bed with his bare hand. Her mouth flooded with the metallic taste of fresh panic.

“Get away from her!” someone barked. Someone used to shouting orders. It sounded like Faran Kenyon.

“Now!” That one was Ralston!

Chloe felt her attacker’s weight shift.

The deafening noise from his gun came from right above her, making her skull ring.

Oh, God!

A hot spray of blood spattered the pillow in front of Chloe. She recoiled, covering her head, and realized a beat later that she could move her arms. Her attacker had leaped off the bed.

Or been blown off. She scanned the sheets in front of her, crimson spreading across the white like bright drops of paint. Nausea lurched in her throat.

Ralston vaulted over the bed with an unholy snarl, leaping for her attacker. Chloe twisted around to catch a glimpse of a dark-clad man lunging toward the window. She covered her face as the window smashed, her own scream sounding muffled because she was still deaf from the gunshot.

Her attacker disappeared in a hail of glass. Ralston skidded to a stop as he reached the gaping mess where the window had been. Kenyon joined him a second later. Both had their weapons up, standing to the side of the window frame and scanning the grass below.

Chloe could guess what they were thinking. Her room was on the second story, but a porch roof jutted out below. Someone could use that as a halfway point while jumping to the ground.

“Do you see him?” Ralston demanded. He was wearing nothing but worn jeans and sneakers, his torso bare. His big body was still ready to spring, coiled muscles drawn tight.

“Not from here,” Kenyon replied.

“Go.”

Kenyon turned, running for the door and thumbing on his cell phone as he went. By the time he reached the door, someone on the other end of the connection had answered. “Close the gates!”

Chloe could make out the words, but beyond that was nothing but the muffled ringing from the gunshot. For a moment, her emotions felt the same: numb, stunned, distant.

I nearly died.

“You okay?” Ralston stared out the window, still scanning the darkness.

She cleared her throat. “I think so.” The words quavered.

“Good.”

As her pulse slowed, Chloe studied his back, her gaze tracing the muscles and bones of his broad shoulders. Half naked, he looked far more at home than he had in a suit.

It was as if, stripped of clothes, the real man was visible. Sam Ralston moved with an animal grace that stirred something primitive in her. Her fear responded to his blatantly male presence, wanting all that size and strength on her side.

“Is he gone?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“Not for long,” he replied, his head moving slowly as he scanned the grounds. “He’s going to pay for this.”

Finally, Ralston turned away from the window, a furrow between his dark brows. His gaze flicked over her face. “You’re not okay. You’re pale.”

“So are you.”

His gaze flicked around the room. “It’s the smell of blood.”

“I hate it, too.” Chloe hiccupped, feeling a wave of nervous energy shudder through her. The numbness was fading. She wanted to scream. Or cry. He held me at gunpoint. He tried to smother me.

The very idea was surreal. For a moment, she doubted that it had happened at all.

“You’re safe now.” Ralston took a quick step toward her. The speed of it, the size of him made her flinch. He stopped, looking at her for a long moment. Chloe felt her pulse speeding again, pounding in her head.

Slowly now, he set his gun on the nightstand and put his hands on his hips, a gesture that showed his broad chest. His gray eyes were dark and angry. “Do you know what he wanted?”

Chloe felt slightly dizzy. Adrenaline aftermath and unexpected desire hit her like strong brandy. Sam rescued me! A wave of new emotions—ones she couldn’t even name—lapped dangerously at the edges of her thoughts. “He was after the dress.”

They both looked over at the gown, which pooled like a deflated cloud on the carpet. Sam crossed over to it, picking it up by the hanger and replacing it on the wardrobe door. The gesture was surprisingly careful.

Something about it—the crumpled dress or the way he handled it—made her start to cry in soft, gulping sobs. Chloe covered her face, horrified at the pathetic sounds coming from her throat, but the feel of the pillow against her face, the attacker’s hands on her skin played over and over again in her mind.

The bed dipped as Sam’s weight settled next to her. He pulled a blanket around her, his gestures efficient but gentle, as if he were holding himself firmly in check. “It’s over. He’s gone.”

“Then why am I crying?” she snapped. She was weirdly angry, as if it were all Sam’s fault.

“You’re in shock,” he said quietly.

“I don’t cry.”

“I know.” He sounded apologetic.

She wanted to demand how he could possibly know what she did or didn’t do, but it was clear he was just being kind. Biting her lip, she struggled to stop weeping. She craved Sam’s protection but was furious that she needed it. I’ve got to pull myself together.

Frustrated, her mind lunged for specifics. Something besides the horrible feeling of being pushed and crushed and threatened that played over and over in her head, like a bad song that just wouldn’t shut up. “How did he get in?”

“Probably the window. I don’t know yet.”

Yet? That meant the mysterious Mr. Ralston was going to investigate. She swallowed down a fresh batch of sobs. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“I heard something break.”

“Uh-huh.” That sounded too pat. Chloe’s mind grappled for some way to probe his answer, but she was still too overwhelmed. “Thank you for saving me.”

He gave her a guarded look. “No problem. I was hoping to hit the guy in the leg so we could catch and question him. Didn’t quite work out that way. I overcompensated my aim. I didn’t want to risk shooting you by mistake.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Yeah.” Sam touched her arm gently. She would have expected him to crush her to his chest, do the manly-man protective thing, but he didn’t. He was being careful about how he handled her. He knew enough to give her distance, as though he’d dealt with situations like this before.

Chloe realized she was thinking of him as Sam now, and not Ralston. Sam, her savior. Super Sam. Oh, what the heck, he’d earned some girlish gratitude. She was just glad her mind was starting to function again.

A babble of voices came from the hallway. Was her hearing just coming back or had they been out there all along? She slid off the bed, feeling a little unsteady.

“Where are you going?” Sam demanded.

She gestured helplessly at the door. “My aunt. My cousin. People. They’re wondering what’s going on.”

Sam held up a hand. “Let me.”

He pulled open the door, looking like the sexy tradesman from a bored housewife’s daydream. From where she stood, all she could see was the curve of Sam’s shoulder and his denim-hugged backside. That would set the family’s collective imagination spinning. Go me.

While he stood in the hallway, Chloe changed into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She saw with disgust the nightgown she’d been wearing had splatters of blood on it. She balled up the garment and threw it in the garbage can. There was blood on the sheets, too, and glass on the floor, but suddenly she was too exhausted to deal with any of it. She perched on a corner of the bed far from the blood, wishing she could just lie down.

No, no lying down. Not here. She could still feel the echo of a hand crushing her face into the bed.

“How are you doing?” Sam asked as he came back into the room.

The question wasn’t the vague politeness of a stranger. To her utter surprise, Sam crouched in front of her, studying her face. His expression was concerned, almost tender. He reached out, catching her hands gently in his. His skin was cool and wonderful, the gesture infinitely comforting. “Look at me,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. I’m here.”

Chloe met his eyes. A subtle shift came over his features, a tightening of the lips, his pupils eating up the steel-gray irises. There was concern there, but something else now, too. Desire. Possession. He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing the lightest of kisses across the back of her fingers.

The gesture was courtly, barely qualifying as a true kiss, but a flood of tingling arousal swamped her skin from head to foot. No one had ever touched her so intimately with so little flesh.

She gasped lightly, and the skin around his eyes flinched, a predator narrowing his focus. Now it was her neck that prickled with the faintest frisson of fear.

It was too much. Chloe looked down, unable to hold his hypnotic gaze a moment longer. Heat flooded her face.

“Chloe?”

His voice was soft, intimate. It sucked her down further, so she fought it, clawing her way back to the present. She’d just been attacked. Sam had chased the bad guy away.

Memory slammed back, ripping the cobwebs away.

“I wanted to fight,” she said. “I wanted to cry out.”

He made a noise as close to a sigh as someone like Sam Ralston would make. “You did what you needed to. It’s called surviving. That’s how we’re programmed.”

She took a steadying breath. “You didn’t freeze. Neither did your friend. How did you just happen to be there with guns?”

“I always carry.” In a blink, his face was back to his blank-wall setting. Sam rose and put an appropriate distance between them.

Chloe folded her arms, feeling suddenly as if a fire had been doused, leaving her in the cold. What had just happened? Had she asked one question too many? Too bad, because every answer he gave prompted a dozen questions more.

There was a sharp rap on the door. Sam opened it, looking relieved. Kenyon pushed his way in, a grumpy look on his face. His blond hair looked mussed, as if he’d been pushing his hands through it. He stopped, giving Chloe a once-over. “You all right?”

“Sure,” she replied.

“Anything?” Sam asked his friend.

“Nope. The security here means well, but what can you expect?”

Sam swore lustily. “How can that happen? I shot him in the shoulder. He was bleeding.”

“They don’t have our training. Trampled the trail. Messed it up.”

Chloe caught the shut-up look Sam shot his friend. What training?

Kenyon either didn’t notice the look or pretended not to care. “So what was that guy after?”

“The wedding dress,” Sam replied, gesturing toward the place where it hung.

Kenyon gave it a curious look. “Seriously?”

Then something seemed to catch his eye. Suddenly alert, he crossed to the wardrobe. He pulled a small Maglite flashlight from the pocket of his cargo pants and shone it at the beading around the gown’s low neckline.

Chloe got to her feet, still feeling shaky. “What do you see?”

“Interesting decoration. It’s not all crystals.”

Chloe had noticed that, too. There was elaborate embroidery all around the neckline, much of it gold wire couched with silk thread and dotted with seed pearls. Dozens and dozens of set stones had been added to the design, giving a shimmering fire to every movement of the dress. “The headpiece has similar decoration. I think the pearls might be real.”

Kenyon looked up, an odd expression on his face. “So are the stones.”

Chloe gulped. “What do you mean?”

He gave a wry smile to Sam. “You remember last March?”

“That can’t be right,” Sam said dully. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

“You know your guns, I know my luxury goods.”

Sam cursed. “We should have known the moment this turned up in Jack’s safe. Though how he ended up with them...”

“Were you looking for a wedding dress?”

“No.” Sam suddenly looked offended. “What in the nine hells was Jack up to?”

“What are you talking about?” Chloe demanded, her voice going shrill.

Kenyon pulled out his light again and played it across the bodice of the dress, making the stones dance with white fire. “These are diamonds. Whatever bride belongs to this dress could have bought a small country with this dowry. In fact, if I’m right, one almost did. I think these are the lost diamonds of the Kingdom of Marcari.”

Chapter 5

Chloe’s gasp hit Sam hard. He whipped around, alert to whatever had startled her and ready to smash it. But nothing was there. Her shock had simply been at Kenyon’s words.

Nothing like a fortune in lost diamonds to stop a conversation cold. And what were they doing in Jack’s safe? Sam ground his teeth. He wasn’t big on surprises, and this was a whopper.

He edged closer to Chloe anyhow. That kind of ice on the lam meant danger permeated the air like a fine mist. The scum who’d attacked her would have friends. The first one who touches her will lose an arm.

The ferocity of the thought rocked him. He felt far too much for this human woman, but she had been brave, coolheaded despite her obvious distress. He could respect that. And he couldn’t deny that she was lovely, even the curve of her cheek showing nature’s geometry to perfection. But those weren’t good enough reasons to let the weakness of emotions compromise War.

Better to focus on the fact that she was Jack’s niece, and alone. Her relatives could not be counted on to keep her safe. They’d be more likely to strip the valuables from her cooling corpse. Therefore, she needed his help. That was acceptable. Best of all, it was a good reason to be near Chloe. Totally legitimate, even for a bloodsucking fiend. From this second on, Sam was the ultimate guard dog, protecting the girl, the diamonds and the dress. He owed it to Jack.

And he owed it to the Princess Amelie, the bride who belonged in that dress. He kicked himself for not realizing it was her gown right away. But then again, he’d never seen it before. And also—even with a connection to the family, why would Jack have the dress of a foreign princess half a world away? That was odd, even for Jack.

Chloe was definitely struggling to stay in the loop. “Lost diamonds?” She scrunched her face in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“These are the Jewels of Marcari,” Kenyon replied.

“Need-to-know,” Sam growled in warning. It wasn’t the Horsemen’s case, but the blanket order to all the Company’s agents had been for absolute secrecy about the heist. “We’re doing this by the book.”

At least that’s what Sam would do. Or Winspear. They followed orders. Instead, Kenyon gave him an eye roll.

Sam clenched his teeth harder, sensing chaos about to descend. Werewolves. Too valuable to strangle. Not valuable enough to lock away for good. It was the way they’d always worked. Kenyon would push just enough to drive Sam crazy, simply because it was fun.

“You heard about the royal wedding, right?” Kenyon said, addressing Chloe but with a sly look at Sam. “The Prince of Vidon and the Princess of Marcari?”

“Kenyon!”

Chloe shot Sam a startled glance. The look made him feel like a bully.

“The wedding?” she asked tentatively. “Sure, I heard about it. It was in the media for months, especially when Prince Kyle of Vidon was caught with his hand in the wrong cookie jar.”

Sam snorted. The cookie’s stage name was Brandi Snap. The wedding was off, but Brandi had a lucrative book deal.

Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “So what...?”

Sam folded his arms and interrupted. “It’s a long story.”

For an instant, Chloe looked hurt again, and then irritation filled her eyes. “Spill. If the diamonds are in my bedroom and bringing out the bad guys, I have a right to the details.”

Her voice, normally so low and soft, held an edge. She’d reached the end of her rope.

Sam scowled, torn between duty and a desire to tell her everything because she looked so vulnerable. He opted for a middle ground. “The stones belong to the Royal House of Marcari or of Vidon, depending on which one you ask. The two countries have been at odds since the Crusades. Part of the fight is over these gems.”

“The wedding would have resolved it,” Kenyon added. “At least in theory. The stones were recut in honor of the occasion. The finest were to form Princess Amelie’s dowry.”

“I knew that much,” Chloe said. “Once the wedding took place, the gems would belong to both countries. End of argument.”

Sam shrugged. “Until Prince Charming ended up in the tabloids. Now peace is further away than ever.”

Looking pale and shaky, Chloe rose from the bed and crossed to the dress, fingering the elaborately worked bodice. “Then this is Princess Amelie’s gown. No wonder the workmanship is so exquisite.”

Sam watched her hands, so graceful and precise as they stroked the cloth. He imagined them cooking food, winding a bandage, holding a baby. Things that no longer had a part in his life.

Her voice was wistful. “Speaking as a wedding consultant, putting the diamonds on the dress was a stunning concept. She would have shimmered like star fire. A symbol of peace. Everything a royal bride is supposed to be. What a tragedy it didn’t work out.”

Chloe turned, her gaze flicking from Sam to Kenyon and back. “So, how did these get stolen? How did Jack get them?”

“Good questions,” Sam replied. They were ones Jack would never answer.

“You seem to know a lot about the diamonds.”

“Jewelry is a special interest of mine,” Kenyon put in, the picture of utter innocence.

Sam wished there was such a thing as a werewolf muzzle. He considered Chloe’s doubtful expression. He could literally see her figuring out far too much, the thoughts flying across her face. If this kept up, they would have to wipe her memory.

He hated the idea. Selfishly, he wanted her to remember him saving her. Why? You can’t have her.

“When did the gems go missing?” she asked.

“Their absence was noted in March. The fact was kept from the media.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have friends.”

She gave him a dubious look. He held it, giving away nothing even though his hands itched to cup her body and pull her to him. Her anger smelled spicy. She knew he was hiding something. Despite circumstances, the determination in her eyes tantalized.

A contest between them would be interesting. His strength. Her wits. It would never happen. Their worlds would intersect for no more than a few days, and then he’d be gone.

Just as well. War was meant for killing, not affairs of the heart.

* * *

Sam insisted that Chloe move to a different bedroom. Still spooked, she agreed without a fuss. In her books, Sam had earned the title of security expert that night, and there was no way she was getting into that blood-soaked bed anyway. Once the dress was back in the safe, Sam escorted her to a room in the south wing, where there were no other guests to complicate his security plans. He lingered outside her door until she locked herself in.

Not that she was going to sleep, exhausted or not. Her thoughts were caught on a carnival wheel, reeling up, down and occasionally wrong side up. How did Uncle Jack get mixed up with foreign royalty and diamond thieves? Sure, he was a man of mystery and all that, but this was—well, it was pretty out there. But he’d been murdered, so she had to snap out of the shock and focus on the facts.

Sitting cross-legged on the sea-green counterpane of the guest room’s bed, she switched on her laptop and opened her spiral-bound journal to a fresh page. If Jack was involved, it might help to reconstruct his movements for the last few months of his life. A person didn’t just happen on a royal princess’s wedding gown, especially one coated in jewels. It had crossed his path someplace—and not in this town. Lovely though it was, Wingman County was hardly James Bond territory.

Chloe handled a few of Jack’s private business affairs, so she usually knew when he went out of town. She clicked on her electronic calendar and paged back to March, when the diamonds had apparently gone missing. Nothing of interest. She paged back further.

On February 15, there was a note that Jack asked her to attend a luncheon on his behalf. He had gone to the south of France—an intriguing detail, since it was a short train ride from the Côte d’Azur to Marcari. Okay, but lots of people go to warm places that time of year. What’s to say he wasn’t just enjoying the weather?

When did he come back? She paged forward, landing in April. She’d met him in New York, at a show by the designer Jessica Lark. She was a friend of Jack’s, though Chloe didn’t know how good a friend. Jack definitely kissed, but he’d seldom told.

Jotting down the dates and places, Chloe stared at the designer’s name, remembering her brief meeting with the woman. She’d been about thirty, hauntingly beautiful and a rare talent Chloe had felt privileged to meet. They’d shaken hands, firm and businesslike. No fake little air kisses from Lark.

Recalling that night gave her the shivers. She could hear the clink of glasses, the wash of too many perfumes in the hot room. Chloe remembered the brush of Lark’s silk dress against her bare arm, Jack laughing at something she’d said.

An ache in her throat made her shut down the memory. A month later, Jessica Lark had burned to death in a fire that had destroyed her studio. Nothing—and nobody—had survived.

Of the three people in that scene, Chloe was the only one who hadn’t been murdered. Yet. What’s the connection?

The answer was obvious. Jessica Lark was—

Something thumped against her door. Cold terror snaked up her arms, sending her scurrying off the bed. The journal flopped to the floor, making her jump again. She took a breath to cry out, but it died as a chill lump blocked her throat. Memories of the attack came slamming back, pumping adrenaline through her blood. Her hands trembled.

The door had a lock, but no dead bolt. She glanced around for a weapon. Pickings were slim. This wasn’t one of the guest suites, just a spare bedroom with nice but functional furniture. No suits of armor with convenient battle-axes. No ancient rifles crisscrossed over the fireplace. Just a bed and a dresser.

She knew where Jack had kept his SIG Sauer, but that was on another floor. So why didn’t I bring that with me?

Because she wasn’t used to actually needing a loaded gun. As a rule, this sort of danger didn’t find wedding planners.

Chloe held her frozen position, suffocating with fear, for an entire, eternal minute. She heard nothing but the pounding of her pulse.

Blast! She had to know what she’d heard or she’d stare at the door for the rest of the night, wondering. Guessing. Expecting the worst.

Willing herself to move, she picked up a china shepherdess from the night table and stalked toward the door, moving as quietly as a shadow. She gripped the figure with both hands, the china slick and cold against her palms. As a weapon, it wasn’t as hopeless as it looked. Bo Peep and her lambs might be frilly, but they were plenty heavy.

Chloe pressed her ear to the door, holding her breath to listen. Silence. Tentatively, she reached for the knob, balancing Bo Peep in one hand and gripping the cool brass with the other. In one quick move, she popped the lock and pulled it open. With a quick step backward, she grabbed the statue in both hands and hoisted it into the air, ready to bludgeon an intruder.

Sam sat across the hall, his back to the wall, his long legs stretched out. He’d pulled on a plain white T-shirt. His gun rested beside him, or did in the first fraction of a second that she was opening the door. Then it was in his hand, and he was on his feet.

Her breath stuttered, relief colliding with fresh panic. He wasn’t pointing the weapon, just very clearly on the alert, but no one should be able to move that fast.

She slowly lowered the statue. “It’s you,” she said lamely.

Sam eyed the lump of china. “Is that a sheep?”

“Yeah.” She watched, mesmerized by the play of muscles as he relaxed.

“That gives new meaning to offensive weapon.”

Chloe cradled it in her arms, feeling weirdly sorry for Bo and her lambs. “It was the best I had. I don’t carry a gun.”

“You’ve got me.” He took a step closer.

“Yeah, and you wear a gun more often than you seem to wear a shirt, but the rest of us have to improvise once in a while.” She wasn’t usually this snappish, but the night was catching up with her. Finding anyone, even Sam, lurking outside her door wasn’t doing her nerves any good. Neither was the fact that she wanted to move toward him and retreat backward all at once.

“Like I said, you’ve got me. Until this is all over, I’m your bodyguard.”

She was about to retort something about not needing that, but common sense stopped her. Or maybe it was the memory of his gentle hands barely an hour ago, comforting her. Maybe she did need him or maybe she just liked the idea of having someone there, strong and reliable.

Don’t get spoiled. He might be Super Sam, but he’s only here for a few days.

She stepped back from the doorway, beckoning him into the room. She set the shepherdess back on the nightstand. “I think I’ve figured out why Jack had the dress.”

Sam stopped cold. “You can’t be mixed up in this.”

Chloe folded her arms, staring into his eyes so that she wasn’t gawking at the T-shirt straining over his chest and arms. “Listen to me. We’re talking a wedding here. I’m an expert. And I know Jack. You’re not going to get past square one without my help.”

Chapter 6

“What are you saying?” Sam braced his hands on his waist and glowered down at her.

Okay, maybe she was overstating her case, but she could definitely contribute. Chloe fought the urge to poke him in the stomach just to deflate the arrogant set of his strong body. “I know what I’m talking about.”

His brow furrowed. “Oh?”

The single syllable made her vision go scarlet. The tone of it was polite, but beneath the buttering of good manners was doubt. After all, how could she possibly think of something he hadn’t already discovered? Yeah, right. Here comes the ego. The macho guys always have the ego. Next thing he’ll pat me on the head...or the backside. She’d break his arm if he did that, bodyguard or not.

He’d been nearly as bad when they’d talked earlier that day. Trust fund brat? No way. She wasn’t an idiot. He had lied. He was some kind of detective. He thinks I’m an idiot.

So he’d saved her life. That didn’t mean he got to patronize her. “Listen to me, Ralston.”

He folded his arms. “I’m listening.”

Every angle of his face said he wasn’t, not really, but she charged on anyway. “Last April I met Jack at a design show in New York. It was the launch of a new collection by his friend Jessica Lark.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Lark was a designer. One of the most sought-after by a younger segment of the superrich.” Chloe sucked in a breath, frustrated. Sam was looking at her as if she was speaking Martian. “Princess Amelie was one of her best clients.”

“So?”

Chloe paused. She had theories. Good ones. “This is the fashion world we’re talking here.”

“Which means what?”

The man was clueless. There was a good chance the princess would have used Lark for the wedding trousseau. Those designs would have set the tone for the fashion industry for seasons to come. A sneak peek at the sketches would have been worth a fortune—but everything had gone up in flames on almost the same date that the wedding had been called off. It was as if the whole Brandi Snap fiasco was a distraction from the truly important event—whatever it was that connected the fire, the diamonds and Jack’s murder.

And then there was the dress. If Chloe was right, that was Lark’s work. Jack had been in Europe at the right time to pick up the diamonds and then take them to New York to be sewn on to the centerpiece of the wedding collection.

Apprehension crowded in on Chloe. She’d meant to blurt all this out, to share her thoughts freely, but Sam had returned to brick wall status. And he was a bored brick wall. This wasn’t her wedding business, where people knew she was the expert. In Sam’s world, she was just a girl in need of rescue. That look in his eyes was enough to make her rethink.

Chloe clamped her mouth shut. He might be Action Man, but this went beyond physical rough and tumble. Without meaning to, her eyes went back to that muscular chest. Rough and tumble, huh?

He raised an eyebrow, still waiting for her response.

She shrugged. “I thought it was interesting that Jack knew someone in the fashion world who was connected with the princess.”

His expression said it wasn’t very interesting at all. “Jack knew a lot of skinny women with big bank accounts. They were kind of a hobby of his.”

Chloe’s hand itched to smack him, except that there was a grain of truth in his words. Thanks, Jack. “What about the dress? What if Jessica Lark was the one who designed it, diamonds and all?”

“Someone had to. It might have been her.”

Do I have to hand this to you garnished with parsley? “She’s dead now.”

Sam’s eyes flickered as if she’d finally said something worth hearing. Chloe felt a tingle of triumph, but it didn’t last. His expression returned to neutral almost at once.

“You can’t get mixed up in this,” Sam said quietly. “I mean it. You don’t understand the danger involved. Go to bed. It’s going to be dawn soon enough.”

Chloe glanced at the china Bo Peep, wondering if Bo’s sheep were half as dense as Sam.

“It’s not safe to poke around in a murdered man’s affairs.” Sam touched her arm lightly. “We haven’t caught the intruder yet. We will, but in the meantime I don’t want you taking any chances.”

She could feel a flush of hot blood creeping up her cheeks. All her life she’d been on a need-to-know basis. Her parents had never talked about their work or the strange people who came and went from the house. Same with Uncle Jack. Now they were all dead, and Chloe was left to figure things out without enough information to go on. And Sam was doing the same thing. Already he was pushing her away, trying to keep her ignorant. “You’ve got to believe me. I can help you figure this out.”

“You can’t give anyone reason to think you’re still involved.” He leaned closer, bringing his lips within inches of her ear. “Think about it. How did the thieves know you had the dress?”

How indeed? Chloe shivered at the thought, but there was an expanse of tight white T-shirt a mere handspan away. It smelled of clean cotton and Sam, and she had a ridiculous urge to wilt against all those hard, warm muscles.

She took a step back, afraid of losing her perspective. They were having a disagreement. Falling into his arms would confuse things. So would admitting that he had a point.

He stepped with her, gracefully mirroring her movement. Chloe felt a finger of unease tickle down her spine. The movement was predatory, a little too smooth, almost catlike. She raised her hand, instinctively pressing her palm against his chest to keep her distance. What is he doing?

The distance narrowed without her meaning to let it happen. She looked up, meeting his eyes. In the dim light of the bedside lamp, the gray irises had darkened to black, the pupils disappearing into shadowy pools. He was handsome, the face roughly sculpted with square jaw and high cheekbones, but the mouth—that held a promise of sensuality that made Chloe’s chest tighten.

But there was hunger in Sam’s gaze that went beyond a man thinking a woman was pretty. Beyond lust or possession or control. It was as if he wanted to devour her.

Chloe’s mouth grew thick with yearning mixed with the coppery taste of fear. Sweat prickled the small of her back. She tried to swallow, but her throat wasn’t working. Not even her lungs were working right, only pulling in small, shallow gasps of air.

Her fingers began to close on his shirt, gathering up a handful of cotton, fingers sliding over the hard muscle beneath. Her mind flailed, scrambling to make sense of what exactly was going on. He was just standing there, one moment her rescuer, the next...he was something else. For the life of her, she couldn’t explain what had changed. It was like he had pulled back a curtain and someone else was looking through his eyes. A man she wasn’t sure she could handle. Scratch that. A man I know is dangerous.

“Sam,” she whispered.

The moment stretched, apprehension chilling her limbs with a strange cocktail of desire and foreboding. Finally, he blinked. The movement, slight as it was, made her start. Sam drew in a breath that was almost a sigh, his chest heaving under her hand.

As quickly as it had come, the moment ended. The shadows seemed to recede to the corners of the room. That electric charge had come and gone without a word spoken, without either of them making a move.

Chloe hesitated, poised between drawing away and drawing near. It was he who stepped back, gently freeing his shirt and leaving her hand hanging in midair. Regret flitted over his face, followed by a flash of...what? Shame? She couldn’t place it. Most would never have caught it, but she’d grown up around people with secrets. She knew how to catch these slivers of truth.

She looked away before he noticed her scrutiny.

He was backing toward the door. “Go to bed, Chloe.”

“Good night, Sam,” she replied, frustrated and relieved when she heard the rattle of the doorknob. Half of her wanted to grab his arm and beg him to stay. But that would be insane. He frightened her.

And yet, she wanted his lips on her, his hands all over her body. That was insane. They had the long-term prospects of an ice cream cone in Hades. She wasn’t into relationships—however sticky and sweet—that melted away the minute things got hot.

He still hadn’t answered. He just hovered in the doorway, his mouth set in a hard line. If she had to guess, she thought he was angry with himself. On some level, he’d slipped. Their eyes met. His were steady, but there were lingering traces of that fierce heat.

“Good night, Chloe.” The words were clipped. He turned quickly and slipped out of the room.

She took in a long, shuddering breath. Instinctively, she knew she’d made a lucky escape. She jammed a chair under the knob.

* * *

What the hell had he been thinking?

Sam stared at Chloe’s door. The corridor was dark, but his enhanced vision made out the grain of the oak. The thick slab of wood would make a racket if he punched his fist through it. Sam growled deep in his chest. Too bad vampires couldn’t actually turn to smoke and slip through a keyhole. The base part of his nature wanted back in that bedroom. Fool.

He turned away, pacing down the hall and back again, trying to burn off the energy jumping along his nerves.

He’d nearly kissed her. Thank God for that last sliver of self-control. It had been all that kept his beast on a leash. He hadn’t fed properly since arriving at Oakwood, relying on the suitcase of bagged blood that was an agent’s portable kitchen. It just wasn’t the same as the real, live thing. When confronted with Chloe, the combination of hunger and desire gave the world a fuzzy-edged glow, a bit like being drunk. And, like a drunk, he obviously wasn’t thinking straight.

He snarled into the darkness. Biting Chloe was the last thing he wanted on his conscience. Heedless, his fangs descended, sharp against his tongue. He wished he’d caught the thief. He would have been enough of a snack to take the edge off.

That last thought burned in his already overheated brain. How by all the dark powers had that thief escaped? The Horsemen never let that happen.

And here Chloe was, digging into the case rather than staying safely away from it. She’d found an interesting connection to Jack’s designer friend, but Sam couldn’t risk encouraging Chloe in her research. As much as it galled him, the only safe thing to do was shut her down, and as firmly as possible.

He’d seen the hurt in her eyes and hated himself for it.

This ridiculous situation had to end, and that would only happen when the thief was caught. Kenyon might have lost the villain’s trail, but Sam hadn’t had his turn at playing bloodhound.

He pulled out his cell phone, quickly dialing Kenyon. The connection rang and rang.

“H’lo?” the werewolf grunted when he finally answered.

“Get over here. Guard her,” Sam said in a low voice. He didn’t bother to identify which “her” he meant. There was only one that mattered.

“Why? Aren’t you already there?”

“I’m going outside. I need to know who the intruder was.” I need to put miles between me and her, before I slip from bodyguard to predator.

“I’m already all over it.”

“I need to get out.” He couldn’t put it any plainer than that. “You know what I mean.”

There was a significant pause. “Okay. Get one of Jack’s men to babysit.”

“I don’t trust them like I trust you.”

Kenyon grunted with resignation. “I’ll be there.”

“Now.” Sam thumbed off his phone, shoving it back in its belt holster. His shoulders ached from tension, making the movements awkward.

Barely a minute later, an enormous gray wolf came trotting around the corner, tail and ears held high. Kenyon plopped onto his haunches before Sam and lifted his front paws in a classic begging gesture.

Sam stared, huddled in his bad mood. It was hard to keep up in the face of a grinning timber wolf. “Smart-ass. What happens if someone wanders down the hall? I’m tired of bribing animal control officers.”

Kenyon flopped down in front of the door, rolling on his back to expose a hairy belly.

“Whatever.” Sam gave up and went outside. Annoying or not, Kenyon would keep Chloe safe.

He’d meant what he said about a leak. Someone in the household had tipped off the thieves about the dress. Finding out the traitor’s identity was top of his to-do list.

But, right that minute, he needed a break. He was no more domesticated than Kenyon’s wolf. There was a reason he steered clear of jobs that forced him to mix among humans. He was the knife in the dark, the menace lurking on a rooftop. A predator. The only reason he was here was out of respect for Jack.

But somehow, Chloe had touched him. She’d seen a glimpse of the beast tonight and hadn’t known enough to run for it. He’d seen her face, his own darkness reflected back at him through the desire in her eyes. She wanted all of him, even if she didn’t understand what that meant.

That alone meant he owed her protection. He couldn’t articulate why; it was simply a fact. Long ago, when he had been a man, he’d had a wife. He’d adored Amy from childhood, and he kept her memory deep, deep inside where he hid the treasured memories of his human life. But whatever drew him to Chloe was different. It was as primal a response as his hunger for blood.

Sam stood a moment under the night sky, letting the crisp air cool his face. The night smelled of the nearby forest, the scent of pine sharp and clean. Jack’s estate covered around two hundred acres, enough room for even a vampire to feel free for a moment.

He set out for the patch of ground beneath the broken window of Chloe’s old bedroom, passing a rose garden and a patio set with table and chairs. His gaze swept the ground, hunting the shadows for any sign of the intruder.

He looked up, calculating the distance the intruder had jumped. There was a low roof a story above, then another dozen feet to Chloe’s window. A two-part leap to safety—one a trained human could achieve without much trouble. Except this one was wounded. Sam had winged him.

He knelt and examined the grass. This part of the lawn was well trampled. The security guards, once roused, had given enthusiastic chase. Footprints would be hard to track. Blood, however, would not.

Taking a quick look around, he checked to make sure none of the guards still roaming the grounds were in view. Then he crouched until his nose was mere inches from the lawn. A vampire’s sense of smell wasn’t as good as a werewolf’s, but it was better than that of a werewolf stuck in human form. There had been too many people around during the chase for Kenyon to get hairy. Sam might have better luck picking up the trail. Hopefully it wasn’t too late to matter.

There. He caught the scent of blood, memorizing its unique signature. Sam crept forward, following the trace in a diagonal line across the lawn. Now that he knew what he was looking for, the muted glow of lights from the house showed him a particular set of tracks—a medium-sized man wearing soft-soled shoes. Drops of blood dotted the path, keeping the scent strong.

The path led up to a garden wall. It was brick and a good fifteen feet tall. Scuffed dirt at the bottom made it obvious that the intruder had climbed it—no doubt a painful process for a man shot in the shoulder.

Sam took a running step and bounded lightly to the top. He squatted for a moment, scanning the view before dropping to the other side. The wall drew a line between the order of Jack’s gardeners and the wild kingdom beyond. Sam landed in a clump of weeds beside a gravel road. Across the road was untamed forest.

He could see where the intruder had stood. Blood had pooled there, but no trail of drops led away. Sam swore. The intruder must have had enough of a head start on his pursuers to risk stopping to bind his wound. Then, he’d splashed whiskey on the ground, drowning what scent there was in a fog of alcohol. Alcohol mixed with something that made Sam’s nose numb.

That made Sam’s job much, much harder. Was the guy using the smelly substance for disinfectant, or was he expecting tracking dogs? Or did he know there were vampires?

He was willing to bet the latter. Jack’s killers had used silver bullets.

Sam walked up and down the road in ever-widening loops, searching for clues. The gravel was hard packed and dry, giving away nothing. Now that he’d left the protected zone of the walled garden, a freshening breeze was sweeping away any lingering scent. Not that Sam could smell much of anything anymore, after encountering that scent bomb the thief had left.

No wonder Kenyon hadn’t had any luck. Sam stopped, jamming his hands in his pockets. He was coming up empty, too. Come on. Everyone makes mistakes. What clue did this guy leave for me to find?

He had to have escaped somehow. If I were a villain, which way would I run? Outside of a few other estates, there was nothing but ocean to the west. Sam followed the road east.

He’d barely gone a quarter mile before he found what he was looking for. A car had been parked by the side of the road—a small compact, judging by the tire treads in the soft shoulder. They weren’t deep, and human eyes had missed them. The shadows were dense here at the edge of the forest, so Sam pulled a compact flashlight from his pocket, filtering the bright beam with his fingers and using just enough light to see without wrecking his night vision.

There weren’t any obvious clues—no lost buttons or dropped wallets. Just a few spots of blood that probably fell when he climbed into the car.

Sam narrowed his eyes. If he was reading the tracks right, there were two sets of footprints in the soft dirt. It looked as though the intruder got in the passenger side. Had someone been waiting for him?

Instinct made Sam follow the road about a mile to the first bend. The wind was starting to smell damp with a rain that would wash away any remaining clues once it fell. He was running on pure intuition now, all hunter, the beast in him adding its predatory cunning to his human intelligence.

Just around the bend he found the car. It was nose-first into the ditch, the front bumper crunched against a tree. The passenger door was partially open but jammed into the ground, as if the accident had happened when the door was ajar. Had someone bailed out partway through the crash?

Sam wrinkled his nose. Despite his deadened senses, a new banquet of smells, both revolting and enticing, pulled him toward the scene. He approached cautiously.

The driver was slumped over the wheel, obviously dead. Air bags hung like deflated balloons. Sam felt a wave of cold nausea as he circled toward the windshield, peering through the glass to catch a glimpse of the man’s face.

A good deal of the man’s head was splattered over the side window glass. The bullet had come from the passenger seat. Sam mentally reconstructed the events. Bang, pop the door, jump out just before the car swerves into the ditch and smashes the tree.

Risky, shooting the driver. Then again, he would have been slowing the car for the turn. A cold, calculated chance. Not for beginners.

Sam looked long and hard at the ruined face, finally placing it. One of Jack’s security guards. Here, perhaps, was an answer. Gossip traveled through household staff like wildfire. News of the dress, however hard they’d tried to keep it quiet, would have been a particularly juicy tidbit. If this guard was in league with Jack’s killers, that would explain how he came to be in this car. It also would explain how the thief got into the house. The question was, who were his contacts?

Sam circled around to the open door, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve to filter the stench of carnage. Blood was one thing, but there were plenty of substances inside a human body that should definitely stay inside.

Digging his feet into the soft dirt, he pushed the car upright enough to free the passenger door. It was a fruitless effort; the hinges were bent. Bracing the car with his shoulder, he gave the door a solid jerk. It came off in his hands. Sam tossed it into the ditch and let the car settle back into the mud.

Now that he could get inside, he looked for a bullet casing, but found none. Either the shooter had somehow retrieved it or it had flown out of the car during the crash. He searched the glove compartment only to discover the car came from a cheap rental place that specialized in older, practical runabouts. Perfect for getaway cars.

Sam would lay good money the name on the rental papers was fake. Whoever the intruder was, he was an ice-cold professional. He would call Winspear, have him send one of the Company’s crime scene experts, but he didn’t expect that they’d find much.

Whoever this guy was, he was good.

Sam pulled his head out of the car, sucking in clean, sweet air. His head snapped toward Oakwood, where the lights glinted through the trees. He had found what he could for now. Time to get back. Kenyon was guarding Chloe, but that wasn’t enough to stop the tsunami of Sam’s protective instincts.

Chloe.

Then, as if on cue, a scream tore the night.

Chapter 7

Vampires moved fast, but at the sound of the scream Sam moved demon-fast, feet barely grazing the ground as he sprinted. The cry had come from the house. No human would have heard it at that distance, but a vampire could—especially one tuned to that particular voice. Within minutes he pushed through the side door of Jack’s house.

He skidded to a stop, swearing explosively. The door was unguarded. Sure, the larger part of the security staff was searching the grounds for the thief, but an appropriate number had been assigned to watch the house. Had all of them run off to find the source of the cry? It made no sense. That was a beginner’s mistake, and Jack hired only experts. Why would he have idiots watching his back?

He hadn’t. This was simple, pure betrayal. Sam growled, remembering the twisted wreck of Jack’s car, the attacker in Chloe’s bedroom. Who else might be creeping around Oakwood’s halls? He cursed again, this time long and low.

Sam bounded up the stairs, feet silent despite his size. He reached the second floor of Jack’s house, then the third. As he reached the landing, he froze, listening. Chloe? Was that her voice he’d heard? He ghosted forward, eyes searching the shadows for her door. It was shut, but where was Kenyon? A curse on that flea-ridden mutt!

* * *

After she’d locked Sam out of her bedroom, Chloe had tried to go to sleep. If she’d let herself analyze her thoughts, she would have realized she was too scared to sleep—but she couldn’t go there.

If she did, she’d feel like a victim, and she’d felt that too many times before. When her parents died. When she’d been abandoned on what should have been the happiest day of her life—there was a special place in hell for grooms that backed out minutes before it was time to walk down the aisle. No, she wasn’t adding this episode to that box of extra-special horrific memories. She flatly refused.

Instead, maybe she’d blame her insomnia on Sam for putting her hormones in overdrive. What girl could sleep after an eyeful of that white T-shirt and all the smoldering manly goodness underneath? And that sculpted mouth... The thought of Sam made her skin feel itchy in that so-good-it-hurt kind of way.

He was just outside, watching over her. He was scary, but he was on her side.

And he was panting. The sound was faint, muffled by the thick door, but in the absolute silence of the middle of the night she heard—something very weird.

What on earth? Chloe sprang off the bed and raced to the door, pressing her ear to the heavy oak panel. She definitely heard heavy breathing, just outside. A chill crept over her skin as her imagination painted bizarre explanations for the sound. The more bizarre the better, because she was full up on real-life horror.

What on earth could make that noise? Sam gasping his last breath as he was strangled by a giant squid? Zombie Sam slavering at the keyhole, hungry for her brains? Now I’m never going to sleep. Ever.

Cautiously, she dragged the chair from under the knob and cracked the door open. She peered into the hallway, but it was too dark to make anything out. This was so weird. No one was watching her door. Irritation niggled around the edges of her fear. Now that she wanted Sam to be lurking outside, where the blazes was he?

“Hello?” she said tentatively, clutching the thick folds of her terry cloth robe around her.

She thought she heard a clicking sound and stared hard at the darkness. There was only one thing that made that sound—animal toenails. Panting plus clicking equaled dog, not squids or zombies. Boring, but a relief.

But what dog? Jack had owned many pets over the years, but there were none at Oakwood right now. He’d been gone too much these past few years to look after one. Did the dog belong to the security guys? If so, why hadn’t she heard the footsteps of its handler?

Maybe a stray was wandering the halls. After the intruder incident, the security guards were extra-jumpy. If the dog wasn’t theirs, they’d probably shoot it on sight. That thought wasn’t bearable. She had to be sure the animal was okay.

Chloe quietly thumped her head on the edge of the door. This so wasn’t her night.

Silently, not quite sure if she was being bold or stupid, Chloe crept into the hallway and glided for the staircase landing. She flicked on the light switch, the glow from the row of overhead chandeliers banishing the shadows. She looked down the hall, lit by a pool of light every few yards all the way to the end of the corridor. No one—with two or four feet—was in sight.

In the cold, clear sixty-watt light, Chloe felt tired and a bit ridiculous. She had to be hearing things. Surely, after the attack earlier that night, security had been drawn too tight for a mouse to get through, let alone something big enough to pant like that.

But the guy who jumped you got in. She’d forced the event away from her imagination. Just a tiny bit. Just enough to function. But now the feel of her attacker’s hands forcing her into the mattress flooded back to her, and she shuddered violently.

Suddenly, the noise she’d heard seemed far more sinister.

“Sam!” This time she said it with a lot more force. “Sam?”

Silence.

She took a few steps down the hall where she thought she’d heard the clicking toenails. Then she saw it: a gray tail disappearing around the corner. So there is a dog! Pulling her robe closer, she hurried after it. It was headed toward one of the big third-floor bathrooms. The good news was, if she managed to herd the dog in there, it should be easy to shut the door and call someone to deal with it.

The bad news was she had left the relative safety of her bedroom behind. Bad guys used animals to lure softhearted victims to their doom.

Shivering, she broke into a trot, wanting to get this over with. She was nearly to the spot where she’d seen the tail disappear. The long terry robe tangled around her ankles, making her stumble. Yelping, she caught herself.

An instant later, a huge, gray head poked out from around the corner. Chloe’s brain froze for a microsecond, her face going slack with astonishment. A wolf?

But there it was, that creature staring at her with huge yellow eyes, red tongue lolling out from between sharp white teeth. Not a nice dog, but a gigantic, wild thing. She screamed for all she was worth. But there was hardly anyone left at Oakwood, and no one sleeping on her side of the building.

There was just her and the great yellow-eyed creature, stuck in a staring contest. The wolf looked more wary than ferocious, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off it. The moment went on and on, a stalemate neither was willing to break. Finally, desperate to make the thing back off, she kicked off her mule slipper and slowly, slowly, bent down and picked it up. The wolf watched curiously, but didn’t budge. Chloe threw it, but her aim was bad. It bounced off the wall, ricocheting in front of the wolf’s nose.

That startled the creature into skittering backward, giving her time to dive for the safety of the first open door. It was the bathroom. She barely reached it before the wolf was already behind her, filling the door frame and blocking any hope of retreat.

Ironic, when her first thought was to trap the wandering dog in the very same room. Now the tables were turned. She scrabbled on the counter for something, anything to defend herself and came up with an aerosol can. She wheeled around, holding it in both hands. “Back off!” she warned. Her tone was clear, even if it wouldn’t understand the words.

The wolf didn’t come any closer, but it didn’t budge. She glanced at the can’s label. It was that ghastly hairspray Aunt Mavis used, the kind that could hold a hairdo through a category three hurricane. She’d heard of women using the stuff like Mace. She aimed the nozzle at the wolf.

“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot.”

It was hard to tell, but the beast looked confused. It tilted its head, ears swiveling in her direction.

“Back off!” she snapped again, waving the can in hopes the wolf would get the message.

By this point, her nerves were brittle enough to shatter. She’d nearly been killed once already tonight! Where were all the security guards who were supposed to rush in and save her? Her relatives? She heard conversation, doors shutting, but no one was storming to her rescue. Where was Sam? He’d promised to guard her, but the moment she’d needed him he had vanished.

The wolf sat down, effectively trapping her. Hot, sweaty panic welled up, leaving her sick and shaking. She was in trouble, but no one was here to help her. Claustrophobia squeezed her chest. She had to get out of this bathroom!

“Go away,” she shouted.

The wolf barked, making her jump so hard her feet actually left the floor. Reflexively, she squeezed the nozzle of the can, releasing a hissing cloud of perfumed spray. The wolf staggered backward into the corridor with a ragged whine. The chemical reek of the spray clogged Chloe’s throat. She covered her nose with her terry-towel sleeve and blinked hard, but for a blessed moment the doorway was clear.

Instinct kicked in. Chloe bolted for freedom, her bare feet hardly touching the floor.

Then she saw security guards ahead, running toward her and raising their guns at the wolf. A few of the other guests were peering around corners, too frightened to come to her aid.

“Don’t fire!” she yelped, afraid for herself, the bystanders and the wolf. She glanced behind her.

Like a shaggy nightmare, the creature bounded after her, claws scraping and red tongue lolling. Chloe scrambled, running into the door frame in her haste to retreat. Her feet slithered on the hardwood as she tried to turn and shut the door.

The wolf attempted to stop, all four legs going straight. Its nails skidded on the hardwood floor.

Unsuccessfully. Golden eyes going wide with alarm, it bashed into her, the full weight of it colliding with her legs. Her feet flew out from under her and they both went down in a tangle of fur and terry cloth.

The wolf made a pathetic whimper. Chloe sucked in a shallow breath, terrified that if she moved, if she attracted its attention, it would bite. The stink of hairspray pervaded the air, making her want to sneeze. She froze, fighting the fierce tickling in her nose and throat. A sneeze might startle it.

It was a heavy beast, especially draped over her legs. The thick, coarse fur tickled and was disgustingly sticky with spray. Gingerly, she lifted her head a degree, peering down at it. The thing drooped its ears, giving her a wounded look with its great yellow eyes. Its ruff stuck up at odd angles, as if it was going for a fauxhawk.

“Where did you come from, anyway?” she murmured, forgetting herself.

It whined again, resting its chin on her knee, and gave a tentative tail wag. Apparently, it wasn’t going to eat her. Maybe it had eaten someone already. Maybe Aunt Mavis.

At that thought, Chloe experienced a moment of mixed emotions.

Now the security guys were crowding around. Sam burst through them, SIG Sauer drawn and searching out the enemy. When he saw Chloe, he lowered the gun, his gray eyes giving her a look that melted her where she lay. She immediately forgave him for being late.

“You cried out.” His voice was thick with concern. With a jerk of his chin, he sent the other men away. Obviously used to his command, they went at once, herding the scatter of bystanders back to their rooms.

Magnificent. It was the only word to describe Sam.

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

But unobservant. “I think so?” she replied from underneath the wolf.

Sam snapped his fingers. The creature rose, shaking itself, and gave Sam a dirty look. Chloe felt tingling through her legs as circulation returned. She struggled to sit up. Sam glowered at the beast.

“Is he yours?” she asked.

“Sadly.”

The wolf edged toward Chloe, its tail between its legs. Sam narrowed his eyes. Chloe started to rise, but the wolf leaned into her, burying its head against her shoulder.

“Hey.” Startled, Chloe carefully scratched the wolf’s ears. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Such a big, handsome boy. I’m sorry I sprayed you, but you scared me.”

The wolf wagged its tail, and she started to use both hands.

“Heel,” Sam growled.

The wolf gave a start at the sound of Sam’s voice, raising its head from Chloe’s embrace.

“Now.”

The wolf slunk to Sam’s side.

“Why haven’t I seen him before?” Chloe asked.

Sam’s eyes flicked to Chloe’s, then away. “I’ve been keeping him in the garden. I don’t know how he got into the house.”

Chloe heard the lie, but couldn’t make sense of any of it. Her brain was too fogged with fatigue. Too preoccupied with the fact that, if the wolf hadn’t been tame, she might have ended up chow.

Why had Sam left her alone and why had he just lied to her about having a pet? Big, strong and protective was great, but reliable and honest counted for plenty.

He noticed her frown. “Chloe?”

She shrugged, suddenly feeling a lot less forgiving. “It’s dangerous to let your furry friend roam. Something could happen to him.”

The wolf licked his fur and made a gagging sound.

“He’s a big boy. I’ve been thinking of sending him to obedience classes.” Sam offered her his hand.

Chloe took it, letting him pull her to her feet. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“What else is there?”

“I thought you were guarding my door.”

“I was doing some investigating. I left someone to take my place, but he wandered off without authorization. We’re going to have words. Many words.” He glared at the wolf again.

The hallway was empty now except for the three of them. Sam held her by her upper arms, so close that her robe brushed against him. “Chloe, I’m sorry.”

She could see the darkness in his eyes again, just as it had been during that strangely charged moment in her bedroom. His look was one of possession, fired now by the adrenaline of the moment. He had come to save her—from where, she couldn’t say. The damp scent of the night clung to him, enticing in its mystery.

At that moment she realized that she’d leaned into him. Something about the man drew her like a magnet. She tilted her face up, staring into his steel-gray eyes. The need she saw there made her pulse kick up a notch, beating hard and thick in her throat. Suddenly the terry cloth robe was too hot, suffocating instead of cozy. She had a mad urge to peel it off, and then the nightshirt she wore under it, too. It was a fleeting, silly notion but it still wound through her thoughts, tempting her to give in to the demand implicit in that possessive look. Chloe tightened her belt, fighting an aching need to respond. Blood flooded to her face, chased there by the boldness of her thoughts.

A quiver passed over Sam’s lips, not humor but another more intense emotion she couldn’t read. He brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek, letting them linger there, as if testing the heat of her blush. The touch was cool, yet so light it was no more than the kiss of a wing. The stroke continued, curling around her ear, brushing under her jaw to hover over the pulse beneath her ear. She shivered, nipples suddenly aching. She wanted his cool hands on them. She wanted his wet mouth on them. She wanted him inside her.

In a blink, her whole body was aching and slick with need. This was crazy. She barely knew the man. She scrabbled to pick up the threads of their conversation, to make these insane thoughts disappear beneath the surface of adult conversation. What had he been talking about? Oh, yes.

“Well, did your investigation go anywhere?” Her voice was rough and breathy. She cleared her throat.

He gave her a careful look. “Yes.”

“What did you find out?”

Sam did his best impression of a blank wall. Chloe sighed.

“I’m protecting you,” he said, voice dropping almost to the range of a growl. “Everything I do is to keep you safe.”

“If the dress thief is any indication, ignorance is a lot more dangerous.” She pulled the robe tighter around her throat.

“I’m not sure about that.”

She shrugged, aching, frustrated and tired of playing games. “Oh, forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

She threw the statement down like a dare.

* * *

Sam watched the shrug do lovely things to the sliver of skin showing at the neck of the white robe. She was trying to hide it, but it still showed like an arrow pointing toward more intimate beauties. Her golden hair hung in glistening waves down her back, much longer than it looked pinned up. All that gold and white softness gave her an angelic air, spiced by the strong scent of her desire. Sam’s body tightened, transfixed for a moment by her loveliness, by the promise of pleasure. It was so different from his world of missions and weapons and blood.

He ached with wanting her, a sweet, slow pain filled with yearning and regret. Only part of it was a need of the body. His spirit reached for her, too, somehow knowing that she was a woman who would offer solace and strength. Things War shouldn’t need.

She was a good person, and that was exactly why he had to walk away. They had no business being in each other’s lives.

Then his brain caught up with what she was saying: “It doesn’t matter.” The look in her eyes said clearly it did.

But what could he say? That he’d found a dead body? Chloe didn’t need one more thing to keep her awake tonight, and knowing the security guards had been compromised wouldn’t help one bit. That kind of news could wait until morning.

The moment dragged by like a physical ache. Sam struggled, his instinct to take her then and there warring with the knowledge that whatever might pass between them would end badly. Human women were so sadly vulnerable. He could protect, but he could never have.

Then the moment faded, falling in on itself when the moment of burgeoning desire was ignored. Chloe’s face grew set, the corners of her mouth pulling down. Sam felt his neck prickle, instincts responding to her darkening mood.

“Where did your pet go?” she asked, a little too crisply. “What’s his name, anyway?”

Pet? Scrambling for a reply, Sam looked over to where Kenyon had been sitting. There was nothing left but a few dog hairs.

Sam cleared his throat. “Fido’s shy of people. Some wolf blood, you know.”

Her expression said she didn’t believe any of that. “He’s a marshmallow. I can’t believe you didn’t mention him before this. Why keep him a secret?”

Sam grunted, knowing he was going to lose if he kept talking. He was the guy who hit things, not the one who provided plausible deniability for werewolves. And something about that fluffy robe was shredding his thought processes. “I’ve got to go catch him.”

“Yeah, there are too many gun-happy guards around.” She blinked, her eyes shadowed with fatigue.

“Are you going to get any sleep tonight?”

“I keep trying.”

Sam would have liked to personally tuck her in. Maybe she’d stay put this time. Maybe he’d stay there to make sure she stayed put. Yeah, what was that saying about foxes and henhouses?

He had a wolf to catch. “Good night, Chloe.”

Her lips curved in a tired smile. “Good night, Sam.”

He opened his mouth to keep talking, but she turned away before he could think of anything else to say. Just as well. He wanted a few seconds more, but then it would be a few seconds after that, and so on until sunrise.

She turned back, her expression oddly naked. “Are you going to guard my door?”

“Absolutely. Personally.”

Her head drooped, not quite a nod. “Thank you.”

To his regret and relief, she closed the bedroom door, and the moment passed.

Sam slowly turned to see Kenyon’s human shape lurking in the shadows. He’d pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie.

Sam stalked over to him. “What happened?”

Kenyon snorted with disgust. “I heard Chloe moving around and tried to get out of sight before she opened the door. But she saw me. Then she chased me.”

Despite himself, Sam chuckled. “She chased you?”

Kenyon gave a lopsided smile. “What’s the point of being a monster unless you can have fun with it?”

Good question. He wouldn’t have minded a show of feminine gratitude. After all, the vampires on TV got the beautiful blondes. Not that Sam watched, of course. He yanked his mind back to business. “We’ve got to call Winspear.”

Kenyon ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers caught in clumps of hairspray. “He won’t have done the autopsy yet.”

Sam recoiled from the image of Jack lying on a cold metal table. That was just so wrong. “Then the doctor had better get busy because I have another customer. I found the thief’s getaway car, plus the driver. He was one of the security guards, shot in the head.”

Kenyon’s eyes widened. “Where? I lost the trail at the edge of the garden.”

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