Lizzie Lynn Lee

A Total-E-Bound Publication

www.total-e-bound.com

Night of the Lions

ISBN # 978-0-85715-947-2

©Copyright Lizzie Lynn Lee 2012

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright April 2012

Edited by Rebecca Hill

Total-E-Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

Warning:

This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
heat rating
of
Total-e-burning
and a
sexometer
of
2.

This story contains 80 pages, additionally there is also a
free excerpt
at the end of the book containing 5 pages.

Lions of Manhattan

NIGHT OF THE LIONS

Lizzie Lynn Lee

Book one in the Lions of Manhattan Series

Shape-shifters aren’t real, are they?

Enigmatic and introverted, Gabriel Larousse is a billionaire with a secret. He’s actually a lion shifter, alpha of his pride who left his homeland along with his brothers to avoid the clan wars and to live peacefully among humans.

Catherine Kovac is a private investigator who is on the brink of losing her business. A client hires her to unearth Gabe’s dark past. Getting close to Gabe seems like an impossible task. The man is surrounded by his brothers, who are eager to jump at her throat, thinking she’s looking for dirt. So Cat is surprised when Gabe invites her into the circle and into his bed.

To discover that Gabe desires her as his mate is one thing. Finding out his dark furry secret is quite unnerving. But saying no to an alpha like Gabe is like talking to a brick wall. Cat may have to get used to the idea that Gabe isn’t just a big cat that would be content and purr for just a little petting…

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Victoria’s Secret: Victoria’s Secret, Limited Brands

GQ: Condé Naste Publications

Armani: Giorgio Armani S.p.A

Brioni: PPR

Bruno Magli: Bruno Magli S.p.A

Kohl’s: Kohl’s Corporation

Road Runner: Looney Tunes, Warner Bros. Entertainment, Inc

Le Bernardin: Le Bernardin, New York City

Lincoln: Ford Motor Company

Mack Truck: Mack Trucks, Inc, AB Volvo

Coke: The Coca Cola Company

Evian: Danone Group

Rohypnol: Hoffman-La Roche Ltd.

Lacoste: Lacoste S.A.

Hitachi: Hitachi Ltd.

Terminator: Orion Pictures Corportation

Taser: Taser International, Inc.

Incredible Hulk: Marvel Comics

Target: Target Corporation

Glock: Glock Ges.m.b.H

Jeep: Chrysler Group LLC

Fox: The Fox Entertainment Group, Inc

Cucina Amore: West 175 Media Group, Inc

Chapter One

She didn’t belong to this most exclusive gentlemen’s club in Manhattan, but the attendant who manned the lobby had let her in because he was mesmerised by her boobs.

She had a great pair.

They were real, thank you very much. Clothed in the black, lacy, padded Victoria’s Secret  bra and a white cocktail dress with a dangerously low décolletage, her best assets had charmed many men and let her nose around places that were usually out of bounds.

Catherine Kovac was a private investigator. Not a good one at that, since she barely had a hold on this trade. She had inherited the business from her late brother Jon. She used to be his secretary before Jon died in a car accident a few months ago, and already the agency was sinking like the Titanic. Detective work wasn’t like answering calls or running the payroll, and she’d found herself lousy at locating missing cats or tailing a cheating spouse.

Her current gig, which she hoped would save the business, was to dig up as much dirty laundry as possible on a businessman named Gabriel Larousse. Her client, a forty-something reclusive named Judith Rossi, insisted that Gabe, as he was known, had been responsible for the death of her brother, Cameron Rossi, fourteen years earlier in Africa. Gabe was currently thirty-five years old. The incident must have happened when Gabe was twenty-one, three years before he’d started his real estate business.

Gabe was a self-made billionaire. He’d started from nothing, working his ass off to flip the first property he’d managed into a profitable venture, and had built his empire from there. He had also been voted this year’s most eligible bachelor, on account that he’d reached the pinnacle of his success at quite a young age. It didn’t hurt that Gabe was easy on the eyes.

Okay, Gabe was hot.

Like, smoking hot.

He and his brothers, Alexandre and Renaud, were the talk of the town. There must have been some good genes in the Larousse family because they were all devastatingly handsome. Cat wasn’t a gal who used that type of hyperbolic shit in her vocabulary, but the brothers were really gorgeous. They all stood over six feet tall, with signature coppery-blond hair, broad shoulders, tapered waists, and long legs. They could have passed as GQ models. And, armed with deep pockets, they were chick magnets. Too bad they were all socially tight-assed—it would take gallons of prune juice to clear up their plumbing. None of the brothers liked reporters, the media, or people like Cat. If they got a whiff that a nosy PI had invaded their personal playground, she would see her ass thrown to the kerb in a blink of an eye.

She tried to be inconspicuous as the club attendant seated her at a table near the bar. His gaze was still hovering over her chest. She sighed inwardly. It was as if he’d never seen natural D cups before. But who was she to judge about men and their obsession with breasts? The compulsion was deep, as if it were coded into men’s DNA.

She ordered a gin and tonic and threw the attendant the sweetest smile she could manage. She hoped he’d be distracted enough not to ask why she was here in the first place. The gentlemen’s club, Rococo Country, was a private establishment catering to members only, a watering hole in which wealthy businessmen in the upper crust of society could socialise, kiss ass, and plot on how to make themselves even richer. She told the attendant in black livery that she was here to meet her lawyer. He was going to be suspicious when her lawyer never arrived.

In the meantime, her target, Gabriel Larousse, stood in the billiards room about twenty yards from where she sat. He was leisurely chalking his cue. His gaze was fixed on the white, red and yellow balls strewn across the table as if they were his mortal enemies. He tapped the cue ball with the precision of a sniper, scattering the other balls into the pockets.

Cat didn’t know much about pool, but that had been pretty impressive. Gabe seemed like one of those people who treated everything as if it were a challenge to conquer. Maybe that was why he was a successful businessman.

As she’d suspected, one of Gabe’s brothers was with him. Alexandre Larousse, Gabe’s second—or Gabe’s
shadow
, as people nicknamed him—was leaning by the wainscoted wall, talking in hushed tones on his cell phone. Gabe never went anywhere in public without one of his brothers. Alex and Ren, both younger than Gabe, were very protective—like capos to the don. One didn’t just flounce up to Gabe without Alex’s or Ren’s approval. If Alex or Ren didn’t like what they saw, one couldn’t get within ten feet of Gabriel Larousse without risking one’s neck.

Luckily, she wasn’t here to talk to the big guy today. She was just stalking him. Observing what he was like in the flesh. The media had painted him as an enigmatic young god. Rumour had it he was a dangerous man to have as an enemy, and yet some vouched for him as a child-loving philanthropist. No one had ever figured out what kind of man Gabe really was.

Aside from the fact that he was fucking hot.

The club attendant came over with her order. She murmured her thanks and batted her eyelashes, flirting a bit.

The man looked happy with the attention. “If I may ask, what would be the name of the gentleman you’re waiting for?” He drew himself straight, as if to make himself taller than he really was. “So I can direct the gentleman straight to your table, madam.”

“Jackson,” Cat lied smoothly. “Marvin Jackson.”

He inclined his head in a perfect gesture. He withdrew in silence. His eyes weren’t straying to her boobs any more.

Good riddance.

She sipped from her glass while furtively spying on Gabe. He wasn’t dressed in his usual tailored Brioni suit. He was wearing a white shirt with sleeves folded to his elbows and a pair of crisply pressed, black Armani slacks. No tie. No suit jacket. The black, casual Bruno Magli loafers on his feet must be the real thing, unlike the knock-offs she had bought for her ex-boyfriend as a birthday present a long time ago.

Since Gabe had sent all the balls into the pockets, he set up a new rack. He stalked around the table like a predator hunting its prey before he leant forward and took a shot. Loud taps filled the billiards room as he sent the different coloured balls scattering across the green baize.

Cat took another sip of the gin and tonic and fished out a small journal from her purse. She leafed through it, looking for her notes on Gabriel. Particularly her interview with her client, Judith Rossi.

On October fourth, fourteen years ago, Judith and her brother Cameron had gone to South Africa for a safari vacation. They’d met Gabriel Larousse and his friend, Oliver Duval, both students from the University of Cape Town, at a local cafe. The four quickly became friends and planned a trip to the Kruger National Park. Since Judith and her brother were trust-fund kids, they’d been allergic to hardship and had wanted their travel arrangements to be as comfortable as possible. Judith had booked expensive accommodation in Kingston Camp, a colonial game lodge in Timbavati Private Nature Reserve. The camp had offered dangerous game hunting as one of its main attractions.

On the fateful afternoon of October fifteenth, the four of them had coursed along with the park ranger, Nisi, on a dry creek in an open vehicle. They’d spotted a warthog. The party didn’t have a hunting licence, but Cameron had been hell-bent on killing something that day. He’d pulled out an antique Colt he’d purchased from a fellow lodger and shot the warthog. Instead of killing the overgrown male boar, though, Cameron had only pissed the warthog off. It had charged in their direction and managed to topple the vehicle. The five of them had scampered for cover and become separated.