Werewolf in Las Vegas (17 page)

Perhaps now he agreed with Duncan MacDowell, a werewolf who championed integration of Weres and humans. Duncan had founded WOOF, Werewolves Optimizing Our Future, and his popular blog argued in favor of blending the two species. Many in the Were community strongly opposed that idea, but every time a human and Were mated, the hole in the dike widened. Bryce would have heard about Jake Hunter's recent decision to take a human mate. Although Bryce wasn't romantically interested in Cynthia, he might welcome some other human female into his life. Giselle hoped not. Such a move wouldn't go over well in the Landry household.

More than that, she had a feeling that Bryce and Miranda should be together. Whether Miranda would ever forgive him for cutting out on her was a whole other matter, but Giselle hoped that she might. They seemed right for each other, despite this current glitch in their relationship.

But if her brother had decided that a human female like Cynthia Dalton would suit him better, Giselle and her pack had big problems. A Were-human mating caused ripples throughout the Were community, and that was for starters. Either Bryce would abandon his pack, which left Giselle holding the bag, or he'd ask his human mate to become part of the Were world, which would create a set of problems for whoever that woman might be.

At least that woman wouldn't be Cynthia. Giselle's thoughts drifted to Luke's sister. Had Luke ever considered bringing Cynthia into the business? Maybe not. He was in so many ways the throwback she had imagined him to be when they first met.

Cynthia might not want to be an officer in the corporation, but if Luke had never asked her, that wasn't good. Giselle had much to talk to the man about, but she had to choose her words carefully. These were touchy subjects.

Phone in hand, the subject of her thoughts walked back into the bathroom. He'd replaced the towel with a pair of gray sweats and a black T-shirt with
Silver Crescent
in metallic letters highlighting his impressive pecs. The T-shirt fit tight across his shoulders and hugged his biceps. She could stare at him all day and not get bored.

“Owen reports that Bryce and Cynthia picked up the Corvette, drove into the mountains, and rented a cabin up there. He has the cabin staked out and says they're still in there.”

Giselle scrambled to her knees. “Let's go! We can grab a piece of fruit for breakfast and head on up the mountain.”

His gaze swept over her half-submerged body and lingered on her breasts. “You need to slide back into the water. Now you look like a mermaid, and you know how tempting they are to us humans.”

Even though he was talking about mermaids, having him refer to himself as a human while suggesting that she was not sent a chill down her spine. “But if they're staying put, maybe they're ready to talk. A mountain cabin would make more sense as neutral territory than some noisy restaurant or casino.”

“I'm not convinced they're ready to talk to us face-to-face. I also have a rhyming message from Cynthia. I wouldn't call it a riddle, though. Back in the water, please.” He lowered his hand as if pushing her there. “Down, down. That's good. Stay right there.”

“I don't see the point in this. The water's clear as a bell.”

“Yes, but from over here, I can't see much more than your head sticking up over the rim of the tub.”

“Come on, Luke. Surely the sight of my naked body doesn't—”

“It does. And don't make fun. I'm seriously in lust with you, sweet peach, and after last night's boinkathon, I'm having trouble concentrating. All the research says that a man's sexual trigger is visual stimulation, so I'd appreciate your cooperation in the matter.”

“Okay.” She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. No lover had ever said that kind of thing to her before, probably because Weres were stimulated by scent more than sight. A werewolf would be less interested in her sexually right now because the water and the Epsom salts muted her aroma. “So what's the message?”

“
Forest cabin, empty soon. Message waiting, happy tune.
”

“So they're leaving something for us in the cabin.”

“Right. And sure as the world, something in there will be designed to get me wet.” He glanced at her. “Maybe you can figure out in advance what that might be, given your knowledge of your brother's pranking skills.”

“I'll try. Let me think about it.”

Luke's phone chimed. “She sent a PS.
Don't send Owen in instead. I know he's watching the cabin.”
Luke glanced up. “She's really enjoying this.”

“Of course she is. She's got your attention.” Now, if he'd only listen, really listen and understand, they might get somewhere.

“I'll bet she's also got the DVD of all her recitals. That was in the vault.”

“She has a right to them, after all. She's your sister, a part of the family.” Giselle hesitated. Might as well give it a try. “Have you ever considered making her an officer in the corporation?”

His stunned expression was all the answer she needed, but he confirmed it verbally. “No. She's only twenty-two.”

“What does that have to do with it? She must be really smart if she was on track to graduate magna cum laude from Yale.”

“Yeah, but . . .” His gaze reflected his struggle with a concept that obviously had never occurred to him.

“Luke, what did you expect her to do with her degree?”

He shrugged. “My dad was the one who encouraged her to go. I don't know whether he had something in mind.”

“Sounds as if the whole idea of college for her was based on some vague concept. If she is goal-oriented, there's nothing vague about becoming a showgirl. It's tangible and she has a role model—her mother.”

“I know. I've thought of that.”

“Her other two role models, her father and you, are in the business world, but apparently you've never invited her to be part of that world and neither did your dad. You were expected to take over because you're the son. She's the daughter, who's expected to do something brilliant . . . somewhere else. What's the appeal?”

“She wouldn't want to be part of the Dalton Corporation.” He gazed at her. “Would she?”

“You'll never know if you don't ask her.”

Luke massaged the back of his neck. “I have to think about this.”

“I'm sure you do.” She heard the penthouse front door open. “Our breakfast is here.”

He blinked. “Your hearing is scary good.” He paused to listen. “Okay, now I hear him moving around in there, clinking dishes and stuff. But you heard him come in the door, didn't you?”

“Yeah. It's genetic. Both my parents have the same excellent hearing.”

“And Bryce?”

She nodded. “Bryce, too.”

“That seems like an unusual genetic trait. I'll bet medical science would be interested in it.”

“I suppose.” Not to mention her canine DNA. But she'd never set foot in a traditional doctor's office. Her pack supported a clinic staffed by Were physicians trained at a top secret Were medical school.

“But you probably wouldn't want to go through a bunch of tests and stuff,” he added.

“You're right. I wouldn't.”

“Don't blame you. Nothing worse than being treated like some lab rat. Well, let me go see how breakfast is coming along and make sure that your waffle is fixed the way you ordered it. Once I'm gone, feel free to climb out of the tub.”

“I will.” She smiled at him.

“And put on something really ugly, okay?”

“I'll do my best.”

“Bet it won't help. You're just too damned beautiful for your own good.” With a chuckle, he left the bathroom.

She was really starting to like this guy . . . a lot. And that made keeping such a big secret from him even tougher. She pictured the scene if she told him.

At first he wouldn't believe her. She'd have to shift to prove it. And he might be absolutely horrified. She shuddered. Good thing that was never going to happen.

Luke found Mr. Thatcher putting the final touches to the breakfast table. He placed a small bouquet of roses in the center and stood back to admire the effect.

“Very nice, Mr. Thatcher. Giselle will love those.”

“I daresay she will. She seems to appreciate small kindnesses.”

“She . . . ah . . . didn't stay in the guest room last night. I don't want you to be surprised when she comes out of my bedroom.”

Only a slight flicker in Mr. Thatcher's eyes registered his response to that. His demeanor remained calm. “That's between you and the lady, sir.”

“True.”

The butler cleared his throat. “But I would like to say one thing, if I may be permitted to do so.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“I would caution you not to get attached. I doubt that she'll be around very long.”

Luke remembered that the butler and Giselle had talked the night before while Luke had been embroiled in the scheduling conflict down in the kitchen. “Did she say anything specific about that to you?”

“Not exactly. Call it intuition, but I don't see her as a long-term solution to your loneliness.”

Luke caught his breath. Mr. Thatcher was always so proper and formal. He rarely made such a personal comment. “Who said I was lonely?”

“Pardon me, sir.” His naturally ruddy cheeks turned a shade darker. “I forgot myself for a moment.”

“No offense taken, but I am curious. Why would you assume that I'm lonely?” The word resonated within him, and it sounded far more valid than he'd like to admit.

“Well, I've . . . been thinking about loneliness recently. I may have erroneously thought I recognized behaviors in you that are similar to mine. My mistake. I do apologize.”

“You're lonely?” Luke had never considered that possibility.

“I believe so, sir. Things have changed, as they always do, of course. I'm not caring for a young family any longer. And, no reflection on you, but I did enjoy the elegant parties your parents used to have in this penthouse. They kept me busy.”

Luke nodded. “Makes sense. It's been a lot quieter around here since my dad died and my mom left.”

“Of course. And you haven't been in a celebratory mood, which is perfectly understandable.”

“Listen, Mr. Thatcher, if you want to take time off and visit your family in Hertfordshire, I can manage without you for a couple of weeks. I know you usually go in July, and you can still do that, but maybe you need a visit now.” And in the meantime, Luke could figure out ways to liven up the place. Weekly poker nights in the penthouse, maybe.

What the butler really needed was for Luke to find a wife and produce some kids. If Luke had a wife, she might want to invite friends over for dinner. Mr. Thatcher would have a busy life again. But Luke couldn't just snap his fingers and make that happen.

“I appreciate the offer, sir. I may take you up on it, but not at the moment.”

“Why not?”

“I want to make certain that your sister is, shall we say, settled before I leave the country for any extended period of time.”

Luke was touched by that. He'd always thought of Mr. Thatcher as a second father to him and Cynthia, but he'd never known for certain that the feelings went both ways, and whether they were like a son and daughter to the butler. He was not a demonstrative man. But if he couldn't leave until Cynthia was “settled,” as he'd put it, then he obviously cared for both of them in a fatherly sort of way.

“Thank you, Mr. Thatcher,” Luke said. “I'll take all the moral support I can get right now.” He glanced at the table, where the plates were covered with silver domes, as usual. “Mind if I check out Giselle's waffle?”

“Be my guest.” The butler stepped forward and lifted the lid on the prettiest waffle concoction Luke had ever seen. An arrangement of blueberries, raspberries, and mint leaves ringed the waffle, which was mounded with whipped cream and topped with dark red strawberries. In the center of the arrangement sat a giant strawberry carved in the shape of a rose.

“Oh, how pretty!” Giselle exclaimed as she walked into the room. She exchanged a glance with Mr. Thatcher, one Luke couldn't interpret. Then she clapped her hands together. “Let me get my phone and take a picture. That's a work of art.” She ran back to the bedroom.

Mr. Thatcher gazed after her, a bemused smile on his face.

“She does appreciate small kindnesses,” Luke said. “Give my thanks to Stefan.”

“Of course.” Mr. Thatcher removed the dome from Luke's meal, which looked about as nice as an omelet could, but it was obvious the chef had enjoyed decorating the waffle a lot more.

And the butler had loved bringing up the cart loaded with this special breakfast for two. He would have been even happier, Luke now realized, if he'd been serving brunch for ten. Something had to be done about that, although Luke wasn't good at planning parties. He immediately thought of Cynthia as the logical one to do that and realized that was sexist of him. She was a woman, so he assumed she could plan parties, but he'd never thought to ask if she wanted to be a corporate officer. He'd recently had thoughts that his dad hadn't been evolved, but Luke might as well put himself in the same category. How embarrassing that he'd never thought to ask Cynthia if she wanted to have a role in the corporation.

Giselle returned with her phone and moved around the table snapping pictures of the waffle from all angles. Luke wondered why her outfit looked so familiar, and he finally placed it. She'd found an old pair of his boxer shorts and a T-shirt that had seen better days.

It hung on her, effectively disguising her shape. He'd requested ugly, and she'd had to raid his dresser drawers to fill that request. Of course she looked cute as hell, and he wanted to do her as much as ever.

“My folks have a chef,” she said, “but Isabella has never risen to these heights. I want to inspire her. My mom loves strawberry waffles, too. She should have one like this for her next birthday breakfast.”

Luke was ridiculously pleased by Giselle's enthusiasm. “I told Mr. Thatcher to give our compliments to Stefan, our chef.”

“Oh, my goodness, yes! In fact, later I'll go down and tell him myself.” Then she glanced at Luke's plate, which was loaded up with his omelet and a big pile of hash browns. “Good golly, Miss Molly. Are you really going to eat all that?”

“I am if you'll stop taking pictures and sit down. Thank you, Mr. Thatcher, for bringing us such a great breakfast.”

The butler inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Allow me to pour your coffee.”

“Sure. That would be great.” Watching the butler serve at the table was a treat Luke had enjoyed since he was a kid. A drop was never spilled, a dish never broken.

Mr. Thatcher finished pouring the coffee and stepped back from the table. “Will there be anything else?”

“Not for me,” Giselle said. “Luke may need another omelet, though.”

“Smart aleck.” Luke glanced at the butler and caught his brief smile. “That should do it, then. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Let me know when you're ready for me to clear everything away. Bon appétit.” With a brief bow, the butler left.

Unable to keep his distance from Giselle, Luke walked around the table and helped her into her chair.

She laughed. “Thank you. How sweet. No one's done that for a while.” She settled into her seat with her usual grace. “This waffle is so beautiful I almost hate to take a bite out of it.”

“I could say the same about you. But I'll do it anyway.” He leaned down and gently nipped the side of her neck.

“Hey!” She turned to glance up at him. “What're you do–”

He kissed her, stopping her protest. He shouldn't be kissing her, seeing as how they wouldn't be having sex. Mouth-to-mouth stimulation was nearly as potent as visual stimulation, especially when she kissed him back, which she was currently doing.

Swiveling in her seat, she took hold of his head and held him there while she angled her mouth and French-kissed the heck out of him. He grabbed the back of her chair for support and used his other hand to find out if she was wearing a bra under that gigantic T-shirt. She wasn't, which allowed him to play with her breasts until she began to squirm in her seat and whimper into his mouth.

He knew where this was leading, and he wasn't going there. She'd admitted to being sore, and one little soak in Epsom salts wouldn't be enough. She needed time. He wasn't sure how much, but more than a few hours.

With more restraint than he'd thought himself capable of, he stopped caressing her plump breasts and stepped back. He was breathing like a long-distance runner, and his johnson poked against the soft jersey of his sweats.

She was quite flushed herself. If she hadn't bothered with panties, then his boxers might be damp. He liked the thought of that. He might not throw them in the laundry for a while.

“My fault,” he said once he got his breathing under control. “I started it. But we're not having sex again until you promise me that you're recovered.”

Her gaze lifted to his. “We could take it slow and easy.”

He groaned. “Don't do that! God, you're a seductress. Maybe we could start out slow and easy, but you know as well as I do that we wouldn't end up that way. We'd both get carried away, and before you know it, we'd be slamming into each other. That's how it is with us.”

“Yeah.” She smiled at him. “You're right.”

“Stop smiling like that.”

“Okay.” She pressed her mouth into a thin line, but laughter danced in her green eyes.

He'd never get tired of the many moods of Giselle Landry. Whether she was laughing, or dreamy-eyed, or talking earnestly, or moaning with passion, she fascinated him. But somehow he had to keep himself from having sex with her right now, and probably this afternoon, and maybe even tonight. How depressing was that?

He walked around to his chair and pulled it out. “I'm going to sit right here and eat this huge omelet and all these potatoes. After that, I'll be too full to have sex.”

“I would imagine that's true. After you've eaten everything, I would expect you to explode like an overloaded Hefty bag.”

“I'm a man of action, a man who lives large. I need fuel for my many activities.” He put his napkin in his lap and picked up his fork. About that time, he heard Giselle moan with pleasure. He didn't have to look to know why. She'd taken a bite of her strawberry waffle loaded with whipped cream.

He kept his eyes on his plate and cut into his omelet. He didn't need to watch her eating that thing. Bad enough that he had to listen to her over there sighing in orgasmic delight.

Under different circumstances, he might not have thought that waffle presentation was especially erotic, but after his night with Giselle, everything seemed erotic. The baked waffle smelled like good sex, and the raspberries reminded him of her aroused nipples. He wanted to set that strawberry rose in her navel, or maybe lower than that, and nibble for a while. Then there was the whipped cream. . . . He could do a whole riff on the erotic possibilities of whipped cream.

“You said you wanted to know about some of my brother's practical jokes.”

He risked looking at her, and sure enough, she had whipped cream on her upper lip. “You have some whipped cream on your mouth.” He pointed to his own upper lip to show her where.

“Thanks.” Her tongue darted out, and she licked it away.

He stared at her full mouth and remembered all the ways she'd used it to drive him insane.

“Do you still?”

“Still what?” Want her? With the heat of a thousand suns. Somehow he didn't think that's what she'd asked, but he'd lost track of the conversation.

“Want me to tell you about my brother's tricks?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. That's a good idea. He'll probably booby-trap the cabin somehow.” He dug into his omelet again. “Something to do with water.”

“Once he set up an elaborate scheme with a bouquet of flowers and a sensor that would cause water to shoot out of the vase if someone leaned down to smell them. But that's not targeted to a specific person, so I don't think he'd bother to set that up in the cabin. He's not going to repeat his bucket over the front door, so I honestly don't know what to expect. He was never really into explosives.”

Luke stared at her. “What do you mean by ‘never really into'? Did he ever blow anything up?”

“Not much. Mostly baked goods. When he blew up a triple-layer Black Forest cake, he had to pay for the cleaning crew out of his allowance. I think that ended the explosion phase. After that, it was mostly water pranks.”

Luke chewed and swallowed. “Then I guess we'll just have to drive up there and find out what sort of surprise he's concocted. I got directions from Owen.”

“Want to take my motorcycle?”

“We'd better go in my car. We've had some snow in the mountains, and we might hit an icy patch of road. Plus it will be chilly up there.”

She shrugged. “Okay. The car it is. Probably a better idea until I recover anyway. Is your omelet good?”

He'd barely tasted it. All he cared about was getting through the meal and out of the penthouse without grabbing her. “Yep. Delicious.”

“Do you normally eat with such concentration?”

He put down his fork and looked at her. “No, but normally I'm not fighting the urge to have my dining companion stretched out under me in the middle of the table.”

Her breath caught. “Do you have any idea how exciting it is to hear something like that?”

“Do you have any idea how close I am to becoming an inconsiderate jerk who takes you regardless of whether I'll hurt you in the process?”

Her lips parted and her cheeks grew pink. “I wouldn't care.”

“I would.” Shoving back his chair, he tossed his napkin on the table. “I'll move your suitcase back into the guest room. You can get ready in there.”